objectification of will at the highest grade at which it is knowable, the
Idea of man in general, completely expressed in the sensible form. But
however much the objective side of the beautiful appears here, the
subjective side still always accompanies it. And just because no object
transports us so quickly into pure æsthetic contemplation, as the most
beautiful human countenance and form, at the sight of which we are
instantly filled with unspeakable satisfaction, and raised above ourselves
and all that troubles us; this is only possible because this most distinct
and purest knowledge of will raises us most easily and quickly to the
state of pure knowing, in which our personality, our will with its
constant pain, disappears, so long as the pure æsthetic pleasure lasts.
Therefore it is that Goethe says: “No evil can touch him who looks on
human beauty; he feels himself at one with himself and with the world.”
That a beautiful human form is produced by nature must be explained in
this way. At this its highest grade the will objectifies itself in an
individual; and therefore through circumstances and its own power it
completely overcomes all the hindrances and opposition which the phenomena
of the lower grades present to it. Such are the forces of nature, from
which the will must always first extort and win back the matter that
belongs to all its manifestations. Further, the phenomenon of will at its
higher grades always has multiplicity in its form. Even the tree is only a
systematic aggregate of innumerably repeated sprouting fibres. This
combination assumes greater complexity in higher forms, and the human body
is an exceedingly complex system of different parts, each of which has a
peculiar life of its own, _vita propria_, subordinate to the whole. Now
that all these parts are in the proper fashion subordinate to the whole,
and co-ordinate to each other, that they all work together harmoniously
for the expression of the whole, nothing superfluous, nothing restricted;
all these are the rare conditions, whose result is beauty, the completely
expressed character of the species. So is it in nature. But how in art?
One would suppose that art achieved the beautiful by imitating nature. But
how is the artist to recognise the perfect work which is to be imitated,
and distinguish it from the failures, if he does not anticipate the
beautiful _before experience_? And besides this, has nature ever produced
a human being perfectly beautiful in all his parts? It has accordingly
been thought that the artist must seek out the beautiful parts,
distributed among a number of different human beings, and out of them
construct a beautiful whole; a perverse and foolish opinion. For it will
be asked, how is he to know that just these forms and not others are
beautiful? We also see what kind of success attended the efforts of the
old German painters to achieve the beautiful by imitating nature. Observe
their naked figures. No knowledge of the beautiful is possible purely _a
posteriori_, and from mere experience; it is always, at least in part, _a
priori_, although quite different in kind, from the forms of the principle
of sufficient reason, of which we are conscious _a priori_. These concern
the universal form of phenomena as such, as it constitutes the possibility
of knowledge in general, the universal _how_ of all phenomena, and from
this knowledge proceed mathematics and pure natural science. But this
other kind of knowledge _a priori_, which makes it possible to express the
beautiful, concerns, not the form but the content of phenomena, not the
_how_ but the _what_ of the phenomenon. That we all recognise human beauty
when we see it, but that in the true artist this takes place with such
clearness that he shows it as he has never seen it, and surpasses nature
in his representation; this is only possible because _we ourselves are_
the will whose adequate objectification at its highest grade is here to be
judged and discovered. Thus alone have we in fact an anticipation of that
which nature (which is just the will that constitutes our own being)
strives to express. And in the true genius this anticipation is
accompanied by so great a degree of intelligence that he recognises the
Idea in the particular thing, and thus, as it were, _understands the
half-uttered speech of nature_, and articulates clearly what she only
stammered forth. He expresses in the hard marble that beauty of form which
in a thousand attempts she failed to produce, he presents it to nature,
saying, as it were, to her, “That is what you wanted to say!” And whoever
is able to judge replies, “Yes, that is it.” Only in this way was it
possible for the genius of the Greeks to find the type of human beauty and
establish it as a canon for the school of sculpture; and only by virtue of
such an anticipation is it possible for all of us to recognise beauty,
when it has actually been achieved by nature in the particular case. This
anticipation is the _Ideal_. It is the _Idea_ so far as it is known _a
priori_, at least half, and it becomes practical for art, because it
corresponds to and completes what is given _a posteriori_ through nature.
The possibility of such an anticipation of the beautiful _a priori_ in the
artist, and of its recognition _a posteriori_ by the critic, lies in the
fact that the artist and the critic are themselves the “in-itself” of
nature, the will which objectifies itself. For, as Empedocles said, like
can only be known by like: only nature can understand itself: only nature
can fathom itself: but only spirit also can understand spirit.(54)
The opinion, which is absurd, although expressed by the Socrates of
Xenophon (Stobæi Floril, vol. ii. p. 384) that the Greeks discovered the
established ideal of human beauty empirically, by collecting particular
beautiful parts, uncovering and noting here a knee, there an arm, has an
exact parallel in the art of poetry. The view is entertained, that
Shakespeare, for example, observed, and then gave forth from his own
experience of life, the innumerable variety of the characters in his
dramas, so true, so sustained, so profoundly worked out. The impossibility
and absurdity of such an assumption need not be dwelt upon. It is obvious
that the man of genius produces the works of poetic art by means of an
anticipation of what is characteristic, just as he produces the works of
plastic and pictorial art by means of a prophetic anticipation of the
beautiful; yet both require experience as a pattern or model, for thus
alone can that which is dimly known _a priori_ be called into clear
consciousness, and an intelligent representation of it becomes possible.
Human beauty was explained above as the fullest objectification of will at
the highest grade at which it is knowable. It expresses itself through the
form; and this lies in space alone, and has no necessary connection with
time, as, for example, motion has. Thus far then we may say: the adequate
objectification of will through a merely spatial phenomenon is beauty, in
the objective sense. A plant is nothing but such a merely spatial
phenomenon of will; for no motion, and consequently no relation to time
(regarded apart from its development), belongs to the expression of its
nature; its mere form expresses its whole being and displays it openly.
But brutes and men require, further, for the full revelation of the will
which is manifested in them, a series of actions, and thus the
manifestation in them takes on a direct relation to time. All this has
already been explained in the preceding book; it is related to what we are
considering at present in the following way. As the merely spatial
manifestation of will can objectify it fully or defectively at each
definite grade,—and it is this which constitutes beauty or ugliness,—so
the temporal objectification of will, _i.e._, the action, and indeed the
direct action, the movement, may correspond to the will, which objectifies
itself in it, purely and fully without foreign admixture, without
superfluity, without defect, only expressing exactly the act of will
determined in each case;—or the converse of all this may occur. In the
first case the movement is made with _grace_, in the second case without
it. Thus as beauty is the adequate representation of will generally,
through its merely spatial manifestation; _grace_ is the adequate
representation of will through its temporal manifestation, that is to say,
the perfectly accurate and fitting expression of each act of will, through
the movement and position which objectify it. Since movement and position
presuppose the body, Winckelmann’s expression is very true and suitable,
when he says, “Grace is the proper relation of the acting person to the
action” (Works, vol. i. p. 258). It is thus evident that beauty may be
attributed to a plant, but no grace, unless in a figurative sense; but to
brutes and men, both beauty and grace. Grace consists, according to what
has been said, in every movement being performed, and every position
assumed, in the easiest, most appropriate and convenient way, and
therefore being the pure, adequate expression of its intention, or of the
act of will, without any superfluity, which exhibits itself as aimless,
meaningless bustle, or as wooden stiffness. Grace presupposes as its
condition a true proportion of all the limbs, and a symmetrical,
harmonious figure; for complete ease and evident appropriateness of all
positions and movements are only possible by means of these. Grace is
therefore never without a certain degree of beauty of person. The two,
complete and united, are the most distinct manifestation of will at the
highest grade of its objectification.
It was mentioned above that in order rightly to portray man, it is
necessary to separate the character of the species from that of the
individual, so that to a certain extent every man expresses an Idea
peculiar to himself, as was said in the last book. Therefore the arts
whose aim is the representation of the Idea of man, have as their problem,
not only beauty, the character of the species, but also the character of
the individual, which is called, _par excellence_, _character_. But this
is only the case in so far as this character is to be regarded, not as
something accidental and quite peculiar to the man as a single individual,
but as a side of the Idea of humanity which is specially apparent in this
individual, and the representation of which is therefore of assistance in
revealing this Idea. Thus the character, although as such it is
individual, must yet be Ideal, that is, its significance in relation to
the Idea of humanity generally (the objectifying of which it assists in
its own way) must be comprehended and expressed with special prominence.
Apart from this the representation is a portrait, a copy of the individual
as such, with all his accidental qualities. And even the portrait ought to
be, as Winckelmann says, the ideal of the individual.
That _character_ which is to be ideally comprehended, as the prominence of
a special side of the Idea of humanity, expresses itself visibly, partly
through permanent physiognomy and bodily form, partly through passing
emotion and passion, the reciprocal modification of knowing and willing by
each other, which is all exhibited in the mien and movements. Since the
individual always belongs to humanity, and, on the other hand, humanity
always reveals itself in the individual with what is indeed peculiar ideal
significance, beauty must not be destroyed by character nor character by
beauty. For if the character of the species is annulled by that of the
individual, the result is caricature; and if the character of the
individual is annulled by that of the species, the result is an absence of
meaning. Therefore the representation which aims at beauty, as sculpture
principally does, will yet always modify this (the character of the
species), in some respect, by the individual character, and will always
express the Idea of man in a definite individual manner, giving prominence
to a special side of it. For the human individual as such has to a certain
extent the dignity of a special Idea, and it is essential to the Idea of
man that it should express itself in individuals of special significance.
Therefore we find in the works of the ancients, that the beauty distinctly
comprehended by them, is not expressed in one form, but in many forms of
different character. It is always apprehended, as it were, from a
different side, and expressed in one way in Apollo, in another way in
Bacchus, in another in Hercules, in another in Antinous; indeed the
characteristic may limit the beautiful, and finally extend even to
hideousness, in the drunken Silenus, in the Faun, &c. If the
characteristic goes so far as actually to annul the character of the
species, if it extends to the unnatural, it becomes caricature. But we can
far less afford to allow grace to be interfered with by what is
characteristic than even beauty, for graceful position and movement are
demanded for the expression of the character also; but yet it must be
achieved in the way which is most fitting, appropriate, and easy for the
person. This will be observed, not only by the sculptor and the painter,
but also by every good actor; otherwise caricature will appear here also
as grimace or distortion.
In sculpture, beauty and grace are the principal concern. The special
character of the mind, appearing in emotion, passion, alternations of
knowing and willing, which can only be represented by the expression of
the countenance and the gestures, is the peculiar sphere of _painting_.
For although eyes and colour, which lie outside the province of sculpture,
contribute much to beauty, they are yet far more essential to character.
Further, beauty unfolds itself more completely when it is contemplated
from various points of view; but the expression, the character, can only
be completely comprehended from _one_ point of view.
Because beauty is obviously the chief aim of sculpture, Lessing tried to
explain the fact that the _Laocoon does not cry out_, by saying that
crying out is incompatible with beauty. The Laocoon formed for Lessing the
theme, or at least the text of a work of his own, and both before and
after him a great deal has been written on the subject. I may therefore be
allowed to express my views about it in passing, although so special a
discussion does not properly belong to the scheme of this work, which is
throughout concerned with what is general.
§ 46. That Laocoon, in the celebrated group, does not cry out is obvious,
and the universal and ever-renewed surprise at this must be occasioned by
the fact that any of us would cry out if we were in his place. And nature
demands that it should be so; for in the case of the acutest physical
pain, and the sudden seizure by the greatest bodily fear, all reflection,
that might have inculcated silent endurance, is entirely expelled from
consciousness, and nature relieves itself by crying out, thus expressing
both the pain and the fear, summoning the deliverer and terrifying the
assailer. Thus Winckelmann missed the expression of crying out; but as he
wished to justify the artist he turned Laocoon into a Stoic, who
considered it beneath his dignity to cry out _secundum naturam_, but added
to his pain the useless constraint of suppressing all utterance of it.
Winckelmann therefore sees in him “the tried spirit of a great man, who
writhes in agony, and yet seeks to suppress the utterance of his feeling,
and to lock it up in himself. He does not break forth into loud cries, as
in Virgil, but only anxious sighs escape him,” &c. (Works, vol. vii. p.
98, and at greater length in vol. vi. p. 104). Now Lessing criticised this
opinion of Winckelmann’s in his Laocoon, and improved it in the way
mentioned above. In place of the psychological he gave the purely æsthetic
reason that beauty, the principle of ancient art, does not admit of the
expression of crying out. Another argument which he added to this, that a
merely passing state incapable of duration ought not to be represented in
motionless works of art, has a hundred examples of most excellent figures
against it, which are fixed in merely transitory movements, dancing,
wrestling, catching, &c. Indeed Goethe, in the essay on the Laocoon, which
opens the Propylaen (p. 8), holds that the choice of such a merely
fleeting movement is absolutely necessary. In our own day Hirt (Horen,
1797, tenth St.) finally decided the point, deducing everything from the
highest truth of expression, that Laocoon does not cry out, because he can
no longer do so, as he is at the point of death from choking. Lastly,
Fernow (“Römische Studien,” vol. i. p. 246) expounded and weighed all
these opinions; he added, however, no new one of his own, but combined
these three eclectically.
I cannot but wonder that such thoughtful and acute men should laboriously
bring far-fetched and insufficient reasons, should resort to psychological
and physiological arguments, to explain a matter the reason of which lies
so near at hand, and is obvious at once to the unprejudiced; and
especially I wonder that Lessing, who came so near the true explanation,
should yet have entirely missed the real point.
Before all psychological and physiological inquiries as to whether Laocoon
would cry out in his position or not (and I certainly affirm that he
would), it must be decided as regards the group in question, that crying
out ought not to be expressed in it, for the simple reason that its
expression lies quite outside the province of sculpture. A shrieking
Laocoon could not be produced in marble, but only a figure with the mouth
open vainly endeavouring to shriek; a Laocoon whose voice has stuck in his
throat, _vox faucibus haesit_. The essence of shrieking, and consequently
its effect upon the onlooker, lies entirely in sound; not in the
distortion of the mouth. This phenomenon, which necessarily accompanies
shrieking, derives motive and justification only from the sound produced
by means of it; then it is permissible and indeed necessary, as
characteristic of the action, even though it interferes with beauty. But
in plastic art, to which the representation of shrieking is quite foreign
and impossible, it would be actual folly to represent the medium of
violent shrieking, the distorted mouth, which would disturb all the
features and the remainder of the expression; for thus at the sacrifice of
many other things the means would be represented, while its end, the
shrieking itself, and its effect upon our feelings, would be left out. Nay
more, there would be produced the spectacle of a continuous effort without
effect, which is always ridiculous, and may really be compared to what
happened when some one for a joke stopped the horn of a night watchman
with wax while he was asleep, and then awoke him with the cry of fire, and
amused himself by watching his vain endeavours to blow the horn. When, on
the other hand, the expression of shrieking lies in the province of poetic
or histrionic art, it is quite admissible, because it helps to express the
truth, _i.e._, the complete expression of the Idea. Thus it is with
poetry, which claims the assistance of the imagination of the reader, in
order to enable it to represent things perceptibly. Therefore Virgil makes
Laocoon cry out like the bellowing of an ox that has broken loose after
being struck by the axe; and Homer (Il. xx. 48-53) makes Mars and Minerva
shriek horribly, without derogating from their divine dignity or beauty.
The same with acting; Laocoon on the stage would certainly have to shriek.
Sophocles makes Philoctetus cry out, and, on the ancient stage at any
rate, he must actually have done so. As a case in point, I remember having
seen in London the great actor Kemble play in a piece called Pizarro,
translated from the German. He took the part of the American, a
half-savage, but of very noble character. When he was wounded he cried out
loudly and wildly, which had a great and admirable effect, for it was
exceedingly characteristic and therefore assisted the truth of the
representation very much. On the other hand, a painted or sculptured model
of a man shrieking, would be much more absurd than the painted music which
is censured in Goethe’s Propylaen. For shrieking does far more injury to
the expression and beauty of the whole than music, which at the most only
occupies the hands and arms, and is to be looked upon as an occupation
characteristic of the person; indeed thus far it may quite rightly be
painted, as long as it demands no violent movement of the body, or
distortion of the mouth: for example, St. Cecilia at the organ, Raphael’s
violin-player in the Sciarra Gallery at Rome, and others. Since then, on
account of the limits of the art, the pain of Laocoon must not be
expressed by shrieking, the artist was obliged to employ every other
expression of pain; this he has done in the most perfect manner, as is
ably described by Winckelmann (Works, vol. vi. p. 104), whose admirable
account thus retains its full value and truth, as soon as we abstract from
the stoical view which underlies it.(55)
§ 47. Because beauty accompanied with grace is the principal object of
sculpture, it loves nakedness, and allows clothing only so far as it does
not conceal the form. It makes use of drapery, not as a covering, but as a
means of exhibiting the form, a method of exposition that gives much
exercise to the understanding, for it can only arrive at a perception of
the cause, the form of the body, through the only directly given effect,
the drapery. Thus to a certain extent drapery is in sculpture what
fore-shortening is in painting. Both are suggestions, yet not symbolical,
but such that, if they are successful, they force the understanding
directly to perceive what is suggested, just as if it were actually given.
I may be allowed, in passing, to insert here a comparison that is very
pertinent to the arts we are discussing. It is this: as the beautiful
bodily form is seen to the greatest advantage when clothed in the lightest
way, or indeed without any clothing at all, and therefore a very handsome
man, if he had also taste and the courage to follow it, would go about
almost naked, clothed only after the manner of the ancients; so every one
who possesses a beautiful and rich mind will always express himself in the
most natural, direct, and simple way, concerned, if it be possible, to
communicate his thoughts to others, and thus relieve the loneliness that
he must feel in such a world as this. And conversely, poverty of mind,
confusion, and perversity of thought, will clothe itself in the most
far-fetched expressions and the obscurest forms of speech, in order to
wrap up in difficult and pompous phraseology small, trifling, insipid, or
commonplace thoughts; like a man who has lost the majesty of beauty, and
trying to make up for the deficiency by means of clothing, seeks to hide
the insignificance or ugliness of his person under barbaric finery,
tinsel, feathers, ruffles, cuffs, and mantles. Many an author, if
compelled to translate his pompous and obscure book into its little clear
content, would be as utterly spoilt as this man if he had to go naked.