LITMIR.BIZ

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— They are passably good. They convey an imperfect but not a false impression.

      I. — Well, then, to that extent we can take them for a ground to go upon.

      Uncle. — What is it you assert of the treatment of the ancient tragic writers?

      I. — The subjects they chose, especially in the early times, were often of an unbearable f rightfulness.

      Guest. — Were the ancient fables insupportably frightful?

      I. — Undoubtedly; in the same manner as your account of the Laocoon.

      Guest. — Did you find that also unbearable?

      I. — I ask pardon. I meant the thing you describe, not your description.

      Guest. — And the work itself also?

      I. — By no means the work itself, but that which you have seen in it, — the fable, the history, the skeleton, — that which you name the characteristic. For if the Laocoon really stood before our eyes such as you have described it, we ought not to hesitate a moment to dash it to pieces.

      Guest. — You use strong expressions.

      I. — One may do that as well as another.

      Uncle. — Now then for the ancient tragedies.

      Guest. — Yes, these insupportable subjects.

      I. — Very good; but also this manner of treatment that makes everything endurable, beautiful, graceful.

      Guest. — And that is effected by means of " simplicity and serene greatness?"

      I. — So it appears.

      Guest. — By the softening principle of Beauty?

      I. — It can be nothing else.

      Guest. — And the old tragedies were after all not frightful?

      I. — Hardly, so far as my knowledge extends, if you listen to the poets themselves. In fact, if we regard in poetry only the material which lies at the foundation, if we are to speak of works of art as if in their place we had seen the actual circumstances, then even the tragedies of Sophocles can be described as loathsome and horrible.

      Guest. — I will not pass judgment on poetry.

      I. — Nor I on plastic art.

      Guest. — Yes, it is best for each to stick to his own department.

      I. — And yet there is a common point of union for all the arts wherefrom the laws of all proceed.

      Guest. — And that is —

      I. — The soul of man.

      Guest. — Ay, ay; that is just the way with you gentlemen of the new school of philosophy. You bring everything upon your own ground and province; and, in fact, it is more convenient to shape the world according to your ideas than to adapt your notions to the truth of things.

      I. — Here is no question of any metaphysical dispute.

      Guest. — If there were I should certainly decline it.

      I. — I shall admit for the sake of argument that Nature can be imagined as absolutely apart from man, but with him art necessarily concerns itself, for art exists only through man and for man.

      Guest. — Where does all this tend?

      I. — You yourself, when you make Character the end of art, appoint the understanding, which takes cognizance of the characteristic, as the judge.

      Guest. — To be sure I do. What I cannot seize with my understanding does not exist for me.

      I. — Yet man is not only a being of thought, but also of feeling. He is a whole; a union of various, closely connected powers; and to this whole of man the work of art is to address itself. It must speak to this rich unity, this simple variety in him.

      Guest. — Don't carry me with you into these labyrinths, for who could ever help us out again?

      I. — It will then be best for us to give up the dispute and each retain his position.

      Guest. — I shall at least hold fast to mine.

      I. — Perhaps a means may still be found whereby, if one does not take the other's position, he can at least observe him in it.

      Guest. — Propose it then.

      I. — We will for a moment contemplate art in its origin.

      Guest. — Good.

      I. — Let us accompany the work of art on its road to perfection.

      Guest. — But only by the way of experience, if you expect me to follow. I will have nothing to do with the steep paths of speculation.

      I. — You allow me to begin at the beginning.?

      Guest. — With all my heart.

      I. — A man feels an inclination for some object; let us suppose a single living being.

      Guest. — As, for instance, this pretty lap-dog.

      Julia. — Come, Bello! It is no small honor to serve as example in such a discussion.

      I. — Truly, the dog is pretty enough, and if the man we are speaking of had the gift of imitation, he would try in some way to make a likeness of it. But let him prosper never so well in his imitation, we are still not advanced, for we have at best only two Bellos instead of one.

      Guest. — I will not interrupt, but wait and see what is to become of this.

      I. — Suppose that this man, to whom for the sake of his talent we will give the name of Artist, has by no means satisfied himself as yet; that his desire seems to him too narrow, too limited; that he busies himself about more individuals, varieties, kinds, species, in such wise that at last not the creature itself, but the Idea of the creature stands before him, and he is able to express this by means of his art.

      Guest. — Bravo! That is just my man, and his work must be characteristic.

      I. — No doubt.

      Guest. — And there I would stop and go no farther.

      I. — But we go beyond this.

      Guest. — I stop here.

      Uncle. — I will go along for the sake of experiment.

      I. — By this operation we may arrive at a canon useful indeed, and scientifically valuable, but not satisfactory to the soul of man.

      Guest. — How then are you going to satisfy the fantastic demands of this dear soul?

      I. — Not fantastic; it is only not satisfied in its just claims. An old tradition informs us that the Elohim once took counsel together, saying, let us make man after our own image; and man says therefore, with good cause, let us make gods and they shall be in our image.

      Guest. — We are getting into a dark region.

      I. — There is only one light that can aid us here.

      Guest. — And that is?

      I. — Reason.

      Guest. — How far it be a guide or a will-o'-wisp is hard to say.

      I. — We need not give it a name; but let us ask ourselves what are the demands the soul makes of a work of art. It is not enough that it fulfils a limited

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