WALTER PATER
[excerpt
from]
LONDON
AND NEW YORK
1893
[...]Hellenism,
which is the principle pre-eminently of intellectual light, (our modern culture
may have more colour, the medieval spirit greater heat and profundity, but Hellenism
is pre-eminent for light,) has always been most effectively conceived by those
who have crept into it out of an intellectual world in which the sombre elements
predominate. So it had been in the ages of the Renaissance. This repression,
removed at last, gave force and glow to Winckelmann’s native affinity to the
Hellenic spirit[...]
GOETHE’S fragments of art-criticism contain a few pages
of strange pregnancy on the character of Winckelmann. He speaks of the teacher
who had made his career possible, but whom he had never seen, as of an abstract
type of culture, consummate, tranquil, withdrawn already into the region of
ideals, yet retaining colour from the incidents of a passionate intellectual life. He classes
him with certain works of art, possessing an inexhaustible gift of suggestion,
to which criticism may return again and again with renewed freshness. Hegel,
in his lectures on the Philosophy of Art, estimating the work of his
predecessors, has also passed a remarkable judgment on Winckelmann’s writings:
– “Winckelmann, by contemplation of the ideal works of the ancients,
received a sort of inspiration, through which he opened a new sense for the
study of art. He is to be regarded as one of those who, in the sphere of art,
have known how to initiate a new organ for the human spirit.” That it has given
a new sense, that it has laid open a new organ, is the highest that can be said
of any critical effort. It interesting then to ask what kind of a man it was
who thus laid open a new organ. Under what conditions was that effected?
Johann Joachim Winckelmann was born at Stendal,
in Brandenburg, in the year 1717. The child of a poor tradesman, he passed through
many struggles in early youth, the memory of which ever remained in him
as fitful cause of dejection. In 1763, in the full emancipation of his spirit,
looking over the beautiful Roman prospect, he writes – “One gets spoiled here,
but God owed me this; in my youth I suffered too much.” Destined to assert and
interpret the charm of the Hellenic spirit, he served first a painful apprenticeship
in the tarnished intellectual world of Germany in the earlier half of the eighteenth
century. Passing out of that into the happy light of the antique, he had a sense
of exhilaration almost physical. We find him as a child in the dusky precincts
of a German school, hungrily feeding on a few colourless books. The master of
this school grows blind; Winckelmann becomes his famulus. The old man
would have had him study theology. Winckelmann, free of the master’s library,
chooses rather to become familiar with the Greek classics. Herodotus and Homer
win, with their “vowelled” Greek, his warmest enthusiasm; whole nights of fever
are devoted to them; disturbing dreams of an Odyssey of his own cone to him.
“He felt himself”, says Madame de Staël, “an ardent attraction towards the south.
In German imaginations even now traces are often to be found of that love of
the sun that weariness of the north (cette fatigue du nord) which carried
the northern peoples away into the countries of the south. A fine sky brings
to birth sentiments not unlike the love of one’s Fatherland.”
To most of us, after all our steps towards it, the antique world, in spite of its intense outlines, its own perfect self-expression, still remains faint and remote. To him, closely limited except on the side of the ideal, building for his dark poverty “a house not made with hands,” it early came to seem more real than the present. In the fantastic plans of foreign travel continually passing through his mind, to Egypt, for instance, and to France, there seems always to be rather a wistful sense of something, than the desire of discovering anything new. Goethe has told us how, in his eagerness actually to handle the antique, he became interested in the insignificant vestiges of it which the neighbourhood of Strasbourg afforded. So we hear of Winckelmann’s boyish antiquarian wanderings among the ugly Brandenburg sandhills. Such a conformity between himself and Winckelmann, Goethe would have gladly noted.
At twenty-one he enters the University of Halle, to study theology, as his friends desire; instead, he becomes the enthusiastic translator of Herodotus. The condition of Greek learning in German schools and universities had fallen, and there were no professors at Halle who could satisfy his sharp, intellectual craving. Of his professional education he always speaks with scorn, claiming to have been his own teacher from first to last. His appointed teachers did not perceive that a new source of culture was within their hands. Homo vagus et inconstans! – one of them pedantically reports of the future pilgrim to Rome, unaware on which side his irony was whetted. When professional education confers nothing but irritation on a Schiller, no one ought to be surprised; for Schiller, and such as he, are primarily spiritual adventurers. But that Winckelmann, the votary of the gravest of intellectual traditions, should get nothing but an attempt as suppression from the professional guardians of learning, is what may well surprise us.
In 1743 he became master of a school at Seehausen. This was the most wearisome period of his life. Notwithstanding a success in dealing with children, which seems to testify to something simple and primeval in his nature, he found the work of teaching very depressing. Engaged in this work, he writes that he still has within him a longing desire to attain to the knowledge of beauty – sehnlich wünschte zur Kenntniss des Schönen zu gelangen. He had to shorten his nights, sleeping only four hours, to gain time for reading. And here Winckelmann made a step forward in culture. He multiplied his intellectual force by detaching from it all flaccid interests. He renounced mathematics and law, in which his reading had been considerable, all but the literature of the arts. Nothing was to enter into his life unpenetrated by its central enthusiasm. All this time he undergoes the charm of Voltaire. Voltaire belongs to that flimsier, more artificial, classical tradition, which Winckelmann was one day to supplant, by the clear ring, the eternal outline, of the genuine antique. But it proves the authority of such a gift as Voltaire’s that it allures and sins even those born to supplant it. Voltaire’s impression on Winckelmann was never effaced; and it gave him a consideration for French literature which contrasts with his contempt for the literary products of Germany. German literature transformed , siderealised, as we see it in Goethe, reckons Winckelmann among its initiators. But Germany at that time presented nothing in which he could have anticipated Iphigenie, and the formation of an effective classical tradition in German literature.
Under this purely literary influence, Winckelmann protests against Christian Wolff and the philosophers. Goethe, in speaking of this protest, alludes to his own obligations to Emmanuel Kant. Kant’s influence over the culture of Goethe, which he tells us could not have been resisted by him without loss, consisted in a severe limitation to the concrete. But he adds, that in born antiquaries, like Winckelmann, a constant handling of the antique, with its eternal outline, maintains that limitation as effectually as a critical philosophy. Plato, however, saved so often for his redeeming literary manner, is expected from Winckelmann’s proscription of the philosophers. The modern student most often meets Plato on that side which seems to pass beyond Plato into a world no longer pagan, and based upon the conception of a spiritual life. But the element of affinity which he presents to Winckelmann is that which is wholly Greek, and alien from the Christian world, represented by that group of brilliant youths in the Lysis, still uninfected by any spiritual sickness, finding the end of all endeavour in the aspects of the human form, the continual stir and motion of a comely human life.
This new-found interest in Plato’s dialogues could not fail to increase his desire to visit the countries of the classical tradition . “It is my misfortune,” he writes, “that I was not born to great place, wherein I might have had cultivation, and the opportunity of following my instinct and forming myself.” A visit to Rome probably was already designed, and he silently preparing for it. Count Bünau, the author of a historical work then of note, had collected at Nöthenitz a valuable library, now part of the library of Dresden. In 1784 Winckelmann wrote to Bünau in halting French: – He is emboldened, he says, by Bünau’s indulgence for needy men of letters. He desires only to devote himself to study, having never allowed himself to be dazzled by favourable prospects in the Church. He hints at his doubtful position “in a metaphysical age, by which humane literature is trampled under foot. At present ,” he goes on, “little value is set on Greek literature, to which I have devoted myself so far as I could penetrate, when good books are so scarce and expensive.” Finally, he desires a place in some corner of Bünau’s library. “Perhaps, at some future time, I shall become more useful to the public, if, drawn from obscurity in whatever way, I can find means to maintain myself in the capital.”
Soon afterwards we find Winckelmann in the library at Nöthenitz. Thence he made many visits to the collections of antiquities at Dresden. He became acquainted with many artists, above all with Oeser, Goethe’s future friend and master, who, uniting a high culture with the practical knowledge of art, was fitted to minister to Winckelmann’s culture. And now a new channel of communion with the Greek life was opened for him. Hitherto he had handled the words only of Greek poetry, stirred indeed and roused by them, yet dividing beyond the words some unexpressed pulsation of sensuous life. Suddenly he is in contact with that life, still fervent in the relics of plastic art. Filled as our culture is with the classical spirit, we can hardly imagine how deeply the human mind moved, when, at the Renaissance, in the midst of a frozen world, the buried fire of ancient art rose up from under the soil. Winckelmann here reproduces for us the earlier sentiment of the Renaissance. On a sudden the imagination feels itself free. How facile and direct, it seems to say, is this life of the senses and the understanding, when once we have apprehended it! Here, surely, is that more liberal mode of life we have been seeking so long, so near to us all the while. How mistaken and round-about have been our efforts to reach it by mystic passion, and monastic reverie; how they have deflowered the flesh; how little have they really emancipated us! Hermione melts from her stony posture, and the lost proportions of life right themselves. Here, then, in vivid realisation, we see the native tendency of Winckelmann to escape from abstract theory to intuition, to the exercise of sight and touch. Lessing, in the Laocoon, has theorised finely on the relation of poetry to sculpture; and philosophy may give us theoretical reasons why not poetry but sculpture should be the most sincere and exact expression of the Greek ideal. By a happy, unperplexed dexterity, Winckelmann solves the question in the concrete. It is what Goethe calls his Gewahrwerden der griechischen Kunst, his finding of Greek art.
Through the tumultuous richness of Goethe’s culture, the influence of Winckelmann is always discernible, as the strong, regulative under-current of a clear, antique motive. “One learns nothing from him,” he says to Eckermann, “but one becomes something.” If we ask what the secret of this influence with one’s was, Goethe himself will tell us – wholeness, unity with one’s self, intellectual integrity. And yet these expressions, because they fit Goethe, with his universal culture, so well, seem hardly to describe the narrow, exclusive interest of Winckelmann. Doubtless Winckelmann’s perfection is a narrow perfection: his feverish nursing of the one motive of his life is a contrast to Goethe’s various energy. But what effected Goethe, what instructed him and ministered to his culture, was the integrity, the truth to its type, of the given force. The development of this force was the single interest of Winckelmann, unembarrassed by anything else in him. Other interests, practical or intellectual, those slighter talents and motives not supreme, which in most men are the waste part of nature, and drain away their vitality, he plucked out and cast from him. The protracted longing of his youth is not a vague, romantic longing: he knows what he longs for, what he wills. Within its severe limits his enthusiasm burns like lava. “You know,” says Lavater, speaking of Winckelmann’s countenance, “ that I consider ardour and indifference by no means incompatible in the same character. If ever there was a striking instance of that union, it is in the countenance before us.” “A lowly childhood,” says Goethe, “insufficient instruction in youth, broken, distracted studies in early manhood, the burden of school-keeping! He was thirty years old before he enjoyed a single favour of fortune: But so soon as he had attained to an adequate condition of freedom, he appears before us consummate and entire, complete in the ancient sense.”
But his hair is turning grey, and he has nit yet reached the south. The Saxon court had become Roman Catholic, and the way to favour at Dresden was through Roman ecclesiasts. Probably the thought of a profession of the papal religion was not new to Winckelmann. At one time he had thought of beginning his way to Rome, from cloister to cloister, under the pretence of a disposition to change his faith. In 1751, the papal nuncio, Archinto, was one of the visitors at Nöthenitz. He suggested Rome as the fitting stage for Winckelmann’s accomplishment, and held out the hope of a place in the pope’s library. Cardinal Passionei, charmed with Winckelmann’s beautiful Greek writing, was ready to play the part of Maecenas, if the indispensable change were made. Winckelmann accepted the bribe, and visited the nuncio at Dresden. Unquiet still at the word “profession”, not without a struggle, he joined the Roman Catholic Church, July the 11th, 1754.
Goethe boldly pleads that Winckelmann was a pagan, that the landmarks of Christendom meant nothing to him. It is clear that he intended to deceive no one by his disguise; fears of the inquisition are sometimes visible during his life in Rome; he entered Rome notoriously with the works of Voltaire in his possession; the thought of what Count Bünau might be thinking of him seems to have been his greatest difficulty. On the other hand, he may have had a sense of a certain antique and as it were pagan grandeur in the Roman Catholic religion. Turning from the crabbed Protestantism, which had been the ennui of his youth, he might reflect that while Rome had reconciled itself to the Renaissance, the Protestant principle in art cut off Germany from the supreme tradition of beauty. And yet to that transparent nature, with its simplicity as of the earlier world, the loss of absolute sincerity must have been a real loss. Goethe understands that Winckelmann had made this sacrifice. Yet at the bar of the highest criticism, perhaps, Winckelmann may be absolved. The insincerity of his religious profession was only one incident of a culture in which the moral instinct, like the religious or political, was merged in the artistic. But then the artistic interest was that, by desperate faithfulness to which Winckelmann was saved from mediocrity, which, breaking through no bounds, moves ever in a bloodless routine, and misses its one chance in the life of the spirit and the intellect. There have been instances of culture developed by every high motive in turn, and yet intense at every point; and the aim of our culture should be to attain not only as intense but as complete a life as possible. But often life is only possible at all, on condition of the selection of that in which one’s motive is native and strong; and this selection involves the renunciation of a crown reserved for others. Which is better? – to lay open a new sense, to initiate a new organ for the human spirit, or to cultivate many types of perfection up to a point which leaves us still beyond the range of their transforming power? Savonarola is one type of success; Winckelmann is another; criticism can reject neither, because each is true to itself. Winckelmann himself explains the motive of his life when he says, “It will be my highest reward, if posterity acknowledges that I have written worthily.”
For
a time he remained at Dresden. There his first book appeared, Thoughts on
the Imitation of Greek Works of Art in Painting and Sculpture. Full of obscurities
as it was, obscurities which baffled but did not offend Goethe when he first
turned to art-criticism, its purpose was direct – an appeal from the artificial
classicism of the day to the study of the antique. The book was well received,
and a pension supplied through the king’s confessor. In September 1755 he started
for Rome, in the company of a young Jesuit. He was introduced to Raphael Mengs,
a painter then of note, and found a home near him, in the artists’ quarter,
in a place where he could “overlook, far and wide, the eternal city.” At first
he was perplexed with the sense of being a stranger on what was to him, spiritually,
native soil. “Unhappily,” he cries in French, often selected by him as the vehicle
of strong feeling, “I am one of those whom the Greeks call ὀψιμαθεῖς. – I have come into the world and into Italy too late.” More
than thirty years afterwards, Goethe also, after many aspirations and severe
preparation of mind, visited Italy. In early manhood, just as he too was finding
Greek art, the rumour of that true artist’s life of Winckelmann in Italy had
strongly moved in. At Rome, spending a whole year drawing from the antique,
in preparation for Iphigenie, he finds the stimulus of Winckelmann’s
memory ever active. Winckelmann’s Roman life was simple, primeval, Greek. His
delicate constitution permitted him the use only of bread and wine. Condemned
by many as a renegade, he had no desire for places of honour, but only to see
his merits acknowledged, and existence assured to him. He was simple without
being niggardly; he desired to be neither poor nor rich.
Winckelmann
first years in Rome present all the elements of an intellectual situation of
the highest interest. The beating of the soul against its bars, the sombre aspect,
the alien traditions, the still barbarous literature of Germany, are far off.
Before him are adequate conditions of culture, the sacred soil itself, the first
tokens of the advent of the new German literature, with its broad horizons,
its boundless intellectual promise. Dante, passing from the darkness of the
Inferno, is filled with a sharp and joyful sense of light, which makes
him deal with it, in the opening of the Purgatorio, in a wonderfully
touching and penetrative way. Hellenism, which is the principle pre-eminently
of intellectual light (our modern culture may have more colour, the medieval
spirit greater heat and profundity, but Hellenism is pre-eminent for light,)
has always been most effectively conceived by those who have crept into it out
of an intellectual world in which the sombre elements predominate. So it had
been in the ages of the Renaissance. This repression, removed at last, gave
force and glow to Winckelmann’s native affinity to the Hellenic spirit. “There
had been known before him,” says Madame de Staël, “learned men who might be
consulted like books; but no one had, if I may say so, made himself a pagan
for the purpose of penetrating antiquity.” “One is always a poor executant of
conceptions not one’s own.” – On execute mal ce qu’on n’a pas conçu soi-même
[words by Charlotte Corday before the Convention] – are true in their
measure of every genuine enthusiasm, – that, in the broad Platonic sense of
the Phaedrus, was the secret of his divinatory power over the Hellenic
world. This enthusiasm, dependent as it is to a great degree on bodily temperament,
has a power of reinforcing the purer emotions of the intellect with an almost
physical excitement. That his affinity with Hellenism was not merely intellectual,
that the subtler threads of temperament were in-woven in it, is proved by his
romantic, fervent friendships with young men. He has known, he says, many young
men more beautiful than Guido’s archangel. These friendships, bringing him into
contact with the pride of human form, and staining the thoughts with its bloom,
perfected his reconciliation to the spirit of Greek sculpture. A letter on taste,
addressed from Rome to a young nobleman, Friedrich von Berg, is the record of
such a friendship.
“I
shall excuse my delay,” he begins, “in fulfilling my promise of an essay on
the taste for beauty in works of art, in the words of Pindar. He says to Agesidamus,
a youth of Locri – ἰδέᾳ τε καλόν, ὥρᾳ τε
κεκραμένον –
whom he had kept waiting for an intended ode, that a debt paid with usury is
the end of reproach. This may win your good-nature on behalf of my present essay,
which has turned out far more detailed and circumstantial that I had at first
intended.
“It
is from yourself that the subject is taken. Our intercourse has been short,
too short both for you and me; but the first time I saw you, the affinity of
our spirits was revealed to me: your culture proved that my hope was not groundless;
and I found in a beautiful body a soul created for nobleness, gifted with the
sense of beauty. My parting from you was therefore one of the most painful in
my life; and that this feeling continues our common friend is witness, for your
separation from me leaves me no hope of seeing you again. Let this essay be
a memorial of our friendship, which, on my side, is free from every selfish
motive, and ever remains subject and dedicate to yourself alone.”
The
following passage is characteristic –
“As
it is confessedly the beauty of man which is to be conceived under one general
idea, so I have noticed that those who are observant of beauty only in women,
and are moved little or not at all by the beauty of men, seldom have an impartial,
vital, inborn instinct for beauty and art. To such persons the beauty of Greek
art will ever seem wanting, because its supreme beauty is rather male than female.
But the beauty of art demands a higher sensibility than the beauty of nature,
because the beauty of art, like tears shed at a play, gives no pain, is without
life, and must be awakened and inspired by culture. Now, as the spirit of culture
is much more ardent in youth than in manhood, the instinct of which I am speaking
must be exercised and directed to what is beautiful, before that age is reached,
at which one would be afraid to confess that one had no taste for it.”
Certainly,
of that beauty of living form which regulated Winckelmann’s friendships, it could not be
said that it gave no pain. One notable friendship, the fortune of which we may
trace through his letters, begins with an antique, chivalrous letter in French,
and ends noisily in a burst of angry fire. Far from reaching the quietism, the
bland indifference of art, such attachments are nevertheless more susceptible
than any others of equal strength of a purely intellectual culture. Of passion,
of physical excitement, they contain only just so much as stimulates the eye
to the finest delicacies of colour and from. These friendships, often the caprices
of a moment, make Winckelmann’s letters, with their troubled colouring, an instructive
but bizarre addition to the History of Art, that shrine of grave and
mellow light around the mute Olympian family. The impression which Winckelmann’s
literary life conveyed to those about him, was that of excitement, intuition,
inspiration, rather than the contemplative evolution of general principles.
The quick, susceptible enthusiast, betraying his temperament even in appearance,
by his olive complexion, his deep-seated piercing eyes, his rapid movements,
apprehended the subtlest principles of the Hellenic manner, not through the
understanding, but by instinct or touch. A German biographer of Winckelmann
has compared him to Columbus. That is not the aptest of comparisons; but it
reminds one of a passage in which Edgar Quinet describes the great discoverer’s
famous voyage. His science was often at fault; but he had a way of estimating
at once the slightest indication of land, in a floating weed or passing bird;
he seemed actually to come nearer to nature than other men. And that world in
which others had moved with so much embarrassment, seems to call out in Winckelmann
new senses fitted to deal with it. He is in touch with it; it penetrates him,
and becomes part of his temperament. He remodels his writings with constant
renewal of insight; he catches the thread of a whole sequence of laws in some
hollowing of the land, or dividing of the hair; he seems to realise that fancy
of the reminiscence of a forgotten knowledge hidden for a time in the mind itself;
as if the mind of one, lover and philosopher at some phase of pre-existence
– φιλοσφήσας πότε
μετ’ ἔρωτος – fallen into a new cycle,
were beginning its intellectual career over again, yet with a certain power
of anticipating its results. And so comes the truth of Goethe’s judgments on
his works; they are a life, a living thing, designed for those who are alive
– ein Lebendifes für die Lebendingen geschrieben, ein Leben selbst.
In
1758 Cardinal Albani, who had formed in his Roman villa a precious collection
of antiquities, became Winckelmann’s patron. Pompeii had just opened its treasures;
Winckelmann gathered its first-fruits. But his plan of a visit to Greece remained
unfulfilled. From his first arrival in Rome he had kept the History of Ancient
Art ever in view. All his other writings were a preparation for that. It
appeared, finally, in 1764; but even after its publication Winckelmann was still
employed in perfecting it. It is since his time that many of the most significant
examples of Greek art have been submitted to criticism. He had seen little or
nothing of what we ascribe to the age of Pheidias; and his conception of Greek
art tends, therefore, to put the mere elegance of the imperial society of ancient
Rome in place of the severe and chastened grace of the palaestra. For
the most part he had to penetrate to Greek art through copies, imitations, and
later Roman art itself; and it is not surprising that this turbid medium has
left in Winckelmann’s actual results much that a more privileged criticism can
correct.
He
had been twelve years in Rome. Admiring Germany had made many calls to him.
At last, in 1768, he set out to revisit the country of his birth; and as he
left Rome, a strange, inverted home-sickness, a strange reluctance to leave
it at all, came over him. He reached Vienna. There he was loaded with honours
and presents: other cities were awaiting him. Goethe, then nineteen years old,
studying art at Leipsic, was expecting his coming, with that wistful eagerness
which marked his youth, when the news of Winckelmann’s murder arrived. All his”
weariness of the north” had revived with double force. He left Vienna, intending
to hasten back to Rome, and at Trieste a delay of a few days occurred. With
characteristic openness, Winckelmann had confined his plans to a fellow-traveller,
a man named Arcangeli, and had shown his the gold medals received at Vienna.
Arcangeli’s avarice was roused. One
morning he entered Winckelmann’s room, under pretence of taking leave. Winckelmann
was then ariting “memoranda for the future editor of the History of Art”,
still seeking the perfection of his great work. Arcangeli begged to see the
medals once more. As Winckelmann stooped down to take them from the chest, a
cord was thrown round his neck. Some time afterwards, a child with whose companionship
Winckelmann had beguiled his delay, knocked at the door, and receiving no answer,
gave the alarm. Winckelmann was found dangerously wounded, and died a few hours
later, after receiving the last sacraments. It seemed as if the gods, in reward
for his devotion to them, had given him a death which, for its swiftness and
its opportunity, he might well have desired. “He has,” says Goethe, “the advantage
of figuring un the memory of posterity, as one eternally able and strong; for
the image in which one leaves the world, is that in which one moves among the
shadows.” Yet, perhaps, it is not fanciful to regret that his proposed meeting
with Goethe never took place. Goethe, then in all the pregnancy of his wonderful
youth, still unruffled by the “press and storm” of his earlier manhood, was
awaiting Winckelmann with a curiosity of the worthiest kind. As it WAS, Winckelmann
became to him something like what Virgil was to Dante. And Winckelmann, with
his fiery friendship, had reached that age and that period of culture at which
emotions hitherto fitful, sometimes concentrate themselves in a vital, unchangeable
relationship. German literary history seems to have lost the chance of one of
those famous friendships, the very tradition of which becomes a stimulus to
culture, and exercises an imperishable influence.
In
one of the frescoes of the Vatican, Raphael has commemorated the tradition of
the Catholic religion. Against a space of tranquil sky, broken in upon by the
beatific vision, are ranged the great personages of Christian history, with
the Sacrament in the midst. Another fresco of Raphael in the same apartment
presents a very different company, Dante alone appearing in both. Surrounded
by the muses of Greek mythology, under a thicket of laurel, sits Apollo, with
the sources of Castalia at his feet. On either side are grouped those on whom the spirit of
Apollo descended, the classical and Renaissance poets, to whom the waters of
Castalia come down, a river making glad this other “City of God”. In this fresco
it is the classical tradition, the orthodoxy of taste, that Raphael commemorates.
Winckelmann’s intellectual history authenticates the claims of this tradition
in human culture. In the countries where that tradition arose, where it still
lurked about its own artistic relics, and changes of language had not broken
its continuity, national pride might sometimes light up anew an enthusiasm for
it. Aliens might imitate that enthusiasm, and classicism become from time to
time an intellectual fashion. But Winckelmann was not further removed by language,
than by local aspects and associations, lived at a time when, in Germany, classical
studies were out of favour. Yet, remote in time and place, he feels after the
Hellenic world, divines those channels of ancient art, in which its life still
circulates, and, like Scyles, the half-barbarous yet Hellenising king, in the
beautiful story of Herodotus, is irresistibly attracted by it. This testimony
to the authority of the Hellenic tradition, its fitness to satisfy some vital
requirement of the intellect, which Winckelmann contributes as a solitary man
of genius, is offered also by the general history of the mind. The spiritual
forces of the past, which have prompted and informed the culture of a succeeding
age, live, indeed, within that culture, but with an absorbed, underground life.
The Hellenic element has not been so absorbed, or content with this underground
life; from time to time it has started to the surface; culture has been drawn back
to its sources to be clarified and corrected. Hellenism is nor merely an absorbed
element in our intellectual life; it is a conscious tradition in it.
Again,
individual genius works ever under conditions of time and place: its products
are coloured by the varying aspects of nature, and type of human form, and outward
manners of life. There is thus an element of change in art; criticism must never
for a moment forget that “the artist is the child of his time.” But besides
these conditions of time and place, and independent of them, there is also an
element of permanence, a standard of taste, which genius confesses. This standard
is maintained in a purely intellectual tradition. It acts upon the artist, not
as one of the influences of his own age, but those artistic products of the
previous generation which first excited, while they directed into a particular
channel, his sense of beauty. The supreme artistic products of succeeding generations
thus form a series of elevated points, taking each from each the reflexion of
a strange light, the source of which is not in the atmosphere around and above
them, but in a stage of society remote from ours. The standard of taste, then,
was fixed in Greece, at a definite historical period.. A tradition for all succeeding
generations, it originates in a spontaneous growth out of the influences of
Greek society. What were the conditions under which this ideal, this standard
of artistic orthodoxy, was generated? How was Greece enabled to force its thought
upon Europe?
This pagan sentiment measures the sadness with which the human mind is filled, whenever its thoughts wander far from what is here, and now. It is beset by notions of irresistible natural powers, for the most part ranged against man, but the secret also of his fortune, making the earth golden and the grape fiery for him. He makes gods in his own image, gods smiling and flower-crowned, or bleeding by some sad fatality, to console him by their wounds, never closed from generation to generation. It is with a rush of home-sickness that the thought of death presents itself. He would remain at home for ever on the earth if he could. As it loses its colour and the senses fail, he clings ever closer to it; but since the mouldering of bones and flesh must go on to the end, he is careful for charms and talismans, which may chance to have some friendly power in them, when the inevitable shipwreck comes. Such sentiment is a part of the eternal basis of all religions, modified indeed by changes of time and place, but indestructible, because its root is so deep in the earth of man’s nature. The breath of religious initiators passes over them; a few “rise up with wings as eagles,” but the broad level of religious life is not permanently changed. Religious progress, like all purely spiritual progress, is confined to a few. This sentiment attaches itself in the earliest times to certain usages of patriarchal life, the kindling of fire, the washing of the body, the slaughter of the flock, the gathering of the harvest, holidays and dances. Here are the beginnings of a ritual, at first as occasional and unfixed as the sentiment which it expresses, but destined to become the permanent element of religious life. The usages of patriarchal life change; but this germ of ritual remains, promoted now with a consciously religious motive, losing its domestic character, and therefore becoming more and more inexplicable with each generation. Such pagan worship, in spite of local variations, essentially one, is an element in all religions. It is the anodyne which the religious principle, like one administering opiates to the incurable, has added to the law which makes life sombre for the vast majority of mankind.
More definite religious conceptions come from other sources, and fix themselves upon this ritual in various ways, changing it, and giving it new meanings. In Greece they were derived from mythology, itself not due to a religious source at all,, but developing in the course of time into a body of religious conceptions, entirely human in form and character. To the unprogressive ritual element it brought these conceptions, itself – ἡ πτεροῦ δύναμις, the power of the wing – an element of refinement, of ascension, with the promise of an endless destiny. While the ritual remains unchanged, the aesthetic element, only accidentally connected with it, expands with the freedom and mobility of the things of the intellect. Always, the fixed element is the religious observance; the fluid, unfixed element is the myth, the religious conception. This religion is itself pagan, and has in any broad view of it the pagan sadness. It does not at once, and for the majority, become the higher Hellenic religion. The country people, of course, cherish the unlovely idols of an earlier time, such as those which Pausanias found still devoutly preserved in Arcadia. Athenaeus tells the story of one who, coming to a temple of Latona, had expected to find some worthy presentment of the mother of Apollo, and laughed on seeing only a shapeless wooden figure. The wilder people have wilder gods, which, however, in Athens, or Corinth, or Lacedaemon, changing ever with the worshippers in whom they live and move and have their being, borrow something of the lordliness and distinction of human nature there. Greek religion too has its mendicants, its purifications, its antinomian mysticism, its garments offered to the gods, its statues worn with kissing, its exaggerated superstitions for the vulgar only, its worship of sorrow, its addolorata, its mournful mysteries. Scarcely a wild or melancholy note of the medieval church but was anticipated by Greek polytheism! What should we have thought of the vertiginous prophetess at the very centre of Greek religion? The supreme Hellenic culture is a sharp edge of light across this gloom. The fiery, stupefying wine becomes in a happier climate clear and exhilarating. The Dorian worship of Apollo, rational, chastened, debonair, with his unbroken daylight, always opposed to the sad Chthonian divinities, is the aspiring element, by force and spring of which Greek religion sublimes itself. Out of Greek religion, under happy conditions, arises Greek art, to minister to human culture. It was the privilege of Greek religion to be able to transform itself into an artistic ideal.
For the thoughts of the Greeks about themselves, and their relation to the world generally, were ever in the happiest readiness to be transformed into objects for the senses. In this lies the main distinction between Greek art and the mystical art of the Christian middle age, which is always struggling to express thoughts beyond itself. Take, for instance, a characteristic work of the middle age, Angelico’s Coronation of the Virgin, in the cloister of Saint Mark’s at Florence. In some strange halo of a moon Jesus and the Virgin Mother are seated, clad in mystical white raiment, half shroud , half priestly linen. Jesus, with rosy nimbus and the long pale hair – tanquam lana alba et tanquam nix – of the figure of the Apocalypse, with slender finger-tips is setting a crown of pearl on the head of Mary, who, corpse-like in her refinement, is bending forward to receive it, the light lying like snow upon her forehead. Certainly, it cannot be said of Angelico’s fresco that it throws into a sensible form our highest thoughts about man and his relation to the world; but it did not do this adequately even for Angelico. For him, all that is outward or sensible in his work – the hair like wool, the rosy nimbus, the crown of pearl – is only the symbol or type of a really inexpressible world; he would have shrunk from the notion that what the eye apprehended was all. Such forms of art, then, are inadequate to the matter they clothe; they remain ever below its level. Something of this kind is true also of oriental art. As in the middle age from an exaggerated inwardness, so in the East from a vagueness, a want of definition, in thought, the matter presented to art is unmanageable, and the forms of sense struggle vainly with it. The many-headed gods of the East, the orientalised, many-breasted Diana of Ephesus, like Angelico’s fresco, are at best overcharged symbols, a means of hinting at an idea which art cannot fitly or completely express, which still remains in the world of shadows.
But take a work of Greek art, – the Venus of Melos. That is in no sense a symbol, a suggestion, of anything beyond its own victorious fairness. The mind begins and ends with the finite image, yet loses no part of the spiritual motive. This motive is not lightly and loosely attached to the sensuous form, as its meaning to an allegory, but saturates and is identical with it. The Greek mind had advanced to a particular stage of self-reflexion, but was careful not to pass beyond it. In oriental thought there is a vague conception of life everywhere, but no true appreciation of itself by the mind, no knowledge of the distinction of man’s nature: in its consciousness of itself, humanity is still confused with the fantastic, indeterminate life of the animal and vegetable world. In Greek thought, on the other hand, the “lordship of the soul” is recognised; that lordship gives authority and divinity to human eyes and hands and feet; inanimate nature is thrown into the background. But just there Greek thought finds its happy limit; it has not yet become too inward; the mind has not yet learned to boast its independence of the flesh; the spirit has not yet absorbed everything with its emotions, nor reflected its own colour everywhere. It has indeed committed itself to a train of reflexion which must end in defiance of form, of all that is outward, in an exaggerated idealism. But that end is still distant: it has not yet plunged into the depths of religious mysticism.
The idea art, in which the thought does not outstrip or lie beyond the proper range of its sensible embodiment, could not have arisen out of a phase of life that was uncomely and poor. That delicate pause in Greek reflexion was joined, by some supreme good luck, to the perfect animal nature of the Greeks. Here are the two conditions of an artistic ideal. The influences which perfected the animal nature of the Greeks are part of the process by which “the ideal” was evolved. Those “Mothers” who, in the second part of Faust, mould and remould the typical forms that appear in human history, preside, at the beginning of Greek culture, over such a concourse of happy physical conditions as ever generates by natural laws some rare type of intellectual or spiritual life. That delicate air, “nimbly and sweetly recommending itself” to the senses, the finer aspects of nature, the finer lime and clay of the human form, and modelling of the dainty framework of the human countenance: – these are the good luck of the Greek when he enters upon life. Beauty becomes a distinction, like genius, or noble place.
“By no people,” says Winckelmann, “has beauty been so highly esteemed as by the Greeks. The priests of a youthful Jupiter Aegae, of the Ismenian Apollo, and the priest who at Tanagra led the procession of Mercury, bearing a lamb upon his shoulders, were always youths to whom the prize of beauty had been awarded. The citizens of Egesta erected a monument to a certain Philip who was not their fellow-citizen, but of Croton, for his distinguished beauty; and the people made offerings at it. In an ancient song, ascribed to Simonides or Epicharmus, of four wishes, the first was health, the second beauty. And as beauty was so longed for and prized by the Greeks, every beautiful person sought to become known to the whole people by this distinction, and above all to approve himself to the artists, because they awarded the prize; and this was for the artists an occasion for having supreme ever before their eyes. Beauty even gave a right to fame; and we find in Greek histories the most beautiful people distinguished. Some were famous for the beauty of one single part of their form; as Demetrius Phalereus, for his beautiful eyebrows, was called Charito-blepharos. It seems even to have been thought that the procreation of beautiful children might be promoted by prizes. This is shown by the existence of contests for beauty, which in ancient times were established by Cypselus, King of Arcadia, by the river Alpheus; and, at the feast of Apollo of Philae, a prize was offered to the youths for the deftest kiss. This was decided by an umpire; as also at Megara, by the grace of Diocles. At Sparta , and at Lesbos, in the temple of Juno, and among the Parrhasii, there were contests for beauty among women. The general esteem for beauty went so far, that the Spartan women set up in their bedchambers a Nireus, a Narcissus, or a Hyacinth, that they might bear beautiful children.”
So, from a few stray antiquarianisms, a few
faces cast up sharply from the waves, Winckelmann, as his manner was, divines
the temperament of the antique world, and that in which it had delight. It has
passed away with that distant age, and we may venture to dwell upon it. What
sharpness and reality it has is the sharpness and reality of suddenly arrested
life. The Greek system of gymnastics originated as part of a religious ritual.
The worshipper was to recommend himself to the gods by becoming fleet and fair,
white and red, like them. The beauty of the palaestra, and the beauty
of the artist’s workshop, reacted on one another. The youth tried to rival his
gods; and his increased beauty passed back into them. – “I take the gods to
witness, I had rather have a fair body than a king’s crown “ – Ὄμνυμι πάντας θεοὺς μὴ ἑλέσθαι ἂν τὴν βασιλέως ἀρχὴν ἀντὶ τοῦ καλὸς εἶναι – that is the form in which one age of the world chose the
higher life. – A perfect world, if the gods could have seemed for ever only
fleet and fair, white and red! Let us regret that this unperplexed youth of
humanity, satisfied with the vision of itself, passed, at the due moment, into
a mournful maturity; for already the deep joy was in store for the spirit, of
finding the ideal of that youth still red with life in the grave.
It followed that the Greek ideal expressed
itself pre-eminently in sculpture. All art has a sensuous element, colour, form,
sound – in poetry a dexterous recalling of these, together with the profound,
joyful sensuousness of motion, and each of them may be a medium for the ideal:
it is partly accident which in any individual case makes the born artist, poet,
or painter rather than sculptor. But as the mind itself has had an historical
development, one form of art, by the very limitations of its material, may be
more adequate than another for the expression of any one phase of that development.
Different attitudes of the imagination have a native affinity with different
types of sensuous form, so that they combine together, with completeness and
ease. The arts may thus be ranged in a series, which corresponds to a series
of developments in the human mind itself. Architecture, which begins in a practical
need, can only express by vague hint or symbol, the spirit or mind of the artist.
He closes his sadness over him, or wanders in the perplexed intricacies of things,
or projects his purpose from him clean-cut and sincere, or bares himself to
the sunlight. But these spiritualities, felt rather than seen, can but lurk
about architectural form as volatile effects, to be gathered from it by reflexion.
Their expression is, indeed, not really sensuous at all. As human form is not
the subject with which it deals, architecture is the mode in which the artistic
effort centres, when then thoughts of
man concerning himself are still indistinct, when he is still little preoccupied
with those harmonies, storms, victories, of the unseen and intellectual world,
which, wrought out into the bodily form, give it an interest and significance
communicable to it alone. The art of Egypt, with its supreme architectural effects,
is, according to Hegel’s beautiful comparison, a Memnon waiting for the day,
the day of the Greek spirit, the humanistic spirit, with its power of speech.
Again, painting, music, and poetry, with
their endless power of complexity, are the special arts of the romantic and
modern ages. Into these, with the utmost attenuation of detail, may be translated
every delicacy of thought and feeling, incidental to a consciousness brooding
with delight over itself. Through their gradations of shade, their exquisite
intervals, they project in an external form that which is most inward in passion
or sentiment. Between architecture and those romantic arts of painting, music,
and poetry, comes sculpture, which, unlike architecture, deals immediately with
man, while it contrasts with the romantic arts, because it is not self-analytical.
It has to do more exclusively than any other art with the human form, itself
one entire medium of spiritual expression, trembling, blushing, melting into
dew, with inward excitement. That spirituality which only lurks about architecture
as a volatile effect, in sculpture takes up the whole given material, and penetrates
it with an imaginative motive; and at first sight sculpture, with its solidity
of form, seems a thing more real and full than the faint, abstract world of
poetry or painting. Still the fact is the reverse. Discourse and action show
man as he is, more directly than the play of the muscles and the moulding of
the flesh; and over these poetry has command. Painting, by the flushing of colour
in the face and dilatation of light in the eye – music, by its subtle range
of tones – can refine most delicately upon a single moment of passion, unravelling
its subtlest threads.
But why should sculpture thus limit itself
to pure form? Because, by this limitation, it becomes a perfect medium of expression
for one peculiar motive of the imaginative intellect. It therefore renounces
all those attributes of its material which do not forward that motive. It has
had, indeed, from the beginning an unfixed claim to colour; but this less conventional,
with no melting or modulation of tones, never permitting more than a very limited
realism. It was maintained chiefly as a religious tradition. In proportion as
the art of sculpture ceased to be merely decorative, and subordinate to architecture,
it threw itself upon pure form. It renounces the power of expression by lower
or heightened tones. In it, no member of the human form is more significant
than the rest; the eye is wide, and without
pupil; the lips and brow are hardly less significant than hands, and
breasts, and feet. But the limitation of its resources is part of its pride:
it has no background, no sky or atmosphere, to suggest and interpret a train
of feeling; a little of suggested motion, and much of pure light on its gleaming
surfaces, with pure form – only these. And its own distinguishing motives; it
unveils man in the repose of his unchanging characteristics. That white light,
purged from the angry, bloodlike stains of action and passion, reveals, not
what is accidental in man, but the tranquil godship in him, as opposed to the
restless accidents of life. The art of sculpture records the first naïve, unperplexed
recognition of man by himself; and it is a proof of the high artistic capacity
of the Greeks, that they apprehended and remained true to these exquisite limitations,
yet, in spite of them, gave to their creations a mobile, a vital, individuality.
Heiterkeit – blitheness or repose,
and Allgemeinheit – generality or breadth, are, the supreme characteristics
of the Hellenic ideal. But that generality or breadth has nothing in common
with the lax observation, the unlearned thought, the flaccid execution, which
have sometimes claimed superiority in art, on the plea of being “broad” or “general”.
Hellenic breadth and generality come of a culture minute, severe, constantly
renewed, rectifying and concentrating its impressions into certain pregnant
types.
The basis of all artistic genius lies in
the power of conceiving humanity in a new striking way, of putting a happy world
of its own creation in place of the meaner world of our common days, generating
around itself an atmosphere with a novel power of refraction, selecting, transforming,
recombining the images it transmits, according to the choice of the imaginative
intellect. In exercising this power, painting and poetry have a variety of subject
almost unlimited. The range of characters or persons open to them is as various
as life itself; no character, however trivial,
misshapen, or unlovely, can resist their magic. That is because those
arts can accomplish their function in the choice and development of some special
situation, which lifts or glorifies a character, in itself not poetical. To
realise this situation, to define, in a chill and empty atmosphere, the focus
where rays, in themselves pale and impotent, unite and begin to burn, the artist
may have, indeed, to employ the most cunning detail, to complicate and refine
upon thought and passion a thousand-fold. Let us take a brilliant example from
the poems of Robert Browning. His poetry is pre-eminently the poetry of situations.
The characters themselves are always of secondary importance; often they are
characters in themselves of little interest; they seem to come to him by strange
accidents from the ends of the world. His gift is shown by the way in which
he accepts such a character, throws it into some situation, or apprehends it
in some delicate pause of life, in which for a moment it becomes ideal. In the
poem entitled Le Byron de nos Jours, in his Dramatis Personae,
we have a single moment of passion thrown into relief after his exquisite fashion.
Those two jaded Parisians are not intrinsically interesting: they begin to interest
us only when thrown into a choice situation. But to discriminate that moment,
to make it appreciable by us, that we may “find” it, what a cobweb of allusions,
what double and treble reflexions of the mind upon itself, what an artificial
light is constructed and broken over the chosen situation: on how fine a needle’s
point that little world of passion is balanced! Yet, in
spite of this intricacy, the poem has the clear ring of a central motive.
We receive from it the impression of one imaginative tone, of a single creative
art.
To produce such effects at all requires all
the resources of painting, with its power of indirect expression, of subordinate
but significant detail, its atmosphere, its foregrounds and backgrounds. To
produce them in a pre-eminent degree requires all the resources of poetry, language
and its most purges form, its remote associations and suggestions, its double
and treble lights. These appliances sculpture cannot command. In it, therefore,
not the special situation, but the type, the general character of the subject
to be delineated, is all-important. In poetry and painting, the situation predominates
over the character; in sculpture, the character over the situation. Excluded
by the proper limitation of its material from the development of exquisite situations,
it has to choose from a select number of types intrinsically interesting –interesting,
that is, independently of any special situation into which they may be thrown.
Sculpture finds the secret of its power in presenting these types, in their
broad, central, incisive lines. This it effects not buy accumulation of detail,
but by abstracting from it. All that is accidental, all that distracts the simple
effect upon us of the supreme types of humanity, all traces in them of the commonness
of the world, it gradually purges away.
Works of art produced under this law , and
only these, are really characterised by Hellenic generality of breadth. In every
direction it is a law of restraint. It keeps passion always below that degree
of intensity at which it must necessarily be transitory, never winding up the
features to one note of anger, or desire, or surprise. In some of the feebler
allegorical designs of the middle age, we find isolated qualities portrayed
as by so many masks; its religious art has familiarised us with faces fixed
immovably into blank types of placid reverie. Men and women, again, in the hurry
of life, often wear the sharp impress of one absorbing motive, from which it
is said death sets their features free. All such instances may be ranged under
the grotesque; and the Hellenic ideal has nothing in common with the
grotesque. It allows passion to play
lightly over the surface of the individual form, losing thereby nothing of its
central impassivity, its depth and repose. To all but the highest culture, the reserved faces of the gods will ever
have something of insipidity.
Again, in the best Greek sculpture, the archaic
immobility has been stirred, its forms are in motion; but it is a motion ever
kept in reserve, and very seldom committed to any definite action. Endless as
are the attitudes of Greek sculpture, exquisite as is the invention of the Greeks
in this direction, the actions or situations it permits are simple and few.
There is no Greek Madonna; the goddesses are always childless. The actions selected
are those which would be without significance, except in a divine person – binding
a sandal, or preparing for the bath. When a more complex and significant action
is permitted, it is almost often represented as just finished, so that eager
expectancy is excluded, as in the image of Apollo just after the slaughter of
the Python, or of Venus with the apple of Paris already in her hand. The Laocoon,
with all that patient science through which it has triumphed over an almost
unmanageable subject, marks a period in which sculpture has begun to aim at
effects legitimate, because delightful, not only in painting.
The hair, so rich a source of expression
in painting, because, relatively to the eye or the lip, it is mere drapery,
is withdrawn from attention; its texture, as well as its colour, is lost, its
arrangement but faintly and severely indicated, with no broken or enmeshed light.
The eyes are wide and directionless, not fixing anything with their gaze, nor
riveting the brain to any special external object, the brows without hair. Again,
Greek sculpture deals almost exclusively with youth, where the moulding of the
bodily organs is still as if suspended between growth and completion, indicated
but not emphasised; where the transition from curve to curve is so delicate
and elusive, that Winckelmann compares it to a quiet sea, which, although we
understand it to be in motion, we nevertheless regard as an image of repose;
where, therefore, the exact degree of development is so hard to apprehend.
If a single product only of Hellenic art were to be saved in the wreck of all
beside, one might choose perhaps from the “beautiful multitude” of the Panathenaic
frieze, that line of youths on horseback, with their level glances, their proud,
patient lips, their chastened reins, their whole bodies in exquisite service.
This colourless, unclassified purity of life, with its blending and interpenetration
of intellectual, spiritual, and physical elements, still folded together, pregnant
with the possibilities of a whole world closed within it, is the highest expression
of the indifference which lies beyond all that is relative or partial. Everywhere
there is the effect of an awaking, of a child’s sleep just disturbed. All these
effects are united in a single instance – the adorante of the museum
of Berlin, a youth who has gained the wrestler’s prize, with hands lifted and
open, in praise for the victory. Fresh, unperplexed, it is the image of man
as he springs first from the sleep of nature, his white light taking no colour
from any one-sided experience. He is characterless, so far as character
involves subjection to the accidental influences of life.
“This sense”, says Hegel, “for the consummate
modelling of divine and human forms was pre-eminently at home in Greece. In
its poets and orators, its historians and philosophers, Greece cannot be conceived
from a central point, as a key to the understanding of it, an insight into the
ideal forms of sculptures, and regards the images of statesmen and philosophers,
as well as epic and dramatic heroes, from the artistic point of view. For those
who act, as well as those who create and think, have, in those beautiful days
of Greece, this plastic character. They are great and free, and have grown up
on the soil of their own individuality, creating themselves out of themselves,
and moulding themselves to what they were, and willed to be. The age of Pericles
was rich in such characters; Pericles himself, Pheidias, Plato, above all Sophocles,
Thucydides also, Xenophon and Socrates, each in his own order, the perfection
of one remaining undiminished by that of the others. They are ideal artists
of themselves, cast each in one flawless mould, works of art, which stand before
us as an immortal presentment of the gods. Of this modelling also are those
bodily works of art, the victors in the Olympic games; yes! and even Phryne,
who, as the most beautiful of women, ascended naked out of the water, in the
presence of assembled Greece.”
This key to the understanding of the Greek
spirit, Winckelmann possessed in his own nature, itself like a relic of classical
antiquity, laid open by accident to our alien, modern atmosphere. To the criticism
of that consummate Greek modelling he brought not only his culture but his temperament.
We have seen how definite was the leading motive of that culture; how, like
some central root-fibre, it maintained the well-rounded unity of his life through
a thousand distractions. Interests not his, nor meant for him, never disturbed
him. In morals, as in criticism, he followed the clue of instinct. Penetrating
into the antique world by his passion, his temperament, he enunciated no formal
principles, always hard and one-sided. Minute and anxious as his culture was,
he never became one-sidedly self-analytical. Occupied ever with himself, perfecting
himself and developing his genius, he was not content, as so often happens with
such natures, that the atmosphere between him and other minds should be thick
and clouded; he was ever jealously refining his meaning into a form, express,
clear, objective.
This temperament he nurtured and invigorated
by friendships which kept him always in direct contact with the spirit of youth.
The beauty of the Greek statues was a sexless beauty: the statues of the gods
had the least traces of sex. Here there is a moral sexlessness, a kind of intellectual
wholeness of nature, yet with a true beauty and significance of its own.
One result of this temperament is a serenity
– Heiterkeit -- which characterises Winckelmann’s handling of the sensuous
side of Greek art. This serenity is, perhaps, in great measure, a negative quality:
it is the absence of any sense of want, of corruption, of shame. With the sensuous
element in Greek art he deals in the pagan manner; and what is implied in that?
It has been sometimes said that art is a means of escape from “the tyranny of
the senses”. It may be so for the spectator: he may find that the spectacle
of supreme works of art takes from the life of the senses something of its turbid
fever. But this is possible for the spectator only because the artist, in producing
those works, has gradually sunk his intellectual and spiritual ideas in sensuous
form. He may live, as Keats lived, a pure life; but his soul, like that
of Plato’s false astronomer, becomes more and more immersed in sense, until
nothing which lacks the appeal to sense has interest for him. How could such
an one ever again endure the greyness of the ideal or spiritual world? The spiritualist
is satisfied as he watches the escape of the sensuous elements from his conceptions;
his interest grows, as the dyed garment bleaches in the keener air. But the
artist steeps his thought again and again into the fire of colour. To the Greek
this immersion in the sensuous was, religiously, at least, indifferent. Greek
sensuousness, therefore, does not favour the conscience: it is shameless and
childlike. Christian asceticism, on the other hand, discrediting the slightest
touch of sense, has from time to time provoked into strong emphasis the contrast
or antagonism to itself, of the artistic life, with its inevitable sensuousness.
– I did but taste a little honey with the end of the rod that was in mine
hand, and lo! I must die. – It has sometimes seemed hard to pursue that
life without something of the conscious disavowal of a spiritual world; and
this imparts to genuine artistic interests a kind of intoxication. From this
intoxication Winckelmann is free: he fingers those pagan marbles with unsigned
hands, with no sense of shame or loss. That is to deal with the sensuous side
of art in the pagan manner.
The longer we contemplate that Hellenic ideal,
in which man is at unity with himself, with his physical nature, with the outward
world, the more we may be inclined to regret that he should ever have passed
beyond it, to contend for a perfection that makes the blood turbid, and frets
the flesh, and discredits the actual world about us. But if he was to be saved
from the ennui which ever attaches itself to realisation, even the realisation
of the perfect life, it was necessary that a conflict should come, that some
sharper note should grieve the exciting harmony, and the spirit chafed by it
beat out at last only a larger and profounder music. In Greek tragedy this conflict
has begun: man finds himself face to face with rival claims. Greek tragedy shows
how such a conflict may be treated with serenity, how the evolution of it may
be a spectacle of the dignity, not of the impotence, of the human spirit. But
it is not only in tragedy that the Greek spirit showed itself capable of thus
bringing joy out of matter in itself full of discouragements. Theocritus too
strikes often a note of romantic sadness. But what a blithe and steady poise,
above these discouragements, in a clear and sunny stratum of the air!
Into this stage of Greek achievement Winckelmann did not enter. Supreme as he is where his true interest lay, his insight into the typical unity and repose of the highest sort of sculpture seems to have involved limitation in another direction. His conception of art excludes that bolder type of it which deals confidently and serenely with life, conflict, evil. Living in a world of exquisite but abstract and colourless form, he could hardly have conceived of the subtle and penetrative, yet somewhat grotesque art of the modern world. What would he have thought of Gilliatt, in Victor Hugo’s Travailleurs de la Mer, or of the bleeding mouth of Fantine in the first part of Les Misérables, penetrated as those books are with a sense of beauty, as lively and transparent as that of a Greek? Nay, a sort of preparation for the romantic temper is noticeable even within the limits of the Greek ideal itself, which for his part Winckelmann failed to see. For Greek religion has not merely its mournful mysteries of Adonis, of Hyacinthus, of Demeter, but it is conscious also of the fall of earlier divine dynasties. Hyperion gives way to Apollo, Oceanus to Poseidon. Around the feet of that tranquil family still crowd the weary shadows of an earlier, more formless, divine world. The placid minds even of Olympian gods are troubled with thoughts of a limit to duration, of inevitable decay, of dispossession. Again, the supreme and colourless abstraction of those divine forms, which is the secret of their repose, is also a premonition of the fleshless, consumptive refinements of the pale, medieval artists. That high indifference to the outward, that impassivity, has already a touch of the corpse on it: we see already Angelico and the Master of the Passion in the artistic future. The suppression of the sensuous, the shutting of the door upon it, the ascetic interest, may be even now foreseen. Those abstracted gods, “ready to melt out their essence fine into the winds”, who can fold up their flesh as a garment, and still remain themselves, seem already to feel that bleak air, in which, like Helen of Troy, they wander as the spectres of the middle age.
Gradually, as
the world came into the church, an artistic interest, native in the human soul,
reasserted its claims. But Christian art was still dependent on pagan examples,
building the shafts of pagan temples into its churches, perpetuating the form
of the basilica, in later times working the disused amphitheatres as
stone-quarries. The sensuous expressions of ideas which unreservedly discredit
the world of sense, was the delicate problem which Christian art had before
it. If we think of medieval painting, as it ranges from the early German schools,
still with something of the air of the charnel-house about them, to the clear
loveliness of Perugino, we shall see how that problem was solved. In the very
“worship of sorrow” the native blitheness of art asserted itself. The religious
spirit, as Hegel says, “smiled through its tears”. So perfectly did the young
Raphael infuse that Heiterkeit, that pagan blitheness, into religious
works, that his picture of Saint Agatha at Bologna became to Goethe a step in
the evolution of Iphigenie.* But in proportion as the gift of smiling
was found once more, there came also an aspiration towards that lost antique
art, some relics of which Christian art had buried in itself, ready to works
wonders when their day came.
The history of art has suffered as much as any history by trenchant and
absolute divisions. Pagan and Christian art are sometimes harshly opposed, and
the Renaissance is represented as a fashion which set in at a definite period.
That is the superficial view: the deeper view is that which preserves the identity
of European culture. The two are really continuous; and there is a sense in
which it may be said that the Renaissance was an uninterrupted effort of the
middle age, that it was ever taking place. When the actual relics of the antique
were restored to the world, in the view of the Christian ascetic it was as if
an ancient plague-pit had been opened. All the world took the contagion of the
life of nature and of the senses. And now it was seen that the medieval spirit
too had done something for the new fortunes of the antique. By hastening the
decline of art, by withdrawing interest from it and yet keeping unbroken the
thread of its traditions, it had suffered the human mind to repose itself, that
when day came it might awake, with eyes refreshed, to those ancient, ideal forms.
The aim of a right criticism is to place Winckelmann in an intellectual
perspective, of which Goethe is the foreground. For, after all, he is infinitely
less than Goethe; and it is chiefly because at certain points he comes in contact
with Goethe, that criticism entertains consideration of him. His relation to
modern culture is a peculiar one. He is not of the modern world; nor is he wholly
of the eighteenth century, although so much of his outer life is characteristic
of it. But that note of revolt against the eighteenth century, which we detect
in Goethe, was struck by Winckelmann. Goethe illustrates a union of the Romantic
spirit, in its adventure, its variety, its profound subjectivity of soul, with
Hellenism, in its transparency, its rationality, its desire of beauty – the
marriage of Faust and Helena, of which the art of the eighteenth century is
the child, the beautiful lad Euphorion, as Goethe conceives him, on the crags,
in the “splendour of battle and in harness as for victory”, his brows bound with light (Faust, Th. ii Act. 3).
Goethe illustrates, too, the preponderance in this marriage of the Hellenic
element; and that element, in its true essence, was made known to him by Winckelmann.
Breadth, centrality, with blitheness and repose, are the marks of Hellenic
culture. Is such culture a lost art? The local, accidental colouring of its
own age has passed from it; and the greatness that is dead looks greater when
every link with what is slight and vulgar has been severed. We can only see
it at all in the reflected, refined light which a great education creates for
us. Can we bring down that ideal into the gaudy, perplexed light of modern life?
Certainly, for us of the modern world, with its conflicting claims, its entangled interests, distracted by so many sorrows, with many preoccupations, so bewildering an experience, the problem of unity with ourselves, in blitheness and repose, is far harder that it was for the Greek within the simple terms of antique life. Yet, not less than ever, the intellect demands completeness, centrality. It is this which Winckelmann imprints on the imagination of Goethe, at the beginning of life, in its original and simplest form, as in a fragment of Greek art itself, stranded on that littered, indeterminate shore of Germany in the eighteenth century. In Winckelmann, this type comes to him, not as in a book or a theory, but more importunately, because in a passionate life, in a personality. For Goethe, possessing all modern interests, ready to be lost in the perplexed currents of modern thought, he defines, in clearest outline, the eternal problem of culture balance, unity with one’s self, consummate Greek modelling.
It would no longer be solved as in Phryne ascending naked out of the water, by perfection of bodily form, or any joyful union with the external world: the shadows had grown too long, the light too solemn, for that. It could hardly be solved, as in Pericles of Pheidias, by the direct exercise of any single talent: amid the manifold claims of our modern intellectual life, that could only have ended in a thin, one-sided growth. Goethe’s Hellenism was of another order, the Allgemeinheit and Heiterkeit, the completeness and serenity, of a watchful, exigent intellectualism. Im Ganzen, Guten, Wahren, resolut zu leben: is Goethe’s description of his own higher life; and what is meant by life in the whole im Ganzen? It means the life of one for whom, over and over again, what was once precious has become indifferent. Every one who aims at the life of culture is met by many forms of it, arising out of the intense, laborious, one-sided development of some special talent. They are the brightest enthusiasms the world has to show: and it is not their part to weigh the claims which this or that alien form of genius makes upon them. But the proper instinct of self-culture cares not so much to reap all that those various forms of genius can give, as to find in them its own strength. The demands of the intellect is to feel itself alive.. It must see into the laws, the operation, the intellectual reward of every divided form of culture; but only that it may measure the relation between itself and them. It struggles with those forms till its secret is won from each, and then lets each fall back into its place, in the supreme, artistic view of life. With a kind of passionate coldness, such natures rejoice to be away from past their former selves, and above all, they are jealous of that abandonment to one special gift which really limits their capabilities. It would have been easy for Goethe, with the gift of a sensuous nature, to let it overgrow him. It comes easily and naturally, perhaps, to certain other-worldly natures to be even as the Schöne Seele, that ideal of gentle pietism, in Wilhelm Meister: but to the large vision of Goethe, this seemed to be a phase of life that a man might feel all round, and leave behind him. Again, it is easy to indulge the commonplace metaphysical instinct. But a taste for metaphysics may be one of those things which we must renounce, if we mean to mould our lives to artistic perfection. Philosophy serves culture, not by the fancied gift of absolute or transcendental knowledge, but by suggesting questions which help one to detect the passion, and strangeness, and dramatic contrasts of life.
But Goethe’s culture did not remain behind the veil: it ever emerged in the practical functions of art, in actual production. For him the problem came to be: Can the blitheness and universality of the antique ideal be communicated to artistic productions, which shall contain the fullness of the experience of the modern world? We have seen that the development of the various forms of art has corresponded to the development of the thoughts of man concerning humanity, to the growing revelation of the mind to itself. Sculpture corresponds to the unperplexed, emphatic outlines of Hellenic humanism; painting to the mystic depth and intricacy of the middle age; music and poetry have their fortune in the modern world.
Let us understand by poetry all literary production which attains the power of giving pleasure by its form, as distinct from its matter. Only in this varied literary form can art command that width, variety, delicacy of resources, which will enable it to deal with the conditions of modern life. What modern art has to do in the service of culture is so to rearrange the details of modern life, so to reflect it, that it may satisfy the spirit. And what does the spirit need in the face of modern life? The sense of reedom. That naïve, rough sense of freedom, which supposes man’s will to be limited, if at all, only by a will stronger than his, he can never have again. The attempt to represent it in art would have so little verisimilitude that it would be flat and uninteresting. The chief factor in the thoughts of the modern mind concerning itself is the intricacy, the universality of natural law, even in the moral order. For us, necessity is not, as of old, a sort of mythological personage without us, with whom we can do warfare. It is rather a magic web woven through and through us, like that magnetic system of which modern science speaks, penetrating us with a network, subtler than our subtlest nerves, yet bearing in it the central forces of the world. Can art represent men and women in these bewildering toils so as to give the spirit at least an equivalent for the sense of freedom? Certainly, in Goethe’s romances, and even more in the romances of Victor Hugo, we have high examples of modern art dealing thus with modern life, regarding that life as the modern mind must regard it, yet reflecting upon it blitheness and repose. Natural laws we shall never modify, embarrass us as they may; but there is still something in the nobler or less noble attitude with which we watch their fatal combinations. In those romances of Goethe and Victor Hugo, in some excellent work done after them, this entanglement, this network of law, becomes the tragic situation, in which certain groups of noble men and women work out for themselves a supreme dénouement. Who, if he saw through all, would fret against the chain of circumstance which endows one at the end with those great experiences?
1867