of the beautiful always supposes at once and inseparably the pure knowing
subject and the known Idea as object. Yet the source of æsthetic
satisfaction will sometimes lie more in the comprehension of the known
Idea, sometimes more in the blessedness and spiritual peace of the pure
knowing subject freed from all willing, and therefore from all
individuality, and the pain that proceeds from it. And, indeed, this
predominance of one or the other constituent part of æsthetic feeling will
depend upon whether the intuitively grasped Idea is a higher or a lower
grade of the objectivity of will. Thus in æsthetic contemplation (in the
real, or through the medium of art) of the beauty of nature in the
inorganic and vegetable worlds, or in works of architecture, the pleasure
of pure will-less knowing will predominate, because the Ideas which are
here apprehended are only low grades of the objectivity of will, and are
therefore not manifestations of deep significance and rich content. On the
other hand, if animals and man are the objects of æsthetic contemplation
or representation, the pleasure will consist rather in the comprehension
of these Ideas, which are the most distinct revelation of will; for they
exhibit the greatest multiplicity of forms, the greatest richness and deep
significance of phenomena, and reveal to us most completely the nature of
will, whether in its violence, its terribleness, its satisfaction or its
aberration (the latter in tragic situations), or finally in its change and
self-surrender, which is the peculiar theme of christian painting; as the
Idea of the will enlightened by full knowledge is the object of historical
painting in general, and of the drama. We shall now go through the fine
arts one by one, and this will give completeness and distinctness to the
theory of the beautiful which we have advanced.
§ 43. Matter as such cannot be the expression of an Idea. For, as we found
in the first book, it is throughout nothing but causality: its being
consists in its casual action. But causality is a form of the principle of
sufficient reason; knowledge of the Idea, on the other hand, absolutely
excludes the content of that principle. We also found, in the second book,
that matter is the common substratum of all particular phenomena of the
Ideas, and consequently is the connecting link between the Idea and the
phenomenon, or the particular thing. Accordingly for both of these reasons
it is impossible that matter can for itself express any Idea. This is
confirmed _a posteriori_ by the fact that it is impossible to have a
perceptible idea of matter as such, but only an abstract conception; in
the former, _i.e._, in perceptible ideas are exhibited only the forms and
qualities of which matter is the supporter, and in all of which Ideas
reveal themselves. This corresponds also with the fact, that causality
(the whole essence of matter) cannot for itself be presented perceptibly,
but is merely a definite casual connection. On the other hand, _every
phenomenon_ of an Idea, because as such it has entered the form of the
principle of sufficient reason, or the _principium individuationis_, must
exhibit itself in matter, as one of its qualities. So far then matter is,
as we have said, the connecting link between the Idea and the _principium
individuationis_, which is the form of knowledge of the individual, or the
principle of sufficient reason. Plato is therefore perfectly right in his
enumeration, for after the Idea and the phenomenon, which include all
other things in the world, he gives matter only, as a third thing which is
different from both (Timaus, p. 345). The individual, as a phenomenon of
the Idea, is always matter. Every quality of matter is also the phenomenon
of an Idea, and as such it may always be an object of æsthetic
contemplation, _i.e._, the Idea expressed in it may always be recognised.
This holds good of even the most universal qualities of matter, without
which it never appears, and which are the weakest objectivity of will.
Such are gravity, cohesion, rigidity, fluidity, sensitiveness to light,
and so forth.
If now we consider _architecture_ simply as a fine art and apart from its
application to useful ends, in which it serves the will and not pure
knowledge, and therefore ceases to be art in our sense; we can assign to
it no other aim than that of bringing to greater distinctness some of
those ideas, which are the lowest grades of the objectivity of will; such
as gravity, cohesion, rigidity, hardness, those universal qualities of
stone, those first, simplest, most inarticulate manifestations of will;
the bass notes of nature; and after these light, which in many respects is
their opposite. Even at these low grades of the objectivity of will we see
its nature revealing itself in discord; for properly speaking the conflict
between gravity and rigidity is the sole æsthetic material of
architecture; its problem is to make this conflict appear with perfect
distinctness in a multitude of different ways. It solves it by depriving
these indestructible forces of the shortest way to their satisfaction, and
conducting them to it by a circuitous route, so that the conflict is
lengthened and the inexhaustible efforts of both forces become visible in
many different ways. The whole mass of the building, if left to its
original tendency, would exhibit a mere heap or clump, bound as closely as
possible to the earth, to which gravity, the form in which the will
appears here, continually presses, while rigidity, also objectivity of
will, resists. But this very tendency, this effort, is hindered by
architecture from obtaining direct satisfaction, and only allowed to reach
it indirectly and by roundabout ways. The roof, for example, can only
press the earth through columns, the arch must support itself, and can
only satisfy its tendency towards the earth through the medium of the
pillars, and so forth. But just by these enforced digressions, just by
these restrictions, the forces which reside in the crude mass of stone
unfold themselves in the most distinct and multifarious ways; and the
purely æsthetic aim of architecture can go no further than this. Therefore
the beauty, at any rate, of a building lies in the obvious adaptation of
every part, not to the outward arbitrary end of man (so far the work
belongs to practical architecture), but directly to the stability of the
whole, to which the position, dimensions, and form of every part must have
so necessary a relation that, where it is possible, if any one part were
taken away, the whole would fall to pieces. For just because each part
bears just as much as it conveniently can, and each is supported just
where it requires to be and just to the necessary extent, this opposition
unfolds itself, this conflict between rigidity and gravity, which
constitutes the life, the manifestation of will, in the stone, becomes
completely visible, and these lowest grades of the objectivity of will
reveal themselves distinctly. In the same way the form of each part must
not be determined arbitrarily, but by its end, and its relation to the
whole. The column is the simplest form of support, determined simply by
its end: the twisted column is tasteless; the four-cornered pillar is in
fact not so simple as the round column, though it happens that it is
easier to make it. The forms also of frieze, rafter, roof, and dome are
entirely determined by their immediate end, and explain themselves from
it. The decoration of capitals, &c., belongs to sculpture, not to
architecture, which admits it merely as extraneous ornament, and could
dispense with it. According to what has been said, it is absolutely
necessary, in order to understand the æsthetic satisfaction afforded by a
work of architecture, to have immediate knowledge through perception of
its matter as regards its weight, rigidity, and cohesion, and our pleasure
in such a work would suddenly be very much diminished by the discovery
that the material used was pumice-stone; for then it would appear to us as
a kind of sham building. We would be affected in almost the same way if we
were told that it was made of wood, when we had supposed it to be of
stone, just because this alters and destroys the relation between rigidity
and gravity, and consequently the significance and necessity of all the
parts, for these natural forces reveal themselves in a far weaker degree
in a wooden building. Therefore no real work of architecture as a fine art
can be made of wood, although it assumes all forms so easily; this can
only be explained by our theory. If we were distinctly told that a
building, the sight of which gave us pleasure, was made of different kinds
of material of very unequal weight and consistency, but not
distinguishable to the eye, the whole building would become as utterly
incapable of affording us pleasure as a poem in an unknown language. All
this proves that architecture does not affect us mathematically, but also
dynamically, and that what speaks to us through it, is not mere form and
symmetry, but rather those fundamental forces of nature, those first
Ideas, those lowest grades of the objectivity of will. The regularity of
the building and its parts is partly produced by the direct adaptation of
each member to the stability of the whole, partly it serves to facilitate
the survey and comprehension of the whole, and finally, regular figures to
some extent enhance the beauty because they reveal the constitution of
space as such. But all this is of subordinate value and necessity, and by
no means the chief concern; indeed, symmetry is not invariably demanded,
as ruins are still beautiful.
Works of architecture have further quite a special relation to light; they
gain a double beauty in the full sunshine, with the blue sky as a
background, and again they have quite a different effect by moonlight.
Therefore, when a beautiful work of architecture is to be erected, special
attention is always paid to the effects of the light and to the climate.
The reason of all this is, indeed, principally that all the parts and
their relations are only made clearly visible by a bright, strong light;
but besides this I am of opinion that it is the function of architecture
to reveal the nature of light just as it reveals that of things so
opposite to it as gravity and rigidity. For the light is intercepted,
confined, and reflected by the great opaque, sharply outlined, and
variously formed masses of stone, and thus it unfolds its nature and
qualities in the purest and clearest way, to the great pleasure of the
beholders, for light is the most joy-giving of things, as the condition
and the objective correlative of the most perfect kind of knowledge of
perception.
Now, because the Ideas which architecture brings to clear perception, are
the lowest grades of the objectivity of will, and consequently their
objective significance, which architecture reveals to us, is comparatively
small; the æsthetic pleasure of looking at a beautiful building in a good
light will lie, not so much in the comprehension of the Idea, as in the
subjective correlative which accompanies this comprehension; it will
consist pre-eminently in the fact that the beholder, set free from the
kind of knowledge that belongs to the individual, and which serves the
will and follows the principle of sufficient reason, is raised to that of
the pure subject of knowing free from will. It will consist then
principally in pure contemplation itself, free from all the suffering of
will and of individuality. In this respect the opposite of architecture,
and the other extreme of the series of the fine arts, is the drama, which
brings to knowledge the most significant Ideas. Therefore in the æsthetic
pleasure afforded by the drama the objective side is throughout
predominant.
Architecture has this distinction from plastic art and poetry: it does not
give us a copy but the thing itself. It does not repeat, as they do, the
known Idea, so that the artist lends his eyes to the beholder, but in it
the artist merely presents the object to the beholder, and facilitates for
him the comprehension of the Idea by bringing the actual, individual
object to a distinct and complete expression of its nature.
Unlike the works of the other arts, those of architecture are very seldom
executed for purely æsthetic ends. These are generally subordinated to
other useful ends which are foreign to art itself. Thus the great merit of
the architect consists in achieving and attaining the pure æsthetic ends,
in spite of their subordination to other ends which are foreign to them.
This he does by cleverly adapting them in a variety of ways to the
arbitrary ends in view, and by rightly judging which form of æsthetical
architectonic beauty is compatible and may be associated with a temple,
which with a palace, which with a prison, and so forth. The more a harsh
climate increases these demands of necessity and utility, determines them
definitely, and prescribes them more inevitably, the less free play has
beauty in architecture. In the mild climate of India, Egypt, Greece, and
Rome, where the demands of necessity were fewer and less definite,
architecture could follow its æsthetic ends with the greatest freedom. But
under a northern sky this was sorely hindered. Here, when caissons,
pointed roofs and towers were what was demanded, architecture could only
unfold its own beauty within very narrow limits, and therefore it was
obliged to make amends by resorting all the more to the borrowed ornaments
of sculpture, as is seen in Gothic architecture.
We thus see that architecture is greatly restricted by the demands of
necessity and utility; but on the other hand it has in them a very
powerful support, for, on account of the magnitude and costliness of its
works, and the narrow sphere of its æsthetic effect, it could not continue
to exist merely as a fine art, if it had not also, as a useful and
necessary profession, a firm and honourable place among the occupations of
men. It is the want of this that prevents another art from taking its
place beside architecture as a sister art, although in an æsthetical point
of view it is quite properly to be classed along with it as its
counterpart; I mean artistic arrangements of water. For what architecture
accomplishes for the Idea of gravity when it appears in connection with
that of rigidity, hydraulics accomplishes for the same Idea, when it is
connected with fluidity, _i.e._, formlessness, the greatest mobility and
transparency. Leaping waterfalls foaming and tumbling over rocks,
cataracts dispersed into floating spray, springs gushing up as high
columns of water, and clear reflecting lakes, reveal the Ideas of fluid
and heavy matter, in precisely the same way as the works of architecture
unfold the Ideas of rigid matter. Artistic hydraulics, however, obtains no
support from practical hydraulics, for, as a rule, their ends cannot be
combined; yet, in exceptional cases, this happens; for example, in the
Cascata di Trevi at Rome.(52)
§ 44. What the two arts we have spoken of accomplish for these lowest
grades of the objectivity of will, is performed for the higher grades of
vegetable nature by artistic horticulture. The landscape beauty of a scene
consists, for the most part, in the multiplicity of natural objects which
are present in it, and then in the fact that they are clearly separated,
appear distinctly, and yet exhibit a fitting connection and alternation.
These two conditions are assisted and promoted by landscape-gardening, but
it has by no means such a mastery over its material as architecture, and
therefore its effect is limited. The beauty with which it is concerned
belongs almost exclusively to nature; it has done little for it; and, on
the other hand, it can do little against unfavourable nature, and when
nature works, not for it, but against it, its achievements are small.
The vegetable world offers itself everywhere for æsthetic enjoyment
without the medium of art; but so far as it is an object of art, it
belongs principally to landscape-painting; to the province of which all
the rest of unconscious nature also belongs. In paintings of still life,
and of mere architecture, ruins, interiors of churches, &c., the
subjective side of æsthetic pleasure is predominant, _i.e._, our
satisfaction does not lie principally in the direct comprehension of the
represented Ideas, but rather in the subjective correlative of this
comprehension, pure, will-less knowing. For, because the painter lets us
see these things through his eyes, we at once receive a sympathetic and
reflected sense of the deep spiritual peace and absolute silence of the
will, which were necessary in order to enter with knowledge so entirely
into these lifeless objects, and comprehend them with such love, _i.e._,
in this case with such a degree of objectivity. The effect of
landscape-painting proper is indeed, as a whole, of this kind; but because
the Ideas expressed are more distinct and significant, as higher grades of
the objectivity of will, the objective side of æsthetic pleasure already
comes more to the front and assumes as much importance as the subjective
side. Pure knowing as such is no longer the paramount consideration, for
we are equally affected by the known Platonic Idea, the world as idea at
an important grade of the objectification of will.
But a far higher grade is revealed by animal painting and sculpture. Of
the latter we have some important antique remains; for example, horses at
Venice, on Monte Cavallo, and on the Elgin Marbles, also at Florence in
bronze and marble; the ancient boar, howling wolves, the lions in the
arsenal at Venice, also in the Vatican a whole room almost filled with
ancient animals, &c. In these representations the objective side of
æsthetic pleasure obtains a marked predominance over the subjective. The
peace of the subject which knows these Ideas, which has silenced its own
will, is indeed present, as it is in all æsthetic contemplation; but its
effect is not felt, for we are occupied with the restlessness and
impetuosity of the will represented. It is that very will, which
constitutes our own nature, that here appears to us in forms, in which its
manifestation is not, as in us, controlled and tempered by intellect, but
exhibits itself in stronger traits, and with a distinctness that borders
on the grotesque and monstrous. For this very reason there is no
concealment; it is free, naïve, open as the day, and this is the cause of
our interest in animals. The characteristics of species appeared already
in the representation of plants, but showed itself only in the forms; here
it becomes much more distinct, and expresses itself not only in the form,
but in the action, position, and mien, yet always merely as the character
of the species, not of the individual. This knowledge of the Ideas of
higher grades, which in painting we receive through extraneous means, we
may gain directly by the pure contemplative perception of plants, and
observation of beasts, and indeed of the latter in their free, natural,
and unrestrained state. The objective contemplation of their manifold and
marvellous forms, and of their actions and behaviour, is an instructive
lesson from the great book of nature, it is a deciphering of the true
_signatura rerum_.(53) We see in them the manifold grades and modes of the
manifestation of will, which in all beings of one and the same grade,
wills always in the same way, which objectifies itself as life, as
existence in such endless variety, and such different forms, which are all
adaptations to the different external circumstances, and may be compared
to many variations on the same theme. But if we had to communicate to the
observer, for reflection, and in a word, the explanation of their inner
nature, it would be best to make use of that Sanscrit formula which occurs
so often in the sacred books of the Hindoos, and is called Mahavakya,
i.e., the great word: “_Tat twam asi_,” which means, “this living thing
art thou.”
§ 45. The great problem of historical painting and sculpture is to express
directly and for perception the Idea in which the will reaches the highest
grade of its objectification. The objective side of the pleasure afforded
by the beautiful is here always predominant, and the subjective side has
retired into the background. It is further to be observed that at the next
grade below this, animal painting, the characteristic is entirely one with
the beautiful; the most characteristic lion, wolf, horse, sheep, or ox,
was always the most beautiful also. The reason of this is that animals
have only the character of their species, no individual character. In the
representation of men the character of the species is separated from that
of the individual; the former is now called beauty (entirely in the
objective sense), but the latter retains the name, character, or
expression, and the new difficulty arises of representing both, at once
and completely, in the same individual.