And then, unless we are wholly mad,--and passion does not always render this service,--it is very difficult to see reality otherwise than as it is not, that is to say, very imperfectly. On the other hand, one makes of an image what he wishes, unconsciously metamorphoses it, embellishes it to his own liking. There is at the bottom of the human soul an infinite power of feeling and loving to which the entire world does not answer, still less a single one of its creatures, however charming. All mortal beauty, viewed near by, does not suffice for this insatiable power which it excites and cannot satisfy. But from afar, its effects disappear or are diminished, shades are mingled and confounded in the clear-obscure of memory and dream, and the objects please more because they are less determinate. The peculiarity of men of imagination is, that they represent men and things otherwise than as they are, and that they have a passion for such fantastic images. Those that are called positive men, are men without imagination, who perceive only what they see, and deal with reality as it is instead of transforming it. They have, in general, more reason than sentiment; they may be seriously, profoundly honest; they will never be either poets or artists. What makes the poet or artist is, with a foundation of good sense and reason--without which all the rest is useless--a sensitive, even a passionate heart; above all, a vivid, a powerful imagination.

If sentiment acts upon imagination, we see that imagination returns with usury to sentiment what it gives.

This pure and ardent passion, this worship of beauty that makes the great artist, can be found only in a man of imagination. In fact, the sentiment of the beautiful may be awakened in each one of us before any beautiful object; but, when this object has disappeared, if its image does not subsist vivaciously retraced, the sentiment which it for a moment excited is little by little effaced; it may be revived at the sight of another object, but only to be extinguished again,--always dying to be born again at hazard; not being nourished, increased, exalted by the vivacious and continuous reproduction of its object in the imagination, it wants that inspiring power, without which there is no artist, no poet.

A word more on another faculty, which is not a simple faculty, but a happy combination of those which have just been mentioned,--taste, so ill treated, so arbitrarily limited in all theories.

If, after having heard a beautiful poetical or musical work, admired a statue or a picture, you are able to recall what your senses have perceived, to see again the absent picture, to hear again the sounds that no longer exist; in a word, if you have imagination, you possess one of the conditions without which there is no true taste. In fact, in order to relish the works of imagination, is it not necessary to have taste? Do we not need, in order to feel an author, not to equal him, without doubt, but to resemble him in some degree? Will not a man of sensible, but dry and austere mind, like Le Batteux or Condillac, be insensible to the happy darings of genius, and will he not carry into criticism a narrow severity, a reason very little reasonable--since he does not comprehend all the parts of human nature,--an intolerance that mutilates and blemishes art while thinking to purify it?

On the other hand, imagination does not suffice for the appreciation of beauty. Moreover, that vivacity of imagination so precious to taste, when it is somewhat restrained, produces, when it rules, only a very imperfect taste, which, not having reason for a basis, carelessly judges, runs the risk of misunderstanding the greatest beauty,--beauty that is regulated. Unity in composition, harmony of all the parts, just proportion of details, skilful combination of effects, discrimination, sobriety, measure, are so many merits it will little feel, and will not put in their place. Imagination has doubtless much to do with works of art; but, in fine, it is not every thing. Is it only imagination that makes the _Polyeucte_ and the _Misanthrope_, two incomparable marvels?

Is there not, also, in the profound simplicity of plan, in the measured development of action, in the sustained truth of characters, a superior reason, different from imagination which furnishes the superior colors, and from sensibility that gives the passion?

Besides imagination and reason, the man of taste ought to possess an enlightened but ardent love of beauty; he must take delight in meeting it, must search for it, must summon it. To comprehend and demonstrate that a thing is not beautiful, is an ordinary pleasure, an ungrateful task; but to discern a beautiful thing, to be penetrated with its beauty, to make it evident, and make others participate in our sentiment, is an exquisite joy, a generous task. Admiration is, for him who feels it, at once a happiness and an honor. It is a happiness to feel deeply what is beautiful; it is an honor to know how to recognize it. Admiration is the sign of an elevated reason served by a noble heart. It is above a small criticism, that is skeptical and powerless; but it is the soul of a large criticism, a criticism that is productive: it is, thus to speak, the divine part of taste.

After having spoken of taste which appreciates beauty, shall we say nothing of genius which makes it live again? Genius is nothing else than taste in action, that is to say, the three powers of taste carried to their culmination, and armed with a new and mysterious power, the power of execution. But we are already entering upon the domain of art. Let us wait, we shall soon find art again and the genius that accompanies it.

FOOTNOTES:

[96] Except the estimable _Essay on the Beautiful_, by P. Andre, a disciple of Malebranche, whose life was considerably prolonged into the eighteenth century. On P. Andre, see 3d Series, vol. iii., _Modern Philosophy_, p. 207, 516.

[97] See in the works of Diderot, _Pensees sur la Sculpture, les Salons_, etc.

[98] See 1st Series, vol. iv., explained and estimated, the theories of Hutcheson and Reid.

[99] The theory of Kant is found in the _Critique of Judgment_, and in the _Observations_ on the _Sentiment of the Beautiful and the Sublime_.

See the excellent translation made by M. Barny, 2 vols., 1846.

[100] On Hutcheson and Smith, their merits and defects, the part of truth and the part of error, which their philosophy contains, see the detailed lectures which we have devoted to them, 1st Series, vol. iv.

[101] See the exposition and refutation of the doctrine of Condillac and Helvetius, _Ibid._, vol. iii.

[102] See lecture 5, in this vol.

LECTURE VII.

THE BEAUTIFUL IN OBJECTS.

Refutation of different theories on the nature of the beautiful: the beautiful cannot be reduced to what is useful.--Nor to convenience.--Nor to proportion.--Essential characters of the beautiful.--Different kinds of beauties. The beautiful and the sublime. Physical beauty. Intellectual beauty. Moral beauty.--Ideal beauty: it is especially moral beauty.--God, the first principle of the beautiful.--Theory of Plato.

We have made known the beautiful in ourselves, in the faculties that perceive it and appreciate it, in reason, sentiment, imagination, taste; we come, according to the order determined by the method, to other questions: What is the beautiful in objects? What is the beautiful taken in itself? What are its characters and different species? What, in fine, is its first and last principle? All these questions must be treated, and, if possible, solved. Philosophy has its point of departure in psychology; but, in order to attain also its legitimate termination, it must set out from man, and reach things themselves.

The history of philosophy offers many theories on the nature of the beautiful: we do not wish to enumerate nor discuss them all; we will designate the most important.[103]

There is one very gross, which defines the beautiful as that which pleases the senses, that which procures an agreeable impression. We will not stop at this opinion. We have sufficiently refuted it in showing that it is impossible to reduce the beautiful to the agreeable.

A sensualism a little more wise puts the useful in the place of the agreeable, that is to say, changes the form of the same principle.

Neither is the beautiful the object which procures for us in the present moment an agreeable but fugitive sensation, it is the object which can often procure for us this same sensation or others similar. No great effort of observation or reasoning is necessary to convince us that utility has nothing to do with beauty. What is useful is not always beautiful. What is beautiful is not always useful, and what is at once useful and beautiful is beautiful for some other reason than its utility. Observe a lever or a pulley: surely nothing is more useful.

Nevertheless, you are not tempted to say that this is beautiful. Have you discovered an antique vase admirably worked? You exclaim that this vase is beautiful, without thinking to seek of what use it may be to you. Finally, symmetry and order are beautiful things, and at the same time, are useful things, because they economize space, because objects symmetrically disposed are easier to find when one wants them; but that is not what makes for us the beauty of symmetry, for we immediately seize this kind of beauty, and it is often late enough before we recognize the utility that is found in it. It even sometimes happens, that after having admired the beauty of an object, we are not able to divine its use, although it may have one. The useful is, then, entirely different from the beautiful, far from being its foundation.

A celebrated and very ancient[104] theory makes the beautiful consist in the perfect suitableness of means to their end. Here the beautiful is no longer the useful, it is the suitable; these two ideas must be distinguished. A machine produces excellent effects, economy of time, work, etc.; it is therefore useful. If, moreover, examining its construction, I find that each piece is in its place, and that all are skilfully disposed for the result which they should produce; even without regarding the utility of this result, as the means are well adapted to their end, I judge that there is suitableness in it. We are already approaching the idea of the beautiful; for we are no longer considering what is useful, but what is proper. Now, we have not yet attained the true character of beauty; there are, in fact, objects very well adapted to their end, which we do not call beautiful. A bench without ornament and without elegance, provided it be solid, provided all the parts are firmly connected, provided one may sit down on it with safety, provided it may be for this purpose suitable, agreeable even, may give an example of the most perfect adaptation of means to an end; it will not, therefore, be said that this bench is beautiful. There is here always this difference between suitableness and utility, that an object to be beautiful has no need of being useful, but that it is not beautiful if it does not possess suitableness, if there is in it a disagreement between the end and the means.

Some have thought to find the beautiful in proportion, and this is, in fact, one of the conditions of beauty, but it is not the only one. It is very certain, that an object ill-proportioned cannot be beautiful. There is in all beautiful objects, however far they may be from geometric form, a sort of living geometry. But, I ask, is it proportion that is dominant in this slender tree, with flexible and graceful branches, with rich and shady foliage? What makes the terrible beauty of a storm, what makes that of a great picture, of an isolated verse, or a sublime ode?

It is not, I know, wanting in law and rule, neither is it law and rule: often, even what at first strikes us is an apparent irregularity. It is absurd to pretend that what makes us admire all these things and many more, is the same quality that makes us admire a geometric figure, that is to say, the exact correspondence of parts.

What we say of proportion may be said of order, which is something less mathematical than proportion, but scarcely explains better what is free, varied, and negligent in certain beauties.

All these theories which refer beauty to order, harmony, and proportion, are at foundation only one and the same theory which in the beautiful sees unity before all. And surely unity is beautiful; it is an important part of beauty, but it is not the whole of beauty.

The most probable theory of the beautiful is that which composes it of two contrary and equally necessary elements, unity and variety. Behold a beautiful flower. Without doubt, unity, order, proportion, symmetry even, are in it; for, without these qualities, reason would be absent from it, and all things are made with a marvellous reason. But, at the same time, what a diversity! How many shades in the color, what richness in the least details! Even in mathematics, what is beautiful is not an abstract principle, it is a principle carrying with itself a long chain of consequences. There is no beauty without life, and life is movement, is diversity.

Unity and variety are applied to all orders of beauty. Let us rapidly run over these different orders.

In the first place, there are beautiful objects, to speak properly, and sublime objects. A beautiful object, we have seen, is something completed, circumscribed, limited, which all our faculties easily embrace, because the different parts are on a somewhat narrow scale. A sublime object is that which, by forms not in themselves disproportionate, but less definite and more difficult to seize, awakens in us the sentiment of the infinite.

There are two very distinct species of beauty. But reality is inexhaustible, and in all the degrees of reality there is beauty.

Among sensible objects, colors, sounds, figures, movements, are capable of producing the idea and the sentiment of the beautiful. All these beauties are arranged under that species of beauty which, right or wrong, is called physical beauty.

If from the world of sense we elevate ourselves to that of mind, truth, and science, we shall find there beauties more severe, but not less real. The universal laws that govern bodies, those that govern intelligences, the great principles that contain and produce long deductions, the genius that creates, in the artist, poet, or philosopher,--all these are beautiful, as well as nature herself: this is what is called intellectual beauty.

Finally, if we consider the moral world and its laws, the idea of liberty, virtue, and devotedness, here the austere justice of an Aristides, there the heroism of a Leonidas, the prodigies of charity or patriotism, we shall certainly find a third order of beauty that still surpasses the other two, to wit, moral beauty.

Neither let us forget to apply to all these beauties the distinction between the beautiful and the sublime. There are, then, the beautiful and the sublime at once in nature, in ideas, in sentiments, in actions.

What an almost infinite variety in beauty!

After having enumerated all these differences, could we not reduce them?

They are incontestable; but, in this diversity is there not unity? Is there not a single beauty of which all particular beauties are only reflections, shades, degrees, or degradations?

Plotinus, in his treatise _On the Beautiful_,[105] proposed to himself this question. He asks--What is the beautiful in itself? I see clearly that such or such a form is beautiful, that such or such an action is also beautiful; but why and how are these two objects, so dissimilar, beautiful? What is the common quality which, being found in these two objects, ranges them under the general idea of the beautiful?

It is necessary to answer this question, or the theory of beauty is a maze without issue; one applies the same name to the most diverse things, without understanding the real unity that authorizes this unity of name.

Either the diversities which we have designated in beauty are such that it is impossible to discover their relation, or these diversities are especially apparent, and have their harmony, their concealed unity.

Is it pretended that this unity is a chimera? Then physical beauty, moral beauty, and intellectual beauty, are strangers to each other.

What, then, will the artist do? He is surrounded by different beauties, and he must make a work; for such is the recognized law of art. But if this unity that is imposed upon him is a factitious unity, if there are in nature only essentially dissimilar beauties, art deceives and lies to us. Let it be explained, then, how falsehood is the law of art. That cannot be; the unity that art expresses, it must have somewhere caught a glimpse of, in order to transport it into its works.

We neither retract the distinction between the beautiful and the sublime, nor the other distinctions just now indicated; but it is necessary to re-unite after having distinguished them. These distinctions and these re-unions are not contradictory: the great law of beauty, like that of truth, is unity as well as variety. All is one, and all is diverse. We have divided beauty into three great classes--physical beauty, intellectual beauty, and moral beauty. We must now seek the unity of these three sorts of beauty. Now, we think that they resolve themselves into one and the same beauty, moral beauty, meaning by that, with moral beauty properly so called, all spiritual beauty.

Let us put this opinion to the proof of facts.

Place yourself before that statue of Apollo which is called Apollo Belvidere, and observe attentively what strikes you in that master-piece. Winkelmann, who was not a metaphysician, but a learned antiquarian, a man of taste without system, made a celebrated analysis of the Apollo.[106] It is curious to study it. What Winkelmann extols before all, is the character of divinity stamped upon the immortal youth that invests that beautiful body, upon the height, a little above that of man, upon the majestic altitude, upon the imperious movement, upon the _ensemble_, and all the details of the person. The forehead is indeed that of a god,--an unalterable placidity dwells upon it. Lower down, humanity reappears somewhat; and that is very necessary, in order to interest humanity in the works of art. In that satisfied look, in the distension of the nostrils, in the elevation of the under lip, are at once felt anger mingled with disdain, pride of victory, and the little fatigue which it has cost. Weigh well each word of Winkelmann: you will find there a moral impression. The tone of the learned antiquary is elevated, little by little, to enthusiasm, and his analysis becomes a hymn to spiritual beauty.

Instead of a statue, observe a real and living man. Regard that man who, solicited by the strongest motives to sacrifice duty to fortune, triumphs over interest, after an heroic struggle, and sacrifices fortune to virtue. Regard him at the moment when he is about to take this magnanimous resolution; his face will appear to you beautiful, because it expresses the beauty of his soul. Perhaps, under all other circumstances, the face of the man is common, even trivial; here, illuminated by the soul which it manifests, it is ennobled, and takes an imposing character of beauty. So, the natural face of Socrates[107]

contrasts strongly with the type of Grecian beauty; but look at him on his death-bed, at the moment of drinking the hemlock, convening with his disciples on the immortality of the soul, and his face will appear to you sublime.[108]