Chapter III

THE BEAUTY OF ART, OR THE IDEAL

In our consideration of the beauty of art we will confine our attention to three fundamental points of view:

First, the Ideal in its essential import.

Secondly, the determination of the Ideal in a particular work of art.

Thirdly, the creative subjectivity of the artist.

A. THE IDEAL SIMPLY, OR AS SUCH

1. The most general conclusion which may be gathered from the examination we have already made in a merely formal way of the Ideal of art may be thus summarized. Truth, in its unravelment as external reality, is only fully in possession of a true and determinate existence, however much it may combine and retain in embracing unity a manifold content, in so far as every portion of the content thus unfolded permits this unity, which may be called either the animating soul or the unified totality, freely to appear. To take the human form once more under review as the most direct illustration of this, we have already remarked that it is a totality of organic members each of which is penetrated by the notion, differentiated thus in every particular organ by some particular mode of activity and the specific motion congenial to it. If we ask ourselves now in which particular organ the soul appears as such in its entirety we shall at once point to the eye. For in the eye the soul concentrates itself; it not merely uses the eye as its instrument, but is itself therein manifest. We have, however, already stated, when referring to the external covering of the human body, that in contrast with the bodies of animals, the heart of life pulses through and throughout it. And in much the same sense it can be asserted of art that it has to convert every point of the external appearance into the direct testimony of the human eye, which is the source of soul-life, and reveals Spirit. Take the famous adjuration of Plato to the stars in the lines:

When thou gazest forth at the stars, my star, Would that I were the heavens and thence on thee Could gaze forth out of a thousand eyes.

Conversely we may exclaim that art gives to her forms the dilation of a thousand-eyed Argus, through which the inward life of Spirit at every point breaks into view. And not merely is it the bodily form, the expression of countenance, the attitude and demeanour which thus avails; the same appearance is everywhere visible in actions and events, speech and voice-modulation, in short, under every condition of life through which it passes, and under which it is possible for soul to make itself recognized in its freedom and ideal infinity.

(a) And, in close connection with this inquiry into the interpenetration through all parts of the animating soul, we may justly ask ourselves, what precisely we understand under this conception of a soul which is throughout visible: or to restrict attention to definite limits we may inquire what are the specific characteristics of the soul whereof art reveals to us the truest manifestation. For in ordinary parlance one refers to the animating principle[271] peculiar to metals, stones, wild animals, to say nothing of that belonging to every kind of human character and its expressions. To natural objects, however, such as stones and plants, the expression "soul" in the complete acceptation of the term above mentioned is not strictly applicable. Such soul as purely natural objects possess is entirely finite, transitory, and rather a specific nature than a soul. The determinate individuality of such existences is consequently completely exposed in their finite existence; and, inasmuch as all that is present there is a positive limit of restriction, such appearance as there may be of a further claim to independence and freedom is only an appearance; ideal characteristics which may indeed be imported into them from without by means of art, but are not in the nature of the objects by themselves. In the same way the soul of sense-feeling, through which Nature manifests first the Life-principle only betrays a subjective individuality, which still remains shut within itself, unable to assert its reality in the further sense of a return upon itself in a consciousness which shall attach to it the form of infinity. Its content is, therefore, of a restricted nature, and its manifestation in part the unrest, power of motion, sexual impulse, anxiety or fear of the dependent life; and, in part, it is the mere expression of an inwardness capable of overcoming its finitude. The animating life of Spirit (mind) brings us first into contact with the free infinity capable within its own external and determinate existence of remaining constant to the inner principle of unity, and, in the act of expression, still reflected back upon its ideal substance. To Spirit consequently is it alone permitted to impress the hall-mark of its infinity and free self-recurrence on its external expression, even though by such expression it enters the realm of narrow boundaries. At the same time we may observe that Spirit, too, is only free and infinite in so far as it truly apprehends its universality, and deliberately posits for itself and accepts those ends which are adequate to its own notion. Consequently, in so far as it fails to grasp its own freedom it can only exist in a restricted content, a character that is stunted, a temperament at once crippled and superficial. In combination with nullity of this kind the manifestation of Spirit must perforce remain wholly formal. We shall only find here the abstract crust of self-conscious Spirit, whereof the content contradicts the infinity of its freedom. Only by virtue of a genuine and essentially substantive content through which the restricted and mutable particularity derives its essential self-subsistency—so that definite structure and intrinsic worth, determined limit and substantial content, are realized in one totality—is such existence thereby able, through the very mode of expression which confines it, to proclaim itself also in its universal substance of self-contained soul-life. It is, in short, the province of art to comprehend and enunciate determinate and rational existence in its truth, that is to say, in the form adequate to its substance, the truly explicit content. And, consequently, the truth of art cannot consist in a mere conformity such as that to which we restrict the so-called imitation of Nature; external form must express harmoniously an internal content which is in itself harmonious throughout, and consequently can express itself as such.

(b) Art then, by comparing what is otherwise stained and rent through the contingent elements of external existence with the harmony that is essential to its notional truth, rejects that in the world of appearance which it is unable to combine in such a unity, and for the first time through this purification reveals the Ideal. It is possible to regard such a result as the flattery of art, as we sometimes hear it said, for example, that portrait-painters flatter. But even the portrait-painter, a type of art in which the Ideal is less prominent than in many others, should at least flatter in this sense, that he is bound to treat with indifference all that is merely the external detail of form, texture, and colour, the mere adjuncts, that is to say, of physical life such as hairs, pores, scars, and other external accidents, in his undivided effort both to apprehend and deliver the subject selected in its universal character and permanent spiritual individuality. It is one thing to imitate a physiognomy in the general outlines of purely superficial repose apparent at any time; it is quite another to detect and delineate the particular features which reveal the fundamental soul-life or character of the sitter. As already remarked, the Ideal is only truly found when the external presentment is in itself a vehicle of the soul. It is one of our latest fashions to attempt, by means of those so-called "living pictures," an intentional and gratifying imitation of famous masterpieces. In these we find a fair reproduction of general accessories, such as grouping and draping; but, instead of the spiritual expression of the figures, have only too often to put up with faces absolutely commonplace. Such a defect mars the entire reproduction. The Madonnas of Raphael, on the contrary, in every detail of their countenance—whether it be cheeks, eyes, nose, or mouth—exhibit with harmonious consistency one supreme type of sacred joy, the pious, modest love of a devoted mother. We may affirm, if we will, that all women are capable of such emotion; but, at any rate, not every formal shape of feminine countenance is capable of expressing the depth of the same so consummately.

(c) This reference, then, of all points of external existence to their spiritual significance, so that the external appearance unveils in adequate measure the spirit thereof, is just what constitutes the nature of the Ideal. It is, however, a "carrying back" into inwardness, in which we do not find the universal thus carried back to its extremest limit to the form of abstract thought, that is to say, but is rather suffered to rest halfway at the point in which we find the purely external and the purely inward meet together harmoniously. The Ideal is consequently the reality selected out of the mass of chance particulars, in so far as the inner core in this external totality thus raised in opposition to universality is itself manifested as living individuality.[272] For the individual subjectivity, which not only carries in itself a substantive content, but permits the same to appear in its own external appearance, stands in this central position, that in it all that is substantially the content is not suffered in its universal aspect to appear as an abstraction of itself, but still remains enclosed within the sphere of individuality, and consequently appears associated with a determinate existence, which now for its part, freed from mere finitude and transitory condition, is gathered up in a free and harmonious expression of most intimate soul-life. Schiller, in his poem "The Ideal and Life," contrasts the reality and its pains and struggles with "the still shadowland of Beauty." Such a land of shadow is the Ideal. The spirits which rise up here have lost in death immediate existence, are released from the hunger of Nature, freed from the claims which fettered them in subjection to external forces and all the changes and confusions which are linked together with finite appearance. But however much the Ideal treads under foot the mere object of sense and natural form, it draws at the same time the very wealth of it to itself, for it is art that is able to assign the very limits to all that the external appearance required for its self-preservation within which the external thing may appear as the manifestation of spiritual freedom. For this reason it is the Ideal which alone among things envisaged to sense presents a free and self-contained content reposing on its own resources, in complete sensuous enjoyment and satisfaction with itself. The music of this rapture may be heard through every embodiment of the Ideal. However far the external form may be carried the soul of the Ideal is never wholly absorbed in it. And in truth such manifestation is only beautiful in so far as its beauty not merely permeates the whole, but is a subjective unity, by virtue of which the subject-matter of the Ideal must appear emergent from all the fracture of its former individual parts and their respective ends and energies, raised in the Ideal itself to a higher totality and self-subsistence.

(α) We may in this respect point to the blessed repose[273], this self-contentment in its own self-secure consummation, as the crown of the Ideal. The ideal form of art stands like some blissful god before us. For the blessed gods are ultimately above and beyond the grim earnest of actual necessity, anger, and interest in finite existence and purely finite ends; and this positive withdrawal involved in the negation of all isolated particularity give them the characteristics of cheerfulness and repose. In this sense we may interpret that phrase of Schiller: "Life is earnest, Art is cheerful." Pedants, no doubt, have often enough cracked a joke over it, inasmuch as poetry in general, and Schiller's in particular, is a serious matter; and in truth no ideal art is without such a quality; but for all that in this very earnestness the essential character of cheerfulness[274] remains. This force of individuality, this triumph of self-concentrated freedom, is that which we recognize in an exceptional degree in ancient works of art and the blithesome repose of their figures. And this is not merely the case when we face a satisfaction that involves no struggle, but even in an example where the subject is rent by some breach in the entire content of its existence. For when the heroes of tragedy are represented as subject to Fate we find that the demeanour they present, which may be summed up in the words, "It is so!" still remains a simple withdrawal into personality[275]. The subject thus depicted remains throughout true to himself. He surrenders that which is seized from him, but the aims he pursued are not simply taken away; he suffers them to lapse and consequently does not lose his initiative. The man who is the bondman of Destiny may lose his life, but not his freedom. This repose on the essential birthright of Spirit is that which is able to preserve and reveal the blithe atmosphere of repose in grief itself.

(β) In romantic art, it is true, the breach or dissonance of the subjective principle is carried further, inasmuch as in it the exposed contradictions are emphasized and their division can be preserved. Thus, to take an example, we find the art of painting, in its representation of the Passion, not unfrequently dallies round the expression of ribaldry visible in the hideous contortions and grimaces of tormenting common soldiers; and, in its attachment to such discordant emotions, especially when depicting what is criminal, shameless, or evil, permitting the glad serenity of the Ideal to pass away. Even when such disruption loses its force, we find frequently that ugliness, or, at least, the absence of real beauty, is set up in its place. In another school of the earlier Flemish art of painting the downright directness and truth of the representation, no less than the inextinguishable confidence of the faith to which it testifies, tend to assert, in despite of itself, a reconciliation in the feelings of all who behold it[276]. But such an unyielding result falls[277] short of the entire cheerfulness and satisfaction appropriate to the Ideal. However, it is possible also in romantic art, albeit here the representation of suffering and grief penetrates the soul and its emotions more deeply than is the case with antique art, that the delineation may reveal to us a spiritual intimacy, a delight in resignation, a blessedness in pain, a rapture in sorrow, nay, even a voluptuous ecstasy in martyrdom[278]. Not only in painting but in the profoundly religious music of Italian composers, we find this ecstasy and illumination of grief abundantly expressed. We may, as a summary definition in romantic art, call it "the smile through tears." The tears have their origin in affliction, the smile in blithesome serenity, and consequently this smile through weeping indicates, as it were, the point of self-repose in the midst of pain and suffering. It is hardly necessary to add that the smile indicated here is no mere sentimental emotion, no mere vanity of the subject treated or dabbling with beauty[279] over painful effects and insignificant traits of subjective feeling; rather (on its artistic side) it must appear as the firm delineation and freedom of beauty in defiance of all pain, in the spirit of what was said of Ximenes in the romances of the Cid, "how beautiful she was in tears." In contrast to this emotional abandonment in men is either ugly and repellent, or actually ridiculous. Children, for example, break into tears at the slightest provocation, and we can only laugh at them. The tears, however, in the eyes of a man of earnest and self-contained character, under stress of deep feeling, betray a very different type of emotion. Laughter and tears can, however, very readily fall apart as unrelated, and are, as such, falsely utilized as a vehicle of art in such abstraction; the laughter chorus in Weber's "Freischütz" may be cited as an example. Laughter, after all, is a kind of explosion, which it is impossible to exercise without restraint and preserve the Ideal. Another example of this laughter, which is nothing but laughter, occurs in a duet of Weber's "Oberon," throughout which we are in a continual state of anxiety for the prima donna's throat and lungs. How very differently the inextinguishable laughter of the gods affects us in Homer, a sound which breaks from the blessed repose of divinity, and rather expresses gladsome serenity than abstract and wanton abandonment. Just as little ought weeping, devoid of all restraint, to be introduced into the ideal work of art, of such a kind as that we may hear in all its comfortlessness in another part of the "Freischütz." And speaking generally, in music singing must take to itself the kind of joy and rapture which we catch from the lark in the open sky. Shrieking, whether of pain or delight, is not music at all. Even in the expression of suffering the sweet tones of the plaint must penetrate and clarify the sorrows, so that it continually may seem to us worth all the suffering to arrive at such sweetness of plaint in its expression. And this is the sweetness of melody, the singing of every kind of art.

(γ) Regarded in a certain relation to this fundamental axiom of art we may find some justification for the principle of irony in its modern sense; but it must not be overlooked that irony is frequently destitute of all real seriousness, and is particularly prone to expatiate over bad subject-matter; and, in another aspect of it, it is apt to run to seed in the mere yearning of emotion rather than actively participate in practical life, as is proved by the case of Novalis, one of the finer temperaments who have made this point of view their own, and for lack of definite interest, or through shrinking from the real world, are driven up and down, and cajoled into this sort of spiritual consumption. This is the kind of yearning which will not descend to mere practical business and production, because it is afraid of soiling itself with the contact of finite things, although it already secretly feels the defects of such exclusion. No doubt we find in irony that absolute principle of negativity, in which the subject of consciousness becomes self-centred through the annihilation of definite relations and particulars; but in this case the act of annihilation of definite relations and particulars, as we have already pointed out when discussing the principle, is not, as in comedy, essentially in its right place, simply exposing its own want of substance, but is directed quite as often against everything else excellent in itself and of sterling worth. Whether we regard irony, then, as this art of universal destruction, or as the yearning of which we have spoken in contrast with the true Ideal, it betrays a secret lack of proportion and restraint which is detrimental to the artist. Substantive form is what the Ideal demands, which, owing to the fact that it is clothed in the form and figure of external things, is unquestionably qualified by particularity no less than limitation; but this limitation of its form is at the same time included in such a way that everything merely external in its appearance is annulled and abolished. Only through this negation of mere externality is the determinate form of the Ideal a real exposition of the substantive content which belongs to it in a mode of appearance susceptible to sense-perception and the imagination.

2. The plastic presentment of form, which is as much a constituent feature of the Ideal as it is of the essentially homogeneous character of its content, and the way these two aspects are fused together, render necessary an inquiry into the relation obtaining between the ideal representation of art and Nature. For this external aspect and its embodiment is closely associated with that which we generally call Nature. In this connection we once more come upon that old and ever-renewed and still unsettled dispute, whether the representation of art should follow the objects of Nature as they appear strictly to sense, or should rather ennoble and illumine them. The right of Nature, the rule of beauty, the Ideal and the truth of Nature—with indefinite conceptions such as these arguments for and against may be bandied about for ever. A work of art, we are told, should unquestionably be natural, but there is such a thing as a mean or ugly Nature, we must not of course imitate that; on the other hand—and so our disputants wrangle on and never come to a satisfactory conclusion.

In recent times the opposition between the Ideal and Nature has once more been emphasized and received an exceptional significance through the writings of Winckelmann. Winckelmann's enthusiasm, as already pointed out[280], was first awakened by his study of the antique and its ideal forms. This insight into the peculiar excellence of classic art he thoroughly mastered and only ceased from his labours after making all that he had learned through his study of such masterpieces famous throughout Europe. From this recognition, however, originated a kind of craze for ideal representation, which, despite all its belief in the discovery of beauty, was really a relapse into flatness, absence of vitality, and superficiality. It is this kind of emptiness more particularly in the art of painting, which Herr von Rumohr had before him in the polemical writings I have already noticed.

The theory of art has to solve this difficulty. As for its interest, on the practical side of art, we shall do well to pass it wholly by. We may formulate principles as we please for mediocrity and the talents that express it, the result is always the same. Whether our theory is a distorted one or unexceptionable all we shall get is something commonplace or weak. At the same time Art and more particularly painting has unquestionably received a stimulus other than that we have deprecated from this very quest of so-called Ideals; and, through the renewed interest thereby excited in old Italian and German painters, has at least made an effort to secure a profounder and more vital content in its work.

The world is quite as tired of hearing the praises of that equally exclusive Ideal in the opposite camp, namely, that of undiluted realism in art. Theatregoers are, to take an example close at hand, heartily sick of the realistic type of domestic drama. The old story over and over again—disputes between husband and wife, sons and daughters, the source of our income, the inventory of our expenses, the servility of ministers and the intrigues of their lackeys and secretaries, down to the question of the last sixpence between the dame of the house and her kitchen-maid, or up to the last gossip of the daughters over their touching love-affairs in the parlour—such tales of woe most of us will prefer to take where, we may at least get them without adulteration—at home.

In this opposition between Ideal and Nature writers have been inclined to regard one type of art to the exclusion of others, with an especial predilection, however, for painting, whose subject-matter is the particularity of sense-perception. We will test our problem by putting the question to start with wholly in general terms, thus: "Is art to be prose or poetry?" Now what is truly poetical in art is just that which we have called the Ideal. If the question of difficulty in question is a mere matter of terminology we are quite prepared to call the Ideal something else. But, however called, the question remains what it is which constitutes poetry or prose in art. And although the adherence to what is in itself poetical in the determination of it by certain crafts may lead those arts into confusion, and, indeed, has already done so, it is contended that in so far as any subject has an express affinity with poetry, such has been also the subject of genuine pictorial treatment, genuine for the simple reason that such a content is unquestionably of a true poetical nature.

Well, let us examine a concrete case. The present exhibition of art (1818) contains several pictures, all of which are of one school, the so-called Düsseldorf. Every one of these have borrowed subjects from poetry, and indeed from the emotional side of poetry peculiarly adapted to pictorial representation. The more often and carefully we examine these pictures, the more complete will be our impression of their excessive sweetness and insipidity[281].

In the foregoing contradiction there are present the following general characteristics[282]:

(a) First, there is the formal ideality of the work of art, that is to say, the element of poetry in its general signification, which is, as the term implies, something composed and brought together by man, which he has taken into his imagination[283] and then actively worked into the artistic composition.

(α) The nature of the content of such a translation may however, be a matter of indifference or, apart from the artistic representation we thus obtain of common life, may only interest us indirectly for the moment. In this way the Dutch school of painting, for example, has recreated, as it were, by means of human workmanship, the evanescent everyday appearances of natural objects in countless new artistic effects. Velvet, armour, light, horses, work-folk, old cronies, peasants puffing their smoke from old pipe stumps, the glitter of wine in transparent tumblers, rustics in soiled jackets playing with cards as ancient—such and a hundred other subjects like them which trouble us little enough in everyday life, for the best of reasons, that although we too may have our game at cards, our drink, and our gossip we are really occupied with quite another class of interests—all this medley of objects is brought before us in their pictures. Now the claim of art in the representation of such things is precisely this external show, or reappearance of them as a product of spiritual activity, which has transmuted that which was purely external and sensuously material into a new medium supplied by mind. For instead of wool or silk that are tangible, instead of actual hair, glasses, flesh, and metals, all we see now is colour; instead of the three dimensions which are essential to external Nature, we have only superficies; and yet, despite all our losses, we have a representation identical with that of reality.

(β) In opposition to the immediate and prosaic reality of objects, then, this show of things which is effected by the mind is the wonder of ideality, a jest, if anyone cares to put it so, and an irony directed against purely external existence. Only contrast with it the preparations Nature or man has to make in ordinary life, the countless instruments of every kind they have to employ to effect the same result. What opposition the material of such objects—take a metal for example—may offer to any active effect upon it. The world of ideas, on the contrary, out of which art creates its products, is a malleable and simple element, which readily converts everything, which either Nature or man in his purely natural existence is forced to leave bluntly just as they are, to the uses which are appropriate to it. In the same way the objects of ordinary apprehension and man as we meet him in everyday life are of no incommensurable wealth, but subject to limitations—precious stones, plants, animals, etc., by themselves are of a certain positive and particular character. But man in his creative capacity is an entire world of content, which he has filched from Nature, and piled together in the comprehensive treasure-house of his world of images, and which he is now free to give forth again simply and without the restraint of external conditions and the detailed processes of actual phenomena. In this idealization art stands midway between the purely objective and restricted existence and the entirely subjective world of idea. It gives indeed objects, but they are supplied from the life of mind; it offers them for uses other than those which belong to them; it concentrates their entire interest in the abstract form of the ideal show which it therewith manifests to aesthetic contemplation, and to that alone.

(γ) Art consequently, through the ideality above explained, exalts objects otherwise unimportant, determining them, despite their ordinary character, in a fixed relation to her own medium and essential aim, and by so doing secures from us a sympathy in subject-matter which otherwise would not have enlisted our serious attention. We find the same transformation in the relation of art to Time. Its position is here too frankly ideal. That which in Nature rapidly passes by in art is secured with permanence; the flash of a smile, the sudden curve of roguish merriment on the lips, a glance, a gleam of sunshine, together with all those evanescent traits of human life, events and accidents which come and are gone, and are as quickly lost to memory. There is nothing which she cannot wrest from momentary existence, and in this respect even becomes the vanquisher of Nature herself.

In this formal ideality of art, however, it is not the content itself which makes the pre-eminent claim upon us, but the satisfaction we derive from the act of artistic reproduction. The representation must certainly strike us as natural, but it is not the reality of Nature that we require; it is rather that of the process of reproduction, this very deposition, in fact, of material conditions which is the poetical and ideal element of the work in the formal sense above indicated[284]. We delight in a manifestation, which appears to us a product of Nature, and which is nevertheless a product of mind without the means at Nature's disposition. The objects charm us not so much by virtue of their approach to Nature, but rather because the artist has been able to effect that approach.

(b) A further and still profounder reason for our interest in artistic products consists in this, that the content is not brought before us in those forms in which it is found in immediate existence, but, being itself minted by the mind, is capable of considerable extension and modification within such forms. All that exists in Nature is particular, and, indeed, limited in every direction by such particularity. The creative faculty[285], however, contains an intrinsic determination of universal import. And all that it produces possesses forthwith a character of universality distinct from the particularity of Nature. The creative faculty thereby secures this advantage; that being of a wider range it is more qualified to grasp ideal significance, and to insist on that explicitly in all that it shows us.

It is quite true that a work of art is not entirely the imaginative concept in its universal aspect, but rather the determinate form of its envisagement. It is for all that bound, emanating as it does from the creative medium and operations of mind, and despite the living resemblance to real things we may find upon it, to permeate the whole with this universal quality. And in this we have that higher ideality of the poetical product as contrasted with the purely formal ideality of the art of production. From this point of view it is the task of a work of art to grasp the object in its universal relations, and in the envisagement it presents to let fall everything which stands in a wholly external or indifferent relation to the content. An artist for this reason will refuse to accept all forms and means of expression offered him by the external world, on the mere ground that he finds them there. His main effort will be, if at least his aim be a real poetical creation, to secure that which will appropriately work in with his own imaginative conception; and, if he looks to Nature for assistance in supplying him with details, or, generally, as material to translate into his work, he will utilize such, not because he finds them so in Nature, but because they fall in their right place as a part of his composition and are rightly made for him. This "right" of the artist is a higher one than the mere right of immediate fact.

In his representation of the human form, for instance, an artist will not attempt such imitation as we find attempted by those restorers of ancient pictures, who reproduce old cracks, which through the swelling of either paint or varnish have involved all the older parts of the picture in a kind of arabesque, even on the portions restored. The portrait-painter will rather permit the tracery of the flesh, and a fortiori such incidents as freckles, pustules, warts, and so forth, to disappear entirely. In this respect the painter Denner, so famous for his close realization of Nature, is by no means an ideal master. For the same reason indications of muscles and veins may be given, but their distinction and relief should be far slighter than that we observe in Nature. In all such impressions little or nothing of spirit is manifested, and the expression of spirit is what is essential in the human form[286]. I cannot think it therefore wholly a disadvantage that we moderns have less to do with the nude in sculpture than the ancients. On the other hand the general style of our dress in comparison with the ideal drapery of classical times is less artistic and more commonplace. The object in both cases is to cover the form. The drapery, however, we find in the antique is, taken by itself, a more or less formal smooth surface only so far determinate in its adjustment to the frame by its attachment to the shoulder. In other respects the garment remains entirely formal[287], hanging down simply and freely by virtue of its own immanent weight, or only determined through the position of the body and the pose and motion of the limbs. In the determination thus implied we find the external shape entirely reflecting the mutable expression of the spirit which animates the body. The particular form of the garment, the folds of it, the motion of it either up or down is clothed in the shape dictated direct from the inward impulse, and as each may momentarily appear appropriate to the particular pose or movement—and it is this form of determination which constitutes the ideality of such drapery. In the clothing we have adopted nowadays, on the contrary, the entire material is, from the first, cut out and worked up stiffly into the forms of particular limbs, so that anything approaching spontaneity in its rise and fall is impossible. Even the character of the folds is determined by previous models, and generally both cut and fall are worked out wholly by the technical rules and craftsmanship of the tailor. It is true, of course, that the configuration of the limbs determines generally the form of such clothing; but in this arrangement of the bodily form we merely have either a perverse imitation, or an enveloping of human limbs according to the convention of fashion and the accidental taste of the times. The cut of our cloth once made is irrevocably made, and neither the position of the body nor the motion of the limbs can appreciably affect it. We may move our arms and legs about as much as we please, the sleeves of our jackets and our trousers remain unalterable. Folds or creases may perhaps appear in them, but even then only on the lines of the original cutting out, as we see them, for example, on the statue of Scharnhorst. Our modern way of clothing is consequently, as an external cover, not sufficiently differentiated from the inner life to appear on its reverse side as the formal expression of that life; instead of this we have a false imitation of the human form stereotyped in the preordained and unalterable cut of our tailor.

A criticism similar to that we have directed to the representation by art of the human form and its exterior clothing might be applied to a whole multitude of things which make up the external show of life, or minister to its wants, such as eating, drinking, and sleeping—things necessary enough in themselves and useful to all men, which, however much in their manifold variety, as constituent features of the physical life of mankind, they may blend with those activities more directly related to its spirit, do not themselves form part of such activities, or stand in essential relation either to their determinations or their interests, and thereby contribute to what is the truly ideal or universal element in the content of human life. Physical aspects of life such as these may no doubt receive poetical treatment in art; and it is generally admitted that the descriptions of a poet such as Homer in this direction adhere very closely to Nature. Yet we find that even Homer, despite all his ἐνἐέργεια, all the vividness of his presentment, is forced to limit his descriptions to general observations; no one expects to find in him an entirely accurate picture of the facts in all their detail as they actually would occur in life. He may give us, no doubt, in his delineation of the bodily presence of Achilles, the lofty brow, the prominent nose, the long and stalwart legs, but he is not likely to include in the picture every detail of the veritable existence of limbs point for point, and the relation in which they stand to one another in colour, size, and so forth, in other words to offer us Nature's reality instead of an artist's portrait. And the reason is obvious inasmuch as in the art of poetry the type of expression is always the universal concept of the imagination as distinguished from the bare particularity of Nature. Instead of the fact the poet always gives us the denominant, the word, in which the particular thing is universalized; for the word is a product of mental conception, and as such already carries in itself the nature of a universal. One is entitled to say, of course, that it is natural in the formation of concepts and speech to employ a nomenclature, the word, as such an infinite[288] abridgment of the existence we find in Nature; but if we do so the Nature to which we refer it would not merely be opposed to the natural existence with which we compare it, but would be just that which cancels it. We are therefore confronted with the question in what sense we use the word Nature when we contrast it with the characteristic of poetry. The mere undefined use of the word Nature by itself tells us nothing at all. What poetry should always give us is the energetic, the essential, the truly characteristic; and this fundamental expressiveness is precisely the Ideal and not the merely immediate, to enumerate all the details of which in the narration of an event or the portrayal of a scene will render either of these simply dull, spiritless, tedious, and intolerable. In the manifestation of this universality, however, one type of art will reveal more clearly its ideal characteristics; another will rather emphasize, by a restricted use of material form, the infinite detail of external reality. Sculpture, for example, is in its presentments more abstract than painting; in poetry the epic type, in its realization of the external appearance of life itself, will not be so complete as a dramatic poem should be. On the other hand it will surpass the latter in its portrayal of the fulness of its imaginative vision, the epic poet being most indebted to concrete pictures his imagination borrows from past history. In contrast with him the dramatist is mainly restricted to the motives of an action, the attitude of the will to it, the psychological problem in short.

(c) It is, then, Mind (Spirit), which gives external realization in a particular form to the inward world of content which is of essential interest to it; and it is in close relation to this fact that we should consider the question, what precise significance we are to infer from the opposition above discussed between the Ideal and naturalness. And first we must observe that from such a point of view the word natural is not employed in the most genuine signification of the term. As a description of the external form imposed upon facts by mind it obviously is neither the immediate naturality we find in animal life, nor that presented in Nature's landscape. Rather its very form of determination, in so far, that is to say, as we see the mind here giving to itself an embodiment, will show us that it is an expression of mind, an expression moreover suffused with ideality. For this taking up into the mind, this plastic recreation of form on the part of mind is nothing less than idealization. It is sometimes remarked of the countenances of dead people that they take on themselves once more the lineaments of childhood. The obdurate expression of passion, custom and strife, the characteristic seal of their life of strenuous action, passes off, and the indeterminacy of the features of a child's face reappears. In life, however, all traits whatsoever, the entire presentment in fact, receive their characteristic expression from the world of soul; and in much the same way the different races and classes of mankind reflect the distinguishing features of their spiritual tendencies and activities in their external manifestation. In all such organizations that which is outward is visibly permeated with mind; and, by virtue of its energy, already confronts mere Nature as an idealized creation. Only a clear perception of this truth will enable us to sift this significant question of an opposition between Nature and the Ideal to the bottom. If we do not possess this we shall find ourselves maintaining that the forms in which Spirit is visualized as a part of Nature have already lost in that real appearance, which is independent of art's imitative action, such an intrinsic completeness, beauty, and excellence, that it is quite impossible that there can be another and more exalted type of beauty, which presents itself as the Ideal in contradistinction to this immediate reality, and this all the more for the reason that art is unable entirely to attain even to that which is present in Nature herself. Or, if our thoughts lean to the opposite extreme, we shall look to art to supply us independently, in opposition to Nature's reality, with more ideal modes of representation. The polemics of Herr von Rumohr, which we have already criticized, are well worthy of attention in this connection. This writer, at any rate, whatever others may say who have the word Ideal so frequently on their lips in depreciation of the vulgarity of Nature, refers to the Idea and the Ideal in phrases of respect and contempt with absolute impartiality.

The real truth of the matter is rather this. There is in the spiritual world, both outwardly and inwardly regarded, a Nature of vulgar type, which testifies to its meanness outwardly for the simple reason that its inward content is mean, that is to say, when all that it can realize externally in its activities are the aims of envy, jealousy, and avarice in every detail of sensuous life. Such a poverty-stricken Nature can no doubt form part of the subject-matter of art, and has been treated as such. When this is the case, however, as we have already explained, it is not the subject-matter, but wholly the artistic handling of it, which creates an interest of any permanent character; and the artist will look in vain for sympathy in his subject, or rather the mere material of his subject from the true connoisseur. A particularly pertinent illustration of this type of art is the so-called genre painting, which has not shown itself above accepting subjects of this character, the artistic treatment of which has been carried by the Dutch school to the extreme limit of perfection. It may, however, be as well to ask ourselves, first, what the precise contribution of the Dutch has been to this genre-painting, what, in short, is the nature of content their dainty pictures express, pictures which at least have asserted an extraordinary power of attraction and obviously cannot be shelved right away beneath the common stigma of vulgarity. We shall not improbably find, on closer examination, that the subject-matter of these pictures is not so contemptible as it is often taken to be[289].

The Dutch have selected the subject-matter of their artistic production out of their own substance, out of the actual presence of their daily life. To have once for all realized that presence even in art is no matter of reproach to them. To estimate the character of their artistic interest we must view them in close connection with the actual panorama of their own times. This is a problem of history. The Dutchman has in great measure himself created the ground wherein he lives and finds a home, and has been forced continuously to preserve and defend that home against the invasion of the sea. The citizens of the towns no less than the rural population have together, through courage, endurance, and bravery, repulsed the power of Spain in the hands of Philip II, son of Charles V, the sovereign of a world-wide empire, and in fighting their battle for civic freedom, they were fighting that of religious liberty. This staunch sense of citizenship, this passionate love of enterprise in the narrow limits of their fatherland, no less than abroad on the high seas, this careful and at the same time clean and dainty mode of life, together with the geniality and invincible self-respect which distinguishes them, all this is as much the fruit of their own actions as it is the general content of their artistic production. Such a content as this is no common material, though obviously it is not of the kind we must suppose we can approach with the supercilious superiority of critics for whom the exalted taste of courts and fine society is everything. From a sterling national self-consciousness of this sort Rembrandt painted his famous "Night-Watch" now in Amsterdam, Van Dyck so many of his portraits, Wouvermans so many of his battle-pieces; nor should even those reflections of rustic drinking-bouts, jovialities, and other scenes of merriment be wholly excluded from the category. And in illustration of its excellence we would point, by way of contrast, to a work in this year's exhibition, which, though not downright bad genre-painting, is much inferior to the handling by old Dutch masters of similar subject-matter, coming nowhere near to their freedom and joy of life. In this picture a housewife is seen entering an alehouse to give her husband a good scolding. Here we have just a scene of cantankerous and waspish human-kind and nothing more. These Dutchmen painted their folk very differently; whether we find them among their cups, at weddings or dances, feasting or drinking, nay, even when the matter proceeds to ribaldry and blows, liveliness and lustiness is the prevailing temper. Young maids and women laugh with the rest, and a feeling of free and abandoned merriment carries all before it. This intimate delight in all enjoyment justifiably human, which will even absorb itself wholly in animal life and crop up at times as mere satiety and grossness; this freshly awakened sense of freedom and life, fully grasped and embodied in composition and colour, is what constitutes the higher spiritual import[290] of these Dutch pictures.

On much the same grounds the beggar boys of Murillo, in the central gallery of the Munich collection, are excellent. Superficially regarded, the subject here, too, is of a vulgar character. The mother is scolding one of the youngsters, as he quickly munches a piece of bread; two others hard by, ragged and poor, are eating melons and grapes[291]. But in this very poverty of half-nakedness what gleams forth from the entire composition as the soul of that beggar life is its complete carelessness and spontaneity. No dancing dervish himself could give it us more frankly in its impression of entire health and jubilant vitality. This freedom from all external care, this inward liberty reflecting itself in that which is visible, is precisely that which the notion of the Ideal demands. There is in Paris a certain portrait of a boy by Raphael; the head leans propped at leisure on one arm, and gazes with such ecstasy of careless contentment into the open landscape that we are loth to turn away from a picture expressive of such health and exuberant animation. We receive a delight of very much the same nature from these lads of Murillo. It is obvious enough that neither their objects nor their interests aim high, but this is no result of stupidity; there they chaffer on God's earth with, we may almost say, the bliss and contentment of the Olympian gods themselves. They, too, have their business; but though we hear little about it they are a genuine sample of humanity, neither morose nor discontented with their lot. Feeling this ground-root in them of all sterling performance we can readily imagine that in favourable conditions youth such as this might be capable of most things. A composition of this kind is entirely on a different level from the one above mentioned of the scolding housewife, or two others we might also contrast with it, of a certain peasant mending his whip and a postillion sleeping on a straw pallet[292]. Such paintings of genre should unquestionably be of small size; and, indeed, in their total impression on the sense, they must be made to appear of comparative insignificance, that we may not feel the character of their subject-matter and its presentment has received undue prominence. It would be intolerable to have such subjects painted life size as though the fulness of the reality were sufficiently attractive to claim our attention.

Such are the principles which should regulate our artistic treatment of and sympathy with that which it is usual to stigmatize as mean or vulgar in ordinary life.

There is, no doubt, plenty of material for art to appropriate of higher grade than the representation of animal spirits and downright citizenship in all their essentially insignificant detail. Man has clearly more serious interests and objects than these, interests which have unfolded as his own spirit has widened and deepened, and in harmony with which it is his truest interest to remain. An art will take highest rank which sets before itself the task of giving adequate representation to this more vital, or at least more profound, content. And here at once we are confronted with the old question, what is the source which will supply us with the forms most fitting to such creations of mind. On the one side theorists maintain the opinion that, inasmuch as the artist creates these lofty ideas, which he desires to clothe in artistic form, he must, also supply their artistic forms, create, for example, from his imagination the ideal figures of Greek gods, Christ, his apostles, saints, and so on. In strenuous opposition to this view Herr von Rumohr has entered the lists. This writer is of opinion that art is on a false track in supposing that the artist discovers the forms of his production in himself rather than in Nature, and it is under this conviction that he has reviewed the masterpieces both of Italian and Dutch painters. On this head he finds it a matter of censure ("Italian Investigations," i, p. 105) "that the theory of art, during the sixty years which have elapsed, should be at the pains to prove that it is an object, or rather the main object, of art to improve upon creation as it is particularised, and by doing so to substitute forms which have no particular relation to anything, which would ape Nature's creation by going several points beyond her, and release mortal man from all responsibility for the fact that Nature has not known how to make her appearance more beautiful." And consistently with such a point of view he further advises the artist "to have nothing to do with the gigantic task of attempting to ennoble or elucidate the natural form, or attempt any such exalted function of the human Spirit under what name soever it may be written down in works upon art" (ibid. p. 63). He is, in short, wholly convinced that, however exalted and spiritual[293] the subject to be treated may be, completely adequate forms are to be found in Nature as immediately perceived, and consequently maintains (p. 83), "that the exposition of Art, even in the case of subject-matter as highly spiritual as it is possible to conceive, is never indebted to a symbolism capriciously created by man[294], but depends wholly for its consistency upon what is presented as significant by Nature in organic form." No doubt in advancing this Herr von Rumohr has particularly under review the ideal types of antique art as they are expounded by Winckelmann. It is for all that the abiding service of Winckelmann to have pointed out and set forth in harmonious relation these very types, although he may doubtless have, committed errors of judgment with regard to particular masterpieces while carrying through the same. As a possible example of such an oversight Herr von Rumohr thinks he has made out (p. 115) that the increase of length in the lower half of the body, which Winckelmann has characterized as an ideal feature of the antique, is really borrowed from Roman statuary. And naturally enough, as an opponent of the Ideal, improves the occasion by insisting that the artist should unreservedly take Nature into his confidence in the study of form. Here, and here alone, he will find the presence of true beauty. To quote this writer once more it is affirmed (p. 144), "that the beauty of most importance depends on a symbolic of forms rooted in Nature rather than human caprice, a beauty through which these forms are nourished into their characteristic and symbolic relations, in the vision of which we necessarily have brought back to our memory definite images and conceptions, and are made more definitely conscious of previously dormant feeling.[295]" I And so finally it appears that in this writer's view (p. 105) "a mysterious trait of our spiritual life, what many would perhaps call Idea, seems to bind together the artist and the appearances of Nature, in which latter he is constantly and continuously learning to recognize the true character of his own artistic purpose[296], and to find himself in a position through them to give expression to it."

There can be no question, of course, that ideal art has no business at all with "a symbolism capriciously created;" and, if it really is the case that these ideal types of the ancients have been composed only to reduce the veritable forms of Nature to false and empty abstraction, we may freely admit that Herr von Rumohr is justified in his most trenchant opposition.

For our own part we would emphasize the points of fundamental importance to be grasped in this antithesis between the ideal of art and Nature as follows:

The forms which are borrowed from immediate Nature to determine an ideal content must be assumed to be thus taken symbolically in the usual sense of the term, namely, that they are not thus immediately significant in themselves, but only as the external embodiment of that which is inward and spiritual, the content, in fact, they express. It is only Spirit, even in the reality which they possess outside the limits of art, which constitutes their ideality in its contrast with that they entirely owe to Nature simply as such, and which is unable to reveal to us what is essentially mind. It is the object of art, on its more noble plane, to give external shape to the inward content of Spirit. This content we discover in the conscious life of men realized in the world. As such it possesses—we include with it our conscious human experience generally—an external semblance directly presented in and through which it finds expression. So much may readily be conceded. At the same time from a philosophical point of view it is simply futile to inquire whether we ought to look to the direct facts of Nature alone for objects and physiognomical traits of beauty and expression to serve as entirely adequate materials for art's representation, shall we say, of the majesty, repose, and power of a Jupiter or of a Juno, Venus, Peter, Christ, Madonna, or any other divinity, or saint. Arguments may be supported on either side, and the question can only remain finally undecided, being wholly empirical. For the only sufficient way of deciding the matter would be to contrast what is borrowed with the realities it purports to represent, and this, in the assumed case of the Greek gods, might be matter of some difficulty; and, to take the present day, one man will see traits of beauty in their perfection where another a thousand times more acute will see nothing. But over and above such considerations we must observe that the mere beauty of form will never give us that we have named the Ideal, inasmuch as the individuality of the content is a constituent part of it, and therein form is necessarily included. A human face, for example, may be both regular and beautiful in its outlines and yet remain cold and devoid of all expression. The ideal figures of the Greek gods are, on the contrary, true individualizations; the universality of their ideal conception does not exclude the characteristic determination which belongs to each of them. And the vitality of the Ideal consists just in this, that this determinate and fundamental spiritual significance, which it is the function of art to exhibit, should wholly transfuse by appropriate artistic treatment all the particular aspects of the external embodiment, such as composition, pose, motion, physiognomy, and configuration of limbs, so that nothing empty or insignificant should be left, but the entire work should reflect that ideal significance. All that we have learned from Greek sculpture in recent times of a quality which, in fact, emanates from the school of Pheidias, is characterized by nothing so much as this penetrative vitality. The Ideal is preserved in all its severity without any lapse in the direction of mere grace, softness, elegance, and exuberance, yet retains the form in close relation to the ideal significance which should be embodied throughout the whole. This supreme vitality is the distinguishing mark of the great artist.

We may call a typical significance of this kind, in contrast to the particularity of the external world, essentially abstract. This is pre-eminently the case in sculpture and painting, arts which illuminate but a momentary state, without proceeding to such a varied development of exposition as we find, for example, in that where Homer is able to depict the character of Achilles as mild and courteous no less than severe and terrible, to say nothing of all his other characteristics. No doubt it is possible to find such a significance expressed in purely immediate reality. There are, for instance, few countenances which cannot reflect the moods of piety, devotion, and cheerfulness; but such faces also express countless other moods which either are quite inappropriate to that ideal significance, or are only indirectly related to it. For this reason it is by virtue of its particular realization that a portrait acquaints us of the fact that it is a portrait. In many old German and Flemish pictures we find the patron of the picture included in the composition with his entire family of sons and daughters. All are necessarily painted as though taken in an act of devotion, and this spirit illuminates every countenance; but at the same time we have quite as clearly set before us in the men stalwart warriors, men of vigorous action, disciplined on the strenuous field of life and commerce, and in the women dames of an equally doughty life-experience. If we compare with such faces—and we may restrict our comparison wholly to these very pictures, which are famous for their close approach to Nature in their delineation of physiognomy—those of the Virgin Mary, and the saints and apostles who surround her, we shall find in these latter one preponderating expression; and all the physical lineaments, whether we look at build of bone, structure, or muscle, traits of that express motion or repose, are concentrated upon this one artistic effect. That which is felt to be appropriate to the one class and not to the other exactly differentiates the distinction between the genuine Ideal and mere portraiture.

Some may imagine it possible for the artist to compose the ideal content of genuine types by a process of sifting and selection from the facts of immediate Nature, or quite possibly from the various physiognomies and compositions which collections of engravings from the copper-plate or the wood may furnish. But a process such as this of mere collection and sifting is not the end of the matter. An artist must maintain the creative impulse alert throughout. He must himself, in the strength of his own imagination, already impregnated with the knowledge of appropriate form and made vital with profound experience and emotion, give such an embodiment to the significance, which is the inspiring motive of the work, as will make it appear throughout as metal cast at one time and is one state of fusion.

B. THE DETERMINACY OF THE IDEAL

To comprehend the Ideal in its intrinsic significance, that is to say, according to its fundamental notion, was a comparatively easy task. But the beauty of art, in so far as it is the Idea, is not to be restricted to the purely universal standpoint of its notional concept; even as so comprehended it must necessarily include within it determination and particularity, and is compelled to take definite embodiment as external reality. The question consequently arises in what way is the Ideal able still to assert itself in this process of objectification in the medium of external things and their finitude, and despite all that is antagonistic to ideality; and as a corollary to this we have to inquire how finite and determinate existence is enabled to attach to itself the ideality of the beauty of all art.

We propose to regulate this inquiry with the following division of our subject matter.

First, the determination of the Ideal in its simplest terms.

Secondly, the determination of it, in so far as it proceeds by virtue of its particularity to a condition of discordant parts within itself and to their resolution, a condition we may generally, define as action[297].

Thirdly, the determination of the Ideal from the point of view of it as an external object.

I. THE IDEAL DEFINITION AS SUCH

1. We have already observed that it is the function of art to make the Divine the focus or centre of its entire exposition. It is, however, only possible for thought in its pure medium, that is to say, apart from all the sensuous material of the figurative imagination, to comprehend the Divine in its essential significance of unity and universality. To attempt to do otherwise, by imagining a picture of God more readily grasped by the perception of the senses, is, as we know, forbidden both Jews and Mahommedans. This cuts away the ground of the figurative arts, which absolutely require form as their medium in all its concreteness of actual life; and we have only lyrical poetry left us to celebrate in its exaltation the praise of His power and glory.

2. Considered, however, from the reverse point of view, we must equally assert that however much unity and universality are predicable of the Divine, He is in His essential substance determined, and, so far as He withdraws Himself from the pure quality, of such predicates in their abstraction, is thereby an object for the figurative sense and external perception. If the Divine is consequently apprehended and figuratively embodied for us through the forms of the imagination, we are at once confronted with a possible variety in such determination; and it is at this point that the actual realm of ideal art finds its commencement. For, in the first place, the one Divine substance disunites and breaks itself up into a multiplicity of self-subsistent gods, such as we find presented by the polytheistic system of Grecian art; and even in the religious consciousness of Christianity God is, in opposition to His purely spiritual unity, immediately revealed on Earth and in the world-process as man. And, secondly, the Divine, regarded generally in its determinate appearance and reality, is both present and realized in emotional feeling, will, and the education[298] of mankind. For this reason and in this sphere men who are filled with the Spirit of God, saints, martyrs, and, in short, all who share in the religious life, are equally the appropriate subject of ideal art. With this principle of the individuality of the Divine and its determinate existence realized necessarily in the world-process, we are face to face with—and this is the third point to be considered—the particularity of human existence. For the entire world of human emotion, with all that stirs it most profoundly—and what a power is implied in that open sea of feeling and passion, everything of deepest interest to the human heart—this entire content is nothing less than its exposition and expression. If it is true, then, that the Divine in its purest essence of reason is only the object of the thinking consciousness, it is equally true that Spirit, which takes to itself an actively bodily presence, so far, that is to say, and only so far as we find it reverberate in the heart of humanity, all this lies within the sphere of art. Once admit this, and we must admit the content of particular interests and actions, specific characters, and momentary situations, in short, the entire process of development in the external order; and it becomes of first importance to indicate under a general principle in what the relation between the Ideal and this positive determination consists.

3. In conformity with what we have already advanced it is clear that here, too, the Ideal will be most purely manifested in the representation—whether it be of gods, Christ, apostles, saints, or any other type of devout persons—which brings most clearly before us the qualities of beatified repose and satisfaction, a peace undisturbed with that which is earthly, and subject to the storms of life's manifolded complexities, struggles, and contradictions. We are therefore not surprised to find that both the arts of sculpture and painting have been peculiarly fitted to incorporate under ideal form not merely the ancient gods, but Christ as saviour of the world, and individual apostles and saints. That which is the most essential truth in actual life is concentrated to a focus on itself in the determinate embodiment of art, rather than continually forced from its serenity through dependence upon finite conditions. This essential concentration is not destitute of particularity, but the divergent separation, which is a feature of the external and finite state, is purified to one simple definition, so that it appears as though all traces of external influence and the relation thus created were overcome. This deedless and infinite self-repose, this "taking a rest," as we find it, for example, in certain statues of Hercules, is just what constitutes the significance of the Ideal. If the gods are represented in contact with the process of Nature, they must still carry with them their immortal and unapproachable majesty. Jupiter, Juno, Apollo, Mars, and their like are, it is true, definite personalities, but they are at the same time unyielding potentates and powers, which preserve within them their self-subsistent liberty, even when they are actively related to the world. And for this reason it is not merely that a specific particularity must characterize the determinacy of the Ideal, but spiritual freedom must be manifested thereby as totality, and in this state of repose suggest the potency of unfettered freedom of action. If we turn now from the gods to the less exalted plane of temporal existence and human life, we shall find the Ideal active in its representation of the substantial content of such humanity, and its dominant repression of wholly subjective particularity. By this we mean that all that is entirely isolate in feeling and action is wrested from the element of contingency, and particularity is represented in its concreteness, that is to say in its wider bond of relation with what most truly and intimately belongs to its life. When, for instance, we speak of the nobility, excellence, or perfection in particular men, we assert in so many words that the substantial core of what is spiritual, ethical, and divine has announced itself as prevailing in the individual, and man has submerged his active life, his volitions, his interests, and passions wholly in this substantive basis, that he may thereby give full satisfaction to the most authentic necessities of his soul.

At the same time, however much in the case of the Ideal the determination of Spirit and its external presence appears to be absorbed in the simple self-relation, the principle of development is likewise directly associated with the particularity unfolded[299] in determinate existence, and along with this in that relation to environment which necessitates both the opposition and conflict of clashing forces. This fact necessitates a closer examination of the determination of the Ideal regarded in this very aspect of differentiation and process, an aspect which we may in a general way define as action.

II. THE ACTION

The gracious innocence of beatific enjoyment, the inactive repose, the majesty of power in self-reliant tranquillity, as also the concentrated compactness generally of that which is most substantial in a given content—all these are essentially ideal modes of determination. That which is inward, however, and spiritual is in an equal degree active movement and development. One-sidedness and division are inseparable from development. Spirit that is wholly itself and a totality will, expanding into all particularity, step forth out of its repose, in despite of all satisfaction therein, and involve itself in the contradictions of the broken and confused medley of earthly existence, and is by so doing unable in this divided world to withdraw itself from the ill-fortune and ill-health that clings to finite existence.

Even the immortal gods of Polytheism do not dwell in eternal peace, but take sides in mighty conflicts wherein contending passions and interests are roused, being subject themselves to Destiny; nay, more, even the God of Christians is, not delivered from a passage of humiliation endured through suffering and shame of death, is not spared the bitterness of soul, which perforce cried aloud: "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me." And the mother of Christ experienced an agony of the same poignant character, and human life in every direction is a life of struggle, battle, and pain. For greatness and force of character is evolved in the greatness and force of contending elements, out of which Spirit concentrates itself again and again upon its unity. The intensity and depth of subjectivity is only the more emphasized, the more unbroken and unexampled the resistance of circumstances to its unity grows, and the more irreconcilable the contradictions appear under which it has to preserve its own self-centred equilibrium. In this development and through this alone the might of the Idea and the Ideal is preserved, for power consists precisely in this self-preservation through a process of self-negation.

Inasmuch as it is the fact, then, that the particularity of the Ideal passes into a relation with the external world through such development, and by so doing is made partaker in a world, which, so far from manifesting the ideally free association of the notion and its external reality, presents an existence which is just that which it ought not to be, in apprehending the true nature of this relation we have to consider how far the determinations which affect the Ideal either in themselves contain immediately the principle of Ideality, or are to a more or less degree susceptible of it.

In this connection we would direct attention to three fundamental points of view.

In the first place we have the actual condition of the world generally, which is assumed as involved in individual action and its specific character. Secondly, we have the particularity of condition, the determination of which introduces difference and tension within the substantive unity, which is the motive-spring of the action, in other words the situation.

Thirdly, we have to consider the situation from the side of subjectivity, and furthermore the reaction by virtue of which the conflict and resolution of the element of difference is expressly asserted, in other words, the action in its strict sense.

1. The universal World-condition

The ideal subjectivity is as such essentially a personal relation, a relation, that is to say, of self to every aspect of motion or activity, in which the self has to assert or perfect its own substance. And to effect this a world environment is necessary as the universal ground of its realization. When in reference to this we speak of condition we understand by this the universally prevailing mode, under which, within the sphere of spiritual reality, that which is the substantive and essentially coalescing fabric of the same is present. In this sense we refer to a condition of education, the sciences, the religious sense, or even of finance, administration of justice, family life, and similar examples. All these objects of reference are, however, merely aspects of one and the same spiritual content, which is thus in and through them rendered explicit and real. In further considering the general condition of the world as the universal mode of the reality of Spirit it will be necessary to pursue our examination from the point of view of the Will. It is through the exercise of volition that Spirit generally unites itself to-determinate existence; and the substantial nexi which are immediately present in reality betray themselves in the specific modes in which the determinations of Will, ethical and legal conceptions, and, indeed, all that belongs to that which we are accustomed, in a general way, to define as justice, actively asserts itself.

The question consequently arises how such a universal condition must be characterized in order that it may appear adequate to the individuality of the Ideal.

(a) Pursuant to the foregoing considerations we may, to begin with, emphasize the following points:

(α) The Ideal is essential unity; not a purely formal and external unity, but the immanent unity of the content in itself. This substantive repose on its own resources we have already characterized as the self-sufficiency, rest, and beatitude of the Ideal. We will, in direct relation to the plane of discussion we have now reached, develop this characteristic of self-subsistency[300], making it a primary demand of our argument that what we have termed the general condition of the world appear in such a self-subsistent form as will enable it to accept the embodiment of the Ideal.

(αα) Now self-subsistency is an equivocal expression to start with. In ordinary parlance that which is essentially substantial is called simply self-subsistent by virtue of the element of causation being implied within this substantiality; we are wont to use it in this sense when describing the intrinsically divine and absolute. But as retained in this universality of substance merely as such it is not declared as itself subjective, and consequently meets with its irresolvable contradiction in the particularity of concrete individuality. In this bare antithesis all true self-subsistency disappears.

(ββ) On the other hand, it is not uncommon to find such subsistency ascribed to purely formal individuality, consisting solely in its self-reliance upon the fixed determinacy of its subjective characteristics. This subjectivity, however, in so far as the actual content of life drops away from it, so that the forces and substances which lie without it acquire in themselves an independent stability, and as such confront the subject and the inward life as a content wholly unrelated, lapses through this, too, into unequivocable contradiction with the actual substantiality of determinate existence, and forfeits all claim to self-subsistency and freedom of content. True self-subsistence consists alone in the unity and interpenetration of both individuality and universality with each other. The universal acquires through the individual a concrete existence; the subjectivity of the particular thing discovers for the first time in the universal the unassailable basis and the most genuine form of its realized totality.

(γγ) Consequently in making this demand of the universal world-condition we must ask for a form of self-subsistency in the same sense, namely, that the substantially universal in such a condition must contain within itself as the vehicle of its self-subsistence the form of subjectivity. The most obvious presentment of this identity is that of thought. For if thought is, in one aspect of it, subjective, in another it possesses universality as the product of its inherent activity, and encloses both universality and subjectivity in unfettered unity. The universal of thought is, however, not that of art, whose object is the beautiful. And, indeed, apart from this distinction, particular individuality as confronted by thought in its natural envisagement, or form, no less than in its active effects and complete realization, stands in no necessary correspondence with the universality of thought. There is, for example, a clear distinction between the subject apprehended in its concrete content of the actual world and that which is simply the thinking subject, or at least it is open to such a distinction. The same kind of cleavage affects the form of the universal itself. In other words the moment the universal begins to assert itself in distinction from its otherwise related reality by that act it has in objective existence separated itself from all the varied play of its phenomenal particularity, and, in opposition to the same, has already established an independent position assured and powerful.

In the Ideal, however, it is precisely the particular individuality which ought to persist in inseparable co-ordination with the substantive reality, and to the full extent that freedom and the self-subsistency of the subjective principle may attach to the Ideal the world-environment of conditions and relations should possess no essential objectivity independent of the individual in the subjective aspect above referred to or already presupposed. For the ideal individual is a self-enclosed totality, which already includes the objective principle, and it must not be permitted to have independent motion and development apart from the individuality of the subject; otherwise the subject falls back into a purely subordinate position in contrast to a world whose independence is already assured. Consequently the universal must indeed be actual in the individual as that which is in a unique sense its own, but not so as the property of the individual, as a thinker, but as that of his character and temperament. To put the same truth in another way, what is required for this unity of the universal and individual in art as opposed to the mediation and differentiation of thought, is the form of immediacy; and the self-subsistency which we claim here is the form of immediate self-subsistency. With that, however, the element of contingency is associated. That is to say, so long as the universal and effective[301] constituents of spiritual life, such as the self-subsistency of individuals exhibits, are only presented to us in the immediate guise of subjective feeling, temperament, and disposition of character, and debarred any other category of existence, such are thereby already given over to the contingency of volition and its realization. All we have left us, then, is what is peculiar to each individual viewed as such and his sensuous experience. Such a possession of what is nothing more than personal idiosyncracy is unable to assert for itself any further potency or necessity; it appears simply as inclusion of content, fixed achievement and at the same time arbitrary commitment of the wholly self-dependent subject to the influence of feeling, disposition, energy, general ability, cunning, and talents, instead of carrying out its realization over and over again according to a principle of universal import and acknowledged stability.

This type of contingency, then, is the characteristic quality of the condition which we required for the ground upon which all the varied wealth of the Ideal is to appear.

(β) In order to make more clear the actual character of the reality which is most adapted to artistic treatment we will contrast it with that aspect of existence which is not so adapted.

(αα) We find this pre-eminently where the ethical notion, that is, justice and rational freedom, have already won for themselves and maintain a fixed position in the social order regulated by law, so that, even in the external world, it appears as a positive and necessary power, which is quite independent of the individuality and subjectivity of specific temperament and characters. This is the case in the life of the State, where that life is manifested in a form adequate to the true notion of citizenship. For obviously it is not every chance association of human beings, any more than every patriarchal community, that will fulfil the requisites of State-life. In the true State laws, customs, and rights, in so far as they constitute the determinations of freedom applicable to all, are of paramount force even in this universal and abstract relation, and are not conditioned in their applicability by the chance requirements of any individual's idiosyncracy. As the consciousness of society has issued for itself commands and laws in a mode of statement of general application, in the same way these are externally valid as such universal fiat, which proceeds in the path of order thereby indicated, armed with powers of restraint and compulsion against any individual who may attempt to assert his caprice in an injurious opposition to such regulations.

(ββ) Such a condition at once assumes a dividing line between the universal ordinances of the regulative understanding and the immediate life, connoting by this latter term the unity in which all that is substantive and essential in morals and the conduct of justice only finds a form for its existence in the experience of individuals, their ethical feeling and opinion, that is to say, and thereby alone is exercised. In the civilized State right and justice, even religion and science, or, at any rate, provident interest in religious and scientific education, are subject to public control, which directs and co-ordinates the same.

(γγ) The position, then, that isolated individuals occupy in the State is one which contracts them within a fixed and organized order, and subordinates them thereto; and they stand in this relation for the reason that the character and disposition of each is not the only embodiment of ethical forces; but, if the State to which they belong is a genuine example, they are on the contrary compelled to regulate all the external detail of their actions, opinions, and feelings with a due regard to what is legally permissible, and to bring the same into line with it. This dependence upon the objective rationality of the State in its power of self-assertion above all subjective caprice may either be regarded as a mere subjection, inasmuch as laws and institutions possess, as the paramount power, a constraining force, or we may see in it merely the free recognition and acceptance of the reason that underlies such a necessity of fact, an acknowledgment through which the individual finds himself again in that objective order.

But even in the latter case isolated individuals continue to remain as merely incidental facts, and apart from the organic reality of the State possess no real substantiality in themselves. For substantiality, in the sense we here use the term, is by no means only the particular property of this or that individual, but a fully explicit reality[302], minted, as it were, in all aspects of it, and down to the merest detail in a mode universally applicable and necessary. All that mere individuals can effect with volition and accomplishment even in actions right, moral, and legal in themselves in the interest of and attendant upon the progress of the whole, remains and must always remain, in contrast with that whole, insignificant and a mere example. Their actions are always only an entirely partial realization of a single case; and, moreover, the realization of the same has no universal significance in the sense that the particular example of it is thereby of objective validity as law, or, as such law, makes its appearance. And for the same reason, to put the matter the other way, it is wholly unimportant whether the validity of right and justice is acknowledged by private individuals judging as individuals. The validity is a vital fact of State life which holds whether it be acknowledged or no. No doubt it is a matter of interest to the general public that every one should fall in with the order established and desire it; but the wishes of isolated individuals have no influence upon that interest in the sense that it is only by virtue of the assent of this or that person that right and a moral order is preserved. Such require no such isolated example of assent; and a breach of either is followed by punishment.

The subordinate position of private persons in the civilized State is finally emphasized in the fact that, whatever share any one may have in the general civic life, it is of a definite and in every case restricted character. In the real State work must have some relation to the general good[303], just as the active enterprise of the bourgeoisie in the commercial business is subdivided in the most varied way, so that the entire life of the State shall not appear as the concrete achievement of any single person, or in general can be entrusted to the arbitrary wishes, enterprise, courage, resources, and discretion of such, but on account of the fact that it comprises activities and trades of countless complexity, and must be carried out by associations of business men at least as varied. The punishment of a criminal is no longer an affair of personal heroism or the virtue of any one individual, but is throughout the entire process, in the investigation and discovery of the felonious act, in the pronouncement of judicial sentence and its execution, contributed to by different persons; nay, every important phase of such a process is in the same way subject to some kind of division of labour. To see that the laws are properly administered, then, is not within the special province of any one man, but results from an organized effort of great variety and the rules which direct it. Add to this every man who assists in such a process is bound to follow certain general principles which are laid down for his guidance, and all that is carried out under their direction is further subject to the criticism and control of yet higher officials.

(γ) In all such civic relations, then, we find that in a truly regulated State the public authority is not impressed with the imprimatur of any single person, but it is the general Will which prevails here in its universality, a condition under which the particular life of the individual has the appearance of vanishing or, at least, of becoming of a quite subsidiary importance. In a condition of things such as this the self-subsistency we were seeking for is out of the question. And for this reason we required for the free embodiment of individuality conditions which are precisely the reverse of this, in which the validity of the ethical principle derives its support from individuals, and only from individuals, men who make for themselves a great place in the arena of life through the activity of exceptional volitional power and the inherent greatness and effectiveness of their character. With such right is simply that which they choose to accept as such; and if that which is essentially moral is compromised by their action, there is no all-constraining public might which brings them to judgment and exacts punishment, but only the right of that inner voice of necessity, which accentuates itself as vital in particular character and through external circumstance and condition and only thus is actually existent. This is what differentiates punishment from revenge. The punishment exacted by law asserts the validity of the generally applicable and carefully defined right against the violation of that right, and makes use of the public power according to a definite process as its instrument, in other words, it employs a tribunal and a judge, an instrument to which personality is attached as something accidental. Even revenge may in a similar way find a justification; but such as it has is based entirely on the subjective conscience of those who deal with the criminal act, and, in pursuance of their own private convictions, avenge themselves on the unrighteous act and its perpetrator. The revenge of Orestes is, for example, justifiable; but he exacted it under the direction of the law which his own virtue prescribed, not as the execution of a judgment and a right. In the condition, then, that we claim as the most suitable for artistic treatment, that which is moral and just must be throughout personal, in the sense that its source is exclusively in the individual life, and it only is actual in such dependence. Moreover, to proceed with our contrasted conditions, in regulated States the external environment of man is made secure, and properly is protected, and he is only permitted to retain in absolute independence for himself his private views and opinions. But in that condition where the essential features of a State are not found the protection of life and property depends on the isolated energy and courage of each individual by himself, who is compelled to look after his own security and that of everything which belongs to him. Such a condition we are accustomed to identify with the heroic age. It is not, of course, our province here either to discuss or decide which of these two contrasted conditions of life is the worthier; suffice it to say that, so far as the Ideal of art is concerned, it is imperatively necessary that this hard and fixed line between the universal as an independent existence and individuality should be removed, however much this distinction may be necessary in other directions for the realization of human existence. The reason of this is that Art and its Ideal is just that universal, in so far as it may be presented to the perception of the senses, and by such presentment is permitted to enter into the variety and living forms of the world of objects.

(αα) What we were looking for, therefore, is supplied us by the heroic age, for it is here that virtue, ἀρετὴ in the full sense of that Greek word, creates the root-basis of actions. In this connection it would appear that we must distinguish between ἀρετὴ and virtus as understood by the Roman themselves. The Romans had already their State, Fatherland, and legal institutions, and as contrasted with the State, as the controlling object of all, they had surrendered personality. To be simply a citizen of Rome, to have one object for the imagination and for every other personal energy to centre itself upon, namely, the fatherland and its sovereign majesty, therein lies the earnestness and grit of Roman virtue. Heroes, on the contrary, are individuals who undertake and accomplish a complete enterprise in consistent reliance upon their personal resources and initiative, and with whom it is consequently a purely arbitrary act of their own when they execute anything in accordance with the moral principle. This immediate unity, however, of what we may call the substantive import and individuality of inclination, impulse, and will is the characteristic of Greek virtue. According to this view personality is a law to itself without any further subjection to a law, judgment, and tribunal of independent subsistence. The Greek heroes make their appearance in an epoch anterior to legal enactment, or they are themselves the founders of States, so that right and social order, law and ethical custom, emanate from them, and persist as their own creation in an indefeasible relation to them. In this way Hercules was regarded so highly by the ancients themselves, and represents an Ideal of original and heroic virtue. His free and self-reliant virtue, with which he championed the right and battled against the monstrosities of men and Nature is not a prevailing characteristic of the age, but belongs to him as an exclusive and unique possession. And we may add he was not strictly a moral hero, as his reception of the fifty daughters of Thespius in one night[304] clearly shows us; neither would it appear from the tale about the Augaean stables is he pre-eminent for gentility. He is rather the general type of self-reliant strength and resource in its championship of right and justice, to exemplify which he elected summarily and from a free choice to undergo countless toils and labours. It is true that some of his deeds were carried out at the instigation of Eurystheus, but this submission is, after all, rather a formal association than a real one, no connection at least of legal validity or inevitable necessity through which the strength of his self-reliant personality was diverted from its independent course.

The Homeric heroes are of a similar type. No doubt they have their clan chieftain; but the associating bond is no fixed relation already determined by law, which enforces their submission; of their own free will it is that they follow Agamemnon, who is no monarch in the modern sense of the term. Consequently every hero volunteers his own advice, the enraged Achilles acts independently for himself in his separation, and, speaking generally, each and all come and go, act, or take their leisure as they please. In much the same independent position, that is to say, united in no fixed organization, to which they are as individuals entirely subordinate, we find the heroes of Arabian poetry portrayed, and even the Shah-Rameh of Ferdusi furnishes us with similar examples. In latter-day Christendom the age of feudalism and knighthood supplies a fertile field for the free growth of heroic enterprise and the type of individuality which belongs to it. Of such are the heroes of the round table, no less than the heroic circle of which Charles the Great is the focus. Charles is, much like Agamemnon, surrounded with independent chieftains of heroic mould, a union which as such is powerless[305]. He is consequently always compelled to take counsel with them, however much each of them may be influenced by private passions; he may bluster like a very Olympian Jupiter, and none the less find himself and his undertakings suddenly left in the lurch while his confederates are off on some adventures of their own. The Cid is perhaps the most complete example of the type. He, too, is the ally of a confederacy, the dependent of a king, and is bound to render duty as vassal; but in opposition to this obligation he is pre-eminently influenced by the principle of honour, the purely personal consideration of his own glory, nobility, and reputation[306]. And so in this case also the king can only determine a fixed line of action and make war after consulting and obtaining the consent of his vassals. If this is not given they do not fight, and, moreover, a mere majority of votes is not sufficient to compel them. Every man is independent of his neighbour, and exercises his will and steers his own course as such. We find in the accounts given us of Saracen heroes an equally brilliant picture of self-reliant and still more inflexible personality. Even the Reinecke Fuchs fable is a fresh example of this state of things. Here, it is true, the lion is master and king, but the wolf and the bear sit in council. Even Reinecke and the rest do just what they like; and when there is a general outcry, the sly fellow either gets out of the mess with his story-telling, or manages to make some particular interest of king and queen work to his own advantage, and in his own cunning way talks over his sovereign somehow.