GOETHE’S LITERARY ESSAYS
GOETHE AS A CRITIC
“Goethe, the greatest of modern critics, the greatest critic of all
times.”--SAINTE-BEUVE.
“That great and supreme critic.”--MATTHEW ARNOLD.
“Goethe, the most widely receptive of all critics.”--JAMES RUSSELL
LOWELL.
“Goethe, the master of all modern spirits.”--TAINE.
“The perusal of his Works would show that Criticism is also a science
of which he is master; that if ever a man had studied Art in all its
branches and bearings, from its origin in the depths of the creative
spirit to its minutest finish on the canvas of the painter, on the
lips of the poet, or under the finger of the musician, he was that
man.”--CARLYLE.
“He is also a great critic; yet he always said the best he could about
an author. Good critics are rarer than good authors.”--TENNYSON.
“The view of _Hamlet_ scattered throughout the book [_Wilhelm Meister_]
is not so much criticism as high poetry. And what else except a
poem can be born when a poet intuitively presents anew a work of
poetry?”--FRIEDRICH SCHLEGEL.
“I shall die ungoethed, I doubt, so far as Poetry goes; I always
believe he was Critic and Philosopher.”--EDWARD FITZGERALD.
“For the Goethe of _Faust_, of the great lyrics, and of some other
things, I have almost unlimited admiration; but for the critical Goethe
I feel very much less.”--GEORGE SAINTSBURY.
“Goethe is the supreme hero of intellectual humanity.”--REMY DE
GOURMONT.
“Goethe, as usual, must be pronounced to have the last word of reason
and wisdom, the word which comprehends most of the truth of the
matter.”--LORD MORLEY.
GOETHE’S
LITERARY ESSAYS
A SELECTION IN ENGLISH
ARRANGED BY
J. E. SPINGARN
WITH A FOREWORD BY
VISCOUNT HALDANE
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY
1921
COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY
HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY, INC.
PRINTED IN THE U. S. A. BY
THE QUINN & BODEN COMPANY
RAHWAY, N. J.
FOREWORD
By VISCOUNT HALDANE
Of Goethe Sainte-Beuve held that he was the “king of criticism.”
Sainte-Beuve was among the most competent of judges on such a point,
and Matthew Arnold has endorsed his conclusion. The reason for it is
not far to seek. Goethe’s gifts as a critic fell within a large whole
of knowledge which was his in a degree for which we must look back over
two thousand years to Aristotle if we wish to find a rival. He wrote
lyrics that are supreme in their kind. His capacity for observation of
nature was, as Helmholtz has pointed out, of the first order. Although
he hated philosophy, he had, none the less, a fine instinct for great
metaphysical conceptions. Spinoza and Kant both made appeal to him, and
the appeal was responded to from the depths of his nature. The world
has seen no poem like _Faust_, with the exquisite perfection of the
“Dedication” and the lyrical outbursts with which the first part is
studded, set in a structure which signifies a profound conception of
life as a whole, into which far-reaching reflection has entered. The
second part of the drama is as great in this latter regard as is the
first part in its occasional exhibitions of the purest lyrical gift.
Goethe’s work was uneven, as was his life. That is what we must expect
from the variety which both contained. But through each a great purpose
is obviously in process of continuous realization, a purpose which
never flags, of presenting the world as a place where man may work
out what is directed towards the highest and belongs to what is above
Time. It is always the effort that counts, and not any result outside,
conceived abstractly and apart from the effort. The quality of the
struggle “to conquer life and freedom daily anew” is what constitutes
the victory. We are apt to remain with Goethe’s poetry and to content
ourselves with the enjoyment of its perfection. But that is to miss
half the lesson which this man, one of the very greatest sons the earth
ever bore, has to teach us. It is his outlook on life as a whole which
we must master if we would learn for ourselves what freedom from what
is narrow means with him. And this outlook we find at least as much in
his criticism as in his lyrics. We have to turn to the _Autobiography_,
to _Meister_, and to the _Prose Sayings_, if we would find the other
half. Beyond these books, too, there remains much else which it would
occupy years for the student to discover for himself unaided.
That is why a book such as that to which these lines are written by way
of preface may prove a source of help and inspiration to the general
reader.
CONTENTS
I. THE THEORY OF ART PAGE
On German Architecture 3
Introduction to the _Propylæa_ 15
Upon the Laocoon 22
The Collector and his Friends 36
On Truth and Probability in Works of Art 51
Simple Imitation of Nature, Manner, Style 59
Ancient and Modern 65
Notes on Dilettantism 71
II. THE THEORY OF LITERATURE
The Production of a National Classic 83
Goethe’s Theory of a World Literature 89
On Epic and Dramatic Poetry 100
Supplement to Aristotle’s _Poetics_ 104
On the German Theatre 109
Ludwig Tieck’s _Dramaturgic Fragments_ 126
On Didactic Poetry 130
Superstition and Poetry 133
The Methods of French Criticism 134
On Criticism 140
III. ON SHAKESPEARE
Wilhelm Meister’s Critique of _Hamlet_ 145
Shakespeare ad Infinitum 174
The First Edition of _Hamlet_ 190
_Troilus and Cressida_ 195
IV. ON OTHER WRITERS
Goethe as a Young Reviewer 199
Byron’s _Manfred_ 202
Byron’s _Don Juan_ 205
Calderon’s _Daughter of the Air_ 208
Molière’s _Misanthrope_ 212
Old German Folksongs 213
Folksongs again Commended 220
Laurence Sterne 222
The English Reviewers 224
German Literature in Goethe’s Youth 226
V. EXTRACTS FROM THE CONVERSATIONS WITH ECKERMANN
The Universality of Poetry, 249; Poetry and
Patriotism, 251; Poetry and History, 253;
Originality, 255; Personality in Art, 258;
Subject-Matter of Poetry, 259; The Influence of
Environment, 261; Culture and Morals, 263;
Classic and Romantic, 263; Taste, 264; Style,
265; Intellect and Imagination, 266; Definition
of Poetry, 266; Definition of Beauty, 266;
Architecture and Music, 267; Primitive Poetry,
267; _Weltliteratur_, 267; French Critics, 268;
The Construction of a Good Play, 268; Dramatic
Unities 270; The Theatre, 271; Acting, 271;
Dramatic Situations, 272; Management of the
Theatre, 272; Menander, 273; Calderon, 273;
Molière, 273; Shakespeare, 275; A. W. Schlegel’s
_Lectures on Dramatic Art and Literature_,
276; The French Romanticists, 277; Victor
Hugo, 279; The “Idea” of _Tasso_ and _Faust_,
280; Schiller, 282; _Edinburgh Review_, 283;
Byron, 283; Scott, 286.
APPENDIX
I. On the Selection and Translation of the Essays
in this Volume 291
II. On the Chronology of Goethe’s Critical Studies 295
INDEX 301
THE THEORY OF ART
ON GERMAN ARCHITECTURE
(1773)
VON DEUTSCHER BAUKUNST
D. M.
ERVINI A STEINBACH
As I wandered about at your grave, noble Erwin,[1] in order to pour
out my veneration for you at the sacred spot itself, I looked for the
stone which bore this inscription: “Anno Domini 1318, XVI. Kal. Febr.
obiit Magister Ervinus, Gubernator Fabricae Ecclesiae Argentinensis;”
and when I could not find it and none of your countrymen could point it
out to me, I became sad of soul, and my heart, younger, warmer, more
tender and better than it is now, vowed a memorial to you, of marble
or sandstone, as might be in my power, when I came into the peaceful
enjoyment of my fortune.
But what need have you for a memorial! You have built the most splendid
memorial for yourself; and although the ants who crawl around there do
not trouble themselves about your name, yet you have a destiny like
that of the builder who heaped up mountains into the clouds.
To few has it been granted to create such mighty ideas in their minds,
complete, gigantic, and consistently beautiful down to the last detail,
like trees of God; to fewer was it given to find a thousand willing
hands to work, to excavate the rocky foundation, to conjure up towering
structures upon it, and then when dying to say to their sons,--I remain
with you in the works of my genius; carry on to its completion in the
clouds what I have begun.
What need have you for memorials! and from me! When the rabble utters
sacred names, it is either superstition or blasphemy. Those of feeble
spirit and taste will always have their head turned before your mighty
work, and genuine souls will come to know you without a guide.
Therefore, honored man, before I venture again my patched-up bark upon
the ocean, destined as it is more likely to death than to fame and
fortune, see, here in this grove where bloom the names of my loves, I
cut yours on a beech-tree which lifts its slender trunk high in the air
like your own tower, and I hang on it too this handkerchief filled with
gifts, not unlike that sheet which was let down from the clouds to the
holy apostle, full of clean and unclean beasts; for this is full of
flowers and buds and leaves, and some dried grass and moss and fungi,
which on my walk through these uninteresting regions I coldly gathered
as a pastime for my botanical collection,--I dedicate them to death in
your honor.
* * * * *
What a trivial style, says the Italian, and passes by. Childishness,
lisps the Frenchman, and snaps his finger against his snuff-box à la
Grecque. What have you done that you dare to despise?
But you, O Italian, you have let the genius of the ancients, arising
from its grave, fetter and bind your own. You crept to beg for artistic
knowledge from the splendid relics of the olden time, you patched
together palaces from these sacred ruins, and consider yourself the
guardian of the secrets of art, because you can give account of the
measurements by inch and line of enormous buildings. Had you _felt_
more than you _measured_, had the spirit of the gigantic structures at
which you gazed come to you, you would not have imitated merely because
they did it thus and it is beautiful. But you would have created your
own designs, and there would have flowed out of them living beauty to
instruct you.
Thus upon your shortcomings you have plastered a whitewashing, a mere
appearance of truth and beauty. The splendid effect of pillars struck
you, you wished to use them in your building and have great rows of
columns too; so you encircled St. Peter’s with marble passageways,
which lead nowhere in particular, so that mother Nature, who despises
and hates the inappropriate and the unnecessary, drove your rabble to
prostitute that splendor for public “cloaca,” with the result that you
turn away your eyes and hold your nose before the wonder of the world.
Everything goes the same way: the whim of the artist serves the caprice
of the rich man; the writer of travels stands agape, and our beaux
esprits, called philosophers, wrest out of formless myths facts and
principles of art to be applied to the present day; and their evil
genius murders sincere men at the threshold of these mysteries.
More harmful to the genius than examples are rules. Before his time
individual men may have worked up individual parts and aspects. He
is the first from whose mind come the parts grown together into one
ever-living whole. But a school or a rule fetters all the power of
his insight and his activity. What is it to us, you modern French
philosophical critic, that the first inventor, responding to necessity,
stuck four trunks in the ground, bound on them four poles and
covered it all with branches and moss? To determine from this what
is appropriate for our present needs is like demanding that your new
Babylon be ruled by the old despotic patriarchal father-right.
And in addition it is not true that this house of yours is the most
primitive form in the world. That with two poles in front crossed
at the end, two in back and one lying straight between them for a
ridge-pole is, as we can notice every day in the huts in the fields and
vineyards, a far more primitive invention, from which you could hardly
abstract a principle for your pig-pen.
Thus none of your conclusions are able to rise into the region of
truth, but all hang in the lower atmosphere of your system. You wish to
teach us what we ought to use, since what we do use, according to your
principles cannot be justified.
The column is very dear to you, and in another clime you would be
prophet. You say: The column is the first essential ingredient of a
building, and the most beautiful. What noble elegance of form, what
pure grandeur, when they are placed in a row! Only guard against using
them inappropriately; it is their nature to be free and detached. Alas
for the unfortunates who try to join the slender shape of them to heavy
walls!
Yet it seems to me, dear abbé, that the frequent repetition of this
impropriety of building columns into walls, so that the moderns have
even stuffed the inter-columnia of ancient temples with masonry, might
have aroused in your mind some reflections. If your ears were not deaf
to the truth, these stones would have preached a sermon to you.
Columns are in no way an ingredient in our dwellings; they contradict
rather the style of all our buildings. Our houses have not their
origin in four columns placed in four corners. They are built out of
four walls on four sides, which take the place of columns, indeed
exclude all columns, and where these are used to patch up, they are
an encumbrance and a superfluity. This is true of our palaces and
churches, with the exception of a few cases, which I do not need to
mention.
Thus your buildings exhibit mere surface, which, the broader it is
extended,--the higher it is raised to the sky,--the more unendurable
must become the monotony which oppresses the soul. But Genius came to
our aid, and said to Erwin von Steinbach: Diversify the huge wall,
which you are to raise heavenward, so that it may soar like a lofty,
far-spreading tree of God, which with a thousand branches, millions of
twigs, and leaves like the sand of the sea, proclaims everywhere the
glory of God, its Master.
* * * * *
When I went for the first time to the Minster, my head was full of the
common cant of “good taste.” From hearsay, I was an admirer of the
harmony of mass, the purity of form, and was a sworn enemy to the
confused arbitrariness of Gothic adornment. Under the term, “Gothic,”
like the article in a dictionary, I piled all the misconceptions
which had ever come into my head, of the indefinite, the unregulated,
the unnatural, the patched-up, the strung-together, the superfluous,
in art. No wiser than a people which calls the whole foreign world,
“barbarous,” everything was Gothic to me that did not fit into my
system, from the turned wooden dolls and pictures of gay colors, with
which the bourgeois nobility decorate their houses, to the dignified
relics of the older German architecture, my opinion of which, because
of some bizarre scrollwork, had been that of everybody,--“Quite buried
in ornamentation!”; consequently I had an aversion to seeing it, such
as I would have before a malformed bristling monster.
With what unexpected emotions did the sight surprise me when I actually
saw it! An impression of grandeur and unity filled my soul, which,
because it consisted of a thousand harmonizing details, I could taste
and enjoy, but by no means understand and explain. They say it is
thus with the rapture of heaven. How often I returned to enjoy this
heavenly-earthly rapture, to embrace the stupendous genius of our older
brothers in their works. How often I returned to view from every side,
at every distance, in every light of the day, its dignity and splendor.
Hard it is for the mind of man when his brother’s work is so elevated
that he can only bow down and pray. How often has the evening twilight
refreshed with its friendly calm my eyes wearied by too much gazing;
it made countless details melt together into a complete whole and
mass, and now, simple and grand, it stood before my eyes, and, full
of rapture, my power unfolded itself both to enjoy and to understand
it at once. There was revealed to me in soft intimations the genius
of the great builder. “Why are you astonished?” He whispered to me.
“All these masses were necessary, and do you not see them in all the
older churches of my city? Only I have given harmonious proportion to
their arbitrary vastnesses. See how, over the principal entrance which
commands two smaller ones on either side, the wide circle of the window
opens which corresponds to the nave of the church and was formerly
merely a hole to let the light in; see how the bell-tower demands the
smaller windows! All this was necessary, and I designed it with beauty.
But what of these dark and lofty apertures here at the side which seem
to stand so empty and meaningless? In their bold slender forms I have
hidden the mysterious strength which was to raise both of those towers
high in the air, of which alas only one stands there sadly, without
the crown of five towers which I had planned for it, so that to it and
its royal brother the country about would do homage.” And so he parted
from me, and I fell into a sympathetic mood of melancholy, until the
birds of morning, which dwelt in its thousand orifices, greeted the sun
joyously and waked me out of my slumber. How freshly it shone in the
morning rays, how joyfully I stretched my arms towards it, surveying
its vast harmonious masses, animated by countless delicate details of
structure! as in the works of eternal Nature, every form, down to the
smallest fibril, alive, and everything contributing to the purpose of
the whole! How lightly the monstrous, solidly grounded building soared
into the air! how free and delicate everything about it, and yet solid
for eternity! To your teaching, noble genius, I owe thanks that I did
not faint and sink before your heights and depths, but that into my
soul flowed a drop of that calm rapture of the mighty soul which could
look on this creation, and like God say,--“It is good!”
* * * * *
And now I ought not to be angry, revered Erwin, when the German critic
and scholar, taking the cue from envious neighbors, and misjudging the
superiority of your work, belittles it by the little understood term,
“Gothic”; since he ought rather to give thanks that he can proclaim
loudly that this is German architecture,--our architecture,--whereas
the Italians cannot boast of any distinctively native style, much
less the French. And if you are not willing to admit to yourself this
superiority, at least show us then that the Goths have already built
in this style,--in which effort you may encounter some difficulties.
And finally, if you cannot demonstrate that there was a Homer already
before Homer, then we will gladly allow the story of small attempts,
successful and unsuccessful, and come reverently back to the work of
the master who first drew the scattered elements together into one
living whole. And you, my dear brother in the spirit, in your search
for truth and beauty, close your ears to the loud talk about the
plastic arts,--come, enjoy, survey. Beware of desecrating the name of
your noblest artist, and hasten here that you may enjoy and see his
glorious work. If it makes an unfavorable impression or none, then
farewell, hitch up, and take the road straight for Paris.
But you I would accompany, dear youth, who stand there, your soul
moved, and yet unable to harmonize the contradictions which conflict
in your mind, now feeling the irresistible power of the great whole,
now calling me a dreamer for seeing beauty where you see only violence
and roughness. Do not let a misunderstanding part us, do not let
the feeble teaching of the modern standards of beauty spoil you for
vigorous though rough strength, so that finally your sickly sensibility
is able to endure only meaningless insipidities. They would have you
believe that the fine arts originated in the tendency which they impute
to us to beautify the things about us. That is not true! For in the
sense in which it could be true, it is the bourgeois and the artisans
who use the words and not the philosopher.
Art has a long period of growth before it is beautiful, certainly
sincere and great art has, and it is often sincerer and greater
then than when it becomes beautiful. For in man there is a creative
disposition, which comes into activity as soon as his existence is
assured. As soon as he has nothing to worry about or to fear, this
semi-divinity in him, working effectively in his spiritual peace and
assurance, grasps materials into which to breathe its own spirit. Thus
the savage depicts, with strange lines and forms, ghastly figures,
lurid colors, his weapons and his body. And even if these pictures
consist of the most arbitrary and incongruous forms and lines, they
will, without any intended proportion or balance, yet have a sort of
harmony; for a unity of feeling created out of them a characteristic
whole.
Now this characteristic art is the only genuine art. If only it
comes fresh from the inner soul, expressing the original, unique
sensibilities, untroubled, indeed unconscious of any external element,
it may spring from rough savagery or from cultivated sensitiveness, yet
it will always be complete and alive. This you can see among nations
and individual men in countless degrees. The more the soul rises to the
feeling for relations, which alone are beautiful and from eternity,
whose master-chords one can demonstrate, whose mysteries one can only
feel, in which alone the life of the divine genius seeks expression
in enraptured melodies; the more this beauty pervades the soul of a
genius so that it seems to have originated with him, so that nothing
else satisfies him, so that he can bring nothing else out of himself,
the more fortunate is the artist, the more splendid is he, and the more
reverently do we stand there and worship God’s anointed.
From the level to which Erwin has mounted no one will drag him down.
Here stands his work; gaze at it and appreciate the deepest feelings
for truth and beauty and proportion, working out of a strong, sturdy,
rough German soul, out of the narrow, somber, priest-haunted “medium
aevum.”
And our own “aevum”? It has neglected its genius, driven forth its
sons to collect strange excrescences for their corruption. The agile
Frenchman, who in unscrupulous fashion collects where he will, has at
least an ingenuity in working together his booty into a sort of unity;
he builds his wonderful church of the Magdalene out of Greek columns
and German arches and vaults. From one of our architects, who was
requested to design a portal for an old German church, I have seen a
model of perfect, stately antique column-work.
How hateful our varnished doll-painters are to me I cannot express.
By their theatrical positions, their false tints, and gaily-colored
costumes, they have captured the eyes of women. But, manly Albrecht
Dürer, whom these novices laugh at, your woodcut figures are more
welcome to me.
And you yourselves, excellent men, to whom it was given to enjoy the
highest beauty, and now come down to announce your bliss, you do
prejudice to genius. It will soar and progress on no alien wings, even
though they were the wings of the morning. Its own original powers
are those which unfold in the dreams of childhood, which grow during
the life of youth, until strong and supple like the mountain-lion he
starts out after his prey. Nature does most in training these powers,
for you pedagogues can never counterfeit the multifarious scene which
she provides for a youth to draw from and enjoy in the measure of his
present strength.
Welcome, to you, young man, who have been born with a keen eye for form
and proportion, with the facility to practise in all forms. If then
there awakes gradually in you the joy of life, and you come to feel the
rapture which men know after work, fear and hope,--the spirited cries
of the laborer in the vineyard when the bounty of the harvest swells
his vats, the lively dance of the reaper when he has hung his idle
sickle high on the beam,--when all the powerful nerves of desire and
suffering live again more manfully in your brush, and you have striven
and suffered enough and have enjoyed enough, and are filled with
earthly beauty, and worthy to rest in the arms of the goddess, worthy
to feel on her bosom what gave new birth to the deified Hercules--then
receive him, heavenly beauty, thou mediator between gods and men, and
let him, more than Prometheus, carry down the rapture of the gods to
the earth.[2]
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Erwin von Steinbach, one of the architects of the
Strassburg Cathedral.
[2] “What I had thought and imagined with respect to that
style of architecture, I wrote in a connected form. The first point
on which I insisted was that it should be called German, and not
Gothic; that it should be considered not foreign, but native. The
second point was that it could not be compared with the architecture
of the Greeks and Romans, because it sprang from quite another
principle. If these, living under a more favorable sky, allowed their
roof to rest upon columns, a wall, broken through, arose of its own
accord. We, however, who must always protect ourselves against the
weather, and everywhere surround ourselves with walls, have to revere
the genius who discovered the means of endowing massive walls with
variety, of apparently breaking them through, and of thus occupying
the eye in a worthy and pleasing manner on a broad surface.... If
I had been pleased to write down these views (the value of which I
will not deny) clearly and distinctly, in an intelligible style, the
paper _On German Architecture_ would then, when I published it, have
produced more effect, and would sooner have drawn the attention of
the native friends of art. But, misled by the example of Herder and
Hamann, I obscured these very simple thoughts and observations by a
dusty cloud of words and phrases, and, both for myself and others,
darkened the light which had arisen within me. However, the paper was
well received, and reprinted in Herder’s work on _German Manner and
Art_.”--Goethe, _Autobiography_ (1812). The “dear abbé” to whom Goethe
is replying in this essay is the Abbé Laugier, author of the _Essai sur
l’Architecture_ (1753).
INTRODUCTION TO THE _PROPYLÆA_
(1798)
There is no more striking sign of the decay of art than when we find
its separate provinces mixed up together.
The arts themselves, as well as their subordinate forms, are closely
related to each other, and have a certain tendency to unite, and even
lose themselves in each other; but herein lies the duty, the merit,
the dignity of the true artist, that he knows how to separate that
department in which he labors from the others, and, so far as may be,
isolates it.
It has been noticed that all plastic art tends towards painting, all
poetry to the drama; and this may furnish the text for some important
observations hereafter.
The genuine, law-giving artist strives after artistic truth;
the lawless, following a blind instinct, after an appearance of
naturalness. The former leads to the highest pinnacle of art, the
latter to its lowest step.
This is no less true of the separate arts than of art in general.
The sculptor must think and feel differently from the painter, and
must go to work differently to execute a work in relief from what he
would do with a round and complete piece of statuary. When the work
in low relief came to be brought out more and more, and by degrees
parts and figures were brought out from the ground, at last buildings
and landscapes admitted, and thus a work produced, half picture half
puppet-show, true art was on the decline; and it is to be deplored
that excellent artists have in more recent times taken this direction.
Whenever we enunciate hereafter such maxims as we esteem true, we
shall feel a real desire, since these maxims are drawn from works of
art, to have them practically tested by artists. How seldom does one
man agree with another concerning a theoretic principle; the practical
and immediately useful is far more quickly adopted. How often do we
see artists at a loss in the choice of a subject, in the general
composition, according to their rules of art, in the arrangement of
details; the painter doubtful about the choice of his colors! Then is
the time to make trial of a principle; then will it be easier to decide
the question,--Do we by its aid come nearer to the great models, and
all that we love and prize, or does it forsake us in the empirical
confusion of an experiment not thoroughly thought out?
If such maxims should prove useful in forwarding the culture of
artists, in guiding them among difficulties, they will also aid the
understanding, true estimation, and criticism of ancient and modern
works, and, _vice versa_, will again be discovered in the examination
of these works. This is all the more necessary, since, in spite of the
universally acknowledged excellence of the antique, individuals as well
as whole nations have in modern times often misconceived those very
things wherein the highest excellence of those works lies.
An exact scrutiny of these will be the best means of securing us
against this evil. Let us now take, as an example, the usual course of
proceeding of the amateur in plastic art, in order to make it evident
how necessary a thorough criticism of ancient as well as modern works
is, if we would profit by it.
No person of a fine natural perception, however uncultivated, can
see even an imperfect, incorrect cast of a fine ancient work without
being greatly impressed by it; for such a representation still gives
the idea, the simplicity and greatness of the form, in a word, the
general notion at least, such as a man of imperfect sight would see at
a distance.
We may often observe how a strong inclination towards art is awakened
through such an imperfect reproduction. But the effect is analogous
to the object that caused it, and such beginners in art are rather
impressed with a blind and indefinite feeling than with the true worth
and significance of the object itself. It is such as these who are the
authors of the theory that a too curious critical examination destroys
our pleasure, and who decry and resist the investigation of details.
But when by degrees their experience and knowledge become wider, and
a sharper cast in place of the imperfect one, or an original instead
of a cast comes under their observation, their satisfaction increases
with their insight, and continually advances when at last the originals
themselves, the perfect originals, become known to them.
We are not deterred by the labyrinth of thorough examination, when the
details are of equal perfection with the whole work. Nay, we learn
that we are able to appreciate the perfect, just so far as we are in
a condition to discern the defective: to distinguish the restored
from the original parts, the copy from the model, to contemplate in
the smallest fragments the scattered excellence of the whole, is a
satisfaction that belongs only to the perfect connoisseur; and there is
a wide difference between the contemplation of an imperfect whole with
groping sense, and the seeing and seizing, with clear eye, of a perfect
one.
He who devotes himself to any department of knowledge should aim at the
highest. Insight and Practice follow widely different paths, for in
the practical each one soon becomes aware that only a certain measure
of power is meted to him. But a far greater number of men are capable
of knowledge, of insight; we may even say that every man is so who
can deny himself, subordinate himself to objects, and does not strive
with a rigid and narrow individuality to bring in himself and his poor
one-sidedness amid the highest works of nature and art.
To speak suitably, and with real advantage to one’s self and others,
of works of art, can properly be done only in their presence. All
depends on the sight of the object. On this it depends whether the
word by which we hope to elucidate the work has produced the clearest
impression or none at all. Hence it so often happens that the author
who writes concerning works of art deals only in generalities, whereby
indeed the mind and imagination are awakened; but of all his readers,
he only will derive satisfaction who, book in hand, examines the work
itself.
On this account, therefore, we may in our essays often excite rather
than gratify the desire of our readers; for there is nothing more
natural than that they should wish to have before their eyes any
excellent work of which they read a minute criticism, to enjoy that
whole which is in question, and to subject to their own judgments the
opinions they hear concerning the parts.
But whilst it is the expectation of the authors to labor in behalf
of those who are already acquainted with some works and will see
others hereafter, we shall try to do what is possible for those who
have neither the prospect nor the retrospect. We shall make mention
of copies, point out where casts from the antique or ancient works
themselves, especially when these are within easy reach, may be found,
and thus forward, as far as in us lies, a true love and knowledge of
art.
The history of art can be based only on the highest and most complete
conception of art; only through an acquaintance with the most perfect
that man has ever been enabled to produce can the chronological and
psychological progress of mankind in art, as in other departments,
be displayed. At first a limited activity occupied itself in a dry
and dismal imitation of the insignificant as well as the significant,
then a more delicate and agreeable feeling of Nature was developed.
Afterwards, accompanied by knowledge, regularity, strength and
earnestness, aided by favorable circumstances, art rose to the highest
point, until at last it became possible for the fortunate genius who
found himself surrounded by all these auxiliaries to produce the
enchanting, the perfect.
Unfortunately, works of art, which give themselves forth with such
facility, which make men feel themselves so agreeably, which inspire
man with clearness and freedom, suggest to the artist who would emulate
them the notion of facility in their production. The last achievement
of Art and Genius being an appearance of ease and lightness, the
imitator is tempted to make it easy for himself, and to labor at this
appearance.
Thus, by degrees, art declines from its high estate, in the whole as
well as in details. But if we would form to ourselves a true conception
of art, we must descend to details of details, an occupation by no
means always agreeable and alluring, but for which gradually our eye’s
ready mastery of the whole will richly indemnify us.
If we work out certain general principles through the examination of
ancient and mediæval works of art, we shall find them particularly
needful in our judgment of contemporary productions; for in forming an
estimate of living or lately deceased artists, personal considerations,
regard or dislike for individuals, popular attraction or repulsion,
are so easily mixed up, that we are still more in need of principles
in order to express a judgment of our contemporaries. The examination
can be undertaken in two ways. Arbitrary influence is diminished, and
the case is brought into a higher court. An opportunity is afforded
for proving the principles themselves as well as their application;
and even where we cannot agree, the point in dispute is clearly and
certainly ascertained.
We especially desire that living artists, about whose works we may
perhaps have something to say, should make trial of our judgments in
this way. For every one who deserves this name is in our time called
upon to form, out of his own experience and reflection, if not a
theory, at least a certain set of receipts, by the use of which he
finds himself aided in various cases. But it must have been frequently
remarked how apt a man is, by proceeding in this way, to advance as
principles certain maxims which are commensurate with his talents, his
inclinations, his convenience. He is subject to the common lot of
mankind. How many in other departments follow the same course. But we
do not add to our culture when we simply set in motion without trouble
or difficulty what already existed in us. Every artist, like every man,
is only an individual being, and will always abide by one side; and
therefore a man should take in to himself as far as possible that which
is theoretically and practically opposed to him. The lively should look
about for strength and earnestness, the severe should keep in view
the light and agreeable, the strong should look for loveliness, the
delicate for strength, and each will thus best cultivate his peculiar
nature, while he seems to be going most out of himself. Each art
demands the whole man, the highest step of art all humanity.
The practice of the imitative arts is mechanical, and the cultivation
of the artist begins naturally in his earliest years with the
mechanical. The rest of his education is often slighted, whereas it
should be far more carefully attended to than that of others who have
the opportunity of learning from life itself. Society soon civilizes
the unpolished; a life of business makes the most open circumspect.
Literary labors, which by means of the press come before the great
public, find resistance and correction on all sides. But the artist is
for the most part confined to a narrow studio, and has few dealings
save with those who pay for his works, with a public that is often
guided only by a certain sickly feeling, with connoisseurs who worry
him, with auctioneers who receive anything new with formulas of praise
and estimation that would not be too high for the most perfect.
UPON THE LAOCOON
(1798)
A true work of art, like a true work of nature, never ceases to open
boundlessly before the mind. We examine,--we are impressed with it,--it
produces its effect; but it can never be all comprehended, still less
can its essence, its value, be expressed in words. In the present
remarks concerning the Laocoon, our object is by no means to say all
that can be said on the subject; we shall make this admirable work
rather the occasion than the subject of what we have to say. May it
soon be placed once more in a situation where all lovers of art may be
able to enjoy and speak of it, each in his own way.
We can hardly speak adequately of a high work of art without also
speaking of art in general; since all art is comprehended in it, and
each one is able, according to his powers, to develop the universal out
of such a special case. We shall therefore begin with some remarks of a
general nature.
All high works of art are expressions of humanity. Plastic art relates
particularly to the human form; it is of this we are now speaking. Art
has many steps, in all of which there have been admirable artists; but
a perfect work of art embraces all the qualities that are elsewhere
encountered only separately.
The highest works of art that we know exhibit to us--
_Living, highly organized natures._ We look, in the first place, for a
knowledge of the human body, in its parts and proportions, inward and
outward adaptation, its forms and motions generally.
_Character._ Knowledge of the varieties in form and action of their
parts; peculiarities are discriminated, and separately set forth. Out
of this results character, through which an important relation may be
established among separate works; and, in like manner, when a work is
put together, its parts may hold an analogous relation to each other.
The subject may be--
_At rest, or in motion._ A work, or its parts, may either be
self-centred, simply showing its character in a state of rest, or it
may be exhibited in movement, activity, or fullness of passionate
expression.
_Ideal._ To the attainment of this, the artist needs a deep,
well-grounded, steadfast mind, which must be accompanied by a higher
sense,in order to comprehend the subject in all its bearings, to find
the moment of expression, to withdraw this from the narrowness of fact,
and give to it, in an ideal world, proportion, limit, reality and
dignity.
_Agreeableness._ The subject and its mode of exhibition are
moreover connected with the sensible laws of art; viz., harmony,
comprehensibility, symmetry, contrast, etc.; whereby it becomes visibly
beautiful, or agreeable, as it is called.
_Beauty._ Farther, we find that it obeys the laws of spiritual beauty,
which arises from just proportion, and to which he who is complete in
the creation or production of the beautiful knows how to subject even
the extremes.
Now that I have defined the conditions which we demand of a high work
of art, much will be comprised in a few words when I say that the
Laocoon group fulfils them all, nay, that out of it alone all of them
could be developed.
It will be conceded by all that it exhibits acquaintance with the human
form, and with what is characteristic in it, and at the same time
expression and passion. In how high and ideal a way the subject is
treated will presently be shown; and no one who recognizes the harmony
with which the extremes of bodily and mental suffering are set forth
can hesitate in calling the work beautiful.
On the other hand, many will think I am uttering a paradox when I
maintain that the work is also _agreeable_. A word upon this point.
Every work of art must show on the face of it that it is such;
and this can be done only through what we call sensuous beauty,
or agreeableness. The ancients, far from entertaining the modern
notion that a work of art must have the appearance of a work of
nature, designated their works of art as such through an intentional
arrangement of parts; by means of symmetry they rendered easy for the
eye an insight into relations, and thus a complicated work was made
comprehensible. Through symmetry and opposition slight deviations
were made productive of the sharpest contrasts. The pains of the
artist were most happily bestowed to place the masses in opposition
to each other, and particularly in groups, to bring the extremities
of the bodies against each other in a harmonious position; so that
every work, when we disregard its import, and look only at its general
outline from a distance, strikes the eye by its ornamental air. The
antique vases furnish a hundred instances of this sort of agreeable
composition, and perhaps it would be possible to exhibit a series of
examples of symmetrically artistic and charming groupings, from the
most quiet vase-sculptures up to the Laocoon. I shall therefore venture
to repeat the assertion that the group of Laocoon, in addition to its
other acknowledged merits, is at once a model of symmetry and variety,
of repose and action, of contrast and gradation, which produce an
impression partly sensible, partly spiritual, agreeably stimulate the
imagination by the high pathos of the representation, and by their
grace and beauty temper the storm of passion and suffering.
It is a great advantage for a work of art to be self-included and
complete. An object at rest, exhibiting simple being, is thus complete
by and in itself. A Jupiter, the thunderbolt resting in his lap; a
Juno, reposing in her majesty and feminine dignity; a Minerva, inwardly
intent--are all subjects that have no impulse outwards, that rest upon
and in themselves; the first, the most lovely subjects of sculpture.
But within the noble round of the mythic circle of art, where these
separate self-existent natures stand and rest, there are smaller
circles, within which the figures are conceived and wrought out with
reference to other figures; for example, the nine Muses, with their
leader, Apollo, are each conceived and executed separately, but they
become far more interesting in their complete and diversified choir.
When art attempts scenes of exalted passion, it can treat them also
in the same manner; it may either present to us a circle of figures
holding a passionate relation to each other, like the Niobe and her
children, pursued by Apollo and Diana, or exhibit in the same piece the
action and the motive; we have in mind such groups as the graceful boy
extracting the thorn from his foot, the wrestler, two groups of fawns
and nymphs in Dresden, and the noble and animated group of Laocoon.
Sculpture is justly entitled to the high rank it holds, because it can
and must carry expression to its highest point of perfection, from
the fact that it leaves man only the absolutely essential. Thus, in
the present group, Laocoon is a bare name; the artists have stripped
him of his priesthood, his Trojan nationality, of every poetical
or mythological attribute; there remains nothing of all that fable
had clothed him with; he is a father with his two sons, in danger
of destruction from two fierce animals. In like manner, we see no
messenger of the gods, but two plain, natural serpents, powerful enough
to overcome three men, but, by no means, either in form or action,
supernatural and avenging ministers of wrath. They glide in, as it
is their nature to do, twine around, knot together, and one, being
irritated, bites. If I had to describe this work without knowing the
farther intent of it, I should say it were a Tragic Idyl. A father was
sleeping, with his two sons beside him; two serpents twined about them,
and now waking, they struggled to free themselves from the living net.
The expression of the moment is, in this work, of the highest
importance. When it is intended that a work of art shall move before
the eye, a passing moment must, of course, be chosen; but a moment ago
not a single part of the whole was to be found in the position it now
holds, and in another instant all will be changed again; so that it
presents a fresh, living image to a million beholders.
In order to conceive rightly the intention of the Laocoon, let a man
place himself before it at a proper distance, with his eyes shut; then
let him open his eyes, and shut them again instantly. By this means he
will see the whole marble in motion; he will fear lest he finds the
whole group changed when he opens his eyes again. It might be said
that, as it stands, it is a flash of lightning fixed, a wave petrified
in the moment it rushes towards the shore. The same effect is produced
by the contemplation of the group by torchlight.
The situation of the three figures is represented with a wise
gradation. In the oldest son only the extremities are entangled; the
second is encumbered with more folds, and especially by the knot around
his breast; he endeavors to get breath by the motion of his right arm;
with the left he gently holds back the serpent’s head, to prevent him
from taking another turn round his breast. The serpent is in the act of
slipping under the hand, but _does not bite_. The father, on the other
hand, tries to set himself and the children free by force; he grasps
the other serpent, which, exasperated, bites him on the hip.