{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_6798/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_6798","id":"gutenberg_6798","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/6798","summary":null,"tags":["Aesthetics","Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Philosophy"],"text":"Produced by Tapio Riikonen and David Widger\n\n\n\n\n\nAESTHETICAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL ESSAYS\n\nby Frederick Schiller\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n INTRODUCTION\n\n VOCABULARY OF TERMINOLOGY\n\n LETTERS ON THE AESTHETICAL EDUCATION OF MAN\n\n AESTHETICAL ESSAYS:--\n\n  THE MORAL UTILITY OF AESTHETIC MANNERS\n  ON THE SUBLIME\n  THE PATHETIC\n  ON GRACE AND DIGNITY\n  ON DIGNITY\n  ON THE NECESSARY LIMITATIONS IN THE USE OF BEAUTY AND FORM\n  REFLECTIONS ON THE USE OF THE VULGAR AND LOW ELEMENTS IN WORKS OF ART\n  DETACHED REFLECTIONS ON DIFFERENT QUESTIONS OF AESTHETICS\n  ON SIMPLE AND SENTIMENTAL POETRY\n  THE STAGE AS A MORAL INSTITUTION\n  ON THE TRAGIC ART\n  OF THE CAUSE OF THE PLEASURE WE DERIVE FROM TRAGIC OBJECTS\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION.\n\n\nThe special subject of the greater part of the letters and essays of\nSchiller contained in this volume is Aesthetics; and before passing to\nany remarks on his treatment of the subject it will be useful to offer a\nfew observations on the nature of this topic, and on its treatment by the\nphilosophical spirit of different ages.\n\nFirst, then, aesthetics has for its object the vast realm of the\nbeautiful, and it may be most adequately defined as the philosophy of art\nor of the fine arts. To some the definition may seem arbitrary, as\nexcluding the beautiful in nature; but it will cease to appear so if it\nis remarked that the beauty which is the work of art is higher than\nnatural beauty, because it is the offspring of the mind. Moreover, if,\nin conformity with a certain school of modern philosophy, the mind be\nviewed as the true being, including all in itself, it must be admitted\nthat beauty is only truly beautiful when it shares in the nature of mind,\nand is mind's offspring.\n\nViewed in this light, the beauty of nature is only a reflection of the\nbeauty of the mind, only an imperfect beauty, which as to its essence is\nincluded in that of the mind. Nor has it ever entered into the mind of\nany thinker to develop the beautiful in natural objects, so as to convert\nit into a science and a system. The field of natural beauty is too\nuncertain and too fluctuating for this purpose. Moreover, the relation\nof beauty in nature and beauty in art forms a part of the science of\naesthetics, and finds again its proper place.\n\nBut it may be urged that art is not worthy of a scientific treatment.\nArt is no doubt an ornament of our life and a charm to the fancy; but has\nit a more serious side? When compared with the absorbing necessities of\nhuman existence, it might seem a luxury, a superfluity, calculated to\nenfeeble the heart by the assiduous worship of beauty, and thus to be\nactually prejudicial to the true interest of practical life. This view\nseems to be largely countenanced by a dominant party in modern times, and\npractical men, as they are styled, are only too ready to take this\nsuperficial view of the office of art.\n\nMany have indeed undertaken to defend art on this score, and to show\nthat, far from being a mere luxury, it has serious and solid advantages.\nIt has been even apparently exaggerated in this respect, and represented\nas a kind of mediator between reason and sense, between inclination and\nduty, having as its mission the work of reconciling the conflicting\nelements in the human heart. A strong trace of this view will be found\nin Schiller, especially in all that he says about the play-instinct in\nhis \"Aesthetical Letters.\"\n\nNevertheless, art is worthy of science; aesthetics is a true science, and\nthe office of art is as high as that assigned to it in the pages of\nSchiller. We admit that art viewed only as an ornament and a charm is no\nlonger free, but a slave. But this is a perversion of its proper end.\nScience has to be considered as free in its aim and in its means, and it\nis only free when liberated from all other considerations; it rises up to\ntruth, which is its only real object, and can alone fully satisfy it.\nArt in like manner is alone truly art when it is free and independent,\nwhen it solves the problem of its high destination--that problem whether\nit has to be placed beside religion and philosophy as being nothing else\nthan a particular mode or a special form of revealing God to\nconsciousness, and of expressing the deepest interests of human nature\nand the widest truths of the human mind.\n\nFor it is in their works of art that the nations have imprinted their\nfavorite thoughts and their richest intuitions, and not unfrequently the\nfine arts are the only means by which we can penetrate into the secrets\nof their wisdom and the mysteries of their religion.\n\nIt is made a reproach to art that it produces its effects by appearance\nand illusion; but can it be established that appearance is objectionable?\nThe phenomena of nature and the acts of human life are nothing more than\nappearances, and are yet looked upon as constituting a true reality; for\nthis reality must be sought for beyond the objects perceived immediately\nby the sense, the substance and speech and principle underlying all\nthings manifesting itself in time and space through these real\nexistences, but preserving its absolute existence in itself. Now, the\nvery special object and aim of art is to represent the action and\ndevelopment of this universal force. In nature this force or principle\nappears confounded with particular interests and transitory\ncircumstances, mixed up with what is arbitrary in the passions and in\nindividual wills. Art sets the truth free from the illusory and\nmendacious forms of this coarse, imperfect world, and clothes it in a\nnobler, purer form created by the mind itself. Thus the forms of art,\nfar from being mere appearances, perfectly illusory, contain more reality\nand truth than the phenomenal existences of the real world. The world of\nart is truer than that of history or nature.\n\nNor is this all: the representations of art are more expressive and\ntransparent than the phenomena of the real world or the events of\nhistory. The mind finds it harder to pierce through the hard envelop of\nnature and common life than to penetrate into works of art.\n\nTwo more reflections appear completely to meet the objection that art or\naesthetics is not entitled to the name of science.\n\nIt will be generally admitted that the mind of man has the power of\nconsidering itself, of making itself its own object and all that issues\nfrom its activity; for thought constitutes the essence of the mind. Now\nart and its work, as creations of the mind, are themselves of a spiritual\nnature. In this respect art is much nearer to the mind than nature. In\nstudying the works of art the mind has to do with itself, with what\nproceeds from itself, and is itself.\n\nThus art finds its highest confirmation in science.\n\nNor does art refuse a philosophical treatment because it is dependent on\ncaprice, and subject to no law. If its highest aim be to reveal to the\nhuman consciousness the highest interest of the mind, it is evident that\nthe substance or contents of the representations are not given up to the\ncontrol of a wild and irregular imagination. It is strictly determined\nby the ideas that concern our intelligence and by the laws of their\ndevelopment, whatever may be the inexhaustible variety of forms in which\nthey are produced. Nor are these forms arbitrary, for every form is not\nfitted to express every idea. The form is determined by the substance\nwhich it has to suit.\n\nA further consideration of the true nature of beauty, and therefore of\nthe vocation of the artist, will aid us still more in our endeavor to\nshow the high dignity of art and of aesthetics. The history of\nphilosophy presents us with many theories on the nature of the beautiful;\nbut as it would lead us too far to examine them all, we shall only\nconsider the most important among them. The coarsest of these theories\ndefines the beautiful as that which pleases the senses. This theory,\nissuing from the philosophy of sensation of the school of Locke and\nCondillac, only explains the idea and the feeling of the beautiful by\ndisfiguring it. It is entirely contradicted by facts. For it converts\nit into desire, but desire is egotistical and insatiable, while\nadmiration is respectful, and is its own satisfaction without seeking\npossession.\n\nOthers have thought the beautiful consists in proportion, and no\ndoubt this is one of the conditions of beauty, but only one. An\nill-proportioned object cannot be beautiful, but the exact correspondence\nof parts, as in geometrical figures, does not constitute beauty.\n\nA noted ancient theory makes beauty consist in the perfect suitableness\nof means to their end. In this case the beautiful is not the useful, it\nis the suitable; and the latter idea is more akin to that of beauty. But\nit has not the true character of the beautiful. Again, order is a less\nmathematical idea than proportion, but it does not explain what is free\nand flowing in certain beauties.\n\nThe most plausible theory of beauty is that which makes it consist in two\ncontrary and equally necessary elements--unity and variety. A beautiful\nflower has all the elements we have named; it has unity, symmetry, and\nvariety of shades of color. There is no beauty without life, and life is\nmovement, diversity. These elements are found in beautiful and also in\nsublime objects. A beautiful object is complete, finished, limited with\nsymmetrical parts. A sublime object whose forms, though not out of\nproportion, are less determined, ever awakens in us the feeling of the\ninfinite. In objects of sense all qualities that can produce the feeling\nof the beautiful come under one class called physical beauty. But above\nand beyond this in the region of mind we have first intellectual beauty,\nincluding the laws that govern intelligence and the creative genius of\nthe artist, the poet, and the philosopher. Again, the moral world has\nbeauty in its ideas of liberty, of virtue, of devotion, the justice of\nAristides, the heroism of Leonidas.\n\nWe have now ascertained that there is beauty and sublimity in nature, in\nideas, in feelings, and in actions. After all this it might be supposed\nthat a unity could be found amidst these different kinds of beauty. The\nsight of a statue, as the Apollo of Belvedere, of a man, of Socrates\nexpiring, are adduced as producing impressions of the beautiful; but the\nform cannot be a form by itself, it must be the form of something.\nPhysical beauty is the sign of an interior beauty, a spiritual and moral\nbeauty which is the basis, the principle, and the unity of the beautiful.\n\nPhysical beauty is an envelop to intellectual and to moral beauty.\n\nIntellectual beauty, the splendor of the true, can only have for\nprinciple that of all truth.\n\nMoral beauty comprehends two distinct elements, equally beautiful,\njustice and charity. Thus God is the principle of the three orders of\nbeauty, physical, intellectual, and moral. He also construes the two\ngreat powers distributed over the three orders, the beautiful and the\nsublime. God is beauty par excellence; He is therefore perfectly\nbeautiful; He is equally sublime. He is to us the type and sense of the\ntwo great forms of beauty. In short, the Absolute Being as absolute\nunity and absolute variety is necessarily the ultimate principle, the\nextreme basis, the finished ideal of all beauty. This was the marvellous\nbeauty which Diotimus had seen, and which is described in the Banquet of\nSocrates.\n\nIt is our purpose after the previous discussion to attempt to elucidate\nstill further the idea of art by following its historic development.\n\nMany questions bearing on art and relating to the beautiful had been\npropounded before, even as far back as Plotinus, Plato, and Socrates, but\nrecent times have been the real cradle of aesthetics as a science.\nModern philosophy was the first to recognize that beauty in art is one of\nthe means by which the contradictions can be removed between mind\nconsidered in its abstract and absolute existence and nature constituting\nthe world of sense, bringing back these two factors to unity.\n\nKant was the first who felt the want of this union and expressed it, but\nwithout determining its conditions or expressing it scientifically. He\nwas impeded in his efforts to effect this union by the opposition between\nthe subjective and the objective, by his placing practical reason above\ntheoretical reason, and he set up the opposition found in the moral\nsphere as the highest principle of morality. Reduced to this difficulty,\nall that Kant could do was to express the union under the form of the\nsubjective ideas of reason, or as postulates to be deduced from the\npractical reason, without their essential character being known, and\nrepresenting their realization as nothing more than a simple you ought,\nor imperative \"Du sollst.\"\n\nIn his teleological judgment applied to living beings, Kant comes, on the\ncontrary, to consider the living organism in such wise that, the general\nincluding the particular, and determining it as an end, consequently the\nidea also determines the external, the compound of the organs, not by an\nact springing from without but issuing from within. In this way the end\nand the means, the interior and exterior, the general and particular, are\nconfounded in unity. But this judgment only expresses a subjective act\nof reflection, and does not throw any light on the object in itself.\nKant has the same view of the aesthetic judgment. According to him the\njudgment does not proceed either from reason, as the faculty of general\nideas, or from sensuous perception, but from the free play of the reason\nand of the imagination. In this analysis of the cognitive faculty, the\nobject only exists relatively to the subject and to the feeling of\npleasure or the enjoyment that it experiences.\n\nThe characteristics of the beautiful are, according to Kant:--\n\n1. The pleasure it procures is free from interest.\n\n2. Beauty appears to us as an object of general enjoyment, without\nawakening in us the consciousness of an abstract idea and of a category\nof reason to which we might refer our judgment.\n\n3. Beauty ought to embrace in itself the relation of conformity to its\nend, but in such a way that this conformity may be grasped without the\nidea of the end being offered to our mind.\n\n4. Though it be not accompanied by an abstract idea, beauty ought to be\nacknowledged as the object of a necessary enjoyment.\n\nA special feature of all this system is the indissoluble unity of what is\nsupposed to be separated in consciousness. This distinction disappears\nin the beautiful, because in it the general and the particular, the end\nand the means, the idea and the object, mentally penetrate each other\ncompletely. The particular in itself, whether it be opposed to itself or\nto what is general, is something accidental. But here what may be\nconsidered as an accidental form is so intimately connected with the\ngeneral that it is confounded and identified with it. By this means the\nbeautiful in art presents thought to us as incarnate. On the other hand,\nmatter, nature, the sensuous as themselves possessing measure, end, and\nharmony, are raised to the dignity of spirit and share in its general\ncharacter. Thought not only abandons its hostility against nature, but\nsmiles in her. Sensation and enjoyment are justified and sanctified, so\nthat nature and liberty, sense and ideas, find their justification and\ntheir sanctification in this union. Nevertheless this reconciliation,\nthough seemingly perfect, is stricken with the character of\nsubjectiveness. It cannot constitute the absolutely true and real.\n\nSuch is an outline of the principal results of Kant's criticism, and\nHegel passes high praise on the profoundly philosophic mind of Schiller,\nwho demanded the union and reconciliation of the two principles, and who\ntried to give a scientific explanation of it before the problem had been\nsolved by philosophy. In his \"Letters on Aesthetic Education,\" Schiller\nadmits that man carries in himself the germ of the ideal man which is\nrealized and represented by the state. There are two ways for the\nindividual man to approach the ideal man; first, when the state,\nconsidered as morality, justice, and general reason, absorbs the\nindividualities in its unity; secondly, when the individual rises to the\nideal of his species by the perfecting of himself. Reason demands unity,\nconformity to the species; nature, on the other hand, demands plurality\nand individuality; and man is at once solicited by two contrary laws. In\nthis conflict, aesthetic education must come in to effect the\nreconciliation of the two principles; for, according to Schiller, it has\nas its end to fashion and polish the inclinations and passions so that\nthey may become reasonable, and that, on the other hand, reason and\nfreedom may issue from their abstract character, may unite with nature,\nmay spiritualize it, become incarnate, and take a body in it. Beauty is\nthus given as the simultaneous development of the rational and of the\nsensuous, fused together, and interpenetrated one by the other, an union\nthat constitutes in fact true reality.\n\nThis unity of the general and of the particular, of liberty and necessity\nof the spiritual and material, which Schiller understood scientifically\nas the spirit of art, and which he tried to make appear in real life by\naesthetic art and education, was afterwards put forward under the name of\nidea as the principle of all knowledge and existence. In this way,\nthrough the agency of Schelling, science raised itself to an absolute\npoint of view. It was thus that art began to claim its proper nature and\ndignity. From that time its proper place was finally marked out for it\nin science, though the mode of viewing it still labored under certain\ndefects. Its high and true distinction were at length understood.\n\nIn viewing the higher position to which recent philosophical systems have\nraised the theory of art in Germany, we must not overlook the advantages\ncontributed by the study of the ideal of the ancients by such men as\nWinckelmann, who, by a kind of inspiration, raised art criticism from a\ncarping about petty details to seek the true spirit of great works of\nart, and their true ideas, by a study of the spirit of the originals.\n\nIt has appeared expedient to conclude this introduction with a summary of\nthe latest and highest theory of art and aesthetics issuing from Kant and\nSchiller, and developed in the later philosophy of Hegel.\n\nOur space only allows us to give a glance, first, at the metaphysics of\nthe beautiful as developed by Hegel in the first part of his 'Aesthetik,'\nand then at the later development of the same system in recent writers\nissuing from his school.\n\nHegel considers, first, the abstract idea of the beautiful; secondly,\nbeauty in nature; thirdly, beauty in art or the ideal; and he winds up\nwith an examination of the qualities of the artist.\n\nHis preliminary remarks are directed to show the relations of art to\nreligion and philosophy, and he shows that man's destination is an\ninfinite development. In real life he only satisfies his longing\npartially and imperfectly by limited enjoyments. In science he finds a\nnobler pleasure, and civil life opens a career for his activity; but he\nonly finds an imperfect pleasure in these pursuits. He cannot then find\nthe ideal after which he sighs. Then he rises to a higher sphere, where\nall contradictions are effaced and the ideas of good and happiness are\nrealized in perfect accord and in constant harmony. This deep want of\nthe soul is satisfied in three ways: in art, in religion, and in\nphilosophy.\n\nArt is intended to make us contemplate the true and the infinite in forms\nof sense. Yet even art does not fully satisfy the deepest need of the\nsoul. The soul wants to contemplate truth in its inmost consciousness.\nReligion is placed above the dominion of art.\n\nFirst, as to idea of the beautiful, Hegel begins by giving its\ncharacteristics. It is infinite, and it is free; the contemplation of\nthe beautiful suffices to itself, it awakens no desire. The soul\nexperiences something like a godlike felicity and is transported into a\nsphere remote from the miseries of life. This theory of the beautiful\ncomes very near that of Plato.\n\nSecondly, as to beauty in nature. Physical beauty, considered\nexternally, presents itself successively under the aspects of regularity\nand of symmetry, of conformity with a law, and of harmony, also of purity\nand simplicity of matter.\n\nThirdly, beauty in art or the ideal is beauty in a higher degree of\nperfection than real beauty. The ideal in art is not contrary to the\nreal, but the real idealized, purified, and perfectly expressed. The\nideal is also the soul arrived at the consciousness of itself, free and\nfully enjoying its faculties; it is life, but spiritual life and spirit.\nNor is the ideal a cold abstraction, it is the spiritual principle under\nthe form of a living individuality freed from the laws of the finite.\nThe ideal in its highest form is the divine, as expressed in the Greek\ndivinities; the Christian ideal, as expressed in all its highest purity\nin God the Father, the Christ, the Virgin. Its essential features are\ncalm, majesty, serenity.\n\nAt a lower degree the ideal is in man the victory of the eternal\nprinciples that fill the human heart, the triumph of the nobler part of\nthe soul, the moral and divine principle.\n\nBut the ideal manifested in the world becomes action, and action implies\na form of society, a determinate situation with collision, and an action\nproperly so called. The heroic age is the best society for the ideal in\naction; in its determinate situation the ideal in action must appear as\nthe manifestation of moral power, and in action, properly so called, it\nmust contain three points in the ideal: first, general principles;\nsecondly, personages; thirdly, their character and their passions. Hegel\nwinds up by considering the qualities necessary in an artist:\nimagination, genius, inspiration, originality, etc.\n\nA recent exponent of Hegel's aesthetical ideas further developed\nexpresses himself thus on the nature of beauty:--\n\n\"After the bitterness of the world, the sweetness of art soothes and\nrefreshes us. This is the high value of the beautiful--that it solves\nthe contradiction of mind and matter, of the moral and sensuous world, in\nharmony. Thus the beautiful and its representation in art procures for\nintuition what philosophy gives to the cognitive insight and religion to\nthe believing frame of mind. Hence the delight with which Schiller's\nwonderful poem on the Bell celebrates the accord of the inner and outer\nlife, the fulfilment of the longing and demands of the soul by the events\nin nature. The externality of phenomena is removed in the beautiful; it\nis raised into the circle of ideal existence; for it is recognized as the\nrevelation of the ideal, and thus transfigured it gives to the latter\nadditional splendor.\"\n\n\"Thus the beautiful is active, living unity, full existence without\ndefect, as Plato and Schelling have said, or as recent writers describe\nit; the idea that is quite present in the appearance, the appearance\nwhich is quite formed and penetrated by the idea.\"\n\n\"Beauty is the world secret that invites us in image and word,\" is the\npoetical expression of Plato; and we may add, because it is revealed in\nboth. We feel in it the harmony of the world; it breaks forth in a\nbeauty, in a lovely accord, in a radiant point, and starting thence we\npenetrate further and yet further, and find as the ground of all\nexistence the same charm which had refreshed us in individual forms.\nThus Christ pointed to the lilies of the field to knit His followers'\nreliance on Providence with the phenomena of nature: and could they jet\nforth in royal beauty, exceeding that of Solomon, if the inner ground of\nnature were not beauty?\n\nWe may also name beauty in a certain sense a mystery, as it mediates to\nus in a sensuous sign a heavenly gift of grace, that it opens to us a\nview into the eternal Being, teaching us to know nature in God and God in\nnature, that it brings the divine even to the perception of sense, and\nestablishes the energy of love and freedom as the ground, the bond, and\nthe end of the world.\n\nIn the midst of the temporal the eternal is made palpable and present to\nus in the beautiful, and offers itself to our enjoyment. The separation\nis suppressed, and the original unity, as it is in God, appears as the\nfirst, as what holds together even the past in the universe, and what\nconstitutes the aim of the development in a finite accord.\n\nThe beautiful not only presents itself to us as mediator of a foreign\nexcellence or of a remote divinity, but the ideal and the godlike are\npresent in it. Hence aesthetics requires as its basis the system in\nwhich God is known as indwelling in the world, that He is not far distant\nfrom any one of us, but that He animates us, and that we live in Him.\nAesthetics requires the knowledge that mind is the creative force and\nunity of all that is extended and developed in time and space.\n\nThe beautiful is thus, according to these later thinkers, the revelation\nof God to the mind through the senses; it is the appearance of the idea.\nIn the beautiful spirit reveals itself to spirit through matter and the\nsenses; thus the entire man feels himself raised and satisfied by it. By\nthe unity of the beautiful with us we experience with delight that\nthought and the material world are present for our individuality, that\nthey utter tones and shine forth in it, that both penetrate each other\nand blend in it and thus become one with it. We feel one with them and\none in them.\n\nThis later view was to a great extent expressed by Schiller in his\n\"Aesthetical Letters.\"\n\nBut art and aesthetics, in the sense in which these terms are used and\nunderstood by German philosophical writers, such as Schiller, embrace a\nwider field than the fine arts. Lessing, in his \"Laocoon,\" had already\nshown the point of contrast between painting and poetry; and aesthetics,\nbeing defined as the science of the beautiful, must of necessity embrace\npoetry. Accordingly Schiller's essays on tragic art, pathos, and\nsentimental poetry, contained in this volume, are justly classed under\nhis aesthetical writings.\n\nThis being so, it is important to estimate briefly the transitions of\nGerman poetry before Schiller, and the position that he occupied in its\nhistoric development.\n\nThe first classical period of German poetry and literature was contained\nbetween A. D. 1190 and 1300. It exhibits the intimate blending of the\nGerman and Christian elements, and their full development in splendid\nproductions, for this was the period of the German national epos, the\n\"Nibelungenlied,\" and of the \"Minnegesang.\"\n\nThis was a period which has nothing to compare with it in point of\nart and poetry, save perhaps, and that imperfectly, the heroic and\npost-Homeric age of early Greece.\n\nThe poetical efforts of that early age may be grouped under--(1) national\nepos: the \"Nibelungenlied;\" (2) art epos: the \"Rolandslied,\" \"Percival,\"\netc.; (3) the introduction of antique legends: Veldeck's \"Aeneide,\" and\nKonrad's \"War of Troy;\" (4) Christian legends \"Barlaam,\" \"Sylvester,\"\n\"Pilatus,\" etc.; (5) poetical narratives: \"Crescentia,\" \"Graf Rudolf,\"\netc.; (6) animal legends; \"Reinecke Vos;\" (7) didactic poems: \"Der\nRenner;\" (8) the Minne-poetry, and prose.\n\nThe fourth group, though introduced from a foreign source, gives the\nspecial character and much of the charm of the period we consider. This\nis the sphere of legends derived from ecclesiastical ground. One of the\nbest German writers on the history of German literature remarks: \"If the\naim and nature of all poetry is to let yourself be filled by a subject\nand to become penetrated with it; if the simple representation of\nunartificial, true, and glowing feelings belongs to its most beautiful\nadornments; if the faithful direction of the heart to the invisible and\neternal is the ground on which at all times the most lovely flowers of\npoetry have sprouted forth, these legendary poems of early Germany, in\ntheir lovely heartiness, in their unambitious limitation, and their pious\nsense, deserve a friendly acknowledgment. What man has considered the\npious images in the prayer-books of the Middle Ages, the unadorned\ninnocence, the piety and purity, the patience of the martyrs, the calm,\nheavenly transparency of the figures of the holy angels, without being\nattracted by the simple innocence and humility of these forms, the\ncreation of pious artists' hands? Who has beheld them without tranquil\njoy at the soft splendor poured, over them, without deep sympathy, nay,\nwithout a certain emotion and tenderness? And the same spirit that\ncreated these images also produced those poetical effusions, the same\nspirit of pious belief, of deep devotion, of heavenly longing. If we\nmake a present reality of the heroic songs of the early German popular\npoetry, and the chivalrous epics of the art poetry, the military\nexpeditions and dress of the Crusades, this legendary poetry appears as\nthe invention of humble pilgrims, who wander slowly on the weary way to\nJerusalem, with scollop and pilgrim's staff, engaged in quiet prayer,\ntill they are all to kneel at the Saviour's sepulchre; and thus\ncontented, after touching the holy earth with their lips, they return,\npoor as they were, but full of holy comfort, to their distant home.\n\n\"While the knightly poetry is the poetry of the splendid secular life,\nfull of cheerful joy, full of harp-tones and song, full of tournaments\nand joyous festivals, the poetry of the earthly love for the earthly\nbride, the poetry of the legends is that of the spontaneous life of\npoverty, the poetry of the solitary cloister cell, of the quiet,\nwell-walled convent garden, the poetry of heavenly brides, who without\nlamenting the joys of the world, which they need not, have their joy in\ntheir Saviour in tranquil piety and devout resignation--who attend at the\nespousals of Anna and Joachim, sing the Magnificat with the Holy Mother\nof God, stand weeping beneath the cross, to be pierced also by the sword,\nwho hear the angel harp with St. Cecilia, and walk with St. Theresa in\nthe glades of Paradise. While the Minne-poetry was the tender homage\noffered to the beauty, the gentleness, the grace, and charm of noble\nwomen of this world, legendary poetry was the homage given to the Virgin\nMother, the Queen of Heaven, transfiguring earthly love into a heavenly\nand eternal love.\"\n\n\"For the twelfth and thirteenth centuries were the time of woman cultus,\nsuch as has never been before or since seen; it is also the time of the\ndeepest and simplest and truest, most enthusiastic and faithful\nveneration of the Virgin Mary. If we, by a certain effort, manage to\nplace ourselves back on the standpoint of childlike poetic faith of that\ntime, and set aside in thought the materializing and exaggeration of the\nhagiology and Mariolatry produced by later centuries, rendering the\nreaction of the Reformation unavoidable--if now in our age, turned\nexclusively to logical ideas and a negative dialectic, we live again by\nthought in those ages of feeling and poetry--if we acknowledge all these\nthings to be something more than harmless play of words and fancy, and as\nthe true lifelike contents of the period, then we can properly appreciate\nthis legendary poetry as a necessary link in the crown of pearls of our\nancient poetry.\"\n\nIn short, the first classical period of German literature was a time of\nyouthful freshness, of pure harmony, plunged in verse and song, full of\nthe richest tones and the noblest rhythm, so that rhyme and song alone\nmust be looked for as the form of poetic creations. Accordingly it had\nno proper prose. Like our own youth, it was a happy, free, and true\nyouth, it knew no prose; like us it dreamed to speechless songs; and as\nwe expressed our youthful language and hopes, woes and joys, in rhyme and\nsong, thus a whole people and age had its beautiful youth full of song\nand verse tones. The life was poetry and poetry was the life.\n\nThen came degeneracy and artifice; after that the great shock of the\nReformation; subsequently a servile and pedantic study of classical forms\nwithout imbibing their spirit, but preparing the way for a truer art\nspirit, extracted from their study by the masterly criticism of\nWinckelmann and Lessing, till the second classical period of German\nliterature and poetry bloomed forth in full beauty, blending the national\nand legendary elements so well expressed by Herder with the highest\neffusions of dramatic poetry, partly creative and partly imitative of the\nGreek models, in Schiller and Goethe.\n\nModern German literature presents a very remarkable spectacle, though far\nfrom unique in history, for there we see criticism begetting genius.\n\nLessing, the founder of the modern German drama, sought to banish all\npomp from the theatre, and in doing so some critics have thought that he\nbanished the ideal and fell into affectation. At any rate, his\n\"Dramaturgy\" is full of original ideas, and when he drew out the sphere\nof poetry contrasted with that of painting in his \"Laocoon,\" all Germany\nresounded with his praise. \"With that delight,\" says Goethe, \"we saluted\nthis luminous ray which a thinker of the first order caused to break\nforth from its clouds. It is necessary to have all the fire of youth to\nconceive the effect produced on us by the 'Laocoon' of Lessing.\" Another\ngreat contemporary, whose name is imperishable as that of art, struck a\nmortal blow at a false taste in the study of the antique. Winckelmann\nquestioned the works of the Greek chisel with an intelligence full of\nlove, and initiated his countrymen into poetry by a feeling for\nsculpture! What an enthusiasm he displayed for classical beauty! what a\nworship of the form! what a fervor of paganism is found in its eloquent\npages when he also comments on the admirable group of the Laocoon, or the\nstill purer masterpiece of the Apollo of Belvedere.\n\nThese men were the vanguard of the great Germanic army; Schiller and\nGoethe alone formed its main column. In them German poetry shows itself\nin its perfection, and completely realizes the ideal designed for it by\nthe critic. Every factitious precept and conventional law was now\noverthrown; these poetical Protestants broke away entirely from the yoke\nof tradition. Yet their genius was not without a rule. Every work bears\nin itself the organic laws of its development. Thus, although they laugh\nat the famous precept of the three unities, it is because they dig still\ndeeper down to the root of things, to grasp the true principle from which\nthe precept issued. \"Men have not understood,\" said Goethe, \"the basis\nof this law. The law of the comprehensive--'das Fassliche'--is the\nprinciple; and the three unities have only value as far as they attain\nit. When they become an obstacle to the comprehension it is madness to\nwish to observe them. The Greeks themselves, from whom the rule is\nderived, did not always follow it. In the 'Phaeton' of Euripides, and in\nother pieces, there was change, place; accordingly they prefer to give a\nperfect exposition of their subject, rather than blindly respect a law\nnever very essential in itself. The pieces of Shakspeare violate in the\nhighest degree the unity of time and of place; but they are full of\ncomprehensiveness; nothing is easier to grasp, and for that reason they\nwould have found favor with the Greeks. The French poets tried to obey\nexactly the law of the three unities; but they violate the law of\ncomprehensiveness, as they do not expound dramatic subjects by dramas but\nby recitals.\"\n\nPoetical creation was therefore viewed as free, but at the same time\nresponsible. Immediately, as if fecundity were the reward of\ncorrectness, the German theatre became filled with true and living\ncharacters. The stage widens under their steps that they may have room\nto move. History with its great proportions and its terrible lessons, is\nnow able to take place on the stage. The whole Thirty Years' War passes\nbefore us in \"Wallenstein.\" We hear the tumult of camps, the disorder of\na fanatical and undisciplined army, peasants, recruits, sutlers,\nsoldiers. The illusion is complete, and enthusiasm breaks out among the\nspectators. Similar merits attach to many other of Schiller's plays.\n\nThis new drama, which seemed to give all to the natural sphere, concedes\nstill more to the ideal. An able critic has said the details which are\nthe truth of history are also its poetry. Here the German school\nprofesses a principle of the highest learning, and one that seems to be\nborrowed from its profoundest philosophers; it is that of the universal\nbeauty of life, of the identity of beauty and existence. \"Our\naesthetics,\" says Goethe, \"speak a great deal of poetical or antipoetical\nsubjects; fundamentally there is no subject that has not its poetry; it\nis for the poet to find it there.\"\n\nSchiller and Goethe divide the empire over modern German poetry, and\nrepresent its two principal powers; the one, Schiller, impassioned and\nlyrical, pours his soul over all the subjects he touches; in him every\ncomposition, ode, or drama is always one of his noble ideas, borrowing\nits dress and ornament from the external world. He is a poet especially\nthrough the heart, by the force with which he rushes in and carries you\nwith him. Goethe is especially an epic; no doubt he paints the passions\nwith admirable truth, but he commands them; like the god of the seas in\nVirgil, he raises above the angry waves his calm and sublime forehead.\n\nAfter this glance at the position and chief characteristics of Schiller,\nit may be useful to offer a few remarks on those of the principal works\nin this volume, his Aesthetical Letters and Essays. Schiller, in his\nAesthetical Essays, did not choose the pure abstract method of deduction\nand conception like Kant, nor the historical like Herder, who strove thus\nto account for the genesis of our ideas of beauty and art. He struck out\na middle path, which presents certain deficiencies to the advocates of\neither of these two systems. He leans upon Kantian ideas, but without\nscholastic constraint. Pure speculation, which seeks to set free the\nform from all contents and matter, was remote from his creative genius,\nto which the world of matter and sense was no hinderance, but a necessary\nenvelop for his forms.\n\nHis removal to Jena in 1791, and acquaintance with Reinhold, familiarized\nhim with the Kantian philosophy, but he only appreciated it by halves.\nThe bare and bald dealing with fundamental principles was at this time\nequally repulsive to Goethe and Schiller, the man of the world and the\nman of life. But Schiller did not find anywhere at that time justice\ndone to the dignity of art, or honor to the substantial value of beauty.\n\nThe Aesthetical Essays in this volume appeared for the most part since\n1792, in the \"Thalia\" and the \"Hours\" periodicals. The first \"On the\nGround of our Pleasure in Tragic Subjects\" (1792), applies Kantian\nprinciples of the sublime to tragedy, and shows Schiller's lofty estimate\nof this class of poetry. With Kant he shows that the source of all\npleasure is suitableness; the touching and sublime elicit this feeling,\nimplying the existence of unsuitableness. In this article he makes the\naim and source of art to consist in giving enjoyment, in pleasing. To\nnature pleasure is a mediate object, to art its main object. The same\nproposition appears in Schiller's paper on Tragic Art (1792), closely\nconnected with the former. This article contains views of the affection\nof pity that seem to approximate the Aristotelian propositions about\ntragedy.\n\nHis views on the sublime are expressed in two papers, \"The Sublime\" and\n\"The Pathetic,\" in which we trace considerable influence of Lessing and\nWinckelmann. He is led especially to strong antagonism against the\nFrench tragedy, and he indulges in a lengthy consideration of the passage\nof Virgil on Laocoon, showing the necessity of suffering and the pathetic\nin connection with moral adaptations to interest us deeply.\n\nAll these essays bespeak the poet who has tried his hand at tragedy, but\nin his next paper, \"On Grace and Dignity,\" we trace more of the moralist.\nThose passages where he takes up a medium position between sense and\nreason, between Goethe and Kant, are specially attractive. The theme of\nthis paper is the conception of grace, or the expression of a beautiful\nsoul and dignity, or that of a lofty mind. The idea of grace has been\ndeveloped more deeply and truly by Schiller than by Wieland or\nWinckelmann, but the special value of the paper is its constantly\npointing to the ideal of a higher humanity. In it he does full justice\nto the sensuous and to the moral, and commencing with the beautiful\nnature of the Greeks, to whom sense was never mere sense, nor reason mere\nreason, he concludes with an image of perfected humanity in which grace\nand dignity are united, the former by architectonic beauty (structure),\nthe last supported by power.\n\nThe following year, 1795, appeared his most important contribution to\naesthetics, in his Aesthetical Letters.\n\nIn these letters he remarks that beauty is the work of free\ncontemplation, and we enter with it into the world of ideas, but without\nleaving the world of sense. Beauty is to us an object, and yet at the\nsame time a state of our subjectivity, because the feeling of the\nconditional is under that which we have of it. Beauty is a form because\nwe consider it, and life because we feel it; in a word, it is at once our\nstate and our art. And exactly because it is both it serves us as a\ntriumphant proof that suffering does not exclude activity, nor matter\nform, nor limitation the infinite, for in the enjoyment of beauty both\nnatures are united, and by this is proved the capacity of the infinite to\nbe developed in the finite, and accordingly the possibility of the\nsublimest humanity.\n\nThe free play of the faculty of cognition which had been determined by\nKant is also developed by Schiller. His representation of this matter is\nthis: Man, as a spirit, is reason and will, self-active, determining,\nform-giving; this is described by Schiller as the form-instinct; man, as\na sensuous being, is determinable, receptive, termed to matter; Schiller\ndescribes this as the material instinct, \"Stofftrieb.\" In the midst\nbetween these two is situated the beautiful, in which reason and the\nsensuous penetrate each other, and their enjoyable product is designated\nby Schiller the play instinct. This expression is not happily chosen.\nSchiller means to describe by it the free play of the forces, activity\naccording to nature, which is at once a joy and a happiness; he reminds\nus of the life of Olympus, and adds: \"Man is only quite a man when he\nplays.\" Personality is that which lasts, the state of feeling is the\nchangeable in man; he is the fixed unity remaining eternally himself in\nthe floods of change. Man in contact with the world is to take it up in\nhimself, but to unite with it the highest freedom and independence, and,\ninstead of being lost in the world, to subject it to his reason. It is\nonly by his being independent that there is reality out of him; only by\nbeing susceptible of feeling that there is reality in him. The object of\nsensuous instinct is life; that of the purer instinct figure; living\nfigure or beauty is the object of the play instinct.\n\nOnly inasmuch as life is formed in the understanding and form in feeling\ndoes life win a form and form win life, and only thus does beauty arise.\nBy beauty the sensuous man is led up to reason, the one-sided tension of\nspecial force is strung to harmony, and man made a complete whole.\n\nSchiller adds that beauty knits together thought and feeling; the fullest\nunity of spirit and matter. Its freedom is not lack, but harmony, of\nlaws; its conditions are not exclusions, inclusion of all infinity\ndetermined in itself. A true work of art generates lofty serenity and\nfreedom of mind. Thus the aesthetic disposition bestows on us the\nhighest of all gifts, that of a disposition to humanity, and we may call\nbeauty our second creator.\n\nIn these letters Schiller spoke out the mildest and highest sentiments on\nart, and in his paper on Simple and Sentimental Poetry (1795) he\nconstructs the ideal of the perfect poet. This is by far the most\nfruitful of Schiller's essays in its results. It has much that is\npractically applicable, and contains a very able estimate of German\npoetry. The writing is also very pointed and telling, because it is\nbased upon actual perceptions, and it is interesting because the contrast\ndrawn out throughout it between the simple and the sentimental has been\nreferred to his own contrast with Goethe. He also wished to vindicate\nmodern poetry, which Goethe seemed to wish to sacrifice to the antique.\n\nThe sentimental poetry is the fruit of quiet and retirement; simple\npoetry the child of life. One is a favor of nature; the sentimental\ndepends on itself, the simple on the world of experience. The\nsentimental is in danger of extending the limits of human nature too far,\nof being too ideal, too mystical. Neither character exhausts the ideal\nof humanity, but the intimate union of both. Both are founded in human\nnature; the contradictions lying at their basis, when cleared in thought\nfrom the poetical faculty, are realism and idealism. These also are\nsides of human nature, which, when unconnected, bring forth disastrous\nresults. Their opposition is as old as the beginning of culture, and\ntill its end can hardly be set aside, save in the individual. The\nidealist is a nobler but a far less perfect being; the realist appears\nfar less noble, but is more perfect, for the noble lies in the proof of a\ngreat capacity, but the perfect in the general attitude of the whole and\nin the real facts.\n\nOn the whole it may be said, taking a survey of these labors, that if\nSchiller had developed his ideas systematically and the unity of his\nintuition of the world, which were present in his feelings, and if he had\nbased them scientifically, a new epoch in philosophy might have been\nanticipated. For he had obtained a view of such a future field of\nthought with the deep clairvoyance of his genius.\n\nA few words may be desirable on Schiller's religious standpoint,\nespecially in connection with his philosophical letters.\n\nSchiller came up ten years later than Goethe, and concluded the cyclus of\ngenius that Goethe had inaugurated. But as he was the last arrival of\nthat productive period of tempestuous agitation, he retained more of its\nelements in his later life and poetry than any others who had passed\nthrough earlier agitations, such as Goethe. For Goethe cast himself free\nin a great measure from the early intoxication of his youthful\nimagination, devoting himself partly to nobler matter and partly to purer\nforms.\n\nSchiller derived from the stormy times of his youth his direction to the\nideal, to the hostility against the narrow spirit of civil relations, and\nto all given conditions of society in general. He derived from it his\ndisposition, not to let himself be moulded by matter, but to place his\nown creative and determining impress on matter, not so much to grasp\nreality poetically and represent it poetically as to cast ideas into\nreality, a disposition for lively representation and strong oratorical\ncoloring. All this he derived from the genial period, though later on\nsomewhat modified, and carried it over into his whole life and poetry;\nand for this very reason he is not only together with Goethe, but before\nGoethe, the favorite poet of the nation, and especially with that part of\nthe nation which sympathizes with him in the choice of poetic material\nand in his mode of feeling.\n\nGervinus remarks that Schiller had at Weimar long fallen off from\nChristianity, and occupied his mind tranquilly for a time with the views\nof Spinoza (realistic pantheism). Like Herder and Goethe, he viewed life\nin its great entirety and sacrificed the individual to the species.\nAccordingly, through the gods of Greece, he fell out with strict,\northodox Christians.\n\nBut Schiller had deeply religious and even Christian elements, as became\na German and a Kantian. He receives the Godhead in His will, and He\ndescends from His throne, He dwells in his soul; the poet sees divine\nrevelations, and as a seer announces them to man. He is a moral educator\nof his people, who utters the tones of life in his poetry from youth\nupwards. Philosophy was not disclosed to Plato in the highest and purest\nthought, nor is poetry to Schiller merely an artificial edifice in the\nharmony of speech; philosophy and poetry are to both a vibration of love\nin the soul upwards to God, a liberation from the bonds of sense, a\npurification of man, a moral art. On this reposes the religious\nconsecration of the Platonic spirit and of that of Schiller.\n\nIssuing from the philosophical school of Kant, and imbued with the\nantagonism of the age against constituted authorities, it is natural that\nSchiller should be a rationalist in his religious views. It has been\njustly said of him that while Goethe's system was an apotheosis of nature\nSchiller's was an apotheosis of man.\n\nHistorically he was not prepared enough to test and search the question\nof evidence as applied to divine things handed down by testimony, and his\nKantian coloring naturally disposed him to include all religions within\nthe limits of pure reason, and to seek it rather in the subject than in\nanything objective.\n\nIn conclusion, we may attempt to classify and give Schiller his place in\nthe progress of the world's literary history. Progress is no doubt a law\nof the individual, of nations, and of the whole race. To grow in\nperfection, to exist in some sort at a higher degree, is the task imposed\nby God on man, the continuation of the very work of God, the complement\nof creation. But this moral growth, this need of increase, may, like all\nthe forces of nature, yield to a greater force; it is an impulsion rather\nthan a necessity; it solicits and does not constrain. A thousand\nobstacles stay its development in individuals and in societies; moral\nliberty may retard or accelerate its effects. Progress is therefore a\nlaw which cannot be abrogated, but which is not invariably obeyed.\n\nNevertheless, in proportion to the increase of the mass of individuals,\nthe caprices of chance and of liberty neutralize each other to allow the\nprovidential action that presides over our destinies to prevail. Looking\nat the same total of the life of the world, humanity undoubtedly\nadvances: there are in our time fewer moral miseries, fewer physical\nmiseries, than were known in the past.\n\nConsequently art and literature, which express the different states of\nsociety, must share in some degree in this progressive march. But there\nare two things in literary work: on the one hand the ideas and social\nmanners which it expresses, on the other the intelligence, the feeling,\nthe imagination of the writer who becomes its interpreter. While the\nformer of these elements tends incessantly to a greater perfection, the\nlatter is subject to all the hazards of individual genius. Accordingly\nthe progressive literature is only in the inspiration, and so to speak in\nthe matter; it may and must therefore not be continuous in form.\n\nBut more than this: in very advanced societies the very grandeur of\nideas, the abundance of models, the satiety of the public render the task\nof the artist more and more difficult. The artist himself has no longer\nthe enthusiasm of the first ages, the youth of imagination and of the\nheart; he is an old man whose riches have increased, but who enjoys his\nwealth less.\n\nIf all the epochs of literature are considered as a whole it will be seen\nthat they succeed each other in a constant order. After the period when\nthe idea and the form combined in a harmonious manner comes another where\nthe social idea is superabundant, and destroys the literary form of the\npreceding epoch.\n\nThe middle ages introduced spiritualism in art; before this new idea the\nsmiling untruths of Greek poetry fled away frightened. The classical\nform so beautiful, so pure, cannot contain high Catholic thought. A new\nart is formed; on this side the Alps it does not reach the maturity that\nproduces masterpieces. But at that time all Europe was one fatherland;\nItaly completes what is lacking in France and elsewhere.\n\nThe renaissance introduces new ideas into civilization; it resuscitates\nthe traditions of antique science and seeks to unite them to the truths\nof Christianity. The art of the middle ages, as a vessel of too limited\ncapacity, is broken by the new flood poured into it. These different\nideas are stirred up and in conflict in the sixteenth century; they\nbecame co-ordinate and attain to an admirable expression in the following\nage.\n\nIn the eighteenth century there is a new invasion of ideas; all is\nexamined and questioned; religion, government, society, all becomes a\nmatter of discussion for the school called philosophical. Poetry\nappeared dying out, history drying up, till a truer spirit was breathed\ninto the literary atmosphere by the criticism of Lessing, the philosophy\nof Kant, and the poetry of Klopstock. It was at this transition period\nthat Schiller appeared, retaining throughout his literary career much of\nthe revolutionary and convulsive spirit of his early days, and faithfully\nreflecting much of the dominant German philosophy of his time.\n\nPart of the nineteenth century seems to take in hand the task of\nreconstructing the moral edifice and of giving back to thought a larger\nform. The literary result of its effects is the renaissance of lyrical\npoetry with an admirable development in history.\n\nSchiller's most brilliant works were in the former walk, his histories\nhave inferior merit, and his philosophical writings bespeak a deep\nthinking nature with great originality of conception, such as naturally\nresults from a combination of high poetic inspiration with much\nintellectual power.\n\nSchiller, like all great men of genius, was a representative man of his\ncountry and of his age. A German, a Protestant free-thinker, a\nworshipper of the classical, he was the expression of these aspects of\nnational and general thought.\n\nThe religious reformation was the work of the North. The instinct of\nraces came in it to complicate the questions of dogmas. The awakening of\nindividual nationalities was one of the characters of the epoch.\n\nThe nations compressed in the severe unity of the Middle Ages escaped in\nthe Reformation from the uniform mould that had long enveloped them, and\ntended to that other unity, still very distant, which must spring from\nthe spontaneous view of the same truth by all men, result from the free\nand original development of each nation, and, as in a vast concert, unite\nharmonious dissonances. Europe, without being conscious of its aim,\nseized greedily at the means--insurrection; the only thought was to\noverthrow, without yet thinking of a reconstruction. The sixteenth\ncentury was the vanguard of the eighteenth. At all times the North had\nfretted under the antipathetic yoke of the South. Under the Romans,\nGermany, though frequently conquered, had never been subdued. She had\ninvaded the Empire and determined its fall. In the Middle Ages the\nstruggle had continued; not only instincts, but ideas, were in conflict;\nforce and spirit, violence and polity, feudalism and the Catholic\nhierarchy, hereditary and elective forms, represented the opposition of\ntwo races. In the sixteenth century the schism long anticipated took\nplace. The Catholic dogma had hitherto triumphed over all outbreaks--\nover Arnaldo of Brescia, the Waldenses, and Wickliffe. But Luther\nappeared, and the work was accomplished: Catholic unity was broken.\n\nAnd this breaking with authority went on fermenting in the nations till\nits last great outburst at the French Revolution; and Schiller was born\nat this convulsive period, and bears strong traces of his parentage in\nhis anti-dogmatic spirit.\n\nYet there is another side to Germanism which is prone to the ideal and\nthe mystical, and bears still the trace of those lovely legends of\nmediaeval growth to which we have adverted. For Christianity was not a\nforeign and antagonistic importation in Germany; rather, the German\ncharacter obtained its completeness through Christianity. The German\nfound himself again in the Church of Christ, only raised, transfigured,\nand sanctified. The apostolic representation of the Church as the bride\nof Christ has found its fullest and truest correspondence in that of\nGermany. Hence when the German spirit was thoroughly espoused to the\nChristian spirit, we find that character of love, tenderness, and depth\nso characteristic of the early classics of German poetry, and reappearing\nin glorious afterglow in the second classics, in Klopstock, Herder, and,\nabove all, Schiller.\n\nIt is this special instinct for the ideal and mystical in German nature\nthat has enabled spirits born of negation and revolution, like Schiller,\nto unite with those elements the most genial and creative inspirations of\npoetry.\n\n\n\n\nVOCABULARY OF TERMINOLOGY.\n\n\nAbsolute, The. A conception, or, more strictly, in Kantian language, an\nidea of the pure reason, embracing the fundamental and necessary yet free\nground of all things.\n\nAntinomy. The conflict of the laws of pure reason; as in the question of\nfree will and necessity.\n\nAutonomy (autonomous). Governing itself by the spontaneous action of\nfree will.\n\nAesthetics. The science of beauty; as ethics of duty.\n\nCognition (knowledge; Germanice, \"Erkenntniss\") is either an intuition or\na conception. The former has an immediate relation to the object, and is\nsingular and individual; the latter has but a mediate relation, by means\nof a characteristic mark, which may be common to several things.\n\nCognition is an objective perception.\n\nConception. A conception is either empirical or pure. A pure\nconception, in so far as it has its origin in the understanding alone,\nand is not the conception of a pure sensuous image, is called notio.\n\nConceptions are distinguished on the one hand from sensation and\nperception, and on the other hand from the intuitions of pure reason or\nideas. They are distinctly the product of thought and of the\nunderstanding, except when quite free from empirical elements.\n\nFeeling (Gefuehl). That part of our nature which relates to passion and\ninstinct. Feelings are connected both with our sensuous nature, our\nimagination, and the pure reason.\n\nForm. See Matter.\n\nIdeas. The product of the pure reason (Vernunft) or intuitive faculty.\nWherever the absolute is introduced in thought we have ideas. Perfection\nin all its aspects is an idea, virtue and wisdom in their perfect purity\nand ideas. Kant remarks (\"Critique of Pure Reason,\" Meiklejohn's\ntranslation, p. 256): \"It is from the understanding alone that pure and\ntranscendental conceptions take their origin; the reason does not\nproperly give birth to any conception, but only frees the conception of\nthe understanding from the unavoidable limitation of possible experience.\nA conception formed from notions which transcend the possibility of\nexperience is an idea or a conception of reason.\"\n\nIntuition (Anschauung) as used by Kant, is external or internal.\nExternal, sensuous intuition is identical with perception; internal\nintuition gives birth to ideas.\n\nMatter and Form. \"These two conceptions are at the foundation of all\nother reflection, being inseparably connected with every mode of\nexercising the understanding. By the former is implied that which can be\ndetermined in general; the second implies its determination, both in a\ntranscendental sense, abstraction being made of any difference in that\nwhich is given, and of the mode in which it is determined. That which in\nthe phenomenon corresponds to the sensation, I term its matter; but that\nwhich effects that the content of the phenomenon can be arranged under\ncertain relations, I call its form.\"--Kant, \"Critique,\" op. cit.\n\nObjective. What is inherent or relative to an object, or not Myself,\nexcept in the case when I reflect on myself, in which case my states of\nmind are objective to my thoughts. In a popular sense objective means\nexternal, as contrasted with the subjective or internal.\n\nPerception, if it relates only to the subject as a modification of its\nstate, is a sensation. An objective perception is a cognition\n(Erkenntniss).\n\nPhenomena (Erscheinnngen). The undetermined object of an empirical\nintuition is called phenomenon.\n\nReason (pure; Germanice, \"Vernunft\"). The source of ideas of moral\nfeelings and of conceptions free from all elements taken up from\nexperience.\n\nRepresentation (Vorstellung). All the products of the mind are styled\nrepresentations (except emotions and mere sensations) and the term is\napplied to the whole genus.\n\nRepresentation with consciousness is perceptio.\n\nSensation. The capacity of receiving representations through the mode in\nwhich we are affected by objects is called sensibility. By means of\nsensibility objects are given to us, and it alone furnishes with\nintentions meaning sensuous intuitions. By the understanding they are\nthought, and from it arise conceptions.\n\nSubjective. What has its source in and relation to the personality, to\nMyself, I, or the Ego; opposed to the objective, or what is inherent in\nand relative to the object. Not myself, except in the case when my\nstates of mind are the object of my own reflection.\n\nSupersensuous. Contrasted with and opposed to the sensuous. What is\nexclusively related to sense or imparted through the sensuous ideas is\nsupersensuous. See Transcendental.\n\nTranscendental. What exceeds the limits of sense and empirical\nobservation. \"I apply the term transcendental to all knowledge which is\nnot so much occupied with objects as with the mode of our cognition of\nthese objects, so far as this mode of cognition is possible a priori.\"\nKant's \"Critique,\" op. cit. p. 16.\n\nUnderstanding (Verstand). The thought of faculty, the source of\nconceptions and notions (Begriffe) of the laws of logic, the categories,\nand judgment.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nLETTERS ON THE AESTHETICAL EDUCATION OF MAN.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER I.\n\n\nBy your permission I lay before you, in a series of letters, the results\nof my researches upon beauty and art. I am keenly sensible of the\nimportance as well as of the charm and dignity of this undertaking. I\nshall treat a subject which is closely connected with the better portion\nof our happiness and not far removed from the moral nobility of human\nnature. I shall plead this cause of the beautiful before a heart by\nwhich her whole power is felt and exercised, and which will take upon\nitself the most difficult part of my task in an investigation where one\nis compelled to appeal as frequently to feelings as to principles.\n\nThat which I would beg of you as a favor, you generously impose upon me\nas a duty; and, when I solely consult my inclination, you impute to me a\nservice. The liberty of action you prescribe is rather a necessity for\nme than a constraint. Little exercised in formal rules, I shall scarcely\nincur the risk of sinning against good taste by any undue use of them; my\nideas, drawn rather from within than from reading or from an intimate\nexperience with the world, will not disown their origin; they would\nrather incur any reproach than that of a sectarian bias, and would prefer\nto succumb by their innate feebleness than sustain themselves by borrowed\nauthority and foreign support.\n\nIn truth, I will not keep back from you that the assertions which follow\nrest chiefly upon Kantian principles; but if in the course of these\nresearches you should be reminded of any special school of philosophy,\nascribe it to my incapacity, not to those principles. No; your liberty\nof mind shall be sacred to me; and the facts upon which I build will be\nfurnished by your own sentiments; your own unfettered thought will\ndictate the laws according to which we have to proceed.\n\nWith regard to the ideas which predominate in the practical part of\nKant's system, philosophers only disagree, whilst mankind, I am confident\nof proving, have never done so. If stripped of their technical shape,\nthey will appear as the verdict of reason pronounced from time immemorial\nby common consent, and as facts of the moral instinct which nature, in\nher wisdom, has given to man in order to serve as guide and teacher until\nhis enlightened intelligence gives him maturity. But this very technical\nshape which renders truth visible to the understanding conceals it from\nthe feelings; for, unhappily, understanding begins by destroying the\nobject of the inner sense before it can appropriate the object. Like the\nchemist, the philosopher finds synthesis only by analysis, or the\nspontaneous work of nature only through the torture of art. Thus, in\norder to detain the fleeting apparition, he must enchain it in the\nfetters of rule, dissect its fair proportions into abstract notions, and\npreserve its living spirit in a fleshless skeleton of words. Is it\nsurprising that natural feeling should not recognize itself in such a\ncopy, and if in the report of the analyst the truth appears as paradox?\n\nPermit me therefore to crave your indulgence if the following researches\nshould remove their object from the sphere of sense while endeavoring to\ndraw it towards the understanding. That which I before said of moral\nexperience can be applied with greater truth to the manifestation of \"the\nbeautiful.\" It is the mystery which enchants, and its being is\nextinguished with the extinction of the necessary combination of its\nelements.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER II.\n\n\nBut I might perhaps make a better use of the opening you afford me if I\nwere to direct your mind to a loftier theme than that of art. It would\nappear to be unseasonable to go in search of a code for the aesthetic\nworld, when the moral world offers matter of so much higher interest, and\nwhen the spirit of philosophical inquiry is so stringently challenged by\nthe circumstances of our times to occupy itself with the most perfect of\nall works of art--the establishment and structure of a true political\nfreedom.\n\nIt is unsatisfactory to live out of your own age and to work for other\ntimes. It is equally incumbent on us to be good members of our own age\nas of our own state or country. If it is conceived to be unseemly and\neven unlawful for a man to segregate himself from the customs and manners\nof the circle in which he lives, it would be inconsistent not to see that\nit is equally his duty to grant a proper share of influence to the voice\nof his own epoch, to its taste and its requirements, in the operations in\nwhich he engages.\n\nBut the voice of our age seems by no means favorable to art, at all\nevents to that kind of art to which my inquiry is directed. The course\nof events has given a direction to the genius of the time that threatens\nto remove it continually further from the ideal of art. For art has to\nleave reality, it has to raise itself boldly above necessity and\nneediness; for art is the daughter of freedom, and it requires its\nprescriptions and rules to be furnished by the necessity of spirits and\nnot by that of matter. But in our day it is necessity, neediness, that\nprevails, and lends a degraded humanity under its iron yoke. Utility is\nthe great idol of the time, to which all powers do homage and all\nsubjects are subservient. In this great balance on utility, the\nspiritual service of art has no weight, and, deprived of all\nencouragement, it vanishes from the noisy Vanity Fair of our time. The\nvery spirit of philosophical inquiry itself robs the imagination of one\npromise after another, and the frontiers of art are narrowed in\nproportion as the limits of science are enlarged.\n\nThe eyes of the philosopher as well as of the man of the world are\nanxiously turned to the theatre of political events, where it is presumed\nthe great destiny of man is to be played out. It would almost seem to\nbetray a culpable indifference to the welfare of society if we did not\nshare this general interest. For this great commerce in social and moral\nprinciples is of necessity a matter of the greatest concern to every\nhuman being, on the ground both of its subject and of its results. It\nmust accordingly be of deepest moment to every man to think for himself.\nIt would seem that now at length a question that formerly was only\nsettled by the law of the stronger is to be determined by the calm\njudgment of the reason, and every man who is capable of placing himself\nin a central position, and raising his individuality into that of his\nspecies, can look upon himself as in possession of this judicial faculty\nof reason; being moreover, as man and member of the human family, a party\nin the case under trial and involved more or less in its decisions. It\nwould thus appear that this great political process is not only engaged\nwith his individual case, it has also to pronounce enactments, which he\nas a rational spirit is capable of enunciating and entitled to pronounce.\n\nIt is evident that it would have been most attractive to me to inquire\ninto an object such as this, to decide such a question in conjunction\nwith a thinker of powerful mind, a man of liberal sympathies, and a heart\nimbued with a noble enthusiasm for the weal of humanity. Though so\nwidely separated by worldly position, it would have been a delightful\nsurprise to have found your unprejudiced mind arriving at the same result\nas my own in the field of ideas. Nevertheless, I think I can not only\nexcuse, but even justify by solid grounds, my step in resisting this\nattractive purpose and in preferring beauty to freedom. I hope that I\nshall succeed in convincing you that this matter of art is less foreign\nto the needs than to the tastes of our age; nay, that, to arrive at a\nsolution even in the political problem, the road of aesthetics must be\npursued, because it is through beauty that we arrive at freedom. But I\ncannot carry out this proof without my bringing to your remembrance the\nprinciples by which the reason is guided in political legislation.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER III.\n\n\nMan is not better treated by nature in his first start than her other\nworks are; so long as he is unable to act for himself as an independent\nintelligence she acts for him. But the very fact that constitutes him a\nman is that he does not remain stationary, where nature has placed him,\nthat he can pass with his reason, retracing the steps nature had made him\nanticipate, that he can convert the work of necessity into one of free\nsolution, and elevate physical necessity into a moral law.\n\nWhen man is raised from his slumber in the senses he feels that he is a\nman; he surveys his surroundings and finds that he is in a state. He was\nintroduced into this state by the power of circumstances, before he could\nfreely select his own position. But as a moral being he cannot possibly\nrest satisfied with a political condition forced upon him by necessity,\nand only calculated for that condition; and it would be unfortunate if\nthis did satisfy him. In many cases man shakes off this blind law of\nnecessity, by his free spontaneous action, of which among many others we\nhave an instance, in his ennobling by beauty and suppressing by moral\ninfluence the powerful impulse implanted in him by nature in the passion\nof love. Thus, when arrived at maturity, he recovers his childhood by an\nartificial process, he founds a state of nature in his ideas, not given\nhim by any experience, but established by the necessary laws and\nconditions of his reason, and he attributes to this ideal condition an\nobject, an aim, of which he was not cognizant in the actual reality of\nnature. He gives himself a choice of which he was not capable before,\nand sets to work just as if he were beginning anew, and were exchanging\nhis original state of bondage for one of complete independence, doing\nthis with complete insight and of his free decision. He is justified in\nregarding this work of political thraldom as non-existing, though a wild\nand arbitrary caprice may have founded its work very artfully; though it\nmay strive to maintain it with great arrogance and encompass it with a\nhalo of veneration. For the work of blind powers possesses no authority\nbefore which freedom need bow, and all must be made to adapt itself to\nthe highest end which reason has set up in his personality. It is in\nthis wise that a people in a state of manhood is justified in exchanging\na condition of thraldom for one of moral freedom.\n\nNow the term natural condition can be applied to every political body\nwhich owes its establishment originally to forces and not to laws, and\nsuch a state contradicts the moral nature of man, because lawfulness can\nalone have authority over this. At the same time this natural condition\nis quite sufficient for the physical man, who only gives himself laws in\norder to get rid of brute force. Moreover, the physical man is a\nreality, and the moral man problematical. Therefore when the reason\nsuppresses the natural condition, as she must if she wishes to substitute\nher own, she weighs the real physical man against the problematical moral\nman, she weighs the existence of society against a possible, though\nmorally necessary, ideal of society. She takes from man something which\nhe really possesses, and without which he possesses nothing, and refers\nhim as a substitute to something that he ought to possess and might\npossess; and if reason had relied too exclusively on him she might, in\norder to secure him a state of humanity in which he is wanting and can\nwant without injury to his life, have robbed him even of the means of\nanimal existence, which is the first necessary condition of his being a\nman. Before he had opportunity to hold firm to the law with his will,\nreason would have withdrawn from his feet the ladder of nature.\n\nThe great point is, therefore, to reconcile these two considerations, to\nprevent physical society from ceasing for a moment in time, while the\nmoral society is being formed in the idea; in other words, to prevent its\nexistence from being placed in jeopardy for the sake of the moral dignity\nof man. When the mechanic has to mend a watch he lets the wheels run\nout; but the living watchworks of the state have to be repaired while\nthey act, and a wheel has to be exchanged for another during its\nrevolutions. Accordingly props must be sought for to support society and\nkeep it going while it is made independent of the natural condition from\nwhich it is sought to emancipate it.\n\nThis prop is not found in the natural character of man, who, being\nselfish and violent, directs his energies rather to the destruction than\nto the preservation of society. Nor is it found in his moral character,\nwhich has to be formed, which can never be worked upon or calculated on\nby the lawgiver, because it is free and never appears. It would seem,\ntherefore, that another measure must be adopted. It would seem that the\nphysical character of the arbitrary must be separated from moral freedom;\nthat it is incumbent to make the former harmonize with the laws and the\nlatter dependent on impressions; it would be expedient to remove the\nformer still farther from matter and to bring the latter somewhat more\nnear to it; in short, to produce a third character related to both the\nothers--the physical and the moral--paving the way to a transition from\nthe sway of mere force to that of law, without preventing the proper\ndevelopment of the moral character, but serving rather as a pledge in the\nsensuous sphere of a morality in the unseen.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER IV.\n\n\nThus much is certain. It is only when a third character, as previously\nsuggested, has preponderance that a revolution in a state according to\nmoral principles can be free from injurious consequences; nor can\nanything else secure its endurance. In proposing or setting up a moral\nstate, the moral law is relied upon as a real power, and free-will is\ndrawn into the realm of causes, where all hangs together mutually with\nstringent necessity and rigidity. But we know that the condition of the\nhuman will always remains contingent, and that only in the Absolute Being\nphysical coexists with moral necessity. Accordingly, if it is wished to\ndepend on the moral conduct of man as on natural results, this conduct\nmust become nature, and he must be led by natural impulse to such a\ncourse of action as can only and invariably have moral results. But the\nwill of man is perfectly free between inclination and duty, and no\nphysical necessity ought to enter as a sharer in this magisterial\npersonality. If, therefore, he is to retain this power of solution, and\nyet become a reliable link in the causal concatenation of forces, this\ncan only be effected when the operations of both these impulses are\npresented quite equally in the world of appearances. It is only possible\nwhen, with every difference of form, the matter of man's volition remains\nthe same, when all his impulses agreeing with his reason are sufficient\nto have the value of a universal legislation.\n\nIt may be urged that every individual man carries within himself, at\nleast in his adaptation and destination, a purely ideal man. The great\nproblem of his existence is to bring all the incessant changes of his\nouter life into conformity with the unchanging unity of this ideal. This\npure ideal man, which makes itself known more or less clearly in every\nsubject, is represented by the state, which is the objective, and, so to\nspeak, canonical form in which the manifold differences of the subjects\nstrive to unite. Now two ways present themselves to the thought in which\nthe man of time can agree with the man of idea, and there are also two\nways in which the state can maintain itself in individuals. One of these\nways is when the pure ideal man subdues the empirical man, and the state\nsuppresses the individual, or again when the individual becomes the\nstate, and the man of time is ennobled to the man of idea.\n\nI admit that in a one-sided estimate from the point of view of morality\nthis difference vanishes, for the reason is satisfied if her law prevails\nunconditionally. But when the survey taken is complete and embraces the\nwhole man (anthropology), where the form is considered together with the\nsubstance, and a living feeling has a voice, the difference will become\nfar more evident. No doubt the reason demands unity, and nature variety,\nand both legislations take man in hand. The law of the former is stamped\nupon him by an incorruptible consciousness, that of the latter by an\nineradicable feeling. Consequently education will always appear\ndeficient when the moral feeling can only be maintained with the\nsacrifice of what is natural; and a political administration will always\nbe very imperfect when it is only able to bring about unity by\nsuppressing variety. The state ought not only to respect the objective\nand generic, but also the subjective and specific in individuals; and\nwhile diffusing the unseen world of morals, it must not depopulate the\nkingdom of appearance, the external world of matter.\n\nWhen the mechanical artist places his hand on the formless block, to give\nit a form according to his intention, he has not any scruples in doing\nviolence to it. For the nature on which he works does not deserve any\nrespect in itself, and he does not value the whole for its parts, but the\nparts on account of the whole. When the child of the fine arts sets his\nhand to the same block, he has no scruples either in doing violence to\nit, he only avoids showing this violence. He does not respect the matter\nin which he works any more than the mechanical artist; but he seeks by an\napparent consideration for it to deceive the eye which takes this matter\nunder its protection. The political and educating artist follows a very\ndifferent course, while making man at once his material and his end. In\nthis case the aim or end meets in the material, and it is only because\nthe whole serves the parts that the parts adapt themselves to the end.\nThe political artist has to treat his material--man--with a very\ndifferent kind of respect than that shown by the artist of fine art to\nhis work. He must spare man's peculiarity and personality, not to\nproduce a defective effect on the senses, but objectively and out of\nconsideration for his inner being.\n\nBut the state is an organization which fashions itself through itself and\nfor itself, and for this reason it can only be realized when the parts\nhave been accorded to the idea of the whole. The state serves the\npurpose of a representative, both to pure ideal and to objective\nhumanity, in the breast of its citizens, accordingly it will have to\nobserve the same relation to its citizens in which they are placed to it;\nand it will only respect their subjective humanity in the same degree\nthat it is ennobled to an objective existence. If the internal man is\none with himself he will be able to rescue his peculiarity, even in the\ngreatest generalization of his conduct, and the state will only become\nthe exponent of his fine instinct, the clearer formula of his internal\nlegislation. But if the subjective man is in conflict with the\nobjective, and contradicts him in the character of a people, so that only\nthe oppression of the former can give victory to the latter, then the\nstate will take up the severe aspect of the law against the citizen, and\nin order not to fall a sacrifice, it will have to crush under foot such a\nhostile individuality without any compromise.\n\nNow man can be opposed to himself in a twofold manner; either as a\nsavage, when his feelings rule over his principles; or as a barbarian,\nwhen his principles destroy his feelings. The savage despises art, and\nacknowledges nature as his despotic ruler; the barbarian laughs at\nnature, and dishonors it, but he often proceeds in a more contemptible\nway than the savage to be the slave of his senses. The cultivated man\nmakes of nature his friend, and honors its friendship, while only\nbridling its caprice.\n\nConsequently, when reason brings her moral unity into physical society,\nshe must not injure the manifold in nature. When nature strives to\nmaintain her manifold character in the moral structure of society, this\nmust not create any breach in moral unity; the victorious form is equally\nremote from uniformity and confusion. Therefore, totality of character\nmust be found in the people which is capable and worthy to exchange the\nstate of necessity for that of freedom.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER V.\n\n\nDoes the present age, do passing events, present this character? I\ndirect my attention at once to the most prominent object in this vast\nstructure.\n\nIt is true that the consideration of opinion is fallen; caprice is\nunnerved, and, although still armed with power, receives no longer any\nrespect. Man has awakened from his long lethargy and self-deception, and\nhe demands with impressive unanimity to be restored to his imperishable\nrights. But he does not only demand them; he rises on all sides to seize\nby force what, in his opinion, has been unjustly wrested from him. The\nedifice of the natural state is tottering, its foundations shake, and a\nphysical possibility seems at length granted to place law on the throne,\nto honor man at length as an end, and to make true freedom the basis of\npolitical union. Vain hope! The moral possibility is wanting, and the\ngenerous occasion finds an unsusceptible rule.\n\nMan paints himself in his actions, and what is the form depicted in the\ndrama of the present time? On the one hand, he is seen running wild, on\nthe other, in a state of lethargy; the two extremest stages of human\ndegeneracy, and both seen in one and the same period.\n\nIn the lower larger masses, coarse, lawless impulses come to view,\nbreaking loose when the bonds of civil order are burst asunder, and\nhastening with unbridled fury to satisfy their savage instinct.\nObjective humanity may have had cause to complain of the state; yet\nsubjective man must honor its institutions. Ought he to be blamed\nbecause he lost sight of the dignity of human nature, so long as he was\nconcerned in preserving his existence? Can we blame him that he\nproceeded to separate by the force of gravity, to fasten by the force of\ncohesion, at a time when there could be no thought of building or raising\nup? The extinction of the state contains its justification. Society set\nfree, instead of hastening upward into organic life, collapses into its\nelements.\n\nOn the other hand, the civilized classes give us the still more repulsive\nsight of lethargy, and of a depravity of character which is the more\nrevolting because it roots in culture. I forget who of the older or more\nrecent philosophers makes the remark, that what is more noble is the more\nrevolting in its destruction. The remark applies with truth to the world\nof morals. The child of nature, when he breaks loose, becomes a madman;\nbut the art scholar, when he breaks loose, becomes a debased character.\nThe enlightenment of the understanding, on which the more refined classes\npride themselves with some ground, shows on the whole so little of an\nennobling influence on the mind that it seems rather to confirm\ncorruption by its maxims. We deny nature on her legitimate field and\nfeel her tyranny in the moral sphere, and while resisting her\nimpressions, we receive our principles from her. While the affected\ndecency of our manners does not even grant to nature a pardonable\ninfluence in the initial stage, our materialistic system of morals allows\nher the casting vote in the last and essential stage. Egotism has\nfounded its system in the very bosom of a refined society, and without\ndeveloping even a sociable character, we feel all the contagions and\nmiseries of society. We subject our free judgment to its despotic\nopinions, our feelings to its bizarre customs, and our will to its\nseductions. We only maintain our caprice against her holy rights. The\nman of the world has his heart contracted by a proud self-complacency,\nwhile that of the man of nature often beats in sympathy; and every man\nseeks for nothing more than to save his wretched property from the\ngeneral destruction, as it were from some great conflagration. It is\nconceived that the only way to find a shelter against the aberrations of\nsentiment is by completely foregoing its indulgence, and mockery, which\nis often a useful chastener of mysticism, slanders in the same breath the\nnoblest aspirations. Culture, far from giving us freedom, only develops,\nas it advances, new necessities; the fetters of the physical close more\ntightly around us, so that the fear of loss quenches even the ardent\nimpulse toward improvement, and the maxims of passive obedience are held\nto be the highest wisdom of life. Thus the spirit of the time is seen to\nwaver between perversion and savagism, between what is unnatural and mere\nnature, between superstition and moral unbelief, and it is often nothing\nbut the equilibrium of evils that sets bounds to it.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER VI.\n\n\nHave I gone too far in this portraiture of our times? I do not\nanticipate this stricture, but rather another--that I have proved too\nmuch by it. You will tell me that the picture I have presented resembles\nthe humanity of our day, but it also bodies forth all nations engaged in\nthe same degree of culture, because all, without exception, have fallen\noff from nature by the abuse of reason, before they can return to it\nthrough reason.\n\nBut if we bestow some serious attention to the character of our times, we\nshall be astonished at the contrast between the present and the previous\nform of humanity, especially that of Greece. We are justified in\nclaiming the reputation of culture and refinement, when contrasted with a\npurely natural state of society, but not so comparing ourselves with the\nGrecian nature. For the latter was combined with all the charms of art\nand with all the dignity of wisdom, without, however, as with us,\nbecoming a victim to these influences. The Greeks have put us to shame\nnot only by their simplicity, which is foreign to our age; they are at\nthe same time our rivals, nay, frequently our models, in those very\npoints of superiority from which we seek comfort when regretting the\nunnatural character of our manners. We see that remarkable people\nuniting at once fulness of form and fulness of substance, both\nphilosophizing and creating, both tender and energetic, uniting a\nyouthful fancy to the virility of reason in a glorious humanity.\n\nAt the period of Greek culture, which was an awakening of the powers of\nthe mind, the senses and the spirit had no distinctly separated property;\nno division had yet torn them asunder, leading them to partition in a\nhostile attitude, and to mark off their limits with precision. Poetry\nhad not as yet become the adversary of wit, nor had speculation abused\nitself by passing into quibbling. In cases of necessity both poetry and\nwit could exchange parts, because they both honored truth only in their\nspecial way. However high might be the flight of reason, it drew matter\nin a loving spirit after it, and while sharply and stiffly defining it,\nnever mutilated what it touched. It is true the Greek mind displaced\nhumanity, and recast it on a magnified scale in the glorious circle of\nits gods; but it did this not by dissecting human nature, but by giving\nit fresh combinations, for the whole of human nature was represented in\neach of the gods. How different is the course followed by us moderns!\nWe also displace and magnify individuals to form the image of the\nspecies, but we do this in a fragmentary way, not by altered\ncombinations, so that it is necessary to gather up from different\nindividuals the elements that form the species in its totality. It would\nalmost appear as if the powers of mind express themselves with us in real\nlife or empirically as separately as the psychologist distinguishes them\nin the representation. For we see not only individual subjects, but\nwhole classes of men, uphold their capacities only in part, while the\nrest of their faculties scarcely show a germ of activity, as in the case\nof the stunted growth of plants.\n\nI do not overlook the advantages to which the present race, regarded as a\nunity and in the balance of the understanding, may lay claim over what is\nbest in the ancient world; but it is obliged to engage in the contest as\na compact mass, and measure itself as a whole against a whole. Who among\nthe moderns could step forth, man against man, and strive with an\nAthenian for the prize of higher humanity.\n\nWhence comes this disadvantageous relation of individuals coupled with\ngreat advantages of the race? Why could the individual Greek be\nqualified as the type of his time; and why can no modern dare to offer\nhimself as such? Because all-uniting nature imparted its forms to the\nGreek, and an all-dividing understanding gives our forms to us.\n\nIt was culture itself that gave these wounds to modern humanity. The\ninner union of human nature was broken, and a destructive contest divided\nits harmonious forces directly; on the one hand, an enlarged experience\nand a more distinct thinking necessitated a sharper separation of the\nsciences, while, on the other hand, the more complicated machinery of\nstates necessitated a stricter sundering of ranks and occupations.\nIntuitive and speculative understanding took up a hostile attitude in\nopposite fields, whose borders were guarded with jealousy and distrust;\nand by limiting its operation to a narrow sphere, men have made unto\nthemselves a master who is wont not unfrequently to end by subduing and\noppressing all the other faculties. Whilst on the one hand a luxuriant\nimagination creates ravages in the plantations that have cost the\nintelligence so much labor; on the other hand, a spirit of abstraction\nsuffocates the fire that might have warmed the heart and inflamed the\nimagination.\n\nThis subversion, commenced by art and learning in the inner man, was\ncarried out to fulness and finished by the spirit of innovation in\ngovernment. It was, no doubt, reasonable to expect that the simple\norganization of the primitive republics should survive the quaintness of\nprimitive manners and of the relations of antiquity. But, instead of\nrising to a higher and nobler degree of animal life, this organization\ndegenerated into a common and coarse mechanism. The zoophyte condition\nof the Grecian states, where each individual enjoyed an independent life,\nand could, in cases of necessity, become a separate whole and unit in\nhimself, gave way to an ingenious mechanism, when, from the splitting up\ninto numberless parts, there results a mechanical life in the\ncombination. Then there was a rupture between the state and the church,\nbetween laws and customs; enjoyment was separated from labor, the means\nfrom the end, the effort from the reward. Man himself, eternally chained\ndown to a little fragment of the whole, only forms a kind of fragment;\nhaving nothing in his ears but the monotonous sound of the perpetually\nrevolving wheel, he never develops the harmony of his being, and instead\nof imprinting the seal of humanity on his being, he ends by being nothing\nmore than the living impress of the craft to which he devotes himself, of\nthe science that he cultivates. This very partial and paltry relation,\nlinking the isolated members to the whole, does not depend on forms that\nare given spontaneously; for how could a complicated machine, which shuns\nthe light, confide itself to the free will of man? This relation is\nrather dictated, with a rigorous strictness, by a formulary in which the\nfree intelligence of man is chained down. The dead letter takes the\nplace of a living meaning, and a practised memory becomes a safer guide\nthan genius and feeling.\n\nIf the community or state measures man by his function, only asking of\nits citizens memory, or the intelligence of a craftsman, or mechanical\nskill, we cannot be surprised that the other faculties of the mind are\nneglected for the exclusive culture of the one that brings in honor and\nprofit. Such is the necessary result of an organization that is\nindifferent about character, only looking to acquirements, whilst in\nother cases it tolerates the thickest darkness, to favor a spirit of law\nand order; it must result if it wishes that individuals in the exercise\nof special aptitudes should gain in depth what they are permitted to lose\nin extension. We are aware, no doubt, that a powerful genius does not\nshut up its activity within the limits of its functions; but mediocre\ntalents consume in the craft fallen to their lot the whole of their\nfeeble energy; and if some of their energy is reserved for matters of\npreference, without prejudice to its functions, such a state of things at\nonce bespeaks a spirit soaring above the vulgar. Moreover, it is rarely\na recommendation in the eye of a state to have a capacity superior to\nyour employment, or one of those noble intellectual cravings of a man of\ntalent which contend in rivalry with the duties of office. The state is\nso jealous of the exclusive possession of its servants that it would\nprefer--nor can it be blamed in this--for functionaries to show their\npowers with the Venus of Cytherea rather than the Uranian Venus.\n\nIt is thus that concrete individual life is extinguished, in order that\nthe abstract whole may continue its miserable life, and the state remains\nforever a stranger to its citizens, because feeling does not discover it\nanywhere. The governing authorities find themselves compelled to\nclassify, and thereby simplify the multiplicity of citizens, and only to\nknow humanity in a representative form and at second-hand. Accordingly\nthey end by entirely losing sight of humanity, and by confounding it with\na simple artificial creation of the understanding, whilst on their part\nthe subject-classes cannot help receiving coldly laws that address\nthemselves so little to their personality. At length, society, weary of\nhaving a burden that the state takes so little trouble to lighten, falls\nto pieces and is broken up--a destiny that has long since attended most\nEuropean states. They are dissolved in what may be called a state of\nmoral nature, in which public authority is only one function more, hated\nand deceived by those who think it necessary, respected only by those who\ncan do without it.\n\nThus compressed between two forces, within and without, could humanity\nfollow any other course than that which it has taken? The speculative\nmind, pursuing imprescriptible goods and rights in the sphere of ideas,\nmust needs have become a stranger to the world of sense, and lose sight\nof matter for the sake of form. On its part, the world of public\naffairs, shut up in a monotonous circle of objects, and even there\nrestricted by formulas, was led to lose sight of the life and liberty of\nthe whole, while becoming impoverished at the same time in its own\nsphere. Just as the speculative mind was tempted to model the real after\nthe intelligible, and to raise the subjective laws of its imagination\ninto laws constituting the existence of things, so the state spirit\nrushed into the opposite extreme, wished to make a particular and\nfragmentary experience the measure of all observation, and to apply\nwithout exception to all affairs the rules of its own particular craft.\nThe speculative mind had necessarily to become the prey of a vain\nsubtlety, the state spirit of a narrow pedantry; for the former was\nplaced too high to see the individual, and the latter too low to survey\nthe whole. But the disadvantage of this direction of mind was not\nconfined to knowledge and mental production; it extended to action and\nfeeling. We know that the sensibility of the mind depends, as to degree,\non the liveliness, and for extent on the richness of the imagination.\nNow the predominance of the faculty of analysis must necessarily deprive\nthe imagination of its warmth and energy, and a restricted sphere of\nobjects must diminish its wealth. It is for this reason that the\nabstract thinker has very often a cold heart, because he analyzes\nimpressions, which only move the mind by their combination or totality;\non the other hand, the man of business, the statesman, has very often a\nnarrow heart, because, shut up in the narrow circle of his employment,\nhis imagination can neither expand nor adapt itself to another manner of\nviewing things.\n\nMy subject has led me naturally to place in relief the distressing\ntendency of the character of our own times and to show the sources of the\nevil, without its being my province to point out the compensations\noffered by nature. I will readily admit to you that, although this\nsplitting up of their being was unfavorable for individuals, it was the\nonly open road for the progress of the race. The point at which we see\nhumanity arrived among the Greeks was undoubtedly a maximum; it could\nneither stop there nor rise higher. It could not stop there, for the sum\nof notions acquired forced infallibly the intelligence to break with\nfeeling and intuition, and to lead to clearness of knowledge. Nor could\nit rise any higher; for it is only in a determinate measure that\nclearness can be reconciled with a certain degree of abundance and of\nwarmth. The Greeks had attained this measure, and to continue their\nprogress in culture, they, as we, were obliged to renounce the totality\nof their being, and to follow different and separate roads in order to\nseek after truth.\n\nThere was no other way to develop the manifold aptitudes of man than to\nbring them in opposition with one another. This antagonism of forces is\nthe great instrument of culture, but it is only an instrument: for as\nlong as this antagonism lasts man is only on the road to culture. It is\nonly because these special forces are isolated in man, and because they\ntake on themselves to impose all exclusive legislation, that they enter\ninto strife with the truth of things, and oblige common sense, which\ngenerally adheres imperturbably to external phenomena, to dive into the\nessence of things. While pure understanding usurps authority in the\nworld of sense, and empiricism attempts to subject this intellect to the\nconditions of experience, these two rival directions arrive at the\nhighest possible development, and exhaust the whole extent of their\nsphere. While, on the one hand, imagination, by its tyranny, ventures to\ndestroy the order of the world, it forces reason, on the other side, to\nrise up to the supreme sources of knowledge, and to invoke against this\npredominance of fancy the help of the law of necessity.\n\nBy an exclusive spirit in the case of his faculties, the individual is\nfatally led to error; but the species is led to truth. It is only by\ngathering up all the energy of our mind in a single focus, and\nconcentrating a single force in our being, that we give in some sort\nwings to this isolated force, and that we draw it on artificially far\nbeyond the limits that nature seems to have imposed upon it. If it be\ncertain that all human individuals taken together would never have\narrived, with the visual power given them by nature, to see a satellite\nof Jupiter, discovered by the telescope of the astronomer, it is just as\nwell established that never would the human understanding have produced\nthe analysis of the infinite, or the critique of pure reason, if in\nparticular branches, destined for this mission, reason had not applied\nitself to special researches, and it, after having, as it were, freed\nitself from all matter, it had not, by the most powerful abstraction\ngiven to the spiritual eye of man the force necessary, in order to look\ninto the absolute. But the question is, if a spirit thus absorbed in\npure reason and intuition will be able to emancipate itself from the\nrigorous fetters of logic, to take the free action of poetry, and seize\nthe individuality of things with a faithful and chaste sense? Here\nnature imposes even on the most universal genius a limit it cannot pass,\nand truth will make martyrs as long as philosophy will be reduced to make\nits principal occupation the search for arms against errors.\n\nBut whatever may be the final profit for the totality of the world, of\nthis distinct and special perfecting of the human faculties, it cannot be\ndenied that this final aim of the universe, which devotes them to this\nkind of culture, is a cause of suffering, and a kind of malediction for\nindividuals. I admit that the exercises of the gymnasium form athletic\nbodies; but beauty is only developed by the free and equal play of the\nlimbs. In the same way the tension of the isolated spiritual forces may\nmake extraordinary men; but it is only the well-tempered equilibrium of\nthese forces that can produce happy and accomplished men. And in what\nrelation should we be placed with past and future ages if the perfecting\nof human nature made such a sacrifice indispensable? In that case we\nshould have been the slaves of humanity, we should have consumed our\nforces in servile work for it during some thousands of years, and we\nshould have stamped on our humiliated, mutilated nature the shameful\nbrand of this slavery--all this in order that future generations, in a\nhappy leisure, might consecrate themselves to the cure of their moral\nhealth, and develop the whole of human nature by their free culture.\n\nBut can it be true that man has to neglect himself for any end whatever?\nCan nature snatch from us, for any end whatever, the perfection which is\nprescribed to us by the aim of reason? It must be false that the\nperfecting of particular faculties renders the sacrifice of their\ntotality necessary; and even if the law of nature had imperiously this\ntendency, we must have the power to reform by a superior art this\ntotality of our being, which art has destroyed.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER VII.\n\n\nCan this effect of harmony be attained by the state? That is not\npossible, for the state, as at present constituted, has given occasion to\nevil, and the state as conceived in the idea, instead of being able to\nestablish this more perfect humanity, ought to be based upon it. Thus\nthe researches in which I have indulged would have brought me back to the\nsame point from which they had called me off for a time. The present\nage, far from offering us this form of humanity, which we have\nacknowledged as a necessary condition of an improvement of the state,\nshows us rather the diametrically opposite form. If, therefore, the\nprinciples I have laid down are correct, and if experience confirms the\npicture I have traced of the present time, it would be necessary to\nqualify as unseasonable every attempt to effect a similar change in the\nstate, and all hope as chimerical that would be based on such an attempt,\nuntil the division of the inner man ceases, and nature has been\nsufficiently developed to become herself the instrument of this great\nchange and secure the reality of the political creation of reason.\n\nIn the physical creation, nature shows us the road that we have to follow\nin the moral creation. Only when the struggle of elementary forces has\nceased in inferior organizations, nature rises to the noble form of the\nphysical man. In like manner, the conflict of the elements of the moral\nman and that of blind instincts must have ceased, and a coarse antagonism\nin himself, before the attempt can be hazarded. On the other hand, the\nindependence of man's character must be secured, and his submission to\ndespotic forms must have given place to a suitable liberty, before the\nvariety in his constitution can be made subordinate to the unity of the\nideal. When the man of nature still makes such an anarchial abuse of his\nwill, his liberty ought hardly to be disclosed to him. And when the man\nfashioned by culture makes so little use of his freedom, his free will\nought not to be taken from him. The concession of liberal principles\nbecomes a treason to social order when it is associated with a force\nstill in fermentation, and increases the already exuberant energy of its\nnature. Again, the law of conformity under one level becomes tyranny to\nthe individual when it is allied to a weakness already holding sway and\nto natural obstacles, and when it comes to extinguish the last spark of\nspontaneity and of originality.\n\nThe tone of the age must therefore rise from its profound moral\ndegradation; on the one hand it must emancipate itself from the blind\nservice of nature, and on the other it must revert to its simplicity, its\ntruth, and its fruitful sap; a sufficient task for more than a century.\nHowever, I admit readily, more than one special effort may meet with\nsuccess, but no improvement of the whole will result from it, and\ncontradictions in action will be a continual protest against the unity of\nmaxims. It will be quite possible, then, that in remote corners of the\nworld humanity may be honored in the person of the negro, while in Europe\nit may be degraded in the person of the thinker. The old principles will\nremain, but they will adopt the dress of the age, and philosophy will\nlend its name to an oppression that was formerly authorized by the\nchurch. In one place, alarmed at the liberty which in its opening\nefforts always shows itself an enemy, it will cast itself into the arms\nof a convenient servitude. In another place, reduced to despair by a\npedantic tutelage, it will be driven into the savage license of the state\nof nature. Usurpation will invoke the weakness of human nature, and\ninsurrection will invoke its dignity, till at length the great sovereign\nof all human things, blind force, shall come in and decide, like a vulgar\npugilist, this pretended contest of principles.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER VIII.\n\n\nMust philosophy therefore retire from this field, disappointed in its\nhopes? Whilst in all other directions the dominion of forms is extended,\nmust this the most precious of all gifts be abandoned to a formless\nchance? Must the contest of blind forces last eternally in the political\nworld, and is social law never to triumph over a hating egotism?\n\nNot in the least. It is true that reason herself will never attempt\ndirectly a struggle with this brutal force which resists her arms, and\nshe will be as far as the son of Saturn in the \"Iliad\" from descending\ninto the dismal field of battle, to fight them in person. But she\nchooses the most deserving among the combatants, clothes him with divine\narms as Jupiter gave them to his son-in-law, and by her triumphing force\nshe finally decides the victory.\n\nReason has done all that she could in finding the law and promulgating\nit; it is for the energy of the will and the ardor of feeling to carry it\nout. To issue victoriously from her contest with force, truth herself\nmust first become a force, and turn one of the instincts of man into her\nchampion in the empire of phenomena. For instincts are the only motive\nforces in the material world. If hitherto truth has so little manifested\nher victorious power, this has not depended on the understanding, which\ncould not have unveiled it, but on the heart which remained closed to it\nand on instinct which did not act with it.\n\nWhence, in fact, proceeds this general sway of prejudices, this might of\nthe understanding in the midst of the light disseminated by philosophy\nand experience? The age is enlightened, that is to say, that knowledge,\nobtained and vulgarized, suffices to set right at least on practical\nprinciples. The spirit of free inquiry has dissipated the erroneous\nopinions which long barred the access to truth, and has undermined the\nground on which fanaticism and deception had erected their throne.\nReason has purified itself from the illusions of the senses and from a\nmendacious sophistry, and philosophy herself raises her voice and exhorts\nus to return to the bosom of nature, to which she had first made us\nunfaithful. Whence then is it that we remain still barbarians?\n\nThere must be something in the spirit of man--as it is not in the objects\nthemselves--which prevents us from receiving the truth, notwithstanding\nthe brilliant light she diffuses, and from accepting her, whatever may be\nher strength for producing conviction. This something was perceived and\nexpressed by an ancient sage in this very significant maxim: sapere aude\n[dare to be wise.]\n\nDare to be wise! A spirited courage is required to triumph over the\nimpediments that the indolence of nature as well as the cowardice of the\nheart oppose to our instruction. It was not without reason that the\nancient Mythos made Minerva issue fully armed from the head of Jupiter,\nfor it is with warfare that this instruction commences. From its very\noutset it has to sustain a hard fight against the senses, which do not\nlike to be roused from their easy slumber. The greater part of men are\nmuch too exhausted and enervated by their struggle with want to be able\nto engage in a new and severe contest with error. Satisfied if they\nthemselves can escape from the hard labor of thought, they willingly\nabandon to others the guardianship of their thoughts. And if it happens\nthat nobler necessities agitate their soul, they cling with a greedy\nfaith to the formula that the state and the church hold in reserve for\nsuch cases. If these unhappy men deserve our compassion, those others\ndeserve our just contempt, who, though set free from those necessities by\nmore fortunate circumstances, yet willingly bend to their yoke. These\nlatter persons prefer this twilight of obscure ideas, where the feelings\nhave more intensity, and the imagination can at will create convenient\nchimeras, to the rays of truth which put to flight the pleasant illusions\nof their dreams. They have founded the whole structure of their\nhappiness on these very illusions, which ought to be combated and\ndissipated by the light of knowledge, and they would think they were\npaying too dearly for a truth which begins by robbing them of all that\nhas value in their sight. It would be necessary that they should be\nalready sages to love wisdom: a truth that was felt at once by him to\nwhom philosophy owes its name. [The Greek word means, as is known, love\nof wisdom.]\n\nIt is therefore not going far enough to say that the light of the\nunderstanding only deserves respect when it reacts on the character; to a\ncertain extent it is from the character that this light proceeds; for the\nroad that terminates in the head must pass through the heart.\nAccordingly, the most pressing need of the present time is to educate the\nsensibility, because it is the means, not only to render efficacious in\npractice the improvement of ideas, but to call this improvement into\nexistence.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER IX.\n\n\nBut perhaps there is a vicious circle in our previous reasoning!\nTheoretical culture must it seems bring along with it practical culture,\nand yet the latter must be the condition of the former. All improvement\nin the political sphere must proceed from the ennobling of the character.\nBut, subject to the influence of a social constitution still barbarous,\nhow can character become ennobled? It would then be necessary to seek\nfor this end an instrument that the state does not furnish, and to open\nsources that would have preserved themselves pure in the midst of\npolitical corruption.\n\nI have now reached the point to which all the considerations tended that\nhave engaged me up to the present time. This instrument is the art of\nthe beautiful; these sources are open to us in its immortal models.\n\nArt, like science, is emancipated from all that is positive, and all that\nis humanly conventional; both are completely independent of the arbitrary\nwill of man. The political legislator may place their empire under an\ninterdict, but he cannot reign there. He can proscribe the friend of\ntruth, but truth subsists; he can degrade the artist, but he cannot\nchange art. No doubt, nothing is more common than to see science and art\nbend before the spirit of the age, and creative taste receive its law\nfrom critical taste. When the character becomes stiff and hardens\nitself, we see science severely keeping her limits, and art subject to\nthe harsh restraint of rules; when the character is relaxed and softened,\nscience endeavors to please and art to rejoice. For whole ages\nphilosophers as well as artists show themselves occupied in letting down\ntruth and beauty to the depths of vulgar humanity. They themselves are\nswallowed up in it; but, thanks to their essential vigor and\nindestructible life, the true and the beautiful make a victorious fight,\nand issue triumphant from the abyss.\n\nNo doubt the artist is the child of his time, but unhappy for him if he\nis its disciple or even its favorite! Let a beneficent deity carry off\nin good time the suckling from the breast of its mother, let it nourish\nhim on the milk of a better age, and suffer him to grow up and arrive at\nvirility under the distant sky of Greece. When he has attained manhood,\nlet him come back, presenting a face strange to his own age; let him\ncome, not to delight it with his apparition, but rather to purify it,\nterrible as the son of Agamemnon. He will, indeed, receive his matter\nfrom the present time, but he will borrow the form from a nobler time and\neven beyond all time, from the essential, absolute, immutable unity.\nThere, issuing from the pure ether of its heavenly nature, flows the\nsource of all beauty, which was never tainted by the corruptions of\ngenerations or of ages, which roll along far beneath it in dark eddies.\nIts matter may be dishonored as well as ennobled by fancy, but the\never-chaste form escapes from the caprices of imagination. The Roman had\nalready bent his knee for long years to the divinity of the emperors, and\nyet the statues of the gods stood erect; the temples retained their\nsanctity for the eye long after the gods had become a theme for mockery,\nand the noble architecture of the palaces that shielded the infamies of\nNero and of Commodus were a protest against them. Humanity has lost its\ndignity, but art has saved it, and preserves it in marbles full of\nmeaning; truth continues to live in illusion, and the copy will serve to\nre-establish the model. If the nobility of art has survived the nobility\nof nature, it also goes before it like an inspiring genius, forming and\nawakening minds. Before truth causes her triumphant light to penetrate\ninto the depths of the heart, poetry intercepts her rays, and the summits\nof humanity shine in a bright light, while a dark and humid night still\nhangs over the valleys.\n\nBut how will the artist avoid the corruption of his time which encloses\nhim on all hands? Let him raise his eyes to his own dignity, and to law;\nlet him not lower them to necessity and fortune. Equally exempt from a\nvain activity which would imprint its trace on the fugitive moment, and\nfrom the dreams of an impatient enthusiasm which applies the measure of\nthe absolute to the paltry productions of time, let the artist abandon\nthe real to the understanding, for that is its proper field. But let the\nartist endeavor to give birth to the ideal by the union of the possible\nand of the necessary. Let him stamp illusion and truth with the effigy\nof this ideal; let him apply it to the play of his imagination and his\nmost serious actions, in short, to all sensuous and spiritual forms; then\nlet him quietly launch his work into infinite time.\n\nBut the minds set on fire by this ideal have not all received an equal\nshare of calm from the creative genius--that great and patient temper\nwhich is required to impress the ideal on the dumb marble, or to spread\nit over a page of cold, sober letters, and then intrust it to the\nfaithful hands of time. This divine instinct, and creative force, much\ntoo ardent to follow this peaceful walk, often throws itself immediately\non the present, on active life, and strives to transform the shapeless\nmatter of the moral world. The misfortune of his brothers, of the whole\nspecies, appeals loudly to the heart of the man of feeling; their\nabasement appeals still louder: enthusiasm is inflamed, and in souls\nendowed with energy the burning desire aspires impatiently to action and\nfacts. But has this innovator examined himself to see if these disorders\nof the moral world wound his reason, or if they do not rather wound his\nself-love? If he does not determine this point at once, he will find it\nfrom the impulsiveness with which he pursues a prompt and definite end.\nA pure, moral motive has for its end the absolute; time does not exist\nfor it, and the future becomes the present to it directly; by a necessary\ndevelopment, it has to issue from the present. To a reason having no\nlimits the direction towards an end becomes confounded with the\naccomplishment of this end, and to enter on a course is to have finished\nit.\n\nIf, then, a young friend of the true and of the beautiful were to ask me\nhow, notwithstanding the resistance of the times, he can satisfy the\nnoble longing of his heart, I should reply: Direct the world on which you\nact towards that which is good, and the measured and peaceful course of\ntime will bring about the results. You have given it this direction if\nby your teaching you raise its thoughts towards the necessary and the\neternal; if, by your acts or your creations, you make the necessary and\nthe eternal the object of your leanings. The structure of error and of\nall that is arbitrary must fall, and it has already fallen, as soon as\nyou are sure that it is tottering. But it is important that it should\nnot only totter in the external but also in the internal man. Cherish\ntriumphant truth in the modest sanctuary of your heart; give it an\nincarnate form through beauty, that it may not only be in the\nunderstanding that does homage to it, but that feeling may lovingly grasp\nits appearance. And that you may not by any chance take from external\nreality the model which you yourself ought to furnish, do not venture\ninto its dangerous society before you are assured in your own heart that\nyou have a good escort furnished by ideal nature. Live with your age,\nbut be not its creation; labor for your contemporaries, but do for them\nwhat they need, and not what they praise. Without having shared their\nfaults, share their punishment with a noble resignation, and bend under\nthe yoke which they find it as painful to dispense with as to bear. By\nthe constancy with which you will despise their good fortune, you will\nprove to them that it is not through cowardice that you submit to their\nsufferings. See them in thought such as they ought to be when you must\nact upon them; but see them as they are when you are tempted to act for\nthem. Seek to owe their suffrage to their dignity; but to make them\nhappy keep an account of their unworthiness: thus, on the one hand, the\nnobleness of your heart will kindle theirs, and, on the other, your end\nwill not be reduced to nothingness by their unworthiness. The gravity of\nyour principles will keep them off from you, but in play they will still\nendure them. Their taste is purer than their heart, and it is by their\ntaste you must lay hold of this suspicious fugitive. In vain will you\ncombat their maxims, in vain will you condemn their actions; but you can\ntry your moulding hand on their leisure. Drive away caprice, frivolity,\nand coarseness from their pleasures, and you will banish them\nimperceptibly from their acts, and at length from their feelings.\nEverywhere that you meet them, surround them with great, noble, and\ningenious forms; multiply around them the symbols of perfection, till\nappearance triumphs over reality, and art over nature.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER X.\n\n\nConvinced by my preceding letters, you agree with me on this point, that\nman can depart from his destination by two opposite roads, that our epoch\nis actually moving on these two false roads, and that it has become the\nprey, in one case, of coarseness, and elsewhere of exhaustion and\ndepravity. It is the beautiful that must bring it back from this twofold\ndeparture. But how can the cultivation of the fine arts remedy, at the\nsame time, these opposite defects, and unite in itself two contradictory\nqualities? Can it bind nature in the savage, and set it free in the\nbarbarian? Can it at once tighten a spring and loose it; and if it\ncannot produce this double effect, how will it be reasonable to expect\nfrom it so important a result as the education of man?\n\nIt may be urged that it is almost a proverbial adage that the feeling\ndeveloped by the beautiful refines manners, and any new proof offered on\nthe subject would appear superfluous. Men base this maxim on daily\nexperience, which shows us almost always clearness of intellect, delicacy\nof feeling, liberality and even dignity of conduct, associated with a\ncultivated taste, while an uncultivated taste is almost always\naccompanied by the opposite qualities. With considerable assurance, the\nmost civilized nation of antiquity is cited as an evidence of this, the\nGreeks, among whom the perception of the beautiful attained its highest\ndevelopment, and, as a contrast, it is usual to point to nations in a\npartial savage state, and partly barbarous, who expiate their\ninsensibility to the beautiful by a coarse, or, at all events, a hard,\naustere character. Nevertheless, some thinkers are tempted occasionally\nto deny either the fact itself or to dispute the legitimacy of the\nconsequences that are derived from it. They do not entertain so\nunfavorable an opinion of that savage coarseness which is made a reproach\nin the case of certain nations; nor do they form so advantageous an\nopinion of the refinement so highly lauded in the case of cultivated\nnations. Even as far back as in antiquity there were men who by no means\nregarded the culture of the liberal arts as a benefit, and who were\nconsequently led to forbid the entrance of their republic to imagination.\n\nI do not speak of those who calumniate art because they have never been\nfavored by it. These persons only appreciate a possession by the trouble\nit takes to acquire it, and by the profit it brings: and how could they\nproperly appreciate the silent labor of taste in the exterior and\ninterior man? How evident it is that the accidental disadvantages\nattending liberal culture would make them lose sight of its essential\nadvantages? The man deficient in form despises the grace of diction as a\nmeans of corruption, courtesy in the social relations as dissimulation,\ndelicacy and generosity in conduct as an affected exaggeration. He\ncannot forgive the favorite of the Graces for having enlivened all\nassemblies as a man of the world, of having directed all men to his views\nlike a statesman, and of giving his impress to the whole century as a\nwriter: while he, the victim of labor, can only obtain with all his\nlearning, the least attention or overcome the least difficulty. As he\ncannot learn from his fortunate rival the secret of pleasing, the only\ncourse open to him is to deplore the corruption of human nature, which\nadores rather the appearance than the reality.\n\nBut there are also opinions deserving respect, that pronounce themselves\nadverse to the effects of the beautiful, and find formidable arms in\nexperience, with which to wage war against it. \"We are free to admit\"--\nsuch is their language--\"that the charms of the beautiful can further\nhonorable ends in pure hands; but it is not repugnant to its nature to\nproduce, in impure hands, a directly contrary effect, and to employ in\nthe service of injustice and error the power that throws the soul of man\ninto chains. It is exactly because taste only attends to the form and\nnever to the substance; it ends by placing the soul on the dangerous\nincline, leading it to neglect all reality and to sacrifice truth and\nmorality to an attractive envelope. All the real difference of things\nvanishes, and it is only the appearance that determines the value! How\nmany men of talent\"--thus these arguers proceed--\"have been turned aside\nfrom all effort by the seductive power of the beautiful, or have been led\naway from all serious exercise of their activity, or have been induced to\nuse it very feebly? How many weak minds have been impelled to quarrel\nwith the organizations of society, simply because it has pleased the\nimagination of poets to present the image of a world constituted\ndifferently, where no propriety chains down opinion and no artifice holds\nnature in thraldom? What a dangerous logic of the passions they have\nlearned since the poets have painted them in their pictures in the most\nbrilliant colors, and since, in the contest with law and duty, they have\ncommonly remained masters of the battle-field. What has society gained\nby the relations of society, formerly under the sway of truth, being now\nsubject to the laws of the beautiful, or by the external impression\ndeciding the estimation in which merit is to be held? We admit that all\nvirtues whose appearance produces an agreeable effect are now seen to\nflourish, and those which, in society, give a value to the man who\npossesses them. But, as a compensation, all kinds of excesses are seen\nto prevail, and all vices are in vogue that can be reconciled with a\ngraceful exterior.\" It is certainly a matter entitled to reflection\nthat, at almost all the periods of history when art flourished and taste\nheld sway, humanity is found in a state of decline; nor can a single\ninstance be cited of the union of a large diffusion of aesthetic culture\nwith political liberty and social virtue, of fine manners associated with\ngood morals, and of politeness fraternizing with truth and loyalty of\ncharacter and life.\n\nAs long as Athens and Sparta preserved their independence, and as long as\ntheir institutions were based on respect for the laws, taste did not\nreach its maturity, art remained in its infancy, and beauty was far from\nexercising her empire over minds. No doubt, poetry had already taken a\nsublime flight, but it was on the wings of genius, and we know that\ngenius borders very closely on savage coarseness, that it is a light\nwhich shines readily in the midst of darkness, and which therefore often\nargues against rather than in favor of the taste of time. When the\ngolden age of art appears under Pericles and Alexander, and the sway of\ntaste becomes more general, strength and liberty have abandoned Greece;\neloquence corrupts the truth, wisdom offends it on the lips of Socrates,\nand virtue in the life of Phocion. It is well known that the Romans had\nto exhaust their energies in civil wars, and, corrupted by Oriental\nluxury, to bow their heads under the yoke of a fortunate despot, before\nGrecian art triumphed over the stiffness of their character. The same\nwas the case with the Arabs: civilization only dawned upon them when the\nvigor of their military spirit became softened under the sceptre of the\nAbbassides. Art did not appear in modern Italy till the glorious Lombard\nLeague was dissolved, Florence submitting to the Medici; and all those\nbrave cities gave up the spirit of independence for an inglorious\nresignation. It is almost superfluous to call to mind the example of\nmodern nations, with whom refinement has increased in direct proportion\nto the decline of their liberties. Wherever we direct our eyes in past\ntimes, we see taste and freedom mutually avoiding each other. Everywhere\nwe see that the beautiful only founds its sway on the ruins of heroic\nvirtues.\n\nAnd yet this strength of character, which is commonly sacrificed to\nestablish aesthetic culture, is the most powerful spring of all that is\ngreat and excellent in man, and no other advantage, however great, can\nmake up for it. Accordingly, if we only keep to the experiments hitherto\nmade, as to the influence of the beautiful, we cannot certainly be much\nencouraged in developing feelings so dangerous to the real culture of\nman. At the risk of being hard and coarse, it will seem preferable to\ndispense with this dissolving force of the beautiful rather than see\nhuman nature a prey to its enervating influence, notwithstanding all its\nrefining advantages. However, experience is perhaps not the proper\ntribunal at which to decide such a question; before giving so much weight\nto its testimony, it would be well to inquire if the beauty we have been\ndiscussing is the power that is condemned by the previous examples. And\nthe beauty we are discussing seems to assume an idea of the beautiful\nderived from a source different from experience, for it is this higher\nnotion of the beautiful which has to decide if what is called beauty by\nexperience is entitled to the name.\n\nThis pure and rational idea of the beautiful--supposing it can be placed\nin evidence--cannot be taken from any real and special case, and must, on\nthe contrary, direct and give sanction to our judgment in each special\ncase. It must therefore be sought for by a process of abstraction, and\nit ought to be deduced from the simple possibility of a nature both\nsensuous and rational; in short, beauty ought to present itself as a\nnecessary condition of humanity. It is therefore essential that we\nshould rise to the pure idea of humanity, and as experience shows us\nnothing but individuals, in particular cases, and never humanity at\nlarge, we must endeavor to find in their individual and variable mode of\nbeing the absolute and the permanent, and to grasp the necessary\nconditions of their existence, suppressing all accidental limits. No\ndoubt this transcendental procedure will remove us for some time from the\nfamiliar circle of phenomena, and the living presence of objects, to keep\nus on the unproductive ground of abstract idea; but we are engaged in the\nsearch after a principle of knowledge solid enough not to be shaken by\nanything, and the man who does not dare to rise above reality will never\nconquer this truth.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER XI.\n\n\nIf abstraction rises to as great an elevation as possible, it arrives at\ntwo primary ideas, before which it is obliged to stop and to recognize\nits limits. It distinguishes in man something that continues, and\nsomething that changes incessantly. That which continues it names his\nperson; that which changes his position, his condition.\n\nThe person and the condition, I and my determinations, which we represent\nas one and the same thing in the necessary being, are eternally distinct\nin the finite being. Notwithstanding all continuance in the person, the\ncondition changes; in spite of all change of condition the person\nremains. We pass from rest to activity, from emotion to indifference,\nfrom assent to contradiction, but we are always we ourselves, and what\nimmediately springs from ourselves remains. It is only in the absolute\nsubject that all his determinations continue with his personality. All\nthat Divinity is, it is because it is so; consequently it is eternally\nwhat it is, because it is eternal.\n\nAs the person and the condition are distinct in man, because he is a\nfinite being, the condition cannot be founded on the person, nor the\nperson on the condition. Admitting the second case, the person would\nhave to change; and in the former case, the condition would have to\ncontinue. Thus in either supposition, either the personality or the\nquality of a finite being would necessarily cease. It is not because we\nthink, feel, and will that we are; it is not because we are that we\nthink, feel, and will. We are because we are. We feel, think, and will\nbecause there is out of us something that is not ourselves.\n\nConsequently the person must have its principle of existence in itself,\nbecause the permanent cannot be derived from the changeable, and thus we\nshould be at once in possession of the idea of the absolute being,\nfounded on itself; that is to say, of the idea of freedom. The condition\nmust have a foundation, and as it is not through the person, and is not\ntherefore absolute, it must be a sequence and a result; and thus, in the\nsecond place, we should have arrived at the condition of every\nindependent being, of everything in the process of becoming something\nelse: that is, of the idea of tine. \"Time is the necessary condition of\nall processes, of becoming (Werden);\" this is an identical proposition,\nfor it says nothing but this: \"That something may follow, there must be a\nsuccession.\"\n\nThe person which manifested itself in the eternally continuing Ego, or I\nmyself, and only in him, cannot become something or begin in time,\nbecause it is much rather time that must begin with him, because the\npermanent must serve as basis to the changeable. That change may take\nplace, something must change; this something cannot therefore be the\nchange itself. When we say the flower opens and fades, we make of this\nflower a permanent being in the midst of this transformation; we lend it,\nin some sort, a personality, in which these two conditions are\nmanifested. It cannot be objected that man is born, and becomes\nsomething; for man is not only a person simply, but he is a person\nfinding himself in a determinate condition. Now our determinate state of\ncondition springs up in time, and it is thus that man, as a phenomenon or\nappearance, must have a beginning, though in him pure intelligence is\neternal. Without time, that is, without a becoming, he would not be a\ndeterminate being; his personality would exist virtually no doubt, but\nnot in action. It is not by the succession of its perceptions that the\nimmutable Ego or person manifests himself to himself.\n\nThus, therefore, the matter of activity, or reality, that the supreme\nintelligence draws from its own being, must be received by man; and he\ndoes, in fact, receive it, through the medium of perception, as something\nwhich is outside him in space, and which changes in him in time. This\nmatter which changes in him is always accompanied by the Ego, the\npersonality, that never changes; and the rule prescribed for man by his\nrational nature is to remain immutably himself in the midst of change, to\nrefer all perceptions to experience, that is, to the unity of knowledge,\nand to make of each of its manifestations of its modes in time the law of\nall time. The matter only exists in as far as it changes: he, his\npersonality, only exists in as far as he does not change. Consequently,\nrepresented in his perfection, man would be the permanent unity, which\nremains always the same, among the waves of change.\n\nNow, although an infinite being, a divinity could not become (or be\nsubject to time), still a tendency ought to be named divine which has for\nits infinite end the most characteristic attribute of the divinity; the\nabsolute manifestation of power--the reality of all the possible--and the\nabsolute unity of the manifestation (the necessity of all reality). It\ncannot be disputed that man bears within himself, in his personality, a\npredisposition for divinity. The way to divinity--if the word \"way\" can\nbe applied to what never leads to its end--is open to him in every\ndirection.\n\nConsidered in itself, and independently of all sensuous matter, his\npersonality is nothing but the pure virtuality of a possible infinite\nmanifestation; and so long as there is neither intuition nor feeling, it\nis nothing more than a form, an empty power. Considered in itself, and\nindependently of all spontaneous activity of the mind, sensuousness can\nonly make a material man; without it, it is a pure form; but it cannot in\nany way establish a union between matter and it. So long as he only\nfeels, wishes, and acts under the influence of desire, he is nothing more\nthan the world, if by this word we point out only the formless contents\nof time. Without doubt, it is only his sensuousness that makes his\nstrength pass into efficacious acts, but it is his personality alone that\nmakes this activity his own. Thus, that he may not only be a world, he\nmust give form to matter, and in order not to be a mere form, he must\ngive reality to the virtuality that he bears in him. He gives matter to\nform by creating time, and by opposing the immutable to change, the\ndiversity of the world to the eternal unity of the Ego. He gives a form\nto matter by again suppressing time, by maintaining permanence in change,\nand by placing the diversity of the world under the unity of the Ego.\n\nNow from this source issue for man two opposite exigencies, the two\nfundamental laws of sensuous-rational nature. The first has for its\nobject absolute reality; it must make a world of what is only form,\nmanifest all that in it is only a force. The second law has for its\nobject absolute formality; it must destroy in him all that is only world,\nand carry out harmony in all changes. In other terms, he must manifest\nall that is internal, and give form to all that is external. Considered\nin its most lofty accomplishment, this twofold labor brings back to the\nidea of humanity, which was my starting-point.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER XII.\n\n\nThis twofold labor or task, which consists in making the necessary pass\ninto reality in us and in making out of us reality subject to the law of\nnecessity, is urged upon us as a duty by two opposing forces, which are\njustly styled impulsions or instincts, because they impel us to realize\ntheir object. The first of these impulsions, which I shall call the\nsensuous instinct, issues from the physical existence of man, or from\nsensuous nature; and it is this instinct which tends to enclose him in\nthe limits of time, and to make of him a material being; I do not say to\ngive him matter, for to do that a certain free activity of the\npersonality would be necessary, which, receiving matter, distinguishes it\nfrom the Ego, or what is permanent. By matter I only understand in this\nplace the change or reality that fills time. Consequently the instinct\nrequires that there should be change, and that time should contain\nsomething. This simply filled state of time is named sensation, and it\nis only in this state that physical existence manifests itself.\n\nAs all that is in time is successive, it follows by that fact alone that\nsomething is: all the remainder is excluded. When one note on an\ninstrument is touched, among all those that it virtually offers, this\nnote alone is real. When man is actually modified, the infinite\npossibility of all his modifications is limited to this single mode of\nexistence. Thus, then, the exclusive action of sensuous impulsion has\nfor its necessary consequence the narrowest limitation. In this state\nman is only a unity of magnitude, a complete moment in time; or, to speak\nmore correctly, he is not, for his personality is suppressed as long as\nsensation holds sway over him and carries time along with it.\n\nThis instinct extends its domains over the entire sphere of the finite in\nman, and as form is only revealed in matter, and the absolute by means of\nits limits, the total manifestation of human nature is connected on a\nclose analysis with the sensuous instinct. But though it is only this\ninstinct that awakens and develops what exists virtually in man, it is\nnevertheless this very instinct which renders his perfection impossible.\nIt binds down to the world of sense by indestructible ties the spirit\nthat tends higher, and it calls back to the limits of the present,\nabstraction which had its free development in the sphere of the infinite.\nNo doubt, thought can escape it for a moment, and a firm will\nvictoriously resist its exigencies: but soon compressed nature resumes\nher rights to give an imperious reality to our existence, to give it\ncontents, substance, knowledge, and an aim for our activity.\n\nThe second impulsion, which may be named the formal instinct, issues from\nthe absolute existence of man, or from his rational nature, and tends to\nset free, and bring harmony into the diversity of its manifestations, and\nto maintain personality notwithstanding all the changes of state. As\nthis personality, being an absolute and indivisible unity, can never be\nin contradiction with itself, as we are ourselves forever, this\nimpulsion, which tends to maintain personality, can never exact in one\ntime anything but what it exacts and requires forever. It therefore\ndecides for always what it decides now, and orders now what it orders\nforever. Hence it embraces the whole series of times, or what comes to\nthe same thing, it suppresses time and change. It wishes the real to be\nnecessary and eternal, and it wishes the eternal and the necessary to be\nreal; in other terms, it tends to truth and justice.\n\nIf the sensuous instinct only produces accidents, the formal instinct\ngives laws, laws for every judgment when it is a question of knowledge,\nlaws for every will when it is a question of action. Whether, therefore,\nwe recognize an object or conceive an objective value to a state of the\nsubject, whether we act in virtue of knowledge or make of the objective\nthe determining principle of our state; in both cases we withdraw this\nstate from the jurisdiction of time, and we attribute to it reality for\nall men and for all time, that is, universality and necessity. Feeling\ncan only say: \"That is true for this subject and at this moment,\" and\nthere may come another moment, another subject, which withdraws the\naffirmation from the actual feeling. But when once thought pronounces\nand says: \"That is,\" it decides forever and ever, and the validity of its\ndecision is guaranteed by the personality itself, which defies all\nchange. Inclination can only say: \"That is good for your individuality\nand present necessity\"; but the changing current of affairs will sweep\nthem away, and what you ardently desire to-day will form the object of\nyour aversion to-morrow. But when the moral feeling says: \"That ought to\nbe,\" it decides forever. If you confess the truth because it is the\ntruth, and if you practise justice because it is justice, you have made\nof a particular case the law of all possible cases, and treated one\nmoment of your life as eternity.\n\nAccordingly, when the formal impulse holds sway and the pure object acts\nin us, the being attains its highest expansion, all barriers disappear,\nand from the unity of magnitude in which man was enclosed by a narrow\nsensuousness, he rises to the unity of idea, which embraces and keeps\nsubject the entire sphere of phenomena. During this operation we are no\nlonger in time, but time is in us with its infinite succession. We are\nno longer individuals but a species; the judgment of all spirits is\nexpressed by our own, and the choice of all hearts is represented by our\nown act.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER XIII.\n\n\nOn a first survey, nothing appears more opposed than these two\nimpulsions; one having for its object change, the other immutability, and\nyet it is these two notions that exhaust the notion of humanity, and a\nthird fundamental impulsion, holding a medium between them, is quite\ninconceivable. How then shall we re-establish the unity of human nature,\na unity that appears completely destroyed by this primitive and radical\nopposition?\n\nI admit these two tendencies are contradictory, but it should be noticed\nthat they are not so in the same objects. But things that do not meet\ncannot come into collision. No doubt the sensuous impulsion desires\nchange; but it does not wish that it should extend to personality and its\nfield, nor that there should be a change of principles. The formal\nimpulsion seeks unity and permanence, but it does not wish the condition\nto remain fixed with the person, that there should be identity of\nfeeling. Therefore these two impulsions are not divided by nature, and\nif, nevertheless, they appear so, it is because they have become divided\nby transgressing nature freely, by ignoring themselves, and by\nconfounding their spheres. The office of culture is to watch over them\nand to secure to each one its proper limits; therefore culture has to\ngive equal justice to both, and to defend not only the rational impulsion\nagainst the sensuous, but also the latter against the former. Hence she\nhas to act a twofold part: first, to protect sense against the attacks of\nfreedom; secondly, to secure personality against the power of sensations.\nOne of these ends is attained by the cultivation of the sensuous, the\nother by that of reason.\n\nSince the world is developed in time, or change, the perfection of the\nfaculty that places men in relation with the world will necessarily be\nthe greatest possible mutability and extensiveness. Since personality is\npermanence in change, the perfection of this faculty, which must be\nopposed to change, will be the greatest possible freedom of action\n(autonomy) and intensity. The more the receptivity is developed under\nmanifold aspects, the more it is movable and offers surfaces to\nphenomena, the larger is the part of the world seized upon by man, and\nthe more virtualities he develops in himself. Again, in proportion as\nman gains strength and depth, and depth and reason gain in freedom, in\nthat proportion man takes in a larger share of the world, and throws out\nforms outside himself. Therefore his culture will consist, first, in\nplacing his receptivity in contact with the world in the greatest number\nof points possible, and in raising passivity, to the highest exponent on\nthe side of feeling; secondly, in procuring for the determining faculty\nthe greatest possible amount of independence, in relation to the\nreceptive power, and in raising activity to the highest degree on the\nside of reason. By the union of these two qualities man will associate\nthe highest degree of self-spontaneity (autonomy) and of freedom with the\nfullest plenitude of existence, and instead of abandoning himself to the\nworld so as to get lost in it, he will rather absorb it in himself, with\nall the infinitude of its phenomena, and subject it to the unity of his\nreason.\n\nBut man can invert this relation, and thus fail in attaining his\ndestination in two ways. He can hand over to the passive force the\nintensity demanded by the active force; he can encroach by material\nimpulsion on the formal impulsion, and convert the receptive into the\ndetermining power. He can attribute to the active force the\nextensiveness belonging to the passive force, he can encroach by the\nformal impulsion on the material impulsion, and substitute the\ndetermining for the receptive power. In the former case, he will never\nbe an Ego, a personality; in the second case, he will never be a Non-Ego,\nand hence in both cases he will be neither the one nor the other,\nconsequently he will be nothing.\n\nIn fact, if the sensuous impulsion becomes determining, if the senses\nbecome lawgivers, and if the world stifles personality, he loses as\nobject what he gains in force. It may be said of man that when he is\nonly the contents of time, he is not and consequently he has no other\ncontents. His condition is destroyed at the same time as his\npersonality, because these are two correlative ideas, because change\npresupposes permanence, and a limited reality implies an infinite\nreality. If the formal impulsion becomes receptive, that is, if thought\nanticipates sensation, and the person substitutes itself in the place of\nthe world, it loses as a subject and autonomous force what it gains as\nobject, because immutability implies change, and that to manifest itself\nalso absolute reality requires limits. As soon as man is only form, he\nhas no form, and the personality vanishes with the condition. In a word,\nit is only inasmuch as he is spontaneous, autonomous, that there is\nreality out of him, that he is also receptive; and it is only inasmuch as\nhe is receptive that there is reality in him, that he is a thinking\nforce.\n\nConsequently these two impulsions require limits, and looked upon as\nforces, they need tempering; the former that it may not encroach on the\nfield of legislation, the latter that it may not invade the ground of\nfeeling. But this tempering and moderating the sensuous impulsion ought\nnot to be the effect of physical impotence or of a blunting of\nsensations, which is always a matter for contempt. It must be a free\nact, an activity of the person, which by its moral intensity moderates\nthe sensuous intensity, and by the sway of impressions takes from them in\ndepth what it gives them in surface or breadth. The character must place\nlimits to temperament, for the senses have only the right to lose\nelements if it be to the advantage of the mind. In its turn, the\ntempering of the formal impulsion must not result from moral impotence,\nfrom a relaxation of thought and will, which would degrade humanity. It\nis necessary that the glorious source of this second tempering should be\nthe fulness of sensations; it is necessary that sensuousness itself\nshould defend its field with a victorious arm and resist the violence\nthat the invading activity of the mind would do to it. In a word, it is\nnecessary that the material impulsion should be contained in the limits\nof propriety by personality, and the formal impulsion by receptivity or\nnature.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER XIV.\n\n\nWe have been brought to the idea of such a correlation between the two\nimpulsions that the action of the one establishes and limits at the same\ntime the action of the other, and that each of them, taken in isolation,\ndoes arrive at its highest manifestation just because the other is\nactive.\n\nNo doubt this correlation of the two impulsions is simply a problem\nadvanced by reason, and which man will only be able to solve in the\nperfection of his being. It is in the strictest signification of the\nterm: the idea of his humanity; accordingly, it is an infinite to which\nhe can approach nearer and nearer in the course of time, but without ever\nreaching it. \"He ought not to aim at form to the injury of reality, nor\nto reality to the detriment of the form. He must rather seek the\nabsolute being by means of a determinate being, and the determinate being\nby means of an infinite being. He must set the world before him because\nhe is a person, and he must be a person because he has the world before\nhim. He must feel because he has a consciousness of himself, and he must\nhave a consciousness of himself because he feels.\" It is only in\nconformity with this idea that he is a man in the full sense of the word;\nbut he cannot be convinced of this so long as he gives himself up\nexclusively to one of these two impulsions, or only satisfies them one\nafter the other. For as long as he only feels, his absolute personality\nand existence remain a mystery to him, and as long as he only thinks, his\ncondition or existence in time escapes him. But if there were cases in\nwhich he could have at once this twofold experience in which he would\nhave the consciousness of his freedom and the feeling of his existence\ntogether, in which he would simultaneously feel as matter and know\nhimself as spirit, in such cases, and in such only, would he have a\ncomplete intuition of his humanity, and the object that would procure him\nthis intuition would be a symbol of his accomplished destiny and\nconsequently serve to express the infinite to him--since this destination\ncan only be fulfilled in the fulness of time.\n\nPresuming that cases of this kind could present themselves in experience,\nthey would awake in him a new impulsion, which, precisely because the\nother two impulsions would co-operate in it, would be opposed to each of\nthem taken in isolation, and might, with good grounds, be taken for a new\nimpulsion. The sensuous impulsion requires that there should be change,\nthat time should have contents; the formal impulsion requires that time\nshould be suppressed, that there should be no change. Consequently, the\nimpulsion in which both of the others act in concert--allow me to call it\nthe instinct of play, till I explain the term--the instinct of play would\nhave as its object to suppress time in time, to conciliate the state of\ntransition or becoming with the absolute being, change with identity.\n\nThe sensuous instinct wishes to be determined, it wishes to receive an\nobject; the formal instinct wishes to determine itself, it wishes to\nproduce an object. Therefore the instinct of play will endeavor to\nreceive as it would itself have produced, and to produce as it aspires to\nreceive.\n\nThe sensuous impulsion excludes from its subject all autonomy and\nfreedom; the formal impulsion excludes all dependence and passivity. But\nthe exclusion of freedom is physical necessity; the exclusion of\npassivity is moral necessity. Thus the two impulsions subdue the mind:\nthe former to the laws of nature, the latter to the laws of reason. It\nresults from this that the instinct of play, which unites the double\naction of the two other instincts, will content the mind at once morally\nand physically. Hence, as it suppresses all that is contingent, it will\nalso suppress all coercion, and will set man free physically and morally.\nWhen we welcome with effusion some one who deserves our contempt, we feel\npainfully that nature is constrained. When we have a hostile feeling\nagainst a person who commands our esteem, we feel painfully the\nconstraint of reason. But if this person inspires us with interest, and\nalso wins our esteem, the constraint of feeling vanishes together with\nthe constraint of reason, and we begin to love him, that is to say, to\nplay, to take recreation, at once with our inclination and our esteem.\n\nMoreover, as the sensuous impulsion controls us physically, and the\nformal impulsion morally, the former makes our formal constitution\ncontingent, and the latter makes our material constitution contingent,\nthat is to say, there is contingence in the agreement of our happiness\nwith our perfection, and reciprocally. The instinct of play, in which\nboth act in concert, will render both our formal and our material\nconstitution contingent; accordingly, our perfection and our happiness in\nlike manner. And on the other hand, exactly because it makes both of\nthem contingent, and because the contingent disappears with necessity, it\nwill suppress this contingence in both, and will thus give form to matter\nand reality to form. In proportion that it will lessen the dynamic\ninfluence of feeling and passion, it will place them in harmony with\nrational ideas, and by taking from the laws of reason their moral\nconstraint, it will reconcile them with the interest of the senses.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER XV.\n\n\nI approach continually nearer to the end to which I lead you, by a path\noffering few attractions. Be pleased to follow me a few steps further,\nand a large horizon will open up to you, and a delightful prospect will\nreward you for the labor of the way.\n\nThe object of the sensuous instinct, expressed in a universal conception,\nis named Life in the widest acceptation; a conception that expresses all\nmaterial existence and all that is immediately present in the senses.\nThe object of the formal instinct, expressed in a universal conception,\nis called shape or form, as well in an exact as in an inexact\nacceptation; a conception that embraces all formal qualities of things\nand all relations of the same to the thinking powers. The object of the\nplay instinct, represented in a general statement, may therefore bear the\nname of living form; a term that serves to describe all aesthetic\nqualities of phenomena, and what people style, in the widest sense,\nbeauty.\n\nBeauty is neither extended to the whole field of all living things nor\nmerely enclosed in this field. A marble block, though it is and remains\nlifeless, can nevertheless become a living form by the architect and\nsculptor; a man, though he lives and has a form, is far from being a\nliving form on that account. For this to be the case, it is necessary\nthat his form should be life, and that his life should be a form. As\nlong as we only think of his form, it is lifeless, a mere abstraction; as\nlong as we only feel his life, it is without form, a mere impression. It\nis only when his form lives in our feeling, and his life in our\nunderstanding, he is the living form, and this will everywhere be the\ncase where we judge him to be beautiful.\n\nBut the genesis of beauty is by no means declared because we know how to\npoint out the component parts, which in their combination produce beauty.\nFor to this end it would be necessary to comprehend that combination\nitself, which continues to defy our exploration, as well as all mutual\noperation between the finite and the infinite. The reason, on\ntranscendental grounds, makes the following demand: There shall be a\ncommunion between the formal impulse and the material impulse--that is,\nthere shall be a play instinct--because it is only the unity of reality\nwith the form, of the accidental with the necessary, of the passive state\nwith freedom, that the conception of humanity is completed. Reason is\nobliged to make this demand, because her nature impels her to\ncompleteness and to the removal of all bounds; while every exclusive\nactivity of one or the other impulse leaves human nature incomplete and\nplaces a limit in it. Accordingly, as soon as reason issues the mandate,\n\"a humanity shall exist,\" it proclaims at the same time the law, \"there\nshall be a beauty.\" Experience can answer us if there is a beauty, and\nwe shall know it as soon as she has taught us if a humanity can exist.\nBut neither reason nor experience can tell us how beauty can be and how a\nhumanity is possible.\n\nWe know that man is neither exclusively matter nor exclusively spirit.\nAccordingly, beauty as the consummation of humanity, can neither be\nexclusively mere life, as has been asserted by sharp-sighted observers,\nwho kept too close to the testimony of experience, and to which the taste\nof the time would gladly degrade it; Nor can beauty be merely form, as\nhas been judged by speculative sophists, who departed too far from\nexperience, and by philosophic artists, who were led too much by the\nnecessity of art in explaining beauty; it is rather the common object of\nboth impulses, that is of the play instinct. The use of language\ncompletely justifies this name, as it is wont to qualify with the word\nplay what is neither subjectively nor objectively accidental, and yet\ndoes not impose necessity either externally or internally. As the mind\nin the intuition of the beautiful finds itself in a happy medium between\nlaw and necessity, it is, because it divides itself between both,\nemancipated from the pressure of both. The formal impulse and the\nmaterial impulse are equally earnest in their demands, because one\nrelates in its cognition to things in their reality and the other to\ntheir necessity; because in action the first is directed to the\npreservation of life, the second to the preservation of dignity, and\ntherefore both to truth and perfection. But life becomes more\nindifferent when dignity is mixed up with it, and duty no longer coerces\nwhen inclination attracts. In like manner the mind takes in the reality\nof things, material truth, more freely and tranquilly as soon as it\nencounters formal truth, the law of necessity; nor does the mind find\nitself strung by abstraction as soon as immediate intuition can accompany\nit. In one word, when the mind comes into communion with ideas, all\nreality loses its serious value because it becomes small; and as it comes\nin contact with feeling, necessity parts also with its serious value\nbecause it is easy.\n\nBut perhaps the objection has for some time occurred to you, Is not the\nbeautiful degraded by this, that it is made a mere play? and is it not\nreduced to the level of frivolous objects which have for ages passed\nunder that name? Does it not contradict the conception of the reason and\nthe dignity of beauty, which is nevertheless regarded as an instrument of\nculture, to confine it to the work of being a mere play? and does it not\ncontradict the empirical conception of play, which can coexist with the\nexclusion of all taste, to confine it merely to beauty?\n\nBut what is meant by a mere play, when we know that in all conditions of\nhumanity that very thing is play, and only that is play which makes man\ncomplete and develops simultaneously his twofold nature? What you style\nlimitation, according to your representation of the matter, according to\nmy views, which I have justified by proofs, I name enlargement.\nConsequently I should have said exactly the reverse: man is serious only\nwith the agreeable, with the good, and with the perfect, but he plays\nwith beauty. In saying this we must not indeed think of the plays that\nare in vogue in real life, and which commonly refer only to his material\nstate. But in real life we should also seek in vain for the beauty of\nwhich we are here speaking. The actually present beauty is worthy of the\nreally, of the actually present play-impulse; but by the ideal of beauty,\nwhich is set up by the reason, an ideal of the play-instinct is also\npresented, which man ought to have before his eyes in all his plays.\n\nTherefore, no error will ever be incurred if we seek the ideal of beauty\non the same road on which we satisfy our play-impulse. We can\nimmediately understand why the ideal form of a Venus, of a Juno, and of\nan Apollo, is to be sought not at Rome, but in Greece, if we contrast the\nGreek population, delighting in the bloodless athletic contests of\nboxing, racing, and intellectual rivalry at Olympia, with the Roman\npeople gloating over the agony of a gladiator. Now the reason pronounces\nthat the beautiful must not only be life and form, but a living form,\nthat is, beauty, inasmuch as it dictates to man the twofold law of\nabsolute formality and absolute reality. Reason also utters the decision\nthat man shall only play with beauty, and he shall only play with beauty.\n\nFor, to speak out once for all, man only plays when in the full meaning\nof the word he is a man, and he is only completely a man when he plays.\nThis proposition, which at this moment perhaps appears paradoxical, will\nreceive a great and deep meaning if we have advanced far enough to apply\nit to the twofold seriousness of duty and of destiny. I promise you that\nthe whole edifice of aesthetic art and the still more difficult art of\nlife will be supported by this principle. But this proposition is only\nunexpected in science; long ago it lived and worked in art and in the\nfeeling of the Greeks, her most accomplished masters; only they removed\nto Olympus what ought to have been preserved on earth. Influenced by the\ntruth of this principle, they effaced from the brow of their gods the\nearnestness and labor which furrow the cheeks of mortals, and also the\nhollow lust that smoothes the empty face. They set free the ever serene\nfrom the chains of every purpose, of every duty, of every care, and they\nmade indolence and indifference the envied condition of the godlike race;\nmerely human appellations for the freest and highest mind. As well the\nmaterial pressure of natural laws as the spiritual pressure of moral laws\nlost itself in its higher idea of necessity, which embraced at the same\ntime both worlds, and out of the union of these two necessities issued\ntrue freedom. Inspired by this spirit the Greeks also effaced from the\nfeatures of their ideal, together with desire or inclination, all traces\nof volition, or, better still, they made both unrecognizable, because\nthey knew how to wed them both in the closest alliance. It is neither\ncharm, nor is it dignity, which speaks from the glorious face of Juno\nLudovici; it is neither of these, for it is both at once. While the\nfemale god challenges our veneration, the godlike woman at the same time\nkindles our love. But while in ecstacy we give ourselves up to the\nheavenly beauty, the heavenly self-repose awes us back. The whole form\nrests and dwells in itself--a fully complete creation in itself--and as\nif she were out of space, without advance or resistance; it shows no\nforce contending with force, no opening through which time could break\nin. Irresistibly carried away and attracted by her womanly charm, kept\noff at a distance by her godly dignity, we also find ourselves at length\nin the state of the greatest repose, and the result is a wonderful\nimpression for which the understanding has no idea and language no name.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER XVI.\n\n\nFrom the antagonism of the two impulsions, and from the association of\ntwo opposite principles, we have seen beauty to result, of which the\nhighest ideal must therefore be sought in the most perfect union and\nequilibrium possible of the reality and of the form. But this\nequilibrium remains always an idea that reality can never completely\nreach. In reality, there will always remain a preponderance of one of\nthese elements over the other, and the highest point to which experience\ncan reach will consist in an oscillation between two principles, when\nsometimes reality and at others form will have the advantage. Ideal\nbeauty is therefore eternally one and indivisible, because there can only\nbe one single equilibrium; on the contrary, experimental beauty will be\neternally double, because in the oscillation the equilibrium may be\ndestroyed in two ways--this side and that.\n\nI have called attention in the foregoing letters to a fact that can also\nbe rigorously deduced from the considerations that have engaged our\nattention to the present point; this fact is that an exciting and also a\nmoderating action may be expected from the beautiful. The tempering\naction is directed to keep within proper limits the sensuous and the\nformal impulsions; the exciting, to maintain both of them in their full\nforce. But these two modes of action of beauty ought to be completely\nidentified in the idea. The beautiful ought to temper while uniformly\nexciting the two natures, and it ought also to excite while uniformly\nmoderating them. This result flows at once from the idea of a\ncorrelation, in virtue of which the two terms mutually imply each other,\nand are the reciprocal condition one of the other, a correlation of which\nthe purest product is beauty. But experience does not offer an example\nof so perfect a correlation. In the field of experience it will always\nhappen more or less that excess on the one side will give rise to\ndeficiency on the other, and deficiency will give birth to excess. It\nresults from this that what in the beau-ideal is only distinct in the\nidea is different in reality in empirical beauty. The beau-ideal, though\nsimple and indivisible, discloses, when viewed in two different aspects,\non the one hand, a property of gentleness and grace, and on the other, an\nenergetic property; in experience there is a gentle and graceful beauty\nand there is an energetic beauty. It is so, and it will be always so, so\nlong as the absolute is enclosed in the limits of time, and the ideas of\nreason have to be realized in humanity. For example, the intellectual\nman has the ideal of virtue, of truth, and of happiness; but the active\nman will only practise virtues, will only grasp truths, and enjoy happy\ndays. The business of physical and moral education is to bring back this\nmultiplicity to unity, to put morality in the place of manners, science\nin the place of knowledge; the business of aesthetic education is to make\nout of beauties the beautiful.\n\nEnergetic beauty can no more preserve a man from a certain residue of\nsavage violence and harshness than graceful beauty can secure him against\na certain degree of effeminacy and weakness. As it is the effect of the\nenergetic beauty to elevate the mind in a physical and moral point of\nview and to augment its momentum, it only too often happens that the\nresistance of the temperament and of the character diminishes the\naptitude to receive impressions, that the delicate part of humanity\nsuffers an oppression which ought only to affect its grosser part, and\nthat this coarse nature participates in an increase of force that ought\nonly to turn to the account of free personality. It is for this reason\nthat, at the periods when we find much strength and abundant sap in\nhumanity, true greatness of thought is seen associated with what is\ngigantic and extravagant, and the sublimest feeling is found coupled with\nthe most horrible excess of passion. It is also the reason why, in the\nperiods distinguished for regularity and form, nature is as often\noppressed as it is governed, as often outraged as it is surpassed. And\nas the action of gentle and graceful beauty is to relax the mind in the\nmoral sphere as well as the physical, it happens quite as easily that the\nenergy of feelings is extinguished with the violence of desires, and that\ncharacter shares in the loss of strength which ought only to affect the\npassions. This is the reason why, in ages assumed to be refined, it is\nnot a rare thing to see gentleness degenerate into effeminacy, politeness\ninto platitude, correctness into empty sterility, liberal ways into\narbitrary caprice, ease into frivolity, calm into apathy, and, lastly, a\nmost miserable caricature treads on the heels of the noblest, the most\nbeautiful type of humanity. Gentle and graceful beauty is therefore a\nwant to the man who suffers the constraint of manner and of forms, for he\nis moved by grandeur and strength long before he becomes sensible to\nharmony and grace. Energetic beauty is a necessity to the man who is\nunder the indulgent sway of taste, for in his state of refinement he is\nonly too much disposed to make light of the strength that he retained in\nhis state of rude savagism.\n\nI think I have now answered and also cleared up the contradiction\ncommonly met in the judgments of men respecting the influence of the\nbeautiful, and the appreciation of aesthetic culture. This contradiction\nis explained directly we remember that there are two sorts of\nexperimental beauty, and that on both hands an affirmation is extended to\nthe entire race, when it can only be proved of one of the species. This\ncontradiction disappears the moment we distinguish a twofold want in\nhumanity to which two kinds of beauty correspond. It is therefore\nprobable that both sides would make good their claims if they come to an\nunderstanding respecting the kind of beauty and the form of humanity that\nthey have in view.\n\nConsequently in the sequel of my researches I shall adopt the course that\nnature herself follows with man considered from the point of view of\naesthetics, and setting out from the two kinds of beauty, I shall rise to\nthe idea of the genus. I shall examine the effects produced on man by\nthe gentle and graceful beauty when its springs of action are in full\nplay, and also those produced by energetic beauty when they are relaxed.\nI shall do this to confound these two sorts of beauty in the unity of the\nbeau-ideal, in the same way that the two opposite forms and modes of\nbeing of humanity are absorbed in the unity of the ideal man.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER XVII.\n\n\nWhile we were only engaged in deducing the universal idea of beauty from\nthe conception of human nature in general, we had only to consider in the\nlatter the limits established essentially in itself, and inseparable from\nthe notion of the finite. Without attending to the contingent\nrestrictions that human nature may undergo in the real world of\nphenomena, we have drawn the conception of this nature directly from\nreason, as a source of every necessity, and the ideal of beauty has been\ngiven us at the same time with the ideal of humanity.\n\nBut now we are coming down from the region of ideas to the scene of\nreality, to find man in a determinate state, and consequently in limits\nwhich are not derived from the pure conception of humanity, but from\nexternal circumstances and from an accidental use of his freedom. But,\nalthough the limitation of the idea of humanity may be very manifold in\nthe individual, the contents of this idea suffice to teach us that we can\nonly depart from it by two opposite roads. For if the perfection of man\nconsist in the harmonious energy of his sensuous and spiritual forces, he\ncan only lack this perfection through the want of harmony and the want of\nenergy. Thus, then, before having received on this point the testimony\nof experience, reason suffices to assure us that we shall find the real\nand consequently limited man in a state of tension or relaxation,\naccording as the exclusive activity of isolated forces troubles the\nharmony of his being, or as the unity of his nature is based on the\nuniform relaxation of his physical and spiritual forces. These opposite\nlimits are, as we have now to prove, suppressed by the beautiful, which\nre-establishes harmony in man when excited, and energy in man when\nrelaxed; and which, in this way, in conformity with the nature of the\nbeautiful, restores the state of limitation to an absolute state, and\nmakes of man a whole, complete in himself.\n\nThus the beautiful by no means belies in reality the idea which we have\nmade of it in speculation; only its action is much less free in it than\nin the field of theory, where we were able to apply it to the pure\nconception of humanity. In man, as experience shows him to us, the\nbeautiful finds a matter, already damaged and resisting, which robs him\nin ideal perfection of what it communicates to him of its individual mode\nof being. Accordingly in reality the beautiful will always appear a\npeculiar and limited species, and not as the pure genus; in excited minds\nin a state of tension it will lose its freedom and variety; in relaxed\nminds, it will lose its vivifying force; but we, who have become familiar\nwith the true character of this contradictory phenomenon, cannot be led\nastray by it. We shall not follow the great crowd of critics, in\ndetermining their conception by separate experiences, and to make them\nanswerable for the deficiencies which man shows under their influence.\nWe know rather that it is man who transfers the imperfections of his\nindividuality over to them, who stands perpetually in the way of their\nperfection by his subjective limitation, and lowers their absolute ideal\nto two limited forms of phenomena.\n\nIt was advanced that soft beauty is for an unstrung mind, and the\nenergetic beauty for the tightly strung mind. But I apply the term\nunstrung to a man when he is rather under the pressure of feelings than\nunder the pressure of conceptions. Every exclusive sway of one of his\ntwo fundamental impulses is for man a state of compulsion and violence,\nand freedom only exists in the co-operation of his two natures.\nAccordingly, the man governed preponderately by feelings, or sensuously\nunstrung, is emancipated and set free by matter. The soft and graceful\nbeauty, to satisfy this twofold problem, must therefore show herself\nunder two aspects--in two distinct forms. First, as a form in repose,\nshe will tone down savage life, and pave the way from feeling to thought.\nShe will, secondly, as a living image, equip the abstract form with\nsensuous power, and lead back the conception to intuition and law to\nfeeling. The former service she does to the man of nature, the second to\nthe man of art. But because she does not in both cases hold complete\nsway over her matter, but depends on that which is furnished either by\nformless nature or unnatural art, she will in both cases bear traces of\nher origin, and lose herself in one place in material life and in another\nin mere abstract form.\n\nTo be able to arrive at a conception how beauty can become a means to\nremove this twofold relaxation, we must explore its source in the human\nmind. Accordingly, make up your mind to dwell a little longer in the\nregion of speculation, in order then to leave it forever, and to advance\nwith securer footing on the ground of experience.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER XVIII.\n\n\nBy beauty the sensuous man is led to form and to thought; by beauty the\nspiritual man is brought back to matter and restored to the world of\nsense.\n\nFrom this statement it would appear to follow that between matter and\nform, between passivity and activity, there must be a middle state, and\nthat beauty plants us in this state. It actually happens that the\ngreater part of mankind really form this conception of beauty as soon as\nthey begin to reflect on its operations, and all experience seems to\npoint to this conclusion. But, on the other hand, nothing is more\nunwarrantable and contradictory than such a conception, because the\naversion of matter and form, the passive and the active, feeling and\nthought, is eternal, and cannot be mediated in any way. How can we\nremove this contradiction? Beauty weds the two opposed conditions of\nfeeling and thinking, and yet there is absolutely no medium between them.\nThe former is immediately certain through experience, the other through\nthe reason.\n\nThis is the point to which the whole question of beauty leads, and if we\nsucceed in settling this point in a satisfactory way, we have at length\nfound the clue that will conduct us through the whole labyrinth of\naesthetics.\n\nBut this requires two very different operations, which must necessarily\nsupport each other in this inquiry. Beauty, it is said, weds two\nconditions with one another which are opposite to each other, and can\nnever be one. We must start from this opposition; we must grasp and\nrecognize them in their entire purity and strictness, so that both\nconditions are separated in the most definite manner; otherwise we mix,\nbut we do not unite them. Secondly, it is usual to say, beauty unites\nthose two opposed conditions, and therefore removes the opposition. But\nbecause both conditions remain eternally opposed to one another, they\ncannot be united in any other way than by being suppressed. Our second\nbusiness is therefore to make this connection perfect, to carry them out\nwith such purity and perfection that both conditions disappear entirely\nin a third one, and no trace of separation remains in the whole;\notherwise we segregate, but do not unite. All the disputes that have\never prevailed and still prevail in the philosophical world respecting\nthe conception of beauty have no other origin than their commencing\nwithout a sufficiently strict distinction, or that it is not carried out\nfully to a pure union. Those philosophers who blindly follow their\nfeeling in reflecting on this topic can obtain no other conception of\nbeauty, because they distinguish nothing separate in the totality of the\nsensuous impression. Other philosophers, who take the understanding as\ntheir exclusive guide, can never obtain a conception of beauty, because\nthey never see anything else in the whole than the parts; and spirit and\nmatter remain eternally separate, even in their most perfect unity. The\nfirst fear to suppress beauty dynamically, that is, as a working power,\nif they must separate what is united in the feeling. The others fear to\nsuppress beauty logically, that is, as a conception, when they have to\nhold together what in the understanding is separate. The former wish to\nthink of beauty as it works; the latter wish it to work as it is thought.\nBoth therefore must miss the truth; the former, because they try to\nfollow infinite nature with their limited thinking power; the others,\nbecause they wish to limit unlimited nature according to their laws of\nthought. The first fear to rob beauty of its freedom by a too strict\ndissection, the others fear to destroy the distinctness of the conception\nby a too violent union. But the former do not reflect that the freedom\nin which they very properly place the essence of beauty is not\nlawlessness, but harmony of laws; not caprice, but the highest internal\nnecessity. The others do not remember that distinctness, which they with\nequal right demand from beauty, does not consist in the exclusion of\ncertain realities, but the absolute including of all; that is not\ntherefore limitation but infinitude. We shall avoid the quicksands on\nwhich both have made shipwreck if we begin from the two elements in which\nbeauty divides itself before the understanding, but then afterwards rise\nto a pure aesthetic unity by which it works on feeling, and in which both\nthose conditions completely disappear.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER XIX.\n\n\nTwo principal and different states of passive and active capacity of\nbeing determined [Bestimmbarkeit] can be distinguished in man; in like\nmanner two states of passive and active determination [Bestimmung]. The\nexplanation of this proposition leads us most readily to our end.\n\nThe condition of the state of man before destination or direction is\ngiven him by the impression of the senses is an unlimited capacity of\nbeing determined. The infinite of time and space is given to his\nimagination for its free use; and, because nothing is settled in this\nkingdom of the possible, and therefore nothing is excluded from it, this\nstate of absence of determination can be named an empty infiniteness,\nwhich must not by any means be confounded with an infinite void.\n\nNow it is necessary that his sensuous nature should be modified, and that\nin the indefinite series of possible determinations one alone should\nbecome real. One perception must spring up in it. That which, in the\nprevious state of determinableness, was only an empty potency becomes now\nan active force, and receives contents; but, at the same time, as an\nactive force it receives a limit, after having been, as a simple power,\nunlimited. Reality exists now, but the infinite has disappeared. To\ndescribe a figure in space, we are obliged to limit infinite space; to\nrepresent to ourselves a change in time, we are obliged to divide the\ntotality of time. Thus we only arrive at reality by limitation, at the\npositive, at a real position, by negation or exclusion; to determination,\nby the suppression of our free determinableness.\n\nBut mere exclusion would never beget a reality, nor would a mere sensuous\nimpression ever give birth to a perception, if there were not something\nfrom which it was excluded, if by an absolute act of the mind the\nnegation were not referred to something positive, and if opposition did\nnot issue out of non-position. This act of the mind is styled judging or\nthinking, and the result is named thought.\n\nBefore we determine a place in space, there is no space for us; but\nwithout absolute space we could never determine a place. The same is the\ncase with time. Before we have an instant, there is no time to us: but\nwithout infinite time--eternity--we should never have a representation of\nthe instant. Thus, therefore, we can only arrive at the whole by the\npart, to the unlimited through limitation; but reciprocally we only\narrive at the part through the whole, at limitation through the\nunlimited.\n\nIt follows from this, that when it is affirmed of beauty that it mediates\nfor man, the transition from feeling to thought, this must not be\nunderstood to mean that beauty can fill up the gap that separates feeling\nfrom thought, the passive from the active. This gap is infinite; and,\nwithout the interposition of a new and independent faculty, it is\nimpossible for the general to issue from the individual, the necessary\nfrom the contingent. Thought is the immediate act of this absolute\npower, which, I admit, can only be manifested in connection with sensuous\nimpressions, but which in this manifestation depends so little on the\nsensuous that it reveals itself specially in an opposition to it. The\nspontaneity or autonomy with which it acts excludes every foreign\ninfluence; and it is not in as far as it helps thought--which comprehends\na manifest contradiction but only in as far as it procures for the\nintellectual faculties the freedom to manifest themselves in conformity\nwith their proper laws. It does it only because the beautiful can become\na means of leading man from matter to form, from feeling to laws, from a\nlimited existence to an absolute existence.\n\nBut this assumes that the freedom of the intellectual faculties can be\nbalked, which appears contradictory to the conception of an autonomous\npower. For a power which only receives the matter of its activity from\nwithout can only be hindered in its action by the privation of this\nmatter, and consequently by way of negation; it is therefore a\nmisconception of the nature of the mind to attribute to the sensuous\npassions the power of oppressing positively the freedom of the mind.\nExperience does indeed present numerous examples where the rational\nforces appear compressed in proportion to the violence of the sensuous\nforces. But instead of deducing this spiritual weakness from the energy\nof passion, this passionate energy must rather be explained by the\nweakness of the human mind. For the sense can only have a sway such as\nthis over man when the mind has spontaneously neglected to assert its\npower.\n\nYet in trying by these explanations to move one objection, I appear to\nhave exposed myself to another, and I have only saved the autonomy of the\nmind at the cost of its unity. For how can the mind derive at the same\ntime from itself the principles of inactivity and of activity, if it is\nnot itself divided, and if it is not in opposition with itself?\n\nHere we must remember that we have before us, not the infinite mind, but\nthe finite. The finite mind is that which only becomes active through\nthe passive, only arrives at the absolute through limitation, and only\nacts and fashions in as far as it receives matter. Accordingly, a mind\nof this nature must associate with the impulse towards form or the\nabsolute, an impulse towards matter or limitation, conditions without\nwhich it could not have the former impulse nor satisfy it. How can two\nsuch opposite tendencies exist together in the same being? This is a\nproblem that can no doubt embarrass the metaphysician, but not the\ntranscendental philosopher. The latter does not presume to explain the\npossibility of things, but he is satisfied with giving a solid basis to\nthe knowledge that makes us understand the possibility of experience.\nAnd as experience would be equally impossible without this autonomy in\nthe mind, and without the absolute unity of the mind, it lays down these\ntwo conceptions as two conditions of experience equally necessary without\ntroubling itself any more to reconcile them. Moreover, this immanence of\ntwo fundamental impulses does not in any degree contradict the absolute\nunity of the mind, as soon as the mind itself, its selfhood, is\ndistinguished from those two motors. No doubt, these two impulses exist\nand act in it, but itself is neither matter nor form, nor the sensuous\nnor reason, and this is a point that does not seem always to have\noccurred to those who only look upon the mind as itself acting when its\nacts are in harmony with reason, and who declare it passive when its acts\ncontradict reason.\n\nArrived at its development, each of these two fundamental impulsions\ntends of necessity and by its nature to satisfy itself; but precisely\nbecause each of them has a necessary tendency, and both nevertheless have\nan opposite tendency, this twofold constraint mutually destroys itself,\nand the will preserves an entire freedom between them both. It is\ntherefore the will that conducts itself like a power--as the basis of\nreality--with respect to both these impulses; but neither of them can by\nitself act as a power with respect to the other. A violent man, by his\npositive tendency to justice, which never fails in him, is turned away\nfrom injustice; nor can a temptation of pleasure, however strong, make a\nstrong character violate its principles. There is in man no other power\nthan his will; and death alone, which destroys man, or some privation of\nself-consciousness, is the only thing that can rob man of his internal\nfreedom.\n\nAn external necessity determines our condition, our existence in time, by\nmeans of the sensuous. The latter is quite involuntary, and directly it\nis produced in us we are necessarily passive. In the same manner an\ninternal necessity awakens our personality in connection with sensations,\nand by its antagonism with them; for consciousness cannot depend on the\nwill, which presupposes it. This primitive manifestation of personality\nis no more a merit to us than its privation is a defect in us. Reason\ncan only be required in a being who is self-conscious, for reason is an\nabsolute consecutiveness and universality of consciousness; before this\nis the case he is not a man, nor can any act of humanity be expected from\nhim. The metaphysician can no more explain the limitation imposed by\nsensation on a free and autonomous mind than the natural philosopher can\nunderstand the infinite, which is revealed in consciousness in connection\nwith these limits. Neither abstraction nor experience can bring us back\nto the source whence issue our ideas of necessity and of universality:\nthis source is concealed in its origin in time from the observer, and its\nsuper-sensuous origin from the researches of the metaphysician. But, to\nsum up in a few words, consciousness is there, and, together with its\nimmutable unity, the law of all that is for man is established, as well\nas of all that is to be by man, for his understanding and his activity.\nThe ideas of truth and of right present themselves inevitable,\nincorruptible, immeasurable, even in the age of sensuousness; and without\nour being able to say why or how, we see eternity in time, the necessary\nfollowing the contingent. It is thus that, without any share on the part\nof the subject, the sensation and self-consciousness arise, and the\norigin of both is beyond our volition, as it is out of the sphere of our\nknowledge.\n\nBut as soon as these two faculties have passed into action, and man has\nverified by his experience, through the medium of sensation, a\ndeterminate existence, and through the medium of consciousness its\nabsolute existence, the two fundamental impulses exert their influence\ndirectly their object is given. The sensuous impulse is awakened with\nthe experience of life--with the beginning of the individual; the\nrational impulsion with the experience of law--with the beginning of his\npersonality; and it is only when these two inclinations have come into\nexistence that the human type is realized. Up to that time, everything\ntakes place in man according to the law of necessity; but now the hand of\nnature lets him go, and it is for him to keep upright humanity, which\nnature places as a germ in his heart. And thus we see that directly the\ntwo opposite and fundamental impulses exercise their influence in him,\nboth lose their constraint, and the autonomy of two necessities gives\nbirth to freedom.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER XX.\n\n\nThat freedom is an active and not a passive principle results from its\nvery conception; but that liberty itself should be an effect of nature\n(taking this word in its widest sense), and not the work of man, and\ntherefore that it can be favored or thwarted by natural means, is the\nnecessary consequence of that which precedes. It begins only when man is\ncomplete, and when these two fundamental impulsions have been developed.\nIt will then be wanting whilst he is incomplete, and while one of these\nimpulsions is excluded, and it will be re-established by all that gives\nback to man his integrity.\n\nThus it is possible, both with regard to the entire species as to the\nindividual, to remark the moment when man is yet incomplete, and when one\nof the two exclusions acts solely in him. We know that man commences by\nlife simply, to end by form; that he is more of an individual than a\nperson, and that he starts from the limited or finite to approach the\ninfinite. The sensuous impulsion comes into play therefore before the\nrational impulsion, because sensation precedes consciousness; and in this\npriority of sensuous impulsion we find the key of the history of the\nwhole of human liberty.\n\nThere is a moment, in fact, when the instinct of life, not yet opposed to\nthe instinct of form, acts as nature and as necessity; when the sensuous\nis a power because man has not begun; for even in man there can be no\nother power than his will. But when man shall have attained to the power\nof thought, reason, on the contrary, will be a power, and moral or\nlogical necessity will take the place of physical necessity. Sensuous\npower must then be annihilated before the law which must govern it can be\nestablished. It is not enough that something shall begin which as yet\nwas not; previously something must end which had begun. Man cannot pass\nimmediately from sensuousness to thought. He must step backwards, for it\nis only when one determination is suppressed that the contrary\ndetermination can take place. Consequently, in order to exchange passive\nagainst active liberty, a passive determination against an active, he\nmust be momentarily free from all determination, and must traverse a\nstate of pure determinability. He has then to return in some degree to\nthat state of pure negative indetermination in which he was before his\nsenses were affected by anything. But this state was absolutely empty of\nall contents, and now the question is to reconcile an equal determination\nand a determinability equally without limit, with the greatest possible\nfulness, because from this situation something positive must immediately\nfollow. The determination which man received by sensation must be\npreserved, because he should not lose the reality; but at the same time,\nin so far as finite, it should be suppressed, because a determinability\nwithout limit would take place. The problem consists then in\nannihilating the determination of the mode of existence, and yet at the\nsame time in preserving it, which is only possible in one way: in\nopposing to it another. The two sides of a balance are in equilibrium\nwhen empty; they are also in equilibrium when their contents are of equal\nweight.\n\nThus, to pass from sensation to thought, the soul traverses a medium\nposition, in which sensibility and reason are at the same time active,\nand thus they mutually destroy their determinant power, and by their\nantagonism produce a negation. This medium situation in which the soul\nis neither physically nor morally constrained, and yet is in both ways\nactive, merits essentially the name of a free situation; and if we call\nthe state of sensuous determination physical, and the state of rational\ndetermination logical or moral, that state of real and active\ndetermination should be called the aesthetic.\n\n\n\n\n\nLETTER XXI.\n\n\nI have remarked in the beginning of the foregoing letter that there is a\ntwofold condition of determinableness and a twofold condition of\ndetermination. And now I can clear up this proposition.\n\nThe mind can be determined--is determinable--only in as far as it is not\ndetermined; it is, however, determinable also, in as far as it is not\nexclusively determined; that is, if it is not confined in its\ndetermination. The former is only a want of determination--it is without\nlimits, because it is without reality; but the latter, the aesthetic\ndeterminableness, has no limits, because it unites all reality.\n\nThe mind is determined, inasmuch as it is only limited; but it is also\ndetermined because it limits itself of its own absolute capacity. It is\nsituated in the former position when it feels, in the second when it\nthinks. Accordingly the aesthetic constitution is in relation to\ndeterminableness what thought is in relation to determination. The\nlatter is a negative from internal and infinite completeness, the former\na limitation from internal infinite power. Feeling and thought come into\ncontact in one single point, the mind is determined in both conditions,\nthe man becomes something and exists--either as individual or person--by\nexclusion; in other cases these two faculties stand infinitely apart.\nJust in the same manner the aesthetic determinableness comes in contact\nwith the mere want of determination in a single point, by both excluding\nevery distinct determined existence, by thus being in all other points\nnothing and all, and hence by being infinitely different. Therefore if\nthe latter, in the absence of determination from deficiency, is\nrepresented as an empty infiniteness, the aesthetic freedom of\ndetermination, which forms the proper counterpart to the former, can be\nconsidered as a completed infiniteness; a representation which exactly\nagrees with the teachings of the previous investigations.\n\nMan is therefore nothing in the aesthetic state, if attention is given to\nthe single result, and not to the whole faculty, and if we regard only\nthe absence or want of every special determination. We must therefore do\njustice to those who pronounce the beautiful, and the disposition in\nwhich it places the mind, as entirely indifferent and unprofitable, in\nrelation to knowledge and feeling. They are perfectly right; for it is\ncertain that beauty gives no separate, single result, either for the\nunderstanding or for the will; it does not carry out a single\nintellectual or moral object; it discovers no truth, does not help us to\nfulfil a single duty, and, in one word, is equally unfit to found the\ncharacter or to clear the head. Accordingly, the personal worth of a\nman, or his dignity, as far as this can only depend on himself, remains\nentirely undetermined by aesthetic culture, and nothing further is\nattained than that, on the part of nature, it is made profitable for him\nto make of himself what he will; that the freedom to be what he ought to\nbe is restored perfectly to him.\n\nBut by this something infinite is attained. But as soon as we remember\nthat freedom is taken from man by the one-sided compulsion of nature in\nfeeling, and by the exclusive legislation of the reason in thinking, we\nmust consider the capacity restored to him by the aesthetical\ndisposition, as the highest of all gifts, as the gift of humanity. I\nadmit that he possesses this capacity for humanity, before every definite\ndetermination in which he may be placed. But, as a matter of fact, he\nloses it with every determined condition into which he may come; and if\nhe is to pass over to an opposite condition, humanity must be in every\ncase restored to him by the aesthetic life.\n\nIt is therefore not only a poetical license, but also philosophically\ncorrect, when beauty is named our second creator. Nor is this\ninconsistent with the fact that she only makes it possible for us to\nattain and realize humanity, leaving this to our free will. For in this\nshe acts in common with our original creator, nature, which has imparted\nto us nothing further than this capacity for humanity, but leaves the use\nof it to our own determination of will.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER XXII.\n\n\nAccordingly, if the aesthetic disposition of the mind must be looked upon\nin one respect as nothing--that is, when we confine our view to separate\nand determined operations--it must be looked upon in another respect as a\nstate of the highest reality, in as far as we attend to the absence of\nall limits and the sum of powers which are commonly active in it.\nAccordingly we cannot pronounce them, again, to be wrong who describe the\naesthetic state to be the most productive in relation to knowledge and\nmorality. They are perfectly right, for a state of mind which comprises\nthe whole of humanity in itself must of necessity include in itself also\n--necessarily and potentially--every separate expression of it. Again, a\ndisposition of mind that removes all limitation from the totality of\nhuman nature must also remove it from every special expression of the\nsame. Exactly because its \"aesthetic disposition\" does not exclusively\nshelter any separate function of humanity, it is favorable to all without\ndistinction; nor does it favor any particular functions, precisely\nbecause it is the foundation of the possibility of all. All other\nexercises give to the mind some special aptitude, but for that very\nreason give it some definite limits; only the aesthetical leads him to\nthe unlimited. Every other condition in which we can live refers us to a\nprevious condition, and requires for its solution a following condition;\nonly the aesthetic is a complete whole in itself, for it unites in itself\nall conditions of its source and of its duration. Here alone we feel\nourselves swept out of time, and our humanity expresses itself with\npurity and integrity as if it had not yet received any impression or\ninterruption from the operation of external powers.\n\nThat which flatters our senses in immediate sensation opens our weak and\nvolatile spirit to every impression, but makes us in the same degree less\napt for exertion. That which stretches our thinking power and invites to\nabstract conceptions strengthens our mind for every kind of resistance,\nbut hardens it also in the same proportion, and deprives us of\nsusceptibility in the same ratio that it helps us to greater mental\nactivity. For this very reason, one as well as the other brings us at\nlength to exhaustion, because matter cannot long do without the shaping,\nconstructive force, and the force cannot do without the constructible\nmaterial. But on the other hand, if we have resigned ourselves to the\nenjoyment of genuine beauty, we are at such a moment of our passive and\nactive powers in the same degree master, and we shall turn with ease from\ngrave to gay, from rest to movement, from submission to resistance, to\nabstract thinking and intuition.\n\nThis high indifference and freedom of mind, united with power and\nelasticity, is the disposition in which a true work of art ought to\ndismiss us, and there is no better test of true aesthetic excellence. If\nafter an enjoyment of this kind we find ourselves specially impelled to a\nparticular mode of feeling or action, and unfit for other modes, this\nserves as an infallible proof that we have not experienced any pure\naesthetic effect, whether this is owing to the object, to our own mode of\nfeeling--as generally happens--or to both together.\n\nAs in reality no purely aesthetical effect can be met with--for man can\nnever leave his dependence on material forces--the excellence of a work\nof art can only consist in its greater approximation to its ideal of\naesthetic purity, and however high we may raise the freedom of this\neffect, we shall always leave it with a particular disposition and a\nparticular bias. Any class of productions or separate work in the world\nof art is noble and excellent in proportion to the universality of the\ndisposition and the unlimited character of the bias thereby presented to\nour mind. This truth can be applied to works in various branches of art,\nand also to different works in the same branch. We leave a grand musical\nperformance with our feelings excited, the reading of a noble poem with a\nquickened imagination, a beautiful statue or building with an awakened\nunderstanding; but a man would not choose an opportune moment who\nattempted to invite us to abstract thinking after a high musical\nenjoyment, or to attend to a prosaic affair of common life after a high\npoetical enjoyment, or to kindle our imagination and astonish our\nfeelings directly after inspecting a fine statue or edifice. The reason\nof this is, that music, by its matter, even when most spiritual, presents\na greater affinity with the senses than is permitted by aesthetic\nliberty; it is because even the most happy poetry, having for its medium\nthe arbitrary and contingent play of the imagination, always shares in it\nmore than the intimate necessity of the really beautiful allows; it is\nbecause the best sculpture touches on severe science by what is\ndeterminate in its conception. However, these particular affinities are\nlost in proportion as the works of these three kinds of art rise to a\ngreater elevation, and it is a natural and necessary consequence of their\nperfection, that, without confounding their objective limits, the\ndifferent arts come to resemble each other more and more, in the action\nwhich they exercise on the mind. At its highest degree of ennobling,\nmusic ought to become a form, and act on us with the calm power of an\nantique statue; in its most elevated perfection, the plastic art ought to\nbecome music and move us by the immediate action exercised on the mind by\nthe senses; in its most complete development, poetry ought both to stir\nus powerfully like music and like plastic art to surround us with a\npeaceful light. In each art, the perfect style consists exactly in\nknowing how to remove specific limits, while sacrificing at the same time\nthe particular advantages of the art, and to give it by a wise use of\nwhat belongs to it specially a more general character.\n\nNor is it only the limits inherent in the specific character of each kind\nof art that the artist ought to overstep in putting his hand to the work;\nhe must also triumph over those which are inherent in the particular\nsubject of which he treats. In a really beautiful work of art, the\nsubstance ought to be inoperative, the form should do everything; for by\nthe form the whole man is acted on; the substance acts on nothing but\nisolated forces. Thus, however vast and sublime it may be, the substance\nalways exercises a restrictive action on the mind, and true aesthetic\nliberty can only be expected from the form. Consequently the true search\nof the matter consists in destroying matter by the form; and the triumph\nof art is great in proportion as it overcomes matter and maintains its\nsway over those who enjoy its work. It is great particularly in\ndestroying matter when most imposing, ambitious, and attractive, when\ntherefore matter has most power to produce the effect proper to it, or,\nagain, when it leads those who consider it more closely to enter directly\ninto relation with it. The mind of the spectator and of the hearer must\nremain perfectly free and intact; it must issue pure and entire from the\nmagic circle of the artist, as from the hands of the Creator. The most\nfrivolous subject ought to be treated in such a way that we preserve the\nfaculty to exchange it immediately for the most serious work. The arts\nwhich have passion for their object, as a tragedy for example, do not\npresent a difficulty here; for, in the first place, these arts are not\nentirely free, because they are in the service of a particular end (the\npathetic), and then no connoisseur will deny that even in this class a\nwork is perfect in proportion as amidst the most violent storms of\npassion it respects the liberty of the soul. There is a fine art of\npassion, but an impassioned fine art is a contradiction in terms, for the\ninfallible effect of the beautiful is emancipation from the passions.\nThe idea of an instructive fine art (didactic art) or improving (moral)\nart is no less contradictory, for nothing agrees less with the idea of\nthe beautiful than to give a determinate tendency to the mind.\n\nHowever, from the fact that a work produces effects only by its\nsubstance, it must not always be inferred that there is a want of form in\nthis work; this conclusion may quite as well testify to a want of form in\nthe observer. If his mind is too stretched or too relaxed, if it is only\naccustomed to receive things either by the senses or the intelligence,\neven in the most perfect combination, it will only stop to look at the\nparts, and it will only see matter in the most beautiful form. Only\nsensible of the coarse elements, he must first destroy the aesthetic\norganization of a work to find enjoyment in it, and carefully disinter\nthe details which genius has caused to vanish, with infinite art, in the\nharmony of the whole. The interest he takes in the work is either solely\nmoral or exclusively physical; the only thing wanting to it is to be\nexactly what it ought to be--aesthetical. The readers of this class\nenjoy a serious and pathetic poem as they do a sermon: a simple and\nplayful work, as an inebriating draught; and if on the one hand they have\nso little taste as to demand edification from a tragedy or from an epos,\neven such as the \"Messias,\" on the other hand they will be infallibly\nscandalized by a piece after the fashion of Anacreon and Catullus.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER XXIII.\n\n\nI take up the thread of my researches, which I broke off only to apply\nthe principles I laid down to practical art and the appreciation of its\nworks.\n\nThe transition from the passivity of sensuousness to the activity of\nthought and of will can be effected only by the intermediary state of\naesthetic liberty; and though in itself this state decides nothing\nrespecting our opinions and our sentiments, and therefore it leaves our\nintellectual and moral value entirely problematical, it is, however, the\nnecessary condition without which we should never attain to an opinion or\na sentiment. In a word, there is no other way to make a reasonable being\nout of a sensuous man than by making him first aesthetic.\n\nBut, you might object: Is this mediation absolutely indispensable? Could\nnot truth and duty, one or the other, in themselves and by themselves,\nfind access to the sensuous man? To this I reply: Not only is it\npossible but it is absolutely necessary that they owe solely to\nthemselves their determining force, and nothing would be more\ncontradictory to our preceding affirmations than to appear to defend the\ncontrary opinion. It has been expressly proved that the beautiful\nfurnishes no result, either for the comprehension or for the will; that\nit mingles with no operations, either of thought or of resolution; and\nthat it confers this double power without determining anything with\nregard to the real exercise of this power. Here all foreign help\ndisappears, and the pure logical form, the idea, would speak immediately\nto the intelligence, as the pure moral form, the law, immediately to the\nwill.\n\nBut that the pure form should be capable of it, and that there is in\ngeneral a pure form for sensuous man, is that, I maintain, which should\nbe rendered possible by the aesthetic disposition of the soul. Truth is\nnot a thing which can be received from without like reality or the\nvisible existence of objects. It is the thinking force, in his own\nliberty and activity, which produces it, and it is just this liberty\nproper to it, this liberty which we seek in vain in sensuous man. The\nsensuous man is already determined physically, and thenceforth he has no\nlonger his free determinability; he must necessarily first enter into\npossession of this lost determinability before he can exchange the\npassive against an active determination. Therefore, in order to recover\nit, he must either lose the passive determination that he had, or he\nshould enclose already in himself the active determination to which he\nshould pass. If he confined himself to lose passive determination, he\nwould at the same time lose with it the possibility of an active\ndetermination, because thought needs a body, and form can only be\nrealized through matter. He must therefore contain already in himself\nthe active determination, that he may be at once both actively and\npassively determined, that is to say, he becomes necessarily aesthetic.\n\nConsequently, by the aesthetic disposition of the soul the proper\nactivity of reason is already revealed in the sphere of sensuousness, the\npower of sense is already broken within its own boundaries, and the\nennobling of physical man carried far enough, for spiritual man has only\nto develop himself according to the laws of liberty. The transition from\nan aesthetic state to a logical and moral state (from the beautiful to\ntruth and duty) is then infinitely more easy than the transition from the\nphysical state to the aesthetic state (from life pure and blind to form).\nThis transition man can effectuate alone by his liberty, whilst he has\nonly to enter into possession of himself not to give it himself; but to\nseparate the elements of his nature, and not to enlarge it. Having\nattained to the aesthetic disposition, man will give to his judgments and\nto his actions a universal value as soon as he desires it. This passage\nfrom brute nature to beauty, in which an entirely new faculty would\nawaken in him, nature would render easier, and his will has no power over\na disposition which, we know, itself gives birth to the will. To bring\nthe aesthetic man to profound views, to elevated sentiments, he requires\nnothing more than important occasions: to obtain the same thing from the\nsensuous man, his nature must at first be changed. To make of the former\na hero, a sage, it is often only necessary to meet with a sublime\nsituation, which exercises upon the faculty of the will the more\nimmediate action; for the second, it must first be transplanted under\nanother sky.\n\nOne of the most important tasks of culture, then, is to submit man to\nform, even in a purely physical life, and to render it aesthetic as far\nas the domain of the beautiful can be extended, for it is alone in the\naesthetic state, and not in the physical state, that the moral state can\nbe developed. If in each particular case man ought to possess the power\nto make his judgment and his will the judgment of the entire species; if\nhe ought to find in each limited existence the transition to an infinite\nexistence; if, lastly, he ought from every dependent situation to take\nhis flight to rise to autonomy and to liberty, it must be observed that\nat no moment he is only individual and solely obeys the laws of nature.\nTo be apt and ready to raise himself from the narrow circle of the ends\nof nature, to rational ends, in the sphere of the former he must already\nhave exercised himself in the second; he must already have realized his\nphysical destiny with a certain liberty that belongs only to spiritual\nnature, that is to say according to the laws of the beautiful.\n\nAnd that he can effect without thwarting in the least degree his physical\naim. The exigencies of nature with regard to him turn only upon what he\ndoes--upon the substance of his acts; but the ends of nature in no degree\ndetermine the way in which he acts, the form of his actions. On the\ncontrary, the exigencies of reason have rigorously the form of his\nactivity for its object. Thus, so much as it is necessary for the moral\ndestination of man, that he be purely moral, that he shows an absolute\npersonal activity, so much is he indifferent that his physical\ndestination be entirely physical, that he acts in a manner entirely\npassive. Henceforth with regard to this last destination, it entirely\ndepends on him to fulfil it solely as a sensuous being and natural force\n(as a force which acts only as it diminishes) or, at the same time, as\nabsolute force, as a rational being. To which of these does his dignity\nbest respond? Of this there can be no question. It is as disgraceful\nand contemptible for him to do under sensuous impulsion that which he\nought to have determined merely by the motive of duty, as it is noble and\nhonorable for him to incline towards conformity with laws, harmony,\nindependence; there even where the vulgar man only satisfies a legitimate\nwant. In a word, in the domain of truth and morality, sensuousness must\nhave nothing to determine; but in the sphere of happiness, form may find\na place, and the instinct of play prevail.\n\nThus then, in the indifferent sphere of physical life, man ought to\nalready commence his moral life; his own proper activity ought already to\nmake way in passivity, and his rational liberty beyond the limits of\nsense; he ought already to impose the law of his will upon his\ninclinations; he ought--if you will permit me the expression--to carry\ninto the domain of matter the war against matter, in order to be\ndispensed from combating this redoubtable enemy upon the sacred field of\nliberty; he ought to learn to have nobler desires, not to be forced to\nhave sublime volitions. This is the fruit of aesthetic culture, which\nsubmits to the laws of the beautiful, in which neither the laws of nature\nnor those of reason suffer, which does not force the will of man, and\nwhich by the form it gives to exterior life already opens internal life.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER XXIV.\n\n\nAccordingly three different moments or stages of development can be\ndistinguished, which the individual man, as well as the whole race, must\nof necessity traverse in a determinate order if they are to fulfil the\ncircle of their determination. No doubt, the separate periods can be\nlengthened or shortened, through accidental causes which are inherent\neither in the influence of external things or under the free caprice of\nmen: but neither of them can be overstepped, and the order of their\nsequence cannot be inverted either by nature or by the will. Man, in his\nphysical condition, suffers only the power of nature; he gets rid of this\npower in the aesthetical condition, and he rules them in the moral state.\n\nWhat is man before beauty liberates him from free pleasure, and the\nserenity of form tames down the savageness of life? Eternally uniform in\nhis aims, eternally changing in his judgments, self-seeking without being\nhimself, unfettered without being free, a slave without serving any rule.\nAt this period, the world is to him only destiny, not yet an object; all\nhas existence for him only in as far as it procures existence to him; a\nthing that neither seeks from nor gives to him is non-existent. Every\nphenomenon stands out before him separate and cut off, as he finds\nhimself in the series of beings. All that is, is to him through the bias\nof the moment; every change is to him an entirely fresh creation, because\nwith the necessary in him, the necessary out of him is wanting, which\nbinds together all the changing forms in the universe, and which holds\nfast the law on the theatre of his action, while the individual departs.\nIt is in vain that nature lets the rich variety of her forms pass before\nhim; he sees in her glorious fulness nothing but his prey, in her power\nand greatness nothing but his enemy. Either he encounters objects, and\nwishes to draw them to himself in desire, or the objects press in a\ndestructive manner upon him, and he thrusts them away in dismay and\nterror. In both cases his relation to the world of sense is immediate\ncontact; and perpetually anxious through its pressure, restless and\nplagued by imperious wants, he nowhere finds rest except in enervation,\nand nowhere limits save in exhausted desire.\n\n  \"True, his is the powerful breast, and the mighty hand\n    of the Titans. . . .\n  A certain inheritance; yet the god welded\n  Round his forehead a brazen band;\n  Advice, moderation, wisdom, and patience,--\n  Hid it from his shy, sinister look.\n  Every desire is with him a rage,\n  And his rage prowls around limitless.\"--Iphigenia in Tauris.\n\nIgnorant of his own human dignity, he is far removed from honoring it in\nothers, and conscious of his own savage greed, he fears it in every\ncreature that he sees like himself. He never sees others in himself,\nonly himself in others, and human society, instead of enlarging him to\nthe race, only shuts him up continually closer in his individuality.\nThus limited, he wanders through his sunless life, till favoring nature\nrolls away the load of matter from his darkened senses, reflection\nseparates him from things, and objects show themselves at length in the\nafterglow of the consciousness.\n\nIt is true we cannot point out this state of rude nature as we have here\nportrayed it in any definite people and age. It is only an idea, but an\nidea with which experience agrees most closely in special features. It\nmay be said that man was never in this animal condition, but he has not,\non the other hand, ever entirely escaped from it. Even in the rudest\nsubjects, unmistakable traces of rational freedom can be found, and even\nin the most cultivated, features are not wanting that remind us of that\ndismal natural condition. It is possible for man, at one and the same\ntime, to unite the highest and the lowest in his nature; and if his\ndignity depends on a strict separation of one from the other, his\nhappiness depends on a skilful removal of this separation. The culture\nwhich is to bring his dignity into agreement with his happiness will\ntherefore have to provide for the greatest purity of these two principles\nin their most intimate combination.\n\nConsequently the first appearance of reason in man is not the beginning\nof humanity. This is first decided by his freedom, and reason begins\nfirst by making his sensuous dependence boundless; a phenomenon that does\nnot appear to me to have been sufficiently elucidated, considering its\nimportance and universality. We know that the reason makes itself known\nto man by the demand for the absolute--the self-dependent and necessary.\nBut as this want of the reason cannot be satisfied in any separate or\nsingle state of his physical life, he is obliged to leave the physical\nentirely and to rise from a limited reality to ideas. But although the\ntrue meaning of that demand of the reason is to withdraw him from the\nlimits of time and to lead him from the world of sense to an ideal world,\nyet this same demand of reason, by misapplication--scarcely to be avoided\nin this life, prone to sensuousness--can direct him to physical life,\nand, instead of making man free, plunge him in the most terrible slavery.\n\nFacts verify this supposition. Man raised on the wings of imagination\nleaves the narrow limits of the present, in which mere animality is\nenclosed, in order to strive on to an unlimited future. But while the\nlimitless is unfolded to his dazed imagination, his heart has not ceased\nto live in the separate, and to serve the moment. The impulse towards\nthe absolute seizes him suddenly in the midst of his animality, and as in\nthis cloddish condition all his efforts aim only at the material and\ntemporal, and are limited by his individuality, he is only led by that\ndemand of the reason to extend his individuality into the infinite,\ninstead of to abstract from it. He will be led to seek instead of form\nan inexhaustible matter, instead of the unchangeable an everlasting\nchange and an absolute securing of his temporal existence. The same\nimpulse which, directed to his thought and action, ought to lead to truth\nand morality, now directed to his passion and emotional state, produces\nnothing but an unlimited desire and an absolute want. The first fruits,\ntherefore, that he reaps in the world of spirits are cares and fear--both\noperations of the reason; not of sensuousness, but of a reason that\nmistakes its object and applies its categorical imperative to matter.\nAll unconditional systems of happiness are fruits of this tree, whether\nthey have for their object the present day or the whole of life, or what\ndoes not make them any more respectable, the whole of eternity, for their\nobject. An unlimited duration of existence and of well-being is only an\nideal of the desires; hence a demand which can only be put forth by an\nanimality striving up to the absolute. Man, therefore, without gaining\nanything for his humanity by a rational expression of this sort, loses\nthe happy limitation of the animal, over which he now only possesses the\nunenviable superiority of losing the present for an endeavor after what\nis remote, yet without seeking in the limitless future anything but the\npresent.\n\nBut even if the reason does not go astray in its object, or err in the\nquestion, sensuousness will continue to falsify the answer for a long\ntime. As soon as man has begun to use his understanding and to knit\ntogether phenomena in cause and effect, the reason, according to its\nconception, presses on to an absolute knitting together and to an\nunconditional basis. In order, merely, to be able to put forward this\ndemand, man must already have stepped beyond the sensuous, but the\nsensuous uses this very demand to bring back the fugitive.\n\nIn fact, it is now that he ought to abandon entirely the world of sense\nin order to take his flight into the realm of ideas; for the intelligence\nremains eternally shut up in the finite and in the contingent, and does\nnot cease putting questions without reaching the last link of the chain.\nBut as the man with whom we are engaged is not yet capable of such an\nabstraction, and does not find it in the sphere of sensuous knowledge,\nand because he does not look for it in pure reason, he will seek for it\nbelow in the region of sentiment, and will appear to find it. No doubt\nthe sensuous shows him nothing that has its foundation in itself, and\nthat legislates for itself, but it shows him something that does not care\nfor foundation or law; therefore, thus not being able to quiet the\nintelligence by showing it a final cause, he reduces it to silence by the\nconception which desires no cause; and being incapable of understanding\nthe sublime necessity of reason, he keeps to the blind constraint of\nmatter. As sensuousness knows no other end than its interest, and is\ndetermined by nothing except blind chance, it makes the former the motive\nof its actions, and the latter the master of the world.\n\nEven the divine part in man, the moral law, in its first manifestation in\nthe sensuous cannot avoid this perversion. As this moral law is only\nprohibited, and combats in man the interest of sensuous egotism, it must\nappear to him as something strange until he has come to consider this\nself-love as the stranger, and the voice of reason as his true self.\nTherefore he confines himself to feeling the fetters which the latter\nimposes on him, without having the consciousness of the infinite\nemancipation which it procures for him. Without suspecting in himself\nthe dignity of lawgiver, he only experiences the constraint and the\nimpotent revolt of a subject fretting under the yoke, because in this\nexperience the sensuous impulsion precedes the moral impulsion, he gives\nto the law of necessity a beginning in him, a positive origin, and by the\nmost unfortunate of all mistakes he converts the immutable and the\neternal in himself into a transitory accident. He makes up his mind to\nconsider the notions of the just and the unjust as statutes which have\nbeen introduced by a will, and not as having in themselves an eternal\nvalue. Just as in the explanation of certain natural phenomena he goes\nbeyond nature and seeks out of her what can only be found in her, in her\nown laws; so also in the explanation of moral phenomena he goes beyond\nreason and makes light of his humanity, seeking a god in this way. It is\nnot wonderful that a religion which he has purchased at the cost of his\nhumanity shows itself worthy of this origin, and that he only considers\nas absolute and eternally binding laws that have never been binding from\nall eternity. He has placed himself in relation with, not a holy being,\nbut a powerful. Therefore the spirit of his religion, of the homage that\nhe gives to God, is a fear that abases him, and not a veneration that\nelevates him in his own esteem.\n\nThough these different aberrations by which man departs from the ideal of\nhis destination cannot all take place at the same time, because several\ndegrees have to be passed over in the transition from the obscure of\nthought to error, and from the obscure of will to the corruption of the\nwill; these degrees are all, without exception, the consequence of his\nphysical state, because in all the vital impulsion sways the formal\nimpulsion. Now, two cases may happen: either reason may not yet have\nspoken in man, and the physical may reign over him with a blind\nnecessity, or reason may not be sufficiently purified from sensuous\nimpressions, and the moral may still be subject to the physical; in both\ncases the only principle that has a real power over him is a material\nprinciple, and man, at least as regards his ultimate tendency, is a\nsensuous being. The only difference is, that in the former case he is an\nanimal without reason, and in the second case a rational animal. But he\nought to be neither one nor the other: he ought to be a man. Nature\nought not to rule him exclusively; nor reason conditionally. The two\nlegislations ought to be completely independent, and yet mutually\ncomplementary.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER XXV.\n\n\nWhilst man, in his first physical condition, is only passively affected\nby the world of sense, he is still entirely identified with it; and for\nthis reason the external world, as yet, has no objective existence for\nhim. When he begins in his aesthetic state of mind to regard the world\nobjectively, then only is his personality severed from it, and the world\nappears to him an objective reality, for the simple reason that he has\nceased to form an identical portion of it.\n\nThat which first connects man with the surrounding universe is the power\nof reflective contemplation. Whereas desire seizes at once its object,\nreflection removes it to a distance and renders it inalienably her own by\nsaving it from the greed of passion. The necessity of sense which he\nobeyed during the period of mere sensations, lessens during the period of\nreflection; the senses are for the time in abeyance; even ever-fleeting\ntime stands still whilst the scattered rays of consciousness are\ngathering and shape themselves; an image of the infinite is reflected\nupon the perishable ground. As soon as light dawns in man, there is no,\nlonger night outside of him; as soon as there is peace within him the\nstorm lulls throughout the universe, and the contending forces of nature\nfind rest within prescribed limits. Hence we cannot wonder if ancient\ntraditions allude to these great changes in the inner man as to a\nrevolution in surrounding nature, and symbolize thought triumphing over\nthe laws of time, by the figure of Zeus, which terminates the reign of\nSaturn.\n\nAs long as man derives sensations from a contact with nature, he is her\nslave; but as soon as he begins to reflect upon her objects and laws he\nbecomes her lawgiver. Nature, which previously ruled him as a power, now\nexpands before him as an object. What is objective to him can have no\npower over him, for in order to become objective it has to experience his\nown power. As far and as long as he impresses a form upon matter, he\ncannot be injured by its effect; for a spirit can only be injured by that\nwhich deprives it of its freedom. Whereas he proves his own freedom by\ngiving a form to the formless; where the mass rules heavily and without\nshape, and its undefined outlines are for ever fluctuating between\nuncertain boundaries, fear takes up its abode; but man rises above any\nnatural terror as soon as he knows how to mould it, and transform it into\nan object of his art. As soon as he upholds his independence towards\nphenomenal natures he maintains his dignity toward her as a thing of\npower, and with a noble freedom he rises against his gods. They throw\naside the mask with which they had kept him in awe during his infancy,\nand to his surprise his mind perceives the reflection of his own image.\nThe divine monster of the Oriental, which roams about changing the world\nwith the blind force of a beast of prey, dwindles to the charming outline\nof humanity in Greek fable; the empire of the Titans is crushed, and\nboundless force is tamed by infinite form.\n\nBut whilst I have been merely searching for an issue from the material\nworld, and a passage into the world of mind, the bold flight of my\nimagination has already taken me into the very midst of the latter world.\nThe beauty of which we are in search we have left behind by passing from\nthe life of mere sensations to the pure form and to the pure object.\nSuch a leap exceeds the condition of human nature; in order to keep pace\nwith the latter we must return to the world of sense.\n\nBeauty is indeed the sphere of unfettered contemplation and reflection;\nbeauty conducts us into the world of ideas, without however taking us\nfrom the world of sense, as occurs when a truth is perceived and\nacknowledged. This is the pure product of a process of abstraction from\neverything material and accidental, a pure object free from every\nsubjective barrier, a pure state of self-activity without any admixture\nof passive sensations. There is indeed a way back to sensation from the\nhighest abstraction; for thought teaches the inner sensation, and the\nidea of logical or moral unity passes into a sensation of sensual accord.\nBut if we delight in knowledge we separate very accurately our own\nconceptions from our sensations; we look upon the latter as something\naccidental, which might have been omitted without the knowledge being\nimpaired thereby, without truth being less true. It would, however, be a\nvain attempt to suppress this connection of the faculty of feeling with\nthe idea of beauty, consequently, we shall not succeed in representing to\nourselves one as the effect of the other, but we must look upon them both\ntogether and reciprocally as cause and effect. In the pleasure which we\nderive from knowledge we readily distinguish the passage from the active\nto the passive state, and we clearly perceive that the first ends when\nthe second begins. On the contrary, from the pleasure which we take in\nbeauty, this transition from the active to the passive is not\nperceivable, and reflection is so intimately blended with feeling that we\nbelieve we feel the form immediately. Beauty is then an object to us, it\nis true, because reflection is the condition of the feeling which we have\nof it; but it is also a state of our personality (our Ego) because the\nfeeling is the condition of the idea we conceive of it: beauty is\ntherefore doubtless form, because we contemplate it, but it is equally\nlife because we feel it. In a word, it is at once our state and our act.\nAnd precisely because it is at the same time both a state and an act, it\ntriumphantly proves to us that the passive does not exclude the active,\nneither matter nor form, neither the finite nor the infinite; and that\nconsequently the physical dependence to which man is necessarily devoted\ndoes not in any way destroy his moral liberty. This is the proof of\nbeauty, and I ought to add that this alone can prove it. In fact, as in\nthe possession of truth or of logical unity, feeling is not necessarily\none with the thought, but follows it accidentally; it is a fact which\nonly proves that a sensitive nature can succeed a rational nature, and\nvice versa; not that they co-exist, that they exercise a reciprocal\naction one over the other; and, lastly, that they ought to be united in\nan absolute and necessary manner. From this exclusion of feeling as long\nas there is thought, and of thought so long as there is feeling, we\nshould on the contrary conclude that the two natures are incompatible, so\nthat in order to demonstrate that pure reason is to be realized in\nhumanity, the best proof given by the analysis is that this realization\nis demanded. But, as in the realization of beauty or of aesthetic unity,\nthere is a real union, mutual substitution of matter and of form, of\npassive and of active, by this alone is proved the compatibility of the\ntwo natures, the possible realization of the infinite in the finite, and\nconsequently also the possibility of the most sublime humanity.\n\nHenceforth we need no longer be embarrassed to find a transition from\ndependent feeling to moral liberty, because beauty reveals to us the fact\nthat they can perfectly coexist, and that to show himself a spirit, man\nneed not escape from matter. But if on one side he is free, even in his\nrelation with a visible world, as the fact of beauty teaches, and if on\nthe other side freedom is something absolute and supersensuous, as its\nidea necessarily implies, the question is no longer how man succeeds in\nraising himself from the finite to the absolute, and opposing himself in\nhis thought and will to sensuality, as this has already been produced in\nthe fact of beauty. In a word, we have no longer to ask how he passes\nfrom virtue to truth which is already included in the former, but how he\nopens a way for himself from vulgar reality to aesthetic reality, and\nfrom the ordinary feelings of life to the perception of the beautiful.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER XXVI.\n\n\nI have shown in the previous letters that it is only the aesthetic\ndisposition of the soul that gives birth to liberty, it cannot therefore\nbe derived from liberty nor have a moral origin. It must be a gift of\nnature; the favor of chance alone can break the bonds of the physical\nstate and bring the savage to duty. The germ of the beautiful will find\nan equal difficulty in developing itself in countries where a severe\nnature forbids man to enjoy himself, and in those where a prodigal nature\ndispenses him from all effort; where the blunted senses experience no\nwant, and where violent desire can never be satisfied. The delightful\nflower of the beautiful will never unfold itself in the case of the\nTroglodyte hid in his cavern always alone, and never finding humanity\noutside himself; nor among nomads, who, travelling in great troops, only\nconsist of a multitude, and have no individual humanity. It will only\nflourish in places where man converses peacefully with himself in his\ncottage, and with the whole race when he issues from it. In those\nclimates where a limpid ether opens the senses to the lightest\nimpression, whilst a life-giving warmth develops a luxuriant nature,\nwhere even in the inanimate creation the sway of inert matter is\noverthrown, and the victorious form ennobles even the most abject\nnatures; in this joyful state and fortunate zone, where activity alone\nleads to enjoyment, and enjoyment to activity, from life itself issues a\nholy harmony, and the laws of order develop life, a different result\ntakes place. When imagination incessantly escapes from reality, and does\nnot abandon the simplicity of nature in its wanderings: then and there\nonly the mind and the senses, the receptive force and the plastic force,\nare developed in that happy equilibrium which is the soul of the\nbeautiful and the condition of humanity.\n\nWhat phenomenon accompanies the initiation of the savage into humanity?\nHowever far we look back into history the phenomenon is identical among\nall people who have shaken off the slavery of the animal state: the love\nof appearance, the inclination for dress and for games.\n\nExtreme stupidity and extreme intelligence have a certain affinity in\nonly seeking the real and being completely insensible to mere appearance.\nThe former is only drawn forth by the immediate presence of an object in\nthe senses, and the second is reduced to a quiescent state only by\nreferring conceptions to the facts of experience. In short, stupidity\ncannot rise above reality, nor the intelligence descend below truth.\nThus, in as far as the want of reality and attachment to the real are\nonly the consequence of a want and a defect, indifference to the real and\nan interest taken in appearances are a real enlargement of humanity and a\ndecisive step towards culture. In the first place it is the proof of an\nexterior liberty, for as long as necessity commands and want solicits,\nthe fancy is strictly chained down to the real: it is only when want is\nsatisfied that it develops without hinderance. But it is also the proof\nof an internal liberty, because it reveals to us a force which,\nindependent of an external substratum, sets itself in motion, and has\nsufficient energy to remove from itself the solicitations of nature. The\nreality of things is effected by things, the appearance of things is the\nwork of man, and a soul that takes pleasure in appearance does not take\npleasure in what it receives but in what it makes.\n\nIt is self-evident that I am speaking of aesthetical evidence different\nfrom reality and truth, and not of logical appearance identical with\nthem. Therefore if it is liked it is because it is an appearance, and\nnot because it is held to be something better than it is: the first\nprinciple alone is a play, whilst the second is a deception. To give a\nvalue to the appearance of the first kind can never injure truth, because\nit is never to be feared that it will supplant it--the only way in which\ntruth can be injured. To despise this appearance is to despise in\ngeneral all the fine arts of which it is the essence. Nevertheless, it\nhappens sometimes that the understanding carries its zeal for reality as\nfar as this intolerance, and strikes with a sentence of ostracism all the\narts relating to beauty in appearance, because it is only an appearance.\nHowever, the intelligence only shows this vigorous spirit when it calls\nto mind the affinity pointed out further back. I shall find some day the\noccasion to treat specially of the limits of beauty in its appearance.\n\nIt is nature herself which raises man from reality to appearance by\nendowing him with two senses which only lead him to the knowledge of the\nreal through appearance. In the eye and the ear the organs of the senses\nare already freed from the persecutions of nature, and the object with\nwhich we are immediately in contact through the animal senses is remoter\nfrom us. What we see by the eye differs from what we feel; for the\nunderstanding to reach objects overleaps the light which separates us\nfrom them. In truth, we are passive to an object: in sight and hearing\nthe object is a form we create. While still a savage, man only enjoys\nthrough touch merely aided by sight and sound. He either does not rise\nto perception through sight, or does not rest there. As soon as he\nbegins to enjoy through sight, vision has an independent value, he is\naesthetically free, and the instinct of play is developed.\n\nThe instinct of play likes appearance, and directly it is awakened it is\nfollowed by the formal imitative instinct which treats appearance as an\nindependent thing. Directly man has come to distinguish the appearance\nfrom the reality, the form from the body, he can separate, in fact he has\nalready done so. Thus the faculty of the art of imitation is given with\nthe faculty of form in general. The inclination that draws us to it\nreposes on another tendency I have not to notice here. The exact period\nwhen the aesthetic instinct, or that of art, develops, depends entirely\non the attraction that mere appearance has for men.\n\nAs every real existence proceeds from nature as a foreign power, whilst\nevery appearance comes in the first place from man as a percipient\nsubject, he only uses his absolute sight in separating semblance from\nessence, and arranging according to subjective law. With an unbridled\nliberty he can unite what nature has severed, provided he can imagine his\nunion, and he can separate what nature has united, provided this\nseparation can take place in his intelligence. Here nothing can be\nsacred to him but his own law: the only condition imposed upon him is to\nrespect the border which separates his own sphere from the existence of\nthings or from the realm of nature.\n\nThis human right of ruling is exercised by man in the art of appearance;\nand his success in extending the empire of the beautiful, and guarding\nthe frontiers of truth, will be in proportion with the strictness with\nwhich he separates form from substance: for if he frees appearance from\nreality, he must also do the converse.\n\nBut man possesses sovereign power only in the world of appearance, in the\nunsubstantial realm of imagination, only by abstaining from giving being\nto appearance in theory, and by giving it being in practice. It follows\nthat the poet transgresses his proper limits when he attributes being to\nhis ideal, and when he gives this ideal aim as a determined existence.\nFor he can only reach this result by exceeding his right as a poet, that\nof encroaching by the ideal on the field of experience, and by pretending\nto determine real existence in virtue of a simple possibility, or else he\nrenounces his right as a poet by letting experience encroach on the\nsphere of the ideal, and by restricting possibility to the conditions of\nreality.\n\nIt is only by being frank or disclaiming all reality, and by being\nindependent or doing without reality, that the appearance is aesthetical.\nDirectly it apes reality or needs reality for effect, it is nothing more\nthan a vile instrument for material ends, and can prove nothing for the\nfreedom of the mind. Moreover, the object in which we find beauty need\nnot be unreal if our judgment disregards this reality; for if it regards\nthis the judgment is no longer aesthetical. A beautiful woman, if\nliving, would no doubt please us as much and rather more than an equally\nbeautiful woman seen in painting; but what makes the former please men is\nnot her being an independent appearance; she no longer pleases the pure\naesthetic feeling. In the painting, life must only attract as an\nappearance, and reality as an idea. But it is certain that to feel in a\nliving object only the pure appearance requires a greatly higher\naesthetic culture than to do without life in the appearance.\n\nWhen the frank and independent appearance is found in man separately, or\nin a whole people, it may be inferred they have mind, taste, and all\nprerogatives connected with them. In this case the ideal will be seen to\ngovern real life, honor triumphing over fortune, thought over enjoyment,\nthe dream of immortality over a transitory existence.\n\nIn this case public opinion will no longer be feared, and an olive crown\nwill be more valued than a purple mantle. Impotence and perversity alone\nhave recourse to false and paltry semblance, and individuals as well as\nnations who lend to reality the support of appearance, or to the\naesthetic appearance the support of reality, show their moral\nunworthiness and their aesthetical impotence. Therefore, a short and\nconclusive answer can be given to this question--how far will appearance\nbe permitted in the moral world? It will run thus in proportion as this\nappearance will be aesthetical, that is, an appearance that does not try\nto make up for reality, nor requires to be made up for by it. The\naesthetical appearance can never endanger the truth of morals: wherever\nit seems to do so the appearance is not aesthetical. Only a stranger to\nthe fashionable world can take the polite assurances, which are only a\nform, for proofs of affection, and say he has been deceived; but only a\nclumsy fellow in good society calls in the aid of duplicity and flatters\nto become amiable. The former lacks the pure sense for independent\nappearance; therefore he can only give a value to appearance by truth.\nThe second lacks reality, and wishes to replace it by appearance.\nNothing is more common than to hear depreciators of the times utter these\npaltry complaints--that all solidity has disappeared from the world, and\nthat essence is neglected for semblance. Though I feel by no means\ncalled upon to defend this age against these reproaches, I must say that\nthe wide application of these criticisms shows that they attach blame to\nthe age, not only on the score of the false, but also of the frank\nappearance. And even the exceptions they admit in favor of the beautiful\nhave for their object less the independent appearance than the needy\nappearance. Not only do they attack the artificial coloring that hides\ntruth and replaces reality, but also the beneficent appearance that fills\na vacuum and clothes poverty; and they even attack the ideal appearance\nthat ennobles a vulgar reality. Their strict sense of truth is rightly\noffended by the falsity of manners; unfortunately, they class politeness\nin this category. It displeases them that the noisy and showy so often\neclipse true merit, but they are no less shocked that appearance is also\ndemanded from merit, and that a real substance does not dispense with an\nagreeable form. They regret the cordiality, the energy, and solidity of\nancient times; they would restore with them ancient coarseness,\nheaviness, and the old Gothic profusion. By judgments of this kind they\nshow an esteem for the matter itself unworthy of humanity, which ought\nonly to value the matter inasmuch as it can receive a form and enlarge\nthe empire of ideas. Accordingly, the taste of the age need not much\nfear these criticisms if it can clear itself before better judges. Our\ndefect is not to grant a value to aesthetic appearance (we do not do this\nenough): a severe judge of the beautiful might rather reproach us with\nnot having arrived at pure appearance, with not having separated clearly\nenough existence from the phenomenon, and thus established their limits.\nWe shall deserve this reproach so long as we cannot enjoy the beautiful\nin living nature without desiring it; as long as we cannot admire the\nbeautiful in the imitative arts without having an end in view; as long as\nwe do not grant to imagination an absolute legislation of its own; and as\nlong as we do not inspire it with care for its dignity by the esteem we\ntestify for its works.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER XXVII.\n\n\nDo not fear for reality and truth. Even if the elevated idea of\naesthetic appearance become general, it would not become so, as long as\nman remains so little cultivated as to abuse it; and if it became\ngeneral, this would result from a culture that would prevent all abuse of\nit. The pursuit of independent appearance requires more power of\nabstraction, freedom of heart, and energy of will than man requires to\nshut himself up in reality; and he must have left the latter behind him\nif he wishes to attain to aesthetic appearance. Therefore, a man would\ncalculate very badly who took the road of the ideal to save himself that\nof reality. Thus, reality would not have much to fear from appearance,\nas we understand it; but, on the other hand, appearance would have more\nto fear from reality. Chained to matter, man uses appearance for his\npurposes before he allows it a proper personality in the art of the\nideal: to come to that point a complete revolution must take place in his\nmode of feeling, otherwise, he would not be even on the way to the ideal.\nConsequently, when we find in man the signs of a pure and disinterested\nesteem, we can infer that this revolution has taken place in his nature,\nand that humanity has really begun in him. Signs of this kind are found\neven in the first and rude attempts that he makes to embellish his\nexistence, even at the risk of making it worse in its material\nconditions. As soon as he begins to prefer form to substance and to risk\nreality for appearance (known by him to be such), the barriers of animal\nlife fall, and he finds himself on a track that has no end.\n\nNot satisfied with the needs of nature, he demands the superfluous.\nFirst, only the superfluous of matter, to secure his enjoyment beyond the\npresent necessity; but afterward; he wishes a superabundance in matter,\nan aesthetical supplement to satisfy the impulse for the formal, to\nextend enjoyment beyond necessity. By piling up provisions simply for a\nfuture use, and anticipating their enjoyment in the imagination, he\noutsteps the limits of the present moment, but not those of time in\ngeneral. He enjoys more; he does not enjoy differently. But as soon as\nhe makes form enter into his enjoyment, and he keeps in view the forms of\nthe objects which satisfy his desires, he has not only increased his\npleasure in extent and intensity, but he has also ennobled it in mode and\nspecies.\n\nNo doubt nature has given more than is necessary to unreasoning beings;\nshe has caused a gleam of freedom to shine even in the darkness of animal\nlife. When the lion is not tormented by hunger, and when no wild beast\nchallenges him to fight, his unemployed energy creates an object for\nhimself; full of ardor, he fills the re-echoing desert with his terrible\nroars, and his exuberant force rejoices in itself, showing itself without\nan object. The insect flits about rejoicing in life in the sunlight, and\nit is certainly not the cry of want that makes itself heard in the\nmelodious song of the bird; there is undeniably freedom in these\nmovements, though it is not emancipation from want in general, but from a\ndeterminate external necessity.\n\nThe animal works, when a privation is the motor of its activity, and it\nplays when the plenitude of force is this motor, when an exuberant life\nis excited to action. Even in inanimate nature a luxury of strength and\na latitude of determination are shown, which in this material sense might\nbe styled play. The tree produces numberless germs that are abortive\nwithout developing, and it sends forth more roots, branches, and leaves,\norgans of nutrition, than are used for the preservation of the species.\nWhatever this tree restores to the elements of its exuberant life,\nwithout using it or enjoying it, may be expended by life in free and\njoyful movements. It is thus that nature offers in her material sphere a\nsort of prelude to the limitless, and that even there she suppresses\npartially the chains from which she will be completely emancipated in the\nrealm of form. The constraint of superabundance or physical play answers\nas a transition from the constraint of necessity, or of physical\nseriousness, to aesthetical play; and before shaking off, in the supreme\nfreedom of the beautiful, the yoke of any special aim, nature already\napproaches, at least remotely, this independence, by the free movement\nwhich is itself its own end and means.\n\nThe imagination, like the bodily organs, has in man its free movement and\nits material play, a play in which, without any reference to form, it\nsimply takes pleasure in its arbitrary power and in the absence of all\nhinderance. These plays of fancy, inasmuch as form is not mixed up with\nthem, and because a free succession of images makes all their charm,\nthough confined to man, belong exclusively to animal life, and only prove\none thing--that he is delivered from all external sensuous constraint\nwithout our being entitled to infer that there is in it an independent\nplastic force.\n\nFrom this play of free association of ideas, which is still quite\nmaterial in nature and is explained by simple natural laws, the\nimagination, by making the attempt of creating a free form, passes at\nlength at a jump to the aesthetic play: I say at one leap, for quite a\nnew force enters into action here; for here, for the first time, the\nlegislative mind is mixed with the acts of a blind instinct, subjects the\narbitrary march of the imagination to its eternal and immutable unity,\ncauses its independent permanence to enter in that which is transitory,\nand its infinity in the sensuous. Nevertheless, as long as rude nature,\nwhich knows of no other law than running incessantly from change to\nchange, will yet retain too much strength, it will oppose itself by its\ndifferent caprices to this necessity; by its agitation to this\npermanence; by its manifold needs to this independence, and by its\ninsatiability to this sublime simplicity. It will be also troublesome to\nrecognize the instinct of play in its first trials, seeing that the\nsensuous impulsion, with its capricious humor and its violent appetites,\nconstantly crosses. It is on that account that we see the taste, still\ncoarse, seize that which is new and startling, the disordered, the\nadventurous and the strange, the violent and the savage, and fly from\nnothing so much as from calm and simplicity. It invents grotesque\nfigures, it likes rapid transitions, luxurious forms, sharply-marked\nchanges, acute tones, a pathetic song. That which man calls beautiful at\nthis time is that which excites him, that which gives him matter; but\nthat which excites him to give his personality to the object, that which\ngives matter to a possible plastic operation, for otherwise it would not\nbe the beautiful for him. A remarkable change has therefore taken place\nin the form of his judgments; he searches for these objects, not because\nthey affect him, but because they furnish him with the occasion of\nacting; they please him, not because they answer to a want, but because\nthey satisfy a law which speaks in his breast, although quite low as yet.\n\nSoon it will not be sufficient for things to please him; he will wish to\nplease: in the first place, it is true, only by that which belongs to\nhim; afterwards by that which he is. That which he possesses, that which\nhe produces, ought not merely to bear any more the traces of servitude,\nnor to mark out the end, simply and scrupulously, by the form.\nIndependently of the use to which it is destined, the object ought also\nto reflect the enlightened intelligence which imagines it, the hand which\nshaped it with affection, the mind free and serene which chose it and\nexposed it to view. Now, the ancient German searches for more\nmagnificent furs, for more splendid antlers of the stag, for more elegant\ndrinking-horns; and the Caledonian chooses the prettiest shells for his\nfestivals. The arms themselves ought to be no longer only objects of\nterror, but also of pleasure; and the skilfully-worked scabbard will not\nattract less attention than the homicidal edge of the sword. The\ninstinct of play, not satisfied with bringing into the sphere of the\nnecessary an aesthetic superabundance for the future more free, is at\nlast completely emancipated from the bonds of duty, and the beautiful\nbecomes of itself an object of man's exertions. He adorns himself. The\nfree pleasure comes to take a place among his wants, and the useless soon\nbecomes the best part of his joys. Form, which from the outside\ngradually approaches him, in his dwelling, his furniture, his clothing,\nbegins at last to take possession of the man himself, to transform him,\nat first exteriorly, and afterwards in the interior. The disordered\nleaps of joy become the dance, the formless gesture is changed into an\namiable and harmonious pantomime, the confused accents of feeling are\ndeveloped, and begin to obey measures and adapt themselves to song.\nWhen, like the flight of cranes, the Trojan army rushes on to the field\nof battle with thrilling cries, the Greek army approaches in silence and\nwith a noble and measured step. On the one side we see but the\nexuberance of a blind force, on the other the triumph of form, and the\nsimple majesty of law.\n\nNow, a nobler necessity binds the two sexes mutually, and the interests\nof the heart contribute in rendering durable an alliance which was at\nfirst capricious and changing like the desire that knits it. Delivered\nfrom the heavy fetters of desire, the eye, now calmer, attends to the\nform, the soul contemplates the soul, and the interested exchange of\npleasure becomes a generous exchange of mutual inclination. Desire\nenlarges and rises to love, in proportion as it sees humanity dawn in its\nobject; and, despising the vile triumphs gained by the senses, man tries\nto win a nobler victory over the will. The necessity of pleasing\nsubjects the powerful nature to the gentle laws of taste; pleasure may be\nstolen, but love must be a gift. To obtain this higher recompense, it is\nonly through the form and not through matter that it can carry on the\ncontest. It must cease to act on feeling as a force, to appear in the\nintelligence as a simple phenomenon; it must respect liberty, as it is\nliberty it wishes to please. The beautiful reconciles the contrast of\ndifferent natures in its simplest and purest expression. It also\nreconciles the eternal contrast of the two sexes in the whole complex\nframework of society, or at all events it seeks to do so; and, taking as\nits model the free alliance it has knit between manly strength and\nwomanly gentleness, it strives to place in harmony, in the moral world,\nall the elements of gentleness and of violence. Now, at length, weakness\nbecomes sacred, and an unbridled strength disgraces; the injustice of\nnature is corrected by the generosity of chivalrous manners. The being\nwhom no power can make tremble, is disarmed by the amiable blush of\nmodesty, and tears extinguish a vengeance that blood could not have\nquenched. Hatred itself hears the delicate voice of honor, the\nconqueror's sword spares the disarmed enemy, and a hospitable hearth\nsmokes for the stranger on the dreaded hillside where murder alone\nawaited him before.\n\nIn the midst of the formidable realm of forces, and of the sacred empire\nof laws, the aesthetic impulse of form creates by degrees a third and a\njoyous realm, that of play and of the appearance, where she emancipates\nman from fetters, in all his relations, and from all that is named\nconstraint, whether physical or moral.\n\nIf in the dynamic state of rights men mutually move and come into\ncollision as forces, in the moral (ethical) state of duties, man opposes\nto man the majesty of the laws, and chains down his will. In this realm\nof the beautiful or the aesthetic state, man ought to appear to man only\nas a form, and an object of free play. To give freedom through freedom\nis the fundamental law of this realm.\n\nThe dynamic state can only make society simple possibly by subduing\nnature through nature; the moral (ethical) state can only make it morally\nnecessary by submitting the will of the individual to the general will.\n\nThe aesthetic state alone can make it real, because it carries out the\nwill of all through the nature of the individual. If necessity alone\nforces man to enter into society, and if his reason engraves on his soul\nsocial principles, it is beauty only that can give him a social\ncharacter; taste alone brings harmony into society, because it creates\nharmony in the individual. All other forms of perception divide the man,\nbecause they are based exclusively either in the sensuous or in the\nspiritual part of his being. It is only the perception of beauty that\nmakes of him an entirety, because it demands the co-operation of his two\nnatures. All other forms of communication divide society, because they\napply exclusively either to the receptivity or to the private activity of\nits members, and therefore to what distinguishes men one from the other.\nThe aesthetic communication alone unites society because it applies to\nwhat is common to all its members. We only enjoy the pleasures of sense\nas individuals, without the nature of the race in us sharing in it;\naccordingly, we cannot generalize our individual pleasures, because we\ncannot generalize our individuality. We enjoy the pleasures of knowledge\nas a race, dropping the individual in our judgment; but we cannot\ngeneralize the pleasures of the understanding, because we cannot\neliminate individuality from the judgments of others as we do from our\nown. Beauty alone can we enjoy both as individuals and as a race, that\nis, as representing a race. Good appertaining to sense can only make one\nperson happy, because it is founded on inclination, which is always\nexclusive; and it can only make a man partially happy, because his real\npersonality does not share in it. Absolute good can only render a man\nhappy conditionally, for truth is only the reward of abnegation, and a\npure heart alone has faith in a pure will. Beauty alone confers\nhappiness on all, and under its influence every being forgets that he is\nlimited.\n\nTaste does not suffer any superior or absolute authority, and the sway of\nbeauty is extended over appearance. It extends up to the seat of\nreason's supremacy, suppressing all that is material. It extends down to\nwhere sensuous impulse rules with blind compulsion, and form is\nundeveloped. Taste ever maintains its power on these remote borders,\nwhere legislation is taken from it. Particular desires must renounce\ntheir egotism, and the agreeable, otherwise tempting the senses, must in\nmatters of taste adorn the mind with the attractions of grace.\n\nDuty and stern necessity must change their forbidding tone, only excused\nby resistance, and do homage to nature by a nobler trust in her. Taste\nleads our knowledge from the mysteries of science into the open expanse\nof common sense, and changes a narrow scholasticism into the common\nproperty of the human race. Here the highest genius must leave its\nparticular elevation, and make itself familiar to the comprehension even\nof a child. Strength must let the Graces bind it, and the arbitrary lion\nmust yield to the reins of love. For this purpose taste throws a veil\nover physical necessity, offending a free mind by its coarse nudity, and\ndissimulating our degrading parentage with matter by a delightful\nillusion of freedom. Mercenary art itself rises from the dust; and the\nbondage of the bodily, at its magic touch, falls off from the inanimate\nand animate. In the aesthetic state the most slavish tool is a free\ncitizen, having the same rights as the noblest; and the intellect which\nshapes the mass to its intent must consult it concerning its destination.\nConsequently, in the realm of aesthetic appearance, the idea of equality\nis realized, which the political zealot would gladly see carried out\nsocially. It has often been said that perfect politeness is only found\nnear a throne. If thus restricted in the material, man has, as elsewhere\nappears, to find compensation in the ideal world.\n\nDoes such a state of beauty in appearance exist, and where? It must be\nin every finely-harmonized soul; but as a fact, only in select circles,\nlike the pure ideal of the church and state--in circles where manners are\nnot formed by the empty imitations of the foreign, but by the very beauty\nof nature; where man passes through all sorts of complications in all\nsimplicity and innocence, neither forced to trench on another's freedom\nto preserve his own, nor to show grace at the cost of dignity.\n\n\n\n===\n\n\nAESTHETICAL ESSAYS.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MORAL UTILITY OF AESTHETIC MANNERS.\n\n\nThe author of the article which appeared in the eleventh number of \"The\nHours,\" of 1795, upon \"The Danger of Aesthetic Manners,\" was right to\nhold as doubtful a morality founded only on a feeling for the beautiful,\nand which has no other warrant than taste; but it is evident that a\nstrong and pure feeling for the beautiful ought to exercise a salutary\ninfluence upon the moral life; and this is the question of which I am\nabout to treat.\n\nWhen I attribute to taste the merit of contributing to moral progress, it\nis not in the least my intention to pretend that the interest that good\ntaste takes in an action suffices to make an action moral; morality could\nnever have any other foundation than her own. Taste can be favorable to\nmorality in the conduct, as I hope to point out in the present essay; but\nalone, and by its unaided influence, it could never produce anything\nmoral.\n\nIt is absolutely the same with respect to internal liberty as with\nexternal physical liberty. I act freely in a physical sense only when,\nindependently of all external influence, I simply obey my will. But for\nthe possibility of thus obeying without hinderance my own will, it is\nprobable, ultimately, that I am indebted to a principle beyond or\ndistinct from myself immediately it is admitted that this principle would\nhamper my will. The same also with regard to the possibility of\naccomplishing such action in conformity with duty--it may be that I owe\nit, ultimately, to a principle distinct from my reason; that is possible,\nthe moment the idea of this principle is recognized as a force which\ncould have constrained my independence. Thus the same as we can say of a\nman, that he holds his liberty from another man, although liberty in its\nproper sense consists in not being forced to be regulated by another--in\nlike manner we can also say that taste here obeys virtue, although virtue\nherself expressly carries this idea, that in the practice of virtue she\nmakes use of no other foreign help. An action does not in any degree\ncease to be free, because he who could hamper its accomplishment should\nfortunately abstain from putting any obstacle in the way; it suffices to\nknow that this agent has been moved by his own will without any\nconsideration of another will. In the same way, an action of the moral\norder does not lose its right to be qualified as a moral action, because\nthe temptations which might have turned it in another direction did not\npresent themselves; it suffices to admit that the agent obeyed solely the\ndecree of his reason to the exclusion of all foreign springs of action.\nThe liberty of an external act is established as soon as it directly\nproceeds from the will of a person; the morality of an interior action is\nestablished from the moment that the will of the agent is at once\ndetermined to it by the laws of reason.\n\nIt may be rendered easier or more difficult to act as free men according\nas we meet or not in our path forces adverse to our will that must be\novercome. In this sense liberty is more or less susceptible. It is\ngreater, or at least more visible, when we enable it to prevail over the\nopposing forces, however energetic their opposition; but it is not\nsuspended because our will should have met with no resistance, or that a\nforeign succor coming to our aid should have destroyed this resistance,\nwithout any help from ourselves.\n\nThe same with respect to morality; we might have more or less resistance\nto offer in order on the instant to obey our reason, according as it\nawakens or not in us those instincts which struggle against its precepts,\nand which must be put aside. In this sense morality is susceptible of\nmore or of less. Our morality is greater, or at least more in relief,\nwhen we immediately obey reason, however powerful the instincts are which\npush us in a contrary direction; but it is not suspended because we have\nhad no temptation to disobey, or that this force had been paralyzed by\nsome other force other than our will. We are incited to an action solely\nbecause it is moral, without previously asking ourselves if it is the\nmost agreeable. It is enough that such an action is morally good, and it\nwould preserve this character even if there were cause to believe that we\nshould have acted differently if the action had cost us any trouble, or\nhad deprived us of a pleasure.\n\nIt can be admitted, for the honor of humanity, that no man could fall so\nlow as to prefer evil solely because it is evil, but rather that every\nman, without exception, would prefer the good because it is the good, if\nby some accidental circumstance the good did not exclude the agreeable,\nor did not entail trouble. Thus in reality all moral action seems to\nhave no other principle than a conflict between the good and the\nagreeable; or, that which comes to the same thing, between desire and\nreason; the force of our sensuous instincts on one side, and, on the\nother side, the feebleness of will, the moral faculty: such apparently is\nthe source of all our faults.\n\nThere may be, therefore, two different ways of favoring morality, the\nsame as there are two kinds of obstacles which thwart it: either we must\nstrengthen the side of reason, and the power of the good will, so that no\ntemptation can overcome it; or we must break the force of temptation, in\norder that the reason and the will, although feebler, should yet be in a\nstate to surmount it.\n\nIt might be said, without doubt, that true morality gains little by this\nsecond proceeding, because it happens without any modification of the\nwill, and yet that it is the nature of the will that alone give to\nactions their moral character. But I say also, in the case in question,\na change of will is not at all necessary; because we do not suppose a bad\nwill which should require to be changed, but only a will turned to good,\nbut which is feeble. Therefore, this will, inclined to good, but too\nfeeble, does not fail to attain by this route to good actions, which\nmight not have happened if a stronger impulsion had drawn it in a\ncontrary sense. But every time that a strong will towards good becomes\nthe principle of an action, we are really in presence of a moral action.\nI have therefore no scruple in advancing this proposition--that all which\nneutralizes the resistance offered to the law of duty really favors\nmorality.\n\nMorality has within us a natural enemy, the sensuous instinct; this, as\nsoon as some object solicits its desires, aspires at once to gratify it,\nand, as soon as reason requires from it anything repugnant, it does not\nfail to rebel against its precepts. This sensuous instinct is constantly\noccupied in gaining the will on its side. The will is nevertheless under\nthe jurisdiction of the moral law, and it is under an obligation never to\nbe in contradiction with that which reason demands.\n\nBut the sensuous instinct does not recognize the moral law; it wishes to\nenjoy its object and to induce the will to realize it also,\nnotwithstanding what the reason may advance. This tendency of the\nfaculty of our appetites, of immediately directing the will without\ntroubling itself about superior laws, is perpetually in conflict with our\nmoral destination, and it is the most powerful adversary that man has to\ncombat in his moral conduct. The coarse soul, without either moral or\naesthetic education, receives directly the law of appetite, and acts only\naccording to the good pleasure of the senses. The moral soul, but which\nwants aesthetic culture, receives in a direct manner the law of reason,\nand it is only out of respect for duty that it triumphs over temptation.\nIn the purified aesthetic soul, there is moreover another motive, another\nforce, which frequently takes the place of virtue when virtue is absent,\nand which renders it easier when it is present--that is, taste.\n\nTaste demands of us moderation and dignity; it has a horror of everything\nsharp, hard and violent; it likes all that shapes itself with ease and\nharmony. To listen to the voice of reason amidst the tempest of the\nsenses, and to know where to place a limit to nature in its most\nbrutified explosions, is, as we are aware, required by good breeding,\nwhich is no other than an aesthetic law; this is required of every\ncivilized man. Well, then, this constraint imposed upon civilized man in\nthe expression of his feelings, confers upon him already a certain degree\nof authority over them, or at least develops in him a certain aptitude to\nrise above the purely passive state of the soul, to interrupt this state\nby an initiative act, and to stop by reflection the petulance of the\nfeelings, ever ready to pass from affections to acts. Therefore\neverything that interrupts the blind impetuosity of these movements of\nthe affections does not as yet, however, produce, I own, a virtue (for\nvirtue ought never to have any other active principle than itself), but\nthat at least opens the road to the will, in order to turn it on the side\nof virtue. Still, this victory of taste over brutish affections is by no\nmeans a moral action, and the freedom which the will acquires by the\nintervention of taste is as yet in no way a moral liberty. Taste\ndelivers the soul from the yoke of instinct, only to impose upon it\nchains of its own; and in discerning the first enemy, the declared enemy\nof moral liberty, it remains itself, too often, as a second enemy,\nperhaps even the more dangerous as it assumes the aspect of a friend.\nTaste effectively governs the soul itself only by the attraction of\npleasure; it is true of a nobler type, because its principle is reason,\nbut still as long as the will is determined by pleasure there is not yet\nmorality.\n\nNotwithstanding this, a great point is gained already by the intervention\nof taste in the operations of the will. All those material inclinations\nand brutal appetites, which oppose with so much obstinacy and vehemence\nthe practice of good, the soul is freed from through the aesthetic taste;\nand in their place, it implants in us nobler and gentler inclinations,\nwhich draw nearer to order, to harmony, and to perfection; and although\nthese inclinations are not by themselves virtues, they have at least\nsomething in common with virtue; it is their object. Thenceforth, if it\nis the appetite that speaks, it will have to undergo a rigorous control\nbefore the sense of the beautiful; if it is the reason which speaks, and\nwhich commands in its acts conformity with order, harmony, and\nperfection, not only will it no longer meet with an adversary on the side\nof inclination, but it will find the most active competition. If we\nsurvey all the forms under which morality can be produced, we shall see\nthat all these forms can be reduced to two; either it is sensuous nature\nwhich moves the soul either to do this thing or not to do the other, and\nthe will finally decides after the law of the reason; or it is the reason\nitself which impels the motion, and the will obeys it without seeking\ncounsel of the senses.\n\nThe Greek princess, Anna Comnena, speaks of a rebel prisoner, whom her\nfather Alexis, then a simple general of his predecessor, had been charged\nto conduct to Constantinople. During the journey, as they were riding\nside by side, Alexis desired to halt under the shade of a tree to refresh\nhimself during the great heat of the day. It was not long before he fell\nasleep, whilst his companion, who felt no inclination to repose with the\nfear of death awaiting him before his eyes, remained awake. Alexis\nslumbered profoundly, with his sword hanging upon a branch above his\nhead; the prisoner perceived the sword, and immediately conceived the\nidea of killing his guardian and thus of regaining his freedom. Anna\nComnena gives us to understand that she knows not what might have been\nthe result had not Alexis fortunately awoke at that instant. In this\nthere is a moral of the highest kind, in which the sensuous instinct\nfirst raised its voice, and of which the reason had only afterwards taken\ncognizance in quality of judge. But suppose that the prisoner had\ntriumphed over the temptation only out of respect for justice, there\ncould be no doubt the action would have been a moral action.\n\nWhen the late Duke Leopold of Brunswick, standing upon the banks of the\nraging waters of the Oder, asked himself if at the peril of his life he\nought to venture into the impetuous flood in order to save some\nunfortunates who without his aid were sure to perish; and when--I suppose\na case--simply under the influence of duty, he throws himself into the\nboat into which none other dares to enter, no one will contest doubtless\nthat he acted morally. The duke was here in a contrary position to that\nof the preceding one. The idea of duty, in this circumstance, was the\nfirst which presented itself, and afterwards only the instinct of\nself-preservation was roused to oppose itself to that prescribed by\nreason, But in both cases the will acted in the same way; it obeyed\nunhesitatingly the reason, yet both of them are moral actions.\n\nBut would the action have continued moral in both cases, if we suppose\nthe aesthetic taste to have taken part in it? For example, suppose that\nthe first, who was tempted to commit a bad action, and who gave it up\nfrom respect for justice, had the taste sufficiently cultivated to feel\nan invincible horror aroused in him against all disgraceful or violent\naction, the aesthetic sense alone will suffice to turn him from it; there\nis no longer any deliberation before the moral tribunal, before the\nconscience; another motive, another jurisdiction has already pronounced.\nBut the aesthetic sense governs the will by the feeling and not by laws.\nThus this man refuses to enjoy the agreeable sensation of a life saved,\nbecause he cannot support his odious feelings of having committed a\nbaseness. Therefore all, in this, took place before the feelings alone,\nand the conduct of this man, although in conformity with the law, is\nmorally indifferent; it is simply a fine effect of nature.\n\nNow let us suppose that the second, he to whom his reason prescribed to\ndo a thing against which natural instinct protested; suppose that this\nman had to the same extent a susceptibility for the beautiful, so that\nall which is great and perfect enraptured him; at the same moment, when\nreason gave the order, the feelings would place themselves on the same\nside, and he would do willingly that which without the inclination for\nthe beautiful he would have had to do contrary to inclination. But would\nthis be a reason for us to find it less perfect? Assuredly not, because\nin principle it acts out of pure respect for the prescriptions of reason;\nand if it follows these injunctions with joy, that can take nothing away\nfrom the moral purity of the act. Thus, this man will be quite as\nperfect in the moral sense; and, on the contrary, he will be incomparably\nmore perfect in the physical sense, because he is infinitely more capable\nof making a virtuous subject.\n\nThus, taste gives a direction to the soul which disposes it to virtue, in\nkeeping away such inclinations as are contrary to it, and in rousing\nthose which are favorable. Taste could not injure true virtue, although\nin every case where natural instinct speaks first, taste commences by\ndeciding for its chief that which conscience otherwise ought to have\nknown; in consequence it is the cause that, amongst the actions of those\nwhom it governs, there are many more actions morally indifferent than\nactions truly moral. It thus happens that the excellency of the man does\nnot consist in the least degree in producing a larger sum of vigorously\nmoral particular actions, but by evincing as a whole a greater conformity\nof all his natural dispositions with the moral law; and it is not a thing\nto give people a very high idea of their country or of their age to hear\nmorality so often spoken of and particular acts boasted of as traits of\nvirtue. Let us hope that the day when civilization shall have\nconsummated its work (if we can realize this term in the mind) there will\nno longer be any question of this. But, on the other side, taste can\nbecome of possible utility to true virtue, in all cases when, the first\ninstigations issuing from reason, its voice incurs the risk of being\nstifled by the more powerful solicitations of natural instinct. Thus,\ntaste determines our feelings to take the part of duty, and in this\nmanner renders a mediocre moral force of will sufficient for the practice\nof virtue.\n\nIn this light, if the taste never injures true morality, and if in many\ncases it is of evident use--and this circumstance is very important--then\nit is supremely favorable to the legality of our conduct. Suppose that\naesthetic education contributes in no degree to the improvement of our\nfeelings, at least it renders us better able to act, although without\ntrue moral disposition, as we should have acted if our soul had been\ntruly moral. Therefore, it is quite true that, before the tribunal of\nthe conscience, our acts have absolutely no importance but as the\nexpression of our feelings: but it is precisely the contrary in the\nphysical order and in the plan of nature: there it is no longer our\nsentiments that are of importance; they are only important so far as they\ngive occasion to acts which conduce to the aims of nature. But the\nphysical order which is governed by forces, and the moral order which\ngoverns itself by laws, are so exactly made one for the other, and are so\nintimately blended, that the actions which are by their form morally\nsuitable, necessarily contain also a physical suitability; and as the\nentire edifice of nature seems to exist only to render possible the\nhighest of all aims, which is the good, in the same manner the good can\nin its turn be employed as the means of preserving the edifice. Thus,\nthe natural order has been rendered dependent upon the morality of our\nsouls, and we cannot go against the moral laws of the world without at\nthe same time provoking a perturbation in the physical world.\n\nIf, then, it is impossible to expect that human nature, as long as it is\nonly human nature, should act without interruption or feebleness,\nuniformly and constantly as pure reason, and that it never offend the\nlaws of moral order; if fully persuaded, as we are, both of the necessity\nand the possibility of pure virtue, we are forced to avow how subject to\naccident is the exercise of it, and how little we ought to reckon upon\nthe steadfastness of our best principles; if with this conviction of\nhuman fragility we bear in mind that each of the infractions of the moral\nlaw attacks the edifice of nature, if we recall all these considerations\nto our memory, it would be assuredly the most criminal boldness to place\nthe interests of the entire world at the mercy of the uncertainty of our\nvirtue. Let us rather draw from it the following conclusion, that it is\nfor us an obligation to satisfy at the very least the physical order by\nthe object of our acts, even when we do not satisfy the exigencies of the\nmoral order by the form of these acts; to pay, at least, as perfect\ninstruments the aims of nature, that which we owe as imperfect persons to\nreason, in order not to appear shamefaced before both tribunals. For if\nwe refused to make any effort to conform our acts to it because simple\nlegality is without moral merit, the order of the world might in the\nmeanwhile be dissolved, and before we had succeeded in establishing our\nprinciples all the links of society might be broken. No, the more our\nmorality is subjected to chance, the more is it necessary to take\nmeasures in order to assure its legality; to neglect, either from levity\nor pride, this legality is a fault for which we shall have to answer\nbefore morality. When a maniac believes himself threatened with a fit of\nmadness, he leaves no knife within reach of his hands, and he puts\nhimself under constraint, in order to avoid responsibility in a state of\nsanity for the crimes which his troubled brain might lead him to commit.\nIn a similar manner it is an obligation for us to seek the salutary bonds\nwhich religion and the aesthetic laws present to us, in order that during\nthe crisis when our passion is dominant it shall not injure the physical\norder.\n\nIt is not unintentionally that I have placed religion and taste in one\nand the same class; the reason is that both one and the other have the\nmerit, similar in effect, although dissimilar in principle and in value,\nto take the place of virtue properly so called, and to assure legality\nwhere there is no possibility to hope for morality. Doubtless that would\nhold an incontestably higher rank in the order of pure spirits, as they\nwould need neither the attraction of the beautiful nor the perspective of\neternal life, to conform on every occasion to the demands of reason; but\nwe know man is short-sighted, and his feebleness forces the most rigid\nmoralist to temper in some degree the rigidity of his system in practice,\nalthough he will yield nothing in theory; it obliges him, in order to\ninsure the welfare of the human race, which would be ill protected by a\nvirtue subjected to chance, to have further recourse to two strong\nanchors--those of religion and taste.\n\n\n\n\nON THE SUBLIME.\n\n\n\"Man is never obliged to say, I must--must,\" says the Jew Nathan\n[Lessing's play, \"Nathan the Wise,\" act i. scene 3.] to the dervish; and\nthis expression is true in a wider sense than man might be tempted to\nsuppose. The will is the specific character of man, and reason itself is\nonly the eternal rule of his will. All nature acts reasonably; all our\nprerogative is to act reasonably, with consciousness and with will. All\nother objects obey necessity; man is the being who wills.\n\nIt is exactly for this reason that there is nothing more inconsistent\nwith the dignity of man than to suffer violence, for violence effaces\nhim. He who does violence to us disputes nothing less than our humanity;\nhe who submits in a cowardly spirit to the violence abdicates his quality\nof man. But this pretension to remain absolutely free from all that is\nviolence seems to imply a being in possession of a force sufficiently\ngreat to keep off all other forces. But if this pretension is found in a\nbeing who, in the order of forces, cannot claim the first rank, the\nresult is an unfortunate contradiction between his instinct and his\npower.\n\nMan is precisely in this case. Surrounded by numberless forces, which\nare all superior to him and hold sway over him, he aspires by his nature\nnot to have to suffer any injury at their hands. It is true that by his\nintelligence he adds artificially to his natural forces, and that up to a\ncertain point he actually succeeds in reigning physically over everything\nthat is physical. The proverb says, \"there is a remedy for everything\nexcept death;\" but this exception, if it is one in the strictest\nacceptation of the term, would suffice to entirely ruin the very idea of\nour nature. Never will man be the cause that wills, if there is a case,\na single case, in which, with or without his consent, he is forced to\nwhat he does not wish. This single terrible exception, to be or to do\nwhat is necessary and not what he wishes, this idea will pursue him as a\nphantom; and as we see in fact among the greater part of men, it will\ngive him up a prey to the blind terrors of imagination. His boasted\nliberty is nothing, if there is a single point where he is under\nconstraint and bound. It is education that must give back liberty to\nman, and help him to complete the whole idea of his nature. It ought,\ntherefore, to make him capable of making his will prevail, for, I repeat\nit, man is the being who wills.\n\nIt is possible to reach this end in two ways: either really, by opposing\nforce to force, by commanding nature, as nature yourself; or by the idea,\nissuing from nature, and by thus destroying in relation to self the very\nidea of violence. All that helps man really to hold sway over nature is\nwhat is styled physical education. Man cultivates his understanding and\ndevelops his physical force, either to convert the forces of nature,\naccording to their proper laws, into the instruments of his will, or to\nsecure himself against their effects when he cannot direct them. But the\nforces of nature can only be directed or turned aside up to a certain\npoint; beyond that point they withdraw from the influence of man and\nplace him under theirs.\n\nThus beyond the point in question his freedom would be lost, were he only\nsusceptible of physical education. But he must be man in the full sense\nof the term, and consequently he must have nothing to endure, in any\ncase, contrary to his will. Accordingly, when he can no longer oppose to\nthe physical forces any proportional physical force, only one resource\nremains to him to avoid suffering any violence: that is, to cause to\ncease entirely that relation which is so fatal to him. It is, in short,\nto annihilate as an idea the violence he is obliged to suffer in fact.\nThe education that fits man for this is called moral education.\n\nThe man fashioned by moral education, and he only, is entirely free. He\nis either superior to nature as a power, or he is in harmony with her.\nNone of the actions that she brings to bear upon him is violence, for\nbefore reaching him it has become an act of his own will, and dynamic\nnature could never touch him, because he spontaneously keeps away from\nall to which she can reach. But to attain to this state of mind, which\nmorality designates as resignation to necessary things, and religion\nstyles absolute submission to the counsels of Providence, to reach this\nby an effort of his free will and with reflection, a certain clearness is\nrequired in thought, and a certain energy in the will, superior to what\nman commonly possesses in active life. Happily for him, man finds here\nnot only in his rational nature a moral aptitude that can be developed by\nthe understanding, but also in his reasonable and sensible nature--that\nis, in his human nature--an aesthetic tendency which seems to have been\nplaced there expressly: a faculty awakens of itself in the presence of\ncertain sensuous objects, and which, after our feelings are purified, can\nbe cultivated to such a point as to become a powerful ideal development.\nThis aptitude, I grant, is idealistic in its principle and in its\nessence, but one which even the realist allows to be seen clearly enough\nin his conduct, though he does not acknowledge this in theory. I am now\nabout to discuss this faculty.\n\nI admit that the sense of the beautiful, when it is developed by culture,\nsuffices of itself even to make us, in a certain sense, independent of\nnature as far as it is a force. A mind that has ennobled itself\nsufficiently to be more sensible of the form than of the matter of\nthings, contains in itself a plenitude of existence that nothing could\nmake it lose, especially as it does not trouble itself about the\npossession of the things in question, and finds a very liberal pleasure\nin the mere contemplation of the phenomenon. As this mind has no want to\nappropriate the objects in the midst of which it lives, it has no fear of\nbeing deprived of them. But it is nevertheless necessary that these\nphenomena should have a body, through which they manifest themselves;\nand, consequently, as long as we feel the want even only of finding a\nbeautiful appearance or a beautiful phenomenon, this want implies that of\nthe existence of certain objects; and it follows that our satisfaction\nstill depends on nature, considered as a force, because it is nature who\ndisposes of all existence in a sovereign manner. It is a different\nthing, in fact, to feel in yourself the want of objects endowed with\nbeauty and goodness, or simply to require that the objects which surround\nus are good and beautiful. This last desire is compatible with the most\nperfect freedom of the soul; but it is not so with the other. We are\nentitled to require that the object before us should be beautiful and\ngood, but we can only wish that the beautiful and the good should be\nrealized objectively before us. Now the disposition of mind is, par\nexcellence, called grand and sublime, in which no attention is given to\nthe question of knowing if the beautiful, the good, and the perfect\nexist; but when it is rigorously required that that which exists should\nbe good, beautiful and perfect, this character of mind is called sublime,\nbecause it contains in it positively all the characteristics of a fine\nmind without sharing its negative features. A sign by which beautiful\nand good minds, but having weaknesses, are recognized, is the aspiring\nalways to find their moral ideal realized in the world of facts, and\ntheir being painfully affected by all that places an obstacle to it. A\nmind thus constituted is reduced to a sad state of dependence in relation\nto chance, and it may always be predicted of it, without fear of\ndeception, that it will give too large a share to the matter in moral and\naesthetical things, and that it will not sustain the more critical trials\nof character and taste. Moral imperfections ought not to be to us a\ncause of suffering and of pain: suffering and pain bespeak rather an\nungratified wish than an unsatisfied moral want. An unsatisfied moral\nwant ought to be accompanied by a more manly feeling, and fortify our\nmind and confirm it in its energy rather than make us unhappy and\npusillanimous.\n\nNature has given to us two genii as companions in our life in this lower\nworld. The one, amiable and of good companionship, shortens the troubles\nof the journey by the gayety of its plays. It makes the chains of\nnecessity light to us, and leads us amidst joy and laughter, to the most\nperilous spots, where we must act as pure spirits and strip ourselves of\nall that is body, on the knowledge of the true and the practice of duty.\nOnce when we are there, it abandons us, for its realm is limited to the\nworld of sense; its earthly wings could not carry it beyond. But at this\nmoment the other companion steps upon the stage, silent and grave, and\nwith his powerful arm carries us beyond the precipice that made us giddy.\n\nIn the former of these genii we recognize the feeling of the beautiful,\nin the other the feeling of the sublime. No doubt the beautiful itself\nis already an expression of liberty. This liberty is not the kind that\nraises us above the power of nature, and that sets us free from all\nbodily influence, but it is only the liberty which we enjoy as men,\nwithout issuing from the limits of nature. In the presence of beauty we\nfeel ourselves free, because the sensuous instincts are in harmony with\nthe laws of reason. In presence of the sublime we feel ourselves\nsublime, because the sensuous instincts have no influence over the\njurisdiction of reason, because it is then the pure spirit that acts in\nus as if it were not absolutely subject to any other laws than its own.\n\nThe feeling of the sublime is a mixed feeling. It is at once a painful\nstate, which in its paroxysm is manifested by a kind of shudder, and a\njoyous state, that may rise to rapture, and which, without being properly\na pleasure, is greatly preferred to every kind of pleasure by delicate\nsouls. This union of two contrary sensations in one and the same feeling\nproves in a peremptory manner our moral independence. For as it is\nabsolutely impossible that the same object should be with us in two\nopposite relations, it follows that it is we ourselves who sustain two\ndifferent relations with the object. It follows that these two opposed\nnatures should be united in us, which, on the idea of this object, are\nbrought into play in two perfectly opposite ways. Thus we experience by\nthe feeling of the beautiful that the state of our spiritual nature is\nnot necessarily determined by the state of our sensuous nature; that the\nlaws of nature are not necessarily our laws; and that there is in us an\nautonomous principle independent of all sensuous impressions.\n\nThe sublime object may be considered in two lights. We either represent\nit to our comprehension, and we try in vain to make an image or idea of\nit, or we refer it to our vital force, and we consider it as a power\nbefore which ours is nothing. But though in both cases we experience in\nconnection with this object the painful feeling of our limits, yet we do\nnot seek to avoid it; on the contrary we are attracted to it by an\nirresistible force. Could this be the case if the limits of our\nimagination were at the same time those of our comprehension? Should we\nbe willingly called back to the feeling of the omnipotence of the forces\nof nature if we had not in us something that cannot be a prey of these\nforces. We are pleased with the spectacle of the sensuous infinite,\nbecause we are able to attain by thought what the senses can no longer\nembrace and what the understanding cannot grasp. The sight of a terrible\nobject transports us with enthusiasm, because we are capable of willing\nwhat the instincts reject with horror, and of rejecting what they desire.\nWe willingly allow our imagination to find something in the world of\nphenomena that passes beyond it; because, after all, it is only one\nsensuous force that triumphs over another sensuous force, but nature,\nnotwithstanding all her infinity, cannot attain to the absolute grandeur\nwhich is in ourselves. We submit willingly to physical necessity both\nour well-being and our existence. This is because the very power reminds\nus that there are in us principles that escape its empire. Man is in the\nhands of nature, but the will of man is in his own hands.\n\nNature herself has actually used a sensuous means to teach us that we are\nsomething more than mere sensuous natures. She has even known how to\nmake use of our sensations to put us on the track of this discovery--that\nwe are by no means subject as slaves to the violence of the sensations.\nAnd this is quite a different effect from that which can be produced by\nthe beautiful; I mean the beautiful of the real world, for the sublime\nitself is surpassed by the ideal. In the presence of beauty, reason and\nsense are in harmony, and it is only on account of this harmony that the\nbeautiful has attraction for us. Consequently, beauty alone could never\nteach us that our destination is to act as pure intelligences, and that\nwe are capable of showing ourselves such. In the presence of the\nsublime, on the contrary, reason and the sensuous are not in harmony, and\nit is precisely this contradiction between the two which makes the charm\nof the sublime--its irresistible action on our minds. Here the physical\nman and the moral man separate in the most marked manner; for it is\nexactly in the presence of objects that make us feel at once how limited\nthe former is that the other makes the experience of its force. The very\nthing that lowers one to the earth is precisely that which raises the\nother to the infinite.\n\nLet us imagine a man endowed with all the virtues of which the union\nconstitutes a fine character. Let us suppose a man who finds his delight\nin practising justice, beneficence, moderation, constancy, and good\nfaith. All the duties whose accomplishment is prescribed to him by\ncircumstances are only a play to him, and I admit that fortune favors him\nin such wise that none of the actions which his good heart may demand of\nhim will be hard to him. Who would not be charmed with such a delightful\nharmony between the instincts of nature and the prescriptions of reason?\nand who could help admiring such a man? Nevertheless, though he may\ninspire us with affection, are we quite sure that he is really virtuous?\nOr in general that he has anything that corresponds to the idea of\nvirtue? If this man had only in view to obtain agreeable sensations,\nunless he were mad he could not act in any other possible way; and he\nwould have to be his own enemy to wish to be vicious. Perhaps the\nprinciple of his actions is pure, but this is a question to be discussed\nbetween himself and his conscience. For our part, we see nothing of it;\nwe do not see him do anything more than a simply clever man would do who\nhad no other god than pleasure. Thus all his virtue is a phenomenon that\nis explained by reasons derived from the sensuous order, and we are by no\nmeans driven to seek for reasons beyond the world of sense.\n\nLet us suppose that this same man falls suddenly under misfortune. He is\ndeprived of his possessions; his reputation is destroyed; he is chained\nto his bed by sickness and suffering; he is robbed by death of all those\nhe loves; he is forsaken in his distress by all in whom he had trusted.\nLet us under these circumstances again seek him, and demand the practice\nof the same virtues under trial as he formerly had practised during the\nperiod of his prosperity. If he is found to be absolutely the same as\nbefore, if his poverty has not deteriorated his benevolence, or\ningratitude his kindly offices of good-will, or bodily suffering his\nequanimity, or adversity his joy in the happiness of others; if his\nchange of fortune is perceptible in externals, but not in his habits, in\nthe matter, but not in the form of his conduct; then, doubtless, his\nvirtue could not be explained by any reason drawn from the physical\norder; the idea of nature--which always necessarily supposes that actual\nphenomena rest upon some anterior phenomenon, as effects upon cause--this\nidea no longer suffices to enable us to comprehend this man; because\nthere is nothing more contradictory than to admit that effect can remain\nthe same when the cause has changed to its contrary. We must then give\nup all natural explanation or thought of finding the reason of his acts\nin his condition; we must of necessity go beyond the physical order, and\nseek the principle of his conduct in quite another world, to which the\nreason can indeed raise itself with its ideas, but which the\nunderstanding cannot grasp by its conceptions. It is this revelation of\nthe absolute moral power which is subjected to no condition of nature, it\nis this which gives to the melancholy feeling that seizes our heart at\nthe sight of such a man that peculiar, inexpressible charm, which no\ndelight of the senses, however refined, could arouse in us to the same\nextent as the sublime.\n\nThus the sublime opens to us a road to overstep the limits of the world\nof sense, in which the feeling of the beautiful would forever imprison\nus. It is not little by little (for between absolute dependence and\nabsolute liberty there is no possible transition), it is suddenly and by\na shock that the sublime wrenches our spiritual and independent nature\naway from the net which feeling has spun round us, and which enchains the\nsoul the more tightly because of its subtle texture. Whatever may be the\nextent to which feeling has gained a mastery over men by the latent\ninfluence of a softening taste, when even it should have succeeded in\npenetrating into the most secret recesses of moral jurisdiction under the\ndeceptive envelope of spiritual beauty, and there poisoning the holiness\nof principle at its source--one single sublime emotion often suffices to\nbreak all this tissue of imposture, at one blow to give freedom to the\nfettered elasticity of spiritual nature, to reveal its true destination,\nand to oblige it to conceive, for one instant at least, the feeling of\nits liberty. Beauty, under the shape of the divine Calypso, bewitched\nthe virtuous son of Ulysses, and the power of her charms held him long a\nprisoner in her island. For long he believed he was obeying an immortal\ndivinity, whilst he was only the slave of sense; but suddenly an\nimpression of the sublime in the form of Mentor seizes him; he remembers\nthat he is called to a higher destiny--he throws himself into the waves,\nand is free.\n\nThe sublime, like the beautiful, is spread profusely throughout nature,\nand the faculty to feel both one and the other has been given to all men;\nbut the germ does not develop equally; it is necessary that art should\nlend its aid. The aim of nature supposes already that we ought\nspontaneously to advance towards the beautiful, although we still avoid\nthe sublime: for the beautiful is like the nurse of our childhood, and it\nis for her to refine our soul in withdrawing it from the rude state of\nnature. But though she is our first affection, and our faculty of\nfeeling is first developed for her, nature has so provided, nevertheless,\nthat this faculty ripens slowly and awaits its full development until the\nunderstanding and the heart are formed. If taste attains its full\nmaturity before truth and morality have been established in our heart by\na better road than that which taste would take, the sensuous world would\nremain the limit of our aspirations. We should not know, either in our\nideas or in our feelings, how to pass beyond the world of sense, and all\nthat imagination failed to represent would be without reality to us. But\nhappily it enters into the plan of nature, that taste, although it first\ncomes into bloom, is the last to ripen of all the faculties of the mind.\nDuring this interval, man has time to store up in his mind a provision of\nideas, a treasure of principles in his heart, and then to develop\nespecially, in drawing from reason, his feeling for the great and the\nsublime.\n\nAs long as man was only the slave of physical necessity, while he had\nfound no issue to escape from the narrow circle of his appetites, and\nwhile he as yet felt none of that superior liberty which connects him\nwith the angels, nature, so far as she is incomprehensible, could not\nfail to impress him with the insufficiency of his imagination, and again,\nas far as she is a destructive force, to recall his physical\npowerlessness. He is forced then to pass timidly towards one, and to\nturn away with affright from the other. But scarcely has free\ncontemplation assured him against the blind oppression of the forces of\nnature--scarcely has he recognized amidst the tide of phenomena something\npermanent in his own being--than at once the coarse agglomeration of\nnature that surrounds him begins to speak in another language to his\nheart, and the relative grandeur which is without becomes for him a\nmirror in which he contemplates the absolute greatness which is within\nhimself. He approaches without fear, and with a thrill of pleasure,\nthose pictures which terrified his imagination, and intentionally makes\nan appeal to the whole strength of that faculty by which we represent the\ninfinite perceived by the senses, in order if she fails in this attempt,\nto feel all the more vividly how much these ideas are superior to all\nthat the highest sensuous faculty can give. The sight of a distant\ninfinity--of heights beyond vision, this vast ocean which is at his feet,\nthat other ocean still more vast which stretches above his head,\ntransport and ravish his mind beyond the narrow circle of the real,\nbeyond this narrow and oppressive prison of physical life. The simple\nmajesty of nature offers him a less circumscribed measure for estimating\nits grandeur, and, surrounded by the grand outlines which it presents to\nhim, he can no longer bear anything mean in his way of thinking. Who can\ntell how many luminous ideas, how many heroic resolutions, which would\nnever have been conceived in the dark study of the imprisoned man of\nscience, nor in the saloons where the people of society elbow each other,\nhave been inspired on a sudden during a walk, only by the contact and the\ngenerous struggle of the soul with the great spirit of nature? Who knows\nif it is not owing to a less frequent intercourse with this sublime\nspirit that we must partially attribute the narrowness of mind so common\nto the dwellers in towns, always bent under the minutiae which dwarf and\nwither their soul, whilst the soul of the nomad remains open and free as\nthe firmament beneath which he pitches his tent?\n\nBut it is not only the unimaginable or the sublime in quantity, it is\nalso the incomprehensible, that which escapes the understanding and\nthat which troubles it, which can serve to give us an idea of the\nsuper-sensuous infinity. As soon as this element attains the grandiose\nand announces itself to us as the work of nature (for otherwise it is\nonly despicable), it then aids the soul to represent to itself the ideal,\nand imprints upon it a noble development. Who does not love the eloquent\ndisorder of natural scenery to the insipid regularity of a French garden?\nWho does not admire in the plains of Sicily the marvellous combat of\nnature with herself--of her creative force and her destructive power?\nWho does not prefer to feast his eyes upon the wild streams and\nwaterfalls of Scotland, upon its misty mountains, upon that romantic\nnature from which Ossian drew his inspiration--rather than to grow\nenthusiastic in this stiff Holland, before the laborious triumph of\npatience over the most stubborn of elements? No one will deny that in\nthe rich grazing-grounds of Holland, things are not better ordered\nfor the wants of physical man than upon the perfid crater of Vesuvius,\nand that the understanding which likes to comprehend and arrange all\nthings, does not find its requirements rather in the regularly planted\nfarm-garden than in the uncultivated beauty of natural scenery. But\nman has requirements which go beyond those of natural life and comfort\nor well-being; he has another destiny than merely to comprehend the\nphenomena which surround him.\n\nIn the same manner as for the observant traveller, the strange wildness\nof nature is so attractive in physical nature--thus, and for the same\nreason, every soul capable of enthusiasm finds even in the regrettable\nanarchy found in the moral world a source of singular pleasure. Without\ndoubt he who sees the grand economy of nature only from the impoverished\nlight of the understanding; he who has never any other thought than to\nreform its defiant disorder and to substitute harmony, such a one could\nnot find pleasure in a world which seems given up to the caprice of\nchance rather than governed according to a wise ordination, and where\nmerit and fortune are for the most part in opposition. He desires that\nthe whole world throughout its vast space should be ruled like a house\nwell regulated; and when this much-desired regularity is not found, he\nhas no other resource than to defer to a future life, and to another and\nbetter nature, the satisfaction which is his due, but which neither the\npresent nor the past afford him. On the contrary, he renounces willingly\nthe pretension of restoring this chaos of phenomena to one single notion;\nhe regains on another side, and with interest, what he loses on this\nside. Just this want of connection, this anarchy, in the phenomena,\nmaking them useless to the understanding, is what makes them valuable to\nreason. The more they are disorderly the more they represent the freedom\nof nature. In a sense, if you suppress all connection, you have\nindependence. Thus, under the idea of liberty, reason brings back to\nunity of thought that which the understanding could not bring to unity of\nnotion. It thus shows its superiority over the understanding, as a\nfaculty subject to the conditions of a sensuous order. When we consider\nof what value it is to a rational being to be independent of natural\nlaws, we see how much man finds in the liberty of sublime objects as a\nset-off against the checks of his cognitive faculty. Liberty, with all\nits drawbacks, is everywhere vastly more attractive to a noble soul than\ngood social order without it--than society like a flock of sheep, or a\nmachine working like a watch. This mechanism makes of man only a\nproduct; liberty makes him the citizen of a better world.\n\nIt is only thus viewed that history is sublime to me. The world, as a\nhistoric object, is only the strife of natural forces; with one another\nand with man's freedom. History registers more actions referable to\nnature than to free will; it is only in a few cases, like Cato and\nPhocion, that reason has made its power felt. If we expect a treasury of\nknowledge in history how we are deceived! All attempts of philosophy to\nreconcile what the moral world demands with what the real world gives is\nbelied by experience, and nature seems as illogical in history as she is\nlogical in the organic kingdoms.\n\nBut if we give up explanation it is different. Nature, in being\ncapricious and defying logic, in pulling down great and little, in\ncrushing the noblest works of man, taking centuries to form--nature, by\ndeviating from intellectual laws, proves that you cannot explain nature\nby nature's laws themselves, and this sight drives the mind to the world\nof ideas, to the absolute.\n\nBut though nature as a sensuous activity drives us to the ideal, it\nthrows us still more into the world of ideas by the terrible. Our\nhighest aspiration is to be in good relations with physical nature,\nwithout violating morality. But it is not always convenient to serve two\nmasters; and though duty and the appetites should never be at strife,\nphysical necessity is peremptory, and nothing can save men from evil\ndestiny. Happy is he who learns to bear what he cannot change! There\nare cases where fate overpowers all ramparts, and where the only\nresistance is, like a pure spirit, to throw freely off all interest of\nsense, and strip yourself of your body. Now this force comes from\nsublime emotions, and a frequent commerce with destructive nature.\nPathos is a sort of artificial misfortune, and brings us to the spiritual\nlaw that commands our soul. Real misfortune does not always choose its\ntime opportunely, while pathos finds us armed at all points. By\nfrequently renewing this exercise of its own activity the mind controls\nthe sensuous, so that when real misfortune comes, it can treat it as an\nartificial suffering, and make it a sublime emotion. Thus pathos takes\naway some of the malignity of destiny, and wards off its blows.\n\nAway then with that false theory which supposes falsely a harmony binding\nwell being and well doing. Let evil destiny show its face. Our safety\nis not in blindness, but in facing our dangers. What can do so better\nthan familiarity with the splendid and terrible evolution of events, or\nthan pictures showing man in conflict with chance; evil triumphant,\nsecurity deceived--pictures shown us throughout history, and placed\nbefore us by tragedy? Whoever passes in review the terrible fate of\nMithridates, of Syracuse, and Carthage, cannot help keeping his appetite\nin check, at least for a time, and, seeing the vanity of things, strive\nafter that which is permanent. The capacity of the sublime is one of the\nnoblest aptitudes of man. Beauty is useful, but does not go beyond man.\nThe sublime applies to the pure spirit. The sublime must be joined to\nthe beautiful to complete the aesthetic education, and to enlarge man's\nheart beyond the sensuous world.\n\nWithout the beautiful there would be an eternal strife between our\nnatural and rational destiny. If we only thought of our vocation as\nspirits we should be strangers to this sphere of life. Without the\nsublime, beauty would make us forget our dignity. Enervated--wedded to\nthis transient state, we should lose sight of our true country. We are\nonly perfect citizens of nature when the sublime is wedded to the\nbeautiful.\n\nMany things in nature offer man the beautiful and sublime. But here\nagain he is better served at second-hand. He prefers to have them\nready-made in art rather than seek them painfully in nature. This\ninstinct for imitation in art has the advantage of being able to make\nthose points essential that nature has made secondary. While nature\nsuffers violence in the organic world, or exercises violence, working\nwith power upon man, though she can only be aesthetical as an object of\npure contemplation, art, plastic art, is fully free, because it throws\noff all accidental restrictions and leaves the mind free, because it\nimitates the appearance, not the reality of objects. As all sublimity\nand beauty consists in the appearance, and not in the value of the object,\nit follows that art has all the advantages of nature without her shackles.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PATHETIC.\n\n\nThe depicting of suffering, in the shape of simple suffering, is never\nthe end of art, but it is of the greatest importance as a means of\nattaining its end. The highest aim of art is to represent the\nsuper-sensuous, and this is effected in particular by tragic art,\nbecause it represents by sensible marks the moral man, maintaining\nhimself in a state of passion, independently of the laws of nature.\nThe principle of freedom in man becomes conscious of itself only by\nthe resistance it offers to the violence of the feelings. Now the\nresistance can only be measured by the strength of the attack. In\norder, therefore, that the intelligence may reveal itself in man as a\nforce independent of nature, it is necessary that nature should have\nfirst displayed all her power before our eyes. The sensuous being must\nbe profoundly and strongly affected, passion must be in play, that the\nreasonable being may be able to testify his independence and manifest\nhimself in action.\n\nIt is impossible to know if the empire which man has over his affections\nis the effect of a moral force, till we have acquired the certainty that\nit is not an effect of insensibility. There is no merit in mastering the\nfeelings which only lightly and transitorily skim over the surface of the\nsoul. But to resist a tempest which stirs up the whole of sensuous\nnature, and to preserve in it the freedom of the soul, a faculty of\nresistance is required infinitely superior to the act of natural force.\nAccordingly it will not be possible to represent moral freedom, except by\nexpressing passion, or suffering nature, with the greatest vividness; and\nthe hero of tragedy must first have justified his claim to be a sensuous\nbeing before aspiring to our homage as a reasonable being, and making us\nbelieve in his strength of mind.\n\nTherefore the pathetic is the first condition required most strictly in a\ntragic author, and he is allowed to carry his description of suffering as\nfar as possible, without prejudice to the highest end of his art, that\nis, without moral freedom being oppressed by it. He must give in some\nsort to his hero, as to his reader, their full load of suffering, without\nwhich the question will always be put whether the resistance opposed to\nsuffering is an act of the soul, something positive, or whether it is not\nrather a purely negative thing, a simple deficiency.\n\nThe latter case is offered in the purer French tragedy, where it is very\nrare, or perhaps unexampled, for the author to place before the reader\nsuffering nature, and where generally, on the contrary, it is only the\npoet who warms up and declaims, or the comedian who struts about on\nstilts. The icy tone of declamation extinguishes all nature here, and\nthe French tragedians, with their superstitious worship of decorum, make\nit quite impossible for them to paint human nature truly. Decorum,\nwherever it is, even in its proper place, always falsifies the expression\nof nature, and yet this expression is rigorously required by art. In a\nFrench tragedy, it is difficult for us to believe that the hero ever\nsuffers, for he explains the state of his soul, as the coolest man would\ndo, and always thinking of the effect he is making on others, he never\nlets nature pour forth freely. The kings, the princesses, and the heroes\nof Corneille or Voltaire never forget their rank even in the most violent\nexcess of passion; and they part with their humanity much sooner than\nwith their dignity. They are like those kings and emperors of our old\npicture-books, who go to bed with their crowns on.\n\nWhat a difference from the Greeks and those of the moderns who have been\ninspired with their spirit in poetry! Never does the Greek poet blush at\nnature; he leaves to the sensuous all its rights, and yet he is quite\ncertain never to be subdued by it. He has too much depth and too much\nrectitude in his mind not to distinguish the accidental, which is the\nprincipal point with false taste, from the really necessary; but all that\nis not humanity itself is accidental in man. The Greek artist who has to\nrepresent a Laocoon, a Niobe, and a Philoctetes, does not care for the\nking, the princess, or the king's son; he keeps to the man. Accordingly\nthe skilful statuary sets aside the drapery, and shows us nude figures,\nthough he knows quite well it is not so in real life. This is because\ndrapery is to him an accidental thing, and because the necessary ought\nnever to be sacrificed to the accidental. It is also because, if decency\nand physical necessities have their laws, these laws are not those of\nart. The statuary ought to show us, and wishes to show us, the man\nhimself; drapery conceals him, therefore he sets that aside, and with\nreason.\n\nThe Greek sculptor rejects drapery as a useless and embarrassing load, to\nmake way for human nature; and in like manner the Greek poet emancipates\nthe human personages he brings forward from the equally useless\nconstraint of decorum, and all those icy laws of propriety, which put\nnothing but what is artificial in man, and conceal nature in it. Take\nHomer and the tragedians; suffering nature speaks the language of truth\nand ingenuousness in their pages, and in a way to penetrate to the depths\nof our hearts. All the passions play their part freely, nor do the rules\nof propriety compress any feeling with the Greeks. The heroes are just\nas much under the influence of suffering as other men, and what makes\nthem heroes is the very fact that they feel suffering strongly and\ndeeply, without suffering overcoming them. They love life as ardently as\nothers; but they are not so ruled by this feeling as to be unable to give\nup life when the duties of honor or humanity call on them to do so.\nPhiloctetes filled the Greek stage with his lamentations; Hercules\nhimself, when in fury, does not keep under his grief. Iphigenia, on the\npoint of being sacrificed, confesses with a touching ingenuousness that\nshe grieves to part with the light of the sun. Never does the Greek\nplace his glory in being insensible or indifferent to suffering, but\nrather in supporting it, though feeling it in its fulness. The very gods\nof the Greeks must pay their tribute to nature, when the poet wishes to\nmake them approximate to humanity. Mars, when wounded, roars like ten\nthousand men together, and Venus, scratched by an iron lance, mounts\nagain to Olympus, weeping, and cursing all battles.\n\nThis lively susceptibility on the score of suffering, this warm,\ningenuous nature, showing itself uncovered and in all truth in the\nmonuments of Greek art, and filling us with such deep and lively\nemotions--this is a model presented for the imitation of all artists; it\nis a law which Greek genius has laid down for the fine arts. It is\nalways and eternally nature which has the first rights over man; she\nought never to be fettered, because man, before being anything else, is a\nsensuous creature. After the rights of nature come those of reason,\nbecause man is a rational, sensuous being, a moral person, and because it\nis a duty for this person not to let himself be ruled by nature, but to\nrule her. It is only after satisfaction has been given in the first\nplace to nature, and after reason in the second place has made its rights\nacknowledged, that it is permitted for decorum in the third place to make\ngood its claims, to impose on man, in the expression of his moral\nfeelings and of his sensations, considerations towards society, and to\nshow in it the social being, the civilized man. The first law of the\ntragic art was to represent suffering nature. The second law is to\nrepresent the resistance of morality opposed to suffering.\n\nAffection, as affection, is an unimportant thing; and the portraiture of\naffection, considered in itself, would be without any aesthetic value;\nfor, I repeat it, nothing that only interests sensuous nature is worthy\nof being represented by art. Thus not only the affections that do\nnothing but enervate and soften man, but in general all affections, even\nthose that are exalted, ecstatic, whatever may be their nature, are\nbeneath the dignity of tragic art.\n\nThe soft emotions, only producing tenderness, are of the nature of the\nagreeable, with which the fine arts are not concerned. They only caress\nthe senses, while relaxing and creating languidness, and only relate to\nexternal nature, not at all to the inner nature of man. A good number of\nour romances and of our tragedies, particularly those that bear the name\nof dramas--a sort of compromise between tragedy and comedy--a good number\nalso of those highly-appreciated family portraits, belong to this class.\nThe only effect of these works is to empty the lachrymal duct, and soothe\nthe overflowing feelings; but the mind comes back from them empty, and\nthe moral being, the noblest part of our nature, gathers no new strength\nwhatever from them. \"It is thus,\" says Kant, \"that many persons feel\nthemselves edified by a sermon that has nothing edifying in it.\" It\nseems also that modern music only aims at interesting the sensuous, and\nin this it flatters the taste of the day, which seeks to be agreeably\ntickled, but not to be startled, nor strongly moved and elevated.\nAccordingly we see music prefer all that is tender; and whatever be the\nnoise in a concert-room, silence is immediately restored, and every one\nis all ears directly a sentimental passage is performed. Then an\nexpression of sensibility common to animalism shows itself commonly on\nall faces; the eyes are swimming with intoxication, the open mouth is all\ndesire, a voluptuous trembling takes hold of the entire body, the breath\nis quick and full, in short, all the symptoms of intoxication appear.\nThis is an evident proof that the senses swim in delight, but that the\nmind or the principle of freedom in man has become a prey to the violence\nof the sensuous impression. Real taste, that of noble and manly minds,\nrejects all these emotions as unworthy of art, because they only please\nthe senses, with which art has nothing in common.\n\nBut, on the other hand, real taste excludes all extreme affections, which\nonly put sensuousness to the torture, without giving the mind any\ncompensation. These affections oppress moral liberty by pain, as the\nothers by voluptuousness; consequently they can excite aversion, and not\nthe emotion that would alone be worthy of art. Art ought to charm the\nmind and give satisfaction to the feeling of moral freedom. This man who\nis a prey to his pain is to me simply a tortured animate being, and not a\nman tried by suffering. For a moral resistance to painful affections is\nalready required of man--a resistance which can alone allow the principle\nof moral freedom, the intelligence, to make itself known in it.\n\nIf it is so, the poets and the artists are poor adepts in their art when\nthey seek to reach the pathetic only by the sensuous force of affection\nand by representing suffering in the most vivid manner. They forget that\nsuffering in itself can never be the last end of imitation, nor the\nimmediate source of the pleasure we experience in tragedy. The pathetic\nonly has aesthetic value in as far as it is sublime. Now, effects that\nonly allow us to infer a purely sensuous cause, and that are founded only\non the affection experienced by the faculty of sense, are never sublime,\nwhatever energy they may display, for everything sublime proceeds\nexclusively from the reason.\n\nI imply by passion the affections of pleasure as well as the painful\naffections, and to represent passion only, without coupling with it the\nexpression of the super-sensuous faculty which resists it, is to fall\ninto what is properly called vulgarity; and the opposite is called\nnobility. Vulgarity and nobility are two ideas which, wherever they are\napplied, have more or less relation with the super-sensuous share a man\ntakes in a work. There is nothing noble but what has its source in the\nreason; all that issues from sensuousness alone is vulgar or common. We\nsay of a man that he acts in a vulgar manner when he is satisfied with\nobeying the suggestions of his sensuous instinct; that he acts suitably\nwhen he only obeys his instinct in conformity with the laws; that he acts\nnobly when he obeys reason only, without having regard to his instincts.\nWe say of a physiognomy that it is common when it does not show any trace\nof the spiritual man, the intelligence; we say it has expression when it\nis the mind which has determined its features: and that it is noble when\na pure spirit has determined them. If an architectural work is in\nquestion we qualify it as common if it aims at nothing but a physical\nend; we name it noble if, independently of all physical aim, we find in\nit at the same time the expression of a conception.\n\nAccordingly, I repeat it, correct taste disallows all painting of the\naffections, however energetic, which rests satisfied with expressing\nphysical suffering and the physical resistance opposed to it by the\nsubject, without making visible at the same time the superior principle\nof the nature of man, the presence of a super-sensuous faculty. It does\nthis in virtue of the principle developed farther back, namely, that it\nis not suffering in itself, but only the resistance opposed to suffering,\nthat is pathetic and deserving of being represented. It is for this\nreason that all the absolutely extreme degrees of the affections are\nforbidden to the artist as well as to the poet. All of these, in fact,\noppress the force that resists from within or rather, all betray of\nthemselves, and without any necessity of other symptoms, the oppression\nof this force, because no affection can reach this last degree of\nintensity as long as the intelligence in man makes any resistance.\n\nThen another question presents itself. How is this principle of\nresistance, this super-sensuous force, manifested in the phenomenon of\nthe affections? Only in one way, by mastering or, more commonly, by\ncombating affection. I say affection, for sensuousness can also fight,\nbut this combat of sensuousness is not carried on with the affection, but\nwith the cause that produces it; a contest which has no moral character,\nbut is all physical, the same combat that the earthworm, trodden under\nfoot, and the wounded bull engage in, without thereby exciting the\npathetic. When suffering man seeks to give an expression to his\nfeelings, to remove his enemy, to shelter the suffering limb, he does all\nthis in common with the animals, and instinct alone takes the initiative\nhere, without the will being applied to. Therefore, this is not an act\nthat emanates from the man himself, nor does it show him as an\nintelligence. Sensuous nature will always fight the enemy that makes it\nsuffer, but it will never fight against itself.\n\nOn the other hand, the contest with affection is a contest with\nsensuousness, and consequently presupposes something that is distinct\nfrom sensuous nature. Man can defend himself with the help of common\nsense and his muscular strength against the object that makes him suffer;\nagainst suffering itself he has no other arms than those of reason.\n\nThese ideas must present themselves to the eye in the portraiture of the\naffections, or be awakened by this portraiture in order that the pathetic\nmay exist. But it is impossible to represent ideas, in the proper sense\nof the word, and positively, as nothing corresponds to pure ideas in the\nworld of sense. But they can be always represented negatively and in an\nindirect way if the sensuous phenomenon by which they are manifested\nhas some character of which you would seek in vain the conditions in\nphysical nature. All phenomena of which the ultimate principle cannot\nbe derived from the world of sense are an indirect representation of\nthe upper-sensuous element.\n\nAnd how does one succeed in representing something that is above nature\nwithout having recourse to supernatural means? What can this phenomenon\nbe which is accomplished by natural forces--otherwise it would not be a\nphenomenon--and yet which cannot be derived from physical causes without\na contradiction? This is the problem; how can the artist solve it?\n\nIt must be remembered that the phenomena observable in a man in a state\nof passion are of two kinds. They are either phenomena connected simply\nwith animal nature, and which, therefore, only obey the physical law,\nwithout the will being able to master them, or the independent force in\nhim being able to exercise an immediate influence over them. It is the\ninstinct which immediately produces these phenomena, and they obey\nblindly the laws of instinct. To this kind belong, for example, the\norgans of the circulation of the blood, of respiration, and all the\nsurface of the skin. But, moreover, the other organs, and those subject\nto the will, do not always await the decision of the will; and often\ninstinct itself sets them immediately in play, especially when the\nphysical state is threatened with pain or with danger. Thus, the\nmovements of my arm depend, it is true, on my will; but if I place my\nhand, without knowing it, on a burning body, the movement by which I draw\nit back is certainly not a voluntary act, but a purely instinctive\nphenomenon. Nay more, speech is assuredly subject to the empire of the\nwill, and yet instinct can also dispose of this organ according to its\nwhim, and even of this and of the mind, without consulting beforehand the\nwill, directly a sharp pain, or even an energetic affection, takes us by\nsurprise. Take the most impassible stoic and make him see suddenly\nsomething very wonderful, or a terrible and unexpected object. Fancy\nhim, for example, present when a man slips and falls to the bottom of an\nabyss. A shout, a resounding cry, and not only inarticulate, but a\ndistinct word will escape his lips, and nature will have acted in him\nbefore the will: a certain proof that there are in man phenomena which\ncannot be referred to his person as an intelligence, but only to his\ninstinct as a natural force.\n\nBut there is also in man a second order of phenomena, which are subject\nto the influence and empire of the will, or which may be considered at\nall events as being of such a kind that will might always have prevented\nthem, consequently phenomena for which the person and not instinct is\nresponsible. It is the office of instinct to watch with a blind zeal\nover the interests of the senses; but it is the office of the person to\nhold instinct in proper bounds, out of respect for the moral law.\nInstinct in itself does not hold account of any law; but the person ought\nto watch that instinct may not infringe in any way on the decrees of\nreason. It is therefore evident that it is not for instinct alone to\ndetermine unconditionally all the phenomena that take place in man in the\nstate of affection, and that on the contrary the will of man can place\nlimits to instinct. When instinct only determines all phenomena in man,\nthere is nothing more that can recall the person; there is only a\nphysical creature before you, and consequently an animal; for every\nphysical creature subject to the sway of instinct is nothing else.\nTherefore, if you wish to represent the person itself, you must propose\nto yourself in man certain phenomena that have been determined in\nopposition to instinct, or at least that have not been determined by\ninstinct. That they have not been determined by instinct is sufficient\nto refer them to a higher source, the moment we see that instinct would\nno doubt have determined them in another way if its force had not been\nbroken by some obstacle.\n\nWe are now in a position to point out in what way the super-sensuous\nelement, the moral and independent force of man, his Ego in short, can be\nrepresented in the phenomena of the affections. I understand that this\nis possible if the parts which only obey physical nature, those where\nwill either disposes nothing at all, or only under certain circumstances,\nbetray the presence of suffering; and if those, on the contrary, that\nescape the blind sway of instinct, that only obey physical nature, show\nno trace, or only a very feeble trace, of suffering, and consequently\nappear to have a certain degree of freedom. Now this want of harmony\nbetween the features imprinted on animal nature in virtue of the laws of\nphysical necessity, and those determined with the spiritual and\nindependent faculty of man, is precisely the point by which that\nsuper-sensuous principle is discovered in man capable of placing limits\nto the effects produced by physical nature, and therefore distinct from\nthe latter. The purely animal part of man obeys the physical law, and\nconsequently may show itself oppressed by the affection. It is,\ntherefore, in this part that all the strength of passion shows itself,\nand it answers in some degree as a measure to estimate the resistance--\nthat is to say, of the energy of the moral faculty in man--which can only\nbe judged according to the force of the attack. Thus in proportion as\nthe affection manifests itself with decision and violence in the field of\nanimal nature, without being able to exercise the same power in the field\nof human nature, so in proportion the latter makes itself manifestly\nknown--in the same proportion the moral independence of man shows itself\ngloriously: the portraiture becomes pathetic and the pathetic sublime.\n\nThe statues of the ancients make this principle of aesthetics sensible to\nus; but it is difficult to reduce to conceptions and express in words\nwhat the very inspection of ancient statues makes the senses feel in so\nlively a manner. The group of Laocoon and his children can give to a\ngreat extent the measure of what the plastic art of the ancients was\ncapable of producing in the matter of pathos. Winckelmann, in his\n\"History of Art,\", says: \"Laocoon is nature seized in the highest degree\nof suffering, under the features of a man who seeks to gather up against\npain all the strength of which the mind is conscious. Hence while his\nsuffering swells his muscles and stretches his nerves, the mind, armed\nwith an interior force shows itself on his contracted brow, and the\nbreast rises, because the breathing is broken, and because there is an\ninternal struggle to keep in the expression of pain, and press it back\ninto his heart. The sigh of anguish he wishes to keep in, his very\nbreath which he smothers, exhaust the lower part of his trunk, and works\ninto his flanks, which make us judge in some degree of the palpitations\nof his visceral organs. But his own suffering appears to occasion less\nanguish than the pain of his children, who turn their faces toward their\nfather, and implore him, crying for help. His father's heart shows\nitself in his eyes, full of sadness, and where pity seems to swim in a\ntroubled cloud. His face expresses lament, but he does not cry; his eyes\nare turned to heaven, and implore help from on high. His mouth also\nmarks a supreme sadness, which depresses the lower lip and seems to weigh\nupon it, while the upper lip, contracted from the top to the bottom,\nexpresses at once both physical suffering and that of the soul. Under\nthe mouth there is an expression of indignation that seems to protest\nagainst an undeserved suffering, and is revealed in the nostrils, which\nswell out and enlarge and draw upwards. Under the forehead, the struggle\nbetween pain and moral strength, united as it were in a single point, is\nrepresented with great truth, for, while pain contracts and raises the\neyebrows, the effort opposed to it by the will draws down towards the\nupper eyelid all the muscles above it, so that the eyelid is almost\ncovered by them. The artist, not being able to embellish nature, has\nsought at least to develop its means, to increase its effect and power.\nWhere is the greatest amount of pain is also the highest beauty. The\nleft side, which the serpent besets with his furious bites, and where he\ninstils his poison, is that which appears to suffer the most intensely,\nbecause sensation is there nearest to the heart. The legs strive to\nraise themselves as if to shun the evil; the whole body is nothing but\nmovement, and even the traces of the chisel contribute to the illusion;\nwe seem to see the shuddering and icy-cold skin.\"\n\nHow great is the truth and acuteness of this analysis! In what a\nsuperior style is this struggle between spirit and the suffering of\nnature developed! How correctly the author has seized each of the\nphenomena in which the animal element and the human element manifest\nthemselves, the constraint of nature and the independence of reason! It\nis well known that Virgil has described this same scene in his \"Aeneid,\"\nbut it did not enter into the plan of the epic poet to pause as the\nsculptor did, and describe the moral nature of Laocoon; for this recital\nis in Virgil only an episode; and the object he proposes is sufficiently\nattained by the simple description of the physical phenomenon, without\nthe necessity on his part of looking into the soul of the unhappy\nsufferer, as his aim is less to inspire us with pity than to fill us with\nterror. The duty of the poet from this point of view was purely\nnegative; I mean he had only to avoid carrying the picture of physical\nsuffering to such a degree that all expression of human dignity or of\nmoral resistance would cease, for if he had done this indignation and\ndisgust would certainly be felt. He, therefore, preferred to confine\nhimself to the representation of the least of the suffering, and he found\nit advisable to dwell at length on the formidable nature of the two\nserpents, and on the rage with which they attack their victims, rather\nthan on the feelings of Laocoon. He only skims over those feelings,\nbecause his first object was to represent a chastisement sent by the\ngods, and to produce an impression of terror that nothing could diminish.\nIf he had, on the contrary, detained our looks on the person of Laocoon\nhimself with as much perseverance as the statuary, instead of on the\nchastizing deity, the suffering man would have become the hero of the\nscene, and the episode would have lost its propriety in connection with\nthe whole piece.\n\nThe narrative of Virgil is well known through the excellent commentary of\nLessing. But Lessing only proposed to make evident by this example the\nlimits that separate partial description from painting, and not to make\nthe notion of the pathetic issue from it. Yet the passage of Virgil does\nnot appear to me less valuable for this latter object, and I crave\npermission to bring it forward again under this point of view:--\n\n  Ecce autem gemini Tenedo tranquilla per alta\n  (Horresco referens) immensis orbibus angues\n  Incumbunt pelago, pariterque ad litora tendunt;\n  Pectora quorum inter fluctus arrecta jubaeque\n  Sanguineae exsuperant undas; pars caetera pontum\n  Pone legit, sinuatque immensa volumine terga.\n  Fit sonitus spumante salo, jamque arva tenebant,\n  Ardentes oculos suffecti sanguine et igni,\n  Sibila lambebant linguis vibrantibus ora!\n                  Aeneid, ii. 203-211.\n\nWe find here realized the first of the three conditions of the sublime\nthat have been mentioned further back,--a very powerful natural force,\narmed for destruction, and ridiculing all resistance. But that this\nstrong element may at the same time be terrible, and thereby sublime, two\ndistinct operations of the mind are wanted; I mean two representations\nthat we produce in ourselves by our own activity. First, we recognize\nthis irresistible natural force as terrible by comparing it with the\nweakness of the faculty of resistance that the physical man can oppose to\nit; and, secondly, it is by referring it to our will, and recalling to\nour consciousness that the will is absolutely independent of all\ninfluence of physical nature, that this force becomes to us a sublime\nobject. But it is we ourselves who represent these two relations; the\npoet has only given us an object armed with a great force seeking to\nmanifest itself. If this object makes us tremble, it is only because we\nin thought suppose ourselves, or some one like us, engaged with this\nforce. And if trembling in this way, we experience the feeling of the\nsublime, it is because our consciousness tells us that, if we are the\nvictims of this force, we should have nothing to fear, from the freedom\nof our Ego, for the autonomy of the determinations of our will. In short\nthe description up to here is sublime, but quite a contemplative,\nintuitive sublimity:--\n\n  Diffugimus visu exsangues, illi agmine certo\n  Laocoonta petunt . . .--Aeneid, ii. 212-213.\n\nHere the force is presented to us as terrible also; and contemplative\nsublimity passes into the pathetic. We see that force enter really into\nstrife with man's impotence. Whether it concerns Laocoon or ourselves is\nonly a question of degree. The instinct of sympathy excites and\nfrightens in us the instinct of preservation: there are the monsters,\nthey are darting--on ourselves; there is no more safety, flight is vain.\n\nIt is no more in our power to measure this force with ours, and to refer\nit or not to our own existence. This happens without our co-operation,\nand is given us by the object itself. Accordingly our fear has not, as\nin the preceding moment, a purely subjective ground, residing in our\nsoul; it has an objective ground, residing in the object. For, even if\nwe recognize in this entire scene a simple fiction of the imagination, we\nnevertheless distinguish in this fiction a conception communicated to us\nfrom without, from another conception that we produce spontaneously in\nourselves.\n\nThus the mind loses a part of her freedom, inasmuch as she receives now\nfrom without that which she produced before her own activity. The idea\nof danger puts on an appearance of objective reality, and affection\nbecomes now a serious affair.\n\nIf we were only sensuous creatures, obeying no other instinct than that\nof self-preservation, we should stop here, and we should remain in a\nstate of mere and pure affection. But there is something in us which\ntakes no part in the affections of sensuous nature, and whose activity is\nnot directed according to physical conditions. According, then, as this\nindependently acting principle (the disposition, the moral faculty) has\nbecome to a degree developed in the soul, there is left more or less\nspace for passive nature, and there remains more or less of the\nindependent principle in the affection.\n\nIn the truly moral soul the terrible trial (of the imagination) passes\nquickly and readily into the sublime. In proportion as imagination loses\nits liberty, reason makes its own prevail, and the soul ceases not to\nenlarge within when it thus finds outward limits. Driven from all the\nintrenchments which would give physical protection to sensuous creatures,\nwe seek refuge in the stronghold of our moral liberty, and we arrive by\nthat means at an absolute and unlimited safety, at the very moment when\nwe seem to be deprived in the world of phenomena of a relative and\nprecarious rampart. But precisely because it was necessary to have\narrived at the physical oppression before having recourse to the\nassistance of our moral nature, we can only buy this high sentiment of\nour liberty through suffering. An ordinary soul confines itself entirely\nto this suffering, and never comprehends in the sublime or the pathetic\nanything beyond the terrible. An independent soul, on the contrary,\nprecisely seizes this occasion to rise to the feeling of his moral force,\nin all that is most magnificent in this force, and from every terrible\nobject knows how to draw out the sublime.\n\nThe moral man (the father) [see Aeneid, ii. 213-215] is here attacked\nbefore the physical man, and that has a grand effect. All the affections\nbecome more aesthetic when we receive them second-hand; there is no\nstronger sympathy than that we feel for sympathy.\n\nThe moment [see Aeneid, ii. 216-217] had arrived when the hero himself\nhad to be recommended to our respect as a moral personage, and the poet\nseized upon that moment. We already know by his description all the\nforce, all the rage of the two monsters who menace Laocoon, and we know\nhow all resistance would be in vain. If Laocoon were only a common man\nhe would better understand his own interests, and, like the rest of the\nTrojans, he would find safety in rapid flight. But there is a heart in\nthat breast; the danger to his children holds him back, and decides him\nto meet his fate. This trait alone renders him worthy of our pity. At\nwhatever moment the serpents had assailed him, we should have always been\ntouched and troubled. But because it happens just at the moment when as\nfather he shows himself so worthy of respect, his fate appears to us as\nthe result of having fulfilled his duty as parent, of his tender\ndisquietude for his children. It is this which calls forth our sympathy\nin the highest degree. It appears, in fact, as if he deliberately\ndevoted himself to destruction, and his death becomes an act of the will.\n\nThus there are two conditions in every kind of the pathetic: 1st.\nSuffering, to interest our sensuous nature; 2d. Moral liberty, to\ninterest our spiritual nature. All portraiture in which the expression\nof suffering nature is wanting remains without aesthetic action, and our\nheart is untouched. All portraiture in which the expression of moral\naptitude is wanting, even did it possess all the sensuous force possible,\ncould not attain to the pathetic, and would infallibly revolt our\nfeelings. Throughout moral liberty we require the human being who\nsuffers; throughout all the sufferings of human nature we always desire\nto perceive the independent spirit, or the capacity for independence.\n\nBut the independence of the spiritual being in the state of suffering can\nmanifest itself in two ways. Either negatively, when the moral man does\nnot receive the law from the physical man, and his state exercises no\ninfluence over his manner of feeling; or positively, when the moral man\nis a ruler over the physical being, and his manner of feeling exercises\nan influence upon his state. In the first case, it is the sublime of\ndisposition; in the second, it is the sublime of action.\n\nThe sublime of disposition is seen in all character independent of the\naccidents of fate. \"A noble heart struggling against adversity,\" says\nSeneca, \"is a spectacle full of attraction even for the gods.\" Such for\nexample is that which the Roman Senate offered after the disaster of\nCannae. Lucifer even, in Milton, when for the first time he contemplates\nhell--which is to be his future abode--penetrates us with a sentiment of\nadmiration by the force of soul he displays:--\n\n  \"Hail, horrors, hail.\n   Infernal world, and thou, profoundest Hell;\n   Receive thy new possessor!--one who brings\n   A mind not to be changed by place or time;\n   The mind is its own place, and in itself\n   Can make a Heaven of Hell. . . .\n            Here at least\n   We shall be free,\" etc.\n\nThe reply of Medea in the tragedy belongs also to this order of the\nsublime.\n\nThe sublime of disposition makes itself seen, it is visible to the\nspectator, because it rests upon co-existence, the simultaneous; the\nsublime action, on the contrary, is conceived only by the thought,\nbecause the impression and the act are successive, and the intervention\nof the mind is necessary to infer from a free determination the idea of\nprevious suffering.\n\nIt follows that the first alone can be expressed by the plastic arts,\nbecause these arts give but that which is simultaneous; but the poet can\nextend his domain over one and the other. Even more; when the plastic\nart has to represent a sublime action, it must necessarily bring it back\nto sublimity.\n\nIn order that the sublimity of action should take place, not only must\nthe suffering of man have no influence upon the moral constitution, but\nrather the opposite must be the case. The affection is the work of his\nmoral character. This can happen in two ways: either mediately, or\naccording to the law of liberty, when out of respect for such and such a\nduty it decides from free choice to suffer--in this case, the idea of\nduty determines as a motive, and its suffering is a voluntary act--or\nimmediately, and according to the necessity of nature, when he expiates\nby a moral suffering the violation of duty; in this second case, the idea\nof duty determines him as a force, and his suffering is no longer an\neffect. Regulus offers us an example of the first kind, when, to keep\nhis word, he gives himself up to the vengeance of the Carthaginians; and\nhe would serve as an example of the second class, if, having betrayed his\ntrust, the consciousness of this crime would have made him miserable. In\nboth cases suffering has a moral course, but with this difference, that\non the one part Regulus shows us its moral character, and that, on the\nother, he only shows us that he was made to have such a character. In\nthe first case he is in our eyes a morally great person; in the second he\nis only aesthetically great.\n\nThis last distinction is important for the tragic art; it consequently\ndeserves to be examined more closely.\n\nMan is already a sublime object, but only in the aesthetic sense, when\nthe state in which he is gives us an idea of his human destination, even\nthough we might not find this destination realized in his person. He\nonly becomes sublime to us in a moral point of view, when he acts,\nmoreover, as a person, in a manner conformable with this destination; if\nour respect bears not only on his moral faculty, but on the use he makes\nof this faculty; if dignity, in his case, is due, not only to his moral\naptitude; but to the real morality of his conduct. It is quite a\ndifferent thing to direct our judgment and attention to the moral faculty\ngenerally, and to the possibility of a will absolutely free, and to be\ndirecting it to the use of this faculty, and to the reality of this\nabsolute freedom of willing.\n\nIt is, I repeat, quite a different thing; and this difference is\nconnected not only with the objects to which we may have to direct our\njudgment, but to the very criterion of our judgment. The same object can\ndisplease us if we appreciate it in a moral point of view, and be very\nattractive to us in the aesthetical point of view. But even if the moral\njudgment and the aesthetical judgment were both satisfied, this object\nwould produce this effect on one and the other in quite a different way.\nIt is not morally satisfactory because it has an aesthetical value, nor\nhas it an aesthetical value because it satisfies us morally. Let us\ntake, as example, Leonidas and his devotion at Thermopylae. Judged from\nthe moral point of view, this action represents to me the moral law\ncarried out notwithstanding all the repugnance of instinct. Judged from\nthe aesthetic point of view, it gives me the idea of the moral faculty,\nindependent of every constraint of instinct. The act of Leonidas\nsatisfies the moral sense, the reason; it enraptures the aesthetical\nsense, the imagination.\n\nWhence comes this difference in the feelings in connection with the same\nobject? I account for it thus:--\n\nIn the same way that our being consists of two principles and natures, so\nalso and consequently our feelings are divided into two kinds, entirely\ndifferent. As reasonable beings we experience a feeling of approbation\nor of disapprobation; as sensuous creatures we experience pleasure or\ndispleasure. The two feelings, approbation and pleasure, repose on\nsatisfaction: one on a satisfaction given to a requirement of reason--\nreason has only requirements, and not wants. The other depends on a\nsatisfaction given to a sensuous want--sense only knows of wants, and\ncannot prescribe anything. These two terms--requirements of reason,\nwants of the senses--are mutually related, as absolute necessity and the\nnecessity of nature. Accordingly, both are included in the idea of\nnecessity, but with this difference, that the necessity of reason is\nunconditional, and the necessity of sense only takes place under\nconditions. But, for both, satisfaction is a purely contingent thing.\nAccordingly every feeling, whether of pleasure or approbation, rests\ndefinitively on an agreement between the contingent and the necessary.\nIf the necessary has thus an imperative character, the feeling\nexperienced will be that of approbation. If necessity has the character\nof a want, the feeling experienced will be that of pleasure, and both\nwill be strong in proportion as the satisfaction will be contingent.\nNow, underlying every moral judgment there is a requirement of reason\nwhich requires us to act conformably with the moral law, and it is an\nabsolute necessity that we should wish what is good. But as the will is\nfree, it is physically an accidental thing that we should do in fact what\nis good. If we actually do it, this agreement between the contingent in\nthe use of free will and the imperative demand of reason gives rise to\nour assent or approbation, which will be greater in proportion as the\nresistance of the inclinations made this use that we make of our free\nwill more accidental and more doubtful. Every aesthetic judgment, on the\ncontrary, refers the object to the necessity which cannot help willing\nimperatively, but only desires that there should be an agreement between\nthe accidental and its own interest. Now what is the interest of\nimagination? It is to emancipate itself from all laws, and to play its\npart freely. The obligation imposed on the will by the moral law, which\nprescribes its object in the strictest manner, is by no means favorable\nto this need of independence. And as the moral obligation of the will is\nthe object of the moral judgment, it is clear that in this mode of\njudging, the imagination could not find its interest. But a moral\nobligation imposed on the will cannot be conceived, except by supposing\nthis same will absolutely independent of the moral instincts and from\ntheir constraint. Accordingly the possibility of the moral act requires\nliberty, and therefore agrees here in the most perfect manner with the\ninterest of imagination. But as imagination, through the medium of its\nwants, cannot give orders to the will of the individual, as reason does\nby its imperative character, it follows that the faculty of freedom, in\nrelation to imagination, is something accidental, and consequently that\nthe agreement between the accidental and the necessary (conditionally\nnecessary) must excite pleasure. Therefore, if we bring to bear a moral\njudgment on this act of Leonidas, we shall consider it from a point of\nview where its accidental character strikes the eye less than its\nnecessary side. If, on the other hand, we apply the aesthetical judgment\nto it, this is another point of view, where its character of necessity\nstrikes us less forcibly than its accidental character. It is a duty for\nevery will to act thus, directly it is a free will; but the fact that\nthere is a free will that makes this act possible is a favor of nature in\nregard to this faculty, to which freedom is a necessity. Thus an act of\nvirtue judged by the moral sense--by reason--will give us as its only\nsatisfaction the feeling of approbation, because reason can never find\nmore, and seldom finds as much as it requires. This same act, judged, on\nthe contrary, by the aesthetic sense--by imagination--will give us a\npositive pleasure, because the imagination, never requiring the end to\nagree with the demand, must be surprised, enraptured, at the real\nsatisfaction of this demand as at a happy chance. Our reason will merely\napprove, and only approve, of Leonidas actually taking this heroic\nresolution; but that he could take this resolution is what delights and\nenraptures us.\n\nThis distinction between the two sorts of judgments becomes more evident\nstill, if we take an example where the moral sense and the aesthetic\nsense pronounce a different verdict. Suppose we take the act of\nPerigrinus Proteus burning himself at Olympia. Judging this act morally,\nI cannot give it my approbation, inasmuch as I see it determined by\nimpure motives, to which Proteus sacrifices the duty of respecting his\nown existence. But in the aesthetic judgment this same act delights\nme; it delights me precisely because it testifies to a power of will\ncapable of resisting even the most potent of instincts, that of\nself-preservation. Was it a moral feeling, or only a more powerful\nsensuous attraction, that silenced the instinct of self-preservation in\nthis enthusiast. It matters little, when I appreciate the act from an\naesthetic point of view. I then drop the individual, I take away the\nrelation of his will to the law that ought to govern him; I think of\nhuman will in general, considered as a common faculty of the race, and I\nregard it in connection with all the forces of nature. We have seen that\nin a moral point of view, the preservation of our being seemed to us a\nduty, and therefore we were offended at seeing Proteus violate this duty.\nIn an aesthetic point of view the self-preservation only appears as an\ninterest, and therefore the sacrifice of this interest pleases us. Thus\nthe operation that we perform in the judgments of the second kind is\nprecisely the inverse of that which we perform in those of the first. In\nthe former we oppose the individual, a sensuous and limited being, and\nhis personal will, which can be effected pathologically, to the absolute\nlaw of the will in general, and of unconditional duty which binds every\nspiritual being; in the second case, on the contrary, we oppose the\nfaculty of willing, absolute volition, and the spiritual force as an\ninfinite thing, to the solicitations of nature and the impediments of\nsense. This is the reason why the aesthetical judgment leaves us free,\nand delights and enraptures us. It is because the mere conception of\nthis faculty of willing in an absolute manner, the mere idea of this\nmoral aptitude, gives us in itself a consciousness of a manifest\nadvantage over the sensuous. It is because the mere possibility of\nemancipating ourselves from the impediments of nature is in itself a\nsatisfaction that flatters our thirst for freedom. This is the reason\nwhy moral judgment, on the contrary, makes us experience a feeling of\nconstraint that humbles us. It is because in connection with each\nvoluntary act we appreciate in this manner, we feel, as regards the\nabsolute law that ought to rule the will in general, in a position of\ninferiority more or less decided, and because the constraint of the will\nthus limited to a single determination, which duty requires of it at all\ncosts, contradicts the instinct of freedom which is the property of\nimagination. In the former case we soared from the real to the possible,\nand from the individual to the species; in the latter, on the contrary,\nwe descend from the possible to the real, and we shut up the species in\nthe narrow limits of the individual. We cannot therefore be surprised if\nthe aesthetical judgment enlarges the heart, while the moral judgment\nconstrains and straitens it.\n\nIt results, therefore, from all that which precedes, that the moral\njudgment and the aesthetic, far from mutually corroborating each other,\nimpede and hinder each other, because they impress on the soul two\ndirections entirely opposite. In fact, this observance of rule which\nreason requires of us as moral judge is incompatible with the\nindependence which the imagination calls for as aesthetic judge. It\nfollows that an object will have so much the less aesthetic value the\nmore it has the character of a moral object, and if the poet were obliged\nnotwithstanding that to choose it, he would do well in treating of it,\nnot to call the attention of our reason to the rule of the will, but that\nof our imagination to the power of the will. In his own interest it is\nnecessary for the poet to enter on this path, for with our liberty his\nempire finishes. We belong to him only inasmuch as we look beyond\nourselves; we escape from him the moment we re-enter into our innermost\nselves, and that is what infallibly takes place the moment an object\nceases to be a phenomenon in our consideration, and takes the character\nof a law which judges us.\n\nEven in the manifestation of the most sublime virtue, the poet can only\nemploy for his own views that which in those acts belongs to force. As\nto the direction of the force, he has no reason to be anxious. The poet,\neven when he places before our eyes the most perfect models of morality,\nhas not, and ought not to have, any other end than that of rejoicing our\nsoul by the contemplation of this spectacle. Moreover, nothing can\nrejoice our soul except that which improves our personality, and nothing\ncan give us a spiritual joy except that which elevates the spiritual\nfaculty. But in what way can the morality of another improve our own\npersonality, and raise our spiritual force? That this other one\naccomplishes really his duty results from an accidental use which he\nmakes of his liberty, and which for that very reason can prove nothing to\nus. We only have in common with him the faculty to conform ourselves\nequally to duty; the moral power which he exhibits reminds us also of our\nown, and that is why we then feel something which upraises our spiritual\nforce. Thus it is only the idea of the possibility of an absolutely free\nwill which makes the real exercise of this will in us charming to the\naesthetic feeling.\n\nWe shall be still more convinced when we think how little the poetic\nforce of impression which is awakened in us by an act or a moral\ncharacter is dependent on their historic reality. The pleasure which we\ntake in considering an ideal character will in no way be lessened when we\ncome to think that this character is nothing more than a poetic fiction;\nfor it is on the poetic truth, and not on historic truth, that every\naesthetic impression of the feelings rest. Moreover, poetic truth does\nnot consist in that this or that thing has effectually taken place, but\nin that it may have happened, that is to say, that the thing is in itself\npossible. Thus the aesthetic force is necessarily obliged to rest in the\nfirst place in the idea of possibility.\n\nEven in real subjects, for which the actors are borrowed from history, it\nis not the reality of the simple possibility of the fact, but that which\nis guaranteed to us by its very reality which constitutes the poetic\nelement. That these personages have indeed existed, and that these\nevents have in truth taken place, is a circumstance which can, it is\ntrue, in many cases add to our pleasure, but that which it adds to it is\nlike a foreign addition, much rather unfavorable than advantageous to the\npoetical impression.\n\nIt was long thought that a great service was rendered to German poetry by\nrecommending German poets to treat of national themes. Why, it was\nasked, did Greek poetry have so much power over the mind? Because it\nbrought forward national events and immortalized domestic exploits. No\ndoubt the poetry of the ancients may have been indebted to this\ncircumstance for certain effects of which modern poetry cannot boast; but\ndo these effects belong to art and the poet? It is small glory for the\nGreek genius if it had only this accidental advantage over modern genius;\nstill more if it were necessary for the poets, in order to gain this\nadvantage, to obtain it by this conformity of their invention with real\nhistory! It is only a barbarous taste that requires this stimulant of a\nnational interest to be captivated by beautiful things; and it is only a\nscribbler who borrows from matter a force to which he despairs of giving\na form.\n\nPoetry ought not to take its course through the frigid region of memory;\nit ought never to convert learning into its interpreter, nor private\ninterest its advocate with the popular mind. It ought to go straight to\nthe heart, because it has come from the heart; and aim at the man in the\ncitizen, not the citizen in the man.\n\nHappily, true genius does not make much account of all these counsels\nthat people are so anxious to give her with better intentions than\ncompetence. Otherwise, Sulzer and his school might have made German\npoetry adopt a very equivocal style. It is no doubt a very honorable aim\nin a poet to moralize the man, and excite the patriotism of the citizen,\nand the Muses know better than any one how well the arts of the sublime\nand of the beautiful are adapted to exercise this influence. But that\nwhich poetry obtains excellently by indirect means it would accomplish\nvery badly as an immediate end. Poetry is not made to serve in man for\nthe accomplishment of a particular matter, nor could any instrument be\nselected less fitted to cause a particular object to succeed, or to carry\nout special projects and details. Poetry acts on the whole of human\nnature, and it is only by its general influence on the character of a man\nthat it can influence particular acts. Poetry can be for man what love\nis for the hero. It can neither counsel him, nor strike for him, nor do\nanything for him in short; but it can form a hero in him, call him to\ngreat deeds, and arm him with a strength to be all that he ought to be.\n\nThus the degree of aesthetical energy with which sublime feelings and\nsublime acts take possession of our souls, does not rest at all on the\ninterest of reason, which requires every action to be really conformable\nwith the idea of good. But it rests on the interest of the imagination,\nwhich requires conformity with good should be possible, or, in other\nterms, that no feeling, however strong, should oppress the freedom of the\nsoul. Now this possibility is found in every act that testifies with\nenergy to liberty, and to the force of the will; and if the poet meets\nwith an action of this kind, it matters little where, he has a subject\nsuitable for his art. To him, and to the interest we have in him, it is\nquite the same, to take his hero in one class of characters or in\nanother, among the good or the wicked, as it often requires as much\nstrength of character to do evil conscientiously and persistently as to\ndo good. If a proof be required that in our aesthetic judgments we\nattend more to the force than to its direction, to its freedom than to\nits lawfulness, this is sufficient for our evidence. We prefer to see\nforce and freedom manifest themselves at the cost of moral regularity,\nrather than regularity at the cost of freedom and strength. For directly\none of those cases offers itself, in which the general law agrees with\nthe instincts which by their strength threaten to carry away the will,\nthe aesthetic value of the character is increased, if he be capable of\nresisting these instincts. A vicious person begins to interest us as\nsoon as he must risk his happiness and life to carry out his perverse\ndesigns; on the contrary, a virtuous person loses in proportion as he\nfinds it useful to be virtuous. Vengeance, for instance, is certainly an\nignoble and a vile affection, but this does not prevent it from becoming\naesthetical, if to satisfy it we must endure painful sacrifice. Medea\nslaying her children aims at the heart of Jason, but at the same time she\nstrikes a heavy blow at her own heart, and her vengeance aesthetically\nbecomes sublime directly we see in her a tender mother.\n\nIn this sense the aesthetic judgment has more of truth than is ordinarily\nbelieved. The vices which show a great force of will evidently announce\na greater aptitude for real moral liberty than do virtues which borrow\nsupport from inclination; seeing that it only requires of the man who\npersistently does evil to gain a single victory over himself, one simple\nupset of his maxims, to gain ever after to the service of virtue his\nwhole plan of life, and all the force of will which he lavished on evil.\nAnd why is it we receive with dislike medium characters, whilst we at\ntimes follow with trembling admiration one which is altogether wicked?\nIt is evident, that with regard to the former, we renounce all hope, we\ncannot even conceive the possibility of finding absolute liberty of the\nwill; whilst with the other, on the contrary, each time he displays his\nfaculties, we feel that one single act of the will would suffice to raise\nhim up to the fullest height of human dignity.\n\nThus, in the aesthetic judgment, that which excites our interest is not\nmorality itself, but liberty alone; and moral purity can only please our\nimagination when it places in relief the forces of the will. It is then\nmanifestly to confound two very distinct orders of ideas, to require in\naesthetic things so exact a morality, and, in order to stretch the domain\nof reason, to exclude the imagination from its own legitimate sphere.\n\nEither it would be necessary to subject it entirely, then there would be\nan end to all aesthetic effect; or it would share the realm of reason,\nthen morality would not gain much. For if we pretend to pursue at the\nsame time two different ends, there would be risk of missing both one and\nthe other. The liberty of the imagination would be fettered by too great\nrespect for the moral law; and violence would be done to the character of\nnecessity which is in the reason, in missing the liberty which belongs to\nthe imagination.\n\n\n\n\nON GRACE AND DIGNITY.\n\n\nThe Greek fable attributes to the goddess of beauty a wonderful girdle\nwhich has the quality of lending grace and of gaining hearts in all who\nwear it. This same divinity is accompanied by the Graces, or goddesses\nof grace. From this we see that the Greeks distinguished from beauty\ngrace and the divinities styled the Graces, as they expressed the ideas\nby proper attributes, separable from the goddess of beauty. All that is\ngraceful is beautiful, for the girdle of love winning attractions is the\nproperty of the goddess of Cnidus; but all beauty is not of necessity\ngrace, for Venus, even without this girdle, does not cease to be what she\nis.\n\nHowever, according to this allegory, the goddess of beauty is the only\none who wears and who lends to others the girdle of attractions. Juno,\nthe powerful queen of Olympus, must begin by borrowing this girdle from\nVenus, when she seeks to charm Jupiter on Mount Ida [Pope's \"Iliad,\" Book\nXIV. v. 220]. Thus greatness, even clothed with a certain degree of\nbeauty, which is by no means disputed in the spouse of Jupiter, is never\nsure of pleasing without the grace, since the august queen of the gods,\nto subdue the heart of her consort, expects the victory not from her own\ncharms but from the girdle of Venus.\n\nBut we see, moreover, that the goddess of beauty can part with this\ngirdle, and grant it, with its quality and effects, to a being less\nendowed with beauty. Thus grace is not the exclusive privilege of the\nbeautiful; it can also be handed over, but only by beauty, to an object\nless beautiful, or even to an object deprived of beauty.\n\nIf these same Greeks saw a man gifted in other respects with all the\nadvantages of mind, but lacking grace, they advised him to sacrifice to\nthe Graces. If, therefore, they conceived these deities as forming an\nescort to the beauty of the other sex, they also thought that they would\nbe favorable to man, and that to please he absolutely required their\nhelp.\n\nBut what then is grace, if it be true that it prefers to unite with\nbeauty, yet not in an exclusive manner? What is grace if it proceeds\nfrom beauty, but yet produces the effects of beauty, even when beauty is\nabsent. What is it, if beauty can exist indeed without it, and yet has\nno attraction except with it? The delicate feeling of the Greek people\nhad marked at an early date this distinction between grace and beauty,\nwhereof the reason was not then able to give an account; and, seeking the\nmeans to express it, it borrowed images from the imagination, because the\nunderstanding could not offer notions to this end. On this score, the\nmyth of the girdle deserves to fix the attention of the philosopher, who,\nhowever, ought to be satisfied to seek ideas corresponding with these\npictures when the pure instinctive feeling throws out its discoveries,\nor, in other words, with explaining the hieroglyphs of sensation. If we\nstrip off its allegorical veil from this conception of the Greeks, the\nfollowing appears the only meaning it admits.\n\nGrace is a kind of movable beauty, I mean a beauty which does not belong\nessentially to its subject, but which may be produced accidentally in it,\nas it may also disappear from it. It is in this that grace is\ndistinguished from beauty properly so called, or fixed beauty, which is\nnecessarily inherent in the subject itself. Venus can no doubt take off\nher girdle and give it up for the moment to Juno, but she could only give\nup her beauty with her very person. Venus, without a girdle, is no\nlonger the charming Venus, without beauty she is no longer Venus.\n\nBut this girdle as a symbol of movable beauty has this particular\nfeature, that the person adorned with it not only appears more graceful,\nbut actually becomes so. The girdle communicates objectively this\nproperty of grace, in this contrasting with other articles of dress,\nwhich have only subjective effects, and without modifying the person\nherself, only modify the impression produced on the imagination of\nothers. Such is the express meaning of the Greek myth; grace becomes the\nproperty of the person who puts on this girdle; she does more than appear\namiable, it is so in fact.\n\nNo doubt it may be thought that a girdle, which after all is only an\noutward, artificial ornament, does not prove a perfectly correct emblem\nto express grace as a personal quality. But a personal quality that is\nconceived at the same time as separable from the subject, could only be\nrepresented to the senses by an accidental ornament which can be detached\nfrom the person, without the essence of the latter being affected by it.\n\nThus the girdle of charms operates not by a natural effect (for then it\nwould not change anything in the person itself) but by a magical effect;\nthat is to say, its virtue extends beyond all natural conditions. By\nthis means, which is nothing more, I admit, than an expedient, it has\nbeen attempted to avoid the contradiction to which the mind, as regards\nits representative faculty, is unavoidably reduced, every time it asks an\nexpression from nature herself, for an object foreign to nature and which\nbelongs to the free field of the ideal. If this magic girdle is the\nsymbol of an objective property which can be separated from its subject\nwithout modifying in any degree its nature, this myth can only express\none thing--the beauty of movement, because movement is the only\nmodification that can affect an object without changing its identity.\n\nThe beauty of movement is an idea that satisfies the two conditions\ncontained in the myth which now occupies us. In the first place, it is\nan objective beauty, not entirely depending upon the impression that we\nreceive from the object, but belonging to the object itself. In the\nsecond place, this beauty has in itself something accidental, and the\nobject remains identical even when we conceive it to be deprived of this\nproperty. The girdle of attractions does not lose its magic virtue in\npassing to an object of less beauty, or even to that which is without\nbeauty; that is to say, that a being less beautiful, or even one which is\nnot beautiful, may also lay claim to the beauty of movement. The myth\ntells us that grace is something accidental in the subject in which we\nsuppose it to be. It follows that we can attribute this property only to\naccidental movements. In an ideal of beauty the necessary movements must\nbe beautiful, because inasmuch as necessary they form an integral part of\nits nature; the idea of Venus once given, the idea of this beauty of\nnecessary movements is that implicitly comprised in it; but it is not the\nsame with the beauty of accidental movements; this is an extension of the\nformer; there can be a grace in the voice, there is none in respiration.\n\nBut all this beauty in accidental movements--is it necessarily grace? It\nis scarcely necessary to notice that the Greek fable attributes grace\nexclusively to humanity. It goes still further, for even the beauty of\nform it restricts within the limits of the human species, in which, as we\nknow, the Greeks included also their gods. But if grace is the exclusive\nprivilege of the human form, none of the movements which are common to\nman with the rest of nature can evidently pretend to it. Thus, for\nexample, if it were admitted that the ringlets of hair on a beautiful\nhead undulate with grace, there would also be no reason to deny a grace\nof movement to the branches of trees, to the waves of the stream, to the\nears of a field of corn, or to the limbs of animals. No, the goddess of\nCnidus represents exclusively the human species; therefore, as soon as\nyou see only a physical creature in man, a purely sensuous object, she is\nno longer concerned with him. Thus, grace can only be met with in\nvoluntary movements, and then in those only which express some sentiment\nof the moral order. Those which have as principle only animal\nsensuousness belong only, however voluntary we may suppose them to be, to\nphysical nature, which never reaches of itself to grace. If it were\npossible to have grace in the manifestations of the physical appetites\nand instincts, grace would no longer be either capable or worthy to serve\nas the expression of humanity. Yet it is humanity alone which to the\nGreek contains all the idea of beauty and of perfection. He never\nconsents to see separated from the soul the purely sensuous part, and\nsuch is with him that which might be called man's sensuous nature, which\nit is equally impossible for him to isolate either from his lower nature\nor from his intelligence. In the same way that no idea presents itself\nto his mind without taking at once a visible form, and without his\nendeavoring to give a bodily envelope even to his intellectual\nconceptions, so he desires in man that all his instinctive acts should\nexpress at the same time his moral destination. Never for the Greek is\nnature purely physical nature, and for that reason he does not blush to\nhonor it; never for him is reason purely reason, and for that reason he\nhas not to tremble in submitting to its rule. The physical nature and\nmoral sentiments, matter and mind, earth and heaven, melt together with a\nmarvellous beauty in his poetry. Free activity, which is truly at home\nonly in Olympus, was introduced by him even into the domain of sense, and\nit is a further reason for not attaching blame to him if reciprocally he\ntransported the affections of the sense into Olympus. Thus, this\ndelicate sense of the Greeks, which never suffered the material element\nunless accompanied by the spiritual principle, recognizes in man no\nvoluntary movement belonging only to sense which did not at the same time\nmanifest the moral sentiment of the soul. It follows that for them grace\nis one of the manifestations of the soul, revealed through beauty in\nvoluntary movements; therefore, wherever there is grace, it is the soul\nwhich is the mobile, and it is in her that beauty of movement has its\nprinciple. The mythological allegory thus expresses the thought, \"Grace\nis a beauty not given by nature, but produced by the subject itself.\"\n\nUp to the present time I have confined myself to unfolding the idea of\ngrace from the Greek myth, and I hope I have not forced the sense: may I\nnow be permitted to try to what result a philosophical investigation on\nthis point will lead us, and to see if this subject, as so many others,\nwill confirm this truth, that the spirit of philosophy can hardly flatter\nitself that it can discover anything which has not already been vaguely\nperceived by sentiment and revealed in poetry?\n\nWithout her girdle, and without the Graces, Venus represents the ideal of\nbeauty, such as she could have come forth from the hands of nature, and\nsuch as she is made without the intervention of mind endowed with\nsentiment and by the virtue alone of plastic forces. It is not without\nreason that the fable created a particular divinity to represent this\nsort of beauty, because it suffices to see and to feel in order to\ndistinguish it very distinctly from the other, from that which derives\nits origin from the influence of a mind endowed with sentiments.\n\nThis first beauty, thus formed by nature solely and in virtue of the laws\nof necessity, I shall distinguish from that which is regulated upon\nconditions of liberty, in calling it, if allowed, beauty of structure\n(architectonic beauty). It is agreed, therefore, to designate under this\nname that portion of human beauty which not only has as efficient\nprinciple the forces and agents of physical nature (for we can say as\nmuch for every phenomenon), but which also is determined, so far as it is\nbeauty solely, by the forces of this nature.\n\nWell-proportioned limbs, rounded contours, an agreeable complexion,\ndelicacy of skin, an easy and graceful figure, a harmonious tone of\nvoice, etc., are advantages which are gifts of nature and fortune: of\nnature, which predisposed to this, and developed it herself; of fortune,\nwhich protects against all influence adverse to the work of nature.\n\nVenus came forth perfect and complete from the foam of the sea. Why\nperfect? because she is the finished and exactly determined work of\nnecessity, and on that account she is neither susceptible of variety nor\nof progress. In other terms, as she is only a beautiful representation\nof the various ends which nature had in view in forming man, and thence\neach of her properties is perfectly determined by the idea that she\nrealizes; hence it follows that we can consider her as definitive and\ndetermined (with regard to its connection with the first conception)\nalthough this conception is subject, in its development, to the\nconditions of time.\n\nThe architectonic beauty of the human form and its technical perfection\nare two ideas, which we must take good care not to confound. By the\nlatter, the ensemble of particular ends must be understood, such as they\nco-ordinate between themselves towards a general and higher end; by the\nother, on the contrary, a character suited to the representation of these\nends, as far as these are revealed, under a visible form, to our faculty\nof seeing and observing. When, then, we speak of beauty, we neither take\ninto consideration the justness of the aims of nature in themselves, nor\nformally, the degree of adaptation to the principles of art which their\ncombination could offer. Our contemplative faculties hold to the manner\nin which the object appears to them, without taking heed to its logical\nconstitution. Thus, although the architectonic beauty, in the structure\nof man, be determined by the idea which has presided at this structure,\nand by the ends that nature proposes for it, the aesthetic judgment,\nmaking abstraction of these ends, considers this beauty in itself; and in\nthe idea which we form of it, nothing enters which does not immediately\nand properly belong to the exterior appearance.\n\nWe are, then, not obliged to say that the dignity of man and of his\ncondition heightens the beauty of his structure. The idea we have of his\ndignity may influence, it is true, the judgment that we form on the\nbeauty of his structure; but then this judgment ceases to be purely\naesthetic. Doubtless, the technical constitution of the human form is an\nexpression of its destiny, and, as such, it ought to excite our\nadmiration; but this technical constitution is represented to the\nunderstanding and not to sense; it is a conception and not a phenomenon.\nThe architectonic beauty, on the contrary, could never be an expression\nof the destiny of man, because it addresses itself to quite a different\nfaculty from that to which it belongs to pronounce upon his destiny.\n\nIf, then, man is, amongst all the technical forces created by nature,\nthat to whom more especially we attribute beauty, this is exact and true\nonly under one condition, which is, that at once and upon the simple\nappearance he justifies this superiority, without the necessity, in order\nto appreciate it, that we bring to mind his humanity. For, to recall\nthis, we must pass through a conception; and then it would no longer be\nthe sense, but the understanding, that would become the judge of beauty,\nwhich would imply contradiction. Man, therefore, cannot put forward the\ndignity of his moral destiny, nor give prominence to his superiority as\nintelligence, to increase the price of his beauty. Man, here, is but a\nbeing thrown like others into space--a phenomenon amongst other\nphenomena. In the world of sense no account is made of the rank he holds\nin the world of ideas; and if he desires in that to hold the first place,\nhe can only owe it to that in him which belongs to the physical order.\n\nBut his physical nature is determined, we know, by the idea of his\nhumanity; from which it follows that his architectonic beauty is so also\nmediately. If, then he is distinguished by superior beauty from all\nother creatures of the sensuous world, it is incontestable that he owes\nthis advantage to his destiny as man, because it is in it that the reason\nis of the differences which in general separate him from the rest of the\nsensuous world. But the beauty of the human form is not due to its being\nthe expression of this superior destiny, for if it were so, this form\nwould necessarily cease to be beautiful, from the moment it began to\nexpress a less high destiny, and the contrary to this form would be\nbeautiful as soon as it could be admitted that it expresses this higher\ndestination. However, suppose that at the sight of a fine human face we\ncould completely forget that which it expresses, and put in its place,\nwithout chancing anything of its outside, the savage instincts of the\ntiger, the judgment of the eyesight would remain absolutely the same, and\nthe tiger would be for it the chef-d'oeuvre of the Creator.\n\nThe destiny of man as intelligence contributes, then, to the beauty of\nhis structure only so far as the form that represents this destiny, the\nexpression that makes it felt, satisfies at the same time the conditions\nwhich are prescribed in the world of sense to the manifestations of the\nbeautiful; which signifies that beauty ought always to remain a pure\neffect of physical nature, and that the rational conception which had\ndetermined the technical utility of the human structure cannot confer\nbeauty, but simply be compatible with beauty.\n\nIt could be objected, it is true, that in general all which is manifested\nby a sensuous representation is produced by the forces of nature, and\nthat consequently this character cannot be exclusively an indication of\nthe beautiful. Certainly, and without doubt, all technical creations are\nthe work of nature; but it is not by the fact of nature that they are\ntechnical, or at least that they are so judged to be. They are technical\nonly through the understanding, and thus their technical perfection has\nalready its existence in the understanding, before passing into the world\nof sense, and becoming a sensible phenomenon. Beauty, on the contrary,\nhas the peculiarity, that the sensuous world is not only its theatre, but\nthe first source from whence it derives its birth, and that it owes to\nnature not only its expression, but also its creation. Beauty is\nabsolutely but a property of the world of sense; and the artist, who has\nthe beautiful in view, would not attain to it but inasmuch as he\nentertains this illusion, that his work is the work of nature.\n\nIn order to appreciate the technical perfection of the human body, we\nmust bear in mind the ends to which it is appropriated; this being quite\nunnecessary for the appreciation of its beauty. Here the senses require\nno aid, and of themselves judge with full competence; however they would\nnot be competent judges of the beautiful, if the world of sense (the\nsenses have no other object) did not contain all the conditions of beauty\nand was therefore competent to produce it. The beauty of man, it is\ntrue, has for mediate reason the idea of his humanity, because all his\nphysical nature is founded on this idea; but the senses, we know, hold to\nimmediate phenomena, and for them it is exactly the same as if this\nbeauty were a simple effect of nature, perfectly independent.\n\nFrom what we have said, up to the present time, it would appear that the\nbeautiful can offer absolutely no interest to the understanding, because\nits principle belongs solely to the world of sense, and amongst all our\nfaculties of knowledge it addresses itself only to our senses. And in\nfact, the moment that we sever from the idea of the beautiful, as a\nforeign element, all that is mixed with the idea of technical perfection,\nalmost inevitably, in the judgment of beauty, it appears that nothing\nremains to it by which it can become the object of an intellectual\npleasure. And nevertheless, it is quite as incontestable that the\nbeautiful pleases the understanding, as it is beyond doubt that the\nbeautiful rests upon no property of the object that could not be\ndiscovered but by the understanding.\n\nTo solve this apparent contradiction, it must be remembered that the\nphenomena can in two different ways pass to the state of objects of the\nunderstanding and express ideas. It is not always necessary that the\nunderstanding draws these ideas from phenomena; it can also put them into\nthem. In the two cases, the phenomena will be adequate to a rational\nconception, with this simple difference, that, in the first case, the\nunderstanding finds it objectively given, and to a certain extent only\nreceives it from the object because it is necessary that the idea should\nbe given to explain the nature and often even the possibility of the\nobject; whilst in the second case, on the contrary, it is the\nunderstanding which of itself interprets, in a manner to make of it the\nexpression of its idea, that which the phenomenon offers us, without any\nconnection with this idea, and thus treats by a metaphysical process that\nwhich in reality is purely physical. There, then, in the association of\nthe idea with the object there is an objective necessity; here, on the\ncontrary, a subjective necessity at the utmost. It is unnecessary to say\nthat, in my mind, the first of these two connections ought to be\nunderstood of technical perfection, the second, of the beautiful.\n\nAs then in the second case it is a thing quite contingent for the\nsensuous object that there should or should not be outside of it an\nobject which perceives it--an understanding that associates one of its\nown ideas with it, consequently, the ensemble of these objective\nproperties ought to be considered as fully independent of this idea; we\nhave perfectly the right to reduce the beautiful, objectively, to the\nsimple conditions of physical nature, and to see nothing more in beauty\nthan effect belonging purely to the world of sense. But as, on the other\nside, the understanding makes of this simple fact of the world of sense a\ntranscendent usage, and in lending it a higher signification inasmuch as\nhe marks it, as it were, with his image, we have equally the right to\ntransport the beautiful, subjectively, into the world of intelligence.\nIt is in this manner that beauty belongs at the same time to the two\nworlds--to one by the right of birth, to the other by adoption; it takes\nits being in the world of sense, it acquires the rights of citizenship in\nthe world of understanding. It is that which explains how it can be that\ntaste, as the faculty for appreciating the beautiful, holds at once the\nspiritual element and that of sense; and that these two natures,\nincompatible one with the other, approach in order to form in it a happy\nunion. It is this that explains how taste can conciliate respect for the\nunderstanding with the material element, and with the rational principle\nthe favor and the sympathy of the senses, how it can ennoble the\nperceptions of the senses so as to make ideas of them, and, in a certain\nmeasure, transform the physical world itself into a domain of the ideal.\n\nAt all events, if it is accidental with regard to the object, that the\nunderstanding associates, at the representation of this object, one of\nits own ideas with it, it is not the less necessary for the subject which\nrepresents it to attach to such a representation such an idea. This\nidea, and the sensuous indication which corresponds to it in the object,\nought to be one with the other in such relation, that the understanding\nbe forced to this association by its own immutable laws; the\nunderstanding then must have in itself the reason which leads it to\nassociate exclusively a certain phenomenon with a certain determined\nidea, and, reciprocally, the object should have in itself the reason for\nwhich it exclusively provokes that idea and not another. As to knowing\nwhat the idea can be which the understanding carries into the beautiful,\nand by what objective property the object gifted with beauty can be\ncapable of serving as symbol to this idea, is then a question much too\ngrave to be solved here in passing, and I reserve this examination for an\nanalytical theory of the beautiful.\n\nThe architectonic beauty of man is then, in the way I have explained it,\nthe visible expression of a rational conception, but it is so only in the\nsame sense and the same title as are in general all the beautiful\ncreations of nature. As to the degree, I agree that it surpasses all the\nother beauties; but with regard to kind, it is upon the same rank as they\nare, because it also manifests that which alone is perceptible of its\nsubject, and it is only when we represent it to ourselves that it\nreceives a super-sensuous value.\n\nIf the ends of creation are marked in man with more of success and of\nbeauty than in the organic beings, it is to some extent a favor which the\nintelligence, inasmuch as it dictated the laws of the human structure,\nhas shown to nature charged to execute those laws. The intelligence, it\nis true, pursues its end in the technique of man with a rigorous\nnecessity, but happily its exigencies meet and accord with the necessary\nlaws of nature so well, that one executes the order of the other whilst\nacting according to its own inclination.\n\nBut this can only be true respecting the architectonic beauty of man,\nwhere the necessary laws of physical nature are sustained by another\nnecessity, that of the teleological principle which determines them. It\nis here only that the beautiful could be calculated by relation to the\ntechnique of the structure, which can no longer take place when the\nnecessity is on one side alone, and the super-sensuous cause which\ndetermines the phenomenon takes a contingent character. Thus, it is\nnature alone who takes upon herself the architectonic beauty of man,\nbecause here, from the first design, she had been charged once for all by\nthe creating intelligence with the execution of all that man needs in\norder to arrive at the ends for which he is destined, and she has in\nconsequence no change to fear in this organic work which she\naccomplishes.\n\nBut man is moreover a person--that is to say, a being whose different\nstates can have their cause in himself, and absolutely their last cause;\na being who can be modified by reason that he draws from himself. The\nmanner in which he appears in the world of sense depends upon the manner\nin which he feels and wills, and, consequently, upon certain states which\nare freely determined by himself, and not fatally by nature.\n\nIf man were only a physical creature, nature, at the same time that she\nestablishes the general laws of his being, would determine also the\nvarious causes of application. But here she divides her empire with free\narbitration; and, although its laws are fixed, it is the mind that\npronounces upon particular cases.\n\nThe domain of mind extends as far as living nature goes, and it finishes\nonly at the point at which organic life loses itself in unformed matter,\nat the point at which the animal forces cease to act. It is known that\nall the motive forces in man are connected one with the other, and this\nmakes us understand how the mind, even considered as principle of\nvoluntary movement, can propagate its action through all organisms. It\nis not only the instruments of the will, but the organs themselves upon\nwhich the will does not immediately exercise its empire, that undergo,\nindirectly at least, the influence of mind; the mind determines then, not\nonly designedly when it acts, but again, without design, when it feels.\n\nFrom nature in herself (this result is clearly perceived from what\nprecedes) we must ask nothing but a fixed beauty, that of the phenomena\nthat she alone has determined according to the law of necessity. But\nwith free arbitration, chance (the accidental), interferes in the work of\nnature, and the modifications that affect it thus under the empire of\nfree will are no longer, although all behave according to its own laws,\ndetermined by these laws. From thence it is to the mind to decide the\nuse it will make of its instruments, and with regard to that part of\nbeauty which depends on this use, nature has nothing further to command,\nnor, consequently, to incur any responsibility.\n\nAnd thus man by reason that, making use of his liberty, he raises himself\ninto the sphere of pure intelligences, would find himself in danger of\nsinking, inasmuch as he is a creature of sense, and of losing in the\njudgment of taste that which he gains at the tribunal of reason. This\nmoral destiny, therefore, accomplished by the moral action of man, would\ncost him a privilege which was assured to him by this same moral destiny\nwhen only indicated in his structure; a purely sensuous privilege, it is\ntrue, but one which receives, as we have seen, a signification and a\nhigher value from the understanding. No; nature is too much enamored\nwith harmony to be guilty of so gross a contradiction, and that which is\nharmonious in the world of the understanding could not be rendered by a\ndiscord in the world of sense.\n\nAs soon, then, as in man the person, the moral and free agent, takes upon\nhimself to determine the play of phenomena, and by his intervention takes\nfrom nature the power to protect the beauty of her work, he then, as it\nwere, substitutes himself for nature, and assumes in a certain measure,\nwith the rights of nature, a part of the obligations incumbent on her.\nWhen the mind, taking possession of the sensuous matter subservient to\nit, implicates it in his destiny and makes it depend on its own\nmodifications, it transforms itself to a certain point into a sensuous\nphenomenon, and, as such, is obliged to recognize the law which regulates\nin general all the phenomena. In its own interest it engages to permit\nthat nature in its service, placed under its dependence, shall still\npreserve its character of nature, and never act in a manner contrary to\nits anterior obligations. I call the beautiful an obligation of\nphenomena, because the want which corresponds to it in the subject has\nits reason in the understanding itself, and thus it is consequently\nuniversal and necessary. I call it an anterior obligation because the\nsenses, in the matter of beauty, have given their judgment before the\nunderstanding commences to perform its office.\n\nThus it is now free arbitration which rules the beautiful. If nature has\nfurnished the architectonic beauty, the soul in its turn determines the\nbeauty of the play, and now also we know what we must understand by charm\nand grace. Grace is the beauty of the form under the influence of free\nwill; it is the beauty of this kind of phenomena that the person himself\ndetermines. The architectonic beauty does honor to the author of nature;\ngrace does honor to him who possesses it. That is a gift, this is a\npersonal merit.\n\nGrace can be found only in movement, for a modification which takes place\nin the soul can only be manifested in the sensuous world as movement.\nBut this does not prevent features fixed and in repose also from\npossessing grace. There immobility is, in its origin, movement which,\nfrom being frequently repeated, at length becomes habitual, leaving\ndurable traces.\n\nBut all the movements of man are not capable of grace. Grace is never\notherwise than beauty of form animated into movement by free will; and\nthe movements which belong only to physical nature could not merit the\nname. It is true that an intellectual man, if he be keen, ends by\nrendering himself master of almost all the movements of the body; but\nwhen the chain which links a fine lineament to a moral sentiment\nlengthens much, this lineament becomes the property of the structure, and\ncan no longer be counted as a grace. It happens, ultimately, that the\nmind moulds the body, and that the structure is forced to modify itself\naccording to the play that the soul imprints upon the organs, so\nentirely, that grace finally is transformed--and the examples are not\nrare--into architectonic beauty. As at one time an antagonistic mind\nwhich is ill at ease with itself alters and destroys the most perfect\nbeauty of structure, until at last it becomes impossible to recognize\nthis magnificent chef-d'oeuvre of nature in the state to which it is\nreduced under the unworthy hands of free will, so at other times the\nserenity and perfect harmony of the soul come to the aid of the hampered\ntechnique, unloose nature and develop with divine splendor the beauty of\nform, enveloped until then, and oppressed.\n\nThe plastic nature of man has in it an infinity of resources to retrieve\nthe negligencies and repair the faults that she may have committed. To\nthis end it is sufficient that the mind, the moral agent, sustain it, or\neven withhold from troubling it in the labor of rebuilding.\n\nSince the movements become fixed (gestures pass to a state of lineament),\nare themselves capable of grace, it would perhaps appear to be rational\nto comprehend equally under this idea of beauty some apparent or\nimitative movements (the flamboyant lines for example, undulations). It\nis this which Mendelssohn upholds. But then the idea of grace would be\nconfounded with the ideal of beauty in general, for all beauty is\ndefinitively but a property of true or apparent movement (objective or\nsubjective), as I hope to demonstrate in an analysis of beauty. With\nregard to grace, the only movements which can offer any are those which\nrespond at the same time to a sentiment.\n\nThe person (it is known what I mean by the expression) prescribes the\nmovements of the body, either through the will, when he desires to\nrealize in the world of sense an effect of which he has proposed the\nidea, and in that case the movements are said to be voluntary or\nintentional; or, on the other hand, they take place without its will\ntaking any part in it--in virtue of a fatal law of the organism--but on\nthe occasion of a sentiment, in the latter case, I say that the movements\nare sympathetic. The sympathetic movement, though it may be involuntary\nand provoked by a sentiment, ought not to be confounded with those purely\ninstinctive movements that proceed from physical sensibility. Physical\ninstinct is not a free agent, and that which it executes is not an act of\nthe person; I understand then here exclusively, by sympathetic movements,\nthose which accompany a sentiment, a disposition of the moral order.\n\nThe question that now presents itself is this: Of these two kinds of\nmovement, having their principle in the person, which is capable of\ngrace?\n\nThat which we are rigorously forced to distinguish in philosophic\nanalysis is not always separated also in the real. Thus it is rare that\nwe meet intentional movements without sympathetic movements, because the\nwill determines the intentional movements only after being decided itself\nby the moral sentiments which are the principle of the sympathetic\nmovements. When a person speaks, we see his looks, his lineaments, his\nhands, often the whole person all together speaks to us; and it is not\nrare that this mimic part of the discourse is the most eloquent. Still\nmore there are cases where an intentional movement can be considered at\nthe same time as sympathetic; and it is that which happens when something\ninvoluntary mingles with the voluntary act which determines this\nmovement.\n\nI will explain: the mode, the manner in which a voluntary movement is\nexecuted, is not a thing so exactly determined by the intention which is\nproposed by it that it cannot be executed in several different ways.\nWell, then, that which the will or intention leaves undetermined can be\nsympathetically determined by the state of moral sensibility in which the\nperson is found to be, and consequently can express this state. When I\nextend the arm to seize an object, I execute, in truth, an intention, and\nthe movement I make is determined in general by the end that I have in\nview; but in what way does my arm approach the object? how far do the\nother parts of my body follow this impulsion? What will be the degree of\nslowness or of the rapidity of the movement? What amount of force shall\nI employ? This is a calculation of which my will, at the instant, takes\nno account, and in consequence there is a something left to the\ndiscretion of nature.\n\nBut nevertheless, though that part of the movement is not determined by\nthe intention itself, it must be decided at length in one way or the\nother, and the reason is that the manner in which my moral sensibility is\naffected can have here decisive influence: it is this which will give the\ntone, and which thus determines the mode and the manner of the movement.\nTherefore this influence, which exercises upon the voluntary movement the\nstate of moral sensibility in which the subject is found, represents\nprecisely the involuntary part of this movement, and it is there then\nthat we must seek for grace.\n\nA voluntary movement, if it is not linked to any sympathetic movement--or\nthat which comes to the same thing, if there is nothing involuntary mixed\nup with it having for principle the moral state of sensibility in which\nthe subject happens to be--could not in any manner present grace, for\ngrace always supposes as a cause a disposition of the soul. Voluntary\nmovement is produced after an operation of the soul, which in consequence\nis already completed at the moment in which the movement takes place.\n\nThe sympathetic movement, on the contrary, accompanies this operation of\nthe soul, and the moral state of sensibility which decides it to this\noperation. So that this movement ought to be considered as simultaneous\nwith regard to both one and the other.\n\nFrom that alone it results that voluntary movement not proceeding\nimmediately from the disposition of the subject could not be an\nexpression of this disposition also. For between the disposition and the\nmovement itself the volition has intervened, which, considered in itself,\nis something perfectly indifferent. This movement is the work of the\nvolition, it is determined by the aim that is proposed; it is not the\nwork of the person, nor the product of the sentiments that affect it.\n\nThe voluntary movement is united but accidentally with the disposition\nwhich precedes it; the concomitant movement, on the contrary, is\nnecessarily linked to it. The first is to the soul that which the\nconventional signs of speech are to the thoughts which they express. The\nsecond, on the contrary, the sympathetic movement or concomitant, is to\nthe soul that which the cry of passion is to the passion itself. The\ninvoluntary movement is, then, an expression of the mind, not by its\nnature, but only by its use. And in consequence we are not authorized to\nsay that the mind is revealed in a voluntary movement; this movement\nnever expresses more than the substance of the will (the aim), and not\nthe form of the will (the disposition). The disposition can only\nmanifest itself to us by concomitant movements.\n\nIt follows that we can infer from the words of a man the kind of\ncharacter he desires to have attributed to him; but if we desire to know\nwhat is in reality his character we must seek to divine it in the mimic\nexpression which accompanies his words, and in his gestures, that is to\nsay, in the movements which he did not desire. If we perceive that this\nman wills even the expression of his features, from the instant we have\nmade this discovery we cease to believe in his physiognomy and to see in\nit an indication of his sentiments.\n\nIt is true that a man, by dint of art and of study, can at last arrive at\nthis result, to subdue to his will even the concomitant movements; and,\nlike a clever juggler, to shape according to his pleasure such or such a\nphysiognomy upon the mirror from which his soul is reflected through\nmimic action. But then, with such a man all is dissembling, and art\nentirely absorbs nature. The true grace, on the contrary, ought always\nto be pure nature, that is to say, involuntary (or at least appear to be\nso), to be graceful. The subject even ought not to appear to know that\nit possesses grace.\n\nBy which we can also see incidentally what we must think of grace, either\nimitated or learned (I would willingly call it theatrical grace, or the\ngrace of the dancing-master). It is the pendant of that sort of beauty\nwhich a woman seeks from her toilet-table, reinforced with rouge, white\npaint, false ringlets, pads, and whalebone. Imitative grace is to true\ngrace what beauty of toilet is to architectonic beauty. One and the\nother could act in absolutely the same manner upon the senses badly\nexercised, as the original of which they wish to be the imitation; and at\ntimes even, if much art is put into it, they might create an illusion to\nthe connoisseur. But there will be always some indication through which\nthe intention and constraint will betray it in the end, and this\ndiscovery will lead inevitably to indifference, if not even to contempt\nand disgust. If we are warned that the architectonic beauty is\nfactitious, at once, the more it has borrowed from a nature which is not\nits own, the more it loses in our eyes of that which belongs to humanity\n(so far as it is phenomenal), and then we, who forbid the renunciation\nlightly of an accidental advantage, how can we see with pleasure or even\nwith indifference an exchange through which man sacrifices a part of his\nproper nature in order to substitute elements taken from inferior nature?\nHow, even supposing we could forgive the illusion produced, how could we\navoid despising the deception? If we are told that grace is artificial,\nour heart at once closes; our soul, which at first advanced with so much\nvivacity to meet the graceful object, shrinks back. That which was mind\nhas suddenly become matter. Juno and her celestial beauty has vanished,\nand in her place there is nothing but a phantom of vapour.\n\nAlthough grace ought to be, or at least ought to appear, something\ninvoluntary, still we seek it only in the movements that depend more or\nless on the will. I know also that grace is attributed to a certain\nmimic language, and we say a pleasing smile, a charming blush, though the\nsmile and the blush are sympathetic movements, not determined by the\nwill, but by moral sensibility. But besides that, the first of these\nmovements is, after all, in our power, and that it is not shown that in\nthe second there is, properly speaking, any grace, it is right to say, in\ngeneral, that most frequently when grace appears it is on the occasion of\na voluntary movement. Grace is desired both in language and in song; it\nis asked for in the play of the eyes and of the mouth, in the movements\nof the hands and the arms whenever these movements are free and\nvoluntary; it is required in the walk, in the bearing, and attitude, in a\nword, in all exterior demonstrations of man, so far as they depend on his\nwill. As to the movements which the instinct of nature produces in us,\nor which an overpowering affection excites, or, so to speak, is lord\nover; that which we ask of these movements, in origin purely physical,\nis, as we shall see presently, quite another thing than grace. These\nkinds of movements belong to nature, and not to the person, but it is\nfrom the person alone, as we have seen, that all grace issues.\n\nIf, then, grace is a property that we demand only from voluntary\nmovements, and if, on the other hand, all voluntary element should be\nrigorously excluded from grace, we have no longer to seek it but in that\nportion of the intentional movements to which the intention of the\nsubject is unknown, but which, however, does not cease to answer in the\nsoul to a moral cause.\n\nWe now know in what kind of movements he must ask for grace; but we know\nnothing more, and a movement can have these different characters, without\non that account being graceful; it is as yet only speaking (or mimic).\n\nI call speaking (in the widest sense of the word) every physical\nphenomenon which accompanies and expresses a certain state of the soul;\nthus, in this acceptation, all the sympathetic movements are speaking,\nincluding those which accompany the simple affections of the animal\nsensibility.\n\nThe aspect, even, under which the animals present themselves, can be\nspeaking, as soon as they outwardly show their inward dispositions. But,\nwith them, it is nature alone which speaks, and NOT LIBERTY. By the\npermanent configuration of animals through their fixed and architectonic\nfeatures, nature expresses the aim she proposed in creating them; by\ntheir mimic traits she expresses the want awakened and the want\nsatisfied. Necessity reigns in the animal as well as in the plant,\nwithout meeting the obstacle of a person. The animals have no\nindividuality farther than each of them is a specimen by itself of a\ngeneral type of nature, and the aspect under which they present\nthemselves at such or such an instant of their duration is only a\nparticular example of the accomplishment of the views of nature under\ndetermined natural conditions.\n\nTo take the word in a more restricted sense, the configuration of man\nalone is speaking, and it is itself so only in those of the phenomena\nthat accompany and express the state of its moral sensibility.\n\nI say it is only in this sort of phenomena; for, in all the others, man\nis in the same rank as the rest of sensible beings. By the permanent\nconfiguration of man, by his architectonic features, nature only\nexpresses, just as in the animals and other organic beings, her own\nintention. It is true the intention of nature may go here much further,\nand the means she employs to reach her end may offer in their combination\nmore of art and complication; but all that ought to be placed solely to\nthe account of nature, and can confer no advantage on man himself.\n\nIn the animal, and in the plant, nature gives not only the destination;\nshe acts herself and acts alone in the accomplishment of her ends. In\nman, nature limits herself in marking her views; she leaves to himself\ntheir accomplishment, it is this alone that makes of him a man.\n\nAlone of all known beings--man, in his quality of person, has the\nprivilege to break the chain of necessity by his will, and to determine\nin himself an entire series of fresh spontaneous phenomena. The act by\nwhich he thus determines himself is properly that which we call an\naction, and the things that result from this sort of action are what we\nexclusively name his acts. Thus man can only show his personality by his\nown acts.\n\nThe configuration of the animal not only expresses the idea of his\ndestination, but also the relation of his present state with this\ndestination. And as in the animal it is nature which determines and at\nthe same time accomplishes its destiny, the configuration of the animal\ncan never express anything else than the work of nature.\n\nIf then nature, whilst determining the destiny of man, abandons to the\nwill of man himself the care to accomplish it, the relation of his\npresent state with his destiny cannot be a work of nature, but ought to\nbe the work of the person; it follows, that all in the configuration\nwhich expresses this relation will belong, not to nature, but to the\nperson, that is to say, will be considered as a personal expression; if\nthen, the architectonic part of his configuration tells us the views that\nnature proposed to herself in creating him, the mimic part of his face\nreveals what he has himself done for the accomplishment of these views.\n\nIt is not then enough for us, when there is question of the form of man,\nto find in it the expression of humanity in general, or even of that\nwhich nature has herself contributed to the individual in particular, in\norder to realize the human type in it; for he would have that in common\nwith every kind of technical configuration. We expect something more of\nhis face; we desire that it reveal to us at the same time, up to what\npoint man himself, in his liberty, has contributed towards the aim of\nnature; in other words, we desire that his face bear witness to his\ncharacter. In the first case we see that nature proposed to create in\nhim a man; but it is in the second case only that we can judge if he has\nbecome so in reality.\n\nThus, the face of a man is truly his own only inasmuch as his face is\nmimic; but also all that is mimic in his face is entirely his own. For,\nif we suppose the case in which the greatest part, and even the totality,\nof these mimic features express nothing more than animal sensations or\ninstincts, and, in consequence, would show nothing more than the animal\nin him, it would still remain that it was in his destiny and in his power\nto limit, by his liberty, his sensuous nature. The presence of these\nkinds of traits clearly witness that he has not made use of this faculty.\nWe see by that he has not accomplished his destiny, and in this sense\nhis face is speaking; it is still a moral expression, the same as the\nnon-accomplishment of an act commanded by duty is likewise a sort of\naction.\n\nWe must distinguish from these speaking features which are always an\nexpression of the soul, the features non-speaking or dumb, which are\nexclusively the work of plastic nature, and which it impresses on the\nhuman face when it acts independently of all influence of the soul. I\ncall them dumb, because, like incomprehensible figures put there by\nnature, they are silent upon the character. They mark only distinctive\nproperties attributed by nature to all the kind; and if at times they are\nsufficient to distinguish the individual, they at least never express\nanything of the person.\n\nThese features are by no means devoid of signification for the\nphysiognomies, because the physiognomies not only studies that which man\nhas made of his being, but also that which nature has done for him and\nagainst him.\n\nIt is not also easy to determine with precision where the dumb traits or\nfeatures end, where the speaking traits commence. The plastic forces on\none side, with their uniform action, and, on the other, the affections\nwhich depend on no law, dispute incessantly the ground; and that which\nnature, in its dumb and indefatigable activity, has succeeded in raising\nup, often is overturned by liberty, as a river that overflows and spreads\nover its banks: the mind when it is gifted with vivacity acquires\ninfluence over all the movements of the body, and arrives at last\nindirectly to modify by force the sympathetic play as far as the\narchitectonic and fixed forms of nature, upon which the will has no hold.\nIn a man thus constituted it becomes at last characteristic; and it is\nthat which we can often observe upon certain heads which a long life,\nstrange accidents, and an active mind have moulded and worked. In these\nkinds of faces there is only the generic character which belongs to\nplastic nature; all which here forms individuality is the act of the\nperson himself, and it is this which causes it to be said, with much\nreason, that those faces are all soul.\n\nLook at that man, on the contrary, who has made for himself a mechanical\nexistence, those disciples of the rule. The rule can well calm the\nsensuous nature, but not awaken human nature, the superior faculties:\nlook at those flat and inexpressive physiognomies; the finger of nature\nhas alone left there its impression; a soul inhabits these bodies, but it\nis a sluggish soul, a discreet guest, and, as a peaceful and silent\nneighbour who does not disturb the plastic force at its work, left to\nitself. Never a thought which requires an effort, never a movement of\npassion, hurries the calm cadence of physical life. There is no danger\nthat the architectonic features ever become changed by the play of\nvoluntary movements, and never would liberty trouble the functions of\nvegetative life. As the profound calm of the mind does not bring about a\nnotable degeneracy of forces, the expense would never surpass the\nreceipts; it is rather the animal economy which would always be in\nexcess. In exchange for a certain sum of well-being which it throws as\nbait, the mind makes itself the servant, the punctual major-domo of\nphysical nature, and places all his glory in keeping his books in order.\nThus will be accomplished that which organic nature can accomplish; thus\nwill the work of nutrition and of reproduction prosper. So happy a\nconcord between animal nature and the will cannot but be favorable to\narchitectonic beauty, and it is there that we can observe this beauty in\nall its purity. But the general forces of nature, as every one knows,\nare eternally at warfare with the particular or organic forces, and,\nhowever cleverly balanced is the technique of a body, the cohesion and\nthe weight end always by getting the upper hand. Also architectonic\nbeauty, so far as it is a simple production of nature, has its fixed\nperiods, its blossoming, its maturity, and its decline--periods the\nrevolution of which can easily be accelerated, but not retarded in any\ncase, by the play of the will, and this is the way in which it most\nfrequently finishes; little by little matter takes the upper hand over\nform, and the plastic principle, which vivified the being, prepares for\nitself its tomb under the accumulation of matter.\n\nHowever, although no dumb trait, considered in an isolated point of view,\ncan be an expression of the mind, a face composed entirely of these kinds\nof features can be characterized in its entireness by precisely the same\nreason as a face which is speaking only as an expression of sensuous\nnature can be nevertheless characteristic. I mean to say that the mind\nis obliged to exercise its activity and to feel conformably to its moral\nnature, and it accuses itself and betrays its fault when the face which\nit animates shows no trace of this moral activity. If, therefore, the\npure and beautiful expression of the destination of man, which is marked\nin his architectonic structure, penetrates us with satisfaction and\nrespect for the sovereign, reason, who is the author of it, at all events\nthese two sentiments will not be for us without mixture but in as far as\nwe see in man a simple creation of nature. But if we consider in him the\nmoral person, we have a right to demand of his face an expression of the\nperson, and if this expectation is deceived contempt will infallibly\nfollow. Simply organic beings have a right to our respect as creatures;\nman cannot pretend to it but in the capacity of creator, that is to say,\nas being himself the determiner of his own condition. He ought not only,\nas the other sensuous creatures, to reflect the rays of a foreign\nintelligence, were it even the divine intelligence; man ought, as a sun,\nto shine by his own light.\n\nThus we require of man a speaking expression as soon as he becomes\nconscious of his moral destiny; but we desire at the same time that this\nexpression speak to his advantage, that is to say, it marks in him\nsentiments conformable to his moral destiny, and a superior moral\naptitude. This is what reason requires in the human face.\n\nBut, on the other side, man, as far as he is a phenomenon, is an object\nof sense; there, where the moral sentiment is satisfied, the aesthetic\nsentiment does not understand its being made a sacrifice, and the\nconformity with an idea ought not to lessen the beauty of the phenomenon.\nThus, as much as reason requires an expression of the morality of the\nsubject in the human face, so much, and with no less rigor, does the eye\ndemand beauty. As these two requirements, although coming from the\nprinciples of the appreciation of different degrees, address themselves\nto the same object, also both one and the other must be given\nsatisfaction by one and the same cause. The disposition of the soul\nwhich places man in the best state for accomplishing his moral destiny\nought to give place to an expression that will be at the same time the\nmost advantageous to his beauty as phenomenon; in other terms, his moral\nexercise ought to be revealed by grace.\n\nBut a great difficulty now presents itself from the idea alone of the\nexpressive movements which bear witness to the morality of the subject:\nit appears that the cause of these movements is necessarily a moral\ncause, a principle which resides beyond the world of sense; and from the\nsole idea of beauty it is not less evident that its principle is purely\nsensuous, and that it ought to be a simple effect of nature, or at the\nleast appear to be such. But if the ultimate reason of the movements\nwhich offer a moral expression is necessarily without, and the ultimate\nreason of the beautiful necessarily within, the sensuous world, it\nappears that grace, which ought to unite both of them, contains a\nmanifest contradiction.\n\nTo avoid this contradiction we must admit that the moral cause, which in\nour soul is the foundation of grace, brings, in a necessary manner, in\nthe sensibility which depends on that cause, precisely that state which\ncontains in itself the natural conditions of beauty. I will explain.\nThe beautiful, as each sensuous phenomenon, supposes certain conditions,\nand, in as far as it is beautiful, these are purely conditions of the\nsenses; well, then, in that the mind (in virtue of a law that we cannot\nfathom), from the state in which it is, itself prescribes to physical\nnature which accompanies it, its own state, and in that the state of\nmoral perfection is precisely in it the most favorable for the\naccomplishment of the physical conditions of beauty, it follows that it\nis the mind which renders beauty possible; and there its action ends.\nBut whether real beauty comes forth from it, that depends upon the\nphysical conditions alluded to, and is consequently a free effect of\nnature. Therefore, as it cannot be said that nature is properly free in\nthe voluntary movements, in which it is employed but as a means to attain\nan end, and as, on the other side, it cannot be said that it is free in\nits involuntary movements, which express the moral, the liberty with\nwhich it manifests itself, dependent as it is on the will of the subject,\nmust be a concession that the mind makes to nature; and, consequently, it\ncan be said that grace is a favor in which the moral has desired to\ngratify the sensuous element; the same as the architectonic beauty may be\nconsidered as nature acquiescing to the technical form.\n\nMay I be permitted a comparison to clear up this point? Let us suppose a\nmonarchical state administered in such a way that, although all goes on\naccording to the will of one person, each citizen could persuade himself\nthat he governs and obeys only his own inclination, we should call that\ngovernment a liberal government.\n\nBut we should look twice before we should thus qualify a government in\nwhich the chief makes his will outweigh the wishes of the citizens, or a\ngovernment in which the will of the citizens outweighs that of the chief.\nIn the first case, the government would be no more liberal; in the\nsecond, it would not be a government at all.\n\nIt is not difficult to make application of these examples to what the\nhuman face could be under the government of the mind. If the mind is\nmanifested in such a way through the sensuous nature subject to its\nempire that it executes its behests with the most faithful exactitude, or\nexpresses its sentiments in the most perfectly speaking manner, without\ngoing in the least against that which the aesthetic sense demands from it\nas a phenomenon, then we shall see produced that which we call grace.\nBut this is far from being grace, if mind is manifested in a constrained\nmanner by the sensuous nature, or if sensuous nature acting alone in all\nliberty the expression of moral nature was absent. In the first case\nthere would not be beauty; in the second the beauty would be devoid of\nplay.\n\nThe super-sensuous cause, therefore, the cause of which the principle is\nin the soul, can alone render grace speaking, and it is the purely\nsensuous cause having its principle in nature which alone can render it\nbeautiful. We are not more authorized in asserting that mind engenders\nbeauty than we should be, in the former example, in maintaining that the\nchief of the state produces liberty; because we can indeed leave a man in\nhis liberty, but not give it to him.\n\nBut just as when a people feels itself free under the constraint of a\nforeign will, it is in a great degree due to the sentiments animating the\nprince; and as this liberty would run great risks if the prince took\nopposite sentiments, so also it is in the moral dispositions of the mind\nwhich suggests them that we must seek the beauty of free movements. And\nnow the question which is presented is this one: What then are the\nconditions of personal morality which assure the utmost amount of liberty\nto the sensuous instruments of the will? and what are the moral\nsentiments which agree the best in their expression with the beautiful?\n\nThat which is evident is that neither the will, in the intentional\nmovement, nor the passion, in the sympathetic movement, ought to act as a\nforce with regard to the physical nature which is subject to it, in order\nthat this, in obeying it, may have beauty. In truth, without going\nfurther, common sense considers ease to be the first requisite of grace.\nIt is not less evident that, on another side, nature ought not to act as\na force with regard to mind, in order to give occasion for a fine moral\nexpression; for there, where physical nature commands alone, it is\nabsolutely necessary that the character of the man should vanish.\n\nWe can conceive three sorts of relation of man with himself: I mean the\nsensuous part of man with the reasonable part. From these three\nrelations we have to seek which is that one which best suits him in the\nsensuous world, and the expression of which constitutes the beautiful.\nEither man enforces silence upon the exigencies of his sensuous nature,\nto govern himself conformably with the superior exigencies of his\nreasonable nature; or else, on the contrary, he subjects the reasonable\nportion of his being to the sensuous part, reducing himself thus to obey\nonly the impulses which the necessity of nature imprints upon him, as\nwell as upon the other phenomena; or lastly, harmony is established\nbetween the impulsions of the one and the laws of the other, and man is\nin perfect accord with himself.\n\nIf he has the consciousness of his spiritual person, of his pure\nautonomy, man rejects all that is sensuous, and it is only when thus\nisolated from matter that he feels to the full his moral liberty. But\nfor that, as his sensuous nature opposes an obstinate and vigorous\nresistance to him, he must, on his side, exercise upon it a notable\npressure and a strong effort, without which he could neither put aside\nthe appetites nor reduce to silence the energetic voice of instinct. A\nmind of this quality makes the physical nature which depends on him feel\nthat it has a master in him, whether it fulfils the orders of the will or\nendeavors to anticipate them. Under its stern discipline sensuousness\nappears then repressed, and interior resistance will betray itself\nexteriorly by the constraint. This moral state cannot, then, be\nfavorable to beauty, because nature cannot produce the beautiful but as\nfar as it is free, and consequently that which betrays to us the\nstruggles of moral liberty against matter cannot either be grace.\n\nIf, on the contrary, subdued by its wants, man allows himself to be\ngoverned without reserve by the instinct of nature, it is his interior\nautonomy that vanishes, and with it all trace of this autonomy is\nexteriorly effaced. The animal nature is alone visible upon his visage;\nthe eye is watery and languishing, the mouth rapaciously open, the voice\ntrembling and muffled, the breathing short and rapid, the limbs trembling\nwith nervous agitation: the whole body by its languor betrays its moral\ndegradation. Moral force has renounced all resistance, and physical\nnature, with such a man, is placed in full liberty. But precisely this\ncomplete abandonment of moral independence, which occurs ordinarily at\nthe moment of sensuous desire, and more still at the moment of enjoyment,\nsets suddenly brute matter at liberty which until then had been kept in\nequilibrium by the active and passive forces. The inert forces of nature\ncommence from thence to gain the upper hand over the living forces of the\norganism; the form is oppressed by matter, humanity by common nature.\nThe eye, in which the soul shone forth, becomes dull, or it protrudes\nfrom its socket with I know not what glassy haggardness; the delicate\npink of the cheeks thickens, and spreads as a coarse pigment in uniform\nlayers. The mouth is no longer anything but a simple opening, because\nits form no longer depends upon the action of forces, but on their\nnon-resistance; the gasping voice and breathing are no more than an\neffort to ease the laborious and oppressed lungs, and which show a simple\nmechanical want, with nothing that reveals a soul. In a word, in that\nstate of liberty which physical nature arrogates to itself from its\nchief, we must not think of beauty. Under the empire of the moral agent,\nthe liberty of form was only restrained, here it is crushed by brutal\nmatter, which gains as much ground as is abstracted from the will. Man\nin this state not only revolts the moral sense, which incessantly claims\nof the face an expression of human dignity, but the aesthetic sense,\nwhich is not content with simple matter, and which finds in the form an\nunfettered pleasure--the aesthetic sense will turn away with disgust from\nsuch a spectacle, where concupiscence could alone find its gratification.\n\nOf these two relations between the moral nature of man and his physical\nnature, the first makes us think of a monarchy, where strict surveillance\nof the prince holds in hand all free movement; the second is an\nochlocracy, where the citizen, in refusing to obey his legitimate\nsovereign, finds he has liberty quite as little as the human face has\nbeauty when the moral autonomy is oppressed; nay, on the contrary, just\nas the citizens are given over to the brutal despotism of the lowest\nclasses, so the form is given over here to the despotism of matter. Just\nas liberty finds itself between the two extremes of legal oppression and\nanarchy, so also we shall find the beautiful between two extremes,\nbetween the expression of dignity which bears witness to the domination\nexercised by the mind, and the voluptuous expression which reveals the\ndomination exercised by instinct.\n\nIn other terms, if the beauty of expression is incompatible with the\nabsolute government of reason over sensuous nature, and with the\ngovernment of sensuous nature over the reason, it follows that the third\nstate (for one could not conceive a fourth)--that in which the reason and\nthe senses, duty and inclination, are in harmony--will be that in which\nthe beauty of play is produced. In order that obedience to reason may\nbecome an object of inclination, it must represent for us the principle\nof pleasure; for pleasure and pain are the only springs which set the\ninstincts in motion. It is true that in life it is the reverse that\ntakes place, and pleasure is ordinarily the motive for which we act\naccording to reason. If morality itself has at last ceased to hold this\nlanguage, it is to the immortal author of the \"Critique\" to whom we must\noffer our thanks; it is to him to whom the glory is due of having\nrestored the healthy reason in separating it from all systems. But in\nthe manner in which the principles of this philosopher are ordinarily\nexpressed by himself and also by others, it appears that the inclination\ncan never be for the moral sense otherwise than a very suspicious\ncompanion, and pleasure a dangerous auxiliary for moral determinations.\nIn admitting that the instinct of happiness does not exercise a blind\ndomination over man, it does not the less desire to interfere in the\nmoral actions which depend on free arbitration, and by that it changes\nthe pure action of the will, which ought always to obey the law alone,\nnever the instinct. Thus, to be altogether sure that the inclination has\nnot interfered with the demonstrations of the will, we prefer to see it\nin opposition rather than in accord with the law of reason; because it\nmay happen too easily, when the inclination speaks in favor of duty, that\nduty draws from the recommendation all its credit over the will. And in\nfact, as in practical morals, it is not the conformity of the acts with\nthe law, but only the conformity of the sentiments with duty, which is\nimportant. We do not attach, and with reason, any value to this\nconsideration, that it is ordinarily more favorable to the conformity of\nacts with the law that inclination is on the side of duty. As a\nconsequence, this much appears evident: that the assent of sense, if it\ndoes not render suspicious the conformity of the will with duty, at least\ndoes not guarantee it. Thus the sensuous expression of this assent,\nexpression that grace offers to us, could never bear a sufficient\navailable witness to the morality of the act in which it is met; and it\nis not from that which an action or a sentiment manifests to the eyes by\ngraceful expression that we must judge of the moral merit of that\nsentiment or of that action.\n\nUp to the present time I believe I have been in perfect accord with the\nrigorists in morals. I shall not become, I hope, a relaxed moralist in\nendeavoring to maintain in the world of phenomena and in the real\nfulfilment of the law of duty those rights of sensuous nature which, upon\nthe ground of pure reason and in the jurisdiction of the moral law, are\ncompletely set aside and excluded.\n\nI will explain. Convinced as I am, and precisely because I am convinced,\nthat the inclination in associating itself to an act of the will offers\nno witness to the pure conformity of this act with the duty, I believe\nthat we are able to infer from this that the moral perfection of man\ncannot shine forth except from this very association of his inclination\nwith his moral conduct. In fact, the destiny of man is not to accomplish\nisolated moral acts, but to be a moral being. That which is prescribed\nto him does not consist of virtues, but of virtue, and virtue is not\nanything else \"than an inclination for duty.\" Whatever, then, in the\nobjective sense, may be the opposition which separates the acts suggested\nby the inclination from those which duty determines, we cannot say it is\nthe same in the subjective sense; and not only is it permitted to man to\naccord duty with pleasure, but he ought to establish between them this\naccord, he ought to obey his reason with a sentiment of joy. It is not\nto throw it off as a burden, nor to cast it off as a too coarse skin.\nNo, it is to unite it, by a union the most intimate, with his Ego, with\nthe most noble part of his being, that a sensuous nature has been\nassociated in him to his purely spiritual nature. By the fact that\nnature has made of him a being both at once reasonable and sensuous, that\nis to say, a man, it has prescribed to him the obligation not to separate\nthat which she has united; not to sacrifice in him the sensuous being,\nwere it in the most pure manifestations of the divine part; and never to\nfound the triumph of one over the oppression and the ruin of the other.\nIt is only when he gathers, so to speak, his entire humanity together,\nand his way of thinking in morals becomes the result of the united action\nof the two principles, when morality has become to him a second nature,\nit is then only that it is secure; for, as far as the mind and the duty\nare obliged to employ violence, it is necessary that the instinct shall\nhave force to resist them. The enemy which only is overturned can rise\nup again, but the enemy reconciled is truly vanquished. In the moral\nphilosophy of Kant the idea of duty is proposed with a harshness enough\nto ruffle the Graces, and one which could easily tempt a feeble mind to\nseek for moral perfection in the sombre paths of an ascetic and monastic\nlife. Whatever precautions the great philosopher has been able to take\nin order to shelter himself against this false interpretation, which must\nbe repugnant more than all else to the serenity of the free mind, he has\nlent it a strong impulse, it seems to me, in opposing to each other by a\nharsh contrast the two principles which act upon the human will. Perhaps\nit was hardly possible, from the point of view in which he was placed, to\navoid this mistake; but he has exposed himself seriously to it. Upon the\nbasis of the question there is no longer, after the demonstration he has\ngiven, any discussion possible, at least for the heads which think and\nwhich are quite willing to be persuaded; and I am not at all sure if it\nwould not be better to renounce at once all the attributes of the human\nbeing than to be willing to reach on this point, by reason, a different\nresult. But although he began to work without any prejudice when he\nsearched for the truth, and though all is here explained by purely\nobjective reasons, it appears that when he put forward the truth once\nfound he had been guided by a more subjective maxim, which is not\ndifficult, I believe, to be accounted for by the time and circumstances.\n\nWhat, in fact, was the moral of his time, either in theory or in its\napplication? On one side, a gross materialism, of which the shameless\nmaxims would revolt his soul; impure resting-places offered to the\nbastard characters of a century by the unworthy complacency of\nphilosophers; on the other side, a pretended system of perfectibility,\nnot less suspicious, which, to realize the chimera of a general\nperfection common to the whole universe, would not be embarrassed for a\nchoice of means. This is what would meet his attention. So he carried\nthere, where the most pressing danger lay and reform was the most urgent,\nthe strongest forces of his principles, and made it a law to pursue\nsensualism without pity, whether it walks with a bold face, impudently\ninsulting morality, or dissimulates under the imposing veil of a moral,\npraiseworthy end, under which a certain fanatical kind of order know how\nto disguise it. He had not to disguise ignorance, but to reform\nperversion; for such a cure a violent blow, and not persuasion or\nflattery, was necessary; and the more the contrast would be violent\nbetween the true principles and the dominant maxims, the more he would\nhope to provoke reflection upon this point. He was the Draco of his\ntime, because his time seemed to him as yet unworthy to possess a Solon,\nneither capable of receiving him. From the sanctuary of pure reason he\ndrew forth the moral law, unknown then, and yet, in another way, so\nknown; he made it appear in all its saintliness before a degraded\ncentury, and troubled himself little to know whether there were eyes too\nenfeebled to bear the brightness.\n\nBut what had the children of the house done for him to have occupied\nhimself only with the valets? Because strongly impure inclinations often\nusurp the name of virtue, was it a reason for disinterested inclinations\nin the noblest heart to be also rendered suspicious? Because the moral\nepicurean had willingly relaxed the law of reason, in order to fit it as\na plaything to his customs, was it a reason to thus exaggerate harshness,\nand to make the fulfilment of duty, which is the most powerful\nmanifestation of moral freedom, another kind of decorated servitude of a\nmore specious name? And, in fact, between the esteem and the contempt of\nhimself has the truly moral man a more free choice than the slave of\nsense between pleasure and pain? Is there less of constraint there for a\npure will than here for a depraved will? Must one, by this imperative\nform given to the moral law, accuse man and humble him, and make of this\nlaw, which is the most sublime witness of our grandeur, the most crushing\nargument for our fragility? Was it possible with this imperative force\nto avoid that a prescription which man imposes on himself, as a\nreasonable being, and which is obligatory only for him on that account,\nand which is conciliatory with the sentiment of his liberty only--that\nthis prescription, say I, took the appearance of a foreign law, a\npositive law, an appearance which could hardly lessen the radical\ntendency which we impute to man to react against the law?\n\nIt is certainly not an advantage for moral truth to have against itself\nsentiments which man can avow without shame. Thus, how can the sentiment\nof the beautiful, the sentiment of liberty, accord with the austere mind\nof a legislation which governs man rather through fear than trust, which\ntends constantly to separate that which nature has united, and which is\nreduced to hold us in defiance against a part of our being, to assure its\nempire over the rest? Human nature forms a whole more united in reality\nthan it is permitted to the philosopher, who can only analyze, to allow\nit to appear. The reason can never reject as unworthy of it the\naffections which the heart recognizes with joy; and there, where man\nwould be morally fallen, he can hardly rise in his own esteem. If in the\nmoral order the sensuous nature were only the oppressed party and not an\nally, how could it associate with all the ardor of its sentiments in a\ntriumph which would be celebrated only over itself? how could it be so\nkeen a participator in the satisfaction of a pure spirit having\nconsciousness of itself, if in the end it could not attach itself to the\npure spirit with such closeness that it is not possible even to\nintellectual analysis to separate it without violence.\n\nThe will, besides, is in more immediate relation with the faculty of\nfeeling than with the cognitive faculties, and it would be regrettable in\nmany circumstances if it were obliged, in order to guide itself, to take\nadvice of pure reason. I prejudge nothing good of a man who dares so\nlittle trust to the voice of instinct that he is obliged each time to\nmake it appear first before the moral law; he is much more estimable who\nabandons himself with a certain security to inclination, without having\nto fear being led astray by her. That proves in fact that with him the\ntwo principles are already in harmony--in that harmony which places a\nseat upon the perfection of the human being, and which constitutes that\nwhich we understand by a noble soul.\n\nIt is said of a man that he has a great soul when the moral sense has\nfinished assuring itself of all the affections, to the extent of\nabandoning without fear the direction of the senses to the will, and\nnever incurring the risk of finding himself in discord with its\ndecisions. It follows that in a noble soul it is not this or that\nparticular action, it is the entire character which is moral. Thus we\ncan make a merit of none of its actions because the satisfaction of an\ninstinct could not be meritorious. A noble soul has no other merit than\nto be a noble soul. With as great a facility as if the instinct alone\nwere acting, it accomplishes the most painful duties of humanity, and the\nmost heroic sacrifice that she obtains over the instinct of nature seems\nthe effect of the free action of the instinct itself. Also, it has no\nidea of the beauty of its act, and it never occurs to it that any other\nway of acting could be possible; on the contrary, the moralist formed by\nthe school and by rule, is always ready at the first question of the\nmaster to give an account with the most rigorous precision of the\nconformity of its acts with the moral law. The life of this one is like\na drawing where the pencil has indicated by harsh and stiff lines all\nthat the rule demands, and which could, if necessary, serve for a student\nto learn the elements of art. The life of a noble soul, on the contrary,\nis like a painting of Titian; all the harsh outlines are effaced, which\ndoes not prevent the whole face being more true, lifelike and harmonious.\n\nIt is then in a noble soul that is found the true harmony between reason\nand sense, between inclination and duty, and grace is the expression of\nthis harmony in the sensuous world. It is only in the service of a noble\nsoul that nature can at the same time be in possession of its liberty,\nand preserve from all alteration the beauty of its forms; for the one,\nits liberty would be compromised under the tyranny of an austere soul,\nthe other, under the anarchical regimen of sensuousness. A noble soul\nspreads even over a face in which the architectonic beauty is wanting an\nirresistible grace, and often even triumphs over the natural disfavor.\nAll the movements which proceed from a noble soul are easy, sweet, and\nyet animated. The eye beams with serenity as with liberty, and with the\nbrightness of sentiment; gentleness of heart would naturally give to the\nmouth a grace that no affectation, no art, could attain. You trace there\nno effort in the varied play of the physiognomy, no constraint in the\nvoluntary movements--a noble soul knows not constraint; the voice becomes\nmusic, and the limpid stream of its modulations touches the heart. The\nbeauty of structure can excite pleasure, admiration, astonishment; grace\nalone can charm. Beauty has its adorers; grace alone has its lovers: for\nwe pay our homage to the Creator, and we love man. As a whole, grace\nwould be met with especially amongst women; beauty, on the contrary, is\nmet with more frequently in man, and we need not go far without finding\nthe reason. For grace we require the union of bodily structure, as well\nas that of character: the body, by its suppleness, by its promptitude to\nreceive impressions and to bring them into action; the character, by the\nmoral harmony of the sentiments. Upon these two points nature has been\nmore favorable to the woman than to man.\n\nThe more delicate structure of the woman receives more rapidly each\nimpression and allows it to escape as rapidly. It requires a storm to\nshake a strong constitution, and when vigorous muscles begin to move we\nshould not find the ease which is one of the conditions of grace. That\nwhich upon the face of woman is still a beautiful sensation would express\nsuffering already upon the face of man. Woman has the more tender\nnerves; it is a reed which bends under the gentlest breath of passion.\nThe soul glides in soft and amiable ripples upon her expressive face,\nwhich soon regains the calm and smooth surface of the mirror.\n\nThe same also for the character: for that necessary union of the soul\nwith grace the woman is more happily gifted than man. The character of\nwoman rises rarely to the supreme ideal of moral purity, and would rarely\ngo beyond acts of affection; her character would often resist\nsensuousness with heroic force. Precisely because the moral nature of\nwoman is generally on the side of inclination, the effect becomes the\nsame, in that which touches the sensuous expression of this moral state,\nas if the inclination were on the side of duty. Thus grace would be the\nexpression of feminine virtue, and this expression would often be wanting\nin manly virtue.\n\n\n\n\nON DIGNITY.\n\n\nAs grace is the expression of a noble soul, so is dignity the expression\nof elevated feeling.\n\nIt has been prescribed to man, it is true, to establish between his two\nnatures a unison, to form always an harmonious whole, and to act as in\nunion with his entire humanity. But this beauty of character, this last\nfruit of human maturity, is but an ideal to which he ought to force his\nconformity with a constant vigilance, but to which, with all his efforts,\nhe can never attain.\n\nHe cannot attain to it because his nature is thus made and it will not\nchange; the physical conditions of his existence themselves are opposed\nto it.\n\nIn fact, his existence, so far as he is a sensuous creature, depends on\ncertain physical conditions; and in order to insure this existence man\nought--because, in his quality of a free being, capable of determining\nhis modifications by his own will--to watch over his own preservation\nhimself. Man ought to be made capable of certain acts in order to fulfil\nthese physical conditions of his existence, and when these conditions are\nout of order to re-establish them.\n\nBut although nature had to give up to him this care which she reserves\nexclusively to herself in those creatures which have only a vegetative\nlife, still it was necessary that the satisfaction of so essential a\nwant, in which even the existence of the individual and of the species is\ninterested, should not be absolutely left to the discretion of man, and\nhis doubtful foresight. It has then provided for this interest, which in\nthe foundation concerns it, and it has also interfered with regard to the\nform in placing in the determination of free arbitration a principle of\nnecessity. From that arises natural instinct, which is nothing else than\na principle of physical necessity which acts upon free arbitration by the\nmeans of sensation.\n\nThe natural instinct solicits the sensuous faculty through the combined\nforce of pain and of pleasure: by pain when it asks satisfaction, and by\npleasure when it has found what it asks.\n\nAs there is no bargaining possible with physical necessity, man must\nalso, in spite of his liberty, feel what nature desires him to feel.\nAccording as it awakens in him a painful or an agreeable sensation, there\nwill infallibly result in him either aversion or desire. Upon this point\nman quite resembles the brute; and the stoic, whatever his power of soul,\nis not less sensible of hunger, and has no less aversion to it, than the\nworm that crawls at his feet.\n\nBut here begins the great difference: with the lower creature action\nsucceeds to desire or aversion quite as of necessity, as the desire to\nthe sensation, and the expression to the external impression. It is here\na perpetual circle, a chain, the links of which necessarily join one to\nthe other. With man there is one more force--the will, which, as a\nsuper-sensuous faculty, is not so subject to the law of nature, nor that\nof reason, that he remains without freedom to choose, and to guide\nhimself according to this or to that. The animal cannot do otherwise\nthan seek to free itself from pain; man can decide to suffer.\n\nThe will of man is a privilege, a sublime idea, even when we do not\nconsider the moral use that he can make of it. But firstly, the animal\nnature must be in abeyance before approaching the other, and from that\ncause it is always a considerable step towards reaching the moral\nemancipation of the will to have conquered in us the necessity of nature,\neven in indifferent things, by the exercise in us of the simple will.\n\nThe jurisdiction of nature extends as far as the will, but there it\nstops, and the empire of reason commences. Placed between these two\njurisdictions, the will is absolutely free to receive the law from one\nand the other; but it is not in the same relation with one and the other.\nInasmuch as it is a natural force it is equally free with regard to\nnature and with respect to reason; I mean to say it is not forced to pass\neither on the side of one or of the other: but as far as it is a moral\nfaculty it is not free; I mean that it ought to choose the law of reason.\nIt is not chained to one or the other, but it is obliged towards the law\nof reason. The will really then makes use of its liberty even whilst it\nacts contrary to reason: but it makes use of it unworthily, because,\nnotwithstanding its liberty, it is no less under the jurisdiction of\nnature, and adds no real action to the operation of pure instinct; for to\nwill by virtue of desire is only to desire in a different way.\n\nThere may be conflict between the law of nature, which works in us\nthrough the instinct, and the law of reason, which comes out of\nprinciples, when the instinct, to satisfy itself, demands of us an action\nwhich disgusts our moral sense. It is, then, the duty of the will to\nmake the exigencies of the instinct give way to reason. Whilst the laws\nof nature oblige the will only conditionally, the laws of reason oblige\nabsolutely and without conditions.\n\nBut nature obstinately maintains her rights, and as it is never by the\nresult of free choice that she solicits us, she also does not withdraw\nany of her exigencies as long as she has not been satisfied. Since, from\nthe first cause which gave the impulsion to the threshold of the will\nwhere its jurisdiction ends, all in her is rigorously necessary,\nconsequently she can neither give way nor go back, but must always go\nforward and press more and more the will on which depends the\nsatisfaction of her wants. Sometimes, it is true, we could say that\nnature shortens her road and acts immediately as a cause for the\nsatisfaction of her needs without having in the first instance carried\nher request before the will. In such a case, that is to say, if man not\nsimply allowed instinct to follow a free course, but if instinct took\nthis course of itself, man would be no more than the brute. But it is\nvery doubtful whether this case would ever present itself, and if ever it\nwere really presented it would remain to be seen whether we should not\nblame the will itself for this blind power which the instinct would have\nusurped.\n\nThus the appetitive faculty claims with persistence the satisfaction of\nits wants, and the will is solicited to procure it; but the will should\nreceive from the reason the motives by which she determines. What does\nthe reason permit? What does she prescribe? This is what the will\nshould decide upon. Well, then, if the will turns towards the reason\nbefore consenting to the request of the instinct, it is properly a moral\nact; but if it immediately decides, without consulting the reason, it is\na physical act.\n\nEvery time, then, that nature manifests an exigence and seeks to draw the\nwill along with it by the blind violence of affective movement, it is the\nduty of the will to order nature to halt until reason has pronounced.\nThe sentence which reason pronounces, will it be favorable or the\ncontrary to the interest of sensuousness? This is, up to the present\ntime, what the will does not know. Also it should observe this conduct\nfor all the affective movements without exception, and when it is nature\nwhich has spoken the first, never allow it to act as an immediate cause.\nMan would testify only by that to his independence. It is when, by an\nact of his will, he breaks the violence of his desires, which hasten\ntowards the object which should satisfy them, and would dispense entirely\nwith the co-operation of the will,--it is only then that he reveals\nhimself in quality of a moral being, that is to say, as a free agent,\nwhich does not only allow itself to experience either aversion or desire,\nbut which at all times must will his aversions and his desires.\n\nBut this act of taking previously the advice of reason is already an\nattempt against nature, who is a competent judge in her own cause, and\nwho will not allow her sentences to be submitted to a new and strange\njurisdiction; this act of the will which thus brings the appetitive\nfaculty before the tribunal of reason is then, in the proper acceptation\nof the word, an act against nature, in that it renders accidental that\nwhich is necessary, in that it attributes to the laws of reason the right\nto decide in a cause where the laws of nature can alone pronounce, and\nwhere they have pronounced effectively. Just, in fact, as the reason in\nthe exercise of its moral jurisdiction is little troubled to know if the\ndecisions it can come to will satisfy or not the sensuous nature, so the\nsensuous in the exercise of the right which is proper to it does not\ntrouble itself whether its decisions would satisfy pure reason or not.\nEach is equally necessary, though different in necessity, and this\ncharacter of necessity would be destroyed if it were permitted for one to\nmodify arbitrarily the decisions of the other. This is why the man who\nhas the most moral energy cannot, whatever resistance he opposes to\ninstinct, free himself from sensuousness, or stifle desire, but can only\ndeny it an influence upon the decisions of his will; he can disarm\ninstinct by moral means, but he cannot appease it but by natural means.\nBy his independent force he may prevent the laws of nature from\nexercising any constraint over his will, but he can absolutely change\nnothing of the laws themselves.\n\nThus in the affective movements in which nature (instinct) acts the first\nand seeks to do without the will, or to draw it violently to its side,\nthe morality of character cannot manifest itself but by its resistance,\nand there is but one means of preventing the instinct from restraining\nthe liberty of the will: it is to restrain the instinct itself. Thus we\ncan only have agreement between the law of reason and the affective\nphenomena, under the condition of putting both in discord with the\nexigencies of instinct. And as nature never gives way to moral reasons,\nand recalls her claims, and as on her side, consequently, all remains in\nthe same state, in whatever manner the will acts towards her, it results\nthat there is no possible accord between the inclination and duty,\nbetween reason and sense; and that here man cannot act at the same time\nwith all his being and with all the harmony of his nature, but\nexclusively with his reasonable nature. Thus in these sorts of actions\nwe could not find moral beauty, because an action is morally good only as\nfar as inclination has taken part in it, and here the inclination\nprotests against much more than it concurs with it. But these actions\nhave moral grandeur, because all that testifies to a preponderating\nauthority exercised over the sensuous nature has grandeur, and grandeur\nis found only there.\n\nIt is, then, in the affective movements that this great soul of which we\nspeak transforms itself and becomes sublime; and it is the touchstone to\ndistinguish the soul truly great from what is called a good heart, or\nfrom the virtue of temperament. When in man the inclination is ranged on\nthe side of morality only because morality itself is happily on the side\nof inclination, it will happen that the instinct of nature in the\naffective movements will exercise upon the will a full empire, and if a\nsacrifice is necessary it is the moral nature, and not the sensuous\nnature, that will make it. If, on the contrary, it is reason itself\nwhich has made the inclination pass to the side of duty (which is the\ncase in the fine character), and which has only confided the rudder to\nthe sensuous nature, it will be always able to retake it as soon as the\ninstinct should misuse its full powers. Thus the virtue of temperament\nin the affective movements falls back to the state of simple production\nof nature, whilst the noble soul passes to heroism and rises to the rank\nof pure intelligence.\n\nThe rule over the instincts by moral force is the emancipation of mind,\nand the expression by which this independence presents itself to the eyes\nin the world of phenomena is what is called dignity.\n\nTo consider this rigorously: the moral force in man is susceptible of no\nrepresentation, for the super-sensuous could not explain itself by a\nphenomenon that falls under the sense; but it can be represented\nindirectly to the mind by sensuous signs, and this is actually the case\nwith dignity in the configuration of man.\n\nWhen the instinct of nature is excited, it is accompanied just as the\nheart in its moral emotions is, by certain movements of the body, which\nsometimes go before the will, sometimes, even as movements purely\nsympathetic, escape altogether its empire. In fact, as neither\nsensation, nor the desire, nor aversion, are subject to the free\narbitration of man, man has no right over the physical movements which\nimmediately depend on it. But the instinct does not confine itself to\nsimple desire; it presses, it advances, it endeavors to realize its\nobject; and if it does not meet in the autonomy of the mind an energetic\nresistance, it will even anticipate it, it will itself take the\ninitiative of those sorts of acts over which the will alone has the right\nto pronounce. For the instinct of conservation tends without ceasing to\nusurp the legislative powers in the domain of the will, and its efforts\ngo to exercise over man a domination as absolute as over the beast.\nThere are, then, two sorts of distinct movements, which, in themselves\nand by their origin, in each affective phenomenon, arise in man by the\ninstinct of conservation: those firstly which immediately proceed from\nsensation, and which, consequently, are quite involuntary; then those\nwhich in principle could and would be voluntary, but from which the blind\ninstinct of nature takes all freedom. The first refer to the affection\nitself, and are united necessarily with it; the others respond rather to\nthe cause and to the object of the affections, and are thus accidental\nand susceptible of modification, and cannot be mistaken for infallible\nsigns of the affective phenomena. But as both one and the other, when\nonce the object is determined, are equally necessary to the instinct of\nnature, so they assist, both one and the other, the expression of\naffective phenomena; a necessary competition, in order that the\nexpression should be complete and form a harmonious whole.\n\nIf, then, the will is sufficiently independent to repress the aggressions\nof instinct and to maintain its rights against this blind force, all the\nphenomena which the instinct of nature, once excited, produce, in its\nproper domain, will preserve, it is true, their force; but those of the\nsecond kind, those which came out of a foreign jurisdiction, and which it\npretended to subject arbitrarily to its power, these phenomena would not\ntake place. Thus the phenomena are no longer in harmony; but it is\nprecisely in their opposition that consists the expression of the moral\nforce. Suppose that we see a man a prey to the most poignant affection,\nmanifested by movements of the first kind, by quite involuntary\nmovements. His veins swell, his muscles contract convulsively, his voice\nis stifled, his chest is raised and projects, whilst the lower portion of\nthe torso is sunken and compressed; but at the same time the voluntary\nmovements are soft, the features of the face free, and serenity beams\nforth from the brow and in the look. If man were only a physical being,\nall his traits, being determined only by one and the same principle,\nwould be in unison one with the other, and would have a similar\nexpression. Here, for example, they would unite in expressing\nexclusively suffering; but as those traits which express calmness are\nmixed up with those which express suffering, and as similar causes do not\nproduce opposite effects, we must recognize in this contrast the presence\nand the action of a moral force, independent of the passive affections,\nand superior to the impressions beneath which we see sensuous nature give\nway. And this is why calmness under suffering, in which properly\nconsists dignity, becomes--indirectly, it is true, and by means of\nreasoning--a representation of the pure intelligence which is in man, and\nan expression of his moral liberty. But it is not only under suffering,\nin the restricted sense of the word, in the sense in which it marks only\nthe painful affections, but generally in all the cases in which the\nappetitive faculty is strongly interested, that mind ought to show its\nliberty, and that dignity ought to be the dominant expression. Dignity\nis not less required in the agreeable affections than in the painful\naffections, because in both cases nature would willingly play the part of\nmaster, and has to be held in check by the will. Dignity relates to the\nform and not to the nature of the affection, and this is why it can be\npossible that often an affection, praiseworthy in the main, but one to\nwhich we blindly commit ourselves, degenerates, from the want of dignity,\ninto vulgarity and baseness; and, on the contrary, a condemnable\naffection, as soon as it testifies by its form to the empire of the mind\nover the senses, changes often its character and approaches even towards\nthe sublime.\n\nThus in dignity the mind reigns over the body and bears itself as ruler:\nhere it has its independence to defend against imperious impulse, always\nready to do without it, to act and shake off its yoke. But in grace, on\nthe contrary, the mind governs with a liberal government, for here the\nmind itself causes sensuous nature to act, and it finds no resistance to\novercome. But obedience only merits forbearance, and severity is only\njustifiable when provoked by opposition.\n\nThus grace is nothing else than the liberty of voluntary movements, and\ndignity consists in mastering involuntary movements. Grace leaves to\nsensuous nature, where it obeys the orders of the mind, a certain air of\nindependence; dignity, on the contrary, submits the sensuous nature to\nmind where it would make the pretensions to rule; wherever instinct takes\nthe initiative and allows itself to trespass upon the attributes of the\nwill, the will must show it no indulgence, but it must testify to its own\nindependence (autonomy), in opposing to it the most energetic resistance.\nIf, on the contrary, it is the will that commences, and if instinct does\nbut follow it, the free arbitration has no longer to display any rigor,\nnow it must show indulgence. Such is in a few words the law which ought\nto regulate the relation of the two natures of man in what regards the\nexpression of this relation in the world of phenomena.\n\nIt follows that dignity is required, and is seen particularly in passive\naffection, whilst grace is shown in the conduct, for it is only in\nsuffering that the liberty of the soul can be manifested, and only in\naction that the liberty of the body can be displayed.\n\nIf dignity is an expression of resistance opposed to instinct by moral\nliberty, and if the instinct consequently ought to be considered as a\nforce that renders resistance necessary, it follows that dignity is\nridiculous where you have no force of this kind to resist, and\ncontemptible where there ought not to be any such force to combat. We\nlaugh at a comedian, whatever rank or condition he may occupy, who even\nin indifferent actions affects dignity. We despise those small souls\nwho, for having accomplished an ordinary action, and often for having\nsimply abstained from a base one, plume themselves on their dignity.\n\nGenerally, what is demanded of virtue is not properly speaking dignity,\nbut grace. Dignity is implicitly contained in the idea of virtue, which\neven by its nature supposes already the rule of man over his instincts.\nIt is rather sensuous nature that, in the fulfilment of moral duties, is\nfound in a state of oppression and constraint, particularly when it\nconsummates in a painful sacrifice. But as the ideal of perfection in\nman does not require a struggle, but harmony between the moral and\nphysical nature, this ideal is little compatible with dignity, which is\nonly the expression of a struggle between the two natures, and as such\nrenders visible either the particular impotence of the individual, or the\nimpotence common to the species. In the first case, when the want of\nharmony between inclination and duty, with regard to a moral act, belongs\nto the particular powerlessness of the subject, the act would always lose\nits moral value, in as far as that combat is necessary, and, in\nconsequence, proportionally as there would be dignity in the exterior\nexpression of this act; for our moral judgment connects each individual\nwith the common measure of the species, and we do not allow man to be\nstopped by other limits than those of human nature.\n\nIn the second case, when the action commanded by duty cannot be placed in\nharmony with the exigencies of instinct without going against the idea of\nhuman nature, the resistance of the inclination is necessary, and then\nonly the sight of the combat can convince us of the possibility of\nvictory. Thus we ask here of the features and attitudes an expression of\nthis interior struggle, not being able to take upon ourselves to believe\nin virtue where there is no trace of humanity. Where then the moral law\ncommands of us an action which necessarily makes the sensuous nature\nsuffer, there the matter is serious, and ought not to be treated as play;\nease and lightness in accomplishing this act would be much more likely to\nrevolt us than to satisfy us; and thus, in consequence, expression is no\nlonger grace, but dignity. In general, the law which prevails here is,\nthat man ought to accomplish with grace all the acts that he can execute\nin the sphere of human nature; and with dignity all those for the\naccomplishment of which he is obliged to go beyond his nature.\n\nIn like manner as we ask of virtue to have grace, we ask of inclination\nto have dignity. Grace is not less natural to inclination than dignity\nto virtue, and that is evident from the idea of grace, which is all\nsensuous and favorable to the liberty of physical nature, and which is\nrepugnant to all idea of constraint. The man without cultivation lacks\nnot by himself a certain degree of grace, when love or any other\naffection of this kind animates him; and where do we find more grace than\nin children, who are nevertheless entirely under the direction of\ninstinct. The danger is rather that inclination should end by making the\nstate of passion the dominant one, stifling the independence of mind, and\nbringing about a general relaxation. Therefore in order to conciliate\nthe esteem of a noble sentiment--esteem can only be inspired by that\nwhich proceeds from a moral source--the inclination must always be\naccompanied by dignity. It is for that reason a person in love desires\nto find dignity in the object of this passion. Dignity alone is the\nwarrant that it is not need which has forced, but free choice which has\nchosen, that he is not desired as a thing, but esteemed as a person.\n\nWe require grace of him who obliges, dignity of the person obliged: the\nfirst, to set aside an advantage which he has over the other, and which\nmight wound, ought to give to his actions, though his decision may have\nbeen disinterested, the character of an affective movement, that thus,\nfrom the part which he allows inclination to take, he may have the\nappearance of being the one who gains the most: the second, not to\ncompromise by the dependence in which he put himself the honor of\nhumanity, of which liberty is the saintly palladium, ought to raise what\nis only a pure movement of instinct to the height of an act of the will,\nand in this manner, at the moment when he receives a favor, return in a\ncertain sense another favor.\n\nWe must censure with grace, and own our faults with dignity: to put\ndignity into our remonstrances is to have the air of a man too penetrated\nby his own advantage: to put grace into our confessions is to forget the\ninferiority in which our fault has placed us. Do the powerful desire to\nconciliate affection? Their superiority must be tempered by grace. The\nfeeble, do they desire to conciliate esteem? They must through dignity\nrise above their powerlessness. Generally it is thought that dignity is\nsuitable to the throne, and every one knows that those seated upon it\ndesire to find in their councillors, their confessors, and in their\nparliaments--grace. But that which may be good and praiseworthy in a\nkingdom is not so always in the domain of taste. The prince himself\nenters into this domain as soon as he descends from his throne (for\nthrones have their privileges), and the crouching courtier places himself\nunder the saintly and free probation of this law as soon as he stands\nerect and becomes again a man. The first we would counsel to supplement\nfrom the superfluity of the second that which he himself needs, and to\ngive him as much of his dignity as he requires to borrow grace from him.\n\nAlthough dignity and grace have each their proper domain in which they\nare manifest, they do not exclude each other. They can be met with in\nthe same person, and even in the same state of that person. Further, it\nis grace alone which guarantees and accredits dignity, and dignity alone\ncan give value to grace.\n\nDignity alone, wherever met with, testifies that the desires and\ninclinations are restrained within certain limits. But what we take for\na force which moderates and rules, may it not be rather an obliteration\nof the faculty of feeling (hardness)? Is it really the moral autonomy,\nand may it not be rather the preponderance of another affection, and in\nconsequence a voluntary interested effort that restrains the outburst of\nthe present affection? This is what grace alone can put out of doubt in\njoining itself to dignity. It is grace, I mean to say, that testifies to\na peaceful soul in harmony with itself and a feeling heart.\n\nIn like manner grace by itself shows a certain susceptibility of the\nfeeling faculty, and a certain harmony of sentiment. But may this not be\na certain relaxation of the mind which allows so much liberty to sensuous\nnature and which opens the heart to all impressions? Is it indeed the\nmoral which has established this harmony between the sentiments? It is\ndignity alone which can in its turn guarantee this to us in joining\nitself to grace; I mean it is dignity alone which attests in the subject\nan independent force, and at the moment when the will represses the\nlicense of involuntary movement, it is by dignity that it makes known\nthat the liberty of voluntary movements is a simple concession on its\npart.\n\nIf grace and dignity, still supported, the one by architectonic beauty\nand the other by force, were united in the same person, the expression of\nhuman nature would be accomplished in him: such a person would be\njustified in the spiritual world and set at liberty in the sensuous\nworld. Here the two domains touch so closely that their limits are\nindistinguishable. The smile that plays on the lips; this sweetly\nanimated look; that serenity spread over the brow--it is the liberty of\nthe reason which gleams forth in a softened light. This noble majesty\nimpressed on the face is the sublime adieu of the necessity of nature,\nwhich disappears before the mind. Such is the ideal of human beauty\naccording to which the antique conceptions were formed, and we see it in\nthe divine forms of a Niobe, of the Apollo Belvedere, in the winged\nGenius of the Borghese, and in the Muse of the Barberini palace. There,\nwhere grace and dignity are united, we experience by turns attraction and\nrepulsion; attraction as spiritual creatures, and repulsion as being\nsensuous creatures.\n\nDignity offers to us an example of subordination of sensuous nature to\nmoral nature--an example which we are bound to imitate, but which at the\nsame time goes beyond the measure of our sensuous faculty. This\nopposition between the instincts of nature and the exigencies of the\nmoral law, exigencies, however, that we recognize as legitimate, brings\nour feelings into play and awakens a sentiment that we name esteem, which\nis inseparable from dignity.\n\nWith grace, on the contrary, as with beauty in general, reason finds its\ndemands satisfied in the world of sense, and sees with surprise one of\nits own ideas presented to it, realized in the world of phenomena. This\nunexpected encounter between the accident of nature and the necessity of\nreason awakens in us a sentiment of joyous approval (contentment) which\ncalms the senses, but which animates and occupies the mind, and it\nresults necessarily that we are attracted by a charm towards the sensuous\nobject. It is this attraction which we call kindliness, or love--a\nsentiment inseparable from grace and beauty.\n\nThe attraction--I mean the attraction (stimulus) not of love but of\nvoluptuousness--proposes to the senses a sensuous object that promises to\nthese the satisfaction of a want, that is to say a pleasure; the senses\nare consequently solicited towards this sensuous object, and from that\nsprings desire, a sentiment which increases and excites the sensuous\nnature, but which, on the contrary, relaxes the spiritual nature.\n\nWe can say of esteem that it inclines towards its object; of love, that\nit approaches with inclination towards its object; of desire, that it\nprecipitates itself upon its object; with esteem, the object is reason,\nand the subject is sensuous nature; with love, the object is sensuous,\nand the subject is moral nature; with desire, the object and the subject\nare purely sensuous.\n\nWith love alone is sentiment free, because it is pure in its principle,\nand because it draws its source from the seat of liberty, from the breast\nof our divine nature. Here, it is not the weak and base part of our\nnature that measures itself with the greater and more noble part; it is\nnot the sensibility, a prey to vertigo, which gazes up at the law of\nreason. It is absolute greatness which is reflected in beauty and in\ngrace, and satisfied in morality; it becomes the legislator even, the god\nin us who plays with his own image in the world of sense. Thus love\nconsoles and dilates the heart, whilst esteem strains it; because here\nthere is nothing which could limit the heart and compress its impulses,\nthere being nothing higher than absolute greatness; and sensibility, from\nwhich alone hinderance could come, is reconciled, in the breast of beauty\nand of grace, with the ideas even of the mind. Love has but to descend;\nesteem aspires with effort towards an object placed above it. This is\nthe reason that the wicked love nothing, though they are obliged to\nesteem many things. This is why the well-disposed man can hardly esteem\nwithout at once feeling love for the object. Pure spirit can only love,\nbut not esteem; the senses know only esteem, but not love.\n\nThe culpable man is perpetually a prey to fear, that he may meet in the\nworld of sense the legislator within himself; and sees an enemy in all\nthat bears the stamp of greatness, of beauty, and of perfection: the man,\non the contrary, in whom a noble soul breathes, knows no greater pleasure\nthan to meet out of himself the image or realization of the divine that\nis in him; and to embrace in the world of sense a symbol of the immortal\nfriend he loves. Love is at the same time the most generous and the most\negotistical thing in nature; the most generous, because it receives\nnothing and gives all--pure mind being only able to give and not receive;\nthe most egotistical, for that which he seeks in the subject, that which\nhe enjoys in it, is himself and never anything else.\n\nBut precisely because he who loves receives from the beloved object\nnothing but that which he has himself given, it often happens that he\ngives more than he has received.\n\nThe exterior senses believe to have discovered in the object that which\nthe internal sense alone contemplates in it, in the end believing what is\ndesired with ardor, and the riches belonging to the one who loves hide\nthe poverty of the object loved. This is the reason why love is subject\nto illusion, whilst esteem and desire are never deceived. As long as the\nsuper-excitement of the internal senses overcomes the internal senses,\nthe soul remains under the charm of this Platonic love, which gives place\nonly in duration to the delights enjoyed by the immortals. But as soon\nas internal sense ceases to share its visions with the exterior sense,\nthese take possession of their rights and imperiously demand that which\nis its due--matter. It is the terrestrial Venus who profits by the fire\nkindled by the celestial Venus, and it is not rare to find the physical\ninstinct, so long sacrificed, revenge itself by a rule all the more\nabsolute. As external sense is never a dupe to illusion, it makes this\nadvantage felt with a brutal insolence over its noble rival; and it\npossesses audacity to the point of asserting that it has settled an\naccount that the spiritual nature had left under sufferance.\n\nDignity prevents love from degenerating into desire, and grace, from\nesteem turning into fear. True beauty, true grace, ought never to cause\ndesire. Where desire is mingled, either the object wants dignity, or he\nwho considers it wants morality in his sentiments. True greatness ought\nnever to cause fear. If fear finds a place, you may hold for certain\neither that the object is wanting in taste and grace, or that he who\nconsiders it is not at peace with his conscience.\n\nAttraction, charm, grace: words commonly employed as synonyms, but which\nare not, or ought not to be so, the idea they express being capable of\nmany determinations, requiring different designations.\n\nThere is a kind of grace which animates, and another which calms the\nheart. One touches nearly the sphere of the senses, and the pleasure\nwhich is found in these, if not restrained by dignity, would easily\ndegenerate into concupiscence; we may use the word attraction [Reiz] to\ndesignate this grace. A man with whom the feelings have little\nelasticity does not find in himself the necessary force to awaken his\naffections: he needs to borrow it from without and to seek from\nimpressions which easily exercise the phantasy, by rapid transition from\nsentiment to action, in order to establish in himself the elasticity he\nhad lost. It is the advantage that he will find in the society of an\nattractive person, who by conversation and look would stir his\nimagination and agitate this stagnant water.\n\nThe calming grace approaches more nearly to dignity, inasmuch as it\nmanifests itself through the moderation which it imposes upon the\nimpetuosity of the movements. It is to this the man addresses himself\nwhose imagination is over-excited; it is in this peaceful atmosphere that\nthe heart seeks repose after the violence of the storm. It is to this\nthat I reserve especially the appellation of grace. Attraction is not\nincompatible with laughter, jest, or the sting of raillery; grace agrees\nonly with sympathy and love.\n\nDignity has also its degrees and its shades. If it approaches grace and\nbeauty, it takes the name of nobleness; if, on the contrary, it inclines\ntowards the side of fear, it becomes haughtiness.\n\nThe utmost degree of grace is ravishing charm. Dignity, in its highest\nform, is called majesty. In the ravishing we love our Ego, and we feel\nour being fused with the object. Liberty in its plenitude and in its\nhighest enjoyment tends to the complete destruction of liberty, and the\nexcitement of the mind to the delirium of the voluptuousness of the\nsenses. Majesty, on the contrary, proposes to us a law, a moral ideal,\nwhich constrains us to turn back our looks upon ourselves. God is there,\nand the sentiment we have of His presence makes us bend our eyes upon the\nground. We forget all that is without ourselves, and we feel but the\nheavy burden of our own existence.\n\nMajesty belongs to what is holy. A man capable of giving us an idea of\nholiness possesses majesty, and if we do not go so far as to kneel, our\nmind at least prostrates itself before him. But the mind recoils at once\nupon the slightest trace of human imperfection which he discovers in the\nobject of his adoration, because that which is only comparatively great\ncannot subdue the heart.\n\nPower alone, however terrible or without limit we may suppose it to be,\ncan never confer majesty. Power imposes only upon the sensuous being;\nmajesty should act upon the mind itself, and rob it of its liberty. A\nman who can pronounce upon me a sentence of death has neither more nor\nless of majesty for me the moment I am what I ought to be. His advantage\nover me ceases as soon as I insist on it. But he who offers to me in his\nperson the image of pure will, before him I would prostrate myself, if it\nis possible, for all eternity.\n\nGrace and dignity are too high in value for vanity and stupidity not to\nbe excited to appropriate them by imitation. There is only one means of\nattaining this: it is to imitate the moral state of which they are the\nexpression. All other imitation is but to ape them, and would be\nrecognized directly through exaggeration.\n\nJust as exaggeration of the sublime leads to inflation, and affectation\nof nobleness to preciosity, in the same manner affectation of grace ends\nin coquetry, and that of dignity to stiff solemnity, false gravity.\n\nThere where true grace simply used ease and provenance, affected grace\nbecomes effeminacy. One is content to use discreetly the voluntary\nmovements, and not thwart unnecessarily the liberty of nature; the other\nhas not even the heart to use properly the organs of will, and, not to\nfall into hardness and heaviness, it prefers to sacrifice something of\nthe aim of movement, or else it seeks to reach it by cross ways and\nindirect means. An awkward and stiff dancer expends as much force as if\nhe had to work a windmill; with his feet and arms he describes lines as\nangular as if he were tracing figures with geometrical precision; the\naffected dancer, on the other hand, glides with an excess of delicacy, as\nif he feared to injure himself on coming in contact with the ground, and\nhis feet and hands describe only lines in sinuous curves. The other sex,\nwhich is essentially in possession of true grace, is also that one which\nis more frequently culpable of affected grace, but this affectation is\nnever more distasteful than when used as a bait to desire. The smile of\ntrue grace thus gives place to the most repulsive grimace; the fine play\nof look, so ravishing when it displays a true sentiment, is only\ncontortion; the melodious inflections of the voice, an irresistible\nattraction from candid lips, are only a vain cadence, a tremulousness\nwhich savors of study: in a word, all the harmonious charms of woman\nbecome only deception, an artifice of the toilet.\n\nIf we have many occasions to observe the affected grace in the theatre\nand in the ball-room, there is also often occasion of studying the\naffected dignity in the cabinet of ministers and in the study-rooms of\nmen of science (notably at universities). True dignity is content to\nprevent the domination of the affections, to keep the instinct within\njust limits, but there only where it pretends to be master in the\ninvoluntary movements; false dignity regulates with an iron sceptre even\nthe voluntary movements, it oppresses the moral movements, which were\nsacred to true dignity, as well as the sensual movements, and destroys\nall the mimic play of the features by which the soul gleams forth upon\nthe face. It arms itself not only against rebel nature, but against\nsubmissive nature, and ridiculously seeks its greatness in subjecting\nnature to its yoke, or, if this does not succeed, in hiding it. As if it\nhad vowed hatred to all that is called nature, it swathes the body in\nlong, heavy-plaited garments, which hide the human structure; it\nparalyzes the limbs in surcharging them with vain ornaments, and goes\neven the length of cutting the hair to replace this gift of nature by an\nartificial production. True dignity does not blush for nature, but only\nfor brute nature; it always has an open and frank air; feeling gleams in\nits look; calm and serenity of mind is legible upon the brow in eloquent\ntraits. False gravity, on the contrary, places its dignity in the lines\nof its visage; it is close, mysterious, and guards its features with the\ncare of an actor; all the muscles of its face are tormented, all natural\nand true expression disappears, and the entire man is like a sealed\nletter.\n\nBut false dignity is not always wrong to keep the mimic play of its\nfeatures under sharp discipline, because it might betray more than would\nbe desired, a precaution true dignity has not to consider. True dignity\nwishes only to rule, not to conceal nature; in false dignity, on the\ncontrary, nature rules the more powerfully within because it is\ncontrolled outwardly. [Art can make use of a proper solemnity. Its\nobject is only to prepare the mind for something important. When the\npoet is anxious to produce a great impression he tunes the mind to\nreceive it.]\n\n\n\n\nON THE NECESSARY LIMITATIONS IN THE USE OF BEAUTY OF FORM.\n\n\nThe abuse of the beautiful and the encroachments of imagination, when,\nhaving only the casting vote, it seeks to grasp the law-giving sceptre,\nhas done great injury alike in life and in science. It is therefore\nhighly expedient to examine very closely the bounds that have been\nassigned to the use of beautiful forms. These limits are embodied in the\nvery nature of the beautiful, and we have only to call to mind how taste\nexpresses its influence to be able to determine how far it ought to\nextend it.\n\nThe following are the principal operations of taste; to bring the\nsensuous and spiritual powers of man into harmony, and to unite them in a\nclose alliance. Consequently, whenever such an intimate alliance between\nreason and the senses is suitable and legitimate, taste may be allowed\ninfluence. But taste reaches the bounds which it is not permitted to\npass without defeating its end or removing us from our duty, in all cases\nwhere the bond between mind and matter is given up for a time, where we\nmust act for the time as purely creatures of reason, whether it be to\nattain an end or to perform a duty. Cases of this kind do really occur,\nand they are even incumbent on us in carrying out our destiny.\n\nFor we are destined to obtain knowledge and to act from knowledge. In\nboth cases a certain readiness is required to exclude the senses from\nthat which the spirit does, because feelings must be abstracted from\nknowledge, and passion or desire from every moral act of the will.\n\nWhen we know, we take up an active attitude, and our attention is\ndirected to an object, to a relation between different representations.\nWhen we feel, we have a passive attitude, and our attention--if we may\ncall that so, which is no conscious operation of the mind--is only\ndirected to our own condition, as far as it is modified by the impression\nreceived. Now, as we only feel and do not know the beautiful, we do not\ndistinguish any relation between it and other objects, we do not refer\nits representation to other representations, but to ourselves who have\nexperienced the impression. We learn or experience nothing in the\nbeautiful object, but we perceive a change occasioned by it in our own\ncondition, of which the impression produced is the expression.\nAccordingly our knowledge is not enlarged by judgments of taste, and no\nknowledge, not even that of beauty, is obtained by the feeling of beauty.\nTherefore, when knowledge is the object, taste can give us no help, at\nleast directly and immediately; on the contrary, knowledge is shut out as\nlong as we are occupied with beauty.\n\nBut it may be objected, What is the use then of a graceful embodiment of\nconceptions, if the object of the discussion or treatise, which is simply\nand solely to produce knowledge, is rather hindered than benefited by\nornament? To convince the understanding this gracefulness of clothing\ncan certainly avail as little as the tasteful arrangement of a banquet\ncan satisfy the appetite of the guests, or the outward elegance of a\nperson can give a clue to his intrinsic worth. But just as the appetite\nis excited by the beautiful arrangement of the table, and attention is\ndirected to the elegant person in question, by the attractiveness of the\nexterior, so also we are placed in a favorable attitude to receive truth\nby the charming representation given of it; we are led to open our souls\nto its reception, and the obstacles are removed from our minds which\nwould have otherwise opposed the difficult pursuit of a long and strict\nconcatenation of thought. It is never the contents, the substance, that\ngains by the beauty of form; nor is it the understanding that is helped\nby taste in the act of knowing. The substance, the contents, must\ncommend themselves to the understanding directly, of themselves; whilst\nthe beautiful form speaks to the imagination, and flatters it with an\nappearance of freedom.\n\nBut even further limitations are necessary in this innocent subserviency\nto the senses, which is only allowed in the form, without changing\nanything in the substance. Great moderation must be always used, and\nsometimes the end in view may be completely defeated according to the\nkind of knowledge and degree of conviction aimed at in imparting our\nviews to others. There is a scientific knowledge, which is based on\nclear conceptions and known principles; and a popular knowledge, which is\nfounded on feelings more or less developed. What may be very useful to\nthe latter is quite possibly adverse to the former.\n\nWhen the object in view is to produce a strict conviction on principles,\nit is not sufficient to present the truth only in respect to its contents\nor subject; the test of the truth must at the same time be contained in\nthe manner of its presentation. But this can mean nothing else than that\nnot only the contents, but also the mode of stating them, must be\naccording to the laws of thought. They must be connected in the\npresentation with the same strict logical sequence with which they are\nchained together in the seasonings of the understanding; the stability of\nthe representation must guarantee that of the ideas. But the strict\nnecessity with which the understanding links together reasonings and\nconclusions, is quite antagonistic to the freedom granted to imagination\nin matters of knowledge. By its very nature, the imagination strives\nafter perceptions, that is, after complete and completely determinate\nrepresentations, and is indefatigably active to represent the universal\nin one single case, to limit it in time and space, to make of every\nconception an individual, and to give a body to abstractions. Moreover,\nthe imagination likes freedom in its combinations, and admits no other\nlaw in them than the accidental connection with time and space; for this\nis the only connection that remains to our representations, if we\nseparate from them in thought all that is conception, all that binds them\ninternally and substantially together. The understanding, following a\ndiametrically opposite course, only occupies itself with part\nrepresentations or conceptions, and its effort is directed to distinguish\nfeatures in the living unity of a perception. The understanding proceeds\non the same principles in putting together and taking to pieces, but it\ncan only combine things by part-representations, just as it can separate\nthem; for it only unites, according to their inner relations, things that\nfirst disclosed themselves in their separation.\n\nThe understanding observes a strict necessity and conformity with laws in\nits combinations, and it is only the consistent connection of ideas that\nsatisfies it. But this connection is destroyed as often as the\nimagination insinuates entire representations (individual cases) in this\nchain of abstractions, and mixes up the accidents of time with the strict\nnecessity of a chain of circumstances. Accordingly, in every case where\nit is essential to carry out a rigidly accurate sequence of reasoning,\nimagination must forego its capricious character; and its endeavor to\nobtain all possible sensuousness in conceptions, and all freedom in their\ncombination, must be made subordinate and sacrificed to the necessity of\nthe understanding. From this it follows that the exposition must be so\nfashioned as to overthrow this effort of the imagination by the exclusion\nof all that is individual and sensuous. The poetic impulse of\nimagination must be curbed by distinctness of expression, and its\ncapricious tendency to combine must be limited by a strictly legitimate\ncourse of procedure. I grant that it will not bend to this yoke without\nresistance; but in this matter reliance is properly placed on a certain\namount of self-denial, and on an earnest determination of the hearer or\nreader not to be deterred by the difficulties accompanying the form, for\nthe sake of the subject-matter. But in all cases where no sufficient\ndependence can be placed on this self-denial, or where the interest felt\nin the subject-matter is insufficient to inspire courage for such an\namount of exertion, it is necessary to resign the idea of imparting\nstrictly scientific knowledge; and to gain instead greater latitude in\nthe form of its presentation. In such a case it is expedient to abandon\nthe form of science, which exercises too great violence over the\nimagination, and can only be made acceptable through the importance of\nthe object in view. Instead of this, it is proper to choose the form of\nbeauty, which, independent of the contents or subject, recommends itself\nby its very appearance. As the matter cannot excuse the form in this\ncase, the form must trespass on the matter.\n\nPopular instruction is compatible with this freedom. By the term popular\nspeakers or popular writers I imply all those who do not direct their\nremarks exclusively to the learned. Now, as these persons do not address\nany carefully trained body of hearers or readers, but take them as they\nfind them, they must only assume the existence of the general conditions\nof thought, only the universal impulses that call attention, but no\nspecial gift of thinking, no acquaintance with distinct conceptions, nor\nany interest in special subjects. These lecturers and authors must not\nbe too particular as to whether their audience or readers assign by their\nimagination a proper meaning to their abstractions, or whether they will\nfurnish a proper subject-matter for the universal conceptions to which\nthe scientific discourse is limited. In order to pursue a safer, easier\ncourse, these persons will present along with their ideas the perceptions\nand separate cases to which they relate, and they leave it to the\nunderstanding of the reader to form a proper conception impromptu.\nAccordingly, the faculty of imagination is much more mixed up with a\npopular discourse, but only to reproduce, to renew previously received\nrepresentations, and not to produce, to express its own self-creating\npower. Those special cases or perceptions are much too certainly\ncalculated for the object on hand, and much too closely applied to the\nuse that is to be made of them, to allow the imagination ever to forget\nthat it only acts in the service of the understanding. It is true that a\ndiscourse of this popular kind holds somewhat closer to life and the\nworld of sense, but it does not become lost in it. The mode of\npresenting the subject is still didactic; for in order to be beautiful it\nis still wanting in the two most distinguished features of beauty,\nsensuousness of expression and freedom of movement.\n\nThe mode of presenting a theme may be called free when the understanding,\nwhile determining the connection of ideas, does so with so little\nprominence that the imagination appears to act quite capriciously in the\nmatter, and to follow only the accident of time. The presentation of a\nsubject becomes sensuous when it conceals the general in the particular,\nand when the fancy gives the living image (the whole representation),\nwhere attention is merely concerned with the conception (the part\nrepresentation). Accordingly, sensuous presentation is, viewed in one\naspect, rich, for in cases where only one condition is desired, a\ncomplete picture, an entirety of conditions, an individual is offered.\nBut viewed in another aspect it is limited and poor, because it only\nconfines to a single individual and a single case what ought to be\nunderstood of a whole sphere. It therefore curtails the understanding in\nthe same proportion that it grants preponderance to the imagination; for\nthe completer a representation is in substance, the smaller it is in\ncompass.\n\nIt is the interest of the imagination to change objects according to its\ncaprice; the interest of the understanding is to unite its\nrepresentations with strict logical necessity.\n\nTo satisfy the imagination, a discourse must have a material part, a\nbody; and these are formed by the perceptions, from which the\nunderstanding separates distinct features or conceptions. For though we\nmay attempt to obtain the highest pitch of abstraction, something\nsensuous always lies at the ground of the thought. But imagination\nstrives to pass unfettered and lawless from one conception to another\nconception, and seeks not to be bound by any other connection than that\nof time. So when the perceptions that constitute the bodily part of a\ndiscourse have no concatenation as things, when they appear rather to\nstand apart as independent limbs and separate unities, when they betray\nthe utter disorder of a sportive imagination, obedient to itself alone,\nthen the clothing has aesthetic freedom and the wants of the fancy are\nsatisfied. A mode of presentation such as this might be styled an\norganic product, in which not only the whole lives, but also each part\nhas its individual life. A merely scientific presentation is a\nmechanical work, when the parts, lifeless in themselves, impart by their\nconnection an artificial life to the whole.\n\nOn the other hand, a discourse, in order to satisfy the understanding and\nto produce knowledge, must have a spiritual part, it must have\nsignificance, and it receives this through the conceptions, by means of\nwhich those perceptions are referred to one another and united into a\nwhole. The problem of satisfying the understanding by conformity with\nlaw, while the imagination is flattered by being set free from\nrestrictions, is solved thus: by obtaining the closest connection between\nthe conceptions forming the spiritual part of the discourse, while the\nperceptions, corresponding to them and forming the sensuous part of the\ndiscourse, appear to cohere merely through an arbitrary play of the\nfancy.\n\nIf an inquiry be instituted into the magic influence of a beautiful\ndiction, it will always be found that it consists in this happy relation\nbetween external freedom and internal necessity. The principal features\nthat contribute to this freedom of the imagination are the\nindividualizing of objects and the figurative or inexact expression of a\nthing; the former employed to give force to its sensuousness, the latter\nto produce it where it does not exist. When we express a species or kind\nby an individual, and portray a conception in a single case, we remove\nfrom fancy the chains which the understanding has placed upon her and\ngive her the power to act as a creator. Always grasping at completely\ndeterminate images, the imagination obtains and exercises the right to\ncomplete according to her wish the image afforded to her, to animate it,\nto fashion it, to follow it in all the associations and transformations\nof which it is capable. She may forget for a moment her subordinate\nposition, and act as an independent power, only self-directing, because\nthe strictness of the inner concatenation has sufficiently guarded\nagainst her breaking loose from the control of the understanding. An\ninexact or figurative expression adds to the liberty, by associating\nideas which in their nature differ essentially from one another, but\nwhich unite in subordination to the higher idea. The imagination adheres\nto the concrete object, the understanding to this higher idea, and thus\nthe former finds movement and variety even where the other verifies a\nmost perfect continuity. The conceptions are developed according to the\nlaw of necessity, but they pass before the imagination according to the\nlaw of liberty.\n\nThought remains the same; the medium that represents it is the only thing\nthat changes. It is thus that an eloquent writer knows how to extract\nthe most splendid order from the very centre of anarchy, and that he\nsucceeds in erecting a solid structure on a constantly moving ground, on\nthe very torrent of imagination.\n\nIf we compare together scientific statement or address, popular address,\nand fine language, it is seen directly that all three express the idea\nwith an equal faithfulness as regards the matter, and consequently that\nall three help us to acquire knowledge, but that as regards the mode and\ndegree of this knowledge a very marked difference exists between them.\nThe writer who uses the language of the beautiful rather represents the\nmatter of which he treats as possible and desirable than indulges in\nattempts to convince us of its reality, and still less of its necessity.\nHis thought does in fact only present itself as an arbitrary creation of\nthe imagination, which is never qualified, in itself, to guarantee the\nreality of what it represents. No doubt the popular writer leads us to\nbelieve that the matter really is as he describes it, but does not\nrequire anything more firm; for, though he may make the truth of a\nproposition credible to our feelings, he does not make it absolutely\ncertain. Now, feeling may always teach us what is, but not what must be.\nThe philosophical writer raises this belief to a conviction, for he\nproves by undeniable reasons that the matter is necessarily so.\n\nStarting from the principle that we have just established, it will not be\ndifficult to assign its proper part and sphere to each of the three forms\nof diction. Generally it may be laid down as a rule that preference\nought to be given to the scientific style whenever the chief\nconsideration is not only the result, but also the proofs. But when the\nresult merely is of the most essential importance the advantage must be\ngiven to popular elocution and fine language. But it may be asked in\nwhat cases ought popular elocution to rise to a fine, a noble style?\nThis depends on the degree of interest in the reader, or which you wish\nto excite in his mind.\n\nThe purely scientific statement may incline either to popular discourse\nor to philosophic language, and according to this bias it places us more\nor less in possession of some branch of knowledge. All that popular\nelocution does is to lend us this knowledge for a momentary pleasure or\nenjoyment. The first, if I may be allowed the comparison, gives us a\ntree with its roots, though with the condition that we wait patiently for\nit to blossom and bear fruit. The other, or fine diction, is satisfied\nwith gathering its flowers and fruits, but the tree that bore them does\nnot become our property, and when once the flowers are faded and the\nfruit is consumed our riches depart. It would therefore be equally\nunreasonable to give only the flower and fruit to a man who wishes the\nwhole tree to be transplanted into his garden, and to offer the whole\ntree with its fruit in the germ to a man who only looks for the ripe\nfruit. The application of the comparison is self-evident, and I now only\nremark that a fine ornate style is as little suited to the professor's\nchair as the scholastic style to a drawing-room, the pulpit, or the bar.\n\nThe student accumulates in view of an ulterior end and for a future use;\naccordingly the professor ought to endeavor to transmit the full and\nentire property of the knowledge that he communicates to him. Now,\nnothing belongs to us as our own but what has been communicated to the\nunderstanding. The orator, on the other hand, has in view an immediate\nend, and his voice must correspond with an immediate want of the public.\nHis interest is to make his knowledge practically available as soon as\npossible; and the surest way is to hand it over to the senses, and to\nprepare it for the use of sensation. The professor, who only admits\nhearers on certain conditions, and who is entitled to suppose in his\nhearers the dispositions of mind in which a man ought to be to receive\nthe truth, has only in view in his lecture the object of which he is\ntreating; while the orator, who cannot make any conditions with his\naudience, and who needs above everything sympathy, to secure it on his\nside, must regulate his action and treatment according to the subjects on\nwhich he turns his discourse. The hearers of the professor have already\nattended his lectures, and will attend them again; they only want\nfragments that will form a whole after having been linked to the\npreceding lectures. The audience of the orator is continually renewed;\nit comes unprepared, and perhaps will not return; accordingly in every\naddress the orator must finish what he wishes to do; each of his\nharangues must form a whole and contain expressly and entirely his\nconclusion.\n\nIt is not therefore surprising that a dogmatic composition or address,\nhowever solid, should not have any success either in conversation or in\nthe pulpit, nor that a fine diction, whatever wit it may contain, should\nnot bear fruit in a professor's chair. It is not surprising that the\nfashionable world should not read writings that stand out in relief in\nthe scientific world, and that the scholar and the man of science are\nignorant of works belonging to the school of worldly people that are\ndevoured greedily by all lovers of the beautiful. Each of these works\nmay be entitled to admiration in the circle to which it belongs; and more\nthan this, both, fundamentally, may be quite of equal value; but it would\nbe requiring an impossibility to expect that the work which demands all\nthe application of the thinker should at the same time offer an easy\nrecreation to the man who is only a fine wit.\n\nFor the same reason I consider that it is hurtful to choose for the\ninstruction of youth books in which scientific matters are clothed in an\nattractive style. I do not speak here of those in which the substance is\nsacrificed to the form, but of certain writings really excellent, which\nare sufficiently well digested to stand the strictest examination, but\nwhich do not offer their proofs by their very form. No doubt books of\nthis kind attain their end, they are read; but this is always at the cost\nof a more important end, the end for which they ought to be read. In\nthis sort of reading the understanding is never exercised save in as far\nas it agrees with the fancy; it does not learn to distinguish the form\nfrom the substance, nor to act alone as pure understanding. And yet the\nexercise of the pure understanding is in itself an essential and capital\npoint in the instruction of youth; and very often the exercise itself of\nthought is much more important than the object on which it is exercised.\nIf you wish for a matter to be done seriously, be very careful not to\nannounce it as a diversion. It is preferable, on the contrary, to secure\nattention and effort by the very form that is employed, and to use a kind\nof violence to draw minds over from the passive to an active state. The\nprofessor ought never to hide from his pupil the exact regularity of the\nmethod; he ought rather to fix his attention on it, and if possible to\nmake him desire this strictness. The student ought to learn to pursue an\nend, and in the interest of that end to put up with a difficult process.\nHe ought early to aspire to that loftier satisfaction which is the reward\nof exertion. In a scientific lecture the senses are altogether set\naside; in an aesthetic address it is wished to interest them. What is\nthe result? A writing or conversation of the aesthetic class is devoured\nwith interest; but questions are put as to its conclusions; the hearer is\nscarcely able to give an answer. And this is quite natural, as here the\nconceptions reach the mind only in entire masses, and the understanding\nonly knows what it analyzes. The mind during a lecture of this kind is\nmore passive than active, and the intellect only possesses what it has\nproduced by its own activity.\n\nHowever, all this applies only to the vulgarly beautiful, and to a vulgar\nfashion of perceiving beauty. True beauty reposes on the strictest\nlimitation, on the most exact definition, on the highest and most\nintimate necessity. Only this limitation ought rather to let itself be\nsought for than be imposed violently. It requires the most perfect\nconformity to law, but this must appear quite natural. A product that\nunites these conditions will fully satisfy the understanding as soon as\nstudy is made of it. But exactly because this result is really\nbeautiful, its conformity is not expressed; it does not take the\nunderstanding apart to address it exclusively; it is a harmonious unity\nwhich addresses the entire man--all his faculties together; it is nature\nspeaking to nature.\n\nA vulgar criticism may perhaps find it empty, paltry, and too little\ndetermined. He who has no other knowledge than that of distinguishing,\nand no other sense than that for the particular, is actually pained by\nwhat is precisely the triumph of art, this harmonious unity where the\nparts are blended in a pure entirety. No doubt it is necessary, in a\nphilosophical discourse, that the understanding, as a faculty of\nanalysis, find what will satisfy it; it must obtain single concrete\nresults; this is the essential that must not by any means be lost sight\nof. But if the writer, while giving all possible precision to the\nsubstance of his conceptions, has taken the necessary measures to enable\nthe understanding, as soon as it will take the trouble, to find of\nnecessity these truths, I do not see that he is a less good writer\nbecause he has approached more to the highest perfection. Nature always\nacts as a harmonious unity, and when she loses this in her efforts after\nabstraction, nothing appears more urgent to her than to re-establish it,\nand the writer we are speaking of is not less commendable if he obeys\nnature by attaching to the understanding what had been separated by\nabstraction, and when, by appealing at the same time to the sensuous and\nto the spiritual faculties, he addresses altogether the entire man. No\ndoubt the vulgar critic will give very scant thanks to this writer for\nhaving given him a double task. For vulgar criticism has not the feeling\nfor this harmony, it only runs after details, and even in the Basilica of\nSt. Peter would exclusively attend to the pillars on which the ethereal\nedifice reposes. The fact is that this critic must begin by translating\nit to understand it--in the same way that the pure understanding, left to\nitself, if it meets beauty and harmony, either in nature or in art, must\nbegin by transferring them into its own language--and by decomposing it,\nby doing in fact what the pupil does who spells before reading. But it\nis not from the narrow mind of his readers that the writer who expresses\nhis conceptions in the language of the beautiful receives his laws. The\nideal which he carries in himself is the goal at which he aims without\ntroubling himself as to who follows and who remains behind. Many will\nstay behind; for if it be a rare thing to find readers simply capable of\nthinking, it is infinitely more rare to meet any who can think with\nimagination. Thus our writer, by the force of circumstances, will fall\nout, on the one hand, with those who have only intuitive ideas and\nfeelings, for he imposes on them a painful task by forcing them to think;\nand, on the other hand, he aggravates those who only know how to think,\nfor he asks of them what is absolutely impossible--to give a living,\nanimated form to conception. But as both only represent true humanity\nvery imperfectly--that normal humanity which requires the absolute\nharmony of these two operations--their contradictory objections have no\nweight, and if their judgments prove anything, it is rather that the\nauthor has succeeded in attaining his end. The abstract thinker finds\nthat the substance of the work is solidly thought; the reader of\nintuitive ideas finds his style lively and animated; both consequently\nfind and approve in him what they are able to understand, and that alone\nis wanting which exceeds their capacity.\n\nBut precisely for this very reason a writer of this class is not adapted\nto make known to an ignorant reader the object of what he treats, or, in\nthe most proper sense of the word, to teach. Happily also, he is not\nrequired for that, for means will not be wanting for the teaching of\nscholars. The professor in the strictest acceptation is obliged to bind\nhimself to the needs of his scholars; the first thing he has to\npresuppose is the ignorance of those who listen to him; the other, on the\nother hand, demands a certain maturity and culture in his reader or\naudience. Nor is his office confined to impart to them dead ideas; he\ngrasps the living object with a living energy, and seizes at once on the\nentire man--his understanding, his heart, and his will.\n\nWe have found that it is dangerous for the soundness of knowledge to give\nfree scope to the exigencies of taste in teaching, properly so called.\nBut this does not mean by any means that the culture of this faculty in\nthe student is a premature thing. He must, on the contrary, be\nencouraged to apply the knowledge that he has appropriated in the school\nto the field of living development. When once the first point has been\nobserved, and the knowledge acquired, the other point, the exercise of\ntaste, can only have useful results. It is certain that it is necessary\nto be quite the master of a truth to abandon without danger the form in\nwhich it has been found; a great strength of understanding is required\nnot to lose sight of your object while giving free play to the\nimagination. He who transmits his knowledge under a scholastic form\npersuades me, I admit, that he has grasped these truths properly and that\nhe knows how to support them. But he who besides this is in a condition\nto communicate them to me in a beautiful form not only proves that he is\nadapted to promulgate them, he shows moreover that he has assimilated\nthem and that he is able to make their image pass into his productions\nand into his acts. There is for the results of thought only one way by\nwhich they can penetrate into the will and pass into life; that is, by\nspontaneous imagination, only what in ourselves was already a living act\ncan become so out of us; and the same thing happens with the creations of\nthe mind as with those of organic nature, that the fruit issues only from\nthe flower. If we consider how many truths were living and active as\ninterior intuitions before philosophy showed their existence, and how\nmany truths most firmly secured by proofs often remain inactive on the\nwill and the feelings, it will be seen how important it is for practical\nlife to follow in this the indications of nature, and when we have\nacquired a knowledge scientifically to bring it back again to the state\nof a living intuition. It is the only way to enable those whose nature\nhas forbidden them to follow the artificial path of science to share in\nthe treasures of wisdom. The beautiful renders us here in relation with\nknowledge what, in morals, it does in relation with conduct; it places\nmen in harmony on results, and on the substance of things, who would\nnever have agreed on the form and principles.\n\nThe other sex, by its very nature and fair destiny, cannot and ought not\nto rival ours in scientific knowledge; but it can share truth with us by\nthe reproduction of things. Man agrees to have his taste offended,\nprovided compensation be given to his understanding by the increased\nvalue of its possessions. But women do not forgive negligence in form,\nwhatever be the nature of the conception; and the inner structure of all\ntheir being gives them the right to show a strict severity on this point.\nThe fair sex, even if it did not rule by beauty, would still be entitled\nto its name because it is ruled by beauty, and makes all objects\npresented to it appear before the tribunal of feeling, and all that does\nnot speak to feeling or belies it is lost in the opinion of women. No\ndoubt through this medium nothing can be made to reach the mind of woman\nsave the matter of truth, and not truth itself, which is inseparable from\nits proofs. But happily woman only needs the matter of truth to reach\nher highest perfection, and the few exceptions hitherto seen are not of a\nnature to make us wish that the exception should become the rule. As,\ntherefore, nature has not only dispensed but cut off the other sex from\nthis task, man must give a double attention to it if he wishes to vie\nwith woman and be equal to her in what is of great interest in human\nlife. Consequently he will try to transfer all that he can from the\nfield of abstraction, where he is master, to that of imagination, of\nfeeling, where woman is at once a model and a judge. The mind of woman\nbeing a ground that does not admit of durable cultivation, he will try to\nmake his own ground yield as many flowers and as much fruit as possible,\nso as to renew as often as possible the quickly-fading produce on the\nother ground, and to keep up a sort of artificial harvest where natural\nharvests could not ripen. Taste corrects or hides the natural\ndifferences of the two sexes. It nourishes and adorns the mind of woman\nwith the productions of that of man, and allows the fair sex to feel\nwithout being previously fatigued by thought, and to enjoy pleasures\nwithout having bought them with labors. Thus, save the restrictions I\nhave named, it is to the taste that is intrusted the care of form in\nevery statement by which knowledge is communicated, but under the express\ncondition that it will not encroach on the substance of things. Taste\nmust never forget that it carries out an order emanating elsewhere, and\nthat it is not its own affairs it is treating of. All its parts must be\nlimited to place our minds in a condition favorable to knowledge; over\nall that concerns knowledge itself it has no right to any authority. For\nit exceeds its mission, it betrays it, it disfigures the object that it\nought faithfully to transmit, it lays claim to authority out of its\nproper province; if it tries to carry out there, too, its own law, which\nis nothing but that of pleasing the imagination and making itself\nagreeable to the intuitive faculties; if it applies this law not only to\nthe operation, but also to the matter itself; if it follows this rule not\nonly to arrange the materials, but also to choose them. When this is the\ncase the first consideration is not the things themselves, but the best\nmode of presenting them so as to recommend them to the senses. The\nlogical sequence of conceptions of which only the strictness should have\nbeen hidden from us is rejected as a disagreeable impediment. Perfection\nis sacrificed to ornament, the truth of the parts to the beauty of the\nwhole, the inmost nature of things to the exterior impression. Now,\ndirectly the substance is subordinated to form, properly speaking it\nceases to exist; the statement is empty, and instead of having extended\nour knowledge we have only indulged in an amusing game.\n\nThe writers who have more wit than understanding and more taste than\nscience, are too often guilty of this deception; and readers more\naccustomed to feel than to think are only too inclined to forgive them.\nIn general it is unsafe to give to the aesthetical sense all its culture\nbefore having exercised the understanding as the pure thinking faculty,\nand before having enriched the head with conceptions; for as taste always\nlooks at the carrying out and not at the basis of things, wherever it\nbecomes the only arbiter, there is an end of the essential difference\nbetween things. Men become indifferent to reality, and they finish by\ngiving value to form and appearance only.\n\nHence arises that superficial and frivolous bel-esprit that we often see\nhold sway in social conditions and in circles where men pride themselves,\nand not unreasonably, on the finest culture. It is a fatal thing to\nintroduce a young man into assemblies where the Graces hold sway before\nthe Muses have dismissed him and owned his majority. Moreover, it can\nhardly be prevented that what completes the external education of a young\nman whose mind is ripe turns him who is not ripened by study into a fool.\nI admit that to have a fund of conceptions, and not form, is only a half\npossession. For the most splendid knowledge in a head incapable of\ngiving them form is like a treasure buried in the earth. But form\nwithout substance is a shadow of riches, and all possible cleverness in\nexpression is of no use to him who has nothing to express.\n\nThus, to avoid the graces of education leading us in a wrong road, taste\nmust be confined to regulating the external form, while reason and\nexperience determine the substance and the essence of conceptions. If\nthe impression made on the senses is converted into a supreme criterion,\nand if things are exclusively referred to sensation, man will never cease\nto be in the service of matter; he will never clear a way for his\nintelligence; in short, reason will lose in freedom in proportion as it\nallows imagination to usurp undue influence.\n\nThe beautiful produces its effect by mere intuition; the truth demands\nstudy. Accordingly, the man who among all his faculties has only\nexercised the sense of the beautiful is satisfied even when study is\nabsolutely required, with a superficial view of things; and he fancies he\ncan make a mere play of wit of that which demands a serious effort. But\nmere intuition cannot give any result. To produce something great it is\nnecessary to enter into the fundamental nature of things, to distinguish\nthem strictly, to associate them in different manners, and study them\nwith a steady attention. Even the artist and the poet, though both of\nthem labor to procure us only the pleasure of intuition, can only by most\nlaborious and engrossing study succeed in giving us a delightful\nrecreation by their works.\n\nI believe this to be the test to distinguish the mere dilettante from the\nartist of real genius. The seductive charm exercised by the sublime and\nthe beautiful, the fire which they kindle in the young imagination, the\napparent ease with which they place the senses under an illusion, have\noften persuaded inexperienced minds to take in hand the palette or the\nharp, and to transform into figures or to pour out in melody what they\nfelt living in their heart. Misty ideas circulate in their heads, like a\nworld in formation, and make them believe that they are inspired. They\ntake obscurity for depth, savage vehemence for strength, the undetermined\nfor the infinite, what has not senses for the super-sensuous. And how\nthey revel in these creations of their brain! But the judgment of the\nconnoisseur does not confirm this testimony of an excited self-love.\nWith his pitiless criticism he dissipates all the prestige of the\nimagination and of its dreams, and carrying the torch before these\nnovices he leads them into the mysterious depths of science and life,\nwhere, far from profane eyes, the source of all true beauty flows ever\ntowards him who is initiated. If now a true genius slumbers in the young\naspirant, no doubt his modesty will at first receive a shock; but soon\nthe consciousness of real talent will embolden him for the trial. If\nnature has endowed him with gifts for plastic art, he will study the\nstructure of man with the scalpel of the anatomist; he will descend into\nthe lowest depths to be true in representing surfaces, and he will\nquestion the whole race in order to be just to the individual. If he is\nborn to be a poet, he examines humanity in his own heart to understand\nthe infinite variety of scenes in which it acts on the vast theatre of\nthe world. He subjects imagination and its exuberant fruitfulness to the\ndiscipline of taste, and charges the understanding to mark out in its\ncool wisdom the banks that should confine the raging waters of\ninspiration. He knows full well that the great is only formed of the\nlittle--from the imperceptible. He piles up, grain by grain, the\nmaterials of the wonderful structure, which, suddenly disclosed to our\neyes, produces a startling effect and turns our head. But if nature has\nonly intended him for a dilettante, difficulties damp his impotent zeal,\nand one of two things happens: either he abandons, if he is modest, that\nto which he was diverted by a mistaken notion of his vocation; or, if he\nhas no modesty, he brings back the ideal to the narrow limits of his\nfaculties, for want of being able to enlarge his faculties to the vast\nproportions of the ideal. Thus the true genius of the artist will be\nalways recognized by this sign--that when most enthusiastic for the\nwhole, he preserves a coolness, a patience defying all obstacles, as\nregards details. Moreover, in order not to do any injury to perfection,\nhe would rather renounce the enjoyment given by the completion. For the\nsimple amateur, it is the difficulty of means that disgusts him and turns\nhim from his aim; his dreams would be to have no more trouble in\nproducing than he had in conception and intuition.\n\nI have spoken hitherto of the dangers to which we are exposed by an\nexaggerated sensuousness and susceptibility to the beautiful in the form,\nand from too extensive aesthetical requirements; and I have considered\nthese dangers in relation to the faculty of thinking and knowing. What,\nthen, will be the result when these pretensions of the aesthetical taste\nbear on the will? It is one thing to be stopped in your scientific\nprogress by too great a love of the beautiful, another to see this\ninclination become a cause of degeneracy in character itself, and make us\nviolate the law of duty. In matters of thought the caprices of \"taste\"\nare no doubt an evil, and they must of necessity darken the intelligence;\nbut these same caprices applied to the maxims of the will become really\npernicious and infallibly deprave the heart. Yet this is the dangerous\nextreme to which too refined an aesthetic culture brings us directly we\nabandon ourselves exclusively to the feelings for the beautiful, and\ndirectly we raise taste to the part of absolute lawgiver over our will.\n\nThe moral destination of man requires that the will should be completely\nindependent of all influence of sensuous instincts, and we know that\ntaste labors incessantly at making the link between reason and the senses\ncontinually closer. Now this effort has certainly as its result the\nennobling of the appetites, and to make them more conformable with the\nrequirements of reason; but this very point may be a serious danger for\nmorality.\n\nI proceed to explain my meaning. A very refined aesthetical education\naccustoms the imagination to direct itself according to laws, even in its\nfree exercise, and leads the sensuous not to have any enjoyments without\nthe concurrence of reason; but it soon follows that reason, in its turn,\nis required to be directed, even in the most serious operations of its\nlegislative power, according to the interests of imagination, and to give\nno more orders to the will without the consent of the sensuous instincts.\nThe moral obligation of the will, which is, however, an absolute and\nunconditional law, takes unperceived the character of a simple contract,\nwhich only binds each of the contracting parties when the other fulfils\nits engagement. The purely accidental agreement of duty with inclination\nends by being considered a necessary condition, and thus the principle of\nall morality is quenched in its source.\n\nHow does the character become thus gradually depraved? The process may\nbe explained thus: So long as man is only a savage, and his instincts'\nonly bear on material things and a coarse egotism determines his actions,\nsensuousness can only become a danger to morality by its blind strength,\nand does not oppose reason except as a force. The voice of justice,\nmoderation, and humanity is stifled by the appetites, which make a\nstronger appeal. Man is then terrible in his vengeance, because he is\nterribly sensitive to insults. He robs, he kills, because his desires\nare still too powerful for the feeble guidance of reason. He is towards\nothers like a wild beast, because the instinct of nature still rules him\nafter the fashion of animals.\n\nBut when to the savage state, to that of nature, succeeds civilization;\nwhen taste ennobles the instincts, and holds out to them more worthy\nobjects taken from the moral order; when culture moderates the brutal\noutbursts of the appetites and brings them back under the discipline of\nthe beautiful, it may happen that these same instincts, which were only\ndangerous before by their blind power, coming to assume an air of dignity\nand a certain assumed authority, may become more dangerous than before to\nthe morality of the character; and that, under the guise of innocence,\nnobleness, and purity, they may exercise over the will a tyranny a\nhundred times worse than the other.\n\nThe man of taste willingly escapes the gross thraldom of the appetites.\nHe submits to reason the instinct which impels him to pleasure, and he is\nwilling to take counsel from his spiritual and thinking nature for the\nchoice of the objects he ought to desire. Now, reason is very apt to\nmistake a spiritualized instinct for one of its own instincts, and at\nlength to give up to it the guidance of the will, and this in proportion\nas moral judgment and aesthetic judgment, the sense of the good and the\nsense of the beautiful, meet in the same object and in the same decision.\n\nSo long as it remains possible for inclination and duty to meet in the\nsame object and in a common desire, this representation of the moral\nsense by the aesthetic sense may not draw after it positively evil\nconsequences, though, if the matter be strictly considered, the morality\nof particular actions does not gain by this agreement. But the\nconsequences will be quite different when sensuousness and reason have\neach of them a different interest. If, for example, duty commands us to\nperform an action that revolts our taste, or if taste feels itself drawn\ntowards an object which reason as a moral judge is obliged to condemn,\nthen, in fact, we suddenly encounter the necessity of distinguishing\nbetween the requirements of the moral sense and those of the aesthetic\nsense, which so long an agreement had almost confounded to such a degree\nthat they could not be distinguished. We must now determine their\nreciprocal rights, and find which of them is the real master in our soul.\nBut such a long representation of the moral sense by the sense of the\nbeautiful has made us forget this master. When we have so long practised\nthis rule of obeying at once the suggestions of taste, and when we have\nfound the result always satisfactory, taste ends by assuming a kind of\nappearance of right. As taste has shown itself irreproachable in the\nvigilant watch it has kept over the will, we necessarily come to grant a\ncertain esteem to its decisions; and it is precisely to this esteem that\ninclination, with captious logic, gives weight against the duties of\nconscience.\n\nEsteem is a feeling that can only be felt for law, and what corresponds\nto it. Whatever is entitled to esteem lays claim to an unconditional\nhomage. The ennobled inclination which has succeeded in captivating our\nesteem will, therefore, no longer be satisfied with being subordinate to\nreason; it aspires to rank alongside it. It does not wish to be taken\nfor a faithless subject in revolt against his sovereign; it wishes to be\nregarded as a queen; and, treating reason as its peer, to dictate, like\nreason, laws to the conscience. Thus, if we listen to her, she would\nweigh by right equally in the scale; and then have we not good reason to\nfear that interest will decide?\n\nOf all the inclinations that are decided from the feeling for the\nbeautiful and that are special to refined minds, none commends itself so\nmuch to the moral sense as the ennobled instinct of love; none is so\nfruitful in impressions which correspond to the true dignity of man. To\nwhat an elevation does it raise human nature! and often what divine\nsparks does it kindle in the common soul! It is a sacred fire that\nconsumes every egotistical inclination, and the very principles of\nmorality are scarcely a greater safeguard of the soul's chastity than\nlove is for the nobility of the heart. How often it happens while the\nmoral principles are still struggling that love prevails in their favor,\nand hastens by its irresistible power the resolutions that duty alone\nwould have vainly demanded from weak human nature! Who, then, would\ndistrust an affection that protects so powerfully what is most excellent\nin human nature, and which fights so victoriously against the moral foe\nof all morality, egotism?\n\nBut do not follow this guide till you have secured a better. Suppose a\nloved object be met that is unhappy, and unhappy because of you, and that\nit depends only on you to make it happy by sacrificing a few moral\nscruples. You may be disposed to say, \"Shall I let this loved being\nsuffer for the pleasure of keeping our conscience pure? Is this\nresistance required by this generous, devoted affection, always ready to\nforget itself for its object? I grant it is going against conscience to\nhave recourse to this immoral means to solace the being we love; but can\nwe be said to love if in presence of this being and of its sorrow we\ncontinue to think of ourselves? Are we not more taken up with ourselves\nthan with it, since we prefer to see it unhappy rather than consent to be\nso ourselves by the reproaches of our conscience?\" These are the\nsophisms that the passion of love sets against conscience (whose voice\nthwarts its interests), making its utterances despicable as suggestions\nof selfishness, and representing our moral dignity as one of the\ncomponents of our happiness that we are free to alienate. Then, if the\nmorality of our character is not strongly backed by good principles, we\nshall surrender, whatever may be the impetus of our exalted imagination,\nto disgraceful acts; and we shall think that we gain a glorious victory\nover our self-love, while we are only the despicable victims of this\ninstinct. A well-known French romance, \"Les Liaisons Dangereuses,\" gives\nus a striking example of this delusion, by which love betrays a soul\notherwise pure and beautiful. The Presidente de Tourvel errs by\nsurprise, and seeks to calm her remorse by the idea that she has\nsacrificed her virtue to her generosity.\n\nSecondary and imperfect duties, as they are styled, are those that the\nfeeling for the beautiful takes most willingly under its patronage, and\nwhich it allows to prevail on many occasions over perfect duties. As\nthey assign a much larger place to the arbitrary option of the subject,\nand at the same time as they have the appearance of merit, which gives\nthem lustre, they commend themselves far more to the aesthetic taste than\nperfect or necessary duties, which oblige us strictly and\nunconditionally. How many people allow themselves to be unjust that they\nmay be generous! How many fail in their duties to society that they may\ndo good to an individual, and reciprocally! How many people forgive a\nlie sooner than a rudeness, a crime against humanity rather than an\ninsult to honor! How many debase their bodies to hasten the perfection\nof their minds, and degrade their character to adorn their understanding!\nHow many do not scruple to commit a crime when they have a laudable end\nin view, pursue an ideal of political happiness through all the terrors\nof anarchy, tread under foot existing laws to make way for better ones,\nand do not scruple to devote the present generation to misery to secure\nat this cost the happiness of future generations! The apparent\nunselfishness of certain virtues gives them a varnish of purity, which\nmakes them rash enough to break and run counter to the moral law; and\nmany people are the dupes of this strange illusion, to rise higher than\nmorality and to endeavor to be more reasonable than reason.\n\nThe man of a refined taste is susceptible, in this respect, of a moral\ncorruption, from which the rude child of nature is preserved by his very\ncoarseness. In the latter, the opposite of the demands of sense and the\ndecrees of the moral law is so strongly marked and so manifest, and the\nspiritual element has so small a share in his desires, that although the\nappetites exercise a despotic sway over him, they cannot wrest his esteem\nfrom him. Thus, when the savage, yielding to the superior attraction of\nsense, gives way to the committal of an unjust action, he may yield to\ntemptation, but he will not hide from himself that he is committing a\nfault, and he will do homage to reason even while he violates its\nmandates. The child of civilization, on the contrary, the man of\nrefinement, will not admit that he commits a fault, and to soothe his\nconscience he prefers to impose on it by a sophism. No doubt he wishes\nto obey his appetite, but at the same time without falling in his own\nesteem. How does he manage this? He begins by overthrowing the superior\nauthority that thwarts his inclination, and before transgressing the law\nhe calls in question the competence of the lawgiver. Could it be\nexpected that a corrupt will should so corrupt the intelligence? The\nonly dignity that an inclination can assume accrues to it from its\nagreement with reason; yet we find that inclination, independent as well\nas blind, aspires, at the very moment she enters into contest with\nreason, to keep this dignity which she owes to reason alone. Nay,\ninclination even aspires to use this dignity she owes to reason against\nreason itself.\n\nThese are the dangers that threaten the morality of the character when\ntoo intimate an association is attempted between sensuous instincts and\nmoral instincts, which can never perfectly agree in real life, but only\nin the ideal. I admit that the sensuous risks nothing in this\nassociation, because it possesses nothing except what it must give up\ndirectly duty speaks and reason demands the sacrifice. But reason, as\nthe arbiter of the moral law, will run the more risk from this union if\nit receives as a gift from inclination what it might enforce; for, under\nthe appearance of freedom, the feeling of obligation may be easily lost,\nand what reason accepts as a favor may quite well be refused it when the\nsensuous finds it painful to grant it. It is, therefore, infinitely\nsafer for the morality of the character to suspend, at least for a time,\nthis misrepresentation of the moral sense by the sense of the beautiful.\nIt is best of all that reason should command by itself without mediation,\nand that it should show to the will its true master. The remark is,\ntherefore, quite justified, that true morality only knows itself in the\nschool of adversity, and that a continual prosperity becomes easily a\nrock of offence to virtue. I mean here by prosperity the state of a man\nwho, to enjoy the goods of life, need not commit injustice, and who to\nconform to justice need not renounce any of the goods of life. The man\nwho enjoys a continual prosperity never sees moral duty face to face,\nbecause his inclinations, naturally regular and moderate, always\nanticipate the mandate of reason, and because no temptation to violate\nthe law recalls to his mind the idea of law. Entirely guided by the\nsense of the beautiful, which represents reason in the world of sense, he\nwill reach the tomb without having known by experience the dignity of his\ndestiny. On the other hand, the unfortunate man, if he be at the same\ntime a virtuous man, enjoys the sublime privilege of being in immediate\nintercourse with the divine majesty of the moral law; and as his virtue\nis not seconded by any inclination, he bears witness in this lower world,\nand as a human being, of the freedom of pure spirits!\n\n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS ON THE USE OF THE VULGAR AND LOW ELEMENTS IN WORKS OF ART.\n\n\nI call vulgar (common) all that does not speak to the mind, of which all\nthe interest is addressed only to the senses. There are, no doubt, an\ninfinite number of things vulgar in themselves from their material and\nsubject. But as the vulgarity of the material can always be ennobled by\nthe treatment, in respect of art the only question is that relating to\nthe vulgarity in form. A vulgar mind will dishonor the most noble matter\nby treating it in a common manner. A great and noble mind, on the\ncontrary, will ennoble even a common matter, and it will do so by\nsuperadding to it something spiritual and discovering in it some aspect\nin which this matter has greatness. Thus, for example, a vulgar\nhistorian will relate to us the most insignificant actions of a hero with\na scrupulousness as great as that bestowed on his sublimest exploit, and\nwill dwell as lengthily on his pedigree, his costume, and his household\nas on his projects and his enterprises. He will relate those of his\nactions that have the most grandeur in such wise that no one will\nperceive that character in them. On the contrary, a historian of genius,\nhimself endowed with nobleness of mind, will give even to the private\nlife and the least considerable actions of his hero an interest and a\nvalue that will make them considerable. Thus, again, in the matter of\nthe plastic arts, the Dutch and Flemish painters have given proof of a\nvulgar taste; the Italians, and still more the ancient Greeks, of a grand\nand noble taste. The Greeks always went to the ideal; they rejected\nevery vulgar feature, and chose no common subject.\n\nA portrait painter can represent his model in a common manner or with\ngrandeur; in a common manner if he reproduce the merely accidental\ndetails with the same care as the essential features, if he neglect the\ngreat to carry out the minutiae curiously. He does it grandly if he know\nhow to find out and place in relief what is most interesting, and\ndistinguish the accidental from the necessary; if he be satisfied with\nindicating what is paltry, reserving all the finish of the execution for\nwhat is great. And the only thing that is great is the expression of the\nsoul itself, manifesting itself by actions, gestures, or attitudes.\n\nThe poet treats his subject in a common manner when in the execution of\nhis theme he dwells on valueless facts and only skims rapidly over those\nthat are important. He treats his theme with grandeur when he associates\nwith it what is great. For example, Homer treated the shield of Achilles\ngrandly, though the making of a shield, looking merely at the matter, is\na very commonplace affair.\n\nOne degree below the common or the vulgar is the element of the base or\ngross, which differs from the common in being not only something\nnegative, a simple lack of inspiration or nobleness, but something\npositive, marking coarse feelings, bad morals, and contemptible manners.\nVulgarity only testifies that an advantage is wanting, whereof the\nabsence is a matter of regret; baseness indicates the want of a quality\nwhich we are authorized to require in all. Thus, for example, revenge,\nconsidered in itself, in whatever place or way it manifests itself, is\nsomething vulgar, because it is the proof of a lack of generosity. But\nthere is, moreover, a base vengeance, when the man, to satisfy it,\nemploys means exposed to contempt. The base always implies something\ngross, or reminds one of the mob, while the common can be found in a\nwell-born and well-bred man, who may think and act in a common manner if\nhe has only mediocre faculties. A man acts in a common manner when he is\nonly taken up with his own interest, and it is in this that he is in\nopposition with the really noble man, who, when necessary, knows how to\nforget himself to procure some enjoyment for others. But the same man\nwould act in a base manner if he consulted his interests at the cost of\nhis honor, and if in such a case he did not even take upon himself to\nrespect the laws of decency. Thus the common is only the contrary of the\nnoble; the base is the contrary both of the noble and the seemly. To\ngive yourself up, unresisting, to all your passions, to satisfy all your\nimpulses, without being checked even by the rules of propriety, still\nless by those of morality, is to conduct yourself basely, and to betray\nbaseness of the soul.\n\nThe artist also may fall into a low style, not only by choosing ignoble\nsubjects, offensive to decency and good taste, but moreover by treating\nthem in a base manner. It is to treat a subject in a base manner if\nthose sides are made prominent which propriety directs us to conceal, or\nif it is expressed in a manner that incidentally awakens low ideas. The\nlives of the greater part of men can present particulars of a low kind,\nbut it is only a low imagination that will pick out these for\nrepresentation.\n\nThere are pictures describing sacred history in which the Apostles, the\nVirgin, and even the Christ, are depicted in such wise that they might be\nsupposed to be taken from the dregs of the populace. This style of\nexecution always betrays a low taste, and might justly lead to the\ninference that the artist himself thinks coarsely and like the mob.\n\nNo doubt there are cases where art itself may be allowed to produce base\nimages: for example, when the aim is to provoke laughter. A man of\npolished manners may also sometimes, and without betraying a corrupt\ntaste, be amused by certain features when nature expresses herself\ncrudely but with truth, and he may enjoy the contrast between the manners\nof polished society and those of the lower orders. A man of position\nappearing intoxicated will always make a disagreeable impression on us;\nbut a drunken driver, sailor, or carter will only be a risible object.\nJests that would be insufferable in a man of education amuse us in the\nmouth of the people. Of this kind are many of the scenes of\nAristophanes, who unhappily sometimes exceeds this limit, and becomes\nabsolutely condemnable. This is, moreover, the source of the pleasure we\ntake in parodies, when the feelings, the language, and the mode of action\nof the common people are fictitiously lent to the same personages whom\nthe poet has treated with all possible dignity and decency. As soon as\nthe poet means only to jest, and seeks only to amuse, we can overlook\ntraits of a low kind, provided he never stirs up indignation or disgust.\n\nHe stirs up indignation when he places baseness where it is quite\nunpardonable, that is in the case of men who are expected to show\nfine moral sense. In attributing baseness to them he will either\noutrage truth, for we prefer to think him a liar than to believe that\nwell-trained men can act in a base manner; or his personages will offend\nour moral sense, and, what is worse, excite our imagination. I do not\nmean by this to condemn farces; a farce implies between the poet and the\nspectator a tacit consent that no truth is to be expected in the piece.\nIn a farce we exempt the poet from all faithfulness in his pictures; he\nhas a kind of privilege to tell us untruths. Here, in fact, all the\ncomic consists exactly in its contrast with the truth, and so it cannot\npossibly be true.\n\nThis is not all: even in the serious and the tragic there are certain\nplaces where the low element can be brought into play. But in this case\nthe affair must pass into the terrible, and the momentary violation of\nour good taste must be masked by a strong impression, which brings our\npassion into play. In other words, the low impression must be absorbed\nby a superior tragic impression. Theft, for example, is a thing\nabsolutely base, and whatever arguments our heart may suggest to excuse\nthe thief, whatever the pressure of circumstances that led him to the\ntheft, it is always an indelible brand stamped upon him, and,\naesthetically speaking, he will always remain a base object. On this\npoint taste is even less forgiving than morality, and its tribunal is\nmore severe; because an aesthetical object is responsible even for the\naccessory ideas that are awakened in us by such an object, while moral\njudgment eliminates all that is merely accidental. According to this\nview a man who robs would always be an object to be rejected by the poet\nwho wishes to present serious pictures. But suppose this man is at the\nsame time a murderer, he is even more to be condemned than before by the\nmoral law. But in the aesthetic judgment he is raised one degree higher\nand made better adapted to figure in a work of art. Continuing to judge\nhim from the aesthetic point of view, it may be added that he who abases\nhimself by a vile action can to a certain extent be raised by a crime,\nand can be thus reinstated in our aesthetic estimation. This\ncontradiction between the moral judgment and the aesthetical judgment is\na fact entitled to attention and consideration. It may be explained in\ndifferent ways. First, I have already said that, as the aesthetic\njudgment depends on the imagination, all the accessory ideas awakened in\nus by an object and naturally associated with it, must themselves\ninfluence this judgment. Now, if these accessory ideas are base, they\ninfallibly stamp this character on the principal object.\n\nIn the second place, what we look for in the aesthetic judgment is\nstrength; whilst in a judgment pronounced in the name of the moral sense\nwe consider lawfulness. The lack of strength is something contemptible,\nand every action from which it may be inferred that the agent lacks\nstrength is, by that very fact, a contemptible action. Every cowardly\nand underhand action is repugnant to us, because it is a proof of\nimpotence; and, on the contrary, a devilish wickedness can, aesthetically\nspeaking, flatter our taste, as soon as it marks strength. Now, a theft\ntestifies to a vile and grovelling mind: a murder has at least on its\nside the appearance of strength; the interest we take in it aesthetically\nis in proportion to the strength that is manifested in it.\n\nA third reason is, because in presence of a deep and horrible crime we no\nlonger think of the quality but the awful consequences of the action.\nThe stronger emotion covers and stifles the weaker one. We do not look\nback into the mind of the agent; we look onward into his destiny, we\nthink of the effects of his action. Now, directly we begin to tremble\nall the delicacies of taste are reduced to silence. The principal\nimpression entirely fills our mind: the accessory and accidental ideas,\nin which chiefly dwell all impressions of baseness, are effaced from it.\nIt is for this reason that the theft committed by young Ruhberg, in the\n\"Crime through Ambition,\" [a play of Iffland] far from displeasing on the\nstage, is a real tragic effect. The poet with great skill has managed\nthe circumstances in such wise that we are carried away; we are left\nalmost breathless. The frightful misery of the family, and especially\nthe grief of the father, are objects that attract our attention, turn it\naside, from the person of the agent, towards the consequences of his act.\nWe are too much moved to tarry long in representing to our minds the\nstamp of infamy with which the theft is marked. In a word, the base\nelement disappears in the terrible. It is singular that this theft,\nreally accomplished by young Ruhberg, inspires us with less repugnance\nthan, in another piece, the mere suspicion of a theft, a suspicion which\nis actually without foundation. In the latter case it is a young officer\nwho is accused without grounds of having abstracted a silver spoon, which\nis recovered later on. Thus the base element is reduced in this case to\na purely imaginary thing, a mere suspicion, and this suffices\nnevertheless to do an irreparable injury, in our aesthetical\nappreciation, to the hero of the piece, in spite of his innocence. This\nis because a man who is supposed capable of a base action did not\napparently enjoy a very solid reputation for morality, for the laws of\npropriety require that a man should be held to be a man of honor as long\nas he does not show the opposite. If therefore anything contemptible is\nimputed to him, it seems that by some part of his past conduct he has\ngiven rise to a suspicion of this kind, and this does him injury, though\nall the odious and the base in an undeserved suspicion are on the side of\nhim who accuses. A point that does still greater injury to the hero of\nthe piece of which I am speaking is the fact that he is an officer, and\nthe lover of a lady of condition brought up in a manner suitable to her\nrank. With these two titles, that of thief makes quite a revolting\ncontrast, and it is impossible for us, when we see him near his lady, not\nto think that perhaps at that very moment he had the silver spoon in his\npocket. Lastly, the most unfortunate part of the business is, that he\nhas no idea of the suspicion weighing over him, for if he had a knowledge\nof it, in his character of officer, he would exact a sanguinary\nreparation. In this case the consequences of the suspicion would change\nto the terrible, and all that is base in the situation would disappear.\n\nWe must distinguish, moreover, between the baseness of feeling and that\nwhich is connected with the mode of treatment and circumstance. The\nformer in all respects is below aesthetic dignity; the second in many\ncases may perfectly agree with it. Slavery, for example, is abase thing;\nbut a servile mind in a free man is contemptible. The labors of the\nslave, on the contrary, are not so when his feelings are not servile.\nFar from this, a base condition, when joined to elevated feelings, can\nbecome a source of the sublime. The master of Epictetus, who beat him,\nacted basely, and the slave beaten by him showed a sublime soul. True\ngreatness, when it is met in a base condition, is only the more brilliant\nand splendid on that account: and the artist must not fear to show us his\nheroes even under a contemptible exterior as soon as he is sure of being\nable to give them, when he wishes, the expression of moral dignity.\n\nBut what can be granted to the poet is not always allowed in the artist.\nThe poet only addresses the imagination; the painter addresses the senses\ndirectly. It follows not only that the impression of the picture is more\nlively than that of the poem, but also that the painter, if he employ\nonly his natural signs, cannot make the minds of his personages as\nvisible as the poet can with the arbitrary signs at his command: yet it\nis only the sight of the mind that can reconcile us to certain exteriors.\nWhen Homer causes his Ulysses to appear in the rags of a beggar\n[\"Odyssey,\" book xiii. v. 397], we are at liberty to represent his image\nto our mind more or less fully, and to dwell on it as long as we like.\nBut in no case will it be sufficiently vivid to excite our repugnance or\ndisgust. But if a painter, or even a tragedian, try to reproduce\nfaithfully the Ulysses of Homer, we turn away from the picture with\nrepugnance. It is because in this case the greater or less vividness of\nthe impression no longer depends on our will: we cannot help seeing what\nthe painter places under our eyes; and it is not easy for us to remove\nthe accessory repugnant ideas which the picture recalls to our mind.\n\n\n\n\nDETACHED REFLECTIONS ON DIFFERENT QUESTIONS OF AESTHETICS.\n\n\nAll the properties by which an object can become aesthetic, can be\nreferred to four classes, which, as well according to their objective\ndifferences as according to their different relation with the subject,\nproduce on our passive and active faculties pleasures unequal not only in\nintensity but also in worth; classes which also are of an unequal use for\nthe end of the fine arts: they are the agreeable, the good, the sublime,\nand the beautiful.\n\nOf these four categories, the sublime and the beautiful only belong\nproperly to art. The agreeable is not worthy of art, and the good is at\nleast not its end; for the aim of art is to please, and the good, whether\nwe consider it in theory or in practice, neither can nor ought to serve\nas a means of satisfying the wants of sensuousness. The agreeable only\nsatisfies the senses, and is distinguished thereby from the good, which\nonly pleases the reason. The agreeable only pleases by its matter, for\nit is only matter that can affect the senses, and all that is form can\nonly please the reason. It is true that the beautiful only pleases\nthrough the medium of the senses, by which it is distinguished from the\ngood; but it pleases reason, on account of its form, by which it is\nessentially distinguished from the agreeable. It might be said that the\ngood pleases only by its form being in harmony with reason; the beautiful\nby its form having some relation of resemblance with reason, and that the\nagreeable absolutely does not please by its form. The good is perceived\nby thought, the beautiful by intuition, and the agreeable only by the\nsenses. The first pleases by the conception, the second by the idea, and\nthe third by material sensation.\n\nThe distance between the good and the agreeable is that which strikes the\neyes the most. The good widens our understanding, because it procures\nand supposes an idea of its object; the pleasure which it makes us\nperceive rests on an objective foundation, even when this pleasure itself\nis but a certain state in which we are situated. The agreeable, on the\ncontrary, produces no notion of its object, and, indeed, reposes on no\nobjective foundation. It is agreeable only inasmuch as it is felt by the\nsubject, and the idea of it completely vanishes the moment an obstruction\nis placed on the affectibility of the senses, or only when it is\nmodified. For a man who feels the cold the agreeable would be a warm\nair; but this same man, in the heat of summer, would seek the shade and\ncoolness; but we must agree that in both cases he has judged well.\n\nOn the other hand, that which is objective is altogether independent of\nus, and that which to-day appears to us true, useful, reasonable, ought\nyet (if this judgment of to-day be admitted as just) to seem to us the\nsame twenty years hence. But our judgment of the agreeable changes as\nsoon as our state, with regard to its object, has changed. The agreeable\nis therefore not a property of the object; it springs entirely from the\nrelations of such an object with our senses, for the constitution of our\nsenses is a necessary condition thereof.\n\nThe good, on the contrary, is good in itself, before being represented to\nus, and before being felt. The property by which it pleases exists fully\nin itself without being in want of our subject, although the pleasure\nwhich we take in it rests on an aptitude for feeling that which is in us.\nThus we can say that the agreeable exists only because it is experienced,\nand that the good, on the contrary, is experienced because it exists.\n\nThe distinction between the beautiful and the agreeable, great as it is,\nmoreover, strikes the eye less. The beautiful approaches the agreeable\nin this--that it must always be proposed to the senses, inasmuch as it\npleases only as a phenomenon. It comes near to it again in as far as it\nneither procures nor supposes any notion of its object. But, on the\nother hand, it is widely separated from the agreeable, because it pleases\nby the form under which it is produced, and not by the fact of the\nmaterial sensation. No doubt it only pleases the reasonable subject in\nso far as it is also a sensuous subject; but also it pleases the sensuous\nsubject only inasmuch as it is at the same time a reasonable subject.\nThe beautiful is not only pleasing to the individual but to the whole\nspecies; and although it draws its existence but from its relation with\ncreatures at the same time reasonable and sensuous, it is not less\nindependent of all empirical limitations of sensuousness, and it remains\nidentical even when the particular constitution of the individual is\nmodified. The beautiful has exactly in common with the good that by\nwhich it differs from the agreeable, and it differs from the good exactly\nin that in which it approximates to the agreeable.\n\nBy the good we must understand that in which reason recognizes a\nconformity with her theoretical and practical laws. But the same object\ncan be perfectly conformable to the theoretical reason, and not be the\nless in contradiction in the highest degree with the practical reason.\nWe can disapprove of the end of an enterprise, and yet admire the skill\nof the means and their relation with the end in view. We can despise the\npleasures which the voluptuous man makes the end of his life, and\nnevertheless praise the skill which he exhibits in the choice of his\nmeans, and the logical result with which he carries out his principles.\nThat which pleases us only by its form is good, absolutely good, and\nwithout any conditions, when its form is at the same time its matter.\nThe good is also an object of sensuousness, but not of an immediate\nsensuousness, as the agreeable, nor moreover of a mixed sensuousness, as\nthe beautiful. It does not excite desire as the first, nor inclination\nas the second. The simple idea of the good inspires only esteem.\n\nThe difference separating the agreeable, the good, and the beautiful\nbeing thus established, it is evident that the same object can be ugly,\ndefective, even to be morally rejected, and nevertheless be agreeable and\npleasing to the senses; that an object can revolt the senses, and yet be\ngood, i.e., please the reason; that an object can from its inmost nature\nrevolt the moral senses, and yet please the imagination which\ncontemplates it, and still be beautiful. It is because each one of these\nideas interests different faculties, and interests differently.\n\nBut have we exhausted the classification of the aesthetic attributes?\nNo, there are objects at the same time ugly, revolting, and horrifying to\nthe senses, which do not please the understanding, and of no account to\nthe moral judgment, and these objects do not fail to please; certainly to\nplease to such a degree, that we would willingly sacrifice the pleasure\nof these senses and that of the understanding to procure for us the\nenjoyment of these objects. There is nothing more attractive in nature\nthan a beautiful landscape, illuminated by the purple light of evening.\nThe rich variety of the objects, the mellow outlines, the play of lights\ninfinitely varying the aspect, the light vapors which envelop distant\nobjects,--all combine in charming the senses; and add to it, to increase\nour pleasure, the soft murmur of a cascade, the song of the nightingales,\nan agreeable music. We give ourselves up to a soft sensation of repose,\nand whilst our senses, touched by the harmony of the colors, the forms,\nand the sounds, experience the agreeable in the highest, the mind is\nrejoiced by the easy and rich flow of the ideas, the heart by the\nsentiments which overflow in it like a torrent. All at once a storm\nsprings up, darkening the sky and all the landscape, surpassing and\nsilencing all other noises, and suddenly taking from us all our\npleasures. Black clouds encircle the horizon; the thunder falls with a\ndeafening noise. Flash succeeds flash. Our sight and hearing is\naffected in the most revolting manner. The lightning only appears to\nrender to us more visible the horrors of the night: we see the electric\nfluid strike, nay, we begin to fear lest it may strike us. Well, that\ndoes not prevent us from believing that we have gained more than lost by\nthe change; I except, of course, those whom fear has bereft of all\nliberty of judgment. We are, on the one hand, forcibly drawn towards\nthis terrible spectacle, which on the other wounds and repulses our\nsenses, and we pause before it with a feeling which we cannot properly\ncall a pleasure, but one which we often like much more than pleasure.\nBut still, the spectacle that nature then offers to us is in itself\nrather destructive than good (at all events we in no way need to think of\nthe utility of a storm to take pleasure in this phenomenon), is in itself\nrather ugly than beautiful, for the darkness, hiding from us all the\nimages which light affords, cannot be in itself a pleasant thing; and\nthose sudden crashes with which the thunder shakes the atmosphere, those\nsudden flashes when the lightning rends the cloud--all is contrary to one\nof the essential conditions of the beautiful, which carries with it\nnothing abrupt, nothing violent. And moreover this phenomenon, if we\nconsider only our senses, is rather painful than agreeable, for the\nnerves of our sight and those of our hearing are each in their turn\npainfully strained, then not less violently relaxed, by the alternations\nof light and darkness, of the explosion of the thunder, and silence. And\nin spite of all these causes of displeasure, a storm is an attractive\nphenomenon for whomsoever is not afraid of it.\n\nAnother example. In the midst of a green and smiling plain there rises a\nnaked and barren hillock, which hides from the sight a part of the view.\nEach one would wish that this hillock were removed which disfigures the\nbeauty of all the landscape. Well, let us imagine this hillock rising,\nrising still, without indeed changing at all its shape, and preserving,\nalthough on a greater scale, the same proportions between its width and\nheight. To begin with, our impression of displeasure will but increase\nwith the hillock itself, which will the more strike the sight, and which\nwill be the more repulsive. But continue; raise it up twice as high as a\ntower, and insensibly the displeasure will efface itself to make way for\nquite another feeling. The hill has at last become a mountain, so high a\nmountain that it is quite impossible for our eyes to take it in at one\nlook. There is an object more precocious than all this smiling plain\nwhich surrounds it, and the impression that it makes on us is of such a\nnature that we should regret to exchange it for any other impression,\nhowever beautiful it might be. Now, suppose this mountain to be leaning,\nand of such an inclination that we could expect it every minute to crash\ndown, the previous impression will be complicated with another\nimpression: terror will be joined to it: the object itself will be but\nstill more attractive. But suppose it were possible to prop up this\nleaning mountain with another mountain, the terror would disappear, and\nwith it a good part of the pleasure we experienced. Suppose that there\nwere beside this mountain four or five other mountains, of which each one\nwas a fourth or a fifth part lower than the one which came immediately\nafter; the first impression with which the height of one mountain\ninspired us will be notably weakened. Something somewhat analogous would\ntake place if the mountain itself were cut into ten or twelve terraces,\nuniformly diminishing; or again if it were artificially decorated with\nplantations. We have at first subjected one mountain to no other\noperation than that of increasing its size, leaving it otherwise just as\nit was, and without altering its form; and this simple circumstance has\nsufficed to make an indifferent or even disagreeable object satisfying to\nthe eyes. By the second operation, this enlarged object has become at\nthe same time an object of terror; and the pleasure which we have found\nin contemplating it has but been the greater. Finally, by the last\noperation which we have made, we have diminished the terror which its\nsight occasioned, and the pleasure has diminished as much. We have\ndiminished subjectively the idea of its height, whether by dividing the\nattention of the spectator between several objects, or in giving to the\neyes, by means of these smaller mountains, placed near to the large one,\na measure by which to master the height of the mountain all the more\neasily. The great and the terrible can therefore be of themselves in\ncertain cases a source of aesthetic pleasure.\n\nThere is not in the Greek mythology a more terrible, and at the same time\nmore hideous, picture than the Furies, or Erinyes, quitting the infernal\nregions to throw themselves in the pursuit of a criminal. Their faces\nfrightfully contracted and grimacing, their fleshless bodies, their heads\ncovered with serpents in the place of hair--revolt our senses as much as\nthey offend our taste. However, when these monsters are represented to\nus in the pursuit of Orestes, the murderer of his mother, when they are\nshown to us brandishing the torches in their hands, and chasing their\nprey, without peace or truce, from country to country, until at last, the\nanger of justice being appeased, they engulf themselves in the abyss of\nthe infernal regions; then we pause before the picture with a horror\nmixed with pleasure. But not only the remorse of a criminal which is\npersonified by the Furies, even his unrighteous acts nay, the real\nperpetration of a crime, are able to please us in a work of art. Medea,\nin the Greek tragedy; Clytemnestra, who takes the life of her husband;\nOrestes, who kills his mother, fill our soul with horror and with\npleasure. Even in real life, indifferent and even repulsive or frightful\nobjects begin to interest us the moment that they approach the monstrous\nor the terrible. An altogether vulgar and insignificant man will begin\nto please us the moment that a violent passion, which indeed in no way\nupraises his personal value, makes him an object of fear and terror, in\nthe same way that a vulgar, meaningless object becomes to us the source\nof aesthetic pleasure the instant we have enlarged it to the point where\nit threatens to overstep our comprehension. An ugly man is made still\nmore ugly by passion, and nevertheless it is in bursts of this passion,\nprovided that it turns to the terrible and not to the ridiculous, that\nthis man will be to us of the most interest. This remark extends even to\nanimals. An ox at the plow, a horse before a carriage, a dog, are common\nobjects; but excite this bull to the combat, enrage this horse who is so\npeaceable, or represent to yourself this dog a prey to madness; instantly\nthese animals are raised to the rank of aesthetic objects, and we begin\nto regard them with a feeling which borders on pleasure and esteem. The\ninclination to the pathetic--an inclination common to all men--the\nstrength of the sympathetic sentiment--this force which in mature makes\nus wish to see suffering, terror, dismay, which has so many attractions\nfor us in art, which makes us hurry to the theatre, which makes us take\nso much pleasure in the picturing of great misfortune,--all this bears\ntestimony to a fourth source of aesthetic pleasure, which neither the\nagreeable, nor the good, nor the beautiful are in a state to produce.\n\nAll the examples that I have alleged up to the present have this in\ncommon--that the feeling they excite in us rests on something objective.\nIn all these phenomena we receive the idea of something \"which oversteps,\nor which threatens to overstep, the power of comprehension of our senses,\nor their power of resistance\"; but not, however, going so far as to\nparalyze these two powers, or so far as to render us incapable of\nstriving, either to know the object, or to resist the impression it makes\non us. There is in the phenomena a complexity which we cannot retrace to\nunity without driving the intuitive faculty to its furthest limits.\n\nWe have the idea of a force in comparison with which our own vanishes,\nand which we are nevertheless compelled to compare with our own. Either\nit is an object which at the same time presents and hides itself from our\nfaculty of intuition, and which urges us to strive to represent it to\nourselves, without leaving room to hope that this aspiration will be\nsatisfied; or else it is an object which appears to upraise itself as an\nenemy, even against our existence--which provokes us, so to say, to\ncombat, and makes us anxious as to the issue. In all the alleged\nexamples there is visible in the same way the same action on the faculty\nof feeling. All throw our souls into an anxious agitation and strain its\nsprings. A certain gravity which can even raise itself to a solemn\nrejoicing takes possession of our soul, and whilst our organs betray\nevident signs of internal anxiety, our mind falls back on itself by\nreflection, and appears to find a support in a higher consciousness of\nits independent strength and dignity. This consciousness of ourselves\nmust always dominate in order that the great and the horrible may have\nfor us an aesthetic value. It is because the soul before such sights as\nthese feels itself inspired and lifted above itself that they are\ndesignated under the name of sublime, although the things themselves are\nobjectively in no way sublime; and consequently it would be more just to\nsay that they are elevating than to call them in themselves elevated or\nsublime.\n\nFor an object to be called sublime it must be in opposition with our\nsensuousness. In general it is possible to conceive but two different\nrelations between the objects and our sensuousness, and consequently\nthere ought to be two kinds of resistance. They ought either to be\nconsidered as objects from which we wish to draw a knowledge, or else\nthey should be regarded as a force with which we compare our own.\nAccording to this division there are two kinds of the sublime, the\nsublime of knowledge and the sublime of force. Moreover, the sensuous\nfaculties contribute to knowledge only in grasping a given matter, and\nputting one by the other its complexity in time and in space.\n\nAs to dissecting this complex property and assorting it, it is the\nbusiness of the understanding and not of the imagination. It is for the\nunderstanding alone that the diversity exists: for the imagination\n(considered simply as a sensuous faculty) there is but an uniformity, and\nconsequently it is but the number of the uniform things (the quantity and\nnot the quality) which can give origin to any difference between the\nsensuous perception of phenomena. Thus, in order that the faculty of\npicturing things sensuously maybe reduced to impotence before an object,\nnecessarily it is imperative that this object exceeds in its quantity the\ncapacity of our imagination.\n\n\n\n\nON SIMPLE AND SENTIMENTAL POETRY.\n\n\nThere are moments in life when nature inspires us with a sort of love and\nrespectful emotion, not because she is pleasing to our senses, or because\nshe satisfies our mind or our taste (it is often the very opposite that\nhappens), but merely because she is nature. This feeling is often\nelicited when nature is considered in her plants, in her mineral kingdom,\nin rural districts; also in the case of human nature, in the case of\nchildren, and in the manners of country people and of the primitive\nraces. Every man of refined feeling, provided he has a soul, experiences\nthis feeling when he walks out under the open sky, when he lives in the\ncountry, or when he stops to contemplate the monuments of early ages; in\nshort, when escaping from factitious situations and relations, he finds\nhimself suddenly face to face with nature. This interest, which is often\nexalted in us so as to become a want, is the explanation of many of our\nfancies for flowers and for animals, our preference for gardens laid out\nin the natural style, our love of walks, of the country and those who\nlive there, of a great number of objects proceeding from a remote\nantiquity, etc. It is taken for granted that no affectation exists in\nthe matter, and moreover that no accidental interest comes into play.\nBut this sort of interest which we take in nature is only possible under\ntwo conditions. First the object that inspires us with this feeling must\nbe really nature, or something we take for nature; secondly this object\nmust be in the full sense of the word simple, that is, presenting the\nentire contrast of nature with art, all the advantage remaining on the\nside of nature. Directly this second condition is united to the first,\nbut no sooner, nature assumes the character of simplicity.\n\nConsidered thus, nature is for us nothing but existence in all its\nfreedom; it is the constitution of things taken in themselves; it is\nexistence itself according to its proper and immutable laws.\n\nIt is strictly necessary that we should have this idea of nature to take\nan interest in phenomena of this kind. If we conceive an artificial\nflower so perfectly imitated that it has all the appearance of nature and\nwould produce the most complete illusion, or if we imagine the imitation\nof simplicity carried out to the extremest degree, the instant we\ndiscover it is only an imitation, the feeling of which I have been\nspeaking is completely destroyed. It is, therefore, quite evident that\nthis kind of satisfaction which nature causes us to feel is not a\nsatisfaction of the aesthetical taste, but a satisfaction of the moral\nsense; for it is produced by means of a conception and not immediately by\nthe single fact of intuition: accordingly it is by no means determined by\nthe different degrees of beauty in forms. For, after all, is there\nanything so specially charming in a flower of common appearance, in a\nspring, a moss-covered stone, the warbling of birds, or the buzzing of\nbees, etc.? What is that can give these objects a claim to our love? It\nis not these objects in themselves; it is an idea represented by them\nthat we love in them. We love in them life and its latent action, the\neffects peacefully produced by beings of themselves, existence under its\nproper laws, the inmost necessity of things, the eternal unity of their\nnature.\n\nThese objects which captivate us are what we were, what we must be again\nsome day. We were nature as they are; and culture, following the way of\nreason and of liberty, must bring us back to nature. Accordingly, these\nobjects are an image of our infancy irrevocably past--of our infancy\nwhich will remain eternally very dear to us, and thus they infuse a\ncertain melancholy into us; they are also the image of our highest\nperfection in the ideal world, whence they excite a sublime emotion in\nus.\n\nBut the perfection of these objects is not a merit that belongs to them,\nbecause it is not the effect of their free choice. Accordingly they\nprocure quite a peculiar pleasure for us, by being our models without\nhaving anything humiliating for us. It is like a constant manifestation\nof the divinity surrounding us, which refreshes without dazzling us. The\nvery feature that constitutes their character is precisely what is\nlacking in ours to make it complete; and what distinguishes us from them\nis precisely what they lack to be divine. We are free and they are\nnecessary; we change and they remain identical. Now it is only when\nthese two conditions are united, when the will submits freely to the laws\nof necessity, and when, in the midst of all the changes of which the\nimagination is susceptible, reason maintains its rule--it is only then\nthat the divine or the ideal is manifested. Thus we perceive eternally\nin them that which we have not, but which we are continually forced to\nstrive after; that which we can never reach, but which we can hope to\napproach by continual progress. And we perceive in ourselves an\nadvantage which they lack, but in which some of them--the beings deprived\nof reason--cannot absolutely share, and in which the others, such as\nchildren, can only one day have a share by following our way.\nAccordingly, they procure us the most delicious feeling of our human\nnature, as an idea, though in relation to each determinate state of our\nnature they cannot fail to humble us.\n\nAs this interest in nature is based on an idea, it can only manifest\nitself in a soul capable of ideas, that is, in a moral soul. For the\nimmense majority it is nothing more than pure affectation; and this taste\nof sentimentality so widely diffused in our day, manifesting itself,\nespecially since the appearance of certain books, by sentimental\nexcursions and journeys, by sentimental gardens, and other fancies akin\nto these--this taste by no means proves that true refinement of sense has\nbecome general. Nevertheless, it is certain that nature will always\nproduce something of this impression, even on the most insensible hearts,\nbecause all that is required for this is the moral disposition or\naptitude, which is common to all men. For all men, however contrary\ntheir acts may be to simplicity and to the truth of nature, are brought\nback to it in their ideas. This sensibility in connection with nature is\nspecially and most strongly manifested, in the greater part of persons,\nin connection with those sorts of objects which are closely related to\nus, and which, causing us to look closer into ourselves, show us more\nclearly what in us departs from nature; for example, in connection with\nchildren, or with nations in a state of infancy. It is an error to\nsuppose that it is only the idea of their weakness that, in certain\nmoments, makes us dwell with our eyes on children with so much emotion.\nThis may be true with those who, in the presence of a feeble being, are\nused to feel nothing but their own superiority. But the feeling of which\nI speak is only experienced in a very peculiar moral disposition, nor\nmust it be confounded with the feeling awakened in us by the joyous\nactivity of children. The feeling of which I speak is calculated rather\nto humble than to flatter our self-love; and if it gives us the idea of\nsome advantage, this advantage is at all events not on our side.\n\nWe are moved in the presence of childhood, but it is not because from the\nheight of our strength and of our perfection we drop a look of pity on\nit; it is, on the contrary, because from the depths of our impotence, of\nwhich the feeling is inseparable from that of the real and determinate\nstate to which we have arrived, we raise our eyes to the child's\ndeterminableness and pure innocence. The feeling we then experience is\ntoo evidently mingled with sadness for us to mistake its source. In the\nchild, all is disposition and destination; in us, all is in the state of\na completed, finished thing, and the completion always remains infinitely\nbelow the destination. It follows that the child is to us like the\nrepresentation of the ideal; not, indeed, of the ideal as we have\nrealized it, but such as our destination admitted; and, consequently, it\nis not at all the idea of its indigence, of its hinderances, that makes\nus experience emotion in the child's presence; it is, on the contrary,\nthe idea of its pure and free force, of the integrity, the infinity of\nits being. This is the reason why, in the sight of every moral and\nsensible man, the child will always be a sacred thing; I mean an object\nwhich, by the grandeur of an idea, reduces to nothingness all grandeur\nrealized by experience; an object which, in spite of all it may lose in\nthe judgment of the understanding, regains largely the advantage before\nthe judgment of reason.\n\nNow it is precisely this contradiction between the judgment of reason and\nthat of the understanding which produces in us this quite special\nphenomenon, this mixed feeling, called forth in us by the sight of the\nsimple--I mean the simple in the manner of thinking. It is at once the\nidea of a childlike simplicity and of a childish simplicity. By what it\nhas of childish simplicity it exposes a weak side to the understanding,\nand provokes in us that smile by which we testify our superiority (an\nentirely speculative superiority). But directly we have reason to think\nthat childish simplicity is at the same time a childlike simplicity--that\nit is not consequently a want of intelligence, an infirmity in a\ntheoretical point of view, but a superior force (practically), a\nheart-full of truth and innocence, which is its source, a heart that has\ndespised the help of art because it was conscious of its real and\ninternal greatness--directly this is understood, the understanding no\nlonger seeks to triumph. Then raillery, which was directed against\nsimpleness, makes way for the admiration inspired by noble simplicity.\nWe feel ourselves obliged to esteem this object, which at first made us\nsmile, and directing our eyes to ourselves, to feel ourselves unhappy in\nnot resembling it. Thus is produced that very special phenomenon of a\nfeeling in which good-natured raillery, respect, and sadness are\nconfounded. It is the condition of the simple that nature should triumph\nover art, either unconsciously to the individual and against his\ninclination, or with his full and entire cognizance. In the former case\nit is simplicity as a surprise, and the impression resulting from it is\none of gayety; in the second case, it is simplicity of feeling, and we\nare moved.\n\nWith regard to simplicity as a surprise, the person must be morally\ncapable of denying nature. In simplicity of feeling the person may be\nmorally incapable of this, but we must not think him physically\nincapable, in order that it may make upon us the impression of the\nsimple. This is the reason why the acts and words of children only\nproduce the impression of simplicity upon us when we forget that they are\nphysically incapable of artifice, and in general only when we are\nexclusively impressed by the contrast between their natural character and\nwhat is artificial in us. Simplicity is a childlike ingenuousness which\nis encountered when it is not expected; and it is for this very reason\nthat, taking the word in its strictest sense, simplicity could not be\nattributed to childhood properly speaking.\n\nBut in both cases, in simplicity as a surprise and simplicity as a\nfeeling, nature must always have the upper hand, and art succumb to her.\n\nUntil we have established this distinction we can only form an incomplete\nidea of simplicity. The affections are also something natural, and the\nrules of decency are artificial; yet the triumph of the affections over\ndecency is anything but simple. But when affection triumphs over\nartifice, over false decency, over dissimulation, we shall have no\ndifficulty in applying the word simple to this. Nature must therefore\ntriumph over art, not by its blind and brutal force as a dynamical power,\nbut in virtue of its form as a moral magnitude; in a word, not as a want,\nbut as an internal necessity. It must not be insufficiency, but the\ninopportune character of the latter that gives nature her victory; for\ninsufficiency is only a want and a defect, and nothing that results from\na want or defect could produce esteem. No doubt in the simplicity\nresulting from surprise, it is always the predominance of affection and a\nwant of reflection that causes us to appear natural. But this want and\nthis predominance do not by any means suffice to constitute simplicity;\nthey merely give occasion to nature to obey without let or hinderance her\nmoral constitution, that is, the law of harmony.\n\nThe simplicity resulting from surprise can only be encountered in man and\nthat only in as far as at the moment he ceases to be a pure and innocent\nnature. This sort of simplicity implies a will that is not in harmony\nwith that which nature does of her own accord. A person simple after\nthis fashion, when recalled to himself, will be the first to be alarmed\nat what he is; on the other hand, a person in whom simplicity is found as\na feeling, will only wonder at one thing, that is, at the way in which\nmen feel astonishment. As it is not the moral subject as a person, but\nonly his natural character set free by affection, that confesses the\ntruth, it follows from this that we shall not attribute this sincerity to\nman as a merit, and that we shall be entitled to laugh at it, our\nraillery not being held in check by any personal esteem for his\ncharacter. Nevertheless, as it is still the sincerity of nature which,\neven in the simplicity caused by surprise, pierces suddenly through the\nveil of dissimulation, a satisfaction of a superior order is mixed with\nthe mischievous joy we feel in having caught any one in the act. This is\nbecause nature, opposed to affectation, and truth, opposed to deception,\nmust in every case inspire us with esteem. Thus we experience, even in\nthe presence of simplicity originating in surprise, a really moral\npleasure, though it be not in connection with a moral object.\n\nI admit that in simplicity proceeding from surprise we always experience\na feeling of esteem for nature, because we must esteem truth; whereas in\nthe simplicity of feeling we esteem the person himself, enjoying in this\nway not only a moral satisfaction, but also a satisfaction of which the\nobject is moral. In both cases nature is right, since she speaks the\ntruth; but in the second case not only is nature right, but there is also\nan act that does honor to the person. In the first case the sincerity of\nnature always puts the person to the blush, because it is involuntary; in\nthe second it is always a merit which must be placed to the credit of the\nperson, even when what he confesses is of a nature to cause a blush.\n\nWe attribute simplicity of feeling to a man, when, in the judgments he\npronounces on things, he passes, without seeing them, over all the\nfactitious and artificial sides of an object, to keep exclusively to\nsimple nature. We require of him all the judgments that can be formed of\nthings without departing from a sound nature; and we only hold him\nentirely free in what presupposes a departure from nature in his mode of\nthinking or feeling.\n\nIf a father relates to his son that such and such a person is dying of\nhunger, and if the child goes and carries the purse of his father to this\nunfortunate being, this is a simple action. It is in fact a healthy\nnature that acts in the child; and in a world where healthy nature would\nbe the law, he would be perfectly right to act so. He only sees the\nmisery of his neighbor and the speediest means of relieving him. The\nextension given to the right of property, in consequence of which part of\nthe human race might perish, is not based on mere nature. Thus the act\nof this child puts to shame real society, and this is acknowledged by our\nheart in the pleasure it experiences from this action.\n\nIf a good-hearted man, inexperienced in the ways of the world, confides\nhis secrets to another, who deceives him, but who is skilful in\ndisguising his perfidy, and if by his very sincerity he furnishes him\nwith the means of doing him injury, we find his conduct simple. We laugh\nat him, yet we cannot avoid esteeming him, precisely on account of his\nsimplicity. This is because his trust in others proceeds from the\nrectitude of his own heart; at all events, there is simplicity here only\nas far as this is the case.\n\nSimplicity in the mode of thinking cannot then ever be the act of a\ndepraved man; this quality only belongs to children, and to men who are\nchildren in heart. It often happens to these in the midst of the\nartificial relations of the great world to act or to think in a simple\nmanner. Being themselves of a truly good and humane nature, they forget\nthat they have to do with a depraved world; and they act, even in the\ncourts of kings, with an ingenuousness and an innocence that are only\nfound in the world of pastoral idyls.\n\nNor is it always such an easy matter to distinguish exactly childish\ncandor from childlike candor, for there are actions that are on the\nskirts of both. Is a certain act foolishly simple, and must we laugh at\nit? or is it nobly simple, and must we esteem the actors the higher on\nthat account? It is difficult to know which side to take in some cases.\nA very remarkable example of this is found in the history of the\ngovernment of Pope Adrian VI., related by Mr. Schroeckh with all the\nsolidity and the spirit of practical truth which distinguish him.\nAdrian, a Netherlander by birth, exerted the pontifical sway at one of\nthe most critical moments for the hierarchy--at a time when an\nexasperated party laid bare without any scruple all the weak sides of the\nRoman Church, while the opposite party was interested in the highest\ndegree in covering them over. I do not entertain the question how a man\nof a truly simple character ought to act in such a case, if such a\ncharacter were placed in the papal chair. But, we ask, how could this\nsimplicity of feeling be compatible with the part of a pope? This\nquestion gave indeed very little embarrassment to the predecessors and\nsuccessors of Adrian. They followed uniformly the system adopted once\nfor all by the court of Rome, not to make any concessions anywhere. But\nAdrian had preserved the upright character of his nation and the\ninnocence of his previous condition. Issuing from the humble sphere of\nliterary men to rise to this eminent position, he did not belie at that\nelevation the primitive simplicity of his character. He was moved by the\nabuses of the Roman Church, and he was much too sincere to dissimulate\npublicly what he confessed privately. It was in consequence of this\nmanner of thinking that, in his instruction to his legate in Germany, he\nallowed himself to be drawn into avowals hitherto unheard of in a\nsovereign pontiff, and diametrically contrary to the principles of that\ncourt \"We know well,\" he said, among other things, \"that for many years\nmany abominable things have taken place in this holy chair; it is not\ntherefore astonishing that the evil has been propagated from the head to\nthe members, from the pope to the prelates. We have all gone astray from\nthe good road, and for a long time there is none of us, not one, who has\ndone anything good.\" Elsewhere he orders his legate to declare in his\nname \"that he, Adrian, cannot be blamed for what other popes have done\nbefore him; that he himself, when he occupied a comparatively mediocre\nposition, had always condemned these excesses.\" It may easily be\nconceived how such simplicity in a pope must have been received by the\nRoman clergy. The smallest crime of which he was accused was that of\nbetraying the church and delivering it over to heretics. Now this\nproceeding, supremely imprudent in a pope, would yet deserve our esteem\nand admiration if we could believe it was real simplicity; that is, that\nAdrian, without fear of consequences, had made such an avowal, moved by\nhis natural sincerity, and that he would have persisted in acting thus,\nthough he had understood all the drift of his clumsiness. Unhappily we\nhave some reason to believe that he did not consider his conduct as\naltogether impolitic, and that in his candor he went so far as to flatter\nhimself that he had served very usefully the interests of his church by\nhis indulgence to his adversaries. He did not even imagine that he ought\nto act thus in his quality as an honest man; he thought also as a pope to\nbe able to justify himself, and forgetting that the most artificial of\nstructures could only be supported by continuing to deny the truth, he\ncommitted the unpardonable fault of having recourse to means of safety,\nexcellent perhaps, in a natural situation, but here applied to entirely\ncontrary circumstances. This necessarily modifies our judgment very\nmuch, and although we cannot refuse our esteem for the honesty of heart\nin which the act originates, this esteem is greatly lessened when we\nreflect that nature on this occasion was too easily mistress of art, and\nthat the heart too easily overruled the head.\n\nTrue genius is of necessity simple, or it is not genius. Simplicity\nalone gives it this character, and it cannot belie in the moral order\nwhat it is in the intellectual and aesthetical order. It does not know\nthose rules, the crutches of feebleness, those pedagogues which prop up\nslippery spirits; it is only guided by nature and instinct, its guardian\nangel; it walks with a firm, calm step across all the snares of false\ntaste, snares in which the man without genius, if he have not the\nprudence to avoid them the moment he detects them, remains infallibly\nimbedded. It is therefore the part only of genius to issue from the\nknown without ceasing to be at home, or to enlarge the circle of nature\nwithout overstepping it. It does indeed sometimes happen that a great\ngenius oversteps it; but only because geniuses have their moments of\nfrenzy, when nature, their protector, abandons them, because the force of\nexample impels them, or because the corrupt taste of their age leads them\nastray.\n\nThe most intricate problems must be solved by genius with simplicity,\nwithout pretension, with ease; the egg of Christopher Columbus is the\nemblem of all the discoveries of genius. It only justifies its character\nas genius by triumphing through simplicity over all the complications of\nart. It does not proceed according to known principles, but by feelings\nand inspiration; the sallies of genius are the inspirations of a God (all\nthat healthy nature produces is divine); its feelings are laws for all\ntime, for all human generations.\n\nThis childlike character imprinted by genius on its works is also shown\nby it in its private life and manners. It is modest, because nature is\nalways so; but it is not decent, because corruption alone is decent. It\nis intelligent, because nature cannot lack intelligence; but it is not\ncunning, because art only can be cunning. It is faithful to its\ncharacter and inclinations, but this is not so much because it has\nprinciples as because nature, notwithstanding all its oscillations,\nalways returns to its equilibrium, and brings back the same wants. It is\nmodest and even timid, because genius remains always a secret to itself;\nbut it is not anxious, because it does not know the dangers of the road\nin which it walks. We know little of the private life of the greatest\ngeniuses; but the little that we know of it--what tradition has\npreserved, for example, of Sophocles, of Archimedes, of Hippocrates, and\nin modern times of Ariosto, of Dante, of Tasso, of Raphael, of Albert\nDuerer, of Cervantes, of Shakespeare, of Fielding, of Sterne, etc.--\nconfirms this assertion.\n\nNay, more; though this admission seems more difficult to support, even\nthe greatest philosophers and great commanders, if great by their genius,\nhave simplicity in their character. Among the ancients I need only name\nJulius Caesar and Epaminondas; among the moderns Henry IV. in France,\nGustavus Adolphus in Sweden, and the Czar Peter the Great. The Duke of\nMarlborough, Turenne, and Vendome all present this character. With\nregard to the other sex, nature proposes to it simplicity of character as\nthe supreme perfection to which it should reach. Accordingly, the love\nof pleasing in women strives after nothing so much as the appearance of\nsimplicity; a sufficient proof, if it were the only one, that the\ngreatest power of the sex reposes in this quality. But, as the\nprinciples that prevail in the education of women are perpetually\nstruggling with this character, it is as difficult for them in the moral\norder to reconcile this magnificent gift of nature with the advantages of\na good education as it is difficult for men to preserve them unchanged in\nthe intellectual order: and the woman who knows how to join a knowledge\nof the world to this sort of simplicity in manners is as deserving of\nrespect as a scholar who joins to the strictness of scholastic rules the\nfreedom and originality of thought.\n\nSimplicity in our mode of thinking brings with it of necessity simplicity\nin our mode of expression, simplicity in terms as well as movement; and\nit is in this that grace especially consists. Genius expresses its most\nsublime and its deepest thoughts with this simple grace; they are the\ndivine oracles that issue from the lips of a child; while the scholastic\nspirit, always anxious to avoid error, tortures all its words, all its\nideas, and makes them pass through the crucible of grammar and logic,\nhard and rigid, in order to keep from vagueness, and uses few words in\norder not to say too much, enervates and blunts thought in order not to\nwound the reader who is not on his guard--genius gives to its expression,\nwith a single and happy stroke of the brush, a precise, firm, and yet\nperfectly free form. In the case of grammar and logic, the sign and the\nthing signified are always heterogenous and strangers to each other: with\ngenius, on the contrary, the expression gushes forth spontaneously from\nthe idea, the language and the thought are one and the same; so that even\nthough the expression thus gives it a body the spirit appears as if\ndisclosed in a nude state. This fashion of expression, when the sign\ndisappears entirely in the thing signified, when the tongue, so to speak,\nleaves the thought it translates naked, whilst the other mode of\nexpression cannot represent thought without veiling it at the same time:\nthis is what is called originality and inspiration in style.\n\nThis freedom, this natural mode by which genius expresses itself in works\nof intellect, is also the expression of the innocence of heart in the\nintercourse of life. Every one knows that in the world men have departed\nfrom simplicity, from the rigorous veracity of language, in the same\nproportion as they have lost the simplicity of feelings. The guilty\nconscience easily wounded, the imagination easily seduced, made an\nanxious decency necessary. Without telling what is false, people often\nspeak differently from what they think; we are obliged to make\ncircumlocutions to say certain things, which however, can never afflict\nany but a sickly self-love, and that have no danger except for a depraved\nimagination. The ignorance of these laws of propriety (conventional\nlaws), coupled with a natural sincerity which despises all kinds of bias\nand all appearance of falsity (sincerity I mean, not coarseness, for\ncoarseness dispenses with forms because it is hampered), gives rise in\nthe intercourse of life to a simplicity of expression that consists in\nnaming things by their proper name without circumlocution. This is done\nbecause we do not venture to designate them as they are, or only to do so\nby artificial means. The ordinary expressions of children are of this\nkind. They make us smile because they are in opposition to received\nmanners; but men would always agree in the bottom of their hearts that\nthe child is right.\n\nIt is true that simplicity of feeling cannot properly be attributed to\nthe child any more than to the man,--that is, to a being not absolutely\nsubject to nature, though there is still no simplicity, except on the\ncondition that it is pure nature that acts through him. But by an effort\nof the imagination, which likes to poetise things, we often carry over\nthese attributes of a rational being to beings destitute of reason. It\nis thus that, on seeing an animal, a landscape, a building, and nature in\ngeneral, from opposition to what is arbitrary and fantastic in the\nconceptions of man, we often attribute to them a simple character. But\nthat implies always that in our thought we attribute a will to these\nthings that have none, and that we are struck to see it directed\nrigorously according to the laws of necessity. Discontented as we are\nthat we have ill employed our own moral freedom, and that we no longer\nfind moral harmony in our conduct, we are easily led to a certain\ndisposition of mind, in which we willingly address ourselves to a being\ndestitute of reason, as if it were a person. And we readily view it as\nif it had really had to struggle against the temptation of acting\notherwise, and proceed to make a merit of its eternal uniformity, and to\nenvy its peaceable constancy. We are quite disposed to consider in those\nmoments reason, this prerogative of the human race, as a pernicious gift\nand as an evil; we feel so vividly all that is imperfect in our conduct\nthat we forget to be just to our destiny and to our aptitudes.\n\nWe see, then, in nature, destitute of reason, only a sister who, more\nfortunate than ourselves, has remained under the maternal roof, while in\nthe intoxication of our freedom we have fled from it to throw ourselves\ninto a stranger world. We regret this place of safety, we earnestly long\nto come back to it as soon as we have begun to feel the bitter side of\ncivilization, and in the totally artificial life in which we are exiled\nwe hear in deep emotion the voice of our mother. While we were still\nonly children of nature we were happy, we were perfect: we have become\nfree, and we have lost both advantages. Hence a twofold and very unequal\nlonging for nature: the longing for happiness and the longing for the\nperfection that prevails there. Man, as a sensuous being, deplores\nsensibly the loss of the former of these goods; it is only the moral man\nwho can be afflicted at the loss of the other.\n\nTherefore, let the man with a sensible heart and a loving nature question\nhimself closely. Is it your indolence that longs for its repose, or your\nwounded moral sense that longs for its harmony? Ask yourself well, when,\ndisgusted with the artifices, offended by the abuses that you discover in\nsocial life, you feel yourself attracted towards inanimate nature, in the\nmidst of solitude ask yourself what impels you to fly the world. Is it\nthe privation from which you suffer, its loads, its troubles? or is it\nthe moral anarchy, the caprice, the disorder that prevail there? Your\nheart ought to plunge into these troubles with joy, and to find in them\nthe compensation in the liberty of which they are the consequence. You\ncan, I admit, propose as your aim, in a distant future, the calm and the\nhappiness of nature; but only that sort of happiness which is the reward\nof your dignity. Thus, then, let there be no more complaint about the\nloads of life, the inequality of conditions, or the hampering of social\nrelations, or the uncertainty of possession, ingratitude, oppression, and\npersecution. You must submit to all these evils of civilization with a\nfree resignation; it is the natural condition of good, par excellence, of\nthe only good, and you ought to respect it under this head. In all these\nevils you ought only to deplore what is morally evil in them, and you\nmust do so not with cowardly tears only. Rather watch to remain pure\nyourself in the midst of these impurities, free amidst this slavery,\nconstant with yourself in the midst of these capricious changes, a\nfaithful observer of the law amidst this anarchy. Be not frightened at\nthe disorder that is without you, but at the disorder which is within;\naspire after unity, but seek it not in uniformity; aspire after repose,\nbut through equilibrium, and not by suspending the action of your\nfaculties. This nature which you envy in the being destitute of reason\ndeserves no esteem: it is not worth a wish. You have passed beyond it;\nit ought to remain for ever behind you. The ladder that carried you\nhaving given way under your foot, the only thing for you to do is to\nseize again on the moral law freely, with a free consciousness, a free\nwill, or else to roll down, hopeless of safety, into a bottomless abyss.\n\nBut when you have consoled yourself for having lost the happiness of\nnature, let its perfection be a model to your heart. If you can issue\nfrom the circle in which art keeps you enclosed and find nature again, if\nit shows itself to you in its greatness and in its calm, in its simple\nbeauty, in its childlike innocence and simplicity, oh! then pause before\nits image, cultivate this feeling lovingly. It is worthy of you, and of\nwhat is noblest in man. Let it no more come into your mind to change\nwith it; rather embrace it, absorb it into your being, and try to\nassociate the infinite advantage it has over you with that infinite\nprerogative that is peculiar to you, and let the divine issue from this\nsublime union. Let nature breathe around you like a lovely idyl, where\nfar from artifice and its wanderings you may always find yourself again,\nwhere you may go to draw fresh courage, a new confidence, to resume your\ncourse, and kindle again in your heart the flame of the ideal, so readily\nextinguished amidst the tempests of life.\n\nIf we think of that beautiful nature which surrounded the ancient Greeks,\nif we remember how intimately that people, under its blessed sky, could\nlive with that free nature; how their mode of imagining, and of feeling,\nand their manners, approached far nearer than ours to the simplicity of\nnature, how faithfully the works of their poets express this; we must\nnecessarily remark, as a strange fact, that so few traces are met among\nthem of that sentimental interest that we moderns ever take in the scenes\nof nature and in natural characters. I admit that the Greeks are\nsuperiorly exact and faithful in their descriptions of nature. They\nreproduce their details with care, but we see that they take no more\ninterest in them and more heart in them than in describing a vestment, a\nshield, armor, a piece of furniture, or any production of the mechanical\narts. In their love for the object it seems that they make no difference\nbetween what exists in itself and what owes its existence to art, to the\nhuman will. It seems that nature interests their minds and their\ncuriosity more than moral feeling. They do not attach themselves to it\nwith that depth of feeling, with that gentle melancholy, that\ncharacterize the moderns. Nay, more, by personifying nature in its\nparticular phenomena, by deifying it, by representing its effects as the\nacts of free being, they take from it that character of calm necessity\nwhich is precisely what makes it so attractive to us. Their impatient\nimagination only traverses nature to pass beyond it to the drama of human\nlife. It only takes pleasure in the spectacle of what is living and\nfree; it requires characters, acts, the accidents of fortune and of\nmanners; and whilst it happens with us, at least in certain moral\ndispositions, to curse our prerogative, this free will, which exposes us\nto so many combats with ourselves, to so many anxieties and errors, and\nto wish to exchange it for the condition of beings destitute of reason,\nfor that fatal existence that no longer admits of any choice, but which\nis so calm in its uniformity;--while we do this, the Greeks, on the\ncontrary, only have their imagination occupied in retracing human nature\nin the inanimate world, and in giving to the will an influence where\nblind necessity rules.\n\nWhence can arise this difference between the spirit of the ancients and\nthe modern spirit? How comes it that, being, for all that relates to\nnature, incomparably below the ancients, we are superior to them\nprecisely on this point, that we render a more complete homage to nature;\nthat we have a closer attachment to it; and that we are capable of\nembracing even the inanimate world with the most ardent sensibility. It\nis because nature, in our time, is no longer in man, and that we no\nlonger encounter it in its primitive truth, except out of humanity, in\nthe inanimate world. It is not because we are more conformable to\nnature--quite the contrary; it is because in our social relations, in our\nmode of existence, in our manners, we are in opposition with nature.\nThis is what leads us, when the instinct of truth and of simplicity is\nawakened--this instinct which, like the moral aptitude from which it\nproceeds, lives incorruptible and indelible in every human heart--to\nprocure for it in the physical world the satisfaction which there is no\nhope of finding in the moral order. This is the reason why the feeling\nthat attaches us to nature is connected so closely with that which makes\nus regret our infancy, forever flown, and our primitive innocence. Our\nchildhood is all that remains of nature in humanity, such as civilization\nhas made it, of untouched, unmutilated nature. It is, therefore, not\nwonderful, when we meet out of us the impress of nature, that we are\nalways brought back to the idea of our childhood.\n\nIt was quite different with the Greeks in antiquity. Civilization with\nthem did not degenerate, nor was it carried to such an excess that it was\nnecessary to break with nature. The entire structure of their social\nlife reposed on feelings, and not on a factitious conception, on a work\nof art. Their very theology was the inspiration of a simple spirit, the\nfruit of a joyous imagination, and not, like the ecclesiastical dogmas of\nmodern nations, subtle combinations of the understanding. Since,\ntherefore, the Greeks had not lost sight of nature in humanity, they had\nno reason, when meeting it out of man, to be surprised at their\ndiscovery, and they would not feel very imperiously the need of objects\nin which nature could be retraced. In accord with themselves, happy in\nfeeling themselves men, they would of necessity keep to humanity as to\nwhat was greatest to them, and they must needs try to make all the rest\napproach it; while we, who are not in accord with ourselves--we who are\ndiscontented with the experience we have made of our humanity--have no\nmore pressing interest than to fly out of it and to remove from our sight\na so ill-fashioned form. The feeling of which we are treating here is,\ntherefore, not that which was known by the ancients; it approaches far\nmore nearly that which we ourselves experience for the ancients. The\nancients felt naturally; we, on our part, feel what is natural. It was\ncertainly a very different inspiration that filled the soul of Homer,\nwhen he depicted his divine cowherd [Dios uphorbos, \"Odyssey,\" xiv. 413,\netc.] giving hospitality to Ulysses, from that which agitated the soul of\nthe young Werther at the moment when he read the \"Odyssey\" [Werther, May\n26, June 21, August 28, May 9, etc.] on issuing from an assembly in which\nhe had only found tedium. The feeling we experience for nature resembles\nthat of a sick man for health.\n\nAs soon as nature gradually vanishes from human life--that is, in\nproportion as it ceases to be experienced as a subject (active and\npassive)--we see it dawn and increase in the poetical world in the guise\nof an idea and as an object. The people who have carried farthest the\nwant of nature, and at the same time the reflections on that matter, must\nneeds have been the people who at the same time were most struck with\nthis phenomenon of the simple, and gave it a name. If I am not mistaken,\nthis people was the French. But the feeling of the simple, and the\ninterest we take in it, must naturally go much farther back, and it dates\nfrom the time when the moral sense and the aesthetical sense began to be\ncorrupt. This modification in the manner of feeling is exceedingly\nstriking in Euripides, for example, if compared with his predecessors,\nespecially Aeschylus; and yet Euripides was the favorite poet of his\ntime. The same revolution is perceptible in the ancient historians.\nHorace, the poet of a cultivated and corrupt epoch, praises, under the\nshady groves of Tibur, the calm and happiness of the country, and he\nmight be termed the true founder of this sentimental poetry, of which he\nhas remained the unsurpassed model. In Propertius, Virgil, and others,\nwe find also traces of this mode of feeling; less of it is found in Ovid,\nwho would have required for that more abundance of heart, and who in his\nexile at Tomes sorrowfully regrets the happiness that Horace so readily\ndispensed with in his villa at Tibur.\n\nIt is in the fundamental idea of poetry that the poet is everywhere the\nguardian of nature. When he can no longer entirely fill this part, and\nhas already in himself suffered the deleterious influence of arbitrary\nand factitious forms, or has had to struggle against this influence, he\npresents himself as the witness of nature and as its avenger. The poet\nwill, therefore, be the expression of nature itself, or his part will be\nto seek it, if men have lost sight of it. Hence arise two kinds of\npoetry, which embrace and exhaust the entire field of poetry. All poets\n--I mean those who are really so--will belong, according to the time when\nthey flourish, according to the accidental circumstances that have\ninfluenced their education generally, and the different dispositions of\nmind through which they pass, will belong, I say, to the order of the\nsentimental poetry or to simple poetry.\n\nThe poet of a young world, simple and inspired, as also the poet who at\nan epoch of artificial civilization approaches nearest to the primitive\nbards, is austere and prudish, like the virginal Diana in her forests.\nWholly unconfiding, he hides himself from the heart that seeks him, from\nthe desire that wishes to embrace him. It is not rare for the dry truth\nwith which he treats his subject to resemble insensibility. The whole\nobject possesses him, and to reach his heart it does not suffice, as with\nmetals of little value, to stir up the surface; as with pure gold, you\nmust go down to the lowest depths. Like the Deity behind this universe,\nthe simple poet hides himself behind his work; he is himself his work,\nand his work is himself. A man must be no longer worthy of the work, nor\nunderstand it, or be tired of it, to be even anxious to learn who is its\nauthor.\n\nSuch appears to us, for instance, Homer in antiquity, and Shakespeare\namong moderns: two natures infinitely different and separated in time by\nan abyss, but perfectly identical as to this trait of character. When,\nat a very youthful age, I became first acquainted with Shakespeare, I was\ndispleased with his coldness, with his insensibility, which allows him to\njest even in the most pathetic moments, to disturb the impression of the\nmost harrowing scenes in \"Hamlet,\" in \"King Lear,\" and in \"Macbeth,\"\netc., by mixing with them the buffooneries of a madman. I was revolted\nby his insensibility, which allowed him to pause sometimes at places\nwhere my sensibility would bid me hasten and bear me along, and which\nsometimes carried him away with indifference when my heart would be so\nhappy to pause. Though I was accustomed, by the practice of modern\npoets, to seek at once the poet in his works, to meet his heart, to\nreflect with him in his theme--in a word, to see the object in the\nsubject--I could not bear that the poet could in Shakespeare never be\nseized, that he would never give me an account of himself. For some\nyears Shakespeare had been the object of my study and of all my respect\nbefore I had learned to love his personality. I was not yet able to\ncomprehend nature at first hand. All that my eyes could bear was its\nimage only, reflected by the understanding and arranged by rules: and on\nthis score the sentimental poetry of the French, or that of the Germans\nof 1750 to 1780, was what suited me best. For the rest, I do not blush\nat this childish judgment: adult critics pronounced in that day in the\nsame way, and carried their simplicity so far as to publish their\ndecisions to the world.\n\nThe same thing happened to me in the case of Homer, with whom I made\nacquaintance at a later date. I remember now that remarkable passage of\nthe sixth book of the \"Iliad,\" where Glaucus and Diomed meet each other\nin the strife, and then, recognizing each other as host and guest,\nexchange presents. With this touching picture of the piety with which\nthe laws of hospitality were observed even in war, may be compared a\npicture of chivalrous generosity in Ariosto. The knights, rivals in\nlove, Ferragus and Rinaldo--the former a Saracen, the latter a Christian\n--after having fought to extremity, all covered with wounds, make peace\ntogether, and mount the same horse to go and seek the fugitive Angelica.\nThese two examples, however different in other respects, are very similar\nwith regard to the impression produced on our heart: both represent the\nnoble victory of moral feeling over passion, and touch us by the\nsimplicity of feeling displayed in them. But what a difference in the\nway in which the two poets go to work to describe two such analogous\nscenes! Ariosto, who belongs to an advanced epoch, to a world where\nsimplicity of manners no longer existed, in relating this trait, cannot\nconceal the astonishment, the admiration, he feels at it. He measures\nthe distance from those manners to the manners of his own age, and this\nfeeling of astonishment is too strong for him. He abandons suddenly the\npainting of the object, and comes himself on the scene in person. This\nbeautiful stanza is well known, and has been always specially admired at\nall times:--\n\n\"Oh nobleness, oh generosity of the ancient manners of chivalry! These\nwere rivals, separated by their faith, suffering bitter pain throughout\ntheir frames in consequence of a desperate combat; and, without any\nsuspicion, behold them riding in company along dark and winding paths.\nStimulated by four spurs, the horse hastens his pace till they arrive at\nthe place where the road divides.\" [\"Orlando Furioso,\" canto i., stanza\n32.]\n\nNow let us turn to old Homer. Scarcely has Diomed learned by the story\nof Glaucus, his adversary, that the latter has been, from the time of\ntheir fathers, the host and friend of his family, when he drives his\nlance into the ground, converses familiarly with him, and both agree\nhenceforth to avoid each other in the strife. But let us hear Homer\nhimself:--\n\n\"'Thus, then, I am for thee a faithful host in Argos, and thou to me in\nLycia, when I shall visit that country. We shall, therefore, avoid our\nlances meeting in the strife. Are there not for me other Trojans or\nbrave allies to kill when a god shall offer them to me and my steps shall\nreach them? And for thee, Glaucus, are there not enough Achaeans, that\nthou mayest immolate whom thou wishest? But let us exchange our arms, in\norder that others may also see that we boast of having been hosts and\nguests at the time of our fathers.' Thus they spoke, and, rushing from\ntheir chariots, they seized each other's hands, and swore friendship the\none to the other.\" [Pope's \"Iliad,\" vi. 264-287.]\n\nIt would have been difficult for a modern poet (at least to one who would\nbe modern in the moral sense of the term) even to wait as long as this\nbefore expressing his joy in the presence of such an action. We should\npardon this in him the more easily, because we also, in reading it, feel\nthat our heart makes a pause here, and readily turns aside from the\nobject to bring back its thoughts on itself. But there is not the least\ntrace of this in Homer. As if he had been relating something that is\nseen everyday--nay, more, as if he had no heart beating in his breast--he\ncontinues, with his dry truthfulness:--\n\n\"Then the son of Saturn blinded Glaucus, who, exchanging his armor with\nDiomed, gave him golden arms of the value of one hecatomb, for brass arms\nonly worth nine beeves.\" [\"Iliad,\" vi. 234-236.]\n\nThe poets of this order,--the genuinely simple poets, are scarcely any\nlonger in their place in this artificial age. Accordingly they are\nscarcely possible in it, or at least they are only possible on the\ncondition of traversing their age, like scared persons, at a running\npace, and of being preserved by a happy star from the influence of their\nage, which would mutilate their genius. Never, for ay and forever, will\nsociety produce these poets; but out of society they still appear\nsometimes at intervals, rather, I admit, as strangers, who excite wonder,\nor as ill-trained children of nature, who give offence. These\napparitions, so very comforting for the artist who studies them, and for\nthe real connoisseur, who knows how to appreciate them, are, as a general\nconclusion, in the age when they are begotten, to a very small degree\npreposterous. The seal of empire is stamped on their brow, and we,--we\nask the Muses to cradle us, to carry us in their arms. The critics, as\nregular constables of art, detest these poets as disturbers of rules or\nof limits. Homer himself may have been only indebted to the testimony of\nten centuries for the reward these aristarchs are kindly willing to\nconcede him. Moreover, they find it a hard matter to maintain their\nrules against his example, or his authority against their rules.\n\n\n\n\nSENTIMENTAL POETRY.\n\n\nI have previously remarked that the poet is nature, or he seeks nature.\nIn the former case, he is a simple poet, in the second case, a\nsentimental poet.\n\nThe poetic spirit is immortal, nor can it disappear from humanity; it can\nonly disappear with humanity itself, or with the aptitude to be a man, a\nhuman being. And actually, though man by the freedom of his imagination\nand of his understanding departs from simplicity, from truth, from the\nnecessity of nature, not only a road always remains open to him to return\nto it, but, moreover, a powerful and indestructible instinct, the moral\ninstinct, brings him incessantly back to nature; and it is precisely the\npoetical faculty that is united to this instinct by the ties of the\nclosest relationship. Thus man does not lose the poetic faculty directly\nhe parts with the simplicity of nature; only this faculty acts out of him\nin another direction.\n\nEven at present nature is the only flame that kindles and warms the\npoetic soul. From nature alone it obtains all its force; to nature alone\nit speaks in the artificial culture-seeking man. Any other form of\ndisplaying its activity is remote from the poetic spirit. Accordingly it\nmay be remarked that it is incorrect to apply the expression poetic to\nany of the so-styled productions of wit, though the high credit given to\nFrench literature has led people for a long period to class them in that\ncategory. I repeat that at present, even in the existing phase of\nculture, it is still nature that powerfully stirs up the poetic spirit,\nonly its present relation to nature is of a different order from\nformerly.\n\nAs long as man dwells in a state of pure nature (I mean pure and not\ncoarse nature), all his being acts at once like a simple sensuous unity,\nlike a harmonious whole. The senses and reason, the receptive faculty\nand the spontaneously active faculty, have not been as yet separated in\ntheir respective functions: a fortiori they are not yet in contradiction\nwith each other. Then the feelings of man are not the formless play of\nchance; nor are his thoughts an empty play of the imagination, without\nany value. His feelings proceed from the law of necessity; his thoughts\nfrom reality. But when man enters the state of civilization, and art has\nfashioned him, this sensuous harmony which was in him disappears, and\nhenceforth he can only manifest himself as a moral unity, that is, as\naspiring to unity. The harmony that existed as a fact in the former\nstate, the harmony of feeling and thought, only exists now in an ideal\nstate. It is no longer in him, but out of him; it is a conception of\nthought which he must begin by realizing in himself; it is no longer a\nfact, a reality of his life. Well, now let us take the idea of poetry,\nwhich is nothing else than expressing humanity as completely as possible,\nand let us apply this idea to these two states. We shall be brought to\ninfer that, on the one hand, in the state of natural simplicity, when all\nthe faculties of man are exerted together, his being still manifests\nitself in a harmonious unity, where, consequently, the totality of his\nnature expresses itself in reality itself, the part of the poet is\nnecessarily to imitate the real as completely as is possible. In the\nstate of civilization, on the contrary, when this harmonious competition\nof the whole of human nature is no longer anything but an idea, the part\nof the poet is necessarily to raise reality to the ideal, or, what\namounts to the same thing, to represent the ideal. And, actually, these\nare the only two ways in which, in general, the poetic genius can\nmanifest itself. Their great difference is quite evident, but though\nthere be great opposition between them, a higher idea exists that\nembraces both, and there is no cause to be astonished if this idea\ncoincides with the very idea of humanity.\n\nThis is not the place to pursue this thought any further, as it would\nrequire a separate discussion to place it in its full light. But if we\nonly compare the modern and ancient poets together, not according to the\naccidental forms which they may have employed, but according to their\nspirit, we shall be easily convinced of the truth of this thought. The\nthing that touches us in the ancient poets is nature; it is the truth of\nsense, it is a present and a living reality modern poets touch us through\nthe medium of ideas.\n\nThe path followed by modern poets is moreover that necessarily followed\nby man generally, individuals as well as the species. Nature reconciles\nman with himself; art divides and disunites him; the ideal brings him\nback to unity. Now, the ideal being an infinite that he never succeeds\nin reaching, it follows that civilized man can never become perfect in\nhis kind, while the man of nature can become so in his. Accordingly in\nrelation to perfection one would be infinitely below the other, if we\nonly considered the relation in which they are both to their own kind and\nto their maximum. If, on the other hand, it is the kinds that are\ncompared together, it is ascertained that the end to which man tends by\ncivilization is infinitely superior to that which he reaches through\nnature. Thus one has his reward, because having for object a finite\nmagnitude, he completely reaches this object; the merit of the other is\nto approach an object that is of infinite magnitude. Now, as there are\nonly degrees, and as there is only progress in the second of these\nevolutions, it follows that the relative merit of the man engaged in the\nways of civilization is never determinable in general, though this man,\ntaking the individuals separately, is necessarily at a disadvantage,\ncompared with the man in whom nature acts in all its perfection. But we\nknow also that humanity cannot reach its final end except by progress,\nand that the man of nature cannot make progress save through culture, and\nconsequently by passing himself through the way of civilization.\nAccordingly there is no occasion to ask with which of the two the\nadvantage must remain, considering this last end.\n\nAll that we say here of the different forms of humanity may be applied\nequally to the two orders of poets who correspond to them.\n\nAccordingly it would have been desirable not to compare at all the\nancient and the modern poets, the simple and the sentimental poets, or\nonly to compare them by referring them to a higher idea (since there is\nreally only one) which embraces both. For, sooth to say, if we begin by\nforming a specific idea of poetry, merely from the ancient poets, nothing\nis easier, but also nothing is more vulgar, than to depreciate the\nmoderns by this comparison. If persons wish to confine the name of\npoetry to that which has in all times produced the same impression in\nsimple nature, this places them in the necessity of contesting the title\nof poet in the moderns precisely in that which constitutes their highest\nbeauties, their greatest originality and sublimity; for precisely in the\npoints where they excel the most, it is the child of civilization whom\nthey address, and they have nothing to say to the simple child of nature.\n\nTo the man who is not disposed beforehand to issue from reality in order\nto enter the field of the ideal, the richest and most substantial poetry\nis an empty appearance, and the sublimest flights of poetic inspiration\nare an exaggeration. Never will a reasonable man think of placing\nalongside Homer, in his grandest episodes, any of our modern poets; and\nit has a discordant and ridiculous effect to hear Milton or Klopstock\nhonored with the name of a \"new Homer.\" But take in modern poets what\ncharacterizes them, what makes their special merit, and try to compare\nany ancient poet with them in this point, they will not be able to\nsupport the comparison any better, and Homer less than any other. I\nshould express it thus: the power of the ancients consists in compressing\nobjects into the finite, and the moderns excel in the art of the\ninfinite.\n\nWhat we have said here may be extended to the fine arts in general,\nexcept certain restrictions that are self-evident. If, then, the\nstrength of the artists of antiquity consists in determining and limiting\nobjects, we must no longer wonder that in the field of the plastic arts\nthe ancients remain so far superior to the moderns, nor especially that\npoetry and the plastic arts with the moderns, compared respectively with\nwhat they were among the ancients, do not offer the same relative value.\nThis is because an object that addresses itself to the eyes is only\nperfect in proportion as the object is clearly limited in it; whilst a\nwork that is addressed to the imagination can also reach the perfection\nwhich is proper to it by means of the ideal and the infinite. This is\nwhy the superiority of the moderns in what relates to ideas is not of\ngreat aid to them in the plastic arts, where it is necessary for them to\ndetermine in space, with the greatest precision, the image which their\nimagination has conceived, and where they must therefore measure\nthemselves with the ancient artist just on a point where his superiority\ncannot be contested. In the matter of poetry it is another affair, and\nif the advantage is still with the ancients on that ground, as respects\nthe simplicity of forms--all that can be represented by sensuous\nfeatures, all that is something bodily--yet, on the other hand, the\nmoderns have the advantage over the ancients as regards fundamental\nwealth, and all that can neither be represented nor translated by\nsensuous signs, in short, for all that is called mind and idea in the\nworks of art.\n\nFrom the moment that the simple poet is content to follow simple nature\nand feeling, that he is contented with the imitation of the real world,\nhe can only be placed, with regard to his subject, in a single relation.\nAnd in this respect he has no choice as to the manner of treating it. If\nsimple poetry produces different impressions--I do not, of course, speak\nof the impressions that are connected with the nature of the subject, but\nonly of those that are dependent on poetic execution--the whole\ndifference is in the degree; there is only one way of feeling, which\nvaries from more to less; even the diversity of external forms changes\nnothing in the quality of aesthetic impressions. Whether the form be\nlyric or epic, dramatic or descriptive, we can receive an impression\neither stronger or weaker, but if we remove what is connected with the\nnature of the subject, we shall always be affected in the same way. The\nfeeling we experience is absolutely identical; it proceeds entirely from\none single and the same element to such a degree that we are unable to\nmake any distinction. The very difference of tongues and that of times\ndoes not here occasion any diversity, for their strict unity of origin\nand of effect is precisely a characteristic of simple poetry.\n\nIt is quite different with sentimental poetry. The sentimental poet\nreflects on the impression produced on him by objects; and it is only on\nthis reflection that his poetic force is based. It follows that the\nsentimental poet is always concerned with two opposite forces, has two\nmodes of representing objects to himself, and of feeling them; these are,\nthe real or limited, and the ideal or infinite; and the mixed feeling\nthat he will awaken will always testify to this duality of origin.\nSentimental poetry thus admitting more than one principle, it remains to\nknow which of the two will be predominant in the poet, both in his\nfashion of feeling and in that of representing the object; and\nconsequently a difference in the mode of treating it is possible. Here,\nthen, a new subject is presented: shall the poet attach himself to the\nreal or the ideal? to the real as an object of aversion and of disgust,\nor to the ideal as an object of inclination? The poet will therefore be\nable to treat the same subject either in its satirical aspect or in its\nelegiac aspect,--taking these words in a larger sense, which will be\nexplained in the sequel: every sentimental poet will of necessity become\nattached to one or the other of these two modes of feeling.\n\n\n\n\nSATIRICAL POETRY.\n\n\nThe poet is a satirist when he takes as subject the distance at which\nthings are from nature, and the contrast between reality and the ideal:\nas regards the impression received by the soul, these two subjects blend\ninto the same. In the execution, he may place earnestness and passion,\nor jests and levity, according as he takes pleasure in the domain of the\nwill or in that of the understanding. In the former case it is avenging\nand pathetic satire; in the second case it is sportive, humorous, and\nmirthful satire.\n\nProperly speaking, the object of poetry is not compatible either with the\ntone of punishment or that of amusement. The former is too grave for\nplay, which should be the main feature of poetry; the latter is too\ntrifling for seriousness, which should form the basis of all poetic play.\nOur mind is necessarily interested in moral contradictions, and these\ndeprive the mind of its liberty. Nevertheless, all personal interest,\nand reference to a personal necessity, should be banished from poetic\nfeeling. But mental contradictions do not touch the heart, nevertheless\nthe poet deals with the highest interests of the heart--nature and the\nideal. Accordingly it is a hard matter for him not to violate the poetic\nform in pathetic satire, because this form consists in the liberty of\nmovement; and in sportive satire he is very apt to miss the true spirit\nof poetry, which ought to be the infinite. The problem can only be\nsolved in one way: by the pathetic satire assuming the character of the\nsublime, and the playful satire acquiring poetic substance by enveloping\nthe theme in beauty.\n\nIn satire, the real as imperfection is opposed to the ideal, considered\nas the highest reality. In other respects it is by no means essential\nthat the ideal should be expressly represented, provided the poet knows\nhow to awaken it in our souls, but he must in all cases awaken it,\notherwise he will exert absolutely no poetic action. Thus reality is\nhere a necessary object of aversion; but it is also necessary, for the\nwhole question centres here, that this aversion should come necessarily\nfrom the ideal, which is opposed to reality. To make this clear--this\naversion might proceed from a purely sensuous source, and repose only on\na want of which the satisfaction finds obstacles in the real. How often,\nin fact, we think we feel, against society a moral discontent, while we\nare simply soured by the obstacles that it opposes to our inclination.\nIt is this entirely material interest that the vulgar satirist brings\ninto play; and as by this road he never fails to call forth in us\nmovements connected with the affections, he fancies that he holds our\nheart in his hand, and thinks he has graduated in the pathetic. But all\npathos derived from this source is unworthy of poetry, which ought only\nto move us through the medium of ideas, and reach our heart only by\npassing through the reason. Moreover, this impure and material pathos\nwill never have its effect on minds, except by over-exciting the\naffective faculties and by occupying our hearts with painful feelings; in\nthis it differs entirely from the truly poetic pathos, which raises in us\nthe feeling of moral independence, and which is recognized by the freedom\nof our mind persisting in it even while it is in the state of affection.\nAnd, in fact, when the emotion emanates from the ideal opposed to the\nreal, the sublime beauty of the ideal corrects all impression of\nrestraint; and the grandeur of the idea with which we are imbued raises\nus above all the limits of experience. Thus in the representation of\nsome revolting reality, the essential thing is that the necessary be the\nfoundation on which the poet or the narrator places the real: that he\nknow how to dispose our mind for ideas. Provided the point from which we\nsee and judge be elevated, it matters little if the object be low and far\nbeneath us. When the historian Tacitus depicts the profound decadence of\nthe Romans of the first century, it is a great soul which from a loftier\nposition lets his looks drop down on a low object; and the disposition in\nwhich he places us is truly poetic, because it is the height where he is\nhimself placed, and where he has succeeded in raising us, which alone\nrenders so perceptible the baseness of the object.\n\nAccordingly the satire of pathos must always issue from a mind deeply\nimbued with the ideal. It is nothing but an impulsion towards harmony\nthat can give rise to that deep feeling of moral opposition and that\nardent indignation against moral obliquity which amounted to the fulness\nof enthusiasm in Juvenal, Swift, Rousseau, Haller, and others. These\nsame poets would have succeeded equally well in forms of poetry relating\nto all that is tender and touching in feeling, and it was only the\naccidents of life in their early days that diverted their minds into\nother walks. Nay, some amongst them actually tried their hand\nsuccessfully in these other branches of poetry. The poets whose names\nhave been just mentioned lived either at a period of degeneracy, and had\nscenes of painful moral obliquity presented to their view, or personal\ntroubles had combined to fill their souls with bitter feelings. The\nstrictly austere spirit in which Rousseau, Haller, and others paint\nreality is a natural result, moreover, of the philosophical mind, when\nwith rigid adherence to laws of thought it separates the mere phenomenon\nfrom the substance of things. Yet these outer and contingent influences,\nwhich always put restraint on the mind, should never be allowed to do\nmore than decide the direction taken by enthusiasm, nor should they ever\ngive the material for it. The substance ought always to remain\nunchanged, emancipated from all external motion or stimulus, and it ought\nto issue from an ardent impulsion towards the ideal, which forms the only\ntrue motive that can be put forth for satirical poetry, and indeed for\nall sentimental poetry.\n\nWhile the satire of pathos is only adapted to elevated minds, playful\nsatire can only be adequately represented by a heart imbued with beauty.\nThe former is preserved from triviality by the serious nature of the\ntheme; but the latter, whose proper sphere is confined to the treatment\nof subjects of morally unimportant nature, would infallibly adopt the\nform of frivolity, and be deprived of all poetic dignity, were it not\nthat the substance is ennobled by the form, and did not the personal\ndignity of the poet compensate for the insignificance of the subject.\nNow, it is only given to mind imbued with beauty to impress its\ncharacter, its entire image, on each of its manifestations, independently\nof the object of its manifestations. A sublime soul can only make itself\nknown as such by single victories over the rebellion of the senses, only\nin certain moments of exaltation, and by efforts of short duration. In a\nmind imbued with beauty, on the contrary, the ideal acts in the same\nmanner as nature, and therefore continuously; accordingly it can manifest\nitself in it in a state of repose. The deep sea never appears more\nsublime than when it is agitated; the true beauty of a clear stream is in\nits peaceful course.\n\nThe question has often been raised as to the comparative preference to be\nawarded to tragedy or comedy. If the question is confined merely to\ntheir respective themes, it is certain that tragedy has the advantage.\nBut if our inquiry be directed to ascertain which has the more important\npersonality, it is probable that a decision may be given in favor of\ncomedy. In tragedy the theme in itself does great things; in comedy the\nobject does nothing and the poet all. Now, as in the judgments of taste\nno account must be kept of the matter treated of, it follows naturally\nthat the aesthetic value of these two kinds will be in an inverse ratio\nto the proper importance of their themes.\n\nThe tragic poet is supported by the theme, while the comic poet, on the\ncontrary, has to keep up the aesthetic character of his theme by his own\nindividual influence. The former may soar, which is not a very difficult\nmatter, but the latter has to remain one and the same in tone; he has to\nbe in the elevated region of art, where he must be at home, but where the\ntragic poet has to be projected and elevated by a bound. And this is\nprecisely what distinguishes a soul of beauty from a sublime soul. A\nsoul of beauty bears in itself by anticipation all great ideas; they flow\nwithout constraint and without difficulty from its very nature--an\ninfinite nature, at least in potency, at whatever point of its career you\nseize it. A sublime soul can rise to all kinds of greatness, but by an\neffort; it can tear itself from all bondage, to all that limits and\nconstrains it, but only by strength of will. Consequently the sublime\nsoul is only free by broken efforts; the other with ease and always.\n\nThe noble task of comedy is to produce and keep up in us this freedom of\nmind, just as the end of tragedy is to re-establish in us this freedom of\nmind by aesthetic ways, when it has been violently suspended by passion.\nConsequently it is necessary that in tragedy the poet, as if he made an\nexperiment, should artificially suspend our freedom of mind, since\ntragedy shows its poetic virtue by re-establishing it; in comedy, on the\nother hand, care must be taken that things never reach this suspension of\nfreedom.\n\nIt is for this reason that the tragic poet invariably treats his theme in\na practical manner, and the comic poet in a theoretic manner, even when\nthe former, as happened with Lessing in his \"Nathan,\" should have the\ncurious fancy to select a theoretical, and the latter should have that of\nchoosing a practical subject. A piece is constituted a tragedy or a\ncomedy not by the sphere from which the theme is taken, but by the\ntribunal before which it is judged. A tragic poet ought never to indulge\nin tranquil reasoning, and ought always to gain the interest of the\nheart; but the comic poet ought to shun the pathetic and bring into play\nthe understanding. The former displays his art by creating continual\nexcitement, the latter by perpetually subduing his passion; and it is\nnatural that the art in both cases should acquire magnitude and strength\nin proportion as the theme of one poet is abstract and that of the other\npathetic in character. Accordingly, if tragedy sets out from a more\nexalted place, it must be allowed, on the other hand, that comedy aims at\na more important end; and if this end could be actually attained it would\nmake all tragedy not only unnecessary, but impossible. The aim that\ncomedy has in view is the same as that of the highest destiny of man, and\nthis consists in liberating himself from the influence of violent\npassions, and taking a calm and lucid survey of all that surrounds him,\nand also of his own being, and of seeing everywhere occurrence rather\nthan fate or hazard, and ultimately rather smiling at the absurdities\nthan shedding tears and feeling anger at sight of the wickedness of man.\n\nIt frequently happens in human life that facility of imagination,\nagreeable talents, a good-natured mirthfulness are taken for ornaments of\nthe mind. The same fact is discerned in the case of poetical displays.\n\nNow, public taste scarcely if ever soars above the sphere of the\nagreeable, and authors gifted with this sort of elegance of mind and\nstyle do not find it a difficult matter to usurp a glory which is or\nought to be the reward of so much real labor. Nevertheless, an\ninfallible text exists to enable us to discriminate a natural facility of\nmanner from ideal gentleness, and qualities that consist in nothing more\nthan natural virtue from genuine moral worth of character. This test is\npresented by trials such as those presented by difficulty and events\noffering great opportunities. Placed in positions of this kind, the\ngenius whose essence is elegance is sure infallibly to fall into\nplatitudes, and that virtue which only results from natural causes drops\ndown to a material sphere. But a mind imbued with true and spiritual\nbeauty is in cases of the kind we have supposed sure to be elevated to\nthe highest sphere of character and of feeling. So long as Lucian merely\nfurnishes absurdity, as in his \"Wishes,\" in the \"Lapithae,\" in \"Jupiter\nTragoedus,\" etc., he is only a humorist, and gratifies us by his sportive\nhumor; but he changes character in many passages in his \"Nigrinus,\" his\n\"Timon,\" and his \"Alexander,\" when his satire directs its shafts against\nmoral depravity. Thus he begins in his \"Nigrinus\" his picture of the\ndegraded corruption of Rome at that time in this way: \"Wretch, why didst\nthou quit Greece, the sunlight, and that free and happy life? Why didst\nthou come here into this turmoil of splendid slavery, of service and\nfestivals, of sycophants, flatterers, poisoners, orphan-robbers, and\nfalse friends?\" It is on such occasions that the poet ought to show the\nlofty earnestness of soul which has to form the basis of all plays, if a\npoetical character is to be obtained by them. A serious intention may\neven be detected under the malicious jests with which Lucian and\nAristophanes pursue Socrates. Their purpose is to avenge truth against\nsophistry, and to do combat for an ideal which is not always prominently\nput forward. There can be no doubt that Lucian has justified this\ncharacter in his Diogenes and Demonax. Again, among modern writers, how\ngrave and beautiful is the character depicted on all occasions by\nCervantes in his Don Quixote! How splendid must have been the ideal that\nfilled the mind of a poet who created a Tom Jones and a Sophonisba! How\ndeeply and strongly our hearts are moved by the jests of Yorick when he\npleases! I detect this seriousness also in our own Wieland: even the\nwanton sportiveness of his humor is elevated and impeded by the goodness\nof his heart; it has an influence even on his rhythm; nor does he ever\nlack elastic power, when it is his wish, to raise us up to the most\nelevated planes of beauty and of thought.\n\nThe same judgment cannot be pronounced on the satire of Voltaire. No\ndoubt, also, in his case, it is the truth and simplicity of nature which\nhere and there makes us experience poetic emotions, whether he really\nencounters nature and depicts it in a simple character, as many times in\nhis \"Ingenu;\" or whether he seeks it and avenges it as in his \"Candide\"\nand elsewhere. But when neither one nor the other takes place, he can\ndoubtless amuse us with his fine wit, but he assuredly never touches us\nas a poet. There is always rather too little of the serious under his\nraillery, and this is what makes his vocation as poet justly suspicious.\nYou always meet his intelligence only; never his feelings. No ideal can\nbe detected under this light gauze envelope; scarcely can anything\nabsolutely fixed be found under this perpetual movement. His prodigious\ndiversity of externals and forms, far from proving anything in favor of\nthe inner fulness of his inspiration, rather testifies to the contrary;\nfor he has exhausted all forms without finding a single one on which he\nhas succeeded in impressing his heart. We are almost driven to fear that\nin the case of his rich talent the poverty of heart alone determined his\nchoice of satire. And how could we otherwise explain the fact that he\ncould pursue so long a road without ever issuing from its narrow rut?\nWhatever may be the variety of matter and of external forms, we see the\ninner form return everywhere with its sterile and eternal uniformity, and\nin spite of his so productive career, he never accomplished in himself\nthe circle of humanity, that circle which we see joyfully traversed\nthroughout by the satirists previously named.\n\n\n\n\nELEGIAC POETRY.\n\n\nWhen the poet opposes nature to art, and the ideal to the real, so that\nnature and the ideal form the principal object of his pictures, and that\nthe pleasure we take in them is the dominant impression, I call him an\nelegiac poet. In this kind, as well as in satire, I distinguish two\nclasses. Either nature and the ideal are objects of sadness, when one is\nrepresented as lost to man and the other as unattained; or both are\nobjects of joy, being represented to us as reality. In the first case it\nis elegy in the narrower sense of the term; in the second case it is the\nidyl in its most extended acceptation.\n\nIndignation in the pathetic and ridicule in mirthful satire are\noccasioned by an enthusiasm which the ideal has excited; and thus also\nsadness should issue from the same source in elegy. It is this, and this\nonly, that gives poetic value to elegy, and any other origin for this\ndescription of poetical effusion is entirely beneath the dignity of\npoetry. The elegiac poet seeks after nature, but he strives to find her\nin her beauty, and not only in her mirth; in her agreement with\nconception, and not merely in her facile disposition towards the\nrequirements and demands of sense. Melancholy at the privation of joys,\ncomplaints at the disappearance of the world's golden age, or at the\nvanished happiness of youth, affection, etc., can only become the proper\nthemes for elegiac poetry if those conditions implying peace and calm in\nthe sphere of the senses can moreover be portrayed as states of moral\nharmony. On this account I cannot bring myself to regard as poetry the\ncomplaints of Ovid, which he transmitted from his place of exile by the\nBlack Sea; nor would they appear so to me however touching and however\nfull of passages of the highest poetry they might be. His suffering is\ntoo devoid of spirit, and nobleness. His lamentations display a want of\nstrength and enthusiasm; though they may not reflect the traces of a\nvulgar soul, they display a low and sensuous condition of a noble spirit\nthat has been trampled into the dust by its hard destiny. If, indeed, we\ncall to mind that his regrets are directed to Rome, in the Augustan age,\nwe forgive him the pain he suffers; but even Rome in all its splendor,\nexcept it be transfigured by the imagination, is a limited greatness, and\ntherefore a subject unworthy of poetry, which, raised above every trace\nof the actual, ought only to mourn over what is infinite.\n\nThus the object of poetic complaint ought never to be an external object,\nbut only an internal and ideal object; even when it deplores a real loss,\nit must begin by making it an ideal loss. The proper work of the poet\nconsists in bringing back the finite object to the proportions of the\ninfinite. Consequently the external matter of elegy, considered in\nitself, is always indifferent, since poetry can never employ it as it\nfinds it, and because it is only by what it makes of it that it confers\non it a poetic dignity. The elegiac poet seeks nature, but nature as an\nidea, and in a degree of perfection that it has never reached in reality,\nalthough he weeps over this perfection as something that has existed and\nis now lost. When Ossian speaks to us of the days that are no more, and\nof the heroes that have disappeared, his imagination has long since\ntransformed these pictures represented to him by his memory into a pure\nideal, and changed these heroes into gods. The different experiences of\nsuch or such a life in particular have become extended and confounded in\nthe universal idea of transitoriness, and the bard, deeply moved, pursued\nby the increase of ruin everywhere present, takes his flight towards\nheaven, to find there in the course of the sun an emblem of what does not\npass away.\n\nI turn now to the elegiac poets of modern times. Rousseau, whether\nconsidered as a poet or a philosopher, always obeys the same tendency; to\nseek nature or to avenge it by art. According to the state of his heart,\nwhether he prefers to seek nature or to avenge it, we see him at one time\nroused by elegiac feelings, at others showing the tone of the satire of\nJuneval; and again, as in his Julia, delighting in the sphere of the\nidyl. His compositions have undoubtedly a poetic value, since their\nobject is ideal; only he does not know how to treat it in a poetic\nfashion. No doubt his serious character prevents him from falling into\nfrivolity; but this seriousness also does not allow him to rise to poetic\nplay. Sometimes absorbed by passion, at others by abstractions, he\nseldom if ever reaches aesthetic freedom, which the poet ought to\nmaintain in spite of his material before his object, and in which he\nought to make the reader share. Either he is governed by his sickly\nsensibility and his impressions become a torture, or the force of thought\nchains down his imagination and destroys by its strictness of reasoning\nall the grace of his pictures. These two faculties, whose reciprocal\ninfluence and intimate union are what properly make the poet, are found\nin this writer in an uncommon degree, and he only lacks one thing--it is\nthat the two qualities should manifest themselves actually united; it is\nthat the proper activity of thought should show itself mixed more with\nfeeling, and the sensuous more with thought. Accordingly, even in the\nideal which he has made of human nature, he is too much taken up with the\nlimits of this nature, and not enough with its capabilities; he always\nbetrays a want of physical repose rather than want of moral harmony. His\npassionate sensuousness must be blamed when, to finish as quickly as\npossible that struggle in humanity which offends him, he prefers to carry\nman back to the unintelligent uniformity of his primitive condition,\nrather than see that struggle carried out in the intellectual harmony of\nperfect cultivation, when, rather than await the fulfilment of art he\nprefers not to let it begin; in short, when he prefers to place the aim\nnearer the earth, and to lower the ideal in order to reach it the sooner\nand the safer.\n\nAmong the poets of Germany who belong to this class, I shall only mention\nhere Haller, Kleist, and Klopstock. The character of their poetry is\nsentimental; it is by the ideal that they touch us, not by sensuous\nreality; and that not so much because they are themselves nature, as\nbecause they know how to fill us with enthusiasm for nature. However,\nwhat is true in general, as well of these three poets as of every\nsentimental poet, does not evidently exclude the faculty of moving us, in\nparticular, by beauties of the simple genus; without this they would not\nbe poets. I only mean that it is not their proper and dominant\ncharacteristic to receive the impression of objects with a calm feeling,\nsimple, easy, and to give forth in like manner the impression received.\nInvoluntarily the imagination in them anticipates intuition, and\nreflection is in play before the sensuous nature has done its function;\nthey shut their eyes and stop their ears to plunge into internal\nmeditations. Their souls could not be touched by any impression without\nobserving immediately their own movements, without placing before their\neyes and outside themselves what takes place in them. It follows from\nthis that we never see the object itself, but what the intelligence and\nreflection of the poet have made of the object; and even if this object\nbe the person itself of the poet, even when he wishes to represent to us\nhis own feelings, we are not informed of his state immediately or at\nfirst hand; we only see how this state is reflected in his mind and what\nhe has thought of it in the capacity of spectator of himself. When\nHaller deplores the death of his wife--every one knows this beautiful\nelegy--and begins in the following manner:--\n\n  \"If I must needs sing of thy death,\n   O Marian, what a song it would be!\n   When sighs strive against words,\n   And idea follows fast on idea,\" etc.,\n\nwe feel that this description is strictly true, but we feel also that the\npoet does not communicate to us, properly speaking, his feelings, but the\nthoughts that they suggest to him. Accordingly, the emotion we feel on\nhearing him is much less vivid! people remark that the poet's mind must\nhave been singularly cooled down to become thus a spectator of his own\nemotion.\n\nHaller scarcely treated any subjects but the super-sensuous, and part of\nthe poems of Klopstock are also of this nature: this choice itself\nexcludes them from the simple kind. Accordingly, in order to treat these\nsuper-sensuous themes in a poetic fashion, as no body could be given to\nthem, and they could not be made the objects of sensuous intuition, it\nwas necessary to make them pass from the finite to the infinite, and\nraise them to the state of objects of spiritual intuition. In general,\nit may be said, that it is only in this sense that a didactic poetry can\nbe conceived without involving contradiction; for, repeating again what\nhas been so often said, poetry has only two fields, the world of sense\nand the ideal world, since in the sphere of conceptions, in the world of\nthe understanding, it cannot absolutely thrive. I confess that I do not\nknow as yet any didactic poem, either among the ancients or among the\nmoderns, where the subject is completely brought down to the individual,\nor purely and completely raised to the ideal. The most common case, in\nthe most happy essays, is where the two principles are used together; the\nabstract idea predominates, and the imagination, which ought to reign\nover the whole domain of poetry, has merely the permission to serve the\nunderstanding. A didactic poem in which thought itself would be poetic,\nand would remain so, is a thing which we must still wait to see.\n\nWhat we say here of didactic poems in general is true in particular of\nthe poems of Haller. The thought itself of these poems is not poetical,\nbut the execution becomes so sometimes, occasionally by the use of\nimages, at other times by a flight towards the ideal. It is from this\nlast quality only that the poems of Haller belong to this class. Energy,\ndepth, a pathetic earnestness--these are the traits that distinguish this\npoet. He has in his soul an ideal that enkindles it, and his ardent love\nof truth seeks in the peaceful valleys of the Alps that innocence of the\nfirst ages that the world no longer knows. His complaint is deeply\ntouching; he retraces in an energetic and almost bitter satire the\nwanderings of the mind and of the heart, and he lovingly portrays the\nbeautiful simplicity of nature. Only, in his pictures as well as in his\nsoul, abstraction prevails too much, and the sensuous is overweighted by\nthe intellectual. He constantly teaches rather than paints; and even in\nhis paintings his brush is more energetic than lovable. He is great,\nbold, full of fire, sublime; but he rarely and perhaps never attains to\nbeauty.\n\nFor the solidity and depth of ideas, Kleist is far inferior to Haller; in\npoint of grace, perhaps, he would have the advantage--if, as happens\noccasionally, we did not impute to him as a merit, on the one side, that\nwhich really is a want on the other. The sensuous soul of Kleist takes\nespecial delight at the sight of country scenes and manners; he withdraws\ngladly from the vain jingle and rattle of society, and finds in the heart\nof inanimate nature the harmony and peace that are not offered to him by\nthe moral world. How touching is his \"Aspiration after Repose\"! how much\ntruth and feeling there is in these verses!--\n\n  \"O world, thou art the tomb of true life!\n   Often a generous instinct attracts me to virtue;\n   My heart is sad, a torrent of tears bathes my cheeks\n   But example conquers, and thou, O fire of youth!\n   Soon you dry these noble tears.\n   A true man must live far from men!\"\n\nBut if the poetic instinct of Kleist leads him thus far away from the\nnarrow circle of social relations, in solitude, and among the fruitful\ninspirations of nature, the image of social life and of its anguish\npursues him, and also, alas! its chains. What he flees from he carries\nin himself, and what he seeks remains entirely outside him: never can he\ntriumph over the fatal influence of his time. In vain does he find\nsufficient flame in his heart and enough energy in his imagination to\nanimate by painting the cold conceptions of the understanding; cold\nthought each time kills the living creations of fancy, and reflection\ndestroys the secret work of the sensuous nature. His poetry, it must be\nadmitted, is of as brilliant color and as variegated as the spring he\ncelebrated in verse; his imagination is vivid and active; but it might be\nsaid that it is more variable than rich, that it sports rather than\ncreates, that it always goes forward with a changeful gait, rather than\nstops to accumulate and mould things into shape. Traits succeed each\nother rapidly, with exuberance, but without concentrating to form an\nindividual, without completing each other to make a living whole, without\nrounding to a form, a figure. Whilst he remains in purely lyrical\npoetry, and pauses amidst his landscapes of country life, on the one hand\nthe greater freedom of the lyrical form, and on the other the more\narbitrary nature of the subject, prevent us from being struck with this\ndefect; in these sorts of works it is in general rather the feelings of\nthe poet, than the object in itself, of which we expect the portraiture.\nBut this defect becomes too apparent when he undertakes, as in Cisseis\nand Paches, or in his Seneca, to represent men and human actions; because\nhere the imagination sees itself kept in within certain fixed and\nnecessary limits, and because here the effect can only be derived from\nthe object itself. Kleist becomes poor, tiresome, jejune, and\ninsupportably frigid; an example full of lessons for those who, without\nhaving an inner vocation, aspire to issue from musical poetry, to rise to\nthe regions of plastic poetry. A spirit of this family, Thomson, has\npaid the same penalty to human infirmity.\n\nIn the sentimental kind, and especially in that part of the sentimental\nkind which we name elegiac, there are but few modern poets, and still\nfewer ancient ones, who can be compared to our Klopstock. Musical poetry\nhas produced in this poet all that can be attained out of the limits of\nthe living form, and out of the sphere of individuality, in the region of\nideas. It would, no doubt, be doing him a great injustice to dispute\nentirely in his case that individual truth and that feeling of life with\nwhich the simple poet describes his pictures. Many of his odes, many\nseparate traits in his dramas, and in his \"Messiah,\" represent the object\nwith a striking truth, and mark the outline admirably; especially, when\nthe object is his own heart, he has given evidence on many occasions of a\ngreat natural disposition and of a charming simplicity. I mean only that\nit is not in this that the proper force of Klopstock consists, and that\nit would not perhaps be right to seek for this throughout his work.\nViewed as a production of musical poetry, the \"Messiah\" is a magnificent\nwork; but in the light of plastic poetry, where we look for determined\nforms and forms determined for the intuition, the \"Messiah\" leaves much\nto be desired. Perhaps in this poem the figures are sufficiently\ndetermined, but they are not so with intuition in view. It is\nabstraction alone that created them, and abstraction alone can discern\nthem. They are excellent types to express ideas, but they are not\nindividuals nor living figures. With regard to the imagination, which\nthe poet ought to address, and which he ought to command by putting\nbefore it always perfectly determinate forms, it is left here much too\nfree to represent as it wishes these men and these angels, these\ndivinities and demons, this paradise and this hell. We see quite well\nthe vague outlines in which the understanding must be kept to conceive\nthese personages; but we do not find the limit clearly traced in which\nthe imagination must be enclosed to represent them. And what I say here\nof characters must apply to all that in this poem is, or ought to be,\naction and life, and not only in this epopoeia, but also in the dramatic\npoetry of Klopstock. For the understanding all is perfectly determined\nand bounded in them--I need only here recall his Judas, his Pilate, his\nPhilo, his Solomon in the tragedy that bears that name--but for the\nimagination all this wants form too much, and I must readily confess I do\nnot find that our poet is at all in his sphere here. His sphere is\nalways the realm of ideas; and he knows how to raise all he touches to\nthe infinite. It might be said that he strips away their bodily\nenvelope, to spiritualize them from all the objects with which he is\noccupied, in the same way that other poets clothe all that is spiritual\nwith a body. The pleasure occasioned by his poems must almost always be\nobtained by an exercise of the faculty of reflection; the feelings he\nawakens in us, and that so deeply and energetically, flow always from\nsuper-sensuous sources. Hence the earnestness, the strength, the\nelasticity, the depth, that characterize all that comes from him; but\nfrom that also issues that perpetual tension of mind in which we are kept\nwhen reading him. No poet--except perhaps Young, who in this respect\nexacts even more than Klopstock, without giving us so much compensation\n--no poet could be less adapted than Klopstock to play the part of\nfavorite author and guide in life, because he never does anything else\nthan lead us out of life, because he never calls to arms anything save\nspirit, without giving recreation and refreshment to sensuous nature by\nthe calm presence of any object. His muse is chaste, it has nothing of\nthe earthly, it is immaterial and holy as his religion; and we are forced\nto admit with admiration that if he wanders sometimes on these high\nplaces, it never happened to him to fall from them. But precisely for\nthis reason, I confess in all ingenuousness, that I am not free from\nanxiety for the common sense of those who quite seriously and\nunaffectedly make Klopstock the favorite book, the book in which we find\nsentiments fitting all situations, or to which we may revert at all\ntimes: perhaps even--and I suspect it--Germany has seen enough results of\nhis dangerous influence. It is only in certain dispositions of the mind,\nand in hours of exaltation, that recourse can be had to Klopstock, and\nthat he can be felt. It is for this reason that he is the idol of youth,\nwithout, however, being by any means the happiest choice that they could\nmake. Youth, which always aspires to something beyond real life, which\navoids all stiffness of form, and finds all limits too narrow, lets\nitself be carried away with love, with delight, into the infinite spaces\nopened up to them by this poet. But wait till the youth has become a\nman, and till, from the domain of ideas, he comes back to the world of\nexperience, then you will see this enthusiastic love of Klopstock\ndecrease greatly, without, however, a riper age changing at all the\nesteem due to this unique phenomenon, to this so extraordinary genius, to\nthese noble sentiments--the esteem that Germany in particular owes to his\nhigh merit.\n\nI have said that this poet was great specially in the elegiac style, and\nit is scarcely necessary to confirm this judgment by entering into\nparticulars. Capable of exercising all kinds of action on the heart, and\nhaving graduated as master in all that relates to sentimental poetry, he\ncan sometimes shake the soul by the most sublime pathos, at others cradle\nit with sweet and heavenly sensations. Yet his heart prefers to follow\nthe direction of a lofty spiritual melancholy; and, however sublime be\nthe tones of his harp and of his lyre, they are always the tender notes\nof his lute that resound with most truth and the deepest emotion. I take\nas witnesses all those whose nature is pure and sensuous: would they not\nbe ready to give all the passages where Klopstock is strong, and bold;\nall those fictions, all the magnificent descriptions, all the models of\neloquence which abound in the \"Messiah,\" all those dazzling comparisons\nin which our poet excels,--would they not exchange them for the pages\nbreathing tenderness, the \"Elegy to Ebert\" for example, or that admirable\npoem entitled \"Bardalus,\" or again, the \"Tombs Opened before the Hour,\"\nthe \"Summer's Night,\" the \"Lake of Zurich,\" and many other pieces of this\nkind? In the same way the \"Messiah\" is dear to me as a treasure of\nelegiac feelings and of ideal paintings, though I am not much satisfied\nwith it as the recital of an action and as an epic.\n\nI ought, perhaps, before quitting this department, to recall the merits\nin this style of Uz, Denis, Gessner in the \"Death of Abel\"--Jacobi,\nGerstenberg, Hoelty, De Goeckingk, and several others, who all knew how\nto touch by ideas, and whose poems belong to the sentimental kind in the\nsense in which we have agreed to understand the word. But my object is\nnot here to write a history of German poetry; I only wished to clear up\nwhat I said further back by some examples from our literature. I wished\nto show that the ancient and the modern poets, the authors of simple\npoetry and of sentimental poetry, follow essentially different paths to\narrive at the same end: that the former move by nature, individuality, a\nvery vivid sensuous element; while the latter do it by means of ideas and\na high spirituality, exercising over our minds an equally powerful though\nless extensive influence.\n\nIt has been seen, by the examples which precede, how sentimental poetry\nconceives and treats subjects taken from nature; perhaps the reader may\nbe curious to know how also simple poetry treats a subject of the\nsentimental order. This is, as it seems, an entirely new question, and\none of special difficulty; for, in the first place, has a subject of the\nsentimental order ever been presented in primitive and simple periods?\nAnd in modern times, where is the simple poet with whom we could make\nthis experiment? This has not, however, prevented genius from setting\nthis problem, and solving it in a wonderfully happy way. A poet in whose\nmind nature works with a purer and more faithful activity than in any\nother, and who is perhaps of all modern poets the one who departs the\nleast from the sensuous truth of things, has proposed this problem to\nhimself in his conception of a mind, and of the dangerous extreme of the\nsentimental character. This mind and this character have been portrayed\nby the modern poet we speak of, a character which with a burning\nsensuousness embraces the ideal and flies the real, to soar up to an\ninfinite devoid of being, always occupied in seeking out of himself what\nhe incessantly destroys in himself; a mind that only finds reality in his\ndreams, and to whom the realities of life are only limits and obstacles;\nin short, a mind that sees only in its own existence a barrier, and goes\non, as it were, logically to break down this barrier in order to\npenetrate to true reality.\n\nIt is interesting to see with what a happy instinct all that is of a\nnature to feed the sentimental mind is gathered together in Werther: a\ndreamy and unhappy love, a very vivid feeling for nature, the religious\nsense coupled with the spirit of philosophic contemplation, and lastly,\nto omit nothing, the world of Ossian, dark, formless, melancholy. Add to\nthis the aspect under which reality is presented, all is depicted which\nis least adapted to make it lovable, or rather all that is most fit to\nmake it hated; see how all external circumstances unite to drive back the\nunhappy man into his ideal world; and now we understand that it was quite\nimpossible for a character thus constituted to save itself, and issue\nfrom the circle in which it was enclosed. The same contrast reappears in\nthe \"Torquato Tasso\" of the same poet, though the characters are very\ndifferent. Even his last romance presents, like his first, this\nopposition between the poetic mind and the common sense of practical men,\nbetween the ideal and the real, between the subjective mode and the\nobjective mode of seeing and representing things; it is the same\nopposition, I say, but with what a diversity! Even in \"Faust\" we still\nfind this contrast, rendered, I admit--as the subject required--much more\ncoarsely on both hands, and materialized. It would be quite worth while\nif a psychological explanation were attempted of this character,\npersonified and specified in four such different ways.\n\nIt has been observed further back that a mere disposition to frivolity of\nmind, to a merry humor, if a certain fund of the ideal is not joined to\nit, does not suffice to constitute the vocation of a satirical poet,\nthough this mistake is frequently made. In the same way a mere\ndisposition for tender sentiments, softness of heart, and melancholy do\nnot suffice to constitute a vocation for elegy. I cannot detect the true\npoetical talent, either on one side or the other; it wants the essential,\nI mean the energetic and fruitful principle that ought to enliven the\nsubject, and produce true beauty. Accordingly the productions of this\nlatter nature, of the tender nature, do nothing but enervate us; and\nwithout refreshing the heart, without occupying the mind, they are only\nable to flatter in us the sensuous nature. A constant disposition to\nthis mode of feeling ends necessarily, in the long run, by weakening the\ncharacter, and makes it fall into a state of passivity from which nothing\nreal can issue, either for external or for internal life. People have,\ntherefore, been quite right to persecute by pitiless raillery this fatal\nmania of sentimentality and of tearful melancholy which possessed Germany\neighteen years since, in consequence of certain excellent works that were\nill understood and indiscreetly imitated. People have been right, I say,\nto combat this perversity, though the indulgence with which men are\ndisposed to receive the parodies of these elegiac caricatures--that are\nvery little better themselves--the complaisance shown to bad wit, to\nheartless satire and spiritless mirth, show clearly enough that this zeal\nagainst false sentimentalism does not issue from quite a pure source. In\nthe balance of true taste one cannot weigh more than the other,\nconsidering that both here and there is wanting that which forms the\naesthetic value of a work of art, the intimate union of spirit with\nmatter, and the twofold relation of the work with the faculty of\nperception as well as with the faculty of the ideal.\n\nPeople have turned Siegwart [\"Siegwart,\" a novel by J. Mailer, published\nat Ulm, 1776] and his convent story into ridicule, and yet the \"Travels\ninto the South of France\" are admired; yet both works have an equal claim\nto be esteemed in certain respects, and as little to be unreservedly\npraised in others. A true, though excessive, sensuousness gives value to\nthe former of these two romances; a lively and sportive humor, a fine\nwit, recommends the other: but one totally lacks all sobriety of mind\nthat would befit it, the other lacks all aesthetic dignity. If you\nconsult experience, one is rather ridiculous; if you think of the ideal,\nthe other is almost contemptible. Now, as true beauty must of necessity\naccord both with nature and with the ideal, it is clear that neither the\none nor the other of these two romances could pretend to pass for a fine\nwork. And notwithstanding all this, it is natural, as I know it by my\nown experience, that the romance of Thummel should be read with much\npleasure. As a fact it only wounds those requirements which have their\nprinciple in the ideal, and which consequently do not exist for the\ngreater part of readers; requirements that, even in persons of most\ndelicate feeling, do not make themselves felt at the moments when we read\nromances. With regard to the other needs of the mind, and especially to\nthose of the senses, this book, on the other hand, affords unusual\nsatisfaction. Accordingly, it must be, and will be so, that this book\nwill remain justly one of the favorite works of our age, and of all\nepochs when men only write aesthetic works to please, and people only\nread to get pleasure.\n\nBut does not poetical literature also offer, even in its classical\nmonuments, some analogous examples of injuries inflicted or attempted\nagainst the ideal and its superior purity? Are there not some who, by\nthe gross, sensuous nature of their subject, seem to depart strangely\nfrom the spiritualism I here demand of all works of art? If this is\npermitted to the poet, the chaste nurseling of the muses, ought it not to\nbe conceded to the novelist, who is only the half-brother of the poet,\nand who still touches by so many points? I can the less avoid this\nquestion because there are masterpieces, both in the elegiac and in the\nsatirical kind, where the authors seek and preach up a nature quite\ndifferent from that I am discussing in this essay, and where they seem to\ndefend it, not so much against bad as against good morals. The natural\nconclusion would be either that this sort of poem ought to be rejected,\nor that, in tracing here the idea of elegiac poetry, we have granted far\ntoo much to what is arbitrary.\n\nThe question I asked was, whether what was permitted by the poet might\nnot be tolerated in a prose narrator too? The answer is contained in the\nquestion. What is allowed in the poet proves nothing about what must be\nallowed in one who is not a poet. This tolerancy in fact reposes on the\nvery idea which we ought to make to ourselves of the poet, and only on\nthis idea; what in his case is legitimate freedom, is only a license\nworthy of contempt as soon as it no longer takes its source in the ideal,\nin those high and noble inspirations which make the poet.\n\nThe laws of decency are strangers to innocent nature; the experience of\ncorruption alone has given birth to them. But when once this experience\nhas been made, and natural innocence has disappeared from manners, these\nlaws are henceforth sacred laws that man, who has a moral sense, ought\nnot to infringe upon. They reign in an artificial world with the same\nright that the laws of nature reign in the innocence of primitive ages.\nBut by what characteristic is the poet recognized? Precisely by his\nsilencing in his soul all that recalls an artificial world, and by\ncausing nature herself to revive in him with her primitive simplicity.\nThe moment he has done this he is emancipated by this alone from all the\nlaws by which a depraved heart secures itself against itself. He is\npure, he is innocent, and all that is permitted to innocent nature is\nequally permitted to him. But you who read him or listen to him, if you\nhave lost your innocence, and if you are incapable of finding it again,\neven for a moment, in a purifying contact with the poet, it is your own\nfault, and not his: why do not you leave him alone? it is not for you\nthat he has sung!\n\nHere follows, therefore, in what relates to these kinds of freedoms, the\nrules that we can lay down.\n\nLet us remark in the first place that nature only can justify these\nlicenses; whence it follows that you could not legitimately take them up\nof your own choice, nor with a determination of imitating them; the will,\nin fact, ought always to be directed according to the laws of morality,\nand on its part all condescending to the sensuous is absolutely\nunpardonable. These licenses must, therefore, above all, be simplicity.\nBut how can we be convinced that they are actually simple? We shall hold\nthem to be so if we see them accompanied and supported by all the other\ncircumstances which also have their spring of action in nature; for\nnature can only be recognized by the close and strict consistency, by the\nunity and uniformity of its effects. It is only a soul that has on all\noccasions a horror of all kinds of artifice, and which consequently\nrejects them even where they would be useful--it is only that soul which\nwe permit to be emancipated from them when the artificial\nconventionalities hamper and hinder it. A heart that submits to all the\nobligations of nature has alone the right to profit also by the liberties\nwhich it authorizes. All the other feelings of that heart ought\nconsequently to bear the stamp of nature: it will be true, simple, free,\nfrank, sensible, and straightforward; all disguise, all cunning, all\narbitrary fancy, all egotistical pettiness, will be banished from his\ncharacter, and you will see no trace of them in his writings.\n\nSecond rule: beautiful nature alone can justify freedoms of this kind;\nwhence it follows that they ought not to be a mere outbreak of the\nappetites; for all that proceeds exclusively from the wants of sensuous\nnature is contemptible. It is, therefore, from the totality and the\nfulness of human nature that these vivid manifestations must also issue.\nWe must find humanity in them. But how can we judge that they proceed in\nfact from our whole nature, and not only from an exclusive and vulgar\nwant of the sensuous nature? For this purpose it is necessary that we\nshould see--that they should represent to us--this whole of which they\nform a particular feature. This disposition of the mind to experience\nthe impressions of the sensuous is in itself an innocent and an\nindifferent thing. It does not sit well on a man only because of its\nbeing common to animals with him; it augurs in him the lack of true and\nperfect humanity. It only shocks us in the poem because such a work\nhaving the pretension to please us, the author consequently seems to\nthink us capable, us also, of this moral infirmity. But when we see in\nthe man who has let himself be drawn into it by surprise all the other\ncharacteristics that human nature in general embraces; when we find in\nthe work where these liberties have been taken the expression of all the\nrealities of human nature, this motive of discontent disappears, and we\ncan enjoy, without anything changing our joy, this simple expression of a\ntrue and beautiful nature. Consequently this same poet who ventures to\nallow himself to associate us with feelings so basely human, ought to\nknow, on the other hand, how to raise us to all that is grand, beautiful,\nand sublime in our nature.\n\nWe should, therefore, have found there a measure to which we could\nsubject the poet with confidence, when he trespasses on the ground of\ndecency, and when he does not fear to penetrate as far as that in order\nfreely to paint nature. His work is common, base, absolutely\ninexcusable, from the moment it is frigid, and from the moment it is\nempty, because that shows a prejudice, a vulgar necessity, an unhealthy\nappeal to our appetites. His work, on the other hand, is beautiful and\nnoble, and we ought to applaud it without any consideration for all the\nobjections of frigid decency, as soon as we recognize in it simplicity,\nthe alliance of spiritual nature and of the heart.\n\nPerhaps I shall be told that if we adopt this criterion, most of the\nrecitals of this kind composed by the French, and the best imitations\nmade of them in Germany, would not perhaps find their interest in it; and\nthat it might be the same, at least in part, with many of the productions\nof our most intellectual and amiable poets, without even excepting his\nmasterpieces. I should have nothing to reply to this. The sentence\nafter all is anything but new, and I am only justifying the judgment\npronounced long since on this matter by all men of delicate perceptions.\nBut these same principles which, applied to the works of which I have\njust spoken, seem perhaps in too strict a spirit, might also be found too\nindulgent when applied to some other works. I do not deny, in fact, that\nthe same reasons which make me hold to be quite inexcusable the dangerous\npictures drawn by the Roman Ovid and the German Ovid, those of Crebillon,\nof Voltaire, of Marmontel, who pretends to write moral tales!--of\nLacroix, and of many others--that these same reasons, I say, reconcile me\nwith the elegies of the Roman Propertius and of the German Propertius,\nand even with some of the decried productions of Diderot. This is\nbecause the former of those works are only witty, prosaic, and\nvoluptuous, while the others are poetic, human, and simple.\n\n\n\n\nIDYL.\n\n\nIt remains for me to say a few words about this third kind of sentimental\npoetry--some few words and no more, for I propose to speak of it at\nanother time with the developments particularly demanded by the theme.\n\nThis kind of poetry generally presents the idea and description of an\ninnocent and happy humanity. This innocence and bliss seeming remote\nfrom the artificial refinements of fashionable society, poets have\nremoved the scene of the idyl from crowds of worldly life to the simple\nshepherd's cot, and have given it a place in the infancy of humanity\nbefore the beginning of culture. These limitations are evidently\naccidental; they do not form the object of the idyl, but are only to be\nregarded as the most natural means to attain this end. The end is\neverywhere to portray man in a state of innocence: which means a state of\nharmony and peace with himself and the external world.\n\nBut a state such as this is not merely met with before the dawn of\ncivilization; it is also the state to which civilization aspires, as to\nits last end, if only it obeys a determined tendency in its progress.\nThe idea of a similar state, and the belief of the possible reality of\nthis state, is the only thing that can reconcile man with all the evils\nto which he is exposed in the path of civilization; and if this idea were\nonly a chimera, the complaints of those who accuse civil life and the\nculture of the intelligence as an evil for which there is no\ncompensation, and who represent this primitive state of nature that we\nhave renounced as the real end of humanity--their complaints, I say,\nwould have a perfectly just foundation. It is, therefore, of infinite\nimportance for the man engaged in the path of civilization to see\nconfirmed in a sensuous manner the belief that this idea can be\naccomplished in the world of sense, that this state of innocence can be\nrealized in it; and as real experience, far from keeping up this belief,\nis rather made incessantly to contradict it, poetry comes here, as in\nmany other cases, in aid of reason, to cause this idea to pass into the\ncondition of an intuitive idea, and to realize it in a particular fact.\nNo doubt this innocence of pastoral life is also a poetic idea, and the\nimagination must already have shown its creative power in that. But the\nproblem, with this datum, becomes infinitely simpler and easier to solve;\nand we must not forget that the elements of these pictures already\nexisted in real life, and that it was only requisite to gather up the\nseparate traits to form a whole. Under a fine sky, in a primitive\nsociety, when all the relations are still simple, when science is limited\nto so little, nature is easily satisfied, and man only turns to savagery\nwhen he is tortured by want. All nations that have a history have a\nparadise, an age of innocence, a golden age. Nay, more than this, every\nman has his paradise, his golden age, which he remembers with more or\nless enthusiasm, according as he is more or less poetical. Thus\nexperience itself furnishes sufficient traits to this picture which the\npastoral idyl executes. But this does not prevent the pastoral idyl from\nremaining always a beautiful and an encouraging fiction; and poetic\ngenius, in retracing these pictures, has really worked in favor of the\nideal. For, to the man who has once departed from simple nature, and who\nhas been abandoned to the dangerous guidance of his reason, it is of the\ngreatest importance to find the laws of nature expressed in a faithful\ncopy, to see their image in a clear mirror, and to reject all the stains\nof artificial life. There is, however, a circumstance which remarkably\nlessens the aesthetic value of these sorts of poetry. By the very fact\nthat the idyl is transported to the time that precedes civilization, it\nalso loses the advantages thereof; and by its nature finds itself in\nopposition to itself. Thus, in a theoretical sense, it takes us back at\nthe same time that in a practical sense it leads us on and ennobles us.\nUnhappily it places behind us the end towards which it ought to lead us,\nand consequently it can only inspire us with the sad feeling of a loss,\nand not the joyous feeling of a hope. As these poems can only attain\ntheir end by dispensing with all art, and by simplifying human nature,\nthey have the highest value for the heart, but they are also far too poor\nfor what concerns the mind, and their uniform circle is too quickly\ntraversed. Accordingly we can only seek them and love them in moments in\nwhich we need calm, and not when our faculties aspire after movement and\nexercise. A morbid mind will find its cure in them, a sound soul will\nnot find its food in them. They cannot vivify, they can only soften.\nThis defect, grounded in the essence of the pastoral idyll, has not been\nremedied by the whole art of poets. I know that this kind of poem is not\nwithout admirers, and that there are readers enough who prefer an Amyntus\nand a Daphnis to the most splendid masterpieces of the epic or the\ndramatic muse; but in them it is less the aesthetical taste than the\nfeeling of an individual want that pronounces on works of art; and their\njudgment, by that very fact, could not be taken into consideration here.\nThe reader who judges with his mind, and whose heart is sensuous, without\nbeing blind to the merit of these poems, will confess that he is rarely\naffected by them, and that they tire him most quickly. But they act with\nso much the more effect in the exact moment of need. But must the truly\nbeautiful be reduced to await our hours of need? and is it not rather its\noffice to awaken in our soul the want that it is going to satisfy?\n\nThe reproaches I here level against the bucolic idyl cannot be understood\nof the sentimental. The simple pastoral, in fact, cannot be deprived of\naesthetic value, since this value is already found in the mere form. To\nexplain myself: every kind of poetry is bound to possess an infinite\nideal value, which alone constitutes it a true poetry; but it can satisfy\nthis condition in two different ways. It can give us the feeling of the\ninfinite as to form, by representing the object altogether limited and\nindividualizing it; it can awaken in us the feeling of the infinite as to\nmatter, in freeing its object from all limits in which it is enclosed, by\nidealizing this object; therefore it can have an ideal value either by an\nabsolute representation or by the representation of an absolute. Simple\npoetry takes the former road, the other is that of sentimental poetry.\nAccordingly the simple poet is not exposed to failure in value so long as\nhe keeps faithfully to nature, which is always completely circumscribed,\nthat is, is infinite as regards form. The sentimental poet, on the\ncontrary, by that very fact, that nature only offers him completely\ncircumscribed objects, finds in it an obstruction when he wishes to give\nan absolute value to a particular object. Thus the sentimental poet\nunderstands his interests badly when he goes along the trail of the\nsimple poet, and borrows his objects from him--objects which by\nthemselves are perfectly indifferent, and which only become poetical by\nthe way in which they are treated. By this he imposes on himself without\nany necessity the same limits that confine the field of the simple poet,\nwithout, however, being able to carry out the limitation properly, or to\nvie with his rival in absolute definiteness of representation. He ought\nrather, therefore, to depart from the simple poet, just in the choice of\nobject; because, the latter having the advantage of him on the score of\nform, it is only by the nature of the objects that he can resume the\nupper hand.\n\nApplying this to the pastoral idyls of the sentimental poet, we see why\nthese poems, whatever amount of art and genius be displayed in them, do\nnot fully satisfy the heart or the mind. An ideal is proposed in it,\nand, at the same time, the writer keeps to this narrow and poor medium of\npastoral life. Would it not have been better, on the contrary, to choose\nfor the ideal another frame, or for the pastoral world another kind of\npicture? These pictures are just ideal enough for painting to lose its\nindividual truth in them, and, again, just individual enough for the\nideal in them to suffer therefrom. For example, a shepherd of Gessner\ncan neither charm by the illusion of nature nor by the beauty of\nimitation; he is too ideal a being for that, but he does not satisfy us\nany more as an ideal by the infinity of the thought: he is a far too\nlimited creature to give us this satisfaction. He will, therefore,\nplease up to a certain point all classes of readers, without exception,\nbecause he seeks to unite the simple with the sentimental, and he thus\ngives a commencement of satisfaction to the two opposite exigencies that\nmay be brought to bear on any particular part of a poem; but the author,\nin trying to unite the two points, does not fully satisfy either one or\nthe other exigency, as you do not find in him either pure nature or the\npure ideal; he cannot rank himself as entirely up to the mark of a\nstringent critical taste, for taste does not accept anything equivocal or\nincomplete in aesthetical matters. It is a strange thing that, in the\npoet whom I have named, this equivocal character extends to the language,\nwhich floats undecided between poetry and prose, as if he feared either\nto depart too far from nature, by speaking rhythmical language, or if he\ncompletely freed himself from rhythm, to lose all poetic flight. Milton\ngives a higher satisfaction to the mind, in the magnificent picture of\nthe first human pair, and of the state of innocence in paradise;--the\nmost beautiful idyl I know of the sentimental kind. Here nature is\nnoble, inspired, simple, full of breadth, and, at the same time, of\ndepth; it is humanity in its highest moral value, clothed in the most\ngraceful form.\n\nThus, even in respect to the idyl, as well as to all kinds of poetry, we\nmust once for all declare either for individuality or ideality; for to\naspire to give satisfaction to both exigencies is the surest means,\nunless you have reached the terminus of perfection, to miss both ends.\nIf the modern poet thinks he feels enough of the Greeks' mind to vie with\nthem, notwithstanding all the indocility of his matter, on their own\nground, namely that of simple poetry, let him do it exclusively, and\nplace himself apart from all the requirements of the sentimental taste of\nhis age. No doubt it is very doubtful if he come up to his models;\nbetween the original and the happiest imitation there will always remain\na notable distance; but, by taking this road, he is at all events secure\nof producing a really poetic work. If, on the other hand, he feels\nhimself carried to the ideal by the instinct of sentimental poetry, let\nhim decide to pursue this end fully; let him seek the ideal in its\npurity, and let him not pause till he has reached the highest regions\nwithout looking behind him to know if the real follows him, and does not\nleave him by the way. Let him not lower himself to this wretched\nexpedient of spoiling the ideal to accommodate himself to the wants of\nhuman weakness, and to turn out mind in order to play more easily with\nthe heart. Let him not take us back to our infancy, to make us buy, at\nthe cost of the most precious acquisitions of the understanding, a repose\nthat can only last as long as the slumber of our spiritual faculties; but\nlet him lead us on to emancipation, and give us this feeling of higher\nharmony which compensates for all his troubles and secures the happiness\nof the victor! Let him prepare as his task an idyl that realizes the\npastoral innocence, even in the children of civilization, and in all the\nconditions of the most militant and excited life; of thought enlarged by\nculture; of the most refined art; of the most delicate social\nconventionalities--an idyl, in short, that is made, not to bring back man\nto Arcadia, but to lead him to Elysium.\n\nThis idyl, as I conceive it, is the idea of humanity definitely\nreconciled with itself, in the individual as well as in the whole of\nsociety; it is union freely re-established between inclination and duty;\nit is nature purified, raised to its highest moral dignity; in short, it\nis no less than the ideal of beauty applied to real life. Thus, the\ncharacter of this idyl is to reconcile perfectly all the contradictions\nbetween the real and the ideal, which formed the matter of satirical and\nelegiac poetry, and, setting aside their contradictions, to put an end to\nall conflict between the feelings of the soul. Thus, the dominant\nexpression of this kind of poetry would be calm; but the calm that\nfollows the accomplishment, and not that of indolence--the calm that\ncomes from the equilibrium re-established between the faculties, and not\nfrom the suspending of their exercise; from the fulness of our strength,\nand not from our infirmity; the calm, in short, which is accompanied in\nthe soul by the feeling of an infinite power. But precisely because idyl\nthus conceived removes all idea of struggle, it will be infinitely more\ndifficult than it was in two previously-named kinds of poetry to express\nmovement; yet this is an indispensable condition, without which poetry\ncan never act on men's souls. The most perfect unity is required, but\nunity ought not to wrong variety; the heart must be satisfied, but\nwithout the inspiration ceasing on that account. The solution of this\nproblem is properly what ought to be given us by the theory of the idyl.\n\nNow, what are the relations of the two poetries to one another, and their\nrelations to the poetic ideal? Here are the principles we have\nestablished.\n\nNature has granted this favor to the simple poet, to act always as an\nindivisible unity, to be at all times identical and perfect, and to\nrepresent, in the real world, humanity at its highest value. In\nopposition, it has given a powerful faculty to the sentimental poet, or,\nrather, it has imprinted an ardent feeling on him; this is to replace out\nof himself this first unity that abstraction has destroyed in him, to\ncomplete humanity in his person, and to pass from a limited state to an\ninfinite state. They both propose to represent human nature fully, or\nthey would not be poets; but the simple poet has always the advantage of\nsensuous reality over the sentimental poet, by setting forth as a real\nfact what the other aspires only to reach. Every one experiences this in\nthe pleasure he takes in simple poetry.\n\nWe there feel that the human faculties are brought into play; no vacuum\nis felt; we have the feeling of unity, without distinguishing anything of\nwhat we experience; we enjoy both our spiritual activity and also the\nfulness of physical life. Very different is the disposition of mind\nelicited by the sentimental poet. Here we feel only a vivid aspiration\nto produce in us this harmony of which we had in the other case the\nconsciousness and reality; to make of ourselves a single and same\ntotality; to realize in ourselves the idea of humanity as a complete\nexpression. Hence it comes that the mind is here all in movement,\nstretched, hesitating between contrary feelings; whereas it was before\ncalm and at rest, in harmony with itself, and fully satisfied.\n\nBut if the simple poet has the advantage over the sentimental poet on the\nscore of reality; if he causes really to live that of which the other can\nonly elicit a vivid instinct, the sentimental poet, in compensation, has\nthis great advantage over the simple poet: to be in a position to offer\nto this instinct a greater object than that given by his rival, and the\nonly one he could give. All reality, we know, is below the ideal; all\nthat exists has limits, but thought is infinite. This limitation, to\nwhich everything is subject in sensuous reality, is, therefore, a\ndisadvantage for the simple poet, while the absolute, unconditional\nfreedom of the ideal profits the sentimental poet. No doubt the former\naccomplishes his object, but this object is limited; the second, I admit,\ndoes not entirely accomplish his, but his object is infinite. Here I\nappeal to experience. We pass pleasantly to real life and things from\nthe frame of mind in which the simple poet has placed us. On the other\nhand, the sentimental poet will always disgust us, for a time, with real\nlife. This is because the infinite character has, in a manner, enlarged\nour mind beyond its natural measure, so that nothing it finds in the\nworld of sense can fill its capacity. We prefer to fall back in\ncontemplation on ourselves, where we find food for this awakened impulse\ntowards the ideal world; while, in the simple poet, we only strive to\nissue out of ourselves, in search of sensuous objects. Sentimental\npoetry is the offspring of retirement and science, and invites to it;\nsimple poetry is inspired by the spectacle of life, and brings back life.\n\nI have styled simple poetry a gift of nature to show that thought has no\nshare in it. It is a first jet, a happy inspiration, that needs no\ncorrection, when it turns out well, and which cannot be rectified if ill\nturned out. The entire work of the simple genius is accomplished by\nfeeling; in that is its strength, and in it are its limits. If, then, he\nhas not felt at once in a poetic manner--that is, in a perfectly human\nmanner--no art in the world can remedy this defect. Criticism may help\nhim to see the defect, but can place no beauty in its stead. Simple\ngenius must draw all from nature; it can do nothing, or almost nothing,\nby its will; and it will fulfil the idea of this kind of poetry provided\nnature acts in it by an inner necessity. Now, it is true that all which\nhappens by nature is necessary, and all the productions, happy or not, of\nthe simple genius, which is disassociated from nothing so much as from\narbitrary will, are also imprinted with this character of necessity;\nmomentary constraint is one thing, and the internal necessity dependent\non the totality of things another. Considered as a whole, nature is\nindependent and infinite; in isolated operations it is poor and limited.\nThe same distinction holds good in respect to the nature of the poet.\nThe very moment when he is most happily inspired depends on a preceding\ninstant, and consequently only a conditional necessity can be attributed\nto him. But now the problem that the poet ought to solve is to make an\nindividual state similar to the human whole, and consequently to base it\nin an absolute and necessary manner on itself. It is therefore necessary\nthat at the moment of inspiration every trace of a temporal need should\nbe banished, and that the object itself, however limited, should not\nlimit the flight of the poet. But it may be conceived that this is only\npossible in so far as the poet brings to the object an absolute freedom,\nan absolute fulness of faculties, and in so far as he is prepared by an\nanterior exercise to embrace all things with all his humanity. Now he\ncannot acquire this exercise except by the world in which he lives, and\nof which he receives the impressions immediately. Thus simple genius is\nin a state of dependence with regard to experience, while the sentimental\ngenius is forced from it. We know that the sentimental genius begins its\noperation at the place where the other finishes its own: its virtue is to\ncomplete by the elements which it derives from itself a defective object,\nand to transport itself by its own strength from a limited state to one\nof absolute freedom. Thus the simple poet needs a help from without,\nwhile the sentimental poet feeds his genius from his own fund, and\npurifies himself by himself. The former requires a picturesque nature, a\npoetical world, a simple humanity which casts its eyes around; for he\nought to do his work without issuing from the sensuous sphere. If\nexternal aid fails him, if he be surrounded by matter not speaking to\nmind, one of two things will happen: either, if the general character of\nthe poet-race is what prevails in him, he issues from the particular\nclass to which he belongs as a poet, and becomes sentimental to be at any\nrate poetic; or, if his particular character as simple poet has the upper\nhand, he leaves his species and becomes a common nature, in order to\nremain at any rate natural. The former of these two alternatives might\nrepresent the case of the principal poets of the sentimental kind in\nRoman antiquity and in modern times. Born at another period of the\nworld, transplanted under another sky, these poets who stir us now by\nideas, would have charmed us by individual truth and simple beauty. The\nother alternative is the almost unavoidable quicksand for a poet who,\nthrown into a vulgar world, cannot resolve to lose sight of nature.\n\nI mean, to lose sight of actual nature; but the greatest care must be\ngiven to distinguish actual nature from true nature, which is the subject\nof simple poetry. Actual nature exists everywhere; but true nature is so\nmuch the more rare because it requires an internal necessity that\ndetermines its existence. Every eruption of passion, however vulgar, is\nreal--it may be even true nature; but it is not true human nature, for\ntrue human nature requires that the self-directing faculty in us should\nhave a share in the manifestation, and the expression of this faculty is\nalways dignified. All moral baseness is an actual human phenomenon, but\nI hope not real human nature, which is always noble. All the faults of\ntaste cannot be surveyed that have been occasioned in criticism or the\npractice of art by this--confusion between actual human nature and true\nhuman nature. The greatest trivialities are tolerated and applauded\nunder the pretext that they are real nature. Caricatures not to be\ntolerated in the real world are carefully preserved in the poetic world\nand reproduced according to nature! The poet can certainly imitate a\nlower nature; and it enters into the very definition of a satirical poet:\nbut then a beauty by its own nature must sustain and raise the object,\nand the vulgarity of the subject must not lower the imitator too much.\nIf at the moment he paints he is true human nature himself, the object of\nhis paintings is indifferent; but it is only on this condition we can\ntolerate a faithful reproduction of reality. Unhappy for us readers when\nthe rod of satire falls into hands that nature meant to handle another\ninstrument, and when, devoid of all poetic talent, with nothing but the\nape's mimicry, they exercise it brutally at the expense of our taste!\n\nBut vulgar nature has even its dangers for the simple poet; for the\nsimple poet is formed by this fine harmony of the feeling and thinking\nfaculty, which yet is only an idea, never actually realized. Even in the\nhappiest geniuses of this class, receptivity will always more or less\ncarry the day over spontaneous activity. But receptivity is always more\nor less subordinate to external impressions, and nothing but a perpetual\nactivity of the creative faculty could prevent matter from exercising a\nblind violence over this quality. Now, every time this happens the\nfeeling becomes vulgar instead of poetical.\n\nNo genius of the simple class, from Homer down to Bodmer, has entirely\nsteered clear of this quicksand. It is evident that it is most perilous\nto those who have to struggle against external vulgarity, or who have\nparted with their refinement owing to a want of proper restraint. The\nfirst-named difficulty is the reason why even authors of high cultivation\nare not always emancipated from platitudes--a fact which has prevented\nmany splendid talents from occupying the place to which they were\nsummoned by nature. For this reason, a comic poet whose genius has\nchiefly to deal with scenes of real life, is more liable to the danger\nof acquiring vulgar habits of style and expression--a fact evidenced in\nthe case of Aristophanes, Plautus, and all the poets who have followed\nin their track. Even Shakspeare, with all his sublimity, suffers us to\nfall very low now and then. Again, Lope De Vega, Moliere, Regnard,\nGoldoni worry us with frequent trifling. Holberg drags us down into\nthe mire. Schlegel, a German poet, among the most remarkable for\nintellectual talent, with genius to raise him to a place among poets of\nthe first order; Gellert, a truly simple poet, Rabener, and Lessing\nhimself, if I am warranted to introduce his name in this category--this\nhighly-cultivated scholar of criticism and vigilant examiner of his own\ngenius--all these suffer in different degrees from the platitudes and\nuninspired movements of the natures they chose as the theme of their\nsatire. With regard to more recent authors of this class, I avoid naming\nany of them, as I can make no exceptions in their case.\n\nBut not only is simple genius exposed to the danger of coming too near to\nvulgar reality; the ease of expression, even this too close approximation\nto reality, encourages vulgar imitators to try their hand in poetry.\nSentimental poetry, though offering danger enough, has this advantage, to\nkeep this crowd at a distance, for it is not for the first comer to rise\nto the ideal; but simple poetry makes them believe that, with feeling and\nhumor, you need only imitate real nature to claim the title of poet. Now\nnothing is more revolting than platitude when it tries to be simple and\namiable, instead of hiding its repulsive nature under the veil of art.\nThis occasions the incredible trivialities loved by the Germans under the\nname of simple and facetious songs, and which give them endless amusement\nround a well-garnished table. Under the pretext of good humor and of\nsentiment people tolerate these poverties: but this good humor and this\nsentiment ought to be carefully proscribed. The Muses of the Pleisse, in\nparticular, are singularly pitiful; and other Muses respond to them, from\nthe banks of the Seine, and the Elbe. If these pleasantries are flat,\nthe passion heard on our tragic stage is equally pitiful, for, instead of\nimitating true nature, it is only an insipid and ignoble expression of\nthe actual. Thus, after shedding torrents of tears, you feel as you\nwould after visiting a hospital or reading the \"Human Misery\" of\nSaltzmann. But the evil is worse in satirical poetry and comic romance,\nkinds which touch closely on every-day life, and which consequently, as\nall frontier posts, ought to be in safer hands. In truth, he less than\nany other is called on to become the painter of his century, who is\nhimself the child and caricature of his century. But as, after all,\nnothing is easier than to take in hand, among our acquaintances, a comic\ncharacter--a big, fat man--and draw a coarse likeness of him on paper,\nthe sworn enemies of poetic inspiration are often led to blot some paper\nin this way to amuse a circle of friends. It is true that a pure heart,\na well-made mind, will never confound these vulgar productions with the\ninspirations of simple genius. But purity of feeling is the very thing\nthat is wanting, and in most cases nothing is thought of but satisfying a\nwant of sense, without spiritual nature having any share. A\nfundamentally just idea, ill understood, that works of bel esprit serve\nto recreate the mind, contributes to keep up this indulgence, if\nindulgence it may be called when nothing higher occupies the mind, and\nreader as well as writer find their chief interest therein. This is\nbecause vulgar natures, if overstrained, can only be refreshed by\nvacuity; and even a higher intelligence, when not sustained by a\nproportional culture, can only rest from its work amidst sensuous\nenjoyments, from which spiritual nature is absent.\n\nPoetic genius ought to have strength enough to rise with a free and\ninnate activity above all the accidental hinderances which are\ninseparable from every confined condition, to arrive at a representation\nof humanity in the absolute plenitude of its powers; it is not, however,\npermitted, on the other hand, to emancipate itself from the necessary\nlimits implied by the very idea of human nature; for the absolute only in\nthe circle of humanity is its true problem. Simple genius is not exposed\nto overstep this sphere, but rather not to fill it entirely, giving too\nmuch scope to external necessity, to accidental wants, at the expense of\nthe inner necessity. The danger for the sentimental genius is, on the\nother hand, by trying to remove all limits, of nullifying human nature\nabsolutely, and not only rising, as is its right and duty, beyond finite\nand determinate reality, as far as absolute possibility, or in other\nterms to idealize; but of passing even beyond possibility, or, in other\nwords, dreaming. This fault--overstraining--is precisely dependent on\nthe specific property of the sentimental process, as the opposite defect,\ninertia, depends on the peculiar operation of the simple genius. The\nsimple genius lets nature dominate, without restricting it; and as nature\nin her particular phenomena is always subject to some want, it follows\nthat the simple sentiment will not be always exalted enough to resist the\naccidental limitations of the present hour. The sentimental genius, on\nthe contrary, leaves aside the real world, to rise to the ideal and to\ncommand its matter with free spontaneity. But while reason, according to\nlaw, aspires always to the unconditional, so the sentimental genius will\nnot always remain calm enough to restrain itself uniformly and without\ninterruption within the conditions implied by the idea of human nature,\nand to which reason must always, even in its freest acts, remain\nattached. He could only confine himself in these conditions by help of a\nreceptivity proportioned to his free activity; but most commonly the\nactivity predominates over receptivity in the sentimental poet, as much\nas receptivity over activity in the simple poet. Hence, in the\nproductions of simple genius, if sometimes inspiration is wanting, so\nalso in works of sentimental poetry the object is often missed. Thus,\nthough they proceed in opposite ways, they will both fall into a vacuum,\nfor before the aesthetic judgment an object without inspiration, and\ninspiration without an object, are both negations.\n\nThe poets who borrow their matter too much from thought, and rather\nconceive poetic pictures by the internal abundance of ideas than by the\nsuggestions of feeling, are more or less likely to be addicted to go thus\nastray. In their creations reason makes too little of the limits of the\nsensuous world, and thought is always carried too far for experience to\nfollow it. Now, when the idea is carried so far that not only no\nexperience corresponds to it--as is the case in the beau ideal--but also\nthat it is repugnant to the conditions of all possible experience, so\nthat, in order to realize it, one must leave human nature altogether, it\nis no longer a poetic but an exaggerated thought; that is, supposing it\nclaims to be representable and poetical, for otherwise it is enough if it\nis not self-contradictory. If thought is contradictory it is not\nexaggeration, but nonsense; for what does not exist cannot exceed. But\nwhen the thought is not an object proposed to the fancy, we are just as\nlittle justified in calling it exaggerated. For simple thought is\ninfinite, and what is limitless also cannot exceed. Exaggeration,\ntherefore, is only that which wounds, not logical truth, but sensuous\ntruth, and what pretends to be sensuous truth. Consequently, if a poet\nhas the unhappy chance to choose for his picture certain natures that are\nmerely superhuman and cannot possibly be represented, he can only avoid\nexaggeration by ceasing to be a poet, and not trusting the theme to his\nimagination. Otherwise one of two things would happen: either\nimagination, applying its limits to the object, would make a limited and\nmerely human object of an absolute object--which happened with the gods\nof Greece--or the object would take away limits from fancy, that is,\nwould render it null and void, and this is precisely exaggeration.\n\nExtravagance of feeling should be distinguished from extravagance of\nportraiture; we are speaking of the former. The object of the feeling\nmay be unnatural, but the feeling itself is natural, and ought\naccordingly to be shadowed forth in the language of nature. While\nextravagant feelings may issue from a warm heart and a really poetic\nnature, extravagance of portraiture always displays a cold heart, and\nvery often a want of poetic capacity. Therefore this is not a danger for\nthe sentimental poet, but only for the imitator, who has no vocation; it\nis therefore often found with platitude, insipidity, and even baseness.\nExaggeration of sentiment is not without truth, and must have a real\nobject; as nature inspires it, it admits of simplicity of expression and\ncoming from the heart it goes to the heart. As its object, however, is\nnot in nature, but artificially produced by the understanding, it has\nonly a logical reality, and the feeling is not purely human. It was not\nan illusion that Heloise had for Abelard, Petrarch for Laura, Saint Preux\nfor his Julia, Werther for his Charlotte; Agathon, Phanias, and\nPeregrinus--in Wieland--for the object of their dreams: the feeling is\ntrue, only the object is factitious and outside nature. If their thought\nhad kept to simple sensuous truth, it could not have taken this flight;\nbut on the other hand a mere play of fancy, without inner value, could\nnot have stirred the heart: this is only stirred by reason. Thus this\nsort of exaggeration must be called to order, but it is not contemptible:\nand those who ridicule it would do well to find out if the wisdom on\nwhich they pride themselves is not want of heart, and if it is not\nthrough want of reason that they are so acute. The exaggerated delicacy\nin gallantry and honor which characterizes the chivalrous romances,\nespecially of Spain, is of this kind; also the refined and even\nridiculous tenderness of French and English sentimental romances of the\nbest kind. These sentiments are not only subjectively true, but also\nobjectively they are not without value; they are sound sentiments issuing\nfrom a moral source, only reprehensible as overstepping the limits of\nhuman truth. Without this moral reality how could they stir and touch so\npowerfully? The same remark applies to moral and religious fanaticism,\npatriotism, and the love of freedom when carried up to exaltation. As\nthe object of these sentiments is always a pure idea, and not an external\nexperience, imagination with its proper activity has here a dangerous\nliberty, and cannot, as elsewhere, be called back to bounds by the\npresence of a visible object. But neither the man nor the poet can\nwithdraw from the law of nature, except to submit to that of reason. He\ncan only abandon reality for the ideal; for liberty must hold to one or\nthe other of these anchors. But it is far from the real to the ideal;\nand between the two is found fancy, with its arbitrary conceits and its\nunbridled freedom. It must needs be, therefore, that man in general, and\nthe poet in particular, when he withdraws by liberty of his understanding\nfrom the dominion of feeling, without being moved to it by the laws of\nreason--that is, when he abandons nature through pure liberty--he finds\nhimself freed from all law, and therefore a prey to the illusions of\nphantasy.\n\nIt is testified by experience that entire nations, as well as individual\nmen, who have parted with the safe direction of nature, are actually in\nthis condition; and poets have gone astray in the same manner. The true\ngenius of sentimental poetry, if its aim is to raise itself to the rank\nof the ideal, must overstep the limits of the existing nature; but false\ngenius oversteps all boundaries without any discrimination, flattering\nitself with the belief that the wild sport of the imagination is poetic\ninspiration. A true poetical genius can never fall into this error,\nbecause it only abandons the real for the sake of the ideal, or, at all\nevents, it can only do so at certain moments when the poet forgets\nhimself; but his main tendencies may dispose him to extravagance within\nthe sphere of the senses. His example may also drive others into a chase\nof wild conceptions, because readers of lively fancy and weak\nunderstanding only remark the freedom which he takes with existing\nnature, and are unable to follow him in copying the elevated necessities\nof his inner being. The same difficulties beset the path of the\nsentimental genius in this respect, as those which afflict the career of\na genius of the simple order. If a genius of this class carries out\nevery work, obedient to the free and spontaneous impulses of his nature,\nthe man devoid of genius who seeks to imitate him is not willing to\nconsider his own nature a worse guide than that of the great poet. This\naccounts for the fact that masterpieces of simple poetry are commonly\nfollowed by a host of stale and unprofitable works in print, and\nmasterpieces of the sentimental class by wild and fanciful effusions,--a\nfact that may be easily verified on questioning the history of\nliterature.\n\nTwo maxims are prevalent in relation to poetry, both of them quite\ncorrect in themselves, but mutually destructive in the way in which they\nare generally conceived. The first is, that \"poetry serves as a means of\namusement and recreation,\" and we have previously observed that this\nmaxim is highly favorable to aridity and platitudes in poetical actions.\nThe other maxim, that \"poetry is conducive to the moral progress of\nhumanity,\" takes under its shelter theories and views of the most wild\nand extravagant character. It may be profitable to examine more\nattentively these two maxims, of which so much is heard, and which are so\noften imperfectly understood and falsely applied.\n\nWe say that a thing amuses us when it makes us pass from a forced state\nto the state that is natural to us. The whole question here is to know\nin what our natural state ought to consist, and what a forced state\nmeans. If our natural state is made to consist merely in the free\ndevelopment of all our physical powers, in emancipation from all\nconstraint, it follows that every act of reason by resisting what is\nsensuous, is a violence we undergo, and rest of mind combined with\nphysical movement will be a recreation par excellence. But if we make\nour natural state consist in a limitless power of human expression and of\nfreely disposing of all our strength, all that divides these forces will\nbe a forced state, and recreation will be what brings all our nature to\nharmony. Thus, the first of these ideal recreations is simply determined\nby the wants of our sensuous nature; the second, by the autonomous\nactivity of human nature. Which of these two kinds of recreation can be\ndemanded of the poet? Theoretically, the question is inadmissible, as no\none would put the human ideal beneath the brutal. But in practice the\nrequirements of a poet have been especially directed to the sensuous\nideal, and for the most part favor, though not the esteem, for these\nsorts of works is regulated thereby. Men's minds are mostly engaged in a\nlabor that exhausts them, or an enjoyment that sets them asleep. Now\nlabor makes rest a sensible want, much more imperious than that of the\nmoral nature; for physical nature must be satisfied before the mind can\nshow its requirements. On the other hand, enjoyment paralyzes the moral\ninstinct. Hence these two dispositions common in men are very injurious\nto the feeling for true beauty, and thus very few even of the best judge\nsoundly in aesthetics. Beauty results from the harmony between spirit\nand sense; it addresses all the faculties of man, and can only be\nappreciated if a man employs fully all his strength. He must bring to it\nan open sense, a broad heart, a spirit full of freshness. All a man's\nnature must be on the alert, and this is not the case with those divided\nby abstraction, narrowed by formulas, enervated by application. They\ndemand, no doubt, a material for the senses; but not to quicken, only to\nsuspend, thought. They ask to be freed from what? From a load that\noppressed their indolence, and not a rein that curbed their activity.\n\nAfter this can one wonder at the success of mediocre talents in\naesthetics? or at the bitter anger of small minds against true energetic\nbeauty? They reckon on finding therein a congenial recreation, and\nregret to discover that a display of strength is required to which they\nare unequal. With mediocrity they are always welcome; however little\nmind they bring, they want still less to exhaust the author's\ninspiration. They are relieved of the load of thought; and their nature\ncan lull itself in beatific nothings on the soft pillow of platitude. In\nthe temple of Thalia and Melpomene--at least, so it is with us--the\nstupid savant and the exhausted man of business are received on the broad\nbosom of the goddess, where their intelligence is wrapped in a magnetic\nsleep, while their sluggish senses are warmed, and their imagination with\ngentle motions rocked.\n\nVulgar people may be excused what happens to the best capacities. Those\nmoments of repose demanded by nature after lengthy labor are not\nfavorable to aesthetic judgment, and hence in the busy classes few can\npronounce safely on matters of taste. Nothing is more common than for\nscholars to make a ridiculous figure, in regard to a question of beauty,\nbesides cultured men of the world; and technical critics are especially\nthe laughing-stock of connoisseurs. Their opinion, from exaggeration,\ncrudeness, or carelessness guides them generally quite awry, and they can\nonly devise a technical judgment, and not an aesthetical one, embracing\nthe whole work, in which feeling should decide. If they would kindly\nkeep to technicalities they might still be useful, for the poet in\nmoments of inspiration and readers under his spell are little inclined to\nconsider details. But the spectacle which they afford us is only the\nmore ridiculous inasmuch as we see these crude natures--with whom all\nlabor and trouble only develop at the most a particular aptitude,--when\nwe see them set up their paltry individualities as the representation of\nuniversal and complete feeling, and in the sweat of their brow pronounce\njudgment on beauty.\n\nWe have just seen that the kind of recreation poetry ought to afford is\ngenerally conceived in too restricted a manner, and only referred to a\nsimple sensuous want. Too much scope, however, is also given to the\nother idea, the moral ennobling the poet should have in view, inasmuch as\ntoo purely an ideal aim is assigned.\n\nIn fact, according to the pure ideal, the ennobling goes on to infinity,\nbecause reason is not restricted to any sensuous limits, and only finds\nrest in absolute perfection. Nothing can satisfy whilst a superior thing\ncan be conceived; it judges strictly and admits no excuses of infirmity\nand finite nature. It only admits for limits those of thought, which\ntranscends time and space. Hence the poet could no more propose to\nhimself such an ideal of ennobling (traced for him by pure (didactic)\nreason) any more than the coarse ideal of recreation of sensuous nature.\nThe aim is to free human nature from accidental hinderances, without\ndestroying the essential ideal of our humanity, or displacing its limits.\nAll beyond this is exaggeration, and a quicksand in which the poet too\neasily suffers shipwreck if he mistakes the idea of nobleness. But,\nunfortunately, he cannot rise to the true ideal of ennobled human nature\nwithout going some steps beyond it. To rise so high he must abandon the\nworld of reality, for, like every ideal, it is only to be drawn from its\ninner moral source. He does not find it in the turmoil of worldly life,\nbut only in his heart, and that only in calm meditation. But in this\nseparation from real life he is likely to lose sight of all the limits of\nhuman nature, and seeking pure form he may easily lose himself in\narbitrary and baseless conceptions. Reason will abstract itself too much\nfrom experience, and the practical man will not be able to carry out, in\nthe crush of real life, what the contemplative mind has discovered on the\npeaceful path of thought. Thus, what makes a dreamy man is the very\nthing that alone could have made him a sage; and the advantage for the\nlatter is not that he has never been a dreamer, but rather that he has\nnot remained one.\n\nWe must not, then, allow the workers to determine recreation according to\ntheir wants, nor thinkers that of nobleness according to their\nspeculations, for fear of either a too low physical poetry, or a poetry\ntoo given to hyperphysical exaggeration. And as these two ideas direct\nmost men's judgments on poetry, we must seek a class of mind at once\nactive, but not slavishly so, and idealizing, but not dreamy; uniting the\nreality of life within as few limits as possible, obeying the current of\nhuman affairs, but not enslaved by them. Such a class of men can alone\npreserve the beautiful unity of human nature, that harmony which all work\nfor a moment disturbs, and a life of work destroys; such alone can, in\nall that is purely human, give by its feelings universal rules of\njudgment. Whether such a class exists, or whether the class now existing\nin like conditions answers to this ideal conception, I am not concerned\nto inquire. If it does not respond to the ideal it has only itself to\nblame. In such a class--here regarded as a mere ideal--the simple and\nsentimental would keep each other from extremes of extravagance and\nrelaxation. For the idea of a beautiful humanity is not exhausted by\neither, but can only be presented in the union of both.\n\n\n\n\nTHE STAGE AS A MORAL INSTITUTION.\n\n\nSulzer has remarked that the stage has arisen from an irresistible\nlonging for the new and extraordinary. Man, oppressed by divided cares,\nand satiated with sensual pleasure, felt an emptiness or want. Man,\nneither altogether satisfied with the senses, nor forever capable of\nthought, wanted a middle state, a bridge between the two states, bringing\nthem into harmony. Beauty and aesthetics supplied that for him. But a\ngood lawgiver is not satisfied with discovering the bent of his people--\nhe turns it to account as an instrument for higher use; and hence he\nchose the stage, as giving nourishment to the soul, without straining it,\nand uniting the noblest education of the head and heart.\n\nThe man who first pronounced religion to be the strongest pillar of the\nstate, unconsciously defended the stage, when he said so, in its noblest\naspect. The uncertain nature of political events, rendering religion a\nnecessity, also demands the stage as a moral force. Laws only prevent\ndisturbances of social life; religion prescribes positive orders\nsustaining social order. Law only governs actions; religion controls the\nheart and follows thought to the source.\n\nLaws are flexible and capricious; religion binds forever. If religion\nhas this great sway over man's heart, can it also complete his culture?\nSeparating the political from the divine element in it, religion acts\nmostly on the senses; she loses her sway if the senses are gone. By what\nchannel does the stage operate? To most men religion vanishes with the\nloss of her symbols, images, and problems; and yet they are only pictures\nof the imagination, and insolvable problems. Both laws and religion are\nstrengthened by a union with the stage, where virtue and vice, joy and\nsorrow, are thoroughly displayed in a truthful and popular way; where a\nvariety of providential problems are solved; where all secrets are\nunmasked, all artifice ends, and truth alone is the judge, as\nincorruptible as Rhadamanthus.\n\nWhere the influence of civil laws ends that of the stage begins. Where\nvenality and corruption blind and bias justice and judgment, and\nintimidation perverts its ends, the stage seizes the sword and scales and\npronounces a terrible verdict on vice. The fields of fancy and of\nhistory are open to the stage; great criminals of the past live over\nagain in the drama, and thus benefit an indignant posterity. They pass\nbefore us as empty shadows of their age, and we heap curses on their\nmemory while we enjoy on the stage the very horror of their crimes. When\nmorality is no more taught, religion no longer received, or laws exist,\nMedea would still terrify us with her infanticide. The sight of Lady\nMacbeth, while it makes us shudder, will also make us rejoice in a good\nconscience, when we see her, the sleep-walker, washing her hands and\nseeking to destroy the awful smell of murder. Sight is always more\npowerful to man than description; hence the stage acts more powerfully\nthan morality or law.\n\nBut in this the stage only aids justice. A far wider field is really\nopen to it. There are a thousand vices unnoticed by human justice, but\ncondemned by the stage; so, also, a thousand virtues overlooked by man's\nlaws are honored on the stage. It is thus the handmaid of religion and\nphilosophy. From these pure sources it draws its high principles and the\nexalted teachings, and presents them in a lovely form. The soul swells\nwith noblest emotions when a divine ideal is placed before it. When\nAugustus offers his forgiving hand to Cinna, the conspirator, and says to\nhim: \"Let us be friends, Cinna!\" what man at the moment does not feel\nthat he could do the same. Again, when Francis von Sickingen, proceeding\nto punish a prince and redress a stranger, on turning sees the house,\nwhere his wife and children are, in flames, and yet goes on for the sake\nof his word--how great humanity appears, how small the stern power of\nfate!\n\nVice is portrayed on the stage in an equally telling manner. Thus, when\nold Lear, blind, helpless, childless, is seen knocking in vain at his\ndaughters' doors, and in tempest and night he recounts by telling his\nwoes to the elements, and ends by saying: \"I have given you all,\"--how\nstrongly impressed we feel at the value of filial piety, and how hateful\ningratitude seems to us!\n\nThe stage does even more than this. It cultivates the ground where\nreligion and law do not think it dignified to stop. Folly often troubles\nthe world as much as crime; and it has been justly said that the heaviest\nloads often hang suspended by the slightest threads. Tracing actions to\ntheir sources, the list of criminals diminish, and we laugh at the long\ncatalogue of fools. In our sex all forms of evil emanate almost entirely\nfrom one source, and all our excesses are only varied and higher forms of\none quality, and that a quality which in the end we smile at and love;\nand why should not nature have followed this course in the opposite sex\ntoo? In man there is only one secret to guard against depravity; that\nis, to protect his heart against wickedness.\n\nMuch of all this is shown up on the stage. It is a mirror to reflect\nfools and their thousand forms of folly, which are there turned to\nridicule. It curbs vice by terror, and folly still more effectually by\nsatire and jest. If a comparison be made between tragedy and comedy,\nguided by experience, we should probably give the palm to the latter as\nto effects produced. Hatred does not wound the conscience so much as\nmockery does the pride of man. We are exposed specially to the sting of\nsatire by the very cowardice that shuns terrors. From sins we are\nguarded by law and conscience, but the ludicrous is specially punished on\nthe stage. Where we allow a friend to correct our morals, we rarely\nforgive a laugh. We may bear heavy judgment on our transgressions, but\nour weaknesses and vulgarities must not be criticised by a witness.\n\nThe stage alone can do this with impunity, chastising us as the anonymous\nfool. We can bear this rebuke without a blush, and even gratefully.\n\nBut the stage does even more than this. It is a great school of\npractical wisdom, a guide for civil life, and a key to the mind in all\nits sinuosities. It does not, of course, remove egoism and stubbornness\nin evil ways; for a thousand vices hold up their heads in spite of the\nstage, and a thousand virtues make no impression on cold-hearted\nspectators. Thus, probably, Moliere's Harpagon never altered a\nusurer's heart, nor did the suicide in Beverley save any one from the\ngaming-table. Nor, again, is it likely that the high roads will be safer\nthrough Karl Moor's untimely end. But, admitting this, and more than\nthis, still how great is the influence of the stage! It has shown us the\nvices and virtues of men with whom we have to live. We are not surprised\nat their weaknesses, we are prepared for them. The stage points them out\nto us, and their remedy. It drags off the mask from the hypocrite, and\nbetrays the meshes of intrigue. Duplicity and cunning have been forced\nby it to show their hideous features in the light of day. Perhaps the\ndying Sarah may not deter a single debauchee, nor all the pictures of\navenged seduction stop the evil; yet unguarded innocence has been shown\nthe snares of the corrupter, and taught to distrust his oaths.\n\nThe stage also teaches men to bear the strokes of fortune. Chance and\ndesign have equal sway over life. We have to bow to the former, but we\ncontrol the latter. It is a great advantage if inexorable facts do not\nfind us unprepared and unexercised, and if our breast has been steeled to\nbear adversity. Much human woe is placed before us on the stage. It\ngives us momentary pain in the tears we shed for strangers' troubles, but\nas a compensation it fills us with a grand new stock of courage and\nendurance. We are led by it, with the abandoned Ariadne, through the\nIsle of Naxos, and we descend the Tower of Starvation in Ugolino; we\nascend the terrible scaffold, and we are present at the awful moment of\nexecution. Things remotely present in thought become palpable realities\nnow. We see the deceived favorite abandoned by the queen. When about to\ndie, the perfidious Moor is abandoned by his own sophistry. Eternity\nreveals the secrets of the unknown through the dead, and the hateful\nwretch loses all screen of guilt when the tomb opens to condemn him.\n\nThen the stage teaches us to be more considerate to the unfortunate, and\nto judge gently. We can only pronounce on a man when we know his whole\nbeing and circumstances. Theft is a base crime, but tears mingle with\nour condemnation, when we read what obliged Edward Ruhberg to do the\nhorrid deed. Suicide is shocking; but the condemnation of an enraged\nfather, her love, and the fear of a convent, lead Marianne to drink the\ncup, and few would dare to condemn the victim of a dreadful tyranny.\nHumanity and tolerance have begun to prevail in our time at courts of\nprinces and in courts of law. A large share of this may be due to the\ninfluence of the stage in showing man and his secret motives.\n\nThe great of the world ought to be especially grateful to the stage, for\nit is here alone that they hear the truth.\n\nNot only man's mind, but also his intellectual culture, has been promoted\nby the higher drama. The lofty mind and the ardent patriot have often\nused the stage to spread enlightenment.\n\nConsidering nations and ages, the thinker sees the masses enchained by\nopinion and cut off by adversity from happiness; truth only lights up a\nfew minds, who perhaps have to acquire it by the trials of a lifetime.\nHow can the wise ruler put these within the reach of his nation.\n\nThe thoughtful and the worthier section of the people diffuse the light\nof wisdom over the masses through the stage. Purer and better principles\nand motives issue from the stage and circulate through society: the night\nof barbarism and superstition vanishes. I would mention two glorious\nfruits of the higher class of dramas. Religious toleration has latterly\nbecome universal. Before Nathan the Jew and Saladin the Saracen put us\nto shame, and showed that resignation to God's will did not depend on a\nfancied belief of His nature--even before Joseph II. contended with the\nhatred of a narrow piety--the stage had sown seeds of humanity and\ngentleness: pictures of fanaticism had taught a hatred of intolerance,\nand Christianity, seeing itself in this awful mirror, washed off its\nstains. It is to be hoped that the stage will equally combat mistaken\nsystems of education. This is a subject of the first political\nimportance, and yet none is so left to private whims and caprice. The\nstage might give stirring examples of mistaken education, and lead\nparents to juster, better views of the subject. Many teachers are led\nastray by false views, and methods are often artificial and fatal.\n\nOpinions about governments and classes might be reformed by the stage.\nLegislation could thus justify itself by foreign symbols, and silence\ndoubtful aspersions without offence.\n\nNow, if poets would be patriotic they could do much on the stage to\nforward invention and industry. A standing theatre would be a material\nadvantage to a nation. It would have a great influence on the national\ntemper and mind by helping the nation to agree in opinions and\ninclinations. The stage alone can do this, because it commands all human\nknowledge, exhausts all positions, illumines all hearts, unites all\nclasses, and makes its way to the heart and understanding by the most\npopular channels.\n\nIf one feature characterized all dramas; if the poets were allied in\naim--that is, if they selected well and from national topics--there\nwould be a national stage, and we should become a nation. It was this\nthat knit the Greeks so strongly together, and this gave to them the\nall-absorbing interest in the republic and the advancement of humanity.\n\nAnother advantage belongs to the stage; one which seems to have become\nacknowledged even by its censurers. Its influence on intellectual and\nmoral culture, which we have till now been advocating, may be doubted;\nbut its very enemies have admitted that it has gained the palm over all\nother means of amusement. It has been of much higher service here than\npeople are often ready to allow.\n\nHuman nature cannot bear to be always on the rack of business, and the\ncharms of sense die out with their gratification. Man, oppressed by\nappetites, weary of long exertion, thirsts for refined pleasure, or\nrushes into dissipations that hasten his fall and ruin, and disturb\nsocial order. Bacchanal joys, gambling, follies of all sorts to disturb\nennui, are unavoidable if the lawgiver produces nothing better. A man of\npublic business, who has made noble sacrifices to the state, is apt to\npay for them with melancholy, the scholar to become a pedant, and the\npeople brutish, without the stage. The stage is an institution combining\namusement with instruction, rest with exertion, where no faculty of the\nmind is overstrained, no pleasure enjoyed at the cost of the whole. When\nmelancholy gnaws the heart, when trouble poisons our solitude, when we\nare disgusted with the world, and a thousand worries oppress us, or when\nour energies are destroyed by over-exercise, the stage revives us, we\ndream of another sphere, we recover ourselves, our torpid nature is\nroused by noble passions, our blood circulates more healthily. The\nunhappy man forgets his tears in weeping for another. The happy man is\ncalmed, the secure made provident. Effeminate natures are steeled,\nsavages made man, and, as the supreme triumph of nature, men of all\nclanks, zones, and conditions, emancipated from the chains of\nconventionality and fashion, fraternize here in a universal sympathy,\nforget the world, and come nearer to their heavenly destination. The\nindividual shares in the general ecstacy, and his breast has now only\nspace for an emotion: he is a man.\n\n\n\n\nON THE TRAGIC ART.\n\n\nThe state of passion in itself, independently of the good or bad\ninfluence of its object on our morality, has something in it that charms\nus. We aspire to transport ourselves into that state, even if it costs\nus some sacrifices. You will find this instinct at the bottom of all our\nmost habitual pleasures. As to the nature itself of the affection,\nwhether it be one of aversion or desire, agreeable or painful, this is\nwhat we take little into consideration. Experience teaches us that\npainful affections are those which have the most attraction for us, and\nthus that the pleasure we take in an affection is precisely in an inverse\nratio to its nature. It is a phenomenon common to all men, that sad,\nfrightful things, even the horrible, exercise over us an irresistible\nseduction, and that in presence of a scene of desolation and of terror we\nfeel at once repelled and attracted by two equal forces. Suppose the\ncase be an assassination. Then every one crowds round the narrator and\nshows a marked attention. Any ghost story, however embellished by\nromantic circumstances, is greedily devoured by us, and the more readily\nin proportion as the story is calculated to make our hair stand on end.\n\nThis disposition is developed in a more lively manner when the objects\nthemselves are placed before our eyes. A tempest that would swallow up\nan entire fleet would be, seen from shore, a spectacle as attractive to\nour imagination as it would be shocking to our heart. It would be\ndifficult to believe with Lucretius that this natural pleasure results\nfrom a comparison between our own safety and the danger of which we are\nwitnesses. See what a crowd accompanies a criminal to the scene of his\npunishment! This phenomenon cannot be explained either by the pleasure\nof satisfying our love of justice, nor the ignoble joy of vengeance.\nPerhaps the unhappy man may find excuses in the hearts of those present;\nperhaps the sincerest pity takes an interest in his reprieve: this does\nnot prevent a lively curiosity in the spectators to watch his expressions\nof pain with eye and ear. If an exception seems to exist here in the\ncase of a well-bred man, endowed with a delicate sense, this does not\nimply that he is a complete stranger to this instinct; but in his case\nthe painful strength of compassion carries the day over this instinct, or\nit is kept under by the laws of decency. The man of nature, who is not\nchained down by any feeling of human delicacy, abandons himself without\nany sense of shame to this powerful instinct. This attraction must,\ntherefore, have its spring of action in an original disposition, and it\nmust be explained by a psychological law common to the whole species.\n\nBut if it seems to us that these brutal instincts of nature are\nincompatible with the dignity of man, and if we hesitate, for this\nreason, to establish on this fact a law common to the whole species, yet\nno experiences are required to prove, with the completest evidence, that\nthe pleasure we take in painful emotions is real, and that it is general.\nThe painful struggle of a heart drawn asunder between its inclinations or\ncontrary duties, a struggle which is a cause of misery to him who\nexperiences it, delights the person who is a mere spectator. We follow\nwith always heightening pleasure the progress of a passion to the abyss\ninto which it hurries its unhappy victim. The same delicate feeling that\nmakes us turn our eyes aside from the sight of physical suffering, or\neven from the physical expression of a purely moral pain, makes us\nexperience a pleasure heightened in sweetness, in the sympathy for a\npurely moral pain. The interest with which we stop to look at the\npainting of these kinds of objects is a general phenomenon.\n\nOf course this can only be understood of sympathetic affections, or those\nfelt as a secondary effect after their first impression; for commonly\ndirect and personal affections immediately call into life in us the\ninstinct of our own happiness, they take up all our thoughts, and seize\nhold of us too powerfully to allow any room for the feeling of pleasure\nthat accompanies them, when the affection is freed from all personal\nrelation. Thus, in the mind that is really a prey to painful passion,\nthe feeling of pain commands all others notwithstanding all the charm\nthat the painting of its moral state may offer to the hearers and the\nspectators. And yet the painful affection is not deprived of all\npleasure, even for him who experiences it directly; only this pleasure\ndiffers in degree according to the nature of each person's mind. The\nsports of chance would not have half so much attraction for us were there\nnot a kind of enjoyment in anxiety, in doubt, and in fear; danger would\nnot be encountered from mere foolhardiness; and the very sympathy which\ninterests us in the trouble of another would not be to us that pleasure\nwhich is never more lively than at the very moment when the illusion is\nstrongest, and when we substitute ourselves most entirely in the place of\nthe person who suffers. But this does not imply that disagreeable\naffections cause pleasure of themselves, nor do I think any one will\nuphold this view; it suffices that these states of the mind are the\nconditions that alone make possible for its certain kinds of pleasure.\nThus the hearts particularly sensitive to this kind of pleasure, and most\ngreedy of them, will be more easily led to share these disagreeable\naffections, which are the condition of the former; and even in the most\nviolent storms of passion they will always preserve some remains of their\nfreedom.\n\nThe displeasure we feel in disagreeable affections comes from the\nrelation of our sensuous faculty or of our moral faculty with their\nobject. In like manner, the pleasure we experience in agreeable\naffections proceeds from the very same source. The degree of liberty\nthat may prevail in the affections depends on the proportion between the\nmoral nature and the sensuous nature of a man. Now it is well known that\nin the moral order there is nothing arbitrary for us, that, on the\ncontrary, the sensuous instinct is subject to the laws of reason and\nconsequently depends more or less on our will. Hence it is evident that\nwe can keep our liberty full and entire in all those affections that are\nconcerned with the instinct of self-love, and that we are the masters to\ndetermine the degree which they ought to attain. This degree will be\nless in proportion as the moral sense in a man will prevail over the\ninstinct of happiness, and as by obeying the universal laws of reasons he\nwill have freed himself from the selfish requirements of his\nindividuality, his Ego. A man of this kind must therefore, in a state of\npassion, feel much less vividly the relation of an object with his own\ninstinct of happiness, and consequently he will be much less sensible of\nthe displeasure that arises from this relation. On the other hand, he\nwill be perpetually more attentive to the relation of this same object\nwith his moral nature, and for this very reason he will be more sensible\nto the pleasure which the relation of the object with morality often\nmingles with the most painful affections. A mind thus constituted is\nbetter fitted than all others to enjoy the pleasure attaching to\ncompassion, and even to regard a personal affection as an object of\nsimple compassion. Hence the inestimable value of a moral philosophy,\nwhich, by raising our eyes constantly towards general laws, weakens in us\nthe feeling of our individuality, teaches us to plunge our paltry\npersonality in something great, and enables us thus to act to ourselves\nas to strangers. This sublime state of the mind is the lot of strong\nphilosophic minds, which by working assiduously on themselves have\nlearned to bridle the egotistical instinct. Even the most cruel loss\ndoes not drive them beyond a certain degree of sadness, with which an\nappreciable sum of pleasure can always be reconciled. These souls, which\nare alone capable of separating themselves from themselves, alone enjoy\nthe privilege of sympathizing with themselves and of receiving of their\nown sufferings only a reflex, softened by sympathy.\n\nThe indications contained in what precedes will suffice to direct our\nattention to the sources of the pleasure that the affection in itself\ncauses, more particularly the sad affection. We have seen that this\npleasure is more energetic in moral souls, and it acts with greater\nfreedom in proportion as the soul is more independent of the egotistical\ninstinct. This pleasure is, moreover, more vivid and stronger in sad\naffections, when self-love is painfully disquieted, than in gay\naffections, which imply a satisfaction of self-love. Accordingly this\npleasure increases when the egotistical instinct is wounded, and\ndiminishes when that instinct is flattered. Now we only know of two\nsources of pleasure--the satisfaction of the instinct of happiness, and\nthe accomplishment of the moral laws. Therefore, when it is shown that a\nparticular pleasure does not emanate from the former source, it must of\nnecessity issue from the second. It is therefore from our moral nature\nthat issues the charm of the painful affections shared by sympathy, and\nthe pleasure that we sometimes feel even where the painful affection\ndirectly affects ourselves.\n\nMany attempts have been made to account for the pleasure of pity, but\nmost of these solutions had little chance of meeting the problem, because\nthe principle of this phenomenon was sought for rather in the\naccompanying circumstances than in the nature of the affection itself.\nTo many persons the pleasure of pity is simply the pleasure taken by the\nmind in exercising its own sensibility. To others it is the pleasure of\noccupying their forces energetically, of exercising the social faculty\nvividly--in short, of satisfying the instinct of restlessness. Others\nagain make it derived from the discovery of morally fine features of\ncharacter, placed in a clear light by the struggle against adversity or\nagainst the passions. But there is still the difficulty to explain why\nit should be exactly the very feeling of pain,--suffering properly so\ncalled,--that in objects of pity attracts us with the greatest force,\nwhile, according to those elucidations, a less degree of suffering ought\nevidently to be more favorable to those causes to which the source of the\nemotion is traced. Various matters may, no doubt, increase the pleasure\nof the emotion without occasioning it. Of this nature are the vividness\nand force of the ideas awakened in our imagination, the moral excellence\nof the suffering persons, the reference to himself of the person feeling\npity. I admit that the suffering of a weak soul, and the pain of a\nwicked character, do not procure us this enjoyment. But this is because\nthey do not excite our pity to the same degree as the hero who suffers,\nor the virtuous man who struggles. Thus we are constantly brought back\nto the first question: why is it precisely the degree of suffering that\ndetermines the degree of sympathetic pleasure which we take in an\nemotion? and one answer only is possible; it is because the attack made\non our sensibility is precisely the condition necessary to set in motion\nthat quality of mind of which the activity produces the pleasure we feel\nin sympathetic affections.\n\nNow this faculty is no other than the reason; and because the free\nexercise of reason, as an absolutely independent activity, deserves par\nexcellence the name of activity; as, moreover, the heart of man only\nfeels itself perfectly free and independent in its moral acts, it follows\nthat the charm of tragic emotions is really dependent on the fact that\nthis instinct of activity finds its gratification in them. But, even\nadmitting this, it is neither the great number nor the vivacity of the\nideas that are awakened then in our imagination, nor in general the\nexercise of the social faculty, but a certain kind of ideas and a certain\nactivity of the social faculty brought into play by reason, which is the\nfoundation of this pleasure.\n\nThus the sympathetic affections in general are for us a source of\npleasure because they give satisfaction to our instinct of activity, and\nthe sad affections produce this effect with more vividness because they\ngive more satisfaction to this instinct. The mind only reveals all its\nactivity when it is in full possession of its liberty, when it has a\nperfect consciousness of its rational nature, because it is only then\nthat it displays a force superior to all resistance.\n\nHence the state of mind which allows most effectually the manifestation\nof this force, and awakens most successfully its activity, is that state\nwhich is most suitable to a rational being, and which best satisfies our\ninstincts of activity: whence it follows that a greater amount of\npleasure must be attached necessarily to this state. Now it is the\ntragic states that place our soul in this state, and the pleasure found\nin them is necessarily higher than the charm produced by gay affections,\nin the same degree that moral power in us is superior to the power of the\nsenses.\n\nPoints that are only subordinate and partial in a system of final causes\nmay be considered by art independently of that relation with the rest,\nand may be converted into principal objects. It is right that in the\ndesigns of nature pleasure should only be a mediate end, or a means; but\nfor art it is the highest end. It is therefore essentially important for\nart not to neglect this high enjoyment attaching to the tragic emotion.\nNow, tragic art, taking this term in its widest acceptation, is that\namong the fine arts which proposes as its principal object the pleasure\nof pity.\n\nArt attains its end by the imitation of nature, by satisfying the\nconditions which make pleasure possible in reality, and by combining,\naccording to a plan traced by the intelligence, the scattered elements\nfurnished by nature, so as to attain as a principal end to that which,\nfor nature, was only an accessory end. Thus tragic art ought to imitate\nnature in those kinds of actions that are specially adapted to awaken\npity.\n\nIt follows that, in order to determine generally the system to be\nfollowed by tragic art, it is necessary before all things to know on what\nconditions in real life the pleasure of the emotion is commonly produced\nin the surest and the strongest manner; but it is necessary at the same\ntime to pay attention to the circumstances that restrict or absolutely\nextinguish this pleasure.\n\nAfter what we have established in our essay \"On the Cause of the Pleasure\nwe derive from Tragic Objects,\" it is known that in every tragic emotion\nthere is an idea of incongruity, which, though the emotion may be\nattended with charm, must always lead on to the conception of a higher\nconsistency. Now it is the relation that these two opposite conceptions\nmutually bear which determines in an emotion if the prevailing impression\nshall be pleasurable or the reverse. If the conception of incongruity be\nmore vivid than that of the contrary, or if the end sacrificed is more\nimportant than the end gained, the prevailing impression will always be\ndispleasure, whether this be understood objectively of the human race in\ngeneral, or only subjectively of certain individuals.\n\nIf the cause that has produced a misfortune gives us too much\ndispleasure, our compassion for the victim is diminished thereby. The\nheart cannot feel simultaneously, in a high degree, two absolutely\ncontrary affections. Indignation against the person who is the primary\ncause of the suffering becomes the prevailing affection, and all other\nfeeling has to yield to it. Thus our interest is always enfeebled when\nthe unhappy man whom it would be desirable to pity had cast himself into\nruin by a personal and an inexcusable fault; or if, being able to save\nhimself, he did not do so, either through feebleness of mind or\npusillanimity. The interest we take in unhappy King Lear, ill-treated by\ntwo ungrateful daughters, is sensibly lessened by the circumstance that\nthis aged man, in his second childhood, so weakly gave up his crown, and\ndivided his love among his daughters with so little discernment. In the\ntragedy of Kronegk, \"Olinda and Sophronia,\" the most terrible suffering\nto which we see these martyrs to their faith exposed only excites our\npity feebly, and all their heroism only stirs our admiration moderately,\nbecause madness alone can suggest the act by which Olinda has placed\nhimself and all his people on the brink of the precipice.\n\nOur pity is equally lessened when the primary cause of a misfortune,\nwhose innocent victim ought to inspire us with compassion, fills our mind\nwith horror. When the tragic poet cannot clear himself of his plot\nwithout introducing a wretch, and when he is reduced to derive the\ngreatness of suffering from the greatness of wickedness, the supreme\nbeauty of his work must always be seriously injured. Iago and Lady\nMacbeth in Shakspeare, Cleopatra in the tragedy of \"Rodogune,\" or Franz\nMoor in \"The Robbers,\" are so many proofs in support of this assertion.\nA poet who understands his real interest will not bring about the\ncatastrophe through a malicious will which proposes misfortune as its\nend; nor, and still less, by want of understanding: but rather through\nthe imperious force of circumstances. If this catastrophe does not come\nfrom moral sources, but from outward things, which have no volition and\nare not subject to any will, the pity we experience is more pure, or at\nall events it is not weakened by any idea of moral incongruity. But then\nthe spectator cannot be spared the disagreeable feeling of an incongruity\nin the order of nature, which can alone save in such a case moral\npropriety. Pity is far more excited when it has for its object both him\nwho suffers and him who is the primary cause of the suffering. This can\nonly happen when the latter has neither elicited our contempt nor our\nhatred, but when he has been brought against his inclination to become\nthe cause of this misfortune. It is a singular beauty of the German play\nof \"Iphigenia\" that the King of Tauris, the only obstacle who thwarts the\nwishes of Orestes and of his sister, never loses our esteem, and that we\nlove him to the end.\n\nThere is something superior even to this kind of emotion; this is the\ncase when the cause of the misfortune not only is in no way repugnant to\nmorality, but only becomes possible through morality, and when the\nreciprocal suffering comes simply from the idea that a fellow-creature\nhas been made to suffer. This is the situation of Chimene and Rodrigue\nin \"The Cid\" of Pierre Corneille, which is undeniably in point of\nintrigue the masterpiece of the tragic stage. Honor and filial love arm\nthe hand of Rodrigue against the father of her whom he loves, and his\nvalor gives him the victory. Honor and filial love rouse up against him,\nin the person of Chimene, the daughter of his victim, an accuser and a\nformidable persecutor. Both act in opposition to their inclination, and\nthey tremble with anguish at the thought of the misfortune of the object\nagainst which they arm themselves, in proportion as zeal inspires them\nfor their duty to inflict this misfortune. Accordingly both conciliate\nour esteem in the highest sense, as they accomplish a moral duty at the\ncost of inclination; both inflame our pity in the highest degree, because\nthey suffer spontaneously for a motive that renders them in the highest\ndegree to be respected. It results from this that our pity is in this\ncase so little modified by any opposite feeling that it burns rather with\na double flame; only the impossibility of reconciling the idea of\nmisfortune with the idea of a morality so deserving of happiness might\nstill disturb our sympathetic pleasure, and spread a shade of sadness\nover it. It is besides a great point, no doubt, that the discontent\ngiven us by this contradiction does not bear upon our moral being, but is\nturned aside to a harmless place, to necessity only; but this blind\nsubjection to destiny is always afflicting and humiliating for free\nbeings, who determine themselves. This is the cause that always leaves\nsomething to be wished for even in the best Greek pieces. In all these\npieces, at the bottom of the plot it is always fatality that is appealed\nto, and in this there is a knot that cannot be unravelled by our reason,\nwhich wishes to solve everything.\n\nBut even this knot is untied, and with it vanishes every shade of\ndispleasure, at the highest and last step to which man perfected by\nmorality rises, and at the highest point which is attained by the art\nwhich moves the feelings. This happens when the very discontent with\ndestiny becomes effaced, and is resolved in a presentiment or rather a\nclear consciousness of a teleological concatenation of things, of a\nsublime order, of a beneficent will. Then, to the pleasure occasioned in\nus by moral consistency is joined the invigorating idea of the most\nperfect suitability in the great whole of nature. In this case the thing\nthat seemed to militate against this order, and that caused us pain, in a\nparticular case, is only a spur that stimulates our reason to seek in\ngeneral laws for the justification of this particular case, and to solve\nthe problem of this separate discord in the centre of the general\nharmony. Greek art never rose to this supreme serenity of tragic\nemotion, because neither the national religion, nor even the philosophy\nof the Greeks, lighted their step on this advanced road. It was reserved\nfor modern art, which enjoys the privilege of finding a purer matter in a\npurer philosophy, to satisfy also this exalted want, and thus to display\nall the moral dignity of art.\n\nIf we moderns must resign ourselves never to reproduce Greek art because\nthe philosophic genius of our age, and modern civilization in general are\nnot favorable to poetry, these influences are at all events less hurtful\nto tragic art, which is based rather on the moral element. Perhaps it is\nin the case of this art only that our civilization repairs the injury\nthat it has caused to art in general.\n\nIn the same manner as the tragic emotion is weakened by the admixture of\nconflicting ideas and feelings, and the charm attaching to it is thus\ndiminished, so this emotion can also, on the contrary, by approaching the\nexcess of direct and personal affection, become exaggerated to the point\nwhere pain carries the day over pleasure. It has been remarked that\ndispleasure, in the affections, comes from the relation of their object\nwith our senses, in the same way as the pleasure felt in them comes from\nthe relation of the affection itself to our moral faculty. This implies,\nthen, between our senses and our moral faculty a determined relation,\nwhich decides as regards the relation between pleasure and displeasure in\ntragic emotions. Nor could this relation be modified or overthrown\nwithout overthrowing at the same time the feelings of pleasure and\ndispleasure which we find in the emotions, or even without changing them\ninto their opposites. In the same ratio that the senses are vividly\nroused in us, the influence of morality will be proportionately\ndiminished; and reciprocally, as the sensuous loses, morality gains\nground. Therefore that which in our hearts gives a preponderance to the\nsensuous faculty, must of necessity, by placing restrictions on the moral\nfaculty, diminish the pleasure that we take in tragic emotions, a\npleasure which emanates exclusively from this moral faculty. In\nlike manner, all that in our heart impresses an impetus on this\nlatter faculty, must blunt the stimulus of pain even in direct and\npersonal affections. Now our sensuous nature actually acquires this\npreponderance, when the ideas of suffering rise to a degree of vividness\nthat no longer allows us to distinguish a sympathetic affection from\na personal affection, or our own proper Ego from the subject that\nsuffers,--reality, in short, from poetry. The sensuous also gains the\nupper hand when it finds an aliment in the great number of its objects,\nand in that dazzling light which an over-excited imagination diffuses\nover it. On the contrary, nothing is more fit to reduce the sensuous to\nits proper bounds than to place alongside it super-sensuous ideas, moral\nideas, to which reason, oppressed just before, clings as to a kind of\nspiritual props, to right and raise itself above the fogs of the sensuous\nto a serener atmosphere. Hence the great charm which general truths or\nmoral sentences, scattered opportunely over dramatic dialogue, have for\nall cultivated nations, and the almost excessive use that the Greeks made\nof them. Nothing is more agreeable to a moral soul than to have the\npower, after a purely passive state that has lasted too long, of escaping\nfrom the subjection of the senses, and of being recalled to its\nspontaneous activity, and restored to the possession of its liberty.\n\nThese are the remarks I had to make respecting the causes that restrict\nour pity and place an obstacle to our pleasure in tragic emotions. I\nhave next to show on what conditions pity is solicited and the pleasure\nof the emotion excited in the most infallible and energetic manner.\n\nEvery feeling of pity implies the idea of suffering, and the degree of\npity is regulated according to the degree more or less of vividness, of\ntruth, of intensity, and of duration of this idea.\n\n1st. The moral faculty is provoked to reaction in proportion to the\nvividness of ideas in the soul, which incites it to activity and solicits\nits sensuous faculty. Now the ideas of suffering are conceived in two\ndifferent manners, which are not equally favorable to the vividness of\nthe impression. The sufferings that we witness affect us incomparably\nmore than those that we have through a description or a narrative. The\nformer suspend in us the free play of the fancy, and striking our senses\nimmediately penetrate by the shortest road to our heart. In the\nnarrative, on the contrary, the particular is first raised to the\ngeneral, and it is from this that the knowledge of the special case is\nafterwards derived; accordingly, merely by this necessary operation of\nthe understanding, the impression already loses greatly in strength. Now\na weak impression cannot take complete possession of our mind, and it\nwill allow other ideas to disturb its action and to dissipate the\nattention. Very frequently, moreover, the narrative account transports\nus from the moral disposition, in which the acting person is placed, to\nthe state of mind of the narrator himself, which breaks up the illusion\nso necessary for pity. In every case, when the narrator in person puts\nhimself forward, a certain stoppage takes place in the action, and, as an\nunavoidable result, in our sympathetic affection. This is what happens\neven when the dramatic poet forgets himself in the dialogue, and puts in\nthe mouth of his dramatic persons reflections that could only enter the\nmind of a disinterested spectator. It would be difficult to mention a\nsingle one of our modern tragedies quite free from this defect; but the\nFrench alone have made a rule of it. Let us infer, then, that the\nimmediate vivid and sensuous presence of the object is necessary to give\nto the ideas impressed on us by suffering that strength without which the\nemotion could not rise to a high degree.\n\n2d. But we can receive the most vivid impressions of the idea of\nsuffering without, however, being led to a remarkable degree of pity, if\nthese impressions lack truth. It is, necessary that we should form of\nsuffering an idea of such a nature that we are obliged to share and take\npart in it. To this end there must be a certain agreement between this\nsuffering and something that we have already in us. In other words, pity\nis only possible inasmuch as we can prove or suppose a resemblance\nbetween ourselves and the subject that suffers. Everywhere where this\nresemblance makes itself known, pity is necessary; where this resemblance\nis lacking, pity is impossible. The more visible and the greater is the\nresemblance, the more vivid is our pity; and they mutually slacken in\ndependence on each other. In order that we may feel the affections of\nanother after him, all the internal conditions demanded by this affection\nmust be found beforehand in us, in order that the external cause which,\nby meeting with the internal conditions, has given birth to the\naffection, may also produce on us a like effect. It is necessary that,\nwithout doing violence to ourselves, we should be able to exchange\npersons with another, and transport our Ego by an instantaneous\nsubstitution in the state of the subject. Now, how is it possible to\nfeel in us the state of another, if we have not beforehand recognized\nourselves in this other.\n\nThis resemblance bears on the totality of the constitution of the mind,\nin as far as that is necessary and universal. Now, this character of\nnecessity and of universality belongs especially to our moral nature.\nThe faculty of feeling can be determined differently by accidental\ncauses: our cognitive faculties themselves depend on variable conditions:\nthe moral faculty only has its principle in itself, and by that very fact\nit can best give us a general measure and a certain criterion of this\nresemblance. Thus an idea which we find in accord with our mode of\nthinking and of feeling, which offers at once a certain relationship with\nthe train of our own ideas, which is easily grasped by our heart and our\nmind, we call a true idea. If this relationship bears on what is\npeculiar to our heart, on the private determinations that modify in us\nthe common fundamentals of humanity, and which may be withdrawn without\naltering this general character, this idea is then simply true for us.\nIf it bears on the general and necessary form that we suppose in the\nwhole species, the truth of this idea ought to be held to be equal to\nobjective truth. For the Roman, the sentence of the first Brutus and the\nsuicide of Cato are of subjective truth. The ideas and the feelings that\nhave inspired the actions of these two men are not an immediate\nconsequence of human nature in general, but the mediate consequence of a\nhuman nature determined by particular modifications. To share with them\nthese feelings we must have a Roman soul, or at least be capable of\nassuming for a moment a Roman soul. It suffices, on the other hand, to\nbe a man in general, to be vividly touched by the heroic sacrifice of\nLeonidas, by the quiet resignation of Aristides, by the voluntary death\nof Socrates, and to be moved to tears by the terrible changes in the\nfortunes of Darius. We attribute to these kinds of ideas, in opposition\nto the preceding ones, an objective truth because they agree with the\nnature of all human subjects, which gives them a character of\nuniversality and of necessity as strict as if they were independent of\nevery subjective condition.\n\nMoreover, although the subjectively true description is based on\naccidental determinations, this is no reason for confounding it with an\narbitrary description. After all, the subjectively true emanates also\nfrom the general constitution of the human soul, modified only in\nparticular directions by special circumstances; and the two kinds of\ntruth are equally necessary conditions of the human mind. If the\nresolution of Cato were in contradiction with the general laws of human\nnature, it could not be true, even subjectively. The only difference is\nthat the ideas of the second kind are enclosed in a narrower sphere of\naction; because they imply, besides the general modes of the human mind,\nother special determinations. Tragedy can make use of it with a very\nintense effect, if it will renounce the extensive effect; still the\nunconditionally true, what is purely human in human relations, will be\nalways the richest matter for the tragic poet, because this ground is the\nonly one on which tragedy, without ceasing to aspire to strength of\nexpression can be certain of the generality of this impression.\n\n3d. Besides the vividness and the truth of tragic pictures, there must\nalso be completeness. None of the external data that are necessary to\ngive to the soul the desired movement ought to be omitted in the\nrepresentation. In order that the spectator, however Roman his\nsentiments may be, may understand the moral state of Cato--that he may\nmake his own the high resolution of the republican, this resolution must\nhave its principle, not only in the mind of the Roman, but also in the\ncircumstances of the action. His external situation as well as his\ninternal situation must be before our eyes in all their consequences and\nextent: and we must, lastly, have unrolled before us, without omitting a\nsingle link, the whole chain of determinations to which are attached the\nhigh resolution of the Roman as a necessary consequence. It may be said\nin general that without this third condition, even the truth of a\npainting cannot be recognized; for the similarity of circumstances, which\nought to be fully evident, can alone justify our judgment on the\nsimilarity of the feelings, since it is only from the competition of\nexternal conditions and of internal conditions that the affective\nphenomenon results. To decide if we should have acted like Cato, we must\nbefore all things transport ourselves in thought to the external\nsituation in which Cato was placed, and then only we are entitled to\nplace our feelings alongside his, to pronounce if there is or is not\nlikeness, and to give a verdict on the truth of these feelings.\n\nA complete picture, as I understand it, is only possible by the\nconcatenation of several separate ideas, and of several separate\nfeelings, which are connected together as cause and effect, and which, in\ntheir sum total, form one single whole for our cognitive faculty. All\nthese ideas, in order to affect us closely, must make an immediate\nimpression on our senses; and, as the narrative form always weakens this\nimpression, they must be produced by a present action. Thus, in order\nthat a tragic picture may be complete, a whole series is required of\nparticular actions, rendered sensuous and connected with the tragic\naction as to one whole.\n\n4th. It is necessary, lastly, that the ideas we receive of suffering\nshould act on us in a durable manner, to excite in us a high degree of\nemotion. The affection created in us by the suffering of another is to\nus a constrained state, from which we hasten to get free; and the\nillusion so necessary for pity easily disappears in this case. It is,\ntherefore, a necessity to fasten the mind closely to these ideas, and not\nto leave it the freedom to get rid too soon of the illusion. The\nvividness of sudden ideas and the energy of sudden impressions, which in\nrapid succession affect our senses, would not suffice for this end. For\nthe power of reaction in the mind is manifested in direct proportion to\nthe force with which the receptive faculty is solicited, and it is\nmanifested to triumph over this impression. Now, the poet who wishes to\nmove us ought not to weaken this independent power in us, for it is\nexactly in the struggle between it and the suffering of our sensuous\nnature that the higher charm of tragic emotions lies. In order that the\nheart, in spite of that spontaneous force which reacts against sensuous\naffections, may remain attached to the impressions of sufferings, it is,\ntherefore, necessary that these impressions should be cleverly suspended\nat intervals, or even interrupted and intercepted by contrary\nimpressions, to return again with twofold energy and renew more\nfrequently the vividness of the first impression. Against the exhaustion\nand languor that result from habit, the most effectual remedy is to\npropose new objects to the senses; this variety retempers them, and the\ngradation of impressions calls forth the innate faculty, and makes it\nemploy a proportionately stronger resistance. This faculty ought to be\nincessantly occupied in maintaining its independence against the attacks\nof the senses, but it must not triumph before the end, still less must it\nsuccumb in the struggle. Otherwise, in the former case, suffering, and,\nin the latter, moral activity is set aside; while it is the union of\nthese two that can alone elicit emotion. The great secret of the tragic\nart consists precisely in managing this struggle well; it is in this that\nit shows itself in the most brilliant light.\n\nFor this, a succession of alternate ideas is required: therefore a\nsuitable combination is wanted of several particular actions\ncorresponding with these different ideas; actions round which the\nprincipal action and the tragic impression which it is wished to produce\nthrough it unroll themselves like the yarn from the distaff, and end by\nenlacing our souls in nets, through which they cannot break. Let me be\npermitted to make use of a simile, by saying that the artist ought to\nbegin by gathering up with parsimonious care all the separate rays that\nissue from the object by aid of which he seeks to produce the tragic\neffect that he has in view, and these rays, in his hands, become a\nlightning flash, setting the hearts of all on fire. The tyro casts\nsuddenly and vainly all the thunderbolts of horror and fear into the\nsoul; the artist, on the contrary, advances step by step to his end; he\nonly strikes with measured strokes, but he penetrates to the depth of our\nsoul, precisely because he has only stirred it by degrees.\n\nIf we now form the proper deductions from the previous investigation, the\nfollowing will be the conditions that form bases of the tragic art. It\nis necessary, in the first place, that the object of our pity should\nbelong to our own species--I mean belong in the full sense of the term\nand that the action in which it is sought to interest us be a moral\naction; that is, an action comprehended in the field of free-will. It is\nnecessary, in the second place, that suffering, its sources, its degrees,\nshould be completely communicated by a series of events chained together.\nIt is necessary, in the third place, that the object of the passion be\nrendered present to our senses, not in a mediate way and by description,\nbut immediately and in action. In tragedy art unites all these\nconditions and satisfies them.\n\nAccording to these principles tragedy might be defined as the poetic\nimitation of a coherent series of particular events (forming a complete\naction): an imitation which shows us man in a state of suffering, and\nwhich has for its end to excite our pity.\n\nI say first that it is the imitation of an action; and this idea of\nimitation already distinguishes tragedy from the other kinds of poetry,\nwhich only narrate or describe. In tragedy particular events are\npresented to our imagination or to our senses at the very time of their\naccomplishment; they are present, we see them immediately, without the\nintervention of a third person. The epos, the romance, simple narrative,\neven in their form, withdraw action to a distance, causing the narrator\nto come between the acting person and the reader. Now what is distant\nand past always weakens, as we know, the impressions and the sympathetic\naffection; what is present makes them stronger. All narrative forms make\nof the present something past; all dramatic form makes of the past a\npresent.\n\nSecondly, I say that tragedy is the imitation of a succession of events,\nof an action. Tragedy has not only to represent by imitation the\nfeelings and the affections of tragic persons, but also the events that\nhave produced these feelings, and the occasion on which these affections\nare manifested. This distinguishes it from lyric poetry, and from its\ndifferent forms, which no doubt offer, like tragedy, the poetic imitation\nof certain states of the mind, but not the poetic imitation of certain\nactions. An elegy, a song, an ode, can place before our eyes, by\nimitation, the moral state in which the poet actually is--whether he\nspeaks in his own name, or in that of an ideal person--a state determined\nby particular circumstances; and up to this point these lyric forms seem\ncertainly to be incorporated in the idea of tragedy; but they do not\ncomplete that idea, because they are confined to representing our\nfeelings. There are still more essential differences, if the end of\nthese lyrical forms and that of tragedy are kept in view.\n\nI say, in the third place, that tragedy is the imitation of a complete\naction. A separate event, though it be ever so tragic, does not in\nitself constitute a tragedy. To do this, several events are required,\nbased one on the other, like cause and effect, and suitably connected so\nas to form a whole; without which the truth of the feeling represented,\nof the character, etc.--that is, their conformity with the nature of our\nmind, a conformity which alone determines our sympathy--will not be\nrecognized. If we do not feel that we ourselves in similar circumstances\nshould have experienced the same feelings and acted in the same way, our\npity would not be awakened. It is, therefore, important that we should\nbe able to follow in all its concatenation the action that is represented\nto us, that we should see it issue from the mind of the agent by a\nnatural gradation, under the influence and with the concurrence of\nexternal circumstances. It is thus that we see spring up, grow, and come\nto maturity under our eyes, the curiosity of Oedipus and the jealousy of\nIago. It is also the only way to fill up the great gap that exists\nbetween the joy of an innocent soul and the torments of a guilty\nconscience, between the proud serenity of the happy man and his terrible\ncatastrophe; in short, between the state of calm, in which the reader is\nat the beginning, and the violent agitation he ought to experience at the\nend.\n\nA series of several connected incidents is required to produce in our\nsouls a succession of different movements which arrest the attention,\nwhich, appealing to all the faculties of our minds, enliven our instinct\nof activity when it is exhausted, and which, by delaying the satisfaction\nof this instinct, do not kindle it the less. Against the suffering of\nsensuous nature the human heart has only recourse to its moral nature as\ncounterpoise. It is, therefore, necessary, in order to stimulate this in\na more pressing manner, for the tragic poet to prolong the torments of\nsense, but he must also give a glimpse to the latter of the satisfaction\nof its wants, so as to render the victory of the moral sense so much the\nmore difficult and glorious. This twofold end can only be attained by a\nsuccession of actions judiciously chosen and combined to this end.\n\nIn the fourth place, I say that tragedy is the poetic imitation of an\naction deserving of pity, and, therefore, tragic imitation is opposed to\nhistoric imitation. It would only be a historic imitation if it proposed\na historic end, if its principal object were to teach us that a thing has\ntaken place, and how it took place. On this hypothesis it ought to keep\nrigorously to historic accuracy, for it would only attain its end by\nrepresenting faithfully that which really took place. But tragedy has a\npoetic end, that is to say, it represents an action to move us, and to\ncharm our souls by the medium of this emotion. If, therefore, a matter\nbeing given, tragedy treats it conformably with this poetic end, which is\nproper to it, it becomes, by that very thing, free in its imitation. It\nis a right--nay, more, it is an obligation--for tragedy to subject\nhistoric truth to the laws of poetry; and to treat its matter in\nconformity with requirements of this art. But as it cannot attain its\nend, which is emotion, except on the condition of a perfect conformity\nwith the laws of nature, tragedy is, notwithstanding its freedom in\nregard to history, strictly subject to the laws of natural truth, which,\nin opposition to the truth of history, takes the name of poetic truth.\nIt may thus be understood how much poetic truth may lose, in many cases\nby a strict observance of historic truth, and, reciprocally, how much it\nmay gain by even a very serious alteration of truth according to history.\nAs the tragic poet, like poets in general, is only subject to the laws of\npoetic truth, the most conscientious observance of historic truth could\nnever dispense him from his duties as poet, and could never excuse in him\nany infraction of poetic truth or lack of interest. It is, therefore,\nbetraying very narrow ideas on tragic art, or rather on poetry in\ngeneral, to drag the tragic poet before the tribunal of history, and to\nrequire instruction of the man who by his very title is only bound to\nmove and charm you. Even supposing the poet, by a scrupulous submission\nto historic truth, had stripped himself of his privilege of artist, and\nthat he had tacitly acknowledged in history a jurisdiction over his work,\nart retains all her rights to summon him before its bar; and pieces such\nas \"The Death of Hermann,\" \"Minona,\" \"Fust of Stromberg,\" if they could\nnot stand the test on this side, would only be tragedies of mediocre\nvalue, notwithstanding all the minuteness of costume--of national\ncostume--and of the manners of the time.\n\nFifthly, tragedy is the imitation of an action that lets us see man\nsuffering. The word man is essential to mark the limits of tragedy.\nOnly the suffering of a being like ourselves can move our pity. Thus,\nevil genii, demons--or even men like them, without morals--and again pure\nspirits, without our weaknesses, are unfit for tragedy. The very idea of\nsuffering implies a man in the full sense of the term. A pure spirit\ncannot suffer, and a man approaching one will never awaken a high degree\nof sympathy. A purely sensuous being can indeed have terrible suffering;\nbut without moral sense it is a prey to it, and a suffering with reason\ninactive is a disgusting spectacle. The tragedian is right to prefer\nmixed characters, and to place the ideal of his hero half way between\nutter perversity and entire perfection.\n\nLastly, tragedy unites all these requisites to excite pity. Many means\nthe tragic poet takes might serve another object; but he frees himself\nfrom all requirements not relating to this end, and is thereby obliged to\ndirect himself with a view to this supreme object.\n\nThe final aim to which all the laws tend is called the end of any style\nof poetry. The means by which it attains this are its form. The end and\nform are, therefore, closely related. The form is determined by the end,\nand when the form is well observed the end is generally attained. Each\nkind of poetry having a special end must have a distinguishing form.\nWhat it exclusively produces it does in virtue of this special nature it\npossesses. The end of tragedy is emotion; its form is the imitation of\nan action that leads to suffering. Many kinds may have the same object\nas tragedy, of emotion, though it be not their principal end. Therefore,\nwhat distinguishes tragedy is the relation of its form to its end, the\nway in which it attains its end by means of its subject.\n\nIf the end of tragedy is to awaken sympathy, and its form is the means of\nattaining it, the imitation of an action fit to move must have all that\nfavors sympathy. Such is the form of tragedy.\n\nThe production of a kind of poetry is perfect when the form peculiar to\nits kind has been used in the best way. Thus, a perfect tragedy is that\nwhere the form is best used to awaken sympathy. Thus, the best tragedy\nis that where the pity excited results more from the treatment of the\npoet than the theme. Such is the ideal of a tragedy.\n\nA good number of tragedies, though fine as poems are bad as dramas,\nbecause they do not seek their end by the best use of tragic form.\nOthers, because they use the form to attain an end different from\ntragedy. Some very popular ones only touch us on account of the subject,\nand we are blind enough to make this a merit in the poet. There are\nothers in which we seem to have quite forgotten the object of the poet,\nand, contented with pretty plays of fancy and wit, we issue with our\nhearts cold from the theatre. Must art, so holy and venerable, defend\nits cause by such champions before such judges? The indulgence of the\npublic only emboldens mediocrity: it causes genius to blush, and\ndiscourages it.\n\n\n\n\nOF THE CAUSE OF THE PLEASURE WE DERIVE FROM TRAGIC OBJECTS.\n\n\nWhatever pains some modern aesthetics give themselves to establish,\ncontrary to general belief, that the arts of imagination and of feeling\nhave not pleasure for their object, and to defend them against this\ndegrading accusation, this belief will not cease: it reposes upon a solid\nfoundation, and the fine arts would renounce with a bad grace the\nbeneficent mission which has in all times been assigned to them, to\naccept the new employment to which it is generously proposed to raise\nthem. Without troubling themselves whether they lower themselves in\nproposing our pleasure as object, they become rather proud of the\nadvantages of reaching immediately an aim never attained except mediately\nin other routes followed by the activity of the human mind. That the aim\nof nature, with relation to man, is the happiness of man,--although he\nought of himself, in his moral conduct, to take no notice of this aim,--\nis what, I think, cannot be doubted in general by any one who admits that\nnature has an aim. Thus the fine arts have the same aim as nature, or\nrather as the Author of nature, namely, to spread pleasure and render\npeople happy. It procures for us in play what at other more austere\nsources of good to man we extract only with difficulty. It lavishes as a\npure gift that which elsewhere is the price of many hard efforts. With\nwhat labor, what application, do we not pay for the pleasures of the\nunderstanding; with what painful sacrifices the approbation of reason;\nwith what hard privations the joys of sense! And if we abuse these\npleasures, with what a succession of evils do we expiate excess! Art\nalone supplies an enjoyment which requires no appreciable effort, which\ncosts no sacrifice, and which we need not repay with repentance. But who\ncould class the merit of charming in this manner with the poor merit of\namusing? who would venture to deny the former of these two aims of the\nfine arts solely because they have a tendency higher than the latter.\n\nThe praiseworthy object of pursuing everywhere moral good as the supreme\naim, which has already brought forth in art so much mediocrity, has\ncaused also in theory a similar prejudice. To assign to the fine arts a\nreally elevated position, to conciliate for them the favor of the State,\nthe veneration of all men, they are pushed beyond their due domain, and a\nvocation is imposed upon them contrary to their nature. It is supposed\nthat a great service is awarded to them by substituting for a frivolous\naim--that of charming--a moral aim; and their influence upon morality,\nwhich is so apparent, necessarily militates against this pretension. It\nis found illogical that the art which contributes in so great a measure\nto the development of all that is most elevated in man, should produce\nbut accessorily this effect, and make its chief object an aim so vulgar\nas we imagine pleasure to be. But this apparent contradiction it would\nbe very easy to conciliate if we had a good theory of pleasure, and a\ncomplete system of aesthetic philosophy.\n\nIt would result from this theory that a free pleasure, as that which the\nfine arts procure for us, rests wholly upon moral conditions, and all the\nmoral faculties of man are exercised in it. It would further result that\nthis pleasure is an aim which can never be attained but by moral means,\nand consequently that art, to tend and perfectly attain to pleasure, as\nto a real aim, must follow the road of healthy morals. Thus it is\nperfectly indifferent for the dignity of art whether its aim should be a\nmoral aim, or whether it should reach only through moral means; for in\nboth cases it has always to do with the morality, and must be rigorously\nin unison with the sentiment of duty; but for the perfection of art, it\nis by no means indifferent which of the two should be the aim and which\nthe means. If it is the aim that is moral, art loses all that by which\nit is powerful,--I mean its freedom, and that which gives it so much\ninfluence over us--the charm of pleasure. The play which recreates is\nchanged into serious occupation, and yet it is precisely in recreating us\nthat art can the better complete the great affair--the moral work. It\ncannot have a salutary influence upon the morals but in exercising its\nhighest aesthetic action, and it can only produce the aesthetic effect in\nits highest degree in fully exercising its liberty.\n\nIt is certain, besides, that all pleasure, the moment it flows from a\nmoral source, renders man morally better, and then the effect in its turn\nbecomes cause. The pleasure we find in what is beautiful, or touching,\nor sublime, strengthens our moral sentiments, as the pleasure we find in\nkindness, in love, etc., strengthens these inclinations. And just as\ncontentment of the mind is the sure lot of the morally excellent man, so\nmoral excellence willingly accompanies satisfaction of heart. Thus the\nmoral efficacy of art is, not only because it employs moral means in\norder to charm us, but also because even the pleasure which it procures\nus is a means of morality.\n\nThere are as many means by which art can attain its aim as there are in\ngeneral sources from which a free pleasure for the mind can flow. I call\na free pleasure that which brings into play the spiritual forces--reason\nand imagination--and which awakens in us a sentiment by the\nrepresentation of an idea, in contradistinction to physical or sensuous\npleasure, which places our soul under the dependence of the blind forces\nof nature, and where sensation is immediately awakened in us by a\nphysical cause. Sensual pleasure is the only one excluded from the\ndomain of the fine arts; and the talent of exciting this kind of pleasure\ncould never raise itself to the dignity of an art, except in the case\nwhere the sensual impressions are ordered, reinforced or moderated, after\na plan which is the production of art, and which is recognized by\nrepresentation. But, in this case even, that alone here can merit the\nname of art which is the object of a free pleasure--I mean good taste in\nthe regulation, which pleases our understanding, and not physical charms\nthemselves, which alone flatter our sensibility.\n\nThe general source of all pleasure, even of sensual pleasure, is\npropriety, the conformity with the aim. Pleasure is sensual when this\npropriety is manifested by means of some necessary law of nature which\nhas for physical result the sensation of pleasure. Thus the movement of\nthe blood, and of the animal life, when in conformity with the aim of\nnature, produces in certain organs, or in the entire organism, corporeal\npleasure with all its varieties and all its modes. We feel this\nconformity by the means of agreeable sensation, but we arrive at no\nrepresentation of it, either clear or confused.\n\nPleasure is free when we represent to ourselves the conformability, and\nwhen the sensation that accompanies this representation is agreeable.\nThus all the representations by which we have notice that there is\npropriety and harmony between the end and the means, are for us the\nsources of free pleasure, and consequently can be employed to this end by\nthe fine arts. Thus, all the representations can be placed under one of\nthese heads: the good, the true, the perfect, the beautiful, the\ntouching, the sublime. The good especially occupies our reason; the true\nand perfect, our intelligence; the beautiful interests both the\nintelligence and the imagination; the touching and the sublime, the\nreason and the imagination. It is true that we also take pleasure in the\ncharm (Reiz) or the power called out by action from play, but art uses\ncharm only to accompany the higher enjoyments which the idea of propriety\ngives to us. Considered in itself the charm or attraction is lost amid\nthe sensations of life, and art disdains it together with all merely\nsensual pleasures.\n\nWe could not establish a classification of the fine arts only upon the\ndifference of the sources from which each of them draws the pleasure\nwhich it affords us; for in the same class of the fine arts many sorts of\npleasures may enter, and often all together. But in as far as a certain\nsort of pleasure is pursued as a principal aim, we can make of it, if not\na specific character of a class properly so called, at least the\nprinciple and the tendency of a class in the works of art. Thus, for\nexample, we could take the arts which, above all, satisfy the\nintelligence and imagination--consequently those which have as chief\nobject the true, the perfect, and the beautiful--and unite them under the\nname of fine arts (arts of taste, arts of intelligence); those, on the\nother hand, which especially occupy the imagination and the reason, and\nwhich, in consequence, have for principal object the good, the sublime,\nand the touching, could be limited in a particular class under the\ndenomination of touching arts (arts of sentiment, arts of the heart).\nWithout doubt it is impossible to separate absolutely the touching from\nthe beautiful, but the beautiful can perfectly subsist without the\ntouching. Thus, although we are not authorized to base upon this\ndifference of principle a rigorous classification of the liberal arts, it\ncan at least serve to determine with more of precision the criterion, and\nprevent the confusion in which we are inevitably involved, when, drawing\nup laws of aesthetic things, we confound two absolutely different\ndomains, as that of the touching and that of the beautiful.\n\nThe touching and the sublime resemble in this point, that both one and\nthe other produce a pleasure by a feeling at first of displeasure, and\nthat consequently (pleasure proceeding from suitability, and displeasure\nfrom the contrary) they give us a feeling of suitability which\npresupposes an unsuitability.\n\nThe feeling of the sublime is composed in part of the feeling of our\nfeebleness, of our impotence to embrace an object; and, on the other\nside, of the feeling of our moral power--of this superior faculty which\nfears no obstacle, no limit, and which subdues spiritually that even to\nwhich our physical forces give way. The object of the sublime thwarts,\nthen, our physical power; and this contrariety (impropriety) must\nnecessarily excite a displeasure in us. But it is, at the same time, an\noccasion to recall to our conscience another faculty which is in us--a\nfaculty which is even superior to the objects before which our\nimagination yields. In consequence, a sublime object, precisely because\nit thwarts the senses, is suitable with relation to reason, and it gives\nto us a joy by means of a higher faculty, at the same time that it wounds\nus in an inferior one.\n\nThe touching, in its proper sense, designates this mixed sensation, into\nwhich enters at the same time suffering and the pleasure that we find in\nsuffering. Thus we can only feel this kind of emotion in the case of a\npersonal misfortune, only when the grief that we feel is sufficiently\ntempered to leave some place for that impression of pleasure that would\nbe felt by a compassionate spectator. The loss of a great good\nprostrates for the time, and the remembrance itself of the grief will\nmake us experience emotion after a year. The feeble man is always the\nprey of his grief; the hero and the sage, whatever the misfortune that\nstrikes them, never experience more than emotion.\n\nEmotion, like the sentiment of the sublime, is composed of two\naffections--grief and pleasure. There is, then, at the bottom a\npropriety, here as well as there, and under this propriety a\ncontradiction. Thus it seems that it is a contradiction in nature that\nman, who is not born to suffer, is nevertheless a prey to suffering, and\nthis contradiction hurts us. But the evil which this contradiction does\nus is a propriety with regard to our reasonable nature in general,\ninsomuch as this evil solicits us to act: it is a propriety also with\nregard to human society; consequently, even displeasure, which excites in\nus this contradiction, ought necessarily to make us experience a\nsentiment of pleasure, because this displeasure is a propriety. To\ndetermine in an emotion if it is pleasure or displeasure which triumphs,\nwe must ask ourselves if it is the idea of impropriety or that of\npropriety which affects us the more deeply. That can depend either on\nthe number of the aims reached or abortive, or on their connection with\nthe final aim of all.\n\nThe suffering of the virtuous man moves us more painfully than that of\nthe perverse man, because in the first case there is contradiction not\nonly to the general destiny of man, which is happiness, but also to this\nother particular principle, viz., that virtue renders happy; whilst in\nthe second case there is contradiction only with regard to the end of man\nin general. Reciprocally, the happiness of the wicked also offends us\nmuch more than the misfortune of the good man, because we find in it a\ndouble contradiction: in the first place vice itself, and, in the second\nplace, the recompense of vice.\n\nThere is also this other consideration, that virtue is much more able to\nrecompense itself than vice, when it triumphs, is to punish itself; and\nit is precisely for this that the virtuous man in misfortune would much\nmore remain faithful to the cultus of virtue than the perverse man would\ndream of converting himself in prosperity.\n\nBut what is above all important in determining in the emotions the\nrelation of pleasure and displeasure, is to compare the two ends--that\nwhich has been fulfilled and that which has been ignored--and to see\nwhich is the most considerable. There is no propriety which touches us\nso nearly as moral propriety, and no superior pleasure to that which we\nfeel from it. Physical propriety could well be a problem, and a problem\nforever unsolvable. Moral propriety is already demonstrated. It alone\nis founded upon our reasonable nature and upon internal necessity. It is\nour nearest interest, the most considerable, and, at the same time, the\nmost easily recognized, because it is not determined by any external\nelement but by an internal principle of our reason: it is the palladium\nof our liberty.\n\nThis moral propriety is never more vividly recognized than when it is\nfound in conflict with another propriety, and still keeps the upper hand;\nthen only the moral law awakens in full power, when we find it struggling\nagainst all the other forces of nature, and when all those forces lose in\nits presence their empire over a human soul. By these words, \"the other\nforces of nature,\" we must understand all that is not moral force, all\nthat is not subject to the supreme legislation of reason: that is to say,\nfeelings, affections, instincts, passions, as well as physical necessity\nand destiny. The more redoubtable the adversary, the more glorious the\nvictory; resistance alone brings out the strength of the force and\nrenders it visible. It follows that the highest degree of moral\nconsciousness can only exist in strife, and the highest moral pleasure is\nalways accompanied by pain.\n\nConsequently, the kind of poetry which secures us a high degree of moral\npleasure, must employ mixed feelings, and please us through pain or\ndistress,--this is what tragedy does specially; and her realm embraces\nall that sacrifices a physical propriety to a moral one; or one moral\npropriety to a higher one. It might be possible, perhaps, to form a\nmeasure of moral pleasure, from the lowest to the highest degree, and to\ndetermine by this principle of propriety the degree of pain or pleasure\nexperienced. Different orders of tragedy might be classified on the same\nprinciple, so as to form a complete exhaustive tabulation of them. Thus,\na tragedy being given, its place could be fixed, and its genus\ndetermined. Of this subject more will be said separately in its proper\nplace.\n\nA few examples will show how far moral propriety commands physical\npropriety in our souls.\n\nTheron and Amanda are both tied to the stake as martyrs, and free to\nchoose life or death by the terrible ordeal of fire--they select the\nlatter. What is it which gives such pleasure to us in this scene? Their\nposition so conflicting with the smiling destiny they reject, the reward\nof misery given to virtue--all here awakens in us the feeling of\nimpropriety: it ought to fill us with great distress. What is nature,\nand what are her ends and laws, if all this impropriety shows us moral\npropriety in its full light. We here see the triumph of the moral law,\nso sublime an experience for us that we might even hail the calamity\nwhich elicits it. For harmony in the world of moral freedom gives us\ninfinitely more pleasure than all the discords in nature give us pain.\n\nWhen Coriolanus, obedient to duty as husband, son, and citizen, raises\nthe siege of Rome, them almost conquered, withdrawing his army, and\nsilencing his vengeance, he commits a very contradictory act evidently.\nHe loses all the fruit of previous victories, he runs spontaneously to\nhis ruin: yet what moral excellence and grandeur he offers! How noble to\nprefer any impropriety rather than wound moral sense; to violate natural\ninterests and prudence in order to be in harmony with the higher moral\nlaw! Every sacrifice of a life is a contradiction, for life is the\ncondition of all good; but in the light of morality the sacrifice of life\nis in a high degree proper, because life is not great in itself, but only\nas a means of accomplishing the moral law. If then the sacrifice of life\nbe the way to do this, life must go. \"It is not necessary for me to\nlive, but it is necessary for Rome to be saved from famine,\" said Pompey,\nwhen the Romans embarked for Africa, and his friends begged him to defer\nhis departure till the gale was over.\n\nBut the sufferings of a criminal are as charming to us tragically as\nthose of a virtuous man; yet here is the idea of moral impropriety. The\nantagonism of his conduct to moral law, and the moral imperfection which\nsuch conduct presupposes, ought to fill us with pain. Here there is no\nsatisfaction in the morality of his person, nothing to compensate for his\nmisconduct. Yet both supply a valuable object for art; this phenomenon\ncan easily be made to agree with what has been said.\n\nWe find pleasure not only in obedience to morality, but in the punishment\ngiven to its infraction. The pain resulting from moral imperfection\nagrees with its opposite, the satisfaction at conformity with the law.\nRepentance, even despair, have nobleness morally, and can only exist if\nan incorruptible sense of justice exists at the bottom of the criminal\nheart, and if conscience maintains its ground against self-love.\nRepentance comes by comparing our acts with the moral law, hence in the\nmoment of repenting the moral law speaks loudly in man. Its power must\nbe greater than the gain resulting from the crime as the infraction\npoisons the enjoyment. Now, a state of mind where duty is sovereign is\nmorally proper, and therefore a source of moral pleasure. What, then,\nsublimer than the heroic despair that tramples even life underfoot,\nbecause it cannot bear the judgment within? A good man sacrificing his\nlife to conform to the moral law, or a criminal taking his own life\nbecause of the morality he has violated: in both cases our respect for\nthe moral law is raised to the highest power. If there be any advantage\nit is in the case of the latter; for the good man may have been\nencouraged in his sacrifice by an approving conscience, thus detracting\nfrom his merit. Repentance and regret at past crimes show us some of the\nsublimest pictures of morality in active condition. A man who violates\nmorality comes back to the moral law by repentance.\n\nBut moral pleasure is sometimes obtained only at the cost of moral pain.\nThus one duty may clash with another. Let us suppose Coriolanus encamped\nwith a Roman army before Antium or Corioli, and his mother a Volscian; if\nher prayers move him to desist, we now no longer admire him. His\nobedience to his mother would be at strife with a higher duty, that of a\ncitizen. The governor to whom the alternative is proposed, either of\ngiving up the town or of seeing his son stabbed, decides at once on the\nlatter, his duty as father being beneath that of citizen. At first our\nheart revolts at this conduct in a father, but we soon pass to admiration\nthat moral instinct, even combined with inclination, could not lead\nreason astray in the empire where it commands. When Timoleon of Corinth\nputs to death his beloved but ambitious brother, Timophanes, he does it\nbecause his idea of duty to his country bids him to do so. The act here\ninspires horror and repulsion as against nature and the moral sense, but\nthis feeling is soon succeeded by the highest admiration for his heroic\nvirtue, pronouncing, in a tumultuous conflict of emotions, freely and\ncalmly, with perfect rectitude. If we differ with Timoleon about his\nduty as a republican, this does not change our view. Nay, in those\ncases, where our understanding judges differently, we see all the more\nclearly how high we put moral propriety above all other.\n\nBut the judgments of men on this moral phenomenon are exceedingly\nvarious, and the reason of it is clear. Moral sense is common to all\nmen, but differs in strength. To most men it suffices that an act be\npartially conformable with the moral law to make them obey it; and to\nmake them condemn an action it must glaringly violate the law. But to\ndetermine the relation of moral duties with the highest principle of\nmorals requires an enlightened intelligence and an emancipated reason.\nThus an action which to a few will be a supreme propriety, will seem to\nthe crowd a revolting impropriety, though both judge morally; and hence\nthe emotion felt at such actions is by no means uniform. To the mass the\nsublimest and highest is only exaggeration, because sublimity is\nperceived by reason, and all men have not the same share of it. A vulgar\nsoul is oppressed or overstretched by those sublime ideas, and the crowd\nsees dreadful disorder where a thinking mind sees the highest order.\n\nThis is enough about moral propriety as a principle of tragic emotion,\nand the pleasure it elicits. It must be added that there are cases where\nnatural propriety also seems to charm our mind even at the cost of\nmorality. Thus we are always pleased by the sequence of machinations of\na perverse man, though his means and end are immoral. Such a man deeply\ninterests us, and we tremble lest his plan fail, though we ought to wish\nit to do so. But this fact does not contradict what has been advanced\nabout moral propriety,--and the pleasure resulting from it.\n\nPropriety, the reference of means to an end, is to us, in all cases, a\nsource of pleasure; even disconnected with morality. We experience this\npleasure unmixed, so long as we do not think of any moral end which\ndisallows action before us. Animal instincts give us pleasure--as the\nindustry of bees--without reference to morals; and in like manner human\nactions are a pleasure to us when we consider in them only the relation\nof means to ends. But if a moral principle be added to these, and\nimpropriety be discovered, if the idea of moral agent comes in, a deep\nindignation succeeds our pleasure, which no intellectual propriety can\nremedy. We must not call to mind too vividly that Richard III., Iago,\nand Lovelace are men; otherwise our sympathy for them infallibly turns\ninto an opposite feeling. But, as daily experience teaches, we have the\npower to direct our attention to different sides of things; and pleasure,\nonly possible through this abstraction, invites us to exercise it, and to\nprolong its exercise.\n\nYet it is not rare for intelligent perversity to secure our favor by\nbeing the means of procuring us the pleasure of moral propriety. The\ntriumph of moral propriety will be great in proportion as the snares set\nby Lovelace for the virtue of Clarissa are formidable, and as the trials\nof an innocent victim by a cruel tyrant are severe. It is a pleasure to\nsee the craft of a seducer foiled by the omnipotence of the moral sense.\nOn the other hand, we reckon as a sort of merit the victory of a\nmalefactor over his moral sense, because it is the proof of a certain\nstrength of mind and intellectual propriety.\n\nYet this propriety in vice can never be the source of a perfect pleasure,\nexcept when it is humiliated by morality. In that case it is an\nessential part of our pleasure, because it brings moral sense into\nstronger relief. The last impression left on us by the author of\nClarissa is a proof of this. The intellectual propriety in the plan of\nLovelace is greatly surpassed by the rational propriety of Clarissa.\nThis allows us to feel in full the satisfaction caused by both.\n\nWhen the tragic poet has for object to awaken in us the feeling of moral\npropriety, and chooses his means skilfully for that end, he is sure to\ncharm doubly the connoisseur, by moral and by natural propriety. The\nfirst satisfies the heart, the second the mind. The crowd is impressed\nthrough the heart without knowing the cause of the magic impression.\nBut, on the other hand, there is a class of connoisseurs on whom that\nwhich affects the heart is entirely lost, and who can only be gained by\nthe appropriateness of the means; a strange contradiction resulting from\nover-refined taste, especially when moral culture remains behind\nintellectual. This class of connoisseurs seek only the intellectual\nside in touching and sublime themes. They appreciate this in the\njustest manner, but you must beware how you appeal to their heart! The\nover-culture of the age leads to this shoal, and nothing becomes the\ncultivated man so much as to escape by a happy victory this twofold and\npernicious influence. Of all other European nations, our neighbors, the\nFrench, lean most to this extreme, and we, as in all things, strain every\nnerve to imitate this model.","title":"Aesthetical Essays of Friedrich Schiller","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":145456}