No More Learning

Now our sensuous nature actually acquires this
preponderance, when the ideas of suffering rise to a degree of vividness
that no longer allows us to distinguish a sympathetic affection from
a personal affection, or our own proper Ego from the subject that
suffers,--reality, in short, from poetry. The sensuous also gains the
upper hand when it finds an aliment in the great number of its objects,
and in that dazzling light which an over-excited imagination diffuses
over it. On the contrary, nothing is more fit to reduce the sensuous to
its proper bounds than to place alongside it super-sensuous ideas, moral
ideas, to which reason, oppressed just before, clings as to a kind of
spiritual props, to right and raise itself above the fogs of the sensuous
to a serener atmosphere. Hence the great charm which general truths or
moral sentences, scattered opportunely over dramatic dialogue, have for
all cultivated nations, and the almost excessive use that the Greeks made
of them. Nothing is more agreeable to a moral soul than to have the
power, after a purely passive state that has lasted too long, of escaping
from the subjection of the senses, and of being recalled to its
spontaneous activity, and restored to the possession of its liberty.

These are the remarks I had to make respecting the causes that restrict
our pity and place an obstacle to our pleasure in tragic emotions. I
have next to show on what conditions pity is solicited and the pleasure
of the emotion excited in the most infallible and energetic manner.

Every feeling of pity implies the idea of suffering, and the degree of
pity is regulated according to the degree more or less of vividness, of
truth, of intensity, and of duration of this idea.

1st. The moral faculty is provoked to reaction in proportion to the
vividness of ideas in the soul, which incites it to activity and solicits
its sensuous faculty. Now the ideas of suffering are conceived in two
different manners, which are not equally favorable to the vividness of
the impression. The sufferings that we witness affect us incomparably
more than those that we have through a description or a narrative. The
former suspend in us the free play of the fancy, and striking our senses
immediately penetrate by the shortest road to our heart. In the
narrative, on the contrary, the particular is first raised to the
general, and it is from this that the knowledge of the special case is
afterwards derived; accordingly, merely by this necessary operation of
the understanding, the impression already loses greatly in strength. Now
a weak impression cannot take complete possession of our mind, and it
will allow other ideas to disturb its action and to dissipate the
attention. Very frequently, moreover, the narrative account transports
us from the moral disposition, in which the acting person is placed, to
the state of mind of the narrator himself, which breaks up the illusion
so necessary for pity. In every case, when the narrator in person puts
himself forward, a certain stoppage takes place in the action, and, as an
unavoidable result, in our sympathetic affection. This is what happens
even when the dramatic poet forgets himself in the dialogue, and puts in
the mouth of his dramatic persons reflections that could only enter the
mind of a disinterested spectator. It would be difficult to mention a
single one of our modern tragedies quite free from this defect; but the
French alone have made a rule of it. Let us infer, then, that the
immediate vivid and sensuous presence of the object is necessary to give
to the ideas impressed on us by suffering that strength without which the
emotion could not rise to a high degree.

2d. But we can receive the most vivid impressions of the idea of
suffering without, however, being led to a remarkable degree of pity, if
these impressions lack truth. It is, necessary that we should form of
suffering an idea of such a nature that we are obliged to share and take
part in it. To this end there must be a certain agreement between this
suffering and something that we have already in us. In other words, pity
is only possible inasmuch as we can prove or suppose a resemblance
between ourselves and the subject that suffers. Everywhere where this
resemblance makes itself known, pity is necessary; where this resemblance
is lacking, pity is impossible. The more visible and the greater is the
resemblance, the more vivid is our pity; and they mutually slacken in
dependence on each other. In order that we may feel the affections of
another after him, all the internal conditions demanded by this affection
must be found beforehand in us, in order that the external cause which,
by meeting with the internal conditions, has given birth to the
affection, may also produce on us a like effect. It is necessary that,
without doing violence to ourselves, we should be able to exchange
persons with another, and transport our Ego by an instantaneous
substitution in the state of the subject. Now, how is it possible to
feel in us the state of another, if we have not beforehand recognized
ourselves in this other.

This resemblance bears on the totality of the constitution of the mind,
in as far as that is necessary and universal. Now, this character of
necessity and of universality belongs especially to our moral nature.
The faculty of feeling can be determined differently by accidental
causes: our cognitive faculties themselves depend on variable conditions:
the moral faculty only has its principle in itself, and by that very fact
it can best give us a general measure and a certain criterion of this
resemblance. Thus an idea which we find in accord with our mode of
thinking and of feeling, which offers at once a certain relationship with
the train of our own ideas, which is easily grasped by our heart and our
mind, we call a true idea. If this relationship bears on what is
peculiar to our heart, on the private determinations that modify in us
the common fundamentals of humanity, and which may be withdrawn without
altering this general character, this idea is then simply true for us.
If it bears on the general and necessary form that we suppose in the
whole species, the truth of this idea ought to be held to be equal to
objective truth. For the Roman, the sentence of the first Brutus and the
suicide of Cato are of subjective truth. The ideas and the feelings that
have inspired the actions of these two men are not an immediate
consequence of human nature in general, but the mediate consequence of a
human nature determined by particular modifications. To share with them
these feelings we must have a Roman soul, or at least be capable of
assuming for a moment a Roman soul. It suffices, on the other hand, to
be a man in general, to be vividly touched by the heroic sacrifice of
Leonidas, by the quiet resignation of Aristides, by the voluntary death
of Socrates, and to be moved to tears by the terrible changes in the
fortunes of Darius. We attribute to these kinds of ideas, in opposition
to the preceding ones, an objective truth because they agree with the
nature of all human subjects, which gives them a character of
universality and of necessity as strict as if they were independent of
every subjective condition.

Moreover, although the subjectively true description is based on
accidental determinations, this is no reason for confounding it with an
arbitrary description. After all, the subjectively true emanates also
from the general constitution of the human soul, modified only in
particular directions by special circumstances; and the two kinds of
truth are equally necessary conditions of the human mind. If the
resolution of Cato were in contradiction with the general laws of human
nature, it could not be true, even subjectively. The only difference is
that the ideas of the second kind are enclosed in a narrower sphere of
action; because they imply, besides the general modes of the human mind,
other special determinations. Tragedy can make use of it with a very
intense effect, if it will renounce the extensive effect; still the
unconditionally true, what is purely human in human relations, will be
always the richest matter for the tragic poet, because this ground is the
only one on which tragedy, without ceasing to aspire to strength of
expression can be certain of the generality of this impression.

3d. Besides the vividness and the truth of tragic pictures, there must
also be completeness. None of the external data that are necessary to
give to the soul the desired movement ought to be omitted in the
representation. In order that the spectator, however Roman his
sentiments may be, may understand the moral state of Cato--that he may
make his own the high resolution of the republican, this resolution must
have its principle, not only in the mind of the Roman, but also in the
circumstances of the action. His external situation as well as his
internal situation must be before our eyes in all their consequences and
extent: and we must, lastly, have unrolled before us, without omitting a
single link, the whole chain of determinations to which are attached the
high resolution of the Roman as a necessary consequence. It may be said
in general that without this third condition, even the truth of a
painting cannot be recognized; for the similarity of circumstances, which
ought to be fully evident, can alone justify our judgment on the
similarity of the feelings, since it is only from the competition of
external conditions and of internal conditions that the affective
phenomenon results. To decide if we should have acted like Cato, we must
before all things transport ourselves in thought to the external
situation in which Cato was placed, and then only we are entitled to
place our feelings alongside his, to pronounce if there is or is not
likeness, and to give a verdict on the truth of these feelings.

A complete picture, as I understand it, is only possible by the
concatenation of several separate ideas, and of several separate
feelings, which are connected together as cause and effect, and which, in
their sum total, form one single whole for our cognitive faculty. All
these ideas, in order to affect us closely, must make an immediate
impression on our senses; and, as the narrative form always weakens this
impression, they must be produced by a present action. Thus, in order
that a tragic picture may be complete, a whole series is required of
particular actions, rendered sensuous and connected with the tragic
action as to one whole.

4th. It is necessary, lastly, that the ideas we receive of suffering
should act on us in a durable manner, to excite in us a high degree of
emotion. The affection created in us by the suffering of another is to
us a constrained state, from which we hasten to get free; and the
illusion so necessary for pity easily disappears in this case. It is,
therefore, a necessity to fasten the mind closely to these ideas, and not
to leave it the freedom to get rid too soon of the illusion. The
vividness of sudden ideas and the energy of sudden impressions, which in
rapid succession affect our senses, would not suffice for this end. For
the power of reaction in the mind is manifested in direct proportion to
the force with which the receptive faculty is solicited, and it is
manifested to triumph over this impression. Now, the poet who wishes to
move us ought not to weaken this independent power in us, for it is
exactly in the struggle between it and the suffering of our sensuous
nature that the higher charm of tragic emotions lies. In order that the
heart, in spite of that spontaneous force which reacts against sensuous
affections, may remain attached to the impressions of sufferings, it is,
therefore, necessary that these impressions should be cleverly suspended
at intervals, or even interrupted and intercepted by contrary
impressions, to return again with twofold energy and renew more
frequently the vividness of the first impression. Against the exhaustion
and languor that result from habit, the most effectual remedy is to
propose new objects to the senses; this variety retempers them, and the
gradation of impressions calls forth the innate faculty, and makes it
employ a proportionately stronger resistance. This faculty ought to be
incessantly occupied in maintaining its independence against the attacks
of the senses, but it must not triumph before the end, still less must it
succumb in the struggle. Otherwise, in the former case, suffering, and,
in the latter, moral activity is set aside; while it is the union of
these two that can alone elicit emotion. The great secret of the tragic
art consists precisely in managing this struggle well; it is in this that
it shows itself in the most brilliant light.

For this, a succession of alternate ideas is required: therefore a
suitable combination is wanted of several particular actions
corresponding with these different ideas; actions round which the
principal action and the tragic impression which it is wished to produce
through it unroll themselves like the yarn from the distaff, and end by
enlacing our souls in nets, through which they cannot break. Let me be
permitted to make use of a simile, by saying that the artist ought to
begin by gathering up with parsimonious care all the separate rays that
issue from the object by aid of which he seeks to produce the tragic
effect that he has in view, and these rays, in his hands, become a
lightning flash, setting the hearts of all on fire. The tyro casts
suddenly and vainly all the thunderbolts of horror and fear into the
soul; the artist, on the contrary, advances step by step to his end; he
only strikes with measured strokes, but he penetrates to the depth of our
soul, precisely because he has only stirred it by degrees.

If we now form the proper deductions from the previous investigation, the
following will be the conditions that form bases of the tragic art. It
is necessary, in the first place, that the object of our pity should
belong to our own species--I mean belong in the full sense of the term
and that the action in which it is sought to interest us be a moral
action; that is, an action comprehended in the field of free-will. It is
necessary, in the second place, that suffering, its sources, its degrees,
should be completely communicated by a series of events chained together.
It is necessary, in the third place, that the object of the passion be
rendered present to our senses, not in a mediate way and by description,
but immediately and in action. In tragedy art unites all these
conditions and satisfies them.

According to these principles tragedy might be defined as the poetic
imitation of a coherent series of particular events (forming a complete
action): an imitation which shows us man in a state of suffering, and
which has for its end to excite our pity.

I say first that it is the imitation of an action; and this idea of
imitation already distinguishes tragedy from the other kinds of poetry,
which only narrate or describe. In tragedy particular events are
presented to our imagination or to our senses at the very time of their
accomplishment; they are present, we see them immediately, without the
intervention of a third person. The epos, the romance, simple narrative,
even in their form, withdraw action to a distance, causing the narrator
to come between the acting person and the reader. Now what is distant
and past always weakens, as we know, the impressions and the sympathetic
affection; what is present makes them stronger. All narrative forms make
of the present something past; all dramatic form makes of the past a
present.

Secondly, I say that tragedy is the imitation of a succession of events,
of an action. Tragedy has not only to represent by imitation the
feelings and the affections of tragic persons, but also the events that
have produced these feelings, and the occasion on which these affections
are manifested. This distinguishes it from lyric poetry, and from its
different forms, which no doubt offer, like tragedy, the poetic imitation
of certain states of the mind, but not the poetic imitation of certain
actions. An elegy, a song, an ode, can place before our eyes, by
imitation, the moral state in which the poet actually is--whether he
speaks in his own name, or in that of an ideal person--a state determined
by particular circumstances; and up to this point these lyric forms seem
certainly to be incorporated in the idea of tragedy; but they do not
complete that idea, because they are confined to representing our
feelings. There are still more essential differences, if the end of
these lyrical forms and that of tragedy are kept in view.

I say, in the third place, that tragedy is the imitation of a complete
action. A separate event, though it be ever so tragic, does not in
itself constitute a tragedy. To do this, several events are required,
based one on the other, like cause and effect, and suitably connected so
as to form a whole; without which the truth of the feeling represented,
of the character, etc. --that is, their conformity with the nature of our
mind, a conformity which alone determines our sympathy--will not be
recognized. If we do not feel that we ourselves in similar circumstances
should have experienced the same feelings and acted in the same way, our
pity would not be awakened. It is, therefore, important that we should
be able to follow in all its concatenation the action that is represented
to us, that we should see it issue from the mind of the agent by a
natural gradation, under the influence and with the concurrence of
external circumstances. It is thus that we see spring up, grow, and come
to maturity under our eyes, the curiosity of Oedipus and the jealousy of
Iago. It is also the only way to fill up the great gap that exists
between the joy of an innocent soul and the torments of a guilty
conscience, between the proud serenity of the happy man and his terrible
catastrophe; in short, between the state of calm, in which the reader is
at the beginning, and the violent agitation he ought to experience at the
end.

A series of several connected incidents is required to produce in our
souls a succession of different movements which arrest the attention,
which, appealing to all the faculties of our minds, enliven our instinct
of activity when it is exhausted, and which, by delaying the satisfaction
of this instinct, do not kindle it the less. Against the suffering of
sensuous nature the human heart has only recourse to its moral nature as
counterpoise. It is, therefore, necessary, in order to stimulate this in
a more pressing manner, for the tragic poet to prolong the torments of
sense, but he must also give a glimpse to the latter of the satisfaction
of its wants, so as to render the victory of the moral sense so much the
more difficult and glorious. This twofold end can only be attained by a
succession of actions judiciously chosen and combined to this end.

In the fourth place, I say that tragedy is the poetic imitation of an
action deserving of pity, and, therefore, tragic imitation is opposed to
historic imitation. It would only be a historic imitation if it proposed
a historic end, if its principal object were to teach us that a thing has
taken place, and how it took place. On this hypothesis it ought to keep
rigorously to historic accuracy, for it would only attain its end by
representing faithfully that which really took place. But tragedy has a
poetic end, that is to say, it represents an action to move us, and to
charm our souls by the medium of this emotion. If, therefore, a matter
being given, tragedy treats it conformably with this poetic end, which is
proper to it, it becomes, by that very thing, free in its imitation. It
is a right--nay, more, it is an obligation--for tragedy to subject
historic truth to the laws of poetry; and to treat its matter in
conformity with requirements of this art. But as it cannot attain its
end, which is emotion, except on the condition of a perfect conformity
with the laws of nature, tragedy is, notwithstanding its freedom in
regard to history, strictly subject to the laws of natural truth, which,
in opposition to the truth of history, takes the name of poetic truth.
It may thus be understood how much poetic truth may lose, in many cases
by a strict observance of historic truth, and, reciprocally, how much it
may gain by even a very serious alteration of truth according to history.
As the tragic poet, like poets in general, is only subject to the laws of
poetic truth, the most conscientious observance of historic truth could
never dispense him from his duties as poet, and could never excuse in him
any infraction of poetic truth or lack of interest. It is, therefore,
betraying very narrow ideas on tragic art, or rather on poetry in
general, to drag the tragic poet before the tribunal of history, and to
require instruction of the man who by his very title is only bound to
move and charm you. Even supposing the poet, by a scrupulous submission
to historic truth, had stripped himself of his privilege of artist, and
that he had tacitly acknowledged in history a jurisdiction over his work,
art retains all her rights to summon him before its bar; and pieces such
as "The Death of Hermann," "Minona," "Fust of Stromberg," if they could
not stand the test on this side, would only be tragedies of mediocre
value, notwithstanding all the minuteness of costume--of national
costume--and of the manners of the time.

Fifthly, tragedy is the imitation of an action that lets us see man
suffering. The word man is essential to mark the limits of tragedy.
Only the suffering of a being like ourselves can move our pity. Thus,
evil genii, demons--or even men like them, without morals--and again pure
spirits, without our weaknesses, are unfit for tragedy. The very idea of
suffering implies a man in the full sense of the term. A pure spirit
cannot suffer, and a man approaching one will never awaken a high degree
of sympathy. A purely sensuous being can indeed have terrible suffering;
but without moral sense it is a prey to it, and a suffering with reason
inactive is a disgusting spectacle. The tragedian is right to prefer
mixed characters, and to place the ideal of his hero half way between
utter perversity and entire perfection.

Lastly, tragedy unites all these requisites to excite pity. Many means
the tragic poet takes might serve another object; but he frees himself
from all requirements not relating to this end, and is thereby obliged to
direct himself with a view to this supreme object.

The final aim to which all the laws tend is called the end of any style
of poetry. The means by which it attains this are its form. The end and
form are, therefore, closely related. The form is determined by the end,
and when the form is well observed the end is generally attained. Each
kind of poetry having a special end must have a distinguishing form.
What it exclusively produces it does in virtue of this special nature it
possesses. The end of tragedy is emotion; its form is the imitation of
an action that leads to suffering. Many kinds may have the same object
as tragedy, of emotion, though it be not their principal end. Therefore,
what distinguishes tragedy is the relation of its form to its end, the
way in which it attains its end by means of its subject.

If the end of tragedy is to awaken sympathy, and its form is the means of
attaining it, the imitation of an action fit to move must have all that
favors sympathy. Such is the form of tragedy.

The production of a kind of poetry is perfect when the form peculiar to
its kind has been used in the best way. Thus, a perfect tragedy is that
where the form is best used to awaken sympathy. Thus, the best tragedy
is that where the pity excited results more from the treatment of the
poet than the theme. Such is the ideal of a tragedy.

A good number of tragedies, though fine as poems are bad as dramas,
because they do not seek their end by the best use of tragic form.
Others, because they use the form to attain an end different from
tragedy. Some very popular ones only touch us on account of the subject,
and we are blind enough to make this a merit in the poet. There are
others in which we seem to have quite forgotten the object of the poet,
and, contented with pretty plays of fancy and wit, we issue with our
hearts cold from the theatre. Must art, so holy and venerable, defend
its cause by such champions before such judges? The indulgence of the
public only emboldens mediocrity: it causes genius to blush, and
discourages it.




OF THE CAUSE OF THE PLEASURE WE DERIVE FROM TRAGIC OBJECTS.


Whatever pains some modern aesthetics give themselves to establish,
contrary to general belief, that the arts of imagination and of feeling
have not pleasure for their object, and to defend them against this
degrading accusation, this belief will not cease: it reposes upon a solid
foundation, and the fine arts would renounce with a bad grace the
beneficent mission which has in all times been assigned to them, to
accept the new employment to which it is generously proposed to raise
them. Without troubling themselves whether they lower themselves in
proposing our pleasure as object, they become rather proud of the
advantages of reaching immediately an aim never attained except mediately
in other routes followed by the activity of the human mind. That the aim
of nature, with relation to man, is the happiness of man,--although he
ought of himself, in his moral conduct, to take no notice of this aim,--
is what, I think, cannot be doubted in general by any one who admits that
nature has an aim. Thus the fine arts have the same aim as nature, or
rather as the Author of nature, namely, to spread pleasure and render
people happy. It procures for us in play what at other more austere
sources of good to man we extract only with difficulty. It lavishes as a
pure gift that which elsewhere is the price of many hard efforts. With
what labor, what application, do we not pay for the pleasures of the
understanding; with what painful sacrifices the approbation of reason;
with what hard privations the joys of sense! And if we abuse these
pleasures, with what a succession of evils do we expiate excess! Art
alone supplies an enjoyment which requires no appreciable effort, which
costs no sacrifice, and which we need not repay with repentance. But who
could class the merit of charming in this manner with the poor merit of
amusing? who would venture to deny the former of these two aims of the
fine arts solely because they have a tendency higher than the latter.

The praiseworthy object of pursuing everywhere moral good as the supreme
aim, which has already brought forth in art so much mediocrity, has
caused also in theory a similar prejudice. To assign to the fine arts a
really elevated position, to conciliate for them the favor of the State,
the veneration of all men, they are pushed beyond their due domain, and a
vocation is imposed upon them contrary to their nature. It is supposed
that a great service is awarded to them by substituting for a frivolous
aim--that of charming--a moral aim; and their influence upon morality,
which is so apparent, necessarily militates against this pretension. It
is found illogical that the art which contributes in so great a measure
to the development of all that is most elevated in man, should produce
but accessorily this effect, and make its chief object an aim so vulgar
as we imagine pleasure to be. But this apparent contradiction it would
be very easy to conciliate if we had a good theory of pleasure, and a
complete system of aesthetic philosophy.

It would result from this theory that a free pleasure, as that which the
fine arts procure for us, rests wholly upon moral conditions, and all the
moral faculties of man are exercised in it. It would further result that
this pleasure is an aim which can never be attained but by moral means,
and consequently that art, to tend and perfectly attain to pleasure, as
to a real aim, must follow the road of healthy morals. Thus it is
perfectly indifferent for the dignity of art whether its aim should be a
moral aim, or whether it should reach only through moral means; for in
both cases it has always to do with the morality, and must be rigorously
in unison with the sentiment of duty; but for the perfection of art, it
is by no means indifferent which of the two should be the aim and which
the means. If it is the aim that is moral, art loses all that by which
it is powerful,--I mean its freedom, and that which gives it so much
influence over us--the charm of pleasure. The play which recreates is
changed into serious occupation, and yet it is precisely in recreating us
that art can the better complete the great affair--the moral work. It
cannot have a salutary influence upon the morals but in exercising its
highest aesthetic action, and it can only produce the aesthetic effect in
its highest degree in fully exercising its liberty.

It is certain, besides, that all pleasure, the moment it flows from a
moral source, renders man morally better, and then the effect in its turn
becomes cause. The pleasure we find in what is beautiful, or touching,
or sublime, strengthens our moral sentiments, as the pleasure we find in
kindness, in love, etc. , strengthens these inclinations. And just as
contentment of the mind is the sure lot of the morally excellent man, so
moral excellence willingly accompanies satisfaction of heart. Thus the
moral efficacy of art is, not only because it employs moral means in
order to charm us, but also because even the pleasure which it procures
us is a means of morality.

There are as many means by which art can attain its aim as there are in
general sources from which a free pleasure for the mind can flow. I call
a free pleasure that which brings into play the spiritual forces--reason
and imagination--and which awakens in us a sentiment by the
representation of an idea, in contradistinction to physical or sensuous
pleasure, which places our soul under the dependence of the blind forces
of nature, and where sensation is immediately awakened in us by a
physical cause. Sensual pleasure is the only one excluded from the
domain of the fine arts; and the talent of exciting this kind of pleasure
could never raise itself to the dignity of an art, except in the case
where the sensual impressions are ordered, reinforced or moderated, after
a plan which is the production of art, and which is recognized by
representation. But, in this case even, that alone here can merit the
name of art which is the object of a free pleasure--I mean good taste in
the regulation, which pleases our understanding, and not physical charms
themselves, which alone flatter our sensibility.

The general source of all pleasure, even of sensual pleasure, is
propriety, the conformity with the aim. Pleasure is sensual when this
propriety is manifested by means of some necessary law of nature which
has for physical result the sensation of pleasure. Thus the movement of
the blood, and of the animal life, when in conformity with the aim of
nature, produces in certain organs, or in the entire organism, corporeal
pleasure with all its varieties and all its modes. We feel this
conformity by the means of agreeable sensation, but we arrive at no
representation of it, either clear or confused.

Pleasure is free when we represent to ourselves the conformability, and
when the sensation that accompanies this representation is agreeable.
Thus all the representations by which we have notice that there is
propriety and harmony between the end and the means, are for us the
sources of free pleasure, and consequently can be employed to this end by
the fine arts. Thus, all the representations can be placed under one of
these heads: the good, the true, the perfect, the beautiful, the
touching, the sublime. The good especially occupies our reason; the true
and perfect, our intelligence; the beautiful interests both the
intelligence and the imagination; the touching and the sublime, the
reason and the imagination. It is true that we also take pleasure in the
charm (Reiz) or the power called out by action from play, but art uses
charm only to accompany the higher enjoyments which the idea of propriety
gives to us. Considered in itself the charm or attraction is lost amid
the sensations of life, and art disdains it together with all merely
sensual pleasures.

We could not establish a classification of the fine arts only upon the
difference of the sources from which each of them draws the pleasure
which it affords us; for in the same class of the fine arts many sorts of
pleasures may enter, and often all together. But in as far as a certain
sort of pleasure is pursued as a principal aim, we can make of it, if not
a specific character of a class properly so called, at least the
principle and the tendency of a class in the works of art. Thus, for
example, we could take the arts which, above all, satisfy the
intelligence and imagination--consequently those which have as chief
object the true, the perfect, and the beautiful--and unite them under the
name of fine arts (arts of taste, arts of intelligence); those, on the
other hand, which especially occupy the imagination and the reason, and
which, in consequence, have for principal object the good, the sublime,
and the touching, could be limited in a particular class under the
denomination of touching arts (arts of sentiment, arts of the heart).
Without doubt it is impossible to separate absolutely the touching from
the beautiful, but the beautiful can perfectly subsist without the
touching. Thus, although we are not authorized to base upon this
difference of principle a rigorous classification of the liberal arts, it
can at least serve to determine with more of precision the criterion, and
prevent the confusion in which we are inevitably involved, when, drawing
up laws of aesthetic things, we confound two absolutely different
domains, as that of the touching and that of the beautiful.

The touching and the sublime resemble in this point, that both one and
the other produce a pleasure by a feeling at first of displeasure, and
that consequently (pleasure proceeding from suitability, and displeasure
from the contrary) they give us a feeling of suitability which
presupposes an unsuitability.

The feeling of the sublime is composed in part of the feeling of our
feebleness, of our impotence to embrace an object; and, on the other
side, of the feeling of our moral power--of this superior faculty which
fears no obstacle, no limit, and which subdues spiritually that even to
which our physical forces give way. The object of the sublime thwarts,
then, our physical power; and this contrariety (impropriety) must
necessarily excite a displeasure in us. But it is, at the same time, an
occasion to recall to our conscience another faculty which is in us--a
faculty which is even superior to the objects before which our
imagination yields. In consequence, a sublime object, precisely because
it thwarts the senses, is suitable with relation to reason, and it gives
to us a joy by means of a higher faculty, at the same time that it wounds
us in an inferior one.

The touching, in its proper sense, designates this mixed sensation, into
which enters at the same time suffering and the pleasure that we find in
suffering. Thus we can only feel this kind of emotion in the case of a
personal misfortune, only when the grief that we feel is sufficiently
tempered to leave some place for that impression of pleasure that would
be felt by a compassionate spectator. The loss of a great good
prostrates for the time, and the remembrance itself of the grief will
make us experience emotion after a year. The feeble man is always the
prey of his grief; the hero and the sage, whatever the misfortune that
strikes them, never experience more than emotion.

Emotion, like the sentiment of the sublime, is composed of two
affections--grief and pleasure. There is, then, at the bottom a
propriety, here as well as there, and under this propriety a
contradiction. Thus it seems that it is a contradiction in nature that
man, who is not born to suffer, is nevertheless a prey to suffering, and
this contradiction hurts us.
But the evil which this contradiction does
us is a propriety with regard to our reasonable nature in general,
insomuch as this evil solicits us to act: it is a propriety also with
regard to human society; consequently, even displeasure, which excites in
us this contradiction, ought necessarily to make us experience a
sentiment of pleasure, because this displeasure is a propriety. To
determine in an emotion if it is pleasure or displeasure which triumphs,
we must ask ourselves if it is the idea of impropriety or that of
propriety which affects us the more deeply. That can depend either on
the number of the aims reached or abortive, or on their connection with
the final aim of all.

The suffering of the virtuous man moves us more painfully than that of
the perverse man, because in the first case there is contradiction not
only to the general destiny of man, which is happiness, but also to this
other particular principle, viz. , that virtue renders happy; whilst in
the second case there is contradiction only with regard to the end of man
in general. Reciprocally, the happiness of the wicked also offends us
much more than the misfortune of the good man, because we find in it a
double contradiction: in the first place vice itself, and, in the second
place, the recompense of vice.

There is also this other consideration, that virtue is much more able to
recompense itself than vice, when it triumphs, is to punish itself; and
it is precisely for this that the virtuous man in misfortune would much
more remain faithful to the cultus of virtue than the perverse man would
dream of converting himself in prosperity.

But what is above all important in determining in the emotions the
relation of pleasure and displeasure, is to compare the two ends--that
which has been fulfilled and that which has been ignored--and to see
which is the most considerable. There is no propriety which touches us
so nearly as moral propriety, and no superior pleasure to that which we
feel from it. Physical propriety could well be a problem, and a problem
forever unsolvable. Moral propriety is already demonstrated. It alone
is founded upon our reasonable nature and upon internal necessity. It is
our nearest interest, the most considerable, and, at the same time, the
most easily recognized, because it is not determined by any external
element but by an internal principle of our reason: it is the palladium
of our liberty.

This moral propriety is never more vividly recognized than when it is
found in conflict with another propriety, and still keeps the upper hand;
then only the moral law awakens in full power, when we find it struggling
against all the other forces of nature, and when all those forces lose in
its presence their empire over a human soul. By these words, "the other
forces of nature," we must understand all that is not moral force, all
that is not subject to the supreme legislation of reason: that is to say,
feelings, affections, instincts, passions, as well as physical necessity
and destiny. The more redoubtable the adversary, the more glorious the
victory; resistance alone brings out the strength of the force and
renders it visible. It follows that the highest degree of moral
consciousness can only exist in strife, and the highest moral pleasure is
always accompanied by pain.

Consequently, the kind of poetry which secures us a high degree of moral
pleasure, must employ mixed feelings, and please us through pain or
distress,--this is what tragedy does specially; and her realm embraces
all that sacrifices a physical propriety to a moral one; or one moral
propriety to a higher one. It might be possible, perhaps, to form a
measure of moral pleasure, from the lowest to the highest degree, and to
determine by this principle of propriety the degree of pain or pleasure
experienced. Different orders of tragedy might be classified on the same
principle, so as to form a complete exhaustive tabulation of them. Thus,
a tragedy being given, its place could be fixed, and its genus
determined. Of this subject more will be said separately in its proper
place.

A few examples will show how far moral propriety commands physical
propriety in our souls.

Theron and Amanda are both tied to the stake as martyrs, and free to
choose life or death by the terrible ordeal of fire--they select the
latter. What is it which gives such pleasure to us in this scene? Their
position so conflicting with the smiling destiny they reject, the reward
of misery given to virtue--all here awakens in us the feeling of
impropriety: it ought to fill us with great distress. What is nature,
and what are her ends and laws, if all this impropriety shows us moral
propriety in its full light. We here see the triumph of the moral law,
so sublime an experience for us that we might even hail the calamity
which elicits it. For harmony in the world of moral freedom gives us
infinitely more pleasure than all the discords in nature give us pain.

When Coriolanus, obedient to duty as husband, son, and citizen, raises
the siege of Rome, them almost conquered, withdrawing his army, and
silencing his vengeance, he commits a very contradictory act evidently.
He loses all the fruit of previous victories, he runs spontaneously to
his ruin: yet what moral excellence and grandeur he offers! How noble to
prefer any impropriety rather than wound moral sense; to violate natural
interests and prudence in order to be in harmony with the higher moral
law! Every sacrifice of a life is a contradiction, for life is the
condition of all good; but in the light of morality the sacrifice of life
is in a high degree proper, because life is not great in itself, but only
as a means of accomplishing the moral law. If then the sacrifice of life
be the way to do this, life must go. "It is not necessary for me to
live, but it is necessary for Rome to be saved from famine," said Pompey,
when the Romans embarked for Africa, and his friends begged him to defer
his departure till the gale was over.

But the sufferings of a criminal are as charming to us tragically as
those of a virtuous man; yet here is the idea of moral impropriety. The
antagonism of his conduct to moral law, and the moral imperfection which
such conduct presupposes, ought to fill us with pain. Here there is no
satisfaction in the morality of his person, nothing to compensate for his
misconduct. Yet both supply a valuable object for art; this phenomenon
can easily be made to agree with what has been said.

We find pleasure not only in obedience to morality, but in the punishment
given to its infraction. The pain resulting from moral imperfection
agrees with its opposite, the satisfaction at conformity with the law.
Repentance, even despair, have nobleness morally, and can only exist if
an incorruptible sense of justice exists at the bottom of the criminal
heart, and if conscience maintains its ground against self-love.
Repentance comes by comparing our acts with the moral law, hence in the
moment of repenting the moral law speaks loudly in man. Its power must
be greater than the gain resulting from the crime as the infraction
poisons the enjoyment. Now, a state of mind where duty is sovereign is
morally proper, and therefore a source of moral pleasure. What, then,
sublimer than the heroic despair that tramples even life underfoot,
because it cannot bear the judgment within? A good man sacrificing his
life to conform to the moral law, or a criminal taking his own life
because of the morality he has violated: in both cases our respect for
the moral law is raised to the highest power. If there be any advantage
it is in the case of the latter; for the good man may have been
encouraged in his sacrifice by an approving conscience, thus detracting
from his merit. Repentance and regret at past crimes show us some of the
sublimest pictures of morality in active condition. A man who violates
morality comes back to the moral law by repentance.

But moral pleasure is sometimes obtained only at the cost of moral pain.
Thus one duty may clash with another. Let us suppose Coriolanus encamped
with a Roman army before Antium or Corioli, and his mother a Volscian; if
her prayers move him to desist, we now no longer admire him. His
obedience to his mother would be at strife with a higher duty, that of a
citizen. The governor to whom the alternative is proposed, either of
giving up the town or of seeing his son stabbed, decides at once on the
latter, his duty as father being beneath that of citizen. At first our
heart revolts at this conduct in a father, but we soon pass to admiration
that moral instinct, even combined with inclination, could not lead
reason astray in the empire where it commands. When Timoleon of Corinth
puts to death his beloved but ambitious brother, Timophanes, he does it
because his idea of duty to his country bids him to do so. The act here
inspires horror and repulsion as against nature and the moral sense, but
this feeling is soon succeeded by the highest admiration for his heroic
virtue, pronouncing, in a tumultuous conflict of emotions, freely and
calmly, with perfect rectitude. If we differ with Timoleon about his
duty as a republican, this does not change our view. Nay, in those
cases, where our understanding judges differently, we see all the more
clearly how high we put moral propriety above all other.

But the judgments of men on this moral phenomenon are exceedingly
various, and the reason of it is clear. Moral sense is common to all
men, but differs in strength. To most men it suffices that an act be
partially conformable with the moral law to make them obey it; and to
make them condemn an action it must glaringly violate the law. But to
determine the relation of moral duties with the highest principle of
morals requires an enlightened intelligence and an emancipated reason.
Thus an action which to a few will be a supreme propriety, will seem to
the crowd a revolting impropriety, though both judge morally; and hence
the emotion felt at such actions is by no means uniform. To the mass the
sublimest and highest is only exaggeration, because sublimity is
perceived by reason, and all men have not the same share of it. A vulgar
soul is oppressed or overstretched by those sublime ideas, and the crowd
sees dreadful disorder where a thinking mind sees the highest order.

This is enough about moral propriety as a principle of tragic emotion,
and the pleasure it elicits. It must be added that there are cases where
natural propriety also seems to charm our mind even at the cost of
morality. Thus we are always pleased by the sequence of machinations of
a perverse man, though his means and end are immoral. Such a man deeply
interests us, and we tremble lest his plan fail, though we ought to wish
it to do so. But this fact does not contradict what has been advanced
about moral propriety,--and the pleasure resulting from it.

Propriety, the reference of means to an end, is to us, in all cases, a
source of pleasure; even disconnected with morality. We experience this
pleasure unmixed, so long as we do not think of any moral end which
disallows action before us. Animal instincts give us pleasure--as the
industry of bees--without reference to morals; and in like manner human
actions are a pleasure to us when we consider in them only the relation
of means to ends. But if a moral principle be added to these, and
impropriety be discovered, if the idea of moral agent comes in, a deep
indignation succeeds our pleasure, which no intellectual propriety can
remedy. We must not call to mind too vividly that Richard III. , Iago,
and Lovelace are men; otherwise our sympathy for them infallibly turns
into an opposite feeling. But, as daily experience teaches, we have the
power to direct our attention to different sides of things; and pleasure,
only possible through this abstraction, invites us to exercise it, and to
prolong its exercise.

Yet it is not rare for intelligent perversity to secure our favor by
being the means of procuring us the pleasure of moral propriety. The
triumph of moral propriety will be great in proportion as the snares set
by Lovelace for the virtue of Clarissa are formidable, and as the trials
of an innocent victim by a cruel tyrant are severe. It is a pleasure to
see the craft of a seducer foiled by the omnipotence of the moral sense.
On the other hand, we reckon as a sort of merit the victory of a
malefactor over his moral sense, because it is the proof of a certain
strength of mind and intellectual propriety.

Yet this propriety in vice can never be the source of a perfect pleasure,
except when it is humiliated by morality. In that case it is an
essential part of our pleasure, because it brings moral sense into
stronger relief. The last impression left on us by the author of
Clarissa is a proof of this. The intellectual propriety in the plan of
Lovelace is greatly surpassed by the rational propriety of Clarissa.
This allows us to feel in full the satisfaction caused by both.

When the tragic poet has for object to awaken in us the feeling of moral
propriety, and chooses his means skilfully for that end, he is sure to
charm doubly the connoisseur, by moral and by natural propriety. The
first satisfies the heart, the second the mind. The crowd is impressed
through the heart without knowing the cause of the magic impression.
But, on the other hand, there is a class of connoisseurs on whom that
which affects the heart is entirely lost, and who can only be gained by
the appropriateness of the means; a strange contradiction resulting from
over-refined taste, especially when moral culture remains behind
intellectual. This class of connoisseurs seek only the intellectual
side in touching and sublime themes. They appreciate this in the
justest manner, but you must beware how you appeal to their heart! The
over-culture of the age leads to this shoal, and nothing becomes the
cultivated man so much as to escape by a happy victory this twofold and
pernicious influence. Of all other European nations, our neighbors, the
French, lean most to this extreme, and we, as in all things, strain every
nerve to imitate this model.






SCHILLER'S PHILOSOPHICAL LETTERS.




PREFATORY REMARKS.


The reason passes, like the heart, through certain epochs and
transitions, but its development is not so often portrayed. Men seem to
have been satisfied with unfolding the passions in their extremes, their
aberration, and their results, without considering how closely they are
bound up with the intellectual constitution of the individual.
Degeneracy in morals roots in a one-sided and wavering philosophy, doubly
dangerous, because it blinds the beclouded intellect with an appearance
of correctness, truth, and conviction, which places it less under the
restraining influence of man's instinctive moral sense. On the other
hand, an enlightened understanding ennobles the feelings,--the heart must
be formed by the head.

The present age has witnessed an extraordinary increase of a thinking
public, by the facilities afforded to the diffusion of reading; the
former happy resignation to ignorance begins to make way for a state of
half-enlightenment, and few persons are willing to remain in the
condition in which their birth has placed then. Under these
circumstances it may not be unprofitable to call attention to certain
periods of the awakening and progress of the reason, to place in their
proper light certain truths and errors, closely connected with morals,
and calculated to be a source of happiness or misery, and, at all events,
to point out the hidden shoals on which the reason of man has so often
suffered shipwreck. Rarely do we arrive at the summit of truth without
running into extremes; we have frequently to exhaust the part of error,
and even of folly, before we work our way up to the noble goal of
tranquil wisdom.

Some friends, inspired by an equal love of truth and moral beauty, who
have arrived at the same conviction by different roads, and who view with
serener eye the ground over which they have travelled, have thought that
it might be profitable to present a few of these resolutions and epochs
of thought. They propose to represent these and certain excesses of the
inquiring reason in the form of two young men, of unequal character,
engaged in epistolary correspondence. The following letters are the
beginning of this essay.

The opinions that are offered in these letters can only be true and false
relatively, and in the form in which the world is mirrored in the soul of
the correspondent, and of him only. But the course of the correspondence
will show that the one-sided, often exaggerated and contradictory
opinions at length issue in a general, purified, and well-established
truth.

Scepticism and free-thinking are the feverish paroxysms of the human
mind, and must needs at length confirm the health of well-organized souls
by the unnatural convulsion which they occasion. In proportion to the
dazzling and seducing nature of error will be the greatness of the
triumphs of truth: the demand for conviction and firm belief will be
strong and pressing in proportion to the torment occasioned by the pangs
of doubt. But doubt was necessary to elicit these errors; the knowledge
of the disease had to precede its cure. Truth suffers no loss if a
vehement youth fails in finding it, in the same way that virtue and
religion suffer no detriment if a criminal denies them.

It was necessary to offer these prefatory remarks to throw a proper light
on the point of view from which the following correspondence has to be
read and judged.




LETTER I.


Julius to Raphael. October.

You are gone, Raphael--and the beauty of nature departs: the sere and
yellow leaves fall from the trees, while a thick autumn fog hangs
suspended like a bier over the lifeless fields. Solitary, I wander
through the melancholy country. I call aloud your name, and am irritated
that my Raphael does not answer me.

I had received your last embrace. The mournful sound of the carriage
wheels that bore you away had at length died upon my ear. In happier
moments I had just succeeded in raising a tumulus over the joys of the
past, but now again you stand up before me, as your departed spirit, in
these regions, and you accompany me to each favorite haunt and pleasant
walk. These rocks I have climbed by your side: by your side have my eyes
wandered over this immense landscape. In the dark sanctuary of this
beech-grove we first conceived the bold ideal of our friendship. It was
here that we unfolded the genealogical tree of the soul, and that we
found that Julius was so closely related to Raphael. Not a spring, not a
thicket, or a hill exists in this region where some memory of departed
happiness does not come to destroy my repose. All things combine to
prevent my recovery. Wherever I go, I repeat the painful scene of our
separation.

What have you done to me, Raphael? What am I become? Man of dangerous
power! would that I had never known or never lost you! Hasten back; come
on the wings of friendship, or the tender plant, your nursling, shall
have perished. How could you, endowed with such tender feelings, venture
to leave the work you had begun, but still so incomplete. The
foundations that your proud wisdom tried to establish in my brain and
heart are tottering; all the splendid palaces which you erected are
crumbling, and the worm crushed to earth is writhing under the ruins.

Happy, heavenly time, when I groped through life, with bandaged eyes,
like a drunken man,--when all my knowledge and my wishes were confined
to the narrow horizon of my childhood's teachings! Blessed time, when
a cheerful sunset raised no higher aspiration in my soul than the wish
of a fine day on the morrow; when nothing reminded me of the world save
the newspaper; nothing spoke of eternity save the passing bell; only
ghost-stories brought to mind the thought of death and judgment; when I
trembled at the thought of the devil, and was proportionately drawn to
the Godhead! I felt and was happy. Raphael has taught me to think I am
on the way to regret that I was ever created.

Creation? No, that is only a sound lacking all meaning, which my reason
cannot receive. There was a time when I knew nothing, when no one knew
me: accordingly, it is usual to say, I was not. That time is past:
therefore it is usual to say that I was created. But also of the
millions who existed centuries ago nothing more is now known, and yet men
are wont to say, they are. On what do we found the right to grant the
beginning and to deny the end? It is assumed that the cessation of
thinking beings contradicts Infinite Goodness. Did, then, Infinite
Goodness cone first into being at the creation of the world? If there
was a period when there were no spirits, Infinite Goodness must have been
imperative for a whole eternity. If the fabric of the universe is a
perfection of the Creator, He, therefore, lacked a perfection before the
creation of the world. But an assumption like this contradicts the idea
of perfect goodness, therefore there is no creation. To what have I
arrived, Raphael? Terrible fallacy of my conclusions! I give up the
Creator as soon as I believe in a God. Wherefore do I require a God, if
I suffice without the Creator?

You have robbed me of the thought that gave me peace. You have taught me
to despise where I prayed before. A thousand things were venerable in my
sight till your dismal wisdom stripped off the veil from them. I saw a
crowd of people streaming to church, I heard their enthusiastic devotion
poured forth in a common act of prayer and praise; twice did I stand
beside a deathbed, and saw--wonderful power of religion! --the hope of
heaven triumphant over the terror of annihilation, and the serene light
of joy beaming from the eyes of those departing.

"Surely that doctrine must be divine," I exclaimed, "which is
acknowledged by the best among men, which triumphs and comforts so
wondrously! " Your cold-blooded wisdom extinguished my enthusiasm. You
affirmed that an equal number of devotees streamed formerly round the
Irmensaeule and to Jupiter's temple; an equal number of votaries, with
like exultation, ascended the stake kindled in honor of Brahma. "Can the
very feeling," you added, "which you found so detestable in heathenism
prove the truth of your doctrine? "

You proceeded to say: "Trust nothing but your own reason. There is
nothing holy, save truth. " I have obeyed you: I have sacrificed all my
opinions, I have set fire to all my ships when I landed on this island,
and I have destroyed all my hopes of return. Never can I become
reconciled to a doctrine which I joyfully welcomed once. My reason is
now all to me--my only warrant for God, virtue, and immortality. Woe to
me if I catch this, my only witness, in a contradiction! if my esteem for
its conclusions diminishes! if a broken vessel in my brain diverts its
action! My happiness is henceforth intrusted to the harmonious action of
my sensorium: woe to me if the strings of this instrument give a false
note in the critical moments of my life--if my convictions vary with my
pulsations!




LETTER II.


Julius to Raphael.

Your doctrine has flattered my pride. I was a prisoner: you have led me
out into the daylight; the golden shimmer and the measureless vault have
enraptured my eye. Formerly, I was satisfied with the modest reputation
of being a good son of my father's house, a friend of my friends, a
useful member of society. You have changed me into a citizen of the
universe. At that time my wishes had not aspired to infringe on the
rights of the great: I tolerated these fortunate people because beggars
tolerated me. I did not blush to envy a part of the human race, because
there was a still larger part of humanity that I was obliged to pity.
Meeting you, I learned for the first time that my claims on enjoyment
were as well founded as those of my brethren. Now, for the first time, I
learned that, raised one stratum above this atmosphere, I weighed just as
much and as little as the rulers of this world. Raphael severed all
bonds of agreement and of opinion. I felt myself quite free; for reason,
as Raphael declared, is the only monarchy in the world of spirits, and I
carried my imperial throne in my brain. All things in heaven and earth
have no value, no estimation, except that which my reason grants them.
The whole creation is mine, for I possess an irresistible omnipotence,
and am empowered to enjoy it fully. All spirits--one degree below the
most perfect Spirit--are my brethren, because we all obey one rule, and
do homage to one supremacy.

How magnificent and sublime this announcement sounds! What a field for
my thirst of knowledge! But--unlucky contradiction of nature--this free
and soaring spirit is woven together with the rigid, immovable clockwork
of a mortal body, mixed up with its little necessities, and yoked to its
fate--this god is banished into a world of worms. The immense space of
nature is opened to his research, but he cannot think two ideas at the
same time. With his eyes he reaches up to the sunny focus of the
Godhead, but he himself is obliged to creep after Him slowly and wearily
through the elements of time. To absorb one enjoyment he must give up
all others: two unlimited desires are too great for his little heart.
Every fresh joy costs him the sum of all previous joys. The present
moment is the sepulchre of all that went before it. An idyllic hour of
love is an intermittent pulsation of friendship.

Wherever I look, Raphael, how limited man appears! How great the
distance between his aims and their fulfilment! --yet do not begrudge him
his soothing slumber.