Chapter VIII: What Is the True Actual? (1)

I.—_Reality and Potentiality._

The immediate object before the senses undergoes change; the real becomes potential, and that which was potential becomes real. Without the potentiality we could have had no change. At first we are apt to consider the real as the entire existence and to ignore the potential; but the potential will not be treated thus. Whatever a thing _can_ become is as valid as what it is already. The properties of a thing by which it exists for us, are its relations to other beings, and hence are rather its _deficiencies_ than its being _per se_. Thus the sharpness in the acid was pronounced to be the hunger of the same for alkali; the sharper it was, the louder was its call for alkali. Thus the very concreteness of a thing is rather the process of its potentialities. To illustrate this: we have a circle of possibilities belonging to a thing—only one of them is real at a time; it is, for instance, water, whose potentialities are vapor, liquid, and solid. Its reality is only a part of its total being, as in the case of water it was only one-third of itself at any given temperature. Yet the real is throughout qualified by the potential. In change, the real is being acted upon by the potential under the form of “outside influences.” The pyramid is not air, but the air continually acts upon it, and the pyramid is in a continual process of decomposition; its potentiality is continually exhibiting its nature. We know by seeing a thing undergo change what its potentialities are. In the process of change is manifested the activity of the potentialities which are thus negative to it. If a thing had no negative it would not change. The real is nothing but the surface upon which the potential writes its nature; it is the field of strife between the potentialities. The real persists in existence through the potential which is in continual process with it. Thus we are led to regard the product of the two as the constant. This we call _Actuality_.

II.—_Actuality._

The actual is a process, and is ever the same; its two sides, are the real and the potential, and the real is manifested no more and no less than the potentialities, in the process which constantly goes on. The real is annulled by the potential, and the latter becomes the real, only to be again replaced. If in the circle of possibilities which make up the entire being of a thing, that which is real bears a small proportion to the rest, the real is very unstable, for the potentialities are to that extent actively negative to it. But let the sphere of the real be relatively large, and we have a more stable being—there is less to destroy it and more to sustain it—it is a higher order of being. If the whole circle of its being were real it would coincide with its actuality, it would be self-related, exist for itself, and this would be the existence of the _Idea_.

III.—_The Actual is the Rational._

The highest aim is toward perfection; and this is pursued in the cancelling of the finite, partial or incomplete, by adding to it its other or complement—that which it lacks of the Total or Perfect. Since this complement is the _potential_, and since this potential is and can be the only agent that acts upon and modifies the real, it follows that all process is pursuant of the highest aim; and since the actual is the process itself, it follows that the actual is the realization of the Best or of the Rational. A somewhat has a low order of existence if the sphere of its reality is small compared to that of its potentiality. But the lower its order the more swift and sure are the potentialities in their work. Hence no matter how bad anything is, the very best thing is being wrought upon it. Seize the moments of the world-history, and state precisely what they lacked of the complete realization of spirit, and one will see clearly that each phase perished by having just that added to it which it most of all needed.

IV.—“_The Form of Eternity._”

To think according to Reason is to think things under the form of Eternity, says Spinoza (_Res sub quadam specie aeternitatis percipere_). The Form of Eternity is what we have found as the true actual. The Phenomenal world is the constant spectacle wherein each and all is placed under the form of Eternity. When this is done, all _immediate_ (or mechanical) being appears in a state of transition; all _mediated_ being appears as a merely relative, i. e. as existing in what lies beyond it; all _absolutely mediated_ (i. e. self-determined) being appears in a state of development. In the first and second stages the individual loses its identity. In the third stage the process is one of unfolding, and hence the continual realizing of a more vivid personal identity. Thus the Form of Eternity is to the conscious being the realization of his Immortality.

Footnote 64:

The word “Idea” does not have the sense here given it, except in
Hegel, and in a very few translations of him. For the most part the
word is used, (e. g. in Schelling’s Philosophy of Nature in this
number,) as a translation for the German “_Begriff_,” which we call
“_comprehension_,” adopting the term in this sense from the author of
the “Letters on Faust.” It will do no harm to use so expressive a word
as comprehension in an objective sense as well as in a subjective one.
The thought itself is _bizarre_, and not merely the word; it is
useless to expect to find words that are used commonly in a
speculative sense. One must seek a word that has several meanings, and
grasp these meanings all together in one, to have the speculative use
of a word. Spirit has formed words for speculative ideas by the
deepest of instincts, and these words have been unavoidably split up
into different meanings by the sensuous thinking, which always loses
the connecting links.

A THOUGHT ON SHAKESPEARE.
BY ANNA C. BRACKETT.

To say that Shakespeare excels others by virtue of the genius which enables him to throw himself for the time completely into each of the characters he represents, is to say a very common-place thing, and yet it will bear repeating.

His spirit was so many-sided, so universal, that it was able to take all forms and perfectly to fit itself to each, so that he always gives us a consistent character. His personages are individuals whose every word agrees with every other they have spoken, and while the spirit which moves in them is Shakespeare, he is all, yet no one of them.

“The water unchanged in every case,
Doth take on the figure of the vase.”

He does not consciously go to work to fashion a character, nor does he ask himself what that character shall say under the given circumstances, but his soul, being capable of all, takes on for the time the form of the character, and then speaks the things which are most natural to itself in that form. So entirely is this the case, that a comparison of the way in which one of his personages conducts himself under different circumstances, is sure to amaze us as we discover the fine touches by which the unity of the character is preserved. Goethe’s characters grow—are in a state of becoming. Shakespeare’s are grown: they are crystallized. The problem with Goethe is, the development of a character through growth; Shakespeare’s: given a certain character and a certain collision, how will the given character demean itself? The common man with an effort could tell what _he himself_ would have done under such and such circumstances, but Shakespeare could have done _all things_, and grasping one side of himself he holds it, and shows it for one person, and another for another. He never confuses—never changes. The divine inspiration sways him. The power to do this, the Universal which can take on all and be all, is genius.

This is not claimed as new in any sense. I simply wish to illustrate its truth with regard to the suitors of Portia, by noticing how perfectly the feelings which each expresses after the result of his choice is apparent, are the outcome of the feelings which decided the choice.

The three sets of comments on the caskets and their mottoes, betray three entirely different men. Their minds move differently; they are actuated habitually by different motives, and the results of the same failure in Morocco and Arragon are noticeably different. They are placed in precisely the same circumstances. They are both disappointed, but observe how differently they demean themselves. Morocco wastes no words. His mood changes instantly from a doubting hope to despondency and heartfelt grief, so powerful that it deprives him of all speech. He goes at once. But Arragon speaks as if he had been deceived. First—“How much unlike art thou to Portia!” That is, I was led to suppose one thing; I have been misled. Then—“How much unlike my hopes!” but, indignation and wounded pride gaining the ascendency—“_and my deservings!_” He re-reads the motto, and grows more angry still. He has not been treated fairly, and at last, forgetting himself, he turns round to Portia with the fierce, direct question, “Are my deserts no better?” Portia shows her appreciation of his state of mind by her evasion, plainly intimating that he had gone too far in his manner of addressing her. His very words are rough and uncourteous in their abruptness. His question was rude because so personal. In his haste he has not even noticed the writing, which now surprises him, as, feeling her quiet rebuke, he turns back to the casket to hide his embarrassment, and he reads. During the reading he begins to be conscious that he has been angry without reason, and that he has not had control enough of himself to conceal the fact. That he is not a fool is shown by his consciousness that he has behaved like one in giving away to his temper, and as this consciousness begins to dawn on him, he is ashamed of himself for having been provoked, and desires to be gone as soon as possible. He has had a revelation of himself which is not agreeable, and he turns to depart, no longer angry with Portia, but so angry with himself that he almost forgets to bid the lady adieu. But suddenly reminded that she is there, he assumes again his usual, courtly, outside self, and half in apology for his anger and rudeness, which might have led her to suppose that he would forget his promise, half to recall himself to himself, he awkwardly ends the scene by assuring her that he means to keep his word.

Now, why should Morocco never for one instant lose his gentlemanly bearing, while Arragon so wholly forgets himself? Turn back to the comments before the choice, and we have the key at once.

In their remarks on the leaden chest we see at first how much more quickly than Morocco, Arragon rushes at conclusions. The former becomes at once thoughtful, and does not pass by even that unattractive metal without careful pausing. After reading all three mottoes once, he reads slowly the inscription on the leaden casket again, and begins to repeat it a second time. He feels thoroughly how much depends on the choice, and is self-distrustful. Finding that he can gain no suggestion from the lady, he commends himself for help to the gods before he proceeds. He is not the man to be daunted by a threat, and thinks he detects in that very threat a false ring. He is conscious of high motives, but not in vanity, and he decides, adversely, giving a reason. But Arragon, before surveying the whole ground, decides at once about the first he sees, and the summary way in which he dismisses all consideration of the leaden casket, savors strongly of self-esteem. There is a sort of bravado in the sudden words without a moment’s pause: “You shall look fairer ere I give or hazard!” The very use of “shall” with the second person, forces into view the will of the speaker. He does not turn to Portia. He is quite capable of directing his own actions without help from any god.

As Morocco considers the silver, the principal thing that attracts his attention is its “virgin hue.” (Remark that Arragon under the same circumstances calls it a “treasure house.”) He again begins thoughtfully to repeat; and again mark the self-distrust. There is an exquisitely delicate touch of this in—

“If thou be’st rated by thy _estimation_,
Thou dost deserve enough.”

Relying on the judgment of others, rather than on his own, but conscious too that there is good ground for the estimation in which he knows himself held, the chivalrous admiration with which he looks up to the woman he desires, comes in here suddenly with a doubt whether if all that is thought of him is deserved, it is enough to win a pearl of so great price. His conscious manhood refuses, however, to weaken itself by doubting, and he again repeats the clause on which he stopped before. He goes back to the thought of the estimation in which he is held; he thinks of his noble birth, of his princely fortune, of his graces, and qualities of breeding, and enumerating all these, he proves his title to a better nobility by the sudden thought that the love he bears her is enough to make him deserve her were she never so precious, and on that, and that alone, he rests his claim. But before deciding he will read again from the gold casket, and his exclamations on it are only a continuation of his previous thought. It seems perfectly plain to him that this must be the fortunate casket. In his generous love he forgets himself entirely, and as it were to show her how wholly he believes in her, he makes his selection here. Why should he be angry at the failure? He had no self-assertion to be wounded. If he deserved her, it was only because he loved her; and if he did not deserve her, it was only because she was more than any one could deserve.

As Arragon, after passing by the lead, turns to the gold, he begins to be a little more cautious, and repeats like Morocco. But his mind, instead of turning at once to Portia as the only prize in the world wholly desirable, begins from a lofty eminence of superiority to criticise others whom he calls the “fool multitude.” He will not choose what many men desire, because he prefers to keep out of the ranks. No democrat, but a proud aristocrat is he, and so the gold casket is set aside. After reading from the next, he begins to criticise again. It seems as if he stood outside of all the world and coolly reviewed it. On consideration he is quite sure that there is no danger of his losing his place even if “true honor were purchased by the merit of the wearer,” and basing his choice on his belief that he deserves success, he orders peremptorily the opening of the “treasure house.”

Is it not most natural that with such feelings, such self-complacency, he should be angry when he finds he has made a mistake? Nothing can be more galling to a proud spirit than to discover that the estimation set upon him by others is lower than that he sets upon himself.

It was not our purpose to compare Bassanio’s comments with the others. Let us say only that he evidently prizes sincerity above all other virtues, and prefers a leaden casket that is lead all through, to a golden one that is gold only on the outside, and so he wins the woman, who, as she shows us a moment afterwards, is sincere enough to deserve to be won.

LEONARDO DA VINCI’S “LAST SUPPER,”
AS TREATED BY GOETHE.

[The following extracts from Goethe’s treatment of the master-piece
of Leonardo da Vinci were read at a meeting of the St. Louis Art
Society, pending the discussion of a fine engraving of this
celebrated picture. The MS. kindly presented to us by the translator
we print, in order to give to those unacquainted with the original
an exhibition of Goethe’s thorough manner of penetrating the spirit
of a work of art.—EDITOR.]

The Last Supper * * * was painted upon the wall of the monastery _alle Grazie_, at Milan. The place where the picture is painted must first be considered, for here the skill of the artist appears in its most brilliant light. What could be fitter and nobler for a refectory than a parting meal, which should be an object of reverence to the whole world for all future time. Several years ago, when travelling, we beheld this dining-room still undestroyed. Opposite the entrance on the narrow side, stood the table of the prior, on both sides of him the tables of the monks, all of which were raised a step from the floor—and when the visitor turned round, he saw painted on the fourth, above the doors, which are of but moderate height, a fourth table, and Christ and his disciples seated at it, as if they belonged to the society. At meal times it must have been a telling sight, when the tables of the prior and Christ looked upon each other as two opposite pictures, and the monks at their places found themselves enclosed between them. And just on this account the skill of the artist was compelled to take the existing tables of the monks as a pattern. Also, the table-cloth, with its folds still visible with its worked stripes and tied corners, was taken from the wash-room of the monastery. The plates, dishes, cups, and other vessels, are like those which the monks used.

Here was no attempt at imitating an uncertain antiquated costume; it would have been highly improper to stretch out the holy company upon cushions in this place. No, the picture must be brought near to the present; Christ must take his last supper with the Dominicans at Milan. Also, in many other respects, the painting must have produced a great effect; the thirteen figures about ten feet above the floor, one-half larger than life-size, take up the space of twenty-eight feet in length. Only two whole figures can be seen at the opposite ends of the table, the rest are half-figures; and here, too, the artist found his advantage in the necessity of the circumstances. Every moral expression belongs to the upper part of the body, and the feet in such cases are everywhere in the way. The artist has created here twelve half-figures, whose laps and knees are covered by the table and table-cloth, but whose feet are scarcely visible in the modest twilight beneath. Let us now imagine ourselves in the place; let us consider the moral repose which prevails in such a monastic dining-hall, and let us admire the artist who has infused into his picture, powerful emotion, passionate movement, and at the same time has kept his work within the bounds of Nature, and thus brings it in close contrast with the nearest reality.

The means of excitement by which the artist arouses the quiet holy group, are the words of the Master: “There is one among you who shall betray me!” They are spoken—the whole company falls into disquiet; but he inclines his head, with looks cast down; the whole attitude, the motion of the arms, of the hands, everything repeats with heavenly submission the unhappy words: Yes, it is not otherwise, there is one among you who shall betray me!

Before we go farther, we must point out a happy device whereby Leonardo principally enlivened his picture; it is the motion of the hands; this device, however, only an Italian could discover. With his nation, the whole body is full of animation; every limb participates in the expression of feeling, of passion, even of thought. By various motions and forms of the hand, he expresses: “What do I care!—Come hither!—This is a rogue! beware of him!—He shall not live long!—This is a main point!—Observe this well, my hearers!” To such a national peculiarity Leonardo, who observed every characteristic point with the closest attention, must have turned his careful eye. In this respect, the present picture is unique, and one can scarcely observe it enough. Every look and movement perfectly correspond, and at the same time there is a combined and contrasted position of the limbs, comprehensible at a glance, and wrought out in the most praiseworthy manner.

The figures on both sides of the Saviour may be considered by threes, and each of these again must be thought into a unity, placed in relation, and still held in connection with its neighbors. First, on the right side of Christ, are John, Judas, and Peter. Peter the most distant, in consonance with his violent character, when he hears the word of the Lord, hastens up behind Judas, who, looking up affrighted, bends forward over the table, and holds with his right hand firmly closed, the purse, but with the left makes an involuntary nervous movement, as if he would say: What’s that? What does that mean? In the meanwhile Peter has with his left hand seized the right shoulder of John, who is inclined towards him, and points to Christ, and at the same time urges the beloved disciple to ask who the traitor is. He strikes a knife-handle, which he holds in his right hand, inadvertently into the ribs of Judas, whereby the affrighted forward movement, which upsets the salt-cellar, is happily brought out. This group may be considered as the one which was first thought out by the artist; it is the most perfect.

If now upon the right hand of the Lord immediate vengeance is threatened, with a moderate degree of motion, there arises upon his left the liveliest horror and detestation of the treachery. James, the elder, bends back from fear, extends his arms, stares with his head bowed down as one who sees before him the monster which he has just heard of. Thomas peers from behind his shoulder, and approaching the Saviour, raises the index of his right hand to his forehead. Philip, the third of this group, rounds it off in the loveliest manner; he has risen, bends toward the Master, lays his hands upon his breast, and declares with the greatest clearness: Lord, it is not I! Thou knowest it! Thou seest my pure heart. It is not I!

And now, the last three figures of this group give us new material for thought; they talk with one another about the terrible thing which they have just heard. Matthew, with a zealous motion, turns his face to the left toward his two companions; his hands, on the contrary, he stretches with rapidity towards his master, and thus, by the most ingenious artifice, unites his own group with the previous one. Thaddeus shows the most violent surprise, doubt and suspicion; he has laid his left hand open upon the table, and has raised the right in a manner as if he intended to strike his left hand with the back of the right—a movement which one still sees in men of nature when they wish to express at an unexpected occurrence: Have I not said so? Have I not always supposed it? Simon sits at the end of the table, full of dignity—we therefore see his whole figure; he, the eldest of all, is clothed with rich folds; his countenance and movements show that he is astonished and reflecting, not excited, scarcely moved.

If we now turn our eyes to the opposite end of the table, we see Bartholomew, who stands upon his right foot, with the left crossed over it; he is supporting his inclined body by resting both hands firmly upon the table. He listens, probably to hear what John will find out from the Lord; for, in general, the incitement of the favorite disciple seems to proceed from this entire side. James, the younger, beside and behind Bartholomew, lays his left hand upon Peter’s shoulder, just as Peter lays his upon the shoulder of John, but James does so mildly, seeking explanation only, whereas Peter already threatens vengeance.

And thus, as Peter reaches behind Judas, so James the younger reaches behind Andrew, who, as one of the most important figures, shows with his half-raised arms, his expanded hands in front, a decided expression of horror, which appears only once in this picture, while in other works of less genius, and of less profound thought, it recurs unfortunately only too often.

COPIES GENERALLY.

Before we now come to imitations of our painting, of which the number amounts to about thirty, we must make some reference to the subject of copies generally. Such did not come into use until everybody confessed that art had reached its culminating point, whereupon, inferior talents, looking at the works of the greater masters, despaired of producing by their own skill anything similar, either in imitation of nature, or from the idea; and art, which now dwindled into mere handicraft, began to repeat its own creations. This inability on the part of most of the artists did not remain a secret to the lovers of art, who, not being able always to turn to the first masters, called upon and paid inferior talents, inasmuch as they preferred, in order not to receive something altogether destitute of skill, to order imitations of recognized works, with a view to being well served in some degree. This new procedure was favored, from reasons of illiberality and overhaste by owners no less than by artists, and art lowered itself advisedly by setting out with the purpose to copy.

In the fifteenth century, as well as in the previous one, artists entertained a high idea of themselves and their art, and did not readily content themselves with repeating the inventions of others; hence we find no real copies dating from that period—a circumstance to which every friend of the history of art will do well to give heed. Inferior arts no doubt made use of higher patterns for smaller works, as in the case of _Niello_ and other enamelled work, and, of course, when from religious or other motives, a repetition was desired, people contented themselves with an accurate imitation, which only approximately expressed the movement and action of the original, without paying any close regard to form and color. Hence in the richest galleries we find no copy previous to the sixteenth century.

But now came the time, when, through the agency of a few extraordinary men—among whom our Leonardo must be reckoned and considered as the first—art in every one of its parts attained to perfection; people learned to see and to judge better, and now the desire for imitations of first-class work was not difficult to satisfy, particularly in those schools to which large numbers of scholars crowded, and in which the works of the master were greatly in request. And yet, at that time, this desire was confined to smaller works which could be easily compared with the originals and judged. As regards larger works, the case was quite different at that time from what it was at a later period, because the original cannot be compared with the copies, and also because such orders are rare. Thus, then, art, as well as its lovers, contented itself with copies on a small scale, and a great deal of liberty was allowed to the copyist, and the results of this arbitrary procedure showed themselves, in an overpowering degree, in the few cases in which copies on a large scale were desired. These indeed were generally copies of copies, and, what is more, generally executed from copies on a smaller scale, worked out far away from the original, often from mere drawings, or even perhaps from memory. Job-painters now increased by the dozen, and worked for lower prices; people made household ornaments of painting; taste died out; copies increased and darkened the walls of ante-chambers and stair-cases; hungry beginners lived on poor pay, by repeating the most important works on every scale; yea, many painters passed the whole of their lives in simply copying; but even then an amount of deviation appeared in every copy, either a notion of the person for whom it was painted, or a whim of the painter, or perhaps a presumptuous wish to be original.

In addition to this came the demand for worked tapestry, in which painting was not content to look dignified, except when tricked out with gold; and the most magnificent pictures were considered meagre and wretched, because they were grave and simple; therefore the copyist introduced buildings and landscapes in the background, ornaments on the dresses, aureoles or crowns around the heads, and further, strangly formed children, animals, chimeras, grotesques, and other fooleries. It often happened, also, that an artist, who believed in his own powers of invention, received by the will of a client who could not appreciate his capabilities, a commission to copy another person’s work, and since he did so with reluctance, he wished to appear original here and there, and therefore made changes or additions as knowledge, or perhaps vanity, suggested. Such occurrences took place of course according to the demands of place and time. Many figures were used for purposes quite different from those for which they had been intended by their first producers. Secular subjects were, by means of a few additions, changed into religious ones; heathen gods and heroes had to submit to be martyrs and evangelists. Often also, the artist, for instruction or exercise to himself, had copied some figure from a celebrated work, and now he added to it something of his own invention in order to turn it into a saleable picture. Finally, we may certainly ascribe a part of the corruption of art to the discovery and abuse of copper-plate engravings, which supplied job-painters with crowds of foreign inventions, so that no one any longer studied, and painting at last reached such a low ebb that it got mixed up with mechanical works. In the first place, the copper-plate engravings themselves were different from the originals, and whoever copied them multiplied the changes according to his own or other peoples’ conviction or whim. The same thing happened precisely in the case of drawings; artists took sketches of the most remarkable subjects in Rome and Florence, in order to produce arbitrary repetitions of them when they returned home.

COPIES OF THE SUPPER.

In view of the above, we shall be able to judge what is to be expected, more or less, of copies of the Supper, although the earliest were executed contemporaneously; for the work made a great sensation, and other monasteries desired similar works. Of the numerous copies consulted by the author [Vossi] we shall occupy ourselves here with only three, since the copies at Weimar are taken from them; nevertheless, at the basis of these lies a fourth, of which, therefore, we must first speak. _Marco d’Oggiono_, a pupil of Leonardo da Vinci’s, though without any extensive talent, gained the praise of his school chiefly by his heads, although in them he is not always equal to himself. About the year 1510, he executed a copy on a small scale, intending to use it afterwards for a copy on a larger scale. It was, according to tradition, not quite accurate; he made it, however, the basis of a larger copy which is in the now suppressed monastery at Castellazzo, likewise in the dining-hall of the monks of those days. Everything about it shows careful work; nevertheless the usual arbitrariness prevails in the details. And although Vossi has not been able to say much in its praise, he does not deny that it is a remarkable monument, and that the character of several of the heads, in which the expression is not exaggerated, is deserving of praise. Vossi has copied it, and on comparison of the three copies we shall be able to pronounce judgment upon it from our own observation.

A second copy, of which we likewise have the heads copied before us, is found in fresco on the wall at Ponte Capriasca; it is referred to the year 1565, and ascribed to Pierro Lovino. Its merits we shall learn in the sequel; it has the peculiarity that the names of the figures are written underneath, a piece of foresight which aids us in arriving at a correct characterization of the different physiognomies.

The gradual destruction of the original we have described in sufficient detail, and it was already in a very wretched condition when, in 1612, Cardinal Frederico Borromeo, a zealous friend of art, endeavored to prevent the entire loss of the work, and commissioned a Milanese, Andrea Bianchi, surnamed Vespino, to execute a full-sized copy. This artist first tried his skill on a few of the heads; being successful in these, he proceeded and copied the whole of the figures, separately however, and afterwards put them together with the greatest possible care; the picture is at present to be found in the Ambrosiana library at Milan, and lies mainly at the basis of the most recent copy, executed by Vossi. This was executed on the following occasion.

LATEST COPY.

The Kingdom of Italy was decreed, and Prince Eugène, following the example of Luigi Sforza, wished to glorify the beginning of his reign by patronizing the fine arts. Luigi had ordered a representation of the Last Supper of Leonardo; Eugène resolved to restore, as far as possible, the painting that had been going to wreck for three hundred years in a new picture, which, in order that it might be indestructible, was to be done in mosaic, for which preparation had been made in an already existing institution.

Vossi immediately receives the commission, and commences in the beginning of May, 1807. He finds it advisable to execute a full-sized cartoon, takes up anew the studies of his youth, and applies himself entirely to Leonardo, studies his art-remains and his writings, particularly the latter, because he is persuaded that a man who has produced such splendid works must have worked on the most decided and advantageous principles. He had made drawings of the heads in the copy at Ponte Capriasca, as well as of some other parts of it, likewise of the heads and hands of the Castellazzo copy, and of that of Bianchi. Then he makes drawings of everything coming from Da Vinci himself, and even of what comes from some of his contemporaries. Moreover he looks about for all the extant copies, and succeeds in making more or less acquaintance with twenty-seven; drawings and manuscripts of Da Vinci’s are kindly sent to him from all quarters. In the working out of his cartoon, he adheres principally to the Ambrosiana copy; it alone is as large as the original. Bianchi, by means of thread-nets and transparent paper, had endeavored to give a most accurate copy of the original, which, although already very much injured, was not yet painted over.

In the end of October, 1807, the cartoon is ready; canvass grounded uniformly in one piece, and the whole immediately sketched out. Hereupon, in order in some measure to regulate his tints, Vossi painted the small portion of sky and landscape, which, on account of the depth and purity of the colors in the original, had still remained fresh and brilliant. Hereupon he paints the head of Christ and those of the three apostles at his left, and as for the dresses, he first paints those about whose colors he had first arrived at certainly, with a view to selecting the rest according to the principles of the master and his own taste. Thus he covered the whole of the canvass, guided by careful reflection, and kept his colors of uniform height and strength.

Unfortunately, in this damp, deserted place, he was seized with an illness which compelled him to put a stop to his exertions; nevertheless, he employed this interval in arranging drawings, copper-plate engravings, partly with a view to the Supper itself, partly to other works of the master; at the same time he was favored by fortune, which brought him a collection of drawings, purporting to come from Cardinal Cæsar Monti, and containing, among other treasures, remarkable productions of Leonardo himself. He studied even the authors contemporaneous with Leonardo, in order to make use of their opinions and wishes, and looked about him for everything that could further his design. Thus he took advantage of his sickness, and at last attained strength to set about his work anew.

No artist or friend of art will leave unread the account of how he managed the details, how he thought out the characters of the faces and their expression, and even the motions of the hands, and how he represented them. In the same manner he thinks out the dishes, the room, the back-ground, and shows that he has not decided upon any part without the strongest reasons. What care he takes about representing the feet under the table in correct attitudes, because this portion of the original had long been destroyed, and in the copies had been carelessly treated!

* * * * *

Of the relation of the two copies—the merits of the third can be shown only to the eye, not to the mind in words—we shall state in a few words the most essential and most decided points, until we shall be fortunate enough, as we shall perhaps one day be, to be able to lay copies of these interesting sheets before the friends of art.

COMPARISON.

_St. Bartholomew_, manly youth, sharp profile, compressed, clear face, eyelid and brow pressed down, mouth closed, as if listening with suspicion, a character completely circumscribed within itself. In Vespino’s copy no trace of individual characteristic features, a general kind of drawing-book face, listening with open mouth. Vossi has approved of this opening of the lips, and retained it, a procedure to which we should be unable to lend our assent.

_St. James_ the younger, likewise profile, relationship to Christ unmistakable, receives from the protruded, slightly opened lips, something individual, which again cancels this similarity. According to Vespino, almost an ordinary, academical Christ, the mouth opened rather in astonishment than in inquiry. Our assertion that Bartholomew must have his mouth closed, receives support from the fact that his neighbor has his mouth open. Such a repetition Leonardo would never have endured; on the contrary, the next figure,

_St. Andrew_ has his mouth shut. Like persons advanced in life, he presses the lower lip rather against the upper. In the copy of Marco, this head has something peculiar, not to be expressed in words; the eyes are introverted; the mouth, though shut, is still _naïve_. The outline of the left side against the back ground forms a beautiful silhouette; enough of the other side of the forehead (eye, nose and beard) is seen to give the head a roundness and a peculiar life; on the contrary, Vespino suppresses the left eye altogether, but shows so much of the left temple and of the side of the beard as to produce in the uplifted face a full bold expression, which is indeed striking, but which would seem more suitable to clenched fists than to open hands stretched forward.

_Judas_ locked up within himself, frightened, looking anxiously up and back, profile strongly dented, not exaggerated, by no means an ugly formation; for good taste would not tolerate any real monster in the proximity of pure and upright men. Vespino, on the other hand, has actually represented such a monster, and it cannot be denied that, regarded by itself, this head has much merit; it expresses vividly a mischievously bold malignity, and would make itself eminently conspicuous in a mob triumphing over an _Ecce Homo_, and crying out “Crucify! crucify!” It might be made to pass for Mephistopheles in his most devilish moment. But of affright or dread, combined with dissimulation, indifference and contempt, there is not a trace; the bristly hair fits in with the _tout ensemble_ admirably; its exaggeration, however, is matched only by the force and violence of the rest of Vespino’s heads.

_St. Peter._—Very problematical features. Even in Marco, it is merely an expression of pain; of wrath or menace there is no sign; there is also a certain anxiety expressed, and here Leonardo may not have been at one even with himself; for cordial sympathy with a beloved master, and threatening against a traitor, are with difficulty united in one countenance. Nevertheless, Cardinal Borromeo asserts that he saw such a miracle in his time. However pleasant it might be to believe this, we have reason to suppose that the art-loving cardinal expressed his own feeling rather than what was in the picture; for otherwise we should be unable to defend our friend Vespino, whose Peter has an unpleasant expression. He looks like a stern Capuchin monk, whose Lent sermon is intended to rouse sinners. It is strange that Vespino has given him bushy hair, since the Peter of Marco shows a beautiful head of short, curled tresses.

_St. John_ is represented by Marco in the spirit of Da Vinci; the beautiful roundish face, somewhat inclined to oval, the hair smooth towards the top of the head, but curling gently downwards, particularly where it bends round Peter’s inserted hand, are most lovely; what we see of the dark of the eye is turned away from Peter—a marvellously fine piece of observation, in that while he is listening with the intensest feeling to the secret speech of his neighbor, he turns away his eyes from him. According to Vespino, he is a comfortable-looking, quiet, almost sleepy youth, without any trace of sympathy.

We turn now to the left side of Christ, in order that the figure of the Saviour may come last in our description.

_St. Thomas’_ head and right hand, whose upraised fore-finger is bent slightly toward his brow to imply reflection. This movement, which is so much in keeping with a person who is suspicious or in doubt, has been hitherto misunderstood, and a hesitating disciple looked upon as threatening. In Vespino’s copy, likewise, he is reflective enough, but as the artist has again left out the retreating right eye, the result is a perpendicular, monotonous profile, without any remnant of the protruding, searching elements of the older copies.

_St. James_ the Elder.—The most violent agitation of the features, the most gaping mouth, horror in his eye; an original venture of Leonardo’s; yet we have reason to believe that this head, likewise, has been remarkably succesful with Marco. The working out is magnificent, whereas in the copy of Vespino all is lost; attitude, manner, mien, everything has vanished, and dwindles down into a sort of indifferent generality.

_St. Philip_, amiable and invaluable, resembles Raffaelle’s youths, collected on the left side of _The School of Athens_ about Bramante. Vespino has, unfortunately, again suppressed the right eye, and as he could not deny that there was something more than profile in the thing, he has produced an ambiguous, strangely inclined head.

_St. Matthew_, young, of undesigning nature, with curly hair, an anxious expression in the slightly opened mouth, in which the teeth, which are visible, express a sort of slight ferocity in keeping with the violent movement of the figure. Of all this nothing remains in Vespino; he gazes before him, stiff and expressionless; one does not receive the remotest notion of the violent movement of the body.

_St. Thaddeus_, according to Marco, is likewise quite an invaluable head; anxiety, suspicion, vexation, are expressed in every feature. The unity of this agitation of the countenance is extremely fine, and is entirely in keeping with the movement of the hands which we have already explained. In Vespino, everything is again reduced to a general level; he has also made the head still more unmeaning by turning it too much towards the spectator, whereas, according to Marco, hardly a quarter of the left side is seen, whereby the suspicious, askance-looking element is admirably portrayed.

_St. Simon_ the Elder, wholly in profile, placed opposite the likewise pure profile of young Matthew. In him the protruding under lip which Leonardo had such a partiality for in old faces, is most exaggerated; but, along with the grave, overhanging brow, produces the most wonderful effect of vexation and reflection, in sharp contrast with the passionate movement of young Matthew. In Vespino he is a good-natured old man in his dotage, incapable of taking any interest in even the most important occurrence that might take place in his presence.

Having thus now thrown light upon the apostles, we turn to the form of _Christ_ himself. And here again we are met by the legend, that Leonardo was unable to finish either Christ or Judas, which we readily believe, since, from his method, it was impossible for him to put the last touch to those two extremes of portraiture. Wretched enough, in the original, after all the darkening processes it had to undergo, may have been the appearance presented by the features of Christ, which were only sketched. How little Vespino found remaining, may be gleaned from the fact that he brought out a colossal head of Christ, quite at variance with the purpose of Da Vinci, without paying the least attention to the inclination of the head, which ought of necessity to have been made parallel with the inclination of John’s. Of the expression we shall say nothing; the features are regular, good-natured, intelligent, like those we are accustomed to see in Christ, but without the very smallest particle of sensibility, so that we should almost be unable to tell what New Testament story this head would be welcome to.

We are here met and aided by the circumstance that connoisseurs assert, that Leonardo himself painted the head of the Saviour at Castellazzo, and ventured to do in another’s work what he had not been willing to undertake in his own principal figure. As we have not the original before us, we must say of the copy that it agrees entirely with the conception which we form of a noble man whose breast is weighed down by poignant suffering of soul, which he has endeavored to alleviate by a familiar word, but has thereby only made matters worse instead of better.

By these processes of comparison, then, we have come sufficiently near the method of this extraordinary artist, such as he has clearly explained and demonstrated it in writings and pictures, and fortunately it is in our power to take a step still further in advance. There is, namely, preserved in the Ambrosiana library a drawing incontestably executed by Leonardo, upon bluish paper, with a little white and colored chalk. Of this the chevalier Vossi has executed the most accurate _fac-simile_, which is also before us. A noble youthful face, drawn from nature, evidently with a view to the head of Christ at the Supper. Pure, regular features, smooth hair, the head bent to the left side, the eyes cast down, the mouth half opened, the _tout ensemble_ brought into the most marvellous harmony by a slight touch of sorrow. Here indeed we have only the man who does not conceal a suffering of soul, but the problem, how, without extinguishing this promise, at the same time to express sublimity, independence, power, the might of godhead, is one which even the most gifted earthly pencil might well find hard to solve. In this youthful physiognomy which hovers between Christ and John, we see the highest attempt to hold fast by nature when the supermundane is in question.

PAUL JANET AND HEGEL.[65]

[In the following article the passages quoted are turned into
English, and the original French is omitted for the sake of brevity
and lucid arrangement. As the work reviewed is accessible to most
readers, a reference to the pages from which we quote will answer
all purposes.—EDITOR.]

Since the death of Hegel in 1831, his philosophy has been making a slow but regular progress into the world at large. At home in Germany it is spoken of as having a right wing, a left wing, and a centre; its disciples are very numerous when one counts such widely different philosophers as Rosenkrantz, Michelet, Kuno Fischer, Erdmann, J. H. Fichte, Strauss, Feuerbach, and their numerous followers. Sometimes when one hears who constitute a “wing” of the Hegelian school, he is reminded of the “_lucus a non_” principle of naming, or rather of misnaming things. But Hegelianism has, as we said, made its way into other countries. In France we have the Æsthetics “partly translated and partly analyzed,” by Professor Bénard; the logic of the small Encyclopædia, translated with copious notes, by Professor Vera, who has gone bravely on, with what seems with him to be a work of love, and given us the “Philosophy of Nature” and the “Philosophy of Spirit,” and promises us the “Philosophy of Religion”—all accompanied with abundant introduction and commentary. We hear of others very much influenced by Hegel: M. Taine, for example, who writes brilliant essays. In English, too, we have a translation of the “Philosophy of History,” (in Bohn’s Library;) a kind of translation and analysis of the first part of the third volume of the Logic, (Sloman & Wallon, London, 1855); and an extensive and elaborate work on “The Secret of Hegel,” by James Hutchison Stirling. We must not forget to mention a translation of Schwegler’s History of Philosophy—a work drawn principally from Hegel’s labors—by our American Professor Seelye: and also (just published) a translation of the same book by the author of the “Secret of Hegel.” Articles treating of Hegel are to be found by the score—seek them in every text-book on philosophy, in every general Cyclopædia, and in numerous works written for or against German Philosophy. Some of these writers tell us in one breath that Hegel was a man of prodigious genius, and in the next they convict him of confounding the plainest of all common sense distinctions. Some of them find him the profoundest of all thinkers, while others cannot “make a word of sense out of him.” There seems to be a general understanding in this country and England on one point: all agree that he was a Pantheist. Theodore Parker, Sir William Hamilton, Mansell, Morell, and even some of the English defenders of Hegelianism admit this. Hegel holds, say some, that God is a _becoming_; others say that he holds God to be _pure being_. These men are careful men apparently—but only _apparently_, for it must be confessed that if Hegel has written any books at all, they are, every one of them, devoted to the task of showing the inadequacy of such abstractions when made the highest principle of things.

The ripest product of the great German movement in philosophy, which took place at the beginning of this century, Hegel’s philosophy is likewise the concretest system of thought the world has seen. This is coming to be the conviction of thinkers more and more every day as they get glimpses into particular provinces of his labor. Bénard thinks the Philosophy of Art the most wonderful product of modern thinking, and speaks of the Logic—which he does not understand—as a futile and perishable production. Another thinks that his Philosophy of History is immortal, and a third values extravagantly his Philosophy of Religion. But the one who values his Logic knows how to value all his labors. The History of Philosophy is the work that impresses us most with the unparalleled wealth of his thought; he is able to descend through all history, and give to each philosopher a splendid thought as the centre of his system, and yet never is obliged to confound different systems, or fail in showing the superior depth of modern thought. While we are admiring the depth and clearness of Pythagoras, we are surprised and delighted to find the great thought of Heraclitus, but Anaxagoras is a new surprise; the Sophists come before us bearing a world-historical significance, and Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle lead us successively to heights such as we had not dreamed attainable by any thinking.

But thought is no _immediate_ function, like the process of breathing or sleeping, or fancy-making: it is the profoundest mediation of spirit, and he who would get an insight into the speculative thinkers of whatever time, must labor as no mere flesh and blood can labor, but only as spirit can labor: with agony and sweat of blood. A philosophy which should explain the great complex of the universe, could hardly be expected to be transparent to uncultured minds at the first glance. Thus it happens that many critics give us such discouraging reports upon their return from a short excursion into the true wonder-land of philosophy. The Eternal Verities are miraculous only to those eyes which have gazed long upon them after shutting out the glaring sunlight of the senses.