Chapter VIII: Introduction: To the Propylæa (2)

_Guest_ (springing up).--This is maddening! I would you were making game of me, and all this were only in jest. How happy I should be to have the riddle explained in that manner! How gladly would I give my hand to a worthy man like you!

_I._--Unfortunately, I am quite in earnest, and cannot come to any other conclusion.

_Guest._--Now I did hope that in parting we should take each other’s hand, especially since our good host has departed, who would have held the place of mediator in your dispute. Farewell, Mademoiselle! Farewell, Sir! I shall inquire to-morrow whether I may wait on you again.

So he stormed out of the door, and Julia had scarce time to send the maid, who was ready with the lantern, after him. I remained alone with the sweet child, for Caroline had disappeared some time before,--I think about the time that my opponent had declared that mere beauty, without character, must be insipid.

You went too far, my friend, said Julia, after a short pause. If he did not seem to me altogether in the right, neither can I give unqualified assent to you; for your last assertion was only made to tease him. The portrait painter must make the likeness a pure creation?

Fair Julia, I replied, how much I could wish to make myself clear to you upon this point. Perhaps in time I shall succeed. But you, whose lively spirit is at home in all regions, who not only prize the artist but in some sense anticipate him, and who know how to give form to what your eyes have never seen, as if it stood bodily before you, you should be the last to start when the question is of creation, of production.

_Julia._--I see it is your intention to bribe me. That will not be hard, for I like to listen to you.

_I._--Let us think well of man, and not trouble ourselves if what we say of him may sound a little bizarre. Everybody admits that the poet must be born. Does not every one ascribe to genius a creative power, and no one thinks he is repeating a paradox? We do not deny it to works of fancy; but the inactive, the worthless man will not become aware of the good, the noble, the beautiful, either in himself or others. Whence came it, if it did not spring from ourselves? Ask your own heart. Is not the method of intercourse born with intercourse? Is it not the capacity for good deeds that rejoices over the good deed? Who ever feels keenly without the wish to express that feeling? and what do we express but what we create? and in truth, not once only, that it may exist and there end, but that it may operate, ever increase, and again come to life, and again create. This is the god-like power of love, of the singing and speaking of which there is no end, that it reproduces at every moment the noble qualities of the beloved object, perfects it in the least particulars, embraces it in the whole, rests not by day, sleeps not by night, is enchanted with its own work, is astonished at its own restless activity, ever finds the familiar new, because at every moment it is re-created in the sweetest of all occupations. Yes, the picture of the beloved cannot grow old, for every moment is the moment of its birth.

The maid returned from lighting the stranger. She was highly satisfied with his liberality, for he had given her a handsome _pourboire_; but she praised his politeness still more highly, for he had dismissed her with a friendly word, and, moreover, called her “Pretty Maid.”

I was not in a humor to spare him, and exclaimed: “Oh, yes! I can easily credit that one who denies the ideal should take the common for the beautiful.”

FOOTNOTES:

[3] Alois Hirt, protagonist of the theory of the “characteristic.”

[4] Schiller.

ON TRUTH AND PROBABILITY IN WORKS OF ART

_A Dialogue_

(1798)

In a certain German theatre there was represented a sort of oval amphitheatrical structure, with boxes filled with painted spectators, seemingly occupied with what was being transacted below. Many of the real spectators in the pit and boxes were dissatisfied with this, and took it amiss that anything so untrue and improbable was put upon them. Whereupon the conversation took place of which we here give the general purport.

_The Agent of the Artist._--Let us see if we cannot by some means agree more nearly.

_The Spectator._--I do not see how such a representation can be defended.

_Agent._--Tell me, when you go into a theatre, do you not expect all you see to be true and real?

_Spectator._--By no means! I only ask that what I see shall appear true and real.

_Agent._--Pardon me if I contradict even your inmost conviction and maintain this is by no means the thing you demand.

_Spectator._--That is singular! If I did not require this, why should the scene painter take so much pains to draw each line in the most perfect manner, according to the rules of perspective, and represent every object according to its own peculiar perfection? Why waste so much study on the costume? Why spend so much to insure its truth, so that I may be carried back into those times? Why is that player most highly praised who most truly expresses the sentiment, who in speech, gesture, delivery, comes nearest the truth, who persuades me that I behold not an imitation, but the thing itself?

_Agent._--You express your feelings admirably well, but it is harder than you may think to have a right comprehension of our feelings. What would you say if I reply that theatrical representations by no means seem really true to you, but rather to have only an appearance of truth?

_Spectator._--I should say that you have advanced a subtlety that is little more than a play upon words.

_Agent._--And I maintain that when we are speaking of the operations of the soul, no words can be delicate and subtle enough; and that this sort of play upon words indicates a need of the soul, which, not being able adequately to express what passes within us, seeks to work by way of antithesis, to give an answer to each side of the question, and thus, as it were, to find the mean between them.

_Spectator._--Very good. Only explain yourself more fully, and, if you will oblige me, by examples.

_Agent._--I shall be glad to avail myself of them. For instance, when you are at an opera, do you not experience a lively and complete satisfaction?

_Spectator._--Yes, when everything is in harmony, one of the most complete I know.

_Agent._--But when the good people there meet and compliment each other with a song, sing from billets that they hold in their hands, sing you their love, their hatred, and all their passions, fight singing, and die singing, can you say that the whole representation, or even any part of it, is true? or, I may say, has even an appearance of truth?

_Spectator._--In fact, when I consider, I could not say it had. None of these things seems true.

_Agent._--And yet you are completely pleased and satisfied with the exhibition?

_Spectator._--Beyond question. I still remember how the opera used to be ridiculed on account of this gross improbability, and how I always received the greatest satisfaction from it, in spite of this, and find more and more pleasure the richer and more complete it becomes.

_Agent._--And you do not then at the opera experience a complete deception?

_Spectator._--Deception, that is not the proper word,--and yet, yes!--But no--

_Agent._--Here you are in a complete contradiction, which is far worse than a quibble.

_Spectator._--Let us proceed quietly; we shall soon see light.

_Agent._--As soon as we come into the light, we shall agree. Having reached this point, will you allow me to ask you some questions?

_Spectator._--It is your duty, having questioned me into this dilemma, to question me out again.

_Agent._--The feeling you have at the exhibition of an opera cannot be rightly called deception?

_Spectator._--I agree. Still it is a sort of deception; something nearly allied to it.

_Agent._--Tell me, do you not almost forget yourself?

_Spectator._--Not almost, but quite, when the whole or some part is excellent.

_Agent._--You are enchanted?

_Spectator._--It has happened more than once.

_Agent._--Can you explain under what circumstances?

_Spectator._--Under so many, it would be hard to tell.

_Agent._--Yet you have already told when it is most apt to happen, namely, when all is in harmony.

_Spectator._--Undoubtedly.

_Agent._--Did this complete representation harmonize with itself or some other natural product?

_Spectator._--With itself, certainly.

_Agent._--And this harmony was a work of art?

_Spectator._--It must have been.

_Agent._--We have denied to the opera the possession of a certain sort of truth. We have maintained that it is by no means faithful to what it professes to represent. But can we deny to it a certain interior truth, which arises from its completeness as a work of art?

_Spectator._--When the opera is good, it creates a little world of its own, in which all proceeds according to fixed laws, which must be judged by its own laws, felt according to its own spirit.

_Agent._--Does it not follow from this, that truth of nature and truth of art are two distinct things, and that the artist neither should nor may endeavor to give his work the air of a work of nature?

_Spectator._--But yet it has so often the air of a work of nature.

_Agent._--That I cannot deny. But may I on the other hand be equally frank?

_Spectator._--Why not? our business is not now with compliments.

_Agent._--I will then venture to affirm, that a work of art can seem to be a work of nature only to a wholly uncultivated spectator; such a one the artist appreciates and values indeed, though he stands on the lowest step. But, unfortunately, he can only be satisfied when the artist descends to his level; he will never rise with him, when, prompted by his genius, the true artist must take wing in order to complete the whole circle of his work.

_Spectator._--Your remark is curious; but proceed.

_Agent._--You would not let it pass unless you had yourself attained a higher step.

_Spectator._--Let me now make trial, and take the place of questioner, in order to arrange and advance our subject.

_Agent._--I shall like that better still.

_Spectator._--You say that a work of art could appear as a work of nature only to an uncultivated person?

_Agent._--Certainly. You remember the birds that tried to eat the painted cherries of the great master?

_Spectator._--Now does not that show that the cherries were admirably painted?

_Agent._--By no means. It rather convinces me that these connoisseurs were true sparrows.

_Spectator._--I cannot, however, for this reason concede that this work could have been other than excellent.

_Agent._--Shall I tell you a more modern story?

_Spectator._--I would rather listen to stories than arguments.

_Agent._--A certain great naturalist, among other domesticated animals, possessed an ape, which he missed one day, and found after a long search in the library. There sat the beast on the ground, with the plates of an unbound work of Natural History scattered about him. Astonished at this zealous fit of study on the part of his familiar, the gentleman approached, and found, to his wonder and vexation, that the dainty ape had been making his dinner of the beetles that were pictured in various places.

_Spectator._--It is a droll story.

_Agent._--And seasonable, I hope. You would not compare these colored copperplates with the work of so great an artist?

_Spectator._--No, indeed.

_Agent._--But you would reckon the ape among the uncultivated amateurs?

_Spectator._--Yes, and among the greedy ones! You awaken in me a singular idea. Does not the uncultivated amateur, just in the same way, desire a work to be natural, that he may be able to enjoy it in a natural, which is often a vulgar and common way?

_Agent._--I am entirely of that opinion.

_Spectator._--And you maintain, therefore, that an artist lowers himself when he tries to produce this effect?

_Agent._--Such is my firm conviction.

_Spectator._--But here again I feel a contradiction. You did me just now the honor to number me, at least, among the half-cultivated spectators.

_Agent._--Among those who are on the way to become true connoisseurs.

_Spectator._--Then explain to me, Why does a perfect work of art appear like a work of nature to me also?

_Agent._--Because it harmonizes with your better nature. Because it is above natural, yet not unnatural. A perfect work of art is a work of the human soul, and in this sense, also, a work of nature. But because it collects together the scattered objects, of which it displays even the most minute in all their significance and value, it is above nature. It is comprehensible only by a mind that is harmoniously formed and developed, and such an one discovers that what is perfect and complete in itself is also in harmony with himself. The common spectator, on the contrary, has no idea of it; he treats a work of art as he would any object he meets with in the market. But the true connoisseur sees not only the truth of the imitation, but also the excellence of the selection, the refinement of the composition, the superiority of the little world of art; he feels that he must rise to the level of the artist, in order to enjoy his work; he feels that he must collect himself out of his scattered life, must live with the work of art, see it again and again, and through it receive a higher existence.

_Spectator._--Well said, my friend. I have often made similar reflections upon pictures, the drama, and other species of poetry, and had an instinct of those things you require. I will in future give more heed both to myself and to works of art. But if I am not mistaken, we have left the subject of our dispute quite behind. You wished to persuade me that the painted spectators at our opera are admissible, and I do not yet see, though we have come to an agreement, by what arguments you mean to support this license, and under what rubric I am to admit these painted lookers-on.

_Agent._--Fortunately, the opera is repeated to-night; I trust you will not miss it.

_Spectator._--On no account.

_Agent._--And the painted men?

_Spectator._--Shall not drive me away, for I think myself something more than a sparrow.

_Agent._--I hope that a mutual interest may soon bring us together again.

SIMPLE IMITATION OF NATURE, MANNER, STYLE

(1789)

It does not seem to be superfluous to define clearly the meaning we attach to these words, which we shall often have occasion to make use of. For, however long we may have been in the habit of using them, and however they may seem to have been defined in theoretical works, still every one continues to use them in a way of his own, and means more or less by them, according to the degree of clearness or uncertainty with which he has seized the ideas they express.

_Simple Imitation of Nature_

If an artist, in whom we must of course suppose a natural talent, is in the first stage of progress, and after having in some measure practised eye and hand, turns to natural objects, uses all care and fidelity in the most perfect imitation of their forms and colors, never knowingly departs from nature, begins and ends in her presence every picture that he undertakes,--such an artist must possess high merit, for he cannot fail of attaining the greatest accuracy, and his work must be full of certainty, variety and strength.

If these conditions are clearly considered, it will be easily seen that a capable but limited talent can in this way treat agreeable but limited subjects.

Such subjects must always be easy to find. Leisurely observation and quiet imitation must be allowed for; the disposition that occupies itself in such works must be a quiet one, self-contained, and satisfied with moderate gratification.

This sort of imitation will thus be practised by men of quiet, true, limited nature, in the representation of dead or still-life subjects. It does not by its nature exclude a high degree of perfection.

_Manner_

But man finds, usually, such a mode of proceeding too timid and inadequate. He perceives a harmony among many objects, which can only be brought into a picture by sacrificing the individual. He gets tired of using Nature’s letters each time to spell after her. He invents a way, devises a language for himself, so as to express in his own fashion the idea his soul has attained, and give to the object he has so many times repeated a distinctive form, without having recourse to nature itself each time he repeats it, or even without recalling exactly the individual form.

Thus a language is created, in which the mind of the speaker expresses and utters itself immediately; and as in each individual who thinks, the conceptions of spiritual objects are formed and arranged differently, so will every artist of this class see, understand, and imitate the outward world in a different manner, will seize its phenomena with a more or less observant eye, and reproduce them more accurately or loosely.

We see that this species of imitation is applied with the best effect in cases where a great whole comprehends many subordinate objects. These last must be sacrificed in order to attain the general expression of the whole, as is the case in landscapes, for instance, where the aim would be missed if we attended too closely to the details, instead of keeping in view the idea of the whole.

_Style_

When at last art, by means of imitation of Nature, of efforts to create a common language, and of clear and profound study of objects themselves, has acquired a clearer and clearer knowledge of the peculiarities of objects and their mode of being, oversees the classes of forms, and knows how to connect and imitate those that are distinct and characteristic,--then will _Style_ reach the highest point it is capable of, the point where it may be placed on a par with the highest efforts of the human mind.

Simple Imitation springs from quiet existence and an agreeable subject; Manner seizes with facile capacity upon an appearance; Style rests upon the deepest foundations of knowledge, upon the essence of things, so far as we are able to recognize it in visible and comprehensible forms.

* * * * *

The elaboration of what we have advanced above would fill whole volumes; and much is said upon the subject in books, but a true conception of it can only be arrived at by the study of nature and works of art. We subjoin some additional considerations, and shall have occasion to refer to these remarks whenever plastic art is in question.

It is easy to see that these three several ways of producing works of art are closely related, and that one may imperceptibly run into the others.

The simple imitation of subjects of easy comprehension (we shall take fruits and flowers as an example) may be carried to a high point of perfection. It is natural that he who paints roses should soon learn to distinguish and select the most beautiful, and seek for such only among the thousand that summer affords. Thus we have arrived at selection, although the artist may have formed no general idea of the beauty of roses. He has to do with comprehensible forms; everything depends upon the manifold purpose and the color of the surface. The downy peach, the finely dusted plum, the smooth apple, the burnished cherry, the dazzling rose, the manifold pink, the variegated tulip, all these he can have at will in his quiet studio in the perfection of their bloom and ripeness. He can put them in a favorable light; his eye will become accustomed to the harmonious play of glittering colors; each year would give him a fresh opportunity of renewing the same models, and he would be enabled, without laborious abstraction, by means of quiet imitative observation, to know and seize the peculiarities of the simple existence of these subjects. In this way were produced the masterpieces of a Huysum and Rachel Ruysch, artists who seem almost to have accomplished the impossible. It is evident that an artist of this sort must become greater and more characteristic, if in addition to his talent, he is also acquainted with botany; if he knows, from the root up, the influences of the several parts upon the expansion and growth of the plant, their office, and reciprocal action; if he understands and reflects upon the successive development of leaves, fruit, flowers, and the new germ. By this means he will not only exhibit his taste in the selection of superficial appearance, but will at once win admiration and give instruction through a correct representation of properties. In this wise it might be said that he had formed a style; while, on the other hand, it is easy to see how such a master, if he proceeded with less thoroughness, if he endeavored to give only the striking and dazzling, would soon pass into mannerism.

Simple Imitation therefore labors in the ante-chamber that leads to Style. In proportion to the truth, care, and purity with which it goes to work, the composure with which it examines and feels, the calmness with which it proceeds to imitate, the degree of reflection it uses, that is to say, with which it learns to compare the like and separate the unlike, and to arrange separate objects under one general idea,--will be its title to step upon the threshold of the sanctuary itself.

If now we consider Manner more carefully, we shall see that it may be, in the highest sense and purest signification of the word, the middle ground between simple imitation of nature and style.

The nearer it approaches, with its more facile treatment, to faithful imitation and on the other side, the more earnestly it endeavors to seize and comprehensibly express the character of objects, the more it strives, by means of a pure, lively, and active individuality, to combine the two, the higher, greater, and more worthy of respect it will become. But if such an artist ceases to hold fast by and reflect upon nature, he will soon lose sight of the true principles of art, and his manner will become more and more empty and insignificant in proportion as he leaves behind simple imitation and style.

We need not here repeat that we use the word Manner in a high and honorable sense, so that artists who, according to our definition, would be termed Mannerists have nothing to complain of. It is only incumbent upon us to preserve the word Style in the highest honor, in order to have an expression for the highest point art has attained or ever can attain. To be aware of this point is in itself a great good fortune, and to enter upon its consideration in company with sensible people, a noble pleasure, for which we hope to have many opportunities in the sequel.

ANCIENT AND MODERN

(1818)

I have been obliged, in what precedes, to say so much in favor of antiquity, and particularly of the plastic artists of those times, that I may possibly be misunderstood, which so often happens where the reader, instead of preserving a just balance, throws himself at once into the opposite scale. I therefore seize the present opportunity to explain my meaning, using plastic art as a symbol of the never-ceasing life of human actions and affairs.

A young friend, Karl Ernst Schubarth, in his pamphlet, _A Critique on Goethe_, which in every respect calls for my esteem and thanks, says: “I do not agree with those worshipers of the ancients, among whom is Goethe himself, who maintain that in high and complete development of humanity nothing has ever been arrived at to compare with the Greeks.” Fortunately, Schubarth’s own words give us an opportunity to adjust this difference, where he says, “As to our Goethe, let me say that I prefer Shakespeare to him, for this reason,--that in Shakespeare I seem to find a strong, unconscious man, who is able, with perfect certainty, and without reasoning, reflecting, subtilizing and classifying, to seize with never-failing hand the true and false in man, and express it quite naturally; whilst in Goethe, though I recognize the same ultimate aim, I am always fighting with obstacles, and must be always taking heed lest I accept for plain truth what is only an exhibition of plain error.”

Here our friend hits the nail on the head; for in that very point where he places me below Shakespeare do we stand below the ancients. And what is it we advance concerning the ancients? Any talent, the development of which is not favored by time and circumstances, and must on that account work its way through a thousand obstacles, and get rid of a thousand errors, must always be at a disadvantage, when compared with a contemporary one that has the opportunity to cultivate itself with facility and act to the extent of its capacity without opposition.

It often happens that people who are no longer young are able, out of the fullness of their experience, to furnish an illustration that will explain or strengthen an assertion; and this is my excuse for relating the following anecdote. A practised diplomatist who had desired my acquaintance, after the first interview, when he had had but little opportunity of seeing or conversing with me, remarked to his friends: “Voilà un homme qui a eu de grands chagrins!” These words set me to thinking. The skilful physiognomist’s eye did not deceive him, only he laid to the effect of suffering the phenomenon that should also have been ascribed to opposition. An observant, straightforward German might have said, “Here is a man who has had a very hard time of it.” Since, then, the signs of past endurance and of persevering activity do not disappear from the face, it is no wonder if all that remains of us and our strivings should bear the same impress, and indicate, to the attentive observer, a mode of being whose aim has been to preserve its balance alike under circumstances of happiest development or narrowest limitation, and to maintain the stubbornness, if it could not always the highest dignity, of human existence.

But letting pass old and new, past and present, we may in general assert that every artistic production places us in the same state of mind the author was in. If that was clear and bright, we shall feel free; if that was narrow, timid, or anxious, we shall feel limited in the same proportion.

Upon reflection, we should add that this refers only to treatment. Material and import do not enter into consideration. If we bear in mind this principle, and look around in the world of art, we maintain that every work will afford us pleasure which the artist himself produced with ease and facility. What amateur does not rejoice in the possession of a successful drawing or etching of our Chodowiecki? We see in them such an immediate apprehension of nature, as we know it, that they leave nothing to wish for. But he would not be able to go beyond his mark and line, without losing all the advantage he derives from his peculiar qualifications.

We shall even go farther, and confess that we have derived great pleasure from Mannerists, when the manner has not been carried too far, and that we are pleased with the possession of their works. The artists who have received this name have been gifted with uncommon talent, but became early aware that, in the state of the times as well as of the schools into which they were cast by fate, there was no room for minute labor, but that they must choose their part, and perfect themselves speedily. They therefore made themselves a language, into which they could, without farther trouble, translate with ease and dexterity all visible subjects, and exhibit to us representations of all sorts of scenes with greater or less success. Thus whole nations have been entertained and hoodwinked for long periods of time, until at last one or another artist has found the way back to nature and a higher feeling of art.

We may perceive, by the Herculanean antiquities, how the ancients also fell into this kind of manner; only their models were too great, too present, fresh, and well preserved, for their second and third rate artists to be able to lose themselves entirely in insignificance.

Let us now assume a higher and more agreeable point of view, and consider the talent with which Raphael was so singularly gifted. Born with the happiest natural gifts, at a time when art combined the most conscientious labor, attention, industry, and truth, the young man was already led by excellent masters to the threshold, and had only to raise his foot to enter the temple. Disciplined by Perugino in the most careful elaboration, his genius was developed by Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo. Neither of these artists, in spite of their long life and the cultivation of their powers, seems ever to have reached the true enjoyment of artistic production. The former, if we look closely, wearied himself with thought, and dissipated his powers in mechanical inquiries; and we have to blame the latter for spending his fairest years among stone quarries, getting out marble blocks and slabs, so that, instead of carrying out his intention of carving all the heroes of the Old and New Testament, he has left only his Moses as an example of what he could and should have done. Raphael, however, during his whole life, ever increased in the even facility of his work. We see in him the development of the intellectual and active powers, which preserve such remarkable balance that it may be affirmed that no modern artist has possessed such purity and completeness of thought and such clearness of expression. In him we have another instance of a talent that pours out to us the freshest water from the purest source. He never affects a Greek manner, but feels, thinks, works like a Greek. We see the fairest talent developed in the most favorable hours. The same thing occurred, under like conditions and circumstances, in the time of Pericles.

It may therefore always be maintained that native talent is indeed indispensable to production, but equally indispensable is a commensurate development in the provinces of nature and art. Art cannot dispense with its prerogatives, and cannot achieve perfection without favorable outward circumstances.

Consider the school of the Caracci. Here was a ground-work of talent, earnestness, industry, and consistent development; here was an element for the natural and artistic development of admirable powers. We see a whole dozen of excellent artists produced by it, each practising and cultivating his peculiar talent according to the same general idea, so that it hardly seems possible that after times should produce anything similar.

Let us consider the immense stride made by the highly gifted Rubens into the world of art! He too was no son of earth; look at the rich inheritance he was heir to, from the old masters of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, through all the admirable artists of the sixteenth, at the close of which he was born.

Again, think of the crowd of Dutch painters of the seventeenth century, whose great abilities found development now at home, now south, now north, until we can no longer deny the incredible sagacity with which their eye pierced into nature, and the facility with which they have succeeded in expressing her legitimate charm, so as to enchant us everywhere. Nay, in proportion as we possess their productions, we are willing to limit ourselves for long stretches of time to their study and admiration, and are far from blaming those amateurs who are contented with the possession and enjoyment of this class of pictures exclusively.

In the same way, we could bring a hundred examples in support of our assertion. To see distinctly, to apprehend clearly, to impart with facility,--these are the qualities that enchant us; and when we maintain that all these are to be found in the genuine Greek works, united with the noblest subjects, the most unerring and perfect execution, it will be seen why it is we always begin and end with them. Let each one be a Greek in his own way, but let him be a _Greek_!

The same is true of literary merit. What is comprehensible is always the first to attract us and give us complete satisfaction. If we even take the works of one and the same poet, we shall find some that seem to indicate a degree of laborious effort, and others again affect us like natural products, because the talent was commensurate with the form and import. And once more, it is our firm belief that although any age may give birth to the fairest talent, it is not given to all to be able to develop it in its perfect proportions.

NOTES ON DILETTANTISM

(1799)

Dilettantism presupposes Art, as botch-work does handicraft.--Idea of Artist, in opposition to Dilettante.--Practice of Art scientifically.--Adoption of an Objective Art.--Legitimate progress and advancement.--Calling and profession.--Connection with a world of Art and Artists.--Schools.

The Dilettante does not hold the same relation to all the arts.

All the arts have an objective and a subjective side, and according as one or the other of these is predominant, the Dilettante has value or not.

Where the subjective of itself is of great importance, the Dilettante must and can approximate to the artist. For instance, oratory, lyrical poetry, music, dance.

Where the reverse is the case, there is a more marked distinction between Artist and Dilettante, as in architecture, the arts of design, epic and dramatic poetry.

* * * * *

Art itself gives laws, and commands the time.

Dilettantism follows the lead of the time.

When masters in art follow a false taste, the Dilettante expects so much the sooner to reach the level of art.

The Dilettante, receiving his first impulse to self-production from the effect of works of art on him, confounds these effects with the objective causes and motives, and would now make the state of feeling he has been put into productive and practical; as if out of the fragrance of flowers one should try to reproduce flowers themselves.

The _speaking to the feelings_, the last effect of all poetical organization, but which presupposes the concurrences of the whole of art, seems to the Dilettante to be the thing itself, and out of it he endeavors to produce.

In general, the Dilettante, in his ignorance of himself, puts the passive in the place of the active, and because he receives a lively impression from effects, thinks from these impressed effects to produce other effects.

The peculiar want of the Dilettante is _Architectonic_, in the highest sense,--that practical power which creates, forms, constitutes. Of this he has only a sort of misgiving, and submits himself to his material, instead of commanding it.

It will be found that the Dilettante runs particularly to neatness, which is the completion of the thing in hand, wherefrom a sort of illusion arises, as if the thing itself were worthy of existing. The same holds true of accuracy (_accuratesse_), and all the last conditions of Form, which can just as well accompany the formless.

General principles on which Dilettantism is allowable:--

When the Dilettante subjects himself to the severest rules at the outset, and undertakes to complete all the successive steps with the greatest strictness,--which he can the better afford to do, inasmuch as (1) the goal is not demanded of him; and, (2) if he wishes to retreat, he has prepared the surest path to connoisseurship.

In opposition to the general maxim, the Dilettante will thus be subject to more severe criticism than the Artist, who, resting upon a secure basis of art, incurs less danger in departing from rules, and may even by that means enlarge the province of art itself. The true artist rests firmly and securely upon himself. His endeavor, his mark, is the highest aim of art. In his own estimation he will always be far from that aim, and necessarily, therefore, will be always modest in regard to art or the idea of art, and will maintain that he has as yet accomplished little, no matter how excellent his work may be, or how high his consciousness of superiority, in reference to the world, may reach. Dilettanti, or real botchers, seem, on the other hand, not to strive towards an aim, not to see what is beyond, but only what is beside them. On this account they are always comparing, are for the most part extravagant in their praise, unskilful where they blame, have an infinite deference for their like, thus giving themselves an air of friendliness and fairness, which is in fact only to exalt themselves.

_Dilettantism in Lyrical Poetry_

The fact that the German language was in the beginning applied to poetry, not by any one great poetic genius, but through merely middling heads, must inspire Dilettantism with confidence to essay itself in it.

The cultivation of French literature and language has made even Dilettanti more artistic.

The French were always more rigorous, tended to severer correctness, and demanded even of Dilettanti taste and spirit within, and externally a faultless diction.--In England, Dilettantism held more by Latin and Greek.--Sonnets of the Italians.

Impudence of the latest Dilettantism, originated and maintained through reminiscences of a richly cultivated poetic dialect, and the facility of a good mechanical exterior.

Polite literature of universities, induced by a modern method of study.--Lady poems.--Schöngeisterei (bel esprit).--Annual _Keepsakes_.--Musenalmanache.--Journals.--Beginning and spread of translations.

Immediate transition from the classes and the university to authorship.--Epoch of ballads, and songs of the people.--Gessner, poetic prose.--Imitation of the bards.--Bürger’s influence on sing-song.--Rhymeless verses.--Klopstockean odes.--Claudius.--Wieland’s laxity.--In earlier times: Latin verses; pedantism; more handicraft; skill, without poetic spirit.

_Dilettantism in Pragmatic Poetry_

Reasons why the Dilettante hates the powerful, the passionate, the characteristic, and only represents the middling, the moral.

The Dilettante never paints the object, but only the feeling it gives rise to in him.

He avoids the character of the object.

All Dilettante creations in this style of poetry will have a pathological character, and express only the attractions and repulsions felt by their author.

The Dilettante thinks to reach poetry by means of his wits.

Dramatic botchers go mad when they desire to give effect to their work.

_Dilettantism in Dramatic Art_

French comedy is, even among amateurs, _obligato_, and a social institution.

Italian amateur-comedy is founded on a puppet, or puppet-like, representation.

Germany, in former times, Jesuit-schools.

In later times: French amateur comedies, for aiding the cultivation of the language, in noble houses.

Mixing up of ranks in German amateur-comedy.

Conditions, under which, perhaps, a moderate practice in theatrical matters may be harmless and allowable, or even in some measure advantageous:

Permanence of the same company.

To avoid passionate pieces, and choose such as are reflective and social.

To admit no children or very young persons.

Greatest possible strictness in outward forms.

_Advantages of Dilettantism in General_

It prevents an entire want of cultivation.

Dilettantism is a necessary consequence of a general extension of art, and may even be a cause of it.

It can, under certain circumstances, help to excite and develop a true artistic talent.

Elevates handicraft to a certain resemblance to art.

Has a civilizing tendency.

In case of crude ignorance, it stimulates a certain taste for art, and extends it to where the artist would not be able to reach.

Gives occupation to productive power, and cultivates something serious in man.

Appearances are changed into ideas.

Teaches to analyze impressions.

Aids the appropriation and reproduction of forms.

_In Lyrical Poetry_

Cultivation of language in general.

More manifold interest “in humanioribus,” in contrast to the crudeness of the ignorant, or the pedantic narrowness of the mere man of business or pedant.

Cultivation of the feelings and of the verbal expression of the same.

The cultivated man ought to be able to express his feelings with poetic beauty.

Idealization of concepts regarding objects of common life. Cultivation of the imagination, especially as an integral part of the culture of the intellect.

Awaking and direction of the productive imagination to the highest functions of the mind in the sciences and practical life.

Cultivation of the sense of the rhythmical.

There being no objective laws, either for the internal or external construction of a poem, the amateur ought to hold fast to acknowledged models much more strongly than the master does, and rather imitate the good that exists than strive after originality; and in the external and metrical parts, follow strictly the well-known general rules.

And as the Dilettante can only form himself after models, he ought, in order to avoid one-sidedness, to acquire the most universal knowledge of all models, and survey the field of poetic literature even more perfectly than is required of the artist himself.

_In the Dramatic Art_

Opportunity of farther cultivation in declamation.

Attention to one’s own representations.

Participates in the advantages predicated of Dancing.

Exercise of the Memory.

Sensuous attention and accuracy.

_Disadvantage of Dilettantism in General_

The Dilettante jumps over the steps, stops at certain steps which he regards as the end, and from which he thinks himself justified in judging of the whole; this prevents his perfectibility.

He subjects himself to the necessity of working by false rules, because he cannot work even as a Dilettante without some rules, and he does not understand the true objective rules.

He departs more and more from the truth of objects, and loses himself in subjective errors.

Dilettantism deprives art of its element, and spoils art’s public by depriving it of its earnestness and strictness.

All tendency to easy contentment destroys art, and Dilettantism brings in indulgence and favor. At the expense of the true artists, it brings into notice those that stand nearest to Dilettantism.

With Dilettantism the loss is always greater than the gain.

From handicraft the way is open to rise to art, but not from botch-work.

Dilettantism favors the indifferent, partial, and characterless.

Injury Dilettanti do to art by bringing artists down to their level.

Can bear no good artist near them.

In all cases where the art itself has no proper regulative power, as in Poetry, the art of Gardening, acting, the injury Dilettantism does is greater, and its pretensions more arrogant. The worst case is that of histrionic art.

_In Lyrical Poetry_

Belletristic shallowness and emptiness, withdrawal from solid studies, or superficial treatment.

A greater danger exists in this than in the other arts of mistaking a merely Dilettante dexterity for a true genius for art, and in this case, the subject is worse off than in any other Dilettantism, because its existence becomes an entire nullity; for the poet is nothing at all except through earnestness and conformity to art.

Dilettantism in general, but especially in poetry, weakens the feeling and perception for the good that lies beyond it, and whilst it is indulgent to a restless desire to produce, which leads it to nothing perfect, robs itself of all the culture it might derive through the perception of foreign excellences.

Poetical Dilettantism may be of two sorts. Either it neglects the (indispensable) mechanical, and thinks enough done if it shows mind and feeling; or it seeks poetry only in the mechanical, acquiring a technical dexterity therein, but without spirit or significance. Both are injurious, but the former rather injures the art, and the latter the subject.

All Dilettanti are Plagiarists. They enervate and pull to pieces all that is original in manner or matter, and at the same time imitate, copy, and piece out their own emptiness with it. Thus the language gets filled with phrases and formulae stolen from all sides, which have no longer any meaning, and you may read whole books written in a fine _style_ and containing nothing. In a word, all that is really beautiful and good in true poetry is profaned, rendered common, and degraded.

_In Pragmatical Poetry_

All the disadvantages of Dilettantism in Lyrical Poetry apply here in a far higher degree. Not the art alone, but the subject also, suffers more.

Mixing up of different kinds.

_In Histrionic Art_

Caricature of one’s own faulty individuality.

Incapacitates the mind for all occupation, through the illusion of a fantastic mode of viewing objects.

Expense of interest and passion, without fruit.

Eternal circle of monotonous, ever repeated, ineffectual activity.

(There is nothing so attractive to Dilettanti as rehearsals. Professional actors hate them.)

Special forbearance and pampering of theatrical Dilettanti with applause.

Eternal stimulation towards a passionate condition and behavior, without balance.

Feeding all hateful passions, with the worst results for civic and domestic existence.

Blunting the feeling for poetry.

Use of exalted language for commonplace sentiments.

A rag-fair of thoughts, commonplaces, and descriptions in the memory.

Pervading affectation and mannerism, reaching also into life.

Most injurious indulgence towards the indifferent and faulty, in a public and quite personal case.

The general tolerance for the home-made becomes in this case more pronounced.

Most pernicious use of amateur comedies for the education of children, where it turns into caricature. In the same manner, the most dangerous of all amusements for universities, &c.

Destruction of the ideality of art, because the Dilettante, not being able to raise himself through the appropriation of artistic ideas and traditions, must do all through a pathological reality.

THE THEORY OF LITERATURE

THE PRODUCTION OF A NATIONAL CLASSIC[5]

(_Literarischer Sansculottismus_)

(1795)

Those who consider it an absolute duty to connect definite concepts with the words which they employ in speaking and writing will very rarely use the expressions, “classical author” and “classical work.”

What are the conditions that produce a classical national author? He must, in the first place, be born in a great commonwealth, which after a series of great and historic events has become a happy and unified nation. He must find in his countrymen loftiness of disposition, depth of feeling, and vigor and consistency of action. He must be thoroughly pervaded with the national spirit, and through his innate genius feel capable of sympathizing with the past as well as the present. He must find his nation in a high state of civilization, so that he will have no difficulty in obtaining for himself a high degree of culture. He must find much material already collected and ready for his use, and a large number of more or less perfect attempts made by his predecessors. And finally, there must be such a happy conjuncture of outer and inner circumstances that he will not have to pay dearly for his mistakes, but that in the prime of his life he may be able to see the possibilities of a great theme and to develop it according to some uniform plan into a well-arranged and well-constructed literary work.

If any one, who is endowed with clearness of vision and fairness of mind, contrasts these conditions under which alone a classic writer, especially a classic prose-writer, is possible, with the conditions under which the best Germans of this century have worked, he will respect and admire what they have succeeded in doing, and notice with tactful regret in what they have failed.

An important piece of writing, like an important speech, can only be the outgrowth of actual life. The author no more than the man of action can fashion the conditions under which he is born and under which he acts. Each one, even the greatest genius, suffers in some respects from the social and political conditions of his age, just as in other respects he benefits by them. And only from a real nation can a national writer of the highest order be expected. It is unfair, however, to reproach the German nation because, though closely held together by its geographical position, it is divided politically. We do not wish for Germany those political revolutions which might prepare the way for classical works.

And so any criticism which approaches the question from such a false point of view is most unfair. The critic must look at our conditions, as they were and as they now are; he must consider the individual circumstances under which German writers obtained their training, and he will easily find the correct point of view. There is nowhere in Germany a common centre of social culture, where men of letters might gather together and perfect themselves, each one in his particular field, in conformity with the same standard. Born in the most widely scattered portions of the land, educated in the most diverse ways, left almost entirely to themselves or to impressions derived from the most varied environments, carried away by a special liking for this or that example of German or foreign literature, the German men of letters are forced, without any guidance, to indulge in all sorts of experiments, even in botch-work, in order to try their powers. Only gradually and after considerable reflection do they realize what they ought to do. Practice alone teaches them what they can do. Again and again the bad taste of a large public, which devours the bad and the good with equal pleasure, leads them into doubt. Then again an acquaintance with the educated though widely scattered population of the great empire encourages them, and the common labors and endeavors of their contemporaries fortify them. Such are the conditions under which German writers finally reach man’s estate. Then concern for their own support, concern for a family, force them to look about in the world at large, and often with the most depressing feeling, to do work for which they have no respect themselves, in order to earn a livelihood, so that they can devote themselves to that kind of work with which alone their cultured minds would occupy themselves. What German author of note will not recognize himself in this picture, and will not confess with modest regret that he often enough sighed for an opportunity to subordinate sooner the peculiarities of his original genius to a general national culture, which unfortunately did not exist?

For foreign customs and literatures, irrespective of the many advantages they have contributed to the advancement of the higher classes, have prevented the Germans from developing sooner as Germans.

And now let us look at the work of German poets and prose-writers of recognized ability. With what care and what devotion did they not follow in their labors an enlightened conviction! It is, for example, not saying too much, when we maintain that a capable and industrious literary critic, through a comparison of all the editions of our Wieland,--a man of whom we may proudly boast in spite of the snarling of all our literary parasites,--could develop the whole theory of good taste simply from the successive corrections of this author, who has so indefatigably worked toward his own improvement. We hope that every librarian will take pains to have such a collection made, while it is still possible, and then the next century will know how to make grateful use of it.

In the future we may perhaps be bold enough to lay before the public a history of the development of our foremost writers, as it is shown in their works. We do not expect any confessions, but if they would only themselves impart to us, as far as they see fit, those facts which contributed most to their development, and those which stood most in the way of it, the influence of the good they have done would become still more far-reaching.

For if we consider what superficial critics take least notice of,--the good fortune which young men of talent enjoy nowadays in being able to develop earlier, and to attain sooner a pure style appropriate to the subject at hand,--to whom do they owe it but to their predecessors in the last half of this century, each of whom in his own way has trained himself with unceasing endeavor amidst all sorts of hindrances? Through this circumstance a sort of invisible school has sprung up, and the young man who now enters it gets into a much larger and brighter circle than the earlier author, who had to roam through it first himself in the faint light of dawn, in order to help widen it gradually and as it were only by chance. The pseudo-critic, who would light the way for us with his little lamp, comes much too late; the day has dawned, and we shall not close our shutters again.