THE PHILOSOPHY OF
FINE ART
BY
G. W. F. HEGEL
TRANSLATED, WITH NOTES, BY
F. P. B. OSMASTON, B.A.
AUTHOR OF "THE ART AND GENIUS OF TINTORET," "AN ESSAY
ON THE FUTURE OF POETRY," AND OTHER WORKS
VOL III
LONDON
G. BELL AND SONS, LTD.
1920
CONTENTS OF VOL. III
THIRD PART
THE SYSTEM OF THE PARTICULAR ARTS
INTRODUCTION
[Summary. Nature of the relation between the system of Art-types, or the collective totality of ideal world-presentments, and their objective realization in independent works of art. Nature of the process in the evolution of the specific arts themselves, and of the aspects identical in all. The origins of art. Grace, Charm, and severe or agreeable Style] [3]
DIVISION OF THE SUBJECT
[The principle of differentiation as determined by the sensuous aspect of the subject-matter, and the relation thereto of the human senses of Sight, Hearing, and intellectual Conception. Insufficiency of such a principle of classification. Alternative principle discussed and illustrated of more concrete nature, in which the evolution of truth as the reality of the Idea itself is presented] [14]
SUBSECTION I
ARCHITECTURE
INTRODUCTION
[Of the beginnings of human art, and that of building in particular. Of the nature of the subordinate classification of architecture viewed as symbolic, classical and romantic] [25]
Division of Subject [26]
[CHAPTER I]
INDEPENDENT AND SYMBOLIC ARCHITECTURE
Introduction and Subdivision [32]
1. Works of architecture erected in order to unite peoples [36]
2. Works of architecture intermediate between the arts of building and sculpture [38]
(a) The influence of the generative activity of Nature on the form of buildings [39]
(b) Further modification of similar conceptions in the obelisks of Egypt and other examples [40]
(c) Temple enclosures, labyrinths, etc. [42]
3. The transition from self-substantive architecture to the classical type [48]
(a) The nature of subterranean dwellings [48]
(b) Construction raised to house the dead in Egypt and elsewhere. The Pyramids [50]
(c) Buildings that directly subserve a purpose as the point of transition to the classical type. The ordinary dwelling. The environment of the sculptured image. The adoption of the principle of expediency. The abstraction of parts of a building from the organic form, e.g., in the column [55]
CHAPTER II
CLASSICAL ARCHITECTURE
Introduction and Subdivision [62]
1. The general character of classical architecture [63]
(a) Serviceableness to a definite end [63]
(b) The nature of the fitness or power of adaptation of such a structure to such an end [64]
(c) The relatively greater artistic freedom of such architecture. Architecture as frozen music. The dwelling-house [64]
2. The fundamental determinants of architectural forms in their separation [66]
(a) Buildings of wood and stone. The question of their historical priority [66]
(b) The specific forms of the parts of a temple-dwelling. [68]
[(α) Features of support. The column [69]
(β) The thing supported. The entablature, in its architecture, cornice, etc. [72]
(γ) That which encloses. The walls and partitions] [74]
(c) The classical temple in its entirety [77]
[(α) The horizontal rather than soaring-up character [78]
(β) The simplicity and proportion [78]
(γ) The nature of its elaboration] [79]
3. The different constructive types of classical architecture
(a) The Doric, Ionian, and Corinthian types, compared
and contrasted [80]
(b) The Roman type of building. The vault [86]
(c) General character of Roman architecture [88]
CHAPTER III
ROMAN ARCHITECTURE
1. General Architecture [89]
2. Particular architectural modes of configuration [91]
(a) As the basic form we have the wholly shut away dwelling-house [91]
[(α) Relation of this form to the ideal character of the Christian religion [91]
(β) Exclusion of light and access to mundane life
(γ) The aspect of soaring in tower and pinnacle] [92]
(b) The form of the exterior and interior [92]
[(α) The figure of the square and rectangular roofing not appropriate. Parallel between the vaulting of a Gothic church and a roofing of forest trees. Distinction between piers and columns. The pointed arch. Distinction between choir, transept, nave, and aisles. The baptismal font and entrance [93]
(β) In contrast to the Greek temple decoration and and general co-ordination of parts determined from within outwards. The form of Cross. The doors. Flying buttresses, pinnacles, and towers] [100]
(c) The mode of decoration [102]
[(α) Importance of ornament to Gothic architecture [102]
(β) Lightness and delicacy a prevailing feature, especially on the outside [103]
(γ) Display of romantic imagination therein] [104]
3. Different types of building in romantic architecture [104]
(a) The pre-Gothic architecture distinct from it. The basilica [105]
(b) Genuine Gothic architecture of the thirteenth century [105]
(c) Secular architecture of the Middle Ages. The art of garden-making [106]
SUBSECTION II
SCULPTURE
INTRODUCTION
[Sculpture makes a direct use of the human form instead of accepting a symbolical mode of expression merely suggestive of spiritual import. Does not primarily express emotion or spiritual life in action or the focus of soul-life. Absence of colour] [109]
Division of subject [118]
CHAPTER I
THE PRINCIPLE OF GENUINE SCULPTURE
1. The essential content of sculpture [121]
[(a) The twofold aspect of subjectivity. The province of subjective life as such to be excluded from sculpture. The Divine presented in its infinite repose and sublimity [122]
(b) Presents a spiritual content only as explicit in bodily shape] [125]
2. The beautiful form of sculpture [126]
(a) The exclusion of the particularity of the appearance. How far relative [130]
(b) The exclusion of incidental facial expression [130]
(c) Substantive individuality [131]
3. Sculpture as the art of the classical Ideal [132]
CHAPTER II
THE IDEAL OF SCULPTURE
Introduction and division of subject [135]
1. The general character of the ideal form of sculpture [137]
(a) The free product of the genius of the artist. General content borrowed from mythology, etc. [139]
(b) The animation which results from the plastic perfection of the integrated coalescence of the whole throughout its definition and relief [140]
(c) No mere imitation of Nature. The external shape must be suffused with ideal content] [141]
2. The particular aspects of the ideal form of sculpture as such [142]
(a) The Greek profile. Contrast of the human mouth with that of animals. The projection of the forehead. Position of nose. Consideration of the human eye and ear. Beauty of the human mouth. Treatment of the chin in sculpture, also the hair [143]
(b) Position of other parts of the human body and the motion thereof [147]
[(α) The nature of the relation under which the limbs are associated in their contribution to spiritual ideality. The upright position [156]
(β) The motion and repose of the same in their freedom and beauty [159]
(γ) The type of position and motion adapted to a situation (habitus) or bodily habit under which the Ideal is expressed] [160]
(c) Drapery [160]
[(α) Ethical origin and artistic justification of, in sculpture [161]
(β) Treatment of it by Greek sculpture [162]
(γ) Artistic principle as determining the right emphasis on ideal significance. Contrast between antique and modern sculpture in the use of it] [165]
3. The individuality of the ideal figures of Sculpture [171]
(a) Incidental attributes and style of drapery, armour, etc., treated by sculpture. Distinguishing symbolic accessories of Greek gods [173]
(b) Distinctions of age and sex in gods, heroes, human figures, and animals [177]
(c) Representation of particular gods [183]
CHAPTER III
THE VARIOUS KINDS OF REPRESENTATION, MATERIAL, AND THE HISTORICAL STAGES OF THE EVOLUTION OF SCULPTURE
Introduction and division of subject [187]
1. Modes of Representation [187]
(a) The single statue [188]
(b) The group. Tranquil juxtaposition. Conflicting actions. Niobe. Lacoon [190]
(c) The relief [193]
2. The material of sculpture [194]
(a) Wood [195]
(b) Ivory, gold, bronze, and marble [195]
(c) Precious stones and glass [200]
3. The historical evolution of sculpture [201]
(a) Egyptian sculpture. Deficiency of ideal spontaneity. Position of hands and arms. Position of eyes [202]
(b) Sculpture of the Greeks and Romans [205]
(c) Christian sculpture [213]
SUBSECTION III
THE ROMANTIC ARTS
INTRODUCTION
[The principle of subjectivity as such. How it is accepted as the essential principle by romantic art. The contrast presented by romantic and classical art in the changed point of view. The effect of such a change on both the subjective side of soul-life and the external aspect of objective presentment. The process of the gradual idealization of the external medium of art itself as illustrated by the particular romantic arts and the necessity thereof] [217]
CHAPTER I
THE ART OF PAINTING
Introduction and division of subject [223]
I. General character of Painting [225]
(a) Fundamental definition of the art. Combines the subject-matter of architecture and sculpture. More popular than sculpture [230]
[(α) Individuality must not be suffered to pass wholly into the universality of its substance. Introduction of accidental features as in Nature [230]
(β) Greatly extended field of subject-matter. The entire world of the religious idea, history, Nature, all that concerns humanity included [231]
(γ) A revelation further of the objective existence of soul-life. Vitality of artist imported into his presentation of natural objects] [231]
(b) The sensuous medium of Painting [232]
[(α) Compresses the three dimensions of Space into two. Its greater abstraction, as compared with sculpture, implies an advance ideally. Its object is semblance merely, its interest that of contemplation. The nature of its locale [233]
(β) Its higher power of differentiation. Light its medium. This implies, even in Nature, a movement towards ideality. The appearance of light and shadow in painting intentional. Form is the creation of light and shadow simply. This fact supplies rationale of the removal of one dimension from spatial condition [236]
(γ) This medium enables the art to elaborate the entire extent of the phenomenal world] [240]
(c) The principle of the artistic mode of treatment [241]
[Two opposed directions in painting, one the expression of spiritual significance by interfusion with or abstraction from objective phenomena, the other the reproduction of every kind of detail as not alien to its fundamental principle. Illustrations of the two methods and their relative opposition, or reconciliation]
2. Particular modes in the definition of Painting [244]
(a) The romantic content [245]
[(α) The Ideal which consists in the reconciliation of the soul with God as revealed in His human passage through suffering. The religious content. The Love of religion [247]
(αα) The representation of God the Father. Generally beyond the scope of painting. The famous picture of Van Eyck at Ghent [251]
(ββ) Christ the more essential object. Modes of depicting him in his absolute Godhead or his humanity. Scenes of Childhood and Passion most fitted to express religious aspect. Love of the Virgin Mary. Contrast with Niobe [253]
(γγ) The ideas of devotion, repentance, and conversion as such affect humanity in general when included in the religious sphere. The pictorial treatment of martyrdom [260]
(β) The pictorial treatment of landscape [266]
(γγ) The pictorial treatment of objects in natural or secular associations. The vitality and delight of independent human existence. Art secures the stability of evanescent phenomena. The influence of artistic personality on the interest] [268]
(b) The more detailed definition of the material of pictorial representation [273]
[(α) Linear perspective [274]
(β) Accuracy of drawing of form. The plastic aspect of a pictorial work [274]
(γ) The significance of colour. Modelling. Of gradations of colour and its symbolism. Of various schemes of colour. Colour harmony. The painting of the human flesh. The mystery of colour The creative impulse of the artist] [275]
(c) Artistic conception, composition, and characterization [290]
[Painting can only embody one moment of time. Concentration of interest. The law of intelligibility. Religious subjects, their advantage in this respect. Historical scenes as appropriate to particular buildings. Unity of entire effect. Raphael's Transfiguration. Of the treatment of landscape as subordinate. The grouping of figures. The form of the pyramid. Comparison of the characteristic in painting and sculpture. The treatment of love's expression in religious subjects. The gradual elaboration of the portrait. The situation which is itself a critical moment in characterization] [291]
3. The historical development of Painting [313]
(a) Byzantine painting [315]
(b) Italian painting. General review of its spirit in religious and romantic subject-matter [317]
[(α) Characteristic features of early type: austerity, solemnity, and religious elevation [321]
(β) The free acceptance of all that is human and individual. The influence of Giotto. Later schools mark a still further advance in naturalism. Masaccio and Fra Angelico. The pictorial representation of secular subjects [322]
(γ) Further advance in power of emotional expression. Leonardo da Vinci, Perugino, Raphael, and Correggio.] [327]
(c) The Flemish, Dutch, and German schools [330]
[(α) The brothers Van Eyck. Innocence, naïveté, and piety of early Flemish School. Contrast with Italian masters [330]
(β) The emphasis by North German painting on ugliness and brutality [332]
(γ) Dutch painting. Historical conditions of its appearance. General characteristics of Dutch art] [333]
CHAPTER II
MUSIC
INTRODUCTION
[Summary. The principle of subjectivity, as realized in painting, contrasted with its complete emancipation in the art of music. Annihilation of spatial objectivity. Motion with its resultant effect in musical tone. Analysis of the twofold negation of externality in which the fundamental principle of musical tone consists. The inner soul-life exclusively the subject-matter of music. Addressed also in its effect to such] [338]
Division of subject [344]
1. The General Character of Music [345]
(a) Comparison of music with the plastic arts and poetry
[(α) Both affiliated to and strongly contrasted with architecture. It resembles architecture in the nature of the configuration of its content as based on rigorously rational principles directed by human invention. It supplies the architectonic of the extreme of ideality as architecture supplies that of the external material of sense. The quantitative or measure relation is the basis of both [345]
(β) Music further removed from sculpture than painting. This is not merely due to the greater ideality of latter, but also to its treatment of its medium. The unity realized by a musical composition of a different kind to that realized by the plastic arts. In the former case subject to the condition of a time-series [347]
(γ) Most nearly related to poetry. Employ the same medium of tone. Poetry possible without speech-utterance. Ideal objectivity of poetry as contrasted with the independence of musical tone as the sensuous medium of music. Music as an accompaniment of the voice] [352]
(b) Musical grasp and expression of Content [357]
[(α) Primarily must not minister to sense-perception. Must make soul-life intelligible to soul. This abstract inwardness differentiated in human feeling, of every description [358]
(β) Natural interjections not music. They are the point of departure. To music belongs intelligible structure, a totality of differences capable of union and disunion in concords, discords, oppositions and transitions. The nature of its relation to positive ideas] [359]
(c) Effect of music [361]
[(α) The evanescent character of the objectivity of music. It seizes on conscious life where it is not confronted with an object. Its effect due to an elementary force. Appeal to man as a particular person. The soul made aware of its association with Time. Analysis of the notion of Time [361]
(β) Must also possess a content. Orpheus. Incentive to martial ardour and enthusiasm [365]
(γ) Necessity of repeated reproduction. Personal relation of the executive artist to the same. Excess of this influence] [367]
2. The particular definition of the means of expression in music [368]
(a) Time-measure, beat, and rhythm [371]
[The relation of Time to the fundamental principle of subjective life. Time-measure prevents the series being indefinite and devoid of content, and further regulates by intelligible division the nature of its advance. Time-beat possesses the same function as the principle of symmetry in architecture. Coordinates a fortuitous variety. Distinct kinds of time-measure. Rhythm gives vital significance to the time-measure and beat. The accent. The rhythm of melody. The analogous example of verse. Handelian music]
(b) Harmony [379]
[(α) Difference of sound through different instruments of music. Artificially made. Instruments which possess an oscillating column of air, or a stretched string of gut or metal which vibrates. The kettledrum and harmonica. The human voice. Can be employed in separation or combination [381]
(β)Tone in its own essential definition. The constitution of harmony as such. The theory of intervals. The scales and keys. Numerical relations of tones and their pitch. Accordant and discordant tones. The octave and other intervals [385]
(γ) The system of chords. The triad. Dissonant chords of the seventh and ninth. The resolution of a dissonance. Transitions and modulations of harmony] [389]
(c) Melody [393]
[(α) The more poetic aspect of music. Inseparable from the theoretical means which creates it. No real surrender involved in its subjection to rules of harmony [395]
(β) Simple melodies. Folk-songs. Part chorales where each note of melody represented by a chord. Musical composition as an illustration of the conflict between the principles of freedom and necessity [395]
(γ) General character of genuine melody. As such reflects free self-consciousness of soul-life] [398]
3. The relation between means of expression in music and its content [398]
(a) Music as an accompaniment [403]
[(α) The melodic expression of such music. Ought not to fall into excess of tumult. Palestrina, Durante, Haydn, Mozart, etc. Beauty of Italian music [404]
(β) The differentiation of the mode of musical expression must correspond with the nature of a specific content and its situation. Such a content supplied by the libretto. Distinction from this of a song. The recitative. Defective unity [408]
(γ) The nature of the condition of concrete unity in the libretto and declamatory recitative. A good libretto not wholly unimportant. Must be stamped with self-consistency. The libretto of Mozart's "Magic Flute." Comparison of the sustaining soul of music with the fundamental beauty of Raphael's paintings. Different forms of music as accompaniment. Church, lyrical, and dramatic music] [412]
(b) Independent music [421]
(c) The artist as Executant [426]
[(α) The ordinary executant who simply executes what lies before him. Comparison with the rhapsodist or reciter of Epos. Player must lose himself in music and reproduce composer [426]
(β) The virtuoso, who himself creates and makes the music a means of personal display. Must not merely show eccentricity, but reveal the life of music and the force of a personality] [427]
[THIRD PART]
THE SYSTEM OF THE PARTICULAR ARTS
THE PHILOSOPHY OF FINE ART
INTRODUCTION
The objects treated by our science in the first part were the general notion and the reality of beauty in Nature and art, in other words beauty in its truth, and art in its truth, the Ideal in the as yet undeveloped unity of its fundamental principles, independent of its specific content and its distinguishing modes of envisagement.
This essentially genuine[1] unity of the beautiful in art, in the second place, unfolded itself within its own resources in a totality of art-forms, whose determinate structure defined at the same time the content which the art-spirit was impelled to fashion from itself in an essentially articulate system of manifestations of beauty under which the Divine and human is envisaged to the world.
What still is absent from both these spheres is the reality that is present within the elementary substance of the external phenomenon itself. For although both in our examination of the Ideal as such, and in that of the specific modes of symbolic, classical, and romantic art, we throughout referred to the relation or complete mediation which obtains between the significance conceived as an ideal principle and its embodiment in the external or phenomenal materia, yet this realization merely retained its validity as that which was still exclusively the ideal art-activity in the sphere of general world-impressions[2] of beauty, in and through which it is diffused. Inasmuch, however, as the fundamental conception of beautiful implies, that it make itself objective for the immediate vision, that is to say for the senses and sensuous perception as an external work of art, so that what is beautiful becomes only then itself through such a definite form appropriate to itself explicitly united with the beautiful and the Ideal, we have in the third place to review this territory of the art-product as actually self-realized in the entirely sensuous medium. For it is only through this final configuration that the work of art is truly concrete, an individual entity which is at once real, self-contained, and singular. The Ideal can only constitute the content of this third sphere of our aesthetic philosophy for the reason that it is the idea of the beautiful, in the collective totality of all its world presentments, which is thus self-realized in objective form[3]. For this reason the art-product is still, even up to this point, to be conceived as a totality articulated in itself, nevertheless as an organism, whose organic parts, which—while in the second part of our inquiry they were differentiated under a collective concept of essentially disparate world-aspects—now fall asunder as isolated members, every one of which becomes independently a self-subsistent whole, and in this singularity is capable of bringing into display the totality of the different art-types. Essentially and in accordance with its notion it is quite true that the collective result of this new reality of art belongs to one single totality. Inasmuch, however, as it is a portion of the realm of the sensuous[4] present, in which the same is made real to itself, the Ideal is now resolved into its phasal states as a process[5], and confers on them an independent and self-subsistent stability, albeit they are capable of coming into juxtaposition, essential relation, and reciprocal reintegration with one another. And this real world of art is the system of the separate arts. Just as then the particular types of art, regarded throughout as totality, expose intrinsically a process, an evolution, that is, of the symbolical to the classical and romantic types, we find also, on the one hand, a similar advance in the particular arts, in so far as it is the very art-types themselves which receive their determinate existence through these specific arts. From another point of view, however, the particular arts have also themselves within them a process, a progression, independently of the art-types to which they attach an objective reality, a process which in this its more abstract relation is common to all. Every art possesses its spring-time of perfected elaboration as art, and on the one side or the other a history that precedes or follows this period of full-bloom. For the products of the arts collectively are spiritual products, and consequently are not at once to hand in their own specialized province respectively, as are the forms of Nature, but are subject to a beginning, progression, completion, and termination, a growth, a blooming, and a decay.
These more abstract differences, whose devolution we propose at the very commencement of our inquiry briefly to indicate, since it asserts itself equally in all the arts, are identical with that which it is usual to define under the name of rigorous, ideal, and approved style, when indicating the specific styles of art in each case, which are mainly related to the general mode of embodiment and representation, partly as considered in its external shape, and its possession or lack of spontaneity, its simplicity, its surfeit of detail, briefly in all its various aspects, according to which the definition of the content emerges in the external appearance; partly no less in its aspect of the technical elaboration of its sensuous material, in which the art in question gives determinate existence to its content.
It is a common assumption that art finds its beginnings in what is devoid of complexity and is natural. In a certain sense, no doubt, we may accept this as true. In other words what is rude and barbarous is without question, when contrasted with the genuine spirit of art, something both nearer to Nature and less complex. What is, however, natural, vital, and simple in art, regarded as fine art, is something quite different to this. All beginnings which are merely simple and natural, in the sense of uncouthness, do not as yet belong to the province of art and the beautiful at all as, for example, in the case where children scrawl simple figures, and with a few formless strokes would indicate thereby a human form, a horse, and so forth. Beauty, considered as a spiritual product, demands even from the start an elaborate technique, implies a long series of experiment and practice. Simplicity, when we refer to it as the simplicity of the beautiful, its ideal proportions, is rather a result, which only succeeds in overcoming the variety, medley, confusion, excess and incumbrance of its matter, and in concealing and effacing its preparatory studies, after much mediating work, so that at last Beauty, with all its unfettered spontaneity, appears to us as though liberated in one cast[6]. What we find here is very analogous to the behaviour of a man of education, who, in all that he says and does, moves simply, spontaneously, and with ease, albeit he did not by any means start in the possession of such simple spontaneity, but rather has only secured such as the result of a thorough self-training.
For this reason it is no less in accordance with the nature of the fact than it is with the actual course of history that art in its beginnings rather presents us the appearance of artificiality and clumsiness, running largely into incidental detail, and generally overloaded with the elaboration of drapery and the environment of its subject-matter; and precisely in the degree that this external material is more compact and multifarious, to that extent that which is really expressive is reduced to its baldest terms; in other words what is truly the free and vital expression of Spirit in its forms and motion is that which is here least in evidence.
In this respect consequently the primitive and most ancient art-products in all the particular arts are the vehicle of a content that is essentially most abstract, such as simple tales in poetry, theogonies effervescent with abstract thoughts and their incomplete elaboration, single objects of sacred association in stone and wood and so forth, and the representation remains unaccommodating, monotonous or confused, stiff and dry. More especially in plastic art the facial expression is insipid with a repose which does not so much express spirituality in its essential penetration as a purely animal emptiness, or conversely is remorseless and exaggerated in its emphasis on characteristic traits. In the same way the bodily forms and their motion are devoid of life, the arms, for example, are glued to the body, the legs are not divided, or are clumsily moved, or in angular and constrained modes; and in other respects such figures are ill-shaped, suffer from narrow compression, or are excessively lank and extended. On the other hand we find that much more devotion and industry is spent upon accessories such as drapery, hair, weapons, and ornaments of a similar nature; the folds of the drapery remain wooden and independent, without being able to accommodate themselves to the limbs, just as we may often see for ourselves in images of the Virgin and saints of early times, where they are in part run together in monotonous regularity, and in part are continually broken up in harsh corners, not flowing freely in their lines, but scattered about with diffuseness over too wide a surface. And in the same way the first attempts at poetry are full of breaks, devoid of connection, monotonous, dominated in an abstract way by one idea or emotion, or elsewhere wild, violent, the particular being obscurely assimilated, and the whole as yet not bound together in a secure and ideal organic unity.
It is only, however, after such preparatory work as the above that the style which is the main subject of our present inquiry commences with what is truly genuine fine art. In this it is no doubt in the first instance at the same time still austere, but already moderated with more beauty in its severity. This severe style is the more lofty abstraction of the beautiful, which comes to a stop with that which is of real importance, expresses and reproduces the same in its broad outlines, still disdains all amiability and grace, suffers the main subject-matter alone to assert itself, and pre-eminently expends very little industry and elaboration on what is incidental. And in doing so, this severe style also still adheres to the imitation of that which is immediately given to sense. In other words, just as, in regard to content, it takes its stand, so far as ideas and representation are concerned, in what is given it, in the tradition, for example, of a revered religion, so also, to take the opposite point of view, namely, that of external form, it will merely render assured the fact itself, and not its own invention. It is, in short, satisfied with the general broad effect that is educed from the fact, and follows in expression closely upon the growth and definite existence of this. In the same way everything that is accidental is held aloof from this type of style, in order that the caprice and spontaneity of the individual mind[7] may not appear to be involved in it. The motives are simple, the objects of representation few[8]; and for this reason no considerable variety in the detail of configuration, muscles and motion, is apparent.
Secondly, the ideal, purely beautiful style hovers between the simply substantive expression of fact and the fullest exposition of all that immediately pleases. We may define the character of this style as the highest degree of vitality compatible with a beautiful and reposeful greatness, such as we admire in the works of Pheidias or Homer. It is a living presentment of all traits, shapes, modifications of such, motions, limbs, in which there is nothing without significance and expression, but everything is instinct with life and action, and testifies to the breath, or very pulse of free life itself on the merest glance at the work of art in question; a vitality, however, which essentially makes visible one totality, and only one, is the expression of one content, of one individuality of action.
It is in such a truly vital atmosphere that we find moreover the breath of grace poured forth over the entire work. Grace is indeed a concession to the hearer and spectator, which the severe style despises. At the same time, whenever Charis, that is Grace, is asserted in the presence of an onlooker, if only as an acknowledgement, a means of conveying pleasure, yet in the ideal style we find that such a presence appears entirely divested of any craving to confer merely pleasure. We may perhaps explain our meaning in more technical language. The fact or subject-matter is here the substantive in its concentration and self-absorption. During the process, however, that it is manifested through the medium of art, and is, so to speak, concerned to actually exist for others, to pass over, that is, from its simplicity and essential solidarity to particularization, articulation, and individualization, we may regard this development to an existent form for others as at the same time a kind of complaisance on the part of the predominant matter, in so far, that is, as it does not appear to require this more concrete mode of existence, and yet is wholly poured forth into it for us. Such a charm as this is only entitled to assert itself in such a style so long as what is really substantive also persists in undisturbed self-possession, as we may call it, over against the grace of its manifestation, which blooms forth entirely in outward guise as an original type of superfluity. This indifference of the ideal or inner self-assurance[9] for its existence, this repose of itself on itself is precisely that which constitutes the beautiful negligence of the grace, which attributes no immediate value to this, its mode of manifestation. And it is just in this that we must look for the loftiness of the beautiful style. Beautiful free art is careless in its attitude to the external form, in which it refuses to let us see any peculiar movement of the mind, or any end or intention. Rather in every expression, every modification, it points to one thing only, and that is the idea and vital principle of the whole. It is only by this means that the Ideal of the beautiful style asserts itself, which is neither harsh nor severe, but already shows the softening influence of the cheerful notes of the beautiful. Though no violence is done either to any feature of expression, any part of the whole, and every member appears in its independence, and rejoices in its own existence, yet each and all is content at the same time to be only an aspect in the total evolved presentment. This it is which alone displays, alongside of the depth and determinacy of individuality and character, the grace of Life itself. On the one side we have indeed merely the substantial subject-matter predominant, but in the detailed exposition, in the lucid, and at the same time exhaustive variety of traits, which complete the definition of the appearance, and place it before us in its transparent vitality, the spectator is at the same time freed from the thing in its baldness, in so far as he possesses and is wholly face to face with its concrete life. By virtue, however, of the last mentioned fact, this ideal style, so soon as it carries this modification in its external aspect to yet further lengths, passes over into the so-called agreeable or pleasing style. Here we have the assertion of another intent than the mere vitality of the fact[10]. The giving of pleasure, the active elaboration in the direction of externality is asserted as itself an object, and is a matter of independent concern. As an example we may take the famous Belvedere Apollo, not indeed as itself belonging to this latter style, but at least marking the transition from the lofty style to that of sensuous attraction. And inasmuch as in an art of this kind it is no longer the single actuality itself to which the entire embodiment is referable, the particular details become under this mode, even though in the first instance still deducible from the central object itself and rendered necessary by means of it, more and more for all that independent. We feel that they are introduced, or interpolated, as ornaments, intentional additions of episodical import. And yet for the very reason that they are only related to the object accidentally and only receive their essential definition in a personal relation to the spectator or reader, they flatter the individual taste[11] of such, to which their workmanship is primarily directed. Virgil and Horace, for example, delight us in this respect by an educated style, in which we can trace a variety of things aimed at, and an effort deliberately made to give pleasure. In architecture, sculpture, and painting, owing to this spirit of complaisance, simple and imposing effects of size disappear, and we find on every side small pictures standing by themselves, ornamentation, fineries, dimples on cheeks, elegant hair-dress, smiles, all the varied folding of draperies, enchanting colours and shapes, exceptional, difficult, but for all that unconstrained movements in the pose of the figure[12]. In the so-called Gothic or German art of building, where the same is carried in the direction of this spirit, we find decoration elaborated without limit, so that the whole appears to be little more than a collection of little columns with all the utmost variety of ornamentations, diminutive towers, spires, and so forth, which, in their isolation, please us, without, however, destroying the impression of the larger connections of the whole and the still insistent masses of the same.
In so far, however, as the province of art we have been discussing in its entirety gives way to this activity of externalization, this presentment of what is purely exterior, we may emphasize it in its further generalization as the effect, which makes use of as a means of expression what is unpleasing, strained, and colossal, the type of uncouth contrasts such as the prodigious genius of Michael Angelo often exploits to excess. The effect may be generally indicated as the excessive leaning towards an ulterior public, which results in the form no longer being asserted in its independent, self-sufficient and buoyant repose. Rather it turns round, as it were, and makes an appeal at the same time to the onlooker, and strives to place itself in a relation to him by means of this manner of presentment. Both aspects, namely essential repose and the address to the spectator, must no doubt be present in a work of art; but these aspects should fall together in complete equilibrium. If the work of art in the severe style is wholly without qualification self-contained, without any appeal to the spectator, it leaves him cold. If, on the other hand, the appeal is made too directly to him, it creates indeed a sensuous pleasure, but loses to that extent its substantive thoroughness[13], or it does so without this thoroughness of content and the simple character of the conception and delineation therein contained. This passage from itself then merges in the accidental characterization of the appearance; as a result the image itself shares this accidental character, in which we no longer recognize the actual subject-matter and the form which is imperatively rooted in itself, but rather the poet and artist with his own personal designs, his peculiar type of production and skill. And for this reason the public is entirely released from the essential content of the work, finding itself by means of it placed in a personal relation[14] to the artist, inasmuch as everything now wholly depends on its seeing that which the artist through his art intended, that is, the cunning and personal skill which is embodied in his grasp of his subject and its execution. To be thus brought into personal community of insight and critical acumen with the artist is for most people a flattering concession; and our reader or audience, and very possibly the spectator of plastic art, with even more readiness wonder at their poet, musician, or painter or sculptor respectively; and the vanity of such is all the better satisfied in proportion as the work invites them to this personal criticism, and supplies them openly with hints of such designs and points of view. In the severe style, on the contrary, no such confidences are made over to the spectator at all. What we have is just the substantive nature of the content, which in its representation austerely, and even harshly, repulses the purely personal quest. A repulse of this kind will often be no doubt merely indicative of the spleen of the artist, who, after entrusting a profound significance to his work, instead of making the exposition of the same free, transparent, and buoyant, deliberately makes it hard to follow. A trade in mysteries of this kind is also nothing but another form of affectation, and a spurious alternative to the complaisance we have criticized.
It is pre-eminently in the work of the French school that we find this tendency to flatter, attract, and create effect, and they have in this way elaborated this easy-going and complaisant attitude to the public as the main object of their efforts. They seek to find the real importance of their artistic work in the satisfaction such affords others, whose interest they would arouse and whom they would duly impress. This tendency is particularly marked in their dramatic poetry. Marmontel, for example, gives us the following anecdote in connection with the performance of his drama "Dénis, the Tyrant." The crisis culminated in a question asked the Tyrant. Clairon, in whose mouth this question was put, when the moment for asking it had arrived, and when actually in conversation with Dionysius, made a forward step in front of the audience and dramatically addressed them instead. By this rhetorical effect the enthusiastic support of the entire piece was assured.
We Germans, on the other hand, require too much a content in our works of art, in the depths of which the artist finds a deliverance from himself, without troubling himself about the public, who is just left to look at it, take trouble over it, and help himself out with it, as he pleases or is able.
DIVISION OF SUBJECT
Approaching now, after these general observations we have made with reference to the distinctions of style common to all the arts, the division of the third fundamental section of our inquiry we may observe that the one-sided understanding has looked about in many directions for various principles of differentiation in its classification of the specific arts severally. The true division can, however, only be deduced from the nature of the work of art, which in the entire complexus of its forms[15] explicitly unfolds the totality of the aspects and phases which are referable to its own notion. And the first thing which asserts itself in this connection as important is the consideration that art, in accordance with the fact that its presentments now have definitely to pass into sensuous reality, becomes on account of this also art for the senses, so that the definition of this sense and the material medium which is applicable to it, and in which the work of art is made objective, must necessarily furnish us with the principles of subdivision in the several arts. Now the senses, for the reason that they are senses, or in other words, are related to a given material, a disparate exterior medium[16] and an essential multiplicity, are themselves different, namely, feeling, smell, taste, hearing, and sight. It is not our business in this place to demonstrate the ideal necessity of this totality and its disparate parts; that is the function of the philosophy of Nature. Our problem is limited to the inquiry whether all these senses, or if not, which of them are capable, by virtue of their notional significance, of being organs for the reception of works of art. We have already at a previous stage excluded feeling, taste, and smell. Botticher's mere feeling with the hand of the effeminately smooth portions of statues of goddesses is not a part of artistic contemplation or enjoyment at all. By the sense of touch the individual merely comes, as an individual endowed with sense, into contact with the purely sensuous particular thing and its gravity, hardness, softness, and material resistance. A work of art is, however, not merely a sensuous thing, but Spirit manifested through a sensuous medium. As little can we exercise our sense of taste on a work of art as such, because taste is unable to leave the object in its free independence, but is concerned with it in a wholly active way, resolves it, in fact, and consumes it. A cultivation and refinement of taste is only possible and desirable in connection with dishes of food and their preparation, or the chemical qualities of objects. An object of art, however, should be contemplated in its independent and self-contained objective presence, which no doubt is there for the mind that perceives it, but only as an appeal to soul and intelligence, not in some active relation, and with none whatever to the appetites and volition. As for the sense of smell it is just as little able to become an organ of artistic enjoyment, inasmuch as things are only presented to this sense in so far as they are themselves in a condition of process, and are dissolved through the air and its direct influence.
Sight, on the other hand, possesses a purely ideal relation to objects by means of light, a material, which is at the same time immaterial, and which suffers on its part the objects to continue in their free self-subsistence, making them appear and re-appear, but which does not, as the atmosphere or fire does, consume them actively either by imperceptible degrees or patently. Everything, then, is an object of the appetiteless vision, which materially exists in Space as a disparate aggregate, which, however, in so far as it remains unimpaired in its integrity, merely is disclosed in its form and colour.
The remaining ideal sense is hearing. This is in signal contrast to the one just described. Hearing is concerned with the tone, rather than the form and colour of an object, with the vibration of what is corporeal; it requires no process of dissolution, as the sense of smell requires, but merely a trembling of the object, by which the same is in no wise impoverished. This ideal motion, in which through its sound what is as it were the simple individuality[17], the soul of the material thing expresses itself, the ear receives also in an ideal way, just as the eye shape and colour, and suffers thereby what is ideal or not external in the object to appeal to what is spiritual or non-corporeal.
As a third accretion to these two senses we have the sensuous conception, memory, the retention of images, which appear in consciousness by means of the isolated perception, in this way subsumed under universals, and become related and united to the same by means of the imagination, so that now in one particular aspect the external reality itself exists both as ideal and spiritual, while that which is spiritual from another point of view accepts under the imaginative conception the form of what is external, and is brought to consciousness as a disparate and correlated aggregate.
This triple mode of seizing on reality offers art the well-known division into first, the plastic arts, which elaborate their content for vision in the external form and colour of objects, secondly, in the art of sound, music, and thirdly, into poetry, which as the art of speech uses tone merely as a symbol, in order, by means of it, to address itself directly to what is ideal in the contemplation, emotion, and imagination of our spiritual life. If we rest satisfied with this sensuous aspect of our subject-matter, as the final principle of its differentiation, we shall, in respect to our first principles, find ourselves in a difficulty, because the grounds of this division, instead of being deduced from the concrete notion of our subject-matter, are merely borrowed from the most abstract features of it. We have consequently to look about us once more for a principle of division that has deeper roots, which has, in fact, already been put forward in the introduction of this work as the truly systematic mode of dividing this third section of it. The function of art is just this and only this, namely, to bring before the grasp of the senses truth, as it is in the world of spirit, reconciled, that is, in its unity as a whole with objectivity and the sensuous material. In so far, then, as this is possible at this stage in the element of the external reality of the art-product to that extent the totality, which the Absolute is in its very truth, breaks apart into the various modes that differentiate it as a process.
The middle point, the truly substantive centrum, is given us here in the representation of the Absolute, God Himself as God, in His independent self-subsistence, not as yet developed to the point of motion and difference, or advanced to the active operation of and separation from what is His, but presented essentially self-absorbed in supreme divine repose and stillness, briefly the Ideal embodied in a form essentially adequate to itself, which persists in its determinate existence in correspondent identity with itself. And in order that it may appear in infinite self-subsistency the Absolute must be conceived as Spirit, as conscious Subject, but as Subject which possesses essentially itself its own adequate mode of external appearance.
As divine subject, however, which passes forth into actual reality, it has confronting it an external world for environment, which, in conformity with the Absolute, must be built up to an appearance harmonious with the same, an appearance permeated with the Absolute. This environing world is then on one side the objective as such, the basis, the embrace of external Nature, which, taken by itself, possesses no absolute significance for Spirit, nor any ideality such as is present to individual consciousness[18], and consequently is only able to express by suggestion the spiritual Ideal which its appearance must seek to secure by embodying its embraced content in a world of Beauty.
In opposition to external Nature we find the ideal realm of consciousness[19], the human soul as the medium[20] for the existence and manifestation of the Absolute. Together with this subjectivity is conjoined the multiplicity and differentiation of individuality, particularization, distinction, action, and development, that is, in general terms the full and varied world of the reality of Spirit[21], in which the Absolute is known, willed, experienced, and actively present. We may already infer from what we have indicated above that the differences under which the total content of art is differentiated are in essential consonance, both for our grasp and presentation of them, with what we have previously in the second portion of our inquiry examined as the symbolical, classical, and romantic types of art. In other words symbolic art only carries the art-process to the point of marking an affinity between content and form, instead of their identity, of only suggesting the ideal significance in itself and the content which that suggestion purports to express, in other words the external appearance[22]. It furnishes consequently the fundamental type to that specific art, whose function it is to elaborate the objective world as such, Nature's environment in the beautiful conclusion given by Art to Spirit (mind), and to image by suggestion the ideal significance of what is spiritual in this external medium. The classical Ideal, on the contrary, meets the case of the presentation of the Absolute as such, in its self-subsistent external reality, its essential self-repose, while the romantic Spirit (mind) type of art is, both in content and form, identical with the internal life of the soul, and the emotional life both in its infinite aspect and its finite particularity.
It is, then, on a principle such as the above that the system of the particular arts is differentiated as follows:
First, we have architecture, the beginning of all, whose foundation reposes in the very nature of its subject-matter. It is the commencement of art for this reason, that art at the start has in general terms neither discovered for the presentation of its spiritual content the adequate material, nor the forms that fully express it, and is consequently compelled to rest content in the mere search after such true satisfaction, and to do so in the externality of its content and its mode of presentation. The medium of this primary art is that which is essentially unspiritual, gross matter, that is, only capable of configuration according to physical laws of gravity. Its form is the image of external Nature, united by its regularity and symmetry in the whole of a work of art to express merely an external reflection of Spirit.
The second art is sculpture. Both for its principle and content it possesses spiritual individuality under the mode of the classic Ideal in the sense, namely, that the ideal and spiritual finds its expression in the corporeal appearance pertinent to spiritual life, which it is the function here of Art to present in existent artistic actuality. It consequently still accepts for its material gross matter in its spatial extension, without, however, shaping the same in conformity to rule merely in respect to its gravity and its natural conditions according to the forms of the organic or inorganic, or in relation to its visibility in bringing it down to, and in all essential respects particularizing it in, a simple repetition of the external appearance. The form which is here, however, determined by virtue of the content itself is the actual life of Spirit, human form, and its objective organism permeated with Spirit's own breath, whose function it is to embody in adequate shape the self-subsistence of the Divine in its supreme repose and unperturbed greatness, unaffected by the divisions and limitations of human affairs, their conflicts and endurances.
Thirdly, we have to render intelligible in one final whole those arts whose province it is to give form to the ideal content of the individual soul-life.
The art of painting marks the beginning of this final totality. It converts the external form itself entirely into an expression of what is ideal[23], which within the limits of the environing world not merely reproduces the ideal self-containedness of the Absolute, but also brings to the vision the same as essentially a personal possession[24] in its spiritual existence, volition, feeling, action, in its activity and relation to another, and consequently also in its sufferings, pain, death, in the entire series of passions and satisfaction. Its object is for this reason no longer God simply, that is, as object of the human consciousness, but this consciousness itself, God, that is, either in His reality present in the action and suffering of individual life, or as spirit of the community, as the spiritual related through feeling to itself, soul-life in its resignation, its sacrifice of, or joy and blessedness in, life and action within the limits of the natural world. As a means to the presentation of this content the art of painting is bound to utilize the external phenomenon in respect to its form, not merely the human organism, but also Nature in its simplicity in so far as the same suffers what is of spirit to shine through with clarity. It is, however, unable to utilize as material physical matter and its spatial existence just as it is; it is compelled, in working it up into its forms, essentially to idealize the same. The first step by means of which the sensuous material is raised in this respect to confront mind[25], consists, on the one hand, in the uplifting of the actual sensuous appearance, whose visibility is converted into the mere show by art, and on the other in colour by means of the distinctions, transitions, and modulations of which this transformation is effected. The art of painting, consequently, in order to express the soul in its ideality, resolves the three dimensions of space into that of superficies as that which most intimately asserts the ideality of what is external, and represents spatial distance and form by means of the phenomena of colour. For painting is not concerned with producing mere visibility in its general significance, but with that form of visibility which, if it is ideally produced, is also quite as much essentially particularized. In sculpture and the art of building forms are visible by means of external light. In the art of painting, on the contrary, the material which is itself essentially obscure possesses intrinsically within itself its inward or ideal, light in short. It is itself transfused in its own medium, and mere light is to that extent essentially obscured. The unity, however, and blending of light and dark is colour[26].
Secondly, the art of music offers a contrast to that of painting in one and the same sphere as the latter. Its real element is the ideal realm as such, emotion in its formless independence, capable of asserting itself not in externality and its reality, but purely through the external medium which disappears immediately when it is expressed and thereby cancels itself. Its content consequently consists of the internal life of Spirit in its immediate, essential subjective unity, emotion simply; its material is musical tone, its form and configuration, the concord, discord, harmony, contrast, opposition, and resolution of such tones according to the laws of their quantitative intervals respectively and their artistically elaborated time measure.
Finally, in the third place, after painting and music we get the art of speech, poetry in its general terms, the absolutely genuine art of Spirit and its expression as such. For everything which the human consciousness conceives and spiritually embodies in the chamber of spirit speech is able to accept, express, and bring imaginatively before us, and only speech is thus able. In respect to its content, therefore, poetry is the richest and its boundaries are the widest. But in proportion as it gains as the vehicle of Spirit it loses on the side of the material object. In other words, for the reason that it neither works for the perception of the sense as the plastic arts, nor merely for the ideal emotion, as music does, but is concerned to create its spiritual significances under the form of its own spiritual medium merely for the conception and contemplation of mind, the material through which its constructive activity is asserted only retains for it the value of a means, however much it may be elaborated in an artistic sense, by which Spirit is expressed for Spirit, and no longer counts as a sensuous mode of existence, in which the spiritual content is capable of finding a reality adequate to it. Such a means can in the light of our previous consideration only be tone regarded as the still relatively most adequate material of spiritual expression. Tone here, however, does not in the present case preserve, as was the case with music, an independent validity of its own for which the unique and essential aim of art could be exhausted in finding an artistic form, but conversely is entirely steeped in the world of Spirit and the definite content of conception and contemplation, and appears simply as the external symbol of this content. So far as the embodiment which the poetry receives is concerned, in this respect poetry may claim to include the whole field of art in the sense, that is, that it repeats in its own province the modes of presentation adopted by the other arts, which is only in a qualified degree the case with painting and music.
In other words poetry gives, on the one hand, as epic poetry the form of objectivity to its content, which no doubt here does not, as in the plastic arts, attain to an external existence. It is none the less a world conceived by the mind in the form of the objective world and represented as objective for the individual imagination. This it is which constitutes human speech as such, which finds satisfaction in its own content and its expression by means of speech.
On the other hand, however, poetry is conversely to an equal degree speech of the soul, the ideal medium, which, as that inward content returns to itself, is lyrical poetry, which invokes the aid of music in order to penetrate yet more deeply the world of souls and emotion.
Finally, to take the third example, poetry proceeds through speech within the limits of a self-contained action, which it at the same time makes an object of its presentment, and consequently is able to ally itself closely to music, gesture, mimicry, and the dance. This is dramatic art, in which man, in all that the term implies[27], creatively presents the work of art which is the product of human life. These five arts form the system of realized and actual art, essentially determined by itself and differentiated as such. In addition to them there are no doubt other incomplete arts, for example, the arts of gardening and dance. These we shall only refer to incidentally as the opportunity recurs. A philosophical investigation must perforce restrict itself entirely to distinctions referable to the notion, and develop and grasp these adequate and veritable modes of embodiment. Nature and reality is not, it is true, confined to these circumscribed limits, but is more liberal in its movement, and we not unfrequently hear it made a matter of praise that in this respect the products of genius are perforce compelled to expand themselves beyond just such limitations. In Nature, however, transitional organisms of either hybrid or amphibian type, instead of emphasizing the spontaneity and excellence of Nature, merely demonstrate its inability to hold fast to the essential differentiations of species which are rooted in that process, or to prevent their deterioration before external conditions and influences. The same thing may be affirmed in art with regard to these intermediate forms, although the same are capable of producing much, too, that delights us, is full of charm and utility, albeit not in the highest class of perfection.
If we turn our attention now after these introductory remarks and considerations to the more specific examination of the separate arts, we shall find ourselves from another point of view in some difficulty. For inasmuch as we have hitherto concerned ourselves with art as such, the Ideal and the general types, under which its evolution according to its notion proceeds, it is imperative to pass over into the concrete existence of art, and by doing so into the world of experience. Here we find a condition very analogous to that we observe in Nature, the provinces of which are readily grasped in their generality and the necessary laws which distinguish them, in whose actual material existence, however, the individual objects and their species, not merely in the aspects which they present to observation, but also in the form under which they exist, are of such a wealth of variety that, as a part of the difficulty, they offer as feasible every conceivable way of approaching them; and in addition to this the philosophical notion, when we are desirous of applying the standard of its simple lines of distinction, appears as insufficient for this purpose and the mere grasp of thought incapable of taking in the breath of such fulness. If, however, we merely rest satisfied with mere description and superficial reflections we fall short no less of the object we have set before us, that is, a development which is both scientific and systematic. Added to which difficulties we have the further one that nowadays every particular art makes the independent demand for a special science, inasmuch as with the continuous growth of connoisseurship in art the range of such special knowledge has become ever more rich and extensive. This science of the connoisseur, or dilettante, has, however, in our own times become fashionable under the direct teaching of philosophy itself. It has, in short, been maintained that it is in art we must look for real religion, the discovery of truth and the Absolute, that, in short, it stands on a loftier pedestal than philosophy for the reason that it is not abstract, but receives at the same time the Idea in reality and for a contemplation and emotion which are concrete[28]. And on the other hand it is regarded nowadays as of august importance in art[29] to occupy one's attention with an infinite superfluity of detail of this kind, in the interests of which the demand is made from everyone that he should have observed some novelty or other. Such critical labour is a kind of learned trifling which may very readily be overdone. It causes, no doubt, considerable pleasure to examine works of art, to grasp the thoughts and reflections which such may suggest, to give currency to the points of view, which others have pointed out, and by this means to become judges and critics. The more rich, however, by this means, namely, that everybody is intent on having discovered on his own account something uniquely his own, a learning and process of reflection has become, the more every particular art, nay, every branch of the same, now renders necessary the completeness of a treatment of it from the individual's standpoint. As a corollary the historical aspect of such a survey and the criticism of works of art, which becomes inevitable, only add yet further to the learning and range of the subject. It is, moreover, essential before we take part in any discussion over the details of matters of artistic import that we should already have seen much and many times. Personally I have no doubt seen a considerable amount, but by no means all that is necessary to enable me to discuss the material of art exhaustively. All such difficulties, however, we may meet with the simple response that it does not lie within the aim of the present work to teach art-criticism, or to bring forward an historical review of such learning, or only to the extent such is necessary to apprehend on philosophical principles the essential and universal aspects of our subject, and their relation to the idea of the beautiful in its realization within the sensuous medium of art. If we keep this aim before us the variety of artistic effects we above indicated need cause us no embarrassment; for despite this complexity the essential character of the subject-matter according to its notional idea is the controlling factor; and although this is frequently lost in accidental matter by virtue of the medium in which it is realized, points of view are none the less in evidence, in which it is as clearly proclaimed. To grasp these aspects, and to develop them in a scientific way, is the very problem which it is the function of philosophy to elucidate.
FIRST SUBSECTION
ARCHITECTURE
Art, by enabling its content to attain a realized existence under a definite form, becomes a particular art. We may therefore now for the first time refer to it as an actual art and find therein the real beginning of art. With this particularity, however, in so far as it purports to bring before us the objectivity of the Idea of the beautiful and art, we have presented to us at the same time in its notional significance a totality of what is particular. For this reason when we now, in the sphere of the specific arts, begin our examination of the same with the art of building this must not merely be accepted in the sense that architecture asserts itself as the art which, by virtue of its notional definition, is first presented to us as such an object of inquiry, but we may equally accept as a result, that it is also in relation to its existence the art first to be considered. In supplying, however, an answer to the question, what the mode of origin was, which fine art, relatively to its notion and realized form, has received, we must exclude the experience of history no less than reflections, conjectures, and ordinary conceptions, which merely have reference to objective history, and are so readily and in such variety propounded. In other words, men are ordinarily actuated by an impulse, to bring before their mental vision anything in its original mode of appearance for the reason that the beginning is the simplest mode, under which the fact asserts itself. And connected with this impulse we have present behind it the covert conviction that the simple mode of appearance informs us of the fact in its notional significance and real origin, and the further amplification of such a beginning to the actual point in the process which only really concerns us is further with a like readiness conceived under the trivial mode of thought, that a process so understood has gradually brought art forward to the crucial stage above indicated. A beginning, however, of this simplicity is, if we look at its content, something which, taken by itself, is so unimportant, that for philosophical thought it can only appear as wholly accidental, albeit it is for the ordinary consciousness only just in such a way that the origin can be readily grasped. For example, we have the story, as an explanation of the origin of the art of painting, told us of a maiden who followed the dim outline of the shadow of her sleeping lover. In the same way we have sometimes a cave and sometimes a hollow tree adduced as the point of departure in the art of building. Beginnings of this kind are so intelligible in themselves that further comment on the fact appears unnecessary[30]. In particular the Greeks invented many charming tales to explain the origins not merely of fine art, but also ethical institutions and other conditions of life, all of which satisfied the primary need to make such beginnings visible to the imagination. Such beginnings are not substantiated by history, and yet they do not aim at making the manner of origin intelligible directly as a process involved in the notion, but purport to confine their explanation to the field of objective history.
DIVISION OF SUBJECT
We have, then, in such a way to establish the beginning of art from its notional significance, that the first problem of art is made to consist in giving form to that which is essentially objective, the ground, that is, of Nature, the external environment, and by doing so to make that which is without ideal import to conform both to significance and form, both of which still remain external to it, for the reason that they are not either the form or significance inherent in the objective material. The art, which has set before it this task is, as we have seen, an architecture which has already discovered its first elaboration under the modes of sculpture, or painting and music[31].
If we now direct our attention to the most primitive origins of the art of building, we find at the earliest stage that we can accept for such a beginning the hut, regarded as the human dwelling, and the temple, as the exterior enclosure of the god and his community. With a view to define this commencement more closely a dispute has been raised with reference to the nature of the material employed for building, whether, that is to say, it originated in buildings of wood, which is the opinion of Vitruvius, and is supported by Hirt in a similar reference, or rather from those of stone. This contrast of original material is no doubt of importance, for it does not merely concern its external quality as one might at first sight suppose, but rather the architectonic character of fundamental forms; for instance, the kind of decoration united with it is essentially bound up with this external material. We may, however, entirely set aside the distinction as a purely subordinate aspect of the matter rather referable to what is accidental and empirical, and devote our attention to a point of more importance.
In other words, in dealing with houses, temples, and other buildings we are confronted with the essential condition, to which we attribute the fact that buildings of this kind are merely means which presuppose an external end. Hut and house of God alike presuppose those who dwell in them, and for whom they have been erected, men and the images of gods. Man is also prompted by a desire to leap and sing; he requires the mediacy of human speech; but speech, leaping, shouting, and singing are not as yet poetry, the dance and music. And when within the architectonic adaptation of means to ends in order to satisfy specific needs, in part referable to daily life and in part to the religious cultus or the state, the impulse in the direction of artistic form and beauty asserts itself, we find at the same time a division apparent in the kind of building above mentioned. On the one hand we have man, thinking man, or the image of the god as the essential object, for which, from the other point of view, architecture merely supplies the means of environment and covering. With such a divided point of view we are unable to constitute our beginning, which is in its nature the immediate, and simple, not a relativity or essential relation of this sort; rather we must look for a point of departure, where a distinction of this kind does not yet arise.
In this respect we have already at an earlier stage stated that the art of building corresponds to the symbolic type of art, and in a unique degree gives realization to the principle of the same as particular art because architecture generally is adapted to suggest the significances implanted in it purely in the external framework of the environment. If the distinction, then, above referred to between the object of the external cover independently presented in the living man, or the temple's image, and the building regarded as the fulfilment of such an object, is to be absent from our earliest stage, we shall have to look about us for buildings which precisely, as works of sculpture, do stand up in independent self-subsistence, which in short carry their significance in themselves rather than in some other object or necessity. This is a point of the highest importance, which I have never found raised hitherto, although it goes to the root of the matter, and alone is capable of disclosing the manifold nature of external forms, and of supplying a thread to conduct us through the maze of architectonic configuration. A self-subsistent art of building of this kind will also to a similar degree differ from sculpture on this ground, namely, that it, as architecture, does not create images, whose significance is that which is essentially spiritual and personal, and which itself intrinsically possesses the principle of an appropriated embodiment throughout adequate to its ideal import, but builds up works which, in their exterior form, can merely give an impress of the significance in a symbolic way. And for this reason this type of architecture, both in respect to its content and, its presentation, is really of a symbolic type.
All that we have said with reference to the principle of this stage of art applies equally to its mode of presentation. Here, too, we find that the mere distinction between buildings of wood and stone is not sufficient, in so far as the same points to a means of limiting and enclosing a defined space for a specific religious or other human purposes, as is the case with dwellings, palaces, and temples. Such a space, may be obtained either by hollowing out essentially solid and stable masses, or conversely, by preparing walls and roofs to enclose it. We can make our beginning of the art of building with neither of these alternatives, which we should consequently define as an inorganic form of sculpture; such a type no doubt piles up independently stable images, but while doing so does not in any way make the end of free beauty and the manifestation of Spirit in the bodily form commensurate with the end it pursues, but in general terms sets up a purely symbolic form, which purports in itself to indicate and express a particular idea.
Architecture is, however, unable to remain standing at such a point of departure. Its function indeed consists just in this, namely, to build up external Nature as an environment which emanates from Spirit itself through the gates of art under the forms of beauty, and to build it for the independently present life of mind, that is mankind, or for the images of the gods that are set up and clothed by man in objective form, and to build up the same as that which no longer carries its significance in itself, but discovers the same in another, that is man, and his necessities and objects of family and State-life, culture and so forth, and by so doing surrenders the self-subsistency of such buildings.
Regarded under this aspect we may assume the advance of architecture to consist in this, that it suffers the above indicated distinction between end and means to appear in separation, and constructs for man, or the individual human form of gods, which is the work of sculpture, an architectural dwelling, palace, or temple analogous to the significance of the same.
And, thirdly, the termination[32] unites both phases in the process, and appears within this aspect of division as at the same time self-subsistent. These points of view present to us, as the classification of the entire art of building, the following heads of division, which essentially comprehend the notional distinctions of the matter in question no less than the historical development of the same.
First, we have the genuine symbolic or self-subsistent type of architecture.
Secondly, there is the classical type, which gives independent form to spiritual individuality, divesting on the other hand the art of building of its self-subsistency, and degrading it in the intent to set up an inorganic environment under the forms of art, for the spiritual significances which are now on their part independently realized.
Thirdly, romantic architecture, in other words the so-called Moorish, Gothic, and German, in which, it is true, houses, churches, and palaces are also merely the dwellings and places in which civic and religious needs and activities are concentrated; which, however, conversely are also shaped and raised without let or hindrance for the express object of emphasizing their self-subsistency.
Although on the grounds already advanced architecture in respect to its fundamental character remains of a symbolic type, yet the artistic types known as the truly symbolic, classical, and romantic constitute the closest means of defining it, and are here of greater importance than in the other arts. For in sculpture the classical, and in music and painting the romantic, penetrates so profoundly to the entire root-basis of these arts respectively, that for the elaboration of the type of the other arts[33], to a more or less degree, but little room is left for other aspects. And, finally, in poetry, though it is the fact that it gives the most complete impress in its art-products of the entire series of art-types, we shall find it necessary to make our classification not by means of the distinction between symbolic, classic, and romantic poetry, but according to the specific differentiation applicable to poetry as a particular art in epic, lyrical, and dramatic poetry. Architecture is, on the other hand, art in its immediate relation to the external medium, so that in this case the essential differences consist in this, whether this external matter receives its significance intrinsically, or is treated as a means for an object other than it, or finally asserts itself in this subservience as at the same time independent. The first case is identical with the symbolic type simply, the second with the classical, the real significance attaining here an independent presentation, and in doing this the symbolic is attached as an environment wholly external to it, a type which is exemplified in the principle of classical art. The union of these two types is coincident with the romantic, in so far, that is, as romantic art makes use of the exterior medium as a means of expression, yet withdraws itself into itself out of this reality, and is consequently able once more by doing so to let objective existence stand forth in self-subsistent embodiment.
[1] Gediegene here seems to mean that the unity is a real one throughout all its manifestations—it is one of sterling efficacy.
[2] By the words die innere Produktion der Kunst is meant apparently "the creative activity of art-production as ideally conceived in a series of general world-impressions (Weltanschauungen)." The main contrast between the theoretic apprehension of such an evolution of art as a series, held in its broad generic outlines by mind, and its practical realization as differentiated in the actual products of different arts is sufficiently clear. The difficulty remains, however, as to how far Hegel regarded these Weltanschauungen in their universality to have themselves an objective significance no less than a subjective one—how far, in other words, are they merely abstract concepts of the observer, the schemata of scientific generalization, or do actually unfold an objective, if ideal process—how far is the thought one with the revelation of the Absolute itself. It is, of course, a difficulty not unknown to the student of Hegel in other directions. At least, as translator, I must content myself, as an excuse for obscurity in this and other passages, with drawing attention (a) To the main contrast which is quite clear, and (b) To the fundamental difficulty which remains. As a rule the word Weltanschauung is generally used rather in the sense of a world-outlook as from the point of view of an observer. In this passage, and still more obviously a little lower down, the sense appears to be rather world-presentment or manifestation—and the emphasis certainly on the objective aspect. Thus the Ideal of Beauty is defined as "the collective totality of its Weltanschauungen." How far within such, which have previously been called exclusively ideal (innere) can be incorporated the positive concrete embodiments of definite works of art is for myself the difficulty, which I do not profess myself to be able to solve. I am in fact not entirely clear as to the entire meaning of Hegel myself. The mere statement that the one is made objective by the other does not appear to me to remove the difficulty; for, to mention no other objection, a particular work of art is not exclusively either concrete or objective in the sense that an ideal process is so, or an Ideal which combines the ideal stages or moments in such a process.
[3] Welche sich objectivirt. See note above.
[4] The present, that is, which is objective to sense.
[5] So löst sich das Ideal in seine Momente auf. According to this it would appear that the process is wholly identified with the system of the particular arts. But the universal world-presentments are surely equally a process or at least an abstract of such a process. And this is in fact affirmed lower down.
[6] A favourite metaphor of Hegel. The idea is that the metal is all one infusion producing a result that is like the appearance of Athene from the brow of Zeus.
[7] Der Subjektivität. The mind of the artist.
[8] A misprint. Der should be die.
[9] Zuversicht. Confidence in itself.
[10] Die Sache. The fact, the artistic object primarily treated.
[11] Die Subjektivität. What is personal in the perception of judgment.
[12] A fine illustration of this passage is to be found in Miss Harrison's description of the Praxiteles Hermes in her admirable "Introductory Studies in Greek Art" (see chap, VI), a work every student of Greek Art should peruse.
[13] Gediegenheit. Sterling solidity. To understand all that is implied the above cited work of Miss Harrison is the clearest and most useful I know.
[14] In Unterhaltung. Finds himself, so to speak, directly conversing with him.
[15] Der Gattungen, i.e., specific types.
[16] Das Aussereinander. A differentiated exteriority.
[17] Subjektivität, the ideal unity that is—not so much as soul or personality.
[18] Kein subjektives Inneres. No ideal content that implies a unifying subject.
[19] Same expression as last note. An ideal realm in its aspect of relation to an individual soul.
[20] Als Element.
[21] Or reason (Geist.)
[22] As such content.
[23] This must be taken subject to qualifications which appear further on.
[24] An sich selbst subjektiv. As essentially appertinent to the individual soul.
[25] Sich entgegenheit dem Geist, i.e., raises itself as a medium opposed to—or, as we should say, subservient to.
[26] This is obviously a reference to the false theory of light advanced by Goethe and accepted by Hegel.
[27] Das ganze Mensch. The entire man with all his faculties.
[28] This is a reference, of course, to the Art Philosophy of Schelling.
[29] Zum vornehmen Wesen. Ironical, of course. It is part of the aristocratic pretensions of the connoisseur.
[30] He means that as an explanation they are obvious provided the facts are true, which he then points out in such cases is not so.
[31] I am not sure I follow the sense here. I presume the meaning is that, as notionally considered, we have to commence with an architecture to which other arts are already subservient. The process of elaboration has already been carried beyond mere architecture. And in this sense he calls sculpture an elaboration (Ausbildung) of architecture. But the addition of painting and music as such elaboration is, to say the least, an unnecessary obscurity. Such an elaboration of a primitive form of music is suggested lower down. But the conception appears to me rather confusing.
[32] That is the final phase, romantic architecture.
[33] Other than architecture.
CHAPTER I
INDEPENDENT SYMBOLICAL ARCHITECTURE
The primary and original necessity of art is this, that a conception, a thought emanate from mind, be produced and emphasized by man as the result of his activity, just as in speech there are simple ideas which man communicates thereby and makes intelligible to others. In human speech, however, the means of communication is accepted merely as a sign, and for this reason is an entirely arbitrary mode of externalization. The function of art, on the contrary, is not only to make use of the mere symbolic sign, but, in contrast to this, to supply a sensuous presence correspondent to significances. On the one hand, therefore, the sensuous product, which art presents to us, must afford lodging for an ideal content; on the other it has to represent this content in a manner which enables us to see that it is itself as its content not merely a realization of immediate reality, but an actual product of human conception and its spiritual activity. If I see, for example, an actually living lion I deduce from the unique presentment of the same the concept of lion precisely as I should in the case of a picture of it. In the picture, however, we find something more than this. It demonstrates to us that the form has been conceived in the mind, and has found the origination of its existence in the human spirit and its productive activity, so that now we not only receive the idea of an object, but the idea of a human conception of that object. There is, however, no original artistic necessity that either a lion, merely as such[34], a tree, or any other single object be added for the success of such reproduction. We have seen, on the contrary, that art, and pre-eminently plastic art, proceeds with the presentation of such objects in order to affirm in them the dexterity of the counterfeit from the artist's own point of view. The interest in its first origination is directed to bringing before the vision of the artist himself and others the primary impressions of the objective facts, and the universal or essential thoughts thus stimulated. Such popular impressions are, however, in the first instance abstract and in themselves of indefinite character, so that man, in order that he may present them to the imagination, lays hold of that which is essentially just as abstract, the material medium as it is—which is at once massive and ponderous—a material which is no doubt capable of a definite, but not of an intrinsically concrete and veritably spiritual, content. The relation between content and sensuous reality, by virtue of which the content is to pass from the concipient world into that of imagination, can consequently only be of a symbolical type. At the same time, however, a building, which purports to declare a general significance for others, stands there for no other purpose save that of essentially expressing this loftier aspect, and is consequently an independent symbol of a thought that goes straight to its essential import, and is of universal validity, a kind of speech which is present to spiritual life on its own account, however much it may not be expressed through sound. The products, therefore, of this type of architecture are necessarily stimulating to thought of themselves, and arouse universal concepts, albeit they fail to be the mere envelope and environment of significances which otherwise possess independent form. For this reason, however, the form which permits a content of this kind to appear through it cannot perforce merely pass as symbolic sign, as, for example, in the case when we raise a cross to a deceased person, or erect stones in memory of battles. For signs of this character are doubtless qualified to stimulate ideas, but a cross, or a pile of stones, do not suggest, in virtue of their own nature, the idea which it is our object to awake, but are just as able to remind us of much else entirely different. This distinction constitutes the general notion of the stage now discussed[35].
With regard to this it may be affirmed that entire nations have known how to express their profoundest requirements in no other way than by the arts of building, or at least pre-eminently in an architectonic way. This has been, however, to an essential degree only in the East, as will appear from what we have already seen when we were called on to discuss the symbolic type of art. To an exceptional degree we may say that the constructions of the more ancient art of Babylonia, India, and Egypt—which we have now before us to some extent only in ruins, ruins which have been able to defy all ages and their revolutions, and which excite our wonder and astonishment as much on account of what is wholly fantastic in their forms as in virtue of their extraordinary proportions and mass—either completely bear this character, or in great measure are derived from it. They are works whose construction enlists at certain periods of history the entire activity and life of nations.
If, however, we inquire more closely into the classification proposed by this chapter and the heads of subject-matter comprised in it, we shall find that the point of departure in this kind of architecture is not, as in the case of the classic or romantic type, from definite forms similar to that of the house. In other words we have here no independently secure content, and with it no secure mode of embodiment, advanced as the principle thereof, which is forthwith related in its further development to the entire range of the different constructions. Rather the significances which are accepted as content remain, as in the case of the symbolic type generally, likewise inchoate and general conceptions, elementary, in many respects separated and interfused abstractions of natural life mingled with thoughts of spiritual activity, without being, ideally concentrated to a focus as the evolved states of one mind[36]. This aspect of dissolution gives them the appearance of the greatest variety and change, and the object of such architecture merely consists in emphasizing in its presentation first one aspect and then another, in making such symbolical, and, by means of human labour, making such symbolism apparent to us. Before a multiplicity of content such as this we cannot pretend in this discussion to be either exhaustive or systematic. I shall limit myself to an attempt, so far as this is possible, to bring simply that which is of most importance into connection with a rational classification.
The prominent features of such a survey may be thus briefly enumerated.
As content our demand was for modes of view of a wholly general character, in which peoples and individuals possess an ideal resting-place, a point, a unity for consciousness. The proximate object, therefore, of such independent and self-substantive construction is simply to raise some work, which forms the unity of a nation or nations, a place in which its life may be concentrated. We may also find along with this the further object more nearly associated, to present by means of this very embodiment, that which generally unites mankind, in other words the religious ideas of nations, by virtue of which works of this kind receive likewise a more definite content for their symbolical expression.
Furthermore, in the second place, such an architecture is unable to remain fixed within the limits of this incipient determination of its entire content; the symbolical images tend to become isolated; the symbolical content of their signification is more closely defined, and by this means we find that the distinctions of their forms tend to come into more assured prominence, as for instance we see in the case of the Lingam columns, obelisks, and other examples of this kind. From another point of view the art of building, in the spirit of such isolated self-subsistency, presses forward in its passage to sculpture, its acceptance of organic animal forms or human figures, its enlargement of either and association of both of them, however, on a prodigious scale, in its further addition of walls, doors and passages, and throughout in its treatment of what is adapted to sculpture in such objects in an entirely architectonic manner. The Sphinxes, Memnons, and enormous temples of Egypt come under this category.
Thirdly, this symbolical art of building begins to present the transitional stage to the classic type. In other words it excludes sculpture from its immediate province, and sets about constructing itself as a receptacle for other significances, which are themselves not merely expressed under an architectonic mode. That the reader may better understand the process thus indicated I will recall to memory a few famous examples of such buildings.
1. ARCHITECTURAL WORKS ERECTED WITH THE OBJECT OF UNITING PEOPLES
"What is holy?" is a question raised by Goethe in a certain distich, and the answer he gives is: "that which binds together many souls." In this sense we may affirm that what is sacred, together with the end expressed in the above association, and as such association, has actually formed the primary content of self-subsistent building and the art of such. The earliest example of this we may take from the story of the building of the tower of Babylon. In the broad expanse of the Euphrates valley we are told that mankind erected an enormous architectural work. It is built by the labour of a community, and this public character of its construction is at the same time the end and content of the work itself. And what is equally true is this, that this foundation of an association of communal labour is no mere unity of a patriarchal stamp; on the contrary we find here that the mere unity of the family is precisely that which is set on one side, and this building, which is raised to the heavens, is the objective presentment of the dissolution of the more primitive type of unity and the realization of another of more expansive range. The collective activity of peoples belonging to that age worked in it; and, in proportion as they came together in order to accomplish a building of prodigious size, the product of their activity came to be the band, which, on the ground and soil they had thus selected, and by means of the accumulated mass of stone and the architectural construction on the land—just as in our case morality, custom, and the lawful constitution of State-life—bound them in unity together. A building of this kind is in consequence also symbolical for the reason that it merely suggests the band of unity which it is, because it is only able, by means of its form and content, to express the sacred unity which unites men in an external way. It is also equally a part of this tradition that the communities have once more split apart from the centre of attraction which united them on a work of this external character.
A further and yet more important building, which has, too, already a more reliable historical basis, is the temple of Belus, of which Herodotus informs us[37]. We will not here inquire in what relation this stands to that of Biblical tradition. It is impossible to call this structure, taking it as a whole, a temple in any ordinary meaning of that term; rather we should call it a temple enclosure in the form of a square, each side of which was two stadia long, with brazen gates for means of entry. In the centre of this sacred place, according to Herodotus, who had actually seen this colossal work, a tower of thick walls (with no interior, solid throughout, in other words a πέργος στερεός) was built, both in length and breadth a stadium: on this was placed yet another, and again another on that, and so on, eight towers in all. On the outside of this a roadway was made to the top; and it appears that halfway up to the summit was a place of rest with benches on which all who ascended could rest themselves. On the summit, however, of the last tower there was a huge temple, and in the temple was a great bench, well cushioned, and before it stood a gold table. No statue, however, was placed in the temple. No one was permitted to be there at night with the exception of the attendant women, who, according to the statements of the Chaldaeans, the priests of this god, were selected by him pre-eminently for service. The priests further maintained (c. 182) that the temple was visited by the god, who rested on the bench made for him. Herodotus, it is true, also states (c. 183) that below within this sanctuary there was yet another temple, in which was placed a great image of the god of gold, together with a huge golden table before it, and at the same time refers to two great altars outside the temple on which the sacrifices were made. Notwithstanding these facts it is impossible to picture this gigantic building as a temple either in the Greek or modern sense of the term. For the first seven cubic towers are solid throughout, and it is only the eighth one at the summit which serves as a resting-chamber for the invisible god, who received therein no obeisance either from priesthood or the community. His image was below outside the building, so that the entire construction was raised in really independent and self-contained form, and did not subserve the objects of religious ritual, although it is no longer a purely abstract point of unity that we find here but a sanctuary. The form remains no doubt subject to accidental causes, or it receives its determinate character purely on account of the material security of the cube form; at the same time we have evidence of a demand which seeks for a significance which may supply a determinate relation to it more directly symbolical and applicable to the work taken as a whole. We must look for this, though this is not a point expressly adverted to by Herodotus, in the number of the massive floors. There are seven of them with an eighth superposed for the nightly abode of the god. This number of seven in all probability symbolizes the seven planets and spheres of heaven.
We find also in Media cities built in accordance with such a symbolism. There is, for example, Ecbatana with its seven encircling walls, of which Herodotus[38] states that in part by virtue of the height of the elevation on the slope of which the city was built, and in part intentionally and by artificial means, they were higher one than the other, and their battlements were coloured differently. White was on the first, black on the second, purple on the third, blue on the fourth, red on the fifth; the sixth, however, was coated with silver, and the seventh with gold, and within this last stood the royal stronghold and its treasure. "Ecbatana," remarks Creuzer, in his work on Symbolism, when referring to this type of building[39], "that Median city, and its royal stronghold in the centre, with its seven circles of walls and its battlements of seven different colours, represents the spheres of heaven which enclose the stronghold of the sun."
2. ARCHITECTURAL WORKS INTERMEDIATE BETWEEN THE ARTS OF BUILDING AND SCULPTURE
The first point we have to consider in the further development of our subject consists in this, that architecture accepts for its content significances that are more concrete, and aims at their more symbolical presentation in accordance with forms that are similarly more concrete, which, however, whether we take the case of their insulation[40], or collective accretion in gigantic buildings, they do not make use of in the way sculpture makes use of them, but architectonically in their own independent province. In the case of this present type we have to direct our attention to more specific facts, although all that we advance can put in no pretension to completeness, or an a priori development for the reason that art in so far as it proceeds in its products to embrace the full range of the actual, that is the historical ways of comprehending the world and its religious conceptions, is lost in aspects of a contingent character. The fundamental definition of the type is simply this, that we have a confused blend of sculpture and architecture, albeit the art of building is that which permeates all and predominates.
(a) We had occasion before, when discussing the symbolic type of art, to mention the fact that in the East it is frequently the universal living force of Nature, that is, not the spirituality and might of consciousness, but the productive energy of generation, which is emphasized and revered. More particularly in India this religious attitude was universal; also from its sources in Phrygia and Syria under the image of the great goddess, the fructifyer, a conception was derived which the Greeks themselves accepted. Still more closely considered this conception of the universally productive energy of Nature was represented and held sacred in the form of the organs of sex, Phallus and Lingam. This cultus was in the main promulgated in India, albeit also, as we learn from Herodotus, it was not wholly foreign to Egypt. At any rate we meet with something of the kind in the festivals of Dionysus. According to the statement of Herodotus, "they have invented other puppets as substitutes for the phalli of an ell's length, which the women draw about with a string, on which we find the sexual member no smaller in size than the rest of the body." The Greeks accepted a similar ministration, and Herodotus expressly informs us (c. 49) that Melampus had knowledge of the Egyptian sacrificial festival of Dionysus, and had introduced the phallus which was carried about in honour of the god. It was in India especially that the worship of the energy of generation assumed the exterior shape and significance of the organs of sex. Enormous columnar images were in this respect raised of stone as massive as towers and broadening out at the base. Originally they were themselves independently the aim and objects of such worship; only at a later time it became customary to make openings and hollow chambers within them and deposit in these divine images, a custom which was maintained in the Hermes figures of the Greeks, little temple shrines that could be carried. The point of departure, however, in India was the phallus pillars, which had no such hollows, and which only at a later date were divided into a shell and kernel, growing thus into pagodas. For the genuine Indian pagodas, which should be distinguished essentially from later Mohammedan or other imitations, do not originate in the form of the dwelling, but are narrow and lofty, and receive their fundamental type from these columnar constructions. We find a similar significance and form also once more in the conception of the mountain Meru as expanded by Hindoo imagination, which is conceived as twirling stick in the sea of milk, and is the creative source of the world. Herodotus mentions similar columns, some constructed in the shape of the male, others in that of the female organ. He ascribes their construction[41] to Sesostris, who erected them everywhere on his military expeditions against all the peoples he conquered. The majority of such pillars no longer existed in the days of Herodotus. It was only in Syria that the historian[42] had himself seen them. However, the fact that he ascribes them all to Sesostris is merely based on the tradition he adopts. Moreover, his explanation is wholly Greek in its colour; he converts the natural significance into one of ethical import and in this sense informs us: "In cases where Sesostris during his expedition crossed nations which were brave in battle, he set up pillars in their land together with inscriptions, which gave his own name and nation, and indicated that he had subdued these peoples. Where, on the contrary, he overcame without opposition, he indicated on such pillars the female organ of sex without attaching an inscription in order to declare the fact that these nations had been cowards in battle."
(b) We find further constructions of a similar nature, intermediate, that is, between sculpture and architecture, principally in Egypt. With these we may include, for example, the obelisks, which do not, it is true, borrow their form from the living organisms of Nature, such as plants, animals, or the human form, but are of a form wholly subject to geometrical rule, yet at the same time no longer constructed expressly as subservient to the human dwelling or temple, but are erected in free and independent self-subsistency, and possess the symbolical significance of the solar rays. "Mithras," maintains Creuzer, "the Mede or Persian, rules in the solar city of Egypt[43], and is there prompted by a dream to build obelisks, that is to say solar rays in stone, and to inscribe on them letters which are known as Egyptian." Pliny had already attached this import to obelisks[44]. They were dedicated to the sun's divinity, whose rays they were intended to catch and at the same time to reflect. Also we find that in the images set up in Persia we have rays of fire which ascend from columns[45].
After obelisks we should mention as most important the sculptured Memnons. The huge statues of Memnon of Thebes, of which Strabo was still able to see one fully preserved and made from a single stone, while the other, which uttered a sound at setting of the sun, was already in his day mutilated, possessed the human form. They were two seated colossal human figures in their grandiose and massive proportions rather inorganically and architectonically designed than in the strict sense sculptured, as also appears in the case of the linear arrangement of the Memnon columns, and, inasmuch as they are only valid in such equable order and size, they wholly digress from the aim of sculpture and are subject to the art of building. Hirt[46] refers the colossal melodious statue, which Pausanias states the Egyptians regarded as the image of Phamenoph, not so much to deity as to a king, who possessed in it his monument, as Osymandyas and others in a similar way. It is, however, quite possible that these imposing images supplied a more definite or indefinite conception of something universal. Both Egyptians and Aethiopians worshipped Memnon, the son of the Dawn, and sacrificed to him on the first appearance of the solar rays by means of which the image greeted with its vocal sound the worshippers. Producing as it did vocal sound it is not merely in virtue of its form of importance and interest, but by reason of its nature as a living, significant and revealing thing, albeit the mode of revelation is purely one of symbolic suggestion.
This relation we have pointed out in the case of these statues of Memnon is equally true in that of the Sphinxes, which we have already discussed in our reference to their symbolic significance. We find these Sphinxes in Egypt not merely in extraordinary numbers but also of stupendous size. One of the most famous of them is the one which is situated in close proximity to the Cairo group of pyramids. Its length is 148 metres, its height from the claws to the head is 65 metres; the feet that repose in front, measured from the breast to the points of the claws, are 57 metres, and the height of the claws 8 metres. This enormous mass of rock, however, has not in the first instance been excavated and then carried to the place now occupied by it. On the contrary, the excavations which have been made to its foundations prove that the foundation consists of limestone, and in a manner which showed that the entire huge work was hewn from one rock of which it only forms a portion. This enormous image more nearly approaches, it is true, genuine sculpture in its colossal proportions; it is, however, equally true that the Sphinxes were also set side by side linearly in passages, in which position they, too, receive a wholly architectonic character.
(c) Such independent figures are, as a rule, not only to be found in isolation, but are supplemented by the construction of large buildings resembling the temple type, labyrinths, subterranean excavations of every kind, or amongst other things are utilized in masses and surrounded by walls.
The first thing we may remark with regard to the temple enclosures of Egypt is this that the fundamental character of this huge type of architecture, detailed information as to which we have latterly received in the main from French writers, consists in this that they are constructions open to the day, without roofing, doors, passages between partitions[47], and above all, between columned halls, entire forests of columns. They are works, in short, of the greatest range and variety of interior construction which, without serving as the habitation of a god, or a communion of worshippers, independently by this self-consistent operation appeal to the wonder of our imaginations quite as much in the colossal size of their proportions and masses, as through the fact that their isolated forms and images make an independent and exclusive claim to our interest. Such forms and images are in truth placed there as symbols for significances which are strictly universal in their import, or in the position they occupy as representing literature, in so far, that is, as they declare such significances not through the manner of their form, but by means of writings, works of imaginative form which are engraved on their surfaces. We may in part describe these gigantic buildings as a collection of sculptured images; for the most part, however, these appear in such a number and with such repetition of one and the same form, that the arrangement becomes one of a series, and it is only in this kind of line and order that they receive what is precisely their architectonic definition, which becomes, however, once more an object in itself, and does not merely mean beams and roofing and nothing beyond them.
The larger constructions of this type start with a paved passage, one hundred feet broad, according to Strabo's statement, and three or four times as long. On either side of this approach (δρόμος) stand Sphinxes, in rows of fifty to a hundred, in height from twenty to thirty feet. After this comes an imposing and splendid portal (πρόπυλον), narrower at the top than at the base, with piers and columns of enormous bulk, ten or twenty times higher than the height of a man; partially isolate and independent, and in part fixed in walls and gorgeously decorated structures[48], which also stand up perpendicularly in independence to the height of from fifty to sixty feet, broader at the bottom than at the top, without being connected with transverse walls, or carrying entablatures[49], and so constituting a dwelling. On the contrary, what we find is that, in contrast to vertical walls, which rather suggest they are built to support a weight, they belong to the independent mode of architecture. Here and there Memnon images lean against these walls, which also constitute passages, and are entirely covered with hieroglyphics and enormous pictures on stone, so that they appeared to the Frenchmen who recently saw them like printed calico. We may regard them as so many leaves of books, which by means of their spatial and limited superficies arouse unlimited astonishment, feeling, and reflection in the human soul. Doors follow at frequent intervals, and alternate with each series of Sphinxes; or we find an open spot engirt throughout by a wall with columned passages to these walls. After that we get a covered place, which does not serve as a dwelling, but is a forest of pillars, the columns of which have no roofing but carry slabs of stone. After these Sphinx passages, series of columns, and structural walls over-flowered with hieroglyphics, after them a frontage building with wings, before which obelisks are erected and lions couched; or also, after forecourts, or a cincture of yet more narrow approaches, we reach the culmination of the entire construction, the real temple, the sanctuary (σηκὸς), according to Strabo of moderate proportions, which either contained no image of the god, or merely an animal image. This dwelling of godhead was now and again a monolith, as Herodotus, for example, narrates[50] in respect of the temple of Buto. This temple was worked out of one piece of stone to a length and breadth, which in each of its walls of equal size measured forty cubits, and as final roof to the same was placed a single stone with a cornice of four cubits' breadth. In general, however, these sanctuaries are so small, that no communion of worshippers could find room inside. Such a communion, however, is an essential concomitant of a temple; otherwise the same is merely a box, a treasury, a place where sacred images are conserved.
To such an extent buildings of this type run on for miles with their rows of animal figures, their Memnons, their immense doors, their walls and colonnades of the most stupendous dimensions, some of greater breadth, some of less, their isolated obelisks and much else, that while we wander within works so huge and so calculated to excite our surprise, which in part possess merely a more restricted purpose in the diverse activities of the system of culture to which they belong the question is irresistible, what these masses of stone have to tell us of the Divine they secrete. For on closer inspection symbolical meanings are everywhere in-woven in these constructions in that the number of Sphinxes and Memnons, the position of columns and passages have relation to the days of the year, the twelve signs of the Zodiac, the seven planets, the great periods of the lunar cycle and other phenomena. To some extent we find here that sculpture has not yet freed itself from architecture; and in some degree again the really architectonic aspect of measure, interval, number of columns, walls, steps, and so forth is so treated, that the real object of these relations is not to be found in their own intrinsic character, that is, in their symmetry, harmony, and beauty, but is referable to their symbolical definition. And in this way all this work of construction asserts itself independently as an object in itself, as itself a cultus, in which both nation and king are united. Many works, such as canals, the lake Maeotis, and generally waterworks have a particular relation to agriculture and the floods of the Nile. An example of this we have in the statement of Herodotus[51] to the effect that Sesostris had the entire country, which up to this time had been ridden and driven over, cut up into canals to provide drinking-water, and in this way made horses and wagons useless. The main constructions, however, remained those buildings with a religious purpose, which the Egyptians instinctively piled up much as the bees do their cells. Their property was regulated[52], their other social conditions equally so, the soil of the country was extraordinarily fruitful, and required no laborious cultivation, so that we may almost say their agriculture merely consisted in sowing and harvest. We hear little of other interests and exploits, such as are common to nations, and, with the exception of the tales of the priesthood with reference to the maritime undertakings of Sesostris, we have no account of sea voyages. Speaking generally, the Egyptians restricted their efforts to this work of construction within their own country. It is, however, what we have called self-substantive and symbolical architecture which forms the fundamental type of their imposing works and for this reason that the human ideal, the spiritual in its aims and external forms, has not as yet come to self-knowledge, or constituted itself the object and product of its free activity. Self-consciousness has not as yet ripened in the fruit, is not yet independently secured, but is restless, seeking, surmising, ever for producing without absolute satisfaction, and consequently without repose. It is only in the form that is commensurate with Spirit that mind essentially at home with itself finds satisfaction and finds its true definition in what it produces. The symbolical work of art on the contrary remains more or less indefinite. Among such creations of the Egyptian art of building we may include the so-called labyrinths, courts with columned approaches, circumambient paths between partitions, which entwine about in a mysterious fashion, but whose confusing intricacy is not constructed with the puerile object to make the means of exit a problem, but to create for the senses an intricate mode of motion that is dominated by mysteries of symbolical import. For these paths, as we have already indicated, imitate in their course that of the heavenly bodies and embody the same for imagination. They are in part constructed above the ground and in part underneath it, and in addition to their passages are furnished with chambers and halls of enormous size, whose walls are covered with hieroglyphics. The largest labyrinth which Herodotus himself saw was not far from the lake Maeris. He affirms[53] that its size exceeded his powers of description, and it surpassed the pyramids themselves. The building he ascribes to the twelve kings, and he describes it in the following terms. The entire building surrounded by one and the same wall consisted of two stories, the one above and the other beneath the level of the ground. Taken together they enclosed three thousand chambers, each story containing fifteen hundred. The upper story which alone Herodotus was able to see was divided into twelve adjacent courts[54], with doors placed opposite to each other, six facing the North and six the South, and every court was engirt with a colonnade, constructed of white and carefully worked stone. From these courts, Herodotus continues, you have ingress to the chambers, and from these into the halls, and from the halls into other chambers, and from these chambers into the courts. According to Hirt[55] Herodotus only so far defines this latter relation to the extent that he places in the first instance the chambers in juxtaposition to the courts. With regard to the labyrinthine passages, Herodotus states that the numerous passages through the roofed-in chambers and the multitudinous incurvations between the courts had filled him with infinite astonishment. Pliny[56] describes them as obscure and tedious for a stranger on account of their windings, and when their doors were opened there was a noise in them like thunder; we also learn from Strabo, an evidence of importance, for he was an eye-witness no less than Herodotus, that the labyrinthine passages encircled the court spaces. It was the Egyptians who mainly built such labyrinths: but we find in imitation of Egypt a similar one in Crete, though of smaller extent, and also, too, in the Morea and Malta. Taking into consideration the fact, however, that, on the one hand, an art of building of this kind in its chambers and halls already approximated to the dwelling type, while, on the other, according to the delineation of Herodotus, the subterranean portion of the labyrinth, an entrance into which was forbidden him, had for its definite object the sepulchre of the founders of the building and sacred crocodiles—so that here the essential characteristic of the labyrinth was entirely the symbolic import in an independent sense—we may find in such works a point of transition to the form of symbolical architecture, which in its own constituent parts begins already to approach the classic type of building.
3. THE TRANSITION FROM SELF-SUBSTANTIVE ARCHITECTURE TO THE CLASSICAL TYPE
However stupendous in size the construction we have just considered are the subterranean architecture of Oriental peoples such as the Hindoos and Egyptians, which offer many features of resemblance, are still more imposing and calculated to excite our wonder. Whatever aspect of grandeur and nobility is in this respect discoverable above ground presents no parallel to that which among the Hindoos is presented us beneath the earth in Salsette, which faces Bombay, and in Ellora, that is, in Upper Egypt and Nubia. In these extraordinary excavations what we have in the earliest examples exposed is the immediate necessity of an enclosure. The fact that mankind have sought protection in caves, and made their dwelling there and that entire peoples have possessed no other mode of dwelling is due to the compelling force of their needs. Caves of this kind existed in the land of Judaea, where in works of many stories there was room for thousands. There were also in the Harz mountains in the Rammelsberg near Goslar chambers, into which men crept for cover, and used to bring their provisions for safety.
(a) Of an entirely different type, however, are the Hindoo and Egyptian subterranean constructions to which we have alluded. In some degree they served as places of assemblage, subterranean cathedrals, and are constructions whose object was to excite religious wonder and concentrate the communion of spiritual life; they are united to designs and suggestions of a symbolical character, colonnades, sphinxes, Memnons, elephants, colossal images of idols, which, hewn from the bare rock, were as fully left a component growth of the formless stone as the columns in such excavations were made to stand out in isolation from it. In front of the walls of rock these buildings were here and there wholly exposed to the light, in other parts they were entirely devoid of it, and illuminated merely with torches, while in other portions light was introduced from above.
Relatively to the super-terranean constructions these excavations appear as prior in time, so that we may regard the enormous spaces laid out above the soil as an imitation and efflorescence of similar tracts of land beneath it. In excavations there is no positive building, but we have rather a given material taken away. And to nest thus in the ground, to excavate is more natural to man than to seek for a material, and with it to construct and inform a mass of buildings. In this respect we may assume the cave to be utilized prior to the hut or dwelling. Caves are the extension of spatial covering instead of a limitation of such, or an extension which grows up as a limit and enclosure, in which the enclosure is already present. The subterranean construction consequently inclines to start with what is already present, and, in so far as it leaves the fundamental material as it finds it, is not erected with the freedom applicable to a configuration raised above the surface of the soil. In our view, however, these constructions already belong to a further stage of the art of building, however much they may also have features of a symbolical type, because they no longer are placed there as independently symbolical, but already possess the aim or purpose of an enclosure, a partition, a roof, within which more symbolical figures as such are set up. That which is connoted under the conception of temple and dwelling, both in the Greek and more modern use of the terms, we have here in their most natural form.
We may include in the above class the caves of Mithras, although we find them in a very different locality. The worship and ritual of Mithras originates in Persia. A cultus, however, of a similar kind was also promulgated in the Roman Empire. In the Paris Museum we find a very famous bas-relief, which represents a youth in the act of striking an ox with a steel weapon. It was discovered in the Roman Capitol in a deep grotto beneath the temple of Jupiter. In these Mithras caves vaults are also met with, and passages which on the one hand appear definitely to symbolize by suggestion the course of the stars, and from another point of view also (precisely as still in our own time takes place in our free-mason lodges, where people are conducted through many passages and have to see dramatic scenes and much else) the ways, which the soul must pass through in its purification, albeit it may be true enough that this fundamental meaning is more fully and directly expressed in sculpture and other work than in architecture simply. In a connection somewhat similar we may also mention the Roman catacombs, the fundamental idea of whose construction was certainly something quite other than that of being subservient to aqueducts, sepulchres or any system of drainage.
(b) In the second place we may seek for our present use a more definite point of transition from the architecture of independent type in those constructions which have been raised as housings of the dead, partly in the form of excavations beneath the ground, and partly as buildings above it. More particularly among the Egyptians this kind of construction, whether subterranean or super-terranean, was associated with a realm of the dead, just as in general among the Egyptians it is a realm of the invisible which in the first instance receives a habitation and is placed before us. The Hindoo burns his dead, or suffers their bones to lie and moulder on the earth. According to the Hindoo's point of view mankind are, or become, god or gods, whichever way one cares to put it, and we are unable to find in their case this assured distinction between the living and the dead regarded as dead. Hindoo constructions, consequently, so far as they do not originate in Mohammedanism, are not dwellings for the dead, and appear generally to belong to an earlier period as we assumed was true of the astonishing excavations described. In the case of the Egyptians, however, the contrast between living and dead asserts itself predominantly. That which is spiritual begins to separate itself essentially from what is material. We have here the resurrection of spirit in concrete individuality, the movement of that process. The dead are therefore retained fast as personality[57], and are secured and preserved securely above the conception of dissolution into Nature, that is into universal evanescence, flood and extinction. Singularity is the principle of the spiritual in its notion of independence, because spirit is only able to exist as individuality, that is personality. Consequently this honour paid to and preservation of the dead can only appear to ourselves as a first and important element in the definition of the existence of spiritual individuality, since it is here that singularity is asserted as maintained rather than abandoned, inasmuch as the body at any rate is treasured and respected as this Nature's own mode of individuality. Herodotus assures us, a fact we have already noticed, that the Egyptians were the first to declare that the souls of men were immortal, and despite the fact that the grasp on spiritual individuality is in their case very incomplete, in so far as in their view the deceased must for three thousand years pass through a whole series of animals belonging to land, water, and air, yet for all that in this conception, and in the embalming of the body, we find fixedly the notion of bodily individuality, and of the independent self-existence as separate from that body.
It is therefore also of importance in the arts of building that in these the separation of the spiritual, no less than the ideal significance, which[58] is independently represented, be carried into effect while the corporeal shell is set round it as a purely architectonic environment. The dwellings of the dead of the Egyptians constitute for this reason the earliest examples of the temple type. The essential feature, the central core of worship is a subject, an individual object which appears of significance by itself, and expresses itself as distinct from its dwelling, which is thereby interpreted as purely a subservient covering. And no doubt it is not an actual man, for whose requirements a house or palace had to be built, but deceased objects that are without such needs, kings, sacred animals, around whom immeasurable constructions are enclosed.
Just as agriculture fixes the wandering of nomads in the stable possession of a definite locality, we may say that generally sepulchres, monuments, and the service of the dead unite mankind, and even offer to those who possess no States, no limitations of property, a place of rendez-vous, sacred places which they defend and refuse to have taken away from them. As an illustration we may cite the case of the Scythians, a nomad people, who retired everywhere, according to the narration of Herodotus[59], before Darius. And when Darius sent an embassage to them with the message that if their king deemed himself strong enough to offer resistance he should come forth to battle, but if he did not he ought to recognize Darius as his lord, Idanthyrsus met the same with the reply that they possessed neither cities nor tilled land, and had nothing to defend for the reason that Darius had nothing to ravage; if, however, Darius made a point of having a fight they possessed the sepulchres of their fathers, let him therefore dare to advance against these, he will then discover whether they will fight for their sepulchres or not.
The most ancient and imposing monuments erected to the dead we find in Egypt. They are the Pyramids. What most excites our wonder at first sight of these astonishing constructions is their extraordinary magnitude, which at once makes us reflect upon the duration of time, the variety, superabundance and persistence of human energies which is inseparable from the completion of such colossal buildings. From the point of view of form there is nothing in them to protract attention: in a few minutes we have surveyed and taken in the entire effect. With this simplicity and uniformity of their form in view their object has ever been a subject of controversy. It is true that even the ancients, as for example Herodotus and Strabo, adduced the aim, which they subserved; but for all that both in former and more recent times, travellers and writers have contributed much that is fabulous and unwarranted in their reflections. The Arabs endeavoured to effect entrance by force, hoping to discover treasure in the interior of the Pyramids; such assaults, however, beyond disturbing much, have failed in their object to reach the actual passages and chambers. Europeans of a later date, among whom we may mention in particular for distinction, Belzoni, a native of Rome, and Caviglia of Genoa, have at last succeeded in ascertaining more accurate information with respect to the interior of these fabrics. Belzoni discovered the royal sepulchre in the Pyramid of Chephren. The entrances to the Pyramids were closed in the securest way by square blocks of stone, and it appears that Egyptians endeavoured in their construction so to effect matters that the entrance, even when discovered, could only be followed up and opened with the greatest difficulty. This proves to us that the Pyramids remained closed and could not be again used. Within their interior explorers have found chambers, passages, which point by suggestion to the ways, which the soul undertakes after death in its course and transmigration, great halls, channels beneath the earth at one time descending, at another mounting up. The royal sepulchre of Belzoni runs on in this way hewn out of the rock for a mile. In the principal hall stood a sarcophagus of granite, sunk in the ground; but all that was discovered in it was the remains of animal bones of a mummy, probably that of an Apis. The whole, however, proved beyond a doubt that the object in view was that of being a dwelling for the dead. The Pyramids differ in age, form, and size. The most ancient appear to be stones piled on one another in a more or less pyramidal shape. The more recent ones are constructed with uniformity; some are somewhat flattened out at the summit, others run up entirely to a point. On others have been found deposits, an explanation of which may be gathered from the description Herodotus[60] gives us when referring to the Pyramid of Cheops of the manner in which the Egyptians carried out such works, so that Hirt includes such among the Pyramids which remained unfinished[61]. In the older Pyramids according to the latest evidence of Frenchmen the chambers and passages are more winding; in the more recent ones they are simpler, but entirely covered with hieroglyphics, to interpret which throughout will take several years.
In this way the Pyramids, despite all the wonder they arouse of their own accord, are really nothing but crystals, mere shells, which enclose a kernel, that is a departed spirit, and serve as custodians of his still consistent bodily presence and form. In this departed and deceased person, who secures an independent reproduction, we fail to find consequently any significance[62]; the architecture, however, which up to this point independently possessed its significance in itself as architecture, is now divided in its aim, and in this division is subservient to something else, whereas sculpture receives the function to give body to the genuine ideal aspect, although in the first instance the individual figure in its unique and immediate natural shape is retained. We find consequently, on a general survey of the Egyptian art of building, on the one hand, the self-subsistent symbolical buildings; on the other, however, and more particularly in everything which is attached to the monuments of the dead, the specific determination of architecture to be an enclosure and nothing more, already clearly asserts itself. It is an essential concomitant of this, that architecture not only be limited to the construction of excavations and caves, but attest itself as an inorganic Nature built by human hands on the spot where men have actual need of it, and for a definite purpose will it to be.
Other nations have raised monuments of the same kind, sacred buildings as dwellings of the dead bodies, over whom they happen to be erected. As examples we may instance the mausoleum in Curia, and of more recent date that of Hadrian, the still existing Englesburg in Rome, a palace of careful construction raised in honour of a dead person, all of which were even in antiquity famous works. According to the description of Uhden[63] we may also mention in this connection a type of mortuary, which in its arrangement and environment imitated in its smaller aspects temples dedicate to gods. A temple of this kind possessed a garden, arbours, a spring, a vineyard, and moreover chapels, in which portrait statues of gods were placed. More particularly in the time of the Roman Empire were such monuments to the dead built with statues of the deceased under the image of gods such as Apollo, Venus, and Minerva. Figures like the above, no less than the entire construction, consequently received during that age the significance of an apotheosis and a temple in honour of the dead man, just as also among the Egyptians the process of embalming, the emblems placed thereby, and the sarcophagus attest that the deceased was treated as a god-like Osiris[64].
The most imposing and least complex constructions of this kind, however, are the Egyptian Pyramids. In this type we have the peculiar and essential line of the art of building, that is the straight one, and in general terms the uniformity and abstract simplicity[65] of forms. For architecture, as merely enclosure and inorganic Nature, or Nature that is not itself vitally and essentially suffused by the indwelling spirit in an independent mode, is unable to possess form except as one which is external to itself; external form, however, is not organic, but abstract and purely referable to the organs of sense[66]. However much the Pyramid already begins to receive the determining characteristics of the dwellings, yet the rectangular principle is still not throughout predominant, as it is in a real dwelling-house; it has still an independent determinacy, which is not merely of service to the purpose for which it is erected, and consequently closes up of itself by a process of gradation directly from the foundation to the apex.
(c) It is from this point that we may make the transition from the independent type of building to that of an art of construction, which is serviceable of a purpose.
There are two points of departure to this later type. There is on the one hand symbolic architecture, and on the other practical necessity and the impulse of purpose to subserve that necessity. In the case of symbolical forms, as we have already had occasion to observe, architectonic purpose is merely an incidental feature, merely an external mode of co-ordination. The dwelling-house, on the contrary, erected as necessity itself, requires posts of wood, or just walls standing up straight with beams, which are laid across them at right angles, and a roofing, and constitutes, the other extreme. There can be no question that the necessity of this real and effective expediency makes its appearance as the result of its own demand. The distinction that may be raised, however, in answer to the question, whether genuine architecture—as we shall shortly have to consider it as the classic art of building—takes its rise solely in this necessity, or is to be deduced from independent and symbolical works, which conducted us of their own accord to buildings devoted to service, is the point in essential dispute.
(α) It is the force of circumstances which brings to the fore forms in architecture which are wholly stamped with a useful purpose, and the abstract deductions of science, such as the rectilinear line, the right angle, and the smooth surface. For in serviceable architecture that which constitutes the real object, is, in its independence, as a statue, or more closely as human individuals, that is community, a people, brought together for objects of general significance, which no longer have as their aim the satisfaction of physical wants, but are such in a religious and political sense. In a special degree the need asserts itself to shape an enclosure for the image, the statue of the gods, or generally for that which is independently placed before us and actually present as sacred. Memnons, Sphinxes, and the like stand up in the open, or in a grove, that is in the external environment of nature. Images of this kind, however, and still more human images of gods, are borrowed from another realm than that of immediate Nature. They belong to the world of imagination, and come into existence through the artistic powers of mankind. The purely natural environment is therefore not sufficient; they require for their external frame a ground and an enclosure, which shall be derived from the same source as their own, in other words, such as are the product of the imagination, and have received their form by means of artistic effort. It is only in an environment created by art that the gods find themselves at home[67]. In such a case, however, this external frame does not possess its object in itself, but it subserves something other than itself, and is subject to the principle of purpose or expediency.
If, however, these, in the first instance, purely serviceable forms are exalted to an expression of beauty they are unable to persist in their original abstract mode, and are forced to accept, in addition to what is merely symmetrical and harmonious, that which is organic, concrete, essentially itself conclusive and varied. And because this is so men are forced to reflect over distinctions of determinating form, no less than the express emphasis to be made on certain aspects of form, which is wholly superfluous where the question is only one of a definite purpose to be attained. A beam, for example, is from one point of view that which is carried forward in a straight line; at the same time, however, it terminates at both extremes. In the same way a post which has to support either rafter or roof stands on the ground and reaches its terminating point where the rafter rests upon it. The architecture of service asserts distinctions of this kind and gives form to them by means of art; an organic design, on the contrary, such as a plant, or a human being, ay, whether we look at such above or below, but in any case throughout, has to be organically embodied, to be differentiated in the latter case consequently by feet and head, or in the former by roots and corona.
(β) Conversely symbolic architecture takes its point of departure more or less from organic forms of this kind, as we see is the case with sphinxes, memnons, and so forth; yet it is also unable wholly to exclude in its walls, doors, beams, obelisks, and the rest, the principle of the straight line and uniformity, and is generally obliged to accept the assistance of such principles appertinent to the genuine art of building as equality of size, interval of relative position, rectilinear progression of rows, in short, order and regularity when it proposes to place in a series and to set up in accordance with architectural design the colossal sculptured figures to which we have referred. By doing so it unites in itself both principles[68], whose union brings for result an architecture, the beauty of which is promoted along with the object to which it is subservient, albeit in the symbolic type these two aspects[69] still lie in separation side by side instead of being fused in unity.
(γ) We may therefore so conceive the transition that on the one side the art of building, hitherto self-subsistent in type, is forced to modify under scientific principles[70] the forms of organisms in the direction of regularity, and to pass into the province of proposed expediency; while conversely what is entirely such intended purpose in the form moves in opposition to the principle of the organic world. Where these two extremes come together, and mutually pass into one another, we get what is really beautiful classic architecture.
We may recognize this union, as it actually arises, clearly in the transformation now introduced of that which we already have met with in the architecture which was anterior under the form of columns. In other words, it is true that from one point of view walls are necessary to make an enclosure; but walls, too, can stand up independent, as we have already proved with examples, without making the enclosure complete, to which a roofing, no less than an enclosure of the sides, essentially contributes. But a roofing of this kind has to be supported. The simplest way of doing this is by columns, whose essential and, at the same time exclusive, rationale consists here in being simply supports. For this reason walls are really a superfluity is so far as it is only a question of support. For supporting is a mechanical relation, and belongs to a province of gravity and its laws. And in this[71] gravity the weight of a particular body is concentrated in its point of gravity, and must be assisted at this centre in remaining horizontal without a fall. This is precisely what the column does, so that with it the power of support appears to be reduced to the minimum limit of exterior means to effect this. What a wall at great cost[72] effects, is equally effected by a few columns. It is a very beautiful characteristic of classic architecture not to set up more columns than are actually necessary to carry the weight of the rafter and that which reposes thereon. In genuine architecture columns, for purposes of mere decoration, are not truly beautiful. For the same reason also columns which stand up entirely alone do not perform their true function. No doubt triumphal columns have been erected, such as the famous ones in honour of Trajan and Napoleon: but these, too, are really but a pedestal for statues, and moreover covered with sculptured reliefs to commemorate and glorify the hero, whose image they carry. In the case of the column, then, it is of exceptional importance to see how in the course of architectural development it is compelled to divest itself of the concrete form of Nature before it can secure its more abstract form, the form, that is, which is as compatible with a definite object as it is with beauty.
(αα) Independent architecture, on account of the fact that it starts with organic images, makes use of human shapes, as, for example, we find in Egypt figures in some measure at least human, such as Memnons and the like, are utilized. This is, however, a mere superfluity, in so far, that is, as a definition of this character is not the true medium of support. We find among the Greeks that Caryatides are used in another mode and under a more severe obedience to rule to support superimposed weight, but such cannot be extensively employed. Moreover, we can only regard it as a misuse of the human form to crush it together under such burdens, and it is for this reason that Caryatides receive the character of the oppressed; their drapery suggests a state of slavery under which it is a degradation to carry such burdens.
(ββ) The more natural organic form for pillars and supports which have to bear a weight is consequently the tree, plant-life generally, a stem, a thin stalk which strives upwards in a vertical direction. The hole of a tree already carries of its own nature its crown of branches, the blade of corn the ear, the stem the flower. These forms, too, the Egyptian art of building, which has not as yet attained the liberty of viewing them in their abstract intension, borrows directly from Nature. In this respect the grandiose quality which we discover in the style of Egyptian palaces or temples—the colossal proportions of its rows of columns, the huge number of them, and withal the imposing mutual relations of the entire structure, has ever filled the spectator with wonder and astonishment. In these colonnades we do not find that all columns have the same form; they alternate between one, two, or three types. Denon, in his work on the Egyptian expedition, has collected a great number of such types. The combined effect is not as yet any uniform shape based on abstract principles of selection; rather the foundation is the shape of an onion, a reed-like efflorescence of leaf from the bulb, or, in other examples, a compression together of the root-leaves according to the manner of several kinds of plant. From this base, then, the thin stem breaks upwards straight, or mounts as column with twisted coils, and the capital is also a separation of leaves from branches which suggests the process of a flower. The imitation, however, is not true to Nature, but the plant-like forms are drained off under the architectural impulse, and made to approximate to circular, geometrical, and regular forms, or straight lines, so that such columns, in their entirety, resemble what are usually described as arabesques.
(γγ) This is not the place to enter into a general discussion of the arabesque for the reason that notionally it marks precisely the transition from the architecture which adopts as its basic form the natural organism to that which by its adoption of a more severe regularity is more strictly architectonic. When, however, the art of building has become free in its definitive character it relegates arabesques to the function of decoration and ornament. They are then pre-eminently forms of plants strained off, so to speak, or forms which originate from plants together with entwined forms of animals and human beings, or forms of animals in their passage over to plant-life. In so far as they purport to authenticate a symbolical significance the transitional passage between the different spheres of the animal kingdom hold good for it. Apart from such an interpretation they are simply the play of the imagination in the selection, combination and articulation of the most diverse forms of Nature. For architectural ornamentation of this kind, in the invention of which the imagination finds scope for its activity in the most varied creations of every kind, not even excluding utensils and drapery, the fundamental determinant and type is this, that whether it be plants, leaves, flowers, or animals, all are made to approximate to the abstract figures of science, in other words the inorganic. For this reason we frequently find arabesques to be stiff, untrue to organic life; and it is on this account that they are not unfrequently condemned and art is blamed for the use of them. This is exceptionally true of painting, though Raphael himself did not scruple to paint arabesques in great profusion, characterized with the highest charm, nobility of feeling, variety, and grace. No doubt arabesques are an antithesis to nature, whether we compare them with organic forms or the rigid laws of mechanics; but an opposition of this kind is not merely a right of art generally, but even an obligation under which architecture is bound. It is only by this means that living forms in other respects unfitted for the art of building are made adaptable to the truly architectural style and brought into harmony with it. Such an adaptability is offered in an exceptionally close degree by vegetable Nature, which is also in the East utilized to an extravagant extent in arabesques; in other words plants are not as yet individual objects which possess feeling, but naturally present themselves as adapted to architectural design, by virtue of the fact that they form coverings and protection against rain, sunlight, and wind, and, generally speaking, do not possess the free oscillation[73] of lines which breaks forth from the regularity of scientific conceptions[74]. Architecturally used the regularity of leaves already present is yet further subjected to rule in the definition of rondure and straight line, so that by this means everything which it is possible to regard as distortion, unnaturalness, or stiffness in the plant-forms is fundamentally to be considered as a transformation adapted to the requirements of what is genuinely architectural.
In some such way in the column the real art of building passes from that which is purely organic imitation to the definite purpose of scientific rule, and from this to a position which again approximates to the organic result. We find it necessary to draw attention to this twofold point of departure from the actual necessities and the purposeless self-subsistency of architecture, because the true type unites both principles. The beautiful column originates in the natural form, which is then transformed into the post, that is, it submits to the uniformity and scientific precision of form.
CHAPTER II
CLASSICAL ARCHITECTURE
The art of building, when it has attained the position peculiarly its own and adequate to its notional content is subservient in its products to an end, and a significance which it does not itself essentially possess. It becomes an inorganic environment, a whole that is co-ordinated and built conformably to the laws of gravity, whose configurations are subject to that which is severely regular, straight, rectangular, circular, the relations of definite number and quantity, that which is essentially limited measure and strict conformity to rule. Its beauty consists in this very relation to purpose, which, in its freedom from direct[75] admixture with what is organic, spiritual, and symbolical, and despite the fact that it subserves an end, nevertheless combines in an essentially exclusive totality, which suffers its own aim to appear through all its modifications, and in the harmonious co-ordination of its relations clothes that which is purely adapted to purpose in the forms of beauty. Architecture, however, at this stage[76] corresponds to its real notion, for the reason that it is not in a position to endow that which is in the most explicit sense spiritual with a fully adequate existence, and is consequently only able to inform what is external and devoid of spirit in its contrasted appearance with that which is spiritual.
We propose, in our consideration of this art of building, in which the relation of service is as truly a characteristic as that of beauty, to adopt the following course of argument.
In the first instance we have to establish the general notion and character of the same.
Secondly, we shall have to adduce the particular fundamental determinants of the architectonic types which are deducible from the ulterior purpose which the classical work of art is erected to subserve.
Thirdly, we propose to survey the concrete reality which results from the development of classical architecture.
I do not, however, propose in discussing any of the above relations to enter into detail, but will limit myself to points of most general significance, a restriction more easy to observe in the present case than it was in that of the symbolical type of building.
1. THE GENERAL CHARACTER OF CLASSICAL ARCHITECTURE
(a) In conformity with the principle I have already more than once adverted to the fundamental idea of the genuine art of building consists in this, that the spiritual import is not exclusively reposed in the work of construction itself, which by this means becomes an independent symbol of ideal signification[77], but, with the converse result, that this significance secures its free existence outside the limits of architecture. This existence may be of a twofold character, to the extent in other words that another art of extensive range—I refer, above all, to the art of sculpture of the true classical type—sets before us and gives independent form to the significance, or the individual man in himself receives and gives effect to the same in the active verity of his life. Apart from this[78], these two aspects may still appear together. When, therefore, the Oriental architecture of the Babylonians, Hindoos, and Egyptians, on the one hand, gave symbolical form, in images of independent consistency, to that which was reckoned among these people as the absolute and true, or, from another aspect, enclosed, despite its external natural form, that which was conserved after death—in contrast to this what we find now is—whether we regard it relatively to art's activity, or to the life of actual existence—that the spiritual is separated from the work of construction in independent guise for itself, and architecture becomes the vassal of what is spiritual, which constitutes the real significance and the determinating end. This end is consequently predominant. It controls the entire work; it determines the fundamental form of the same no less than its external skeleton, and neither suffers the material nor the individual's imagination and caprice to assert their independence in a self-substantive way, as was the case in symbolical architecture, or to develop, over and beyond the true purpose of the work, a superfluity of manifold parts and configurations, as is the case in the romantic type.
(b) In considering a construction of this character we have, then, first to ask ourselves not merely what are the circumstances under which it was erected, but what is its aim and purpose. To make its construction compatible with such considerations, to have a due regard for climate, position, and the environing landscape, to create a whole, one in spontaneous co-ordination, by a regard for all these aspects as subservient to one purpose, this is the task stated broadly, in the entire fulfilment of which the instincts and genius of the artist will appear conspicuous. Among the Greeks we find that it is public buildings, temples, colonnades, and halls utilized for the ordinary rest and commerce of the day, approaches, such as the famous ascent of the Acropolis in Athens, which are pre-eminently the objects of the builder's art. Private residences, on the other hand, were of a very simple character. With the Romans, on the contrary, it is the luxurious character of private houses, especially villas, which becomes prominent; and we may say the same thing of imperial palaces, public baths, theatres, circuses, amphitheatres, aqueducts, and springs. Buildings of this type, however, the utility of which throughout remains the commanding and directing principle, are merely able to accept beauty in a more or less decorative sense. The object most compatible with freedom of treatment in this sphere is that of religion—the temple-house as the enclosure of an individual which itself is appropriated by fine art, and placed before us by sculpture as the statue of the god.
(c) In the pursuit of aims such as those above mentioned, then, genuine architecture appears to be more free than the symbolic type of the previous stage, which seizes on the organic forms from Nature, nay, more free than sculpture, which is compelled to accept the human form it finds, and unites itself with them and their general relations as presented it. Classical architecture rather invents its forms and their configuration, so far as the content is concerned, from ends of spiritual import and in respect to form from human reason without any prototype. This greater freedom must, in a relative sense, be admitted; but the province in which it is exercised remains restricted, and the treatment which belongs to the classical art of building, on account of the rationality[79] of its forms is, taken as a whole, somewhat of an abstract and dry character.
Frederich von Schlegel has described architecture as a frozen music; and in truth both these arts repose on a harmony of relations, which admit of being referred to number, and are consequently readily grasped in their fundamental characteristics. In our own case the fundamental determinant for these essential traits and their simple, more serious and imposing, or more charming and elegant relations is supplied by the dwelling-house, that is, walls, columns, beams brought together in the wholly crystalline forms of scientific deduction. What the relations are we are not permitted to reduce to the bare determinants of number and measure. But an oblong, quadrilateral figure with right angles is more pleasing than a square, because in the case of the oblong we are more thus affected both by equality and inequality[80]. If the one dimension, namely breadth, is half as large as the other, we have a relation which pleases; with an oblong which is long and narrow the reverse is the case. Along with this the mechanical relations of support and being supported must likewise be maintained in their genuine measure and law; a heavy entablature, for instance, cannot rest on slender and delicate columns, or conversely great structures be prepared in order after all to lay on them something very light. In all these mutual relations, such as that of the breadth to the length and height of the building, the height of the columns to their thickness, the intervals and number of the columns, the character and variety or simplicity of decorations, the size of many plinths, borders, and so forth, a secret principle of rhythm[81] prevails among the ancients, which the instinct of the Greeks before all others has discovered; from which he may no doubt now and again deviate in points of detail, but the fundamental relations of which he is in general bound to preserve in order that he may not fall away from beauty.
2. THE FUNDAMENTAL DETERMINANTS OF ARCHITECTURAL FORMS TAKEN SEVERALLY
(a) We have already alluded to the old controversy whether the material of wood or stone is to be accepted as the point of departure in building, and whether also it is from this difference of material that the architectural types proceed. For the real art of building at least, in so far as it lays emphasis on the aspect of ultimate purpose and elaborates the fundamental type of the dwelling on the lines of beauty we may accept wood as the more original of the two.
This is the conclusion of Hirt, following in this respect Vitruvius, and his conclusion has been much disputed. I will in a few words offer my own view on the matter in dispute, In the ordinary course of such reflections we seek to discover the abstract and simple law for a concrete result assumed as already present. It is in this way that Hirt looks for the basic model of Greek buildings, in like manner the design[82], the anatomical framework, and finds it, so far as form and the material connected with it is concerned, in the dwelling and building of wood. No doubt a house as such is built mainly as a dwelling, a protection against storm, rain, weather, animals, and human beings, and requires an enclosure that is complete, in order that a family or a larger community of men may collect in independent seclusion and may look after their necessities and pursue their avocations in such seclusion. The house is a structure throughout with a definite purpose, a creation of mankind for human objects. For this reason we find him occupied upon it in many ways and with many objects, and the structure is articulated in an aggregate pile of all kinds of mechanical ways of mutual interlacement and imposition[83] in order to hold in position and secure, according to the laws of gravity, what men are compelled to look after, that is, the making stable what is erected[84], the closing it in, the support of what is superimposed, and not merely in the way of support, but, where the structure rests horizontally, the preservation of it in such a position, and, further, the uniting of all that clashes together at nooks and corners and so on. Now it is quite true that the house makes it necessary that the enclosure should be complete; and for this walls are most serviceable and safest; and from this point of view the building of stone appears most to answer the purpose. We may, however, with equal ease construct our fence with posts standing in juxtaposition, upon which then beams will rest, which at the same time both bind together and secure the perpendicular posts. Finally we come to the cover of all and roofing. In the temple house, moreover, the fact of enclosure is not the main fact of importance, but the feature of support and being supported. For this mechanical result the wooden structure is obviously the nearest to hand and the most natural. For the post, as that which supports, which at the same time requires a means of conjunction, and suffers the same to weigh on it in the shape of the cross-beam, constitutes here all that goes to the root of the matter. This essential division of parts and connection as well as the association of these aspects for a definite purpose belongs to the very nature of a wooden structure, which has its necessary material directly supplied it by the tree. In the tree we find already, without working upon it to any considerable or laborious extent, both post and beam, in so far as, that is, the wood already by itself possesses a definite form and consists of separate lengths, more or less in the straight line, lengths which can be brought together into rectangular corners no less than those which are acute or obtuse, and in this way provide corner pillars, supports, cross-beams and roof. Stone, on the contrary, never at any time possesses a form so definite. In contrast to the tree it is a formless mass, which first must be intentionally isolated and worked upon, in order that it may fit in juxtaposition to or superposition on other pieces and so once more be brought together with such. It requires, in short, several processes before it receives the form and serviceableness which wood already possesses independently. Moreover, stone material, when it is used in great masses, invites rather excavations and generally speaking, being ab initio relatively formless, is capable of every kind of form, for which reason it is rather the congenial material for the symbolical as also the romantic types of building, while wood, by reason of its natural form of straight stems, is demonstrably without mediation more serviceable to that more severe type of purpose and observance of rule, which is the fountain-head of classical architecture. In this respect the structure of stone is mainly predominant with the self-substantive type of building, although even among the Egyptians, in their colonnades bordered with plinths, other considerations supervene, which the structure of wood is able more readily and in the first instance to satisfy. Conversely we do not find that classical architecture restricts itself entirely to buildings of wood, but, on the contrary, where it is elaborated in conformity with beauty, executes its buildings in stone; but in such a way, however, that we are from a certain point of view still able to recognize in the architectural forms the original principle of the wood structure, if also from a further one definite relations attach which do not belong to that kind of building as such.
(b) The points of fundamental importance, which emphasize the dwelling-house as the basic type of the temple, may be in all essential particulars enumerated as follows. If we consider with closer attention the house in its mechanical relation to itself we shall find, in accordance with what we have already stated, on the one hand, masses of architectural form which serve as support and, on the other, those that are supported both being united for stability and security. Thirdly, we have before us the definite aspect of enclosure and limitation according to the three dimensions of length, breadth, and height. A construction, moreover, which, by the fact of its being a mutual correlation of definite aspects distinct from each other, is a concrete whole, is bound to declare this unity in its constitution. So we find here that essential differences arise which perforce assert themselves no less in their division and specific elaboration than they do in their rational connexus.
(α) Of first importance in this respect to consider is the aspect of service in the way of support. When we speak of masses that support we commonly, under the influence of every-day needs, think of the wall as the most secure and reliable means of support. Support as such, however, as we have already seen, is not the exclusive principle of the wall; for the wall serves essentially as a means of enclosure and connection, and for this reason is a predominant feature in the romantic type of building. What is the peculiarity of Greek architecture is this, that it gives direct form to the principle of support by itself, and for this object employs columns as a fundamental contribution to the purpose and beauty of its architecture.
(αα) The aim of the column is to support and only this; and although a series of columns set up in a straight line make a boundary, such an enclosure falls short of a secure wall or partition, and is, in fact, expressly cancelled by the genuine partition and placed in a position of free independence. Owing to this exclusive object of support which pertains to the column, it is of first importance that it should display the aspect of such a purpose relatively to the weight which rests upon it. Consequently it should neither be too strong nor too slender, nor again too compressed, not mount upwards to such a height and with such ease as though the weight upon it was not treated seriously.
(ββ) And just as this column is thus differentiated from the enclosing wall, or fence, it is further from another point of view distinct from the mere post. In other words, the post is fixed directly in the ground and ceases with like directness at the precise point where a weight is reposed upon it. For which reason its determinate length, its commencement and termination equally appear as a negative limitation by means of something else, as a determinacy which is the result of chance, which it does not possess in its own right. Commencement and termination, however, are defining characteristics, which are part of the very notion of the supporting column, and consequently must declare themselves in it as the conditions[85] of its own substance. This is the ground of the fact that architecture, in the elaboration of its beauty, assigns to the column a base and a capital. In the Tuscan order, no doubt, we find no base; the column springs immediately from the ground. This being so, however, the length appears to the vision as something accidental. We are ignorant whether the column has not been to some undefined extent driven into the soil by the superimposed weight. In order that its commencement must not expose this undefined and accidental appearance it must with intention have the foot assigned to it, on which it stands, and which expressly enables us to recognize the commencement as in reality such. Art will therefore affirm as part of its function that the column begins at a certain place and for the rest it will make the security, and stable subsistence obvious to the eyes, and set the vision at rest in this respect also. For similar reasons our column should terminate in a capital, which is quite as much evidence of the real function of being a support as it is an affirmation of the fact that the column terminates here. This conception of a commencement and conclusion which are both deliberate is what affords us, in fact, the profounder explanation of base and capital. An analogous case is that of a cadence in music, which requires a secure resolution, or that of a book which should terminate without a full stop, or should start off without a capital letter, in the making of which, however, especially in the Middle Ages, large illuminated letters have been employed, with similar decorations at the work's conclusion, in order to bring prominently before the mind the facts of commencement and termination. However much, therefore, both base and capital appear to exceed what is obviously required we must not regard them as a decorative superfluity, or think of simply deducing them from the example of Egyptian columns, which still imitate the type of the vegetable kingdom. Figures of organic design, such as are represented by sculpture in animal and human form, begin and terminate in the free outlines they themselves present, for it is the rational organism itself, which gives outline to the form working thereon from its own intrinsic nature. Architecture, on the contrary, possesses for the column and its shapes nothing beyond the mechanical relation of support, and the spatial distance from the ground to the point where the weight that is supported terminates the column. Art, however, is bound to emphasize and disclose the particular aspects which lie together in this determinate relation for the reason that they are essential features of the column. Its precise length and its twofold boundary both above and below, that is, no less than its relation as support, must consequently not appear as coming to it incidentally and by virtue of something else, but must also be represented as immanent in its very being.
With respect to the form of column other than its base and capital, it is in the first place round, circular-shaped, for it has to stand up in free and independent self-seclusion. The most essentially simple, securely exclusive, rationally defined[86], and most regular line is in fact the circle. For this reason the column already proves from its shape that it is not adapted to form an even surface when placed in adjacent rows, as is the case with adjacent posts which are squared to the rectangular corner, and so present walls and partitions, but it has merely the object to offer a support under its own self-limitation. Moreover the columnar structure is ordinarily reduced in size gradually, as it ascends from one-third of its height, it becomes less in circumference and thickness, because the portions beneath have to carry that above, and it is felt necessary to emphasize and make obvious also this mechanical relation of the several parts of the column itself. Finally, we frequently find that columns are grooved; the reason of this is twofold, first, essentially to diversify the simple form, and secondly to make the columns appear more thick by means of such a division where this is necessary.
(γγ) Although, then, the column is set up in independent isolation it has none the less to make it appear evident that it is not placed there for its own sake, but as subservient to the mass which it is erected to support. In so far as the house requires a boundary on every side the singular column is therefore not sufficient, but others have to be placed adjacent to it, in other words we come upon the definite conception of a diversity of columns placed in a series. And when several columns support the same weight this common service is at the same time that which determines the equal height which they all possess and which unites them together, in other words the beam. This marks the transition from the aspect of support to the opposed object supported.
(β) That which columns support is the entablature superimposed. The relation of most importance to be considered here is that of rectangularity. Not merely in its relation to the ground, but also in that to the entablature the supporting structure must be rectangular. For the horizontal position is by the laws of gravity that which is alone intrinsically the most stable and fitting, and the right angle the only definitely secure one. The acute and obtuse angles are, on the contrary, indefinite, and both vary in their degree and are subject to contingency.
We may differentiate between the component parts of the entablature as follows:
(αα) The architrave, that is, the main beam, rests immediately upon the columns which stand adjacent in a direct line of equal height; this unites the columns together and places on them a weight shared equally. As beam, and nothing more, it merely requires the form of four level surfaces mutually related as rectangular in all three dimensions and their abstract regularity. Owing to the fact, however, that the architrave as to one part of it is supported by the columns, and in another constitutes the stay of the rest of the entablature, and it is from this latter again that itself receives the necessary relation of being a support, progressive architecture also places in external relief this twofold aspect of the main beam by emphasizing in the upper portions of the aspect of support by means of jutting plinths and so forth. In this respect therefore the main beam is not merely related to the columns which support it, but in like degree to other burdens which repose upon it.
(ββ) These in the first instance constitute the frieze. The border or frieze consists in one part of it of the tops of the joists[87], which rest on the entablature, in another part of the spaces between the same. For this reason the frieze contains more essential differences than those distinguishing the architrave, and is bound to emphasize them more sharply, especially in the case where architecture, although executed in stone materials, follows more stringently the fundamental type of the wood construction. This is supplied us by the distinction between triglyphs and metopes. In other words triglyphs are the tops of the beams which are divided into three spaces, the metopes are the rectangular spaces between the separate triglyphs. In former times they were in all probability left bare, in later, however, they are filled up[88], nay, even covered over and decorated with reliefs.
(γγ) The frieze, moreover, which rests on the entablature, carries the wreath or cornice. The function of this is to support the roof, which completes the whole upwards. Here we at once meet with questions of what form this final limitation is to be. For we may have in this respect two kinds of termination, either the horizontal and rectangular, or the one inclined to an acute or obtuse angle. If we look at the mere question of natural necessity we shall see that Southerners, who suffer little from rain and storm, merely require protection from sunlight; in their case a horizontal and rectangular roofing of house is likely to suffice. Northerners, on the contrary, have to protect themselves against inevitable showers of rain, against contingency of snow, that the weight may not prove too great; they require inclining roofs. At the same time, in the case of a fine art of building, mere necessity is not only of account; as art it has also to satisfy the profounder requirements of what is pleasing and beautiful. What mounts upwards from the ground must be conceived with a base, a foot, on which it stands and which serves it for support; and in addition to this columns and the partitions of genuine architecture supply us visibly with the means of support. That which closes all above, the roofing, has no longer to support a weight, but merely to be supported, and is bound to declare in itself this definite aspect that it no longer supports anything. In other words, it must be so constructed that it is actually unable to support, and consequently fine down to an angle, whether it be acute or obtuse. Ancient temples have in consequence no horizontal roofing, but two roof surfaces which meet at obtuse angles, and it is out of consideration for beauty that the building is thus terminated. In short, roof surfaces that are horizontal do not give us the appearance of a building entirely complete; a horizontal flat may always add further weight to its height; this the line in which inclining roof surfaces terminate is no longer able to do. To take an analogous case in the art of painting, it is the pyramidal form in the grouping of figures which best satisfies artistic taste.
(γ) The final determining factor which we have to consider is that of the enclosing, the walls, and partitions. Columns no doubt support and form a boundary, but they do not enclose; they are, on the contrary, as such boundary, incompatible with the interior which is hemmed in by walls. If we require such an absolute enclosure we must have also thick and solid dividing walls erected. This is actually the case in temple construction.
(αα) We have nothing further to add with respect to walls except the fact that they must be built in a straight and even line and perpendicularly for the reason that walls that rise obliquely to acute and obtuse angles present the threatening aspect of collapse, and possess no direction once and for all securely defined; it can merely appear as a matter of chance that they are reared in whatever more acute or obtuse angle it may happen to be. The demand of scientific rule and purpose alike is here also once more for the right angle.
(ββ) Owing to the fact that walls act as enclosures no less than as means of support, while we restricted the true function of the column to that of mere support, we approximate to the conception that where we have to satisfy these two distinct needs of support and enclosure columns may be set up and may be united to one another by means of thick walls in such partitions; it is thus that we get half columns. In this way, for example, Hirt, following Vitruvius, makes a start in his original type of construction with four corner-posts. If the necessity of an enclosure is to be satisfied no doubt our columns, if we are obliged to include such, must be walled up and it is not difficult to prove that half columns date from remote antiquity. Hirt, for instance[89], affirms that the employment of half columns is as old as the art of building itself, and deduces their origin from the circumstance that columns and piers supported and carried the roofing and other superimposed structures, but at the same time rendered partition walls necessary as a protection against sun and inclement weather. Since, however, the columns already supported the main building in a sufficient manner, it was not necessary to erect partition walls of either so thick or firm a material as the columns, and consequently this latter, as a rule, abutted on the exterior of the building. This theory of their origin may be correct, but for all that half columns are repugnant to a rational view of them; we have, in short, here two ends standing side by side in opposition, and essentially confounding each other, without any law of necessity being disclosed. It is of course possible to defend half columns, if the point of departure in considering even the column is so strictly that of the structure of wood, that we regard their essential function to be that of an enclosure. Placed in thick walls, however, the column has lost all its significance; it is degraded to the mere post. The true column is in its nature round, essentially complete, and expresses by this very trait of exclusiveness in a visible way that it is antagonistic to an even surface, and, consequently, every inclusion in a wall. If, therefore, we desire to have the support of walls such must be even, not circular columns, but surfaces which can be extended evenly in a wall.
As far back as 1773 Goethe exclaimed with spirit to the like effect in his youthful essay, "On the German Art of Building": "What does it matter to us, you philosophical art-critic of the latest French school, that original man, spurred on by his needs to invent, drove into the ground four trunks, then fastened four poles on top and covered the whole with branches and moss. And after all it is wholly false to say that this hut of yours was the first begotten on earth. Two poles that cross each other at their ends, two behind and one stuck diagonally above in forest fashion is and remains, as you may any day see for yourself in the huts of the fields and the vineyard slopes, a far earlier discovery from which it is quite impossible for you to deduce a principle for your pig-stye." In other words Goethe seeks to prove that columns enclosed in walls placed in buildings whose essential object is that of mere enclosure have no meaning. This is not because he would not recognize the beauty of the column. On the contrary, he is loud in its praise. "But take good care," he adds, "not to employ them improperly: it is their nature to stand up free. Woe to the wretch who has soldered their slender growth in blockish walls." It is from such a point of view that he proceeds to consider the building art of the Middle Ages and our own time and affirms: "The column is of no value as a constituent feature of our dwellings: it rather contradicts the essence of all our buildings. Our houses do not consist of four columns in four corners; they consist of four walls on four sides, which stand in the place of all columns, totally exclude such, and where they are thrust in they are a burdensome superfluity. This applies to our palaces and churches, subject to one or two exceptions, which it is not necessary to particularize." We have in the above statement, which is the result of independent observation of the facts, the principle of the column correctly expressed. The column must place its foot down in front of the wall and appear in complete independence of it. In our more modern architecture no doubt we find pilasters freely used; architects, have, however, regarded them as the repeated adumbration of previous columns, and made them flat rather than round.
(γγ) From this it is clear that though no doubt walls may serve as support, yet, for the reason that the function of support is already independently performed by columns, they must, on their part in finished classical architecture be accepted as essentially having for their object the enclosure. If they are taken as columns are taken, to provide means of support, the essentially distinct defining functions of these latter are not, as is most desirable, performed also as by distinct constituent parts of the building[90], and the conception of what walls ought to provide is impaired and confused. We consequently find even in temples that the central hall, where the statue of the god was placed, to enclose which was the main object, is often left open in the upper part. If, however, a roofing is required, the claims of the lofty style of beauty made it necessary that the same should be supported independently. In other words the direct imposition of entablature and roof on the enclosing walls is purely a matter of necessity and need; it is not appertinent to free architectural beauty, because in the art of classical buildings we require as means of support neither partitions nor walls, which would be rather derogatory to the design in so far as—we have already noticed the fact—they put together contrivances and a wall-space of greater extent than is actually necessary.
These would be the main distinguishing features which in classical architecture we have to keep apart.
(c) Although we may then, on the one hand, declare it as a principle of first importance that the distinctions which have been summarily indicated must appear with their differences emphasized, it is equally necessary on the other that they should be united in a whole. We will shortly, in conclusion, draw attention to this union which in architecture will be rather and simply a juxtaposition, association, and a thorough eurhythmy of the entire construction. Generally speaking the Greek temple buildings present an aspect which both satisfies, and if we may use the expression, sates us to the full.
(α) There is no soaring up, but the whole just expands on the broad level and is extended without particular elevation. In order to view the building's face it is barely necessary to raise the sight with intention; it is, on the contrary, allured to the bare expanse, while the building art of Germany in the Middle Ages strives up almost without mass and soars. Among the ancients breadth, regarded as secure and convenient foundation on the earth, is the main thing. Height is rather borrowed from the height of man, and merely is increased in proportion as the building increases in breadth and width.
(β) Furthermore, embellishments are so effected that they do not impair the impression of simplicity. For much also depends on the mode of decoration. The ancients, more particularly the Greeks, preserve here the finest sense of proportion. Extensive surfaces and lines of entire simplicity, for instance, do not appear so large in this undivided simplicity as in the case where some variety, somewhat that destroys this uniformity is introduced, by which at once an extension of more definite outline is presented to the vision. If this subdivision, however, and its adornment is wholly elaborated in detail, so that we have nothing before us but a variety and its details, even the most imposing relations and dimensions appear to be crumbled away and destroyed. The ancients, therefore, as a rule are actuated in their works neither to let the same and their proportions by such means appear in any way greater than they actually are, nor do they break up the whole by means of interruptions and embellishments to the extent that—because all parts are small and a unity is absent which shall once more bring everything together and fuse it throughout—therefore the whole also shall appear as insignificant. To quite as little an extent are their works of beauty in their perfection merely piled up as mere weight on the ground, or tower up out of all relation to their breadth to the skies. They preserve in this respect, too, the mean of beauty, and offer at the same time in their simplicity necessary scope to a duly proportioned variety. Above all, however, the dominant feature of the whole and its simple particularities appear to permeate in the most transparent way through all and everything, and overmasters the individuality of the configuration precisely in the way that in the classical Ideal the universal substance retains its power to control what is accidental and particular, in which the same receives its living form, and to bring it into harmony with itself.
(γ) With regard to the disposition and articulation of the several parts of a temple we find, on the one hand, a very marked graduation of elaboration, and on the other much that is purely traditional. The main distinctions that have an interest for us in this inquiry are limited to the temple precinct (ναὸς), enclosed by walls containing the image of the god, also the dwelling in front (πρόναος), that in the rear (ὀπισθόδομος), and the colonnades that encircle the entire structure. A dwelling in front and behind with a series of columns before it had originally the typical form, which Vitruvius calls ἀμφιπρόστυλος; to this was afterwards added a row on either side of the building, that is the περίπτερος; finally we have the completest form of elaboration in the δίπτερος, where this row of columns is doubled throughout the circuit, and in the ὔπαιθρος colonnades detached from the walls, and which it is possible to pass round, as in the case of the colonnades above, are added in double rows with the interior of the ναὸς itself. For such a type of temple Vitruvius instances as an example the eight-columned temple of Minerva at Athens, and the ten-columned one of Olympian Jupiter[91].
We will pass over in this place the more detailed consideration of the number of columns no less than the nature of the intervening spaces between themselves and the walls, and merely draw attention to the unique significance which such colonnades and forecourts, or halls possessed in general for the Greek temple. In these prostyles and amphiprostyles, that is, these single and double colonnades, which brought you direct into the open sunshine, we observe that men can move about openly and free and can group themselves as they choose, or according to the chance of the moment. Columns are, in short, not an enclosure, but a limitation through which you can always pass, so that you can be partially within and without them at once, and at any rate can everywhere step from them into the open day. In the same way the long walls at the back of the columns do not permit of any pressure to one central point, whither our sight may instinctively turn when the passages are crowded. On the contrary the eye is rather diverted from such a point of unity in every direction; and instead of the conception of a congregation brought together for One purpose we observe a tendency outwards, and merely receive the impression of a means of spending the time devoid of seriousness, light-hearted, idle, and provocative of chatter. Within the enclosure no doubt we have suggested a profounder aim, but even here we find surrounding features[92], which more or less indicate that we are not to take such a purpose too seriously. Consequently the impression of such a temple, though no doubt simple and imposing, is at the same time gay, open, and pleasing to the sense; the entire building, in short, is rather arranged as a place for standing about in, strolling round, for ingress and egress than in order to enable an assembly of persons to concentrate their numbers in one spot shut off from the rest of the world.
3. THE DIFFERENT CONSTRUCTIVE TYPES OF CLASSICAL ARCHITECTURE
Casting our glance now on the different forms of construction which offer us the predominant examples of distinctive type in classical architecture we may emphasize the following as most important.
(a) What first arrests our attention in this field are those kinds of building whose lines of distinction are most noticeable in their columns; for this reason I shall myself, too, limit myself to a statement of the pre-eminently characteristic traits of the various types of column.
The most famous among the orders of columns are the Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian, over whose architectural beauty and adaptation to definite purpose, neither the research of earlier times nor our own has been able to add anything. For we may assume that the Tuscan, or, according to Hirt[93], the ancient Greek type of building belongs in its undecorative crudeness to the original and simple type of wood structure, not to the architecture of beauty, and the so-called Roman order of columns is of no real moment, being merely an increase in the decorative character of the Corinthian. The important points in this inquiry are the relation of the height of columns to their thickness, the type of base and capital to be distinguished in each case, and, finally, the greater or less intervening spaces between the columns. With regard to the first, if the column is not of a height four times as large as its diameter it appears too bulky and depressed; if its height, however, exceeds such a proportion by being ten times as large, the column will appear too slender to the eye, and too slim as a means of support. The respective intervals between the columns must, however, be considered in close relation to the above facts; if the columns appear more stout they should be placed nearer to one another, if on the contrary the impression they produce is one of slightness and lankness the intervals have to be larger. It is a matter of equal importance, and this is so whether the columns have a pedestal or not, whether the capital is of higher or less ample size, is without or with decoration, for it is by this means that the entire character of the column is altered. With regard to the column's shaft, however, the rule obtains that it should be smooth and devoid of decoration, although it does not rise throughout of the same thickness, but is appreciably more slender at the top than it is midway and at the base, and the change is such that there is a swelling which, though barely perceptible, is none the less present. In more recent times no doubt, notably in the Middle Ages, when the antique types of columns were converted to the use of Christian architecture, the smoothness of shaft was found to be too cold, and for this reason wreaths of flowers were entwined round them, or columns of spiral form were permitted no doubt on similar grounds; this, however, is inadmissible and opposed to the best taste, because the true function of the column is simply that of support, and to carry this out they ought to rise in a secure and straight line and be self-subsistent[94]. The only divergency from the rule in columnar structure which the ancients admitted was that of the groove, a variation which, as Vitruvius points out, made such appear broader than when their surface is wholly smooth. Such grooving we find carried out very extensively.
I will now indicate more closely the main distinguishing features of the Doric, Ionian, and Corinthian order of columns respectively.
(α) In primitive buildings security of structure is the fundamental characteristic beyond which architecture fails to go; consequently it does not as yet dare to risk relations of a slender kind with the bolder lightness which belongs to them, but rests satisfied with forms of greater bulk. This is the case in the Doric type of building. We find here that the material aspect with its onerous weight still is that which is most influential, and is particularly apparent in the relations of breadth and height. When a building is erected in lightness and freedom the burden of heavy masses is overcome; if on the contrary its disposition is one which suggests mainly breadth and a low elevation the prevailing impression, as in the Doric style, is that of stability and solidity, subservient to the dominant force of gravity.
Consistently with this character Doric columns, if contrasted with the other two orders, are the broadest and lowest. The more ancient examples do not rise above a height which is six times their diameter, and not unfrequently they are merely four times that breadth; for this reason they give, by virtue of their unwieldiness, the impression of an earnest, simple, and unadorned manliness, such as we have exemplified in the temples at Paestum and Corinth. The later examples of the Doric order, however, extend their columns to a height of seven times this unit of measure, and, for buildings other than temples, Vitruvius adds yet another half diameter. More generally, however, the distinctive character of the Doric type consists in this that it approximates most nearly to the primitive simplicity of the wood building, although it is more receptive than the Tuscan to decorative work and embellishments. The columns, however, have almost without exception no distinctive base; they stand up directly on their foundation[95], and their capitals are arranged in the simplest way out of ovolo ornament and plinth. The shaft is sometimes left smooth, sometimes grooved with twenty drills, which frequently were flat for one third of the way from the base, and hollowed out in circular form the rest of the way[96]. As regards the interval between the columns, according to the older monuments, the breadth is twice the diameter of a column, and only a few exceed this by a width between two and two and a half diameters. Another peculiarity of the Doric type of building in which it approaches the type of wood construction consists in triglyphs and metopes. In other words triglyphs indicate in the frieze the tops of the beams of the entablature with which the architrave culminates inserted there by means of prismatical incisions[97], while the metopes fill up the spaces between one beam and another, and in the Doric construction still retain the form of the square[98]. As a decoration they are frequently covered with reliefs, while beneath the triglyphs, which rest on the architrave, and as a culmination to the surfaces of the cornice on their lower side, we have for embellishment six small conical bodies, technically known as drops.
(β) In the Doric style we are already made aware of an advance in the characteristics of a solidity which affects us with pleasure. In Ionic architecture this upward progress is further emphasized in a type notable for its slenderness, charm, and grace, if still expressed in a simple way. The height of the columns varies between that of seven and ten times the width of the diameter at the base, and is determined, according to the conclusions of Vitruvius, pre-eminently by the breadth of the intervening spaces of the columns, that is to say, where they are wider the columns appear thinner, and consequently more slender, where they are more narrow, however, they appear stouter and of less height. For this reason the architect is forced, in order to avoid an excess of thinness or bulk, in the first case to reduce the height, and in the second to increase it. In the case, then, where the intervals exceed three diameters the height of the columns will merely carry eight of such, where there is an interval of two and a quarter rising to three, the height will rise to eight and a half diameters. If the columns, however, are separated only by the width of two diameters, the height must be extended to nine and a half times the unit, and in the extreme case of an interval of but one and a half times, such height will even rise to ten times the breadth of diameter. However, cases such as these latter ones appear very seldom, and, in so far as we may judge from such monuments of the Ionic type of building that have come down to us, the ancients made very scanty use of those relations which necessitated the more lofty columns.
The Ionic type is further distinguished from the Doric in this that the Ionic columns do not rise directly with their shaft from the substructure, but are set up on a variously articulated pedestal, and then in unobtrusive rejuvenescence rise lightly in their slender height to their capitals with a deeper hollowing out than in the Doric type, a broad grooving of four and twenty grooves. It is especially in this characteristic that the Ionic temple at Ephesus is distinguishable from and in contrast to the Doric at Paestum. In the same way we find an increase of variety and grace in the Ionic capital. It has not only a carved coussinet[99], little ledge and plinth, but receives both to the right and left a spiral winding, and at the sides a decorative kind of cushion, from which is derived its title of the pulvinated capital. The volutes at the end of the pad or cushion indicate the end of the column, which, however, may rise to a still greater elevation, but in this possible increase makes itself essentially a curve.
Compatibly with this slender character of the pleasing decoration of its columns the Ionic type of building requires a less bulky weight in its beams, and is concerned in this way too to secure an increase of grace. By doing so it no longer suggests as a predecessor as the Doric does the wood construction, and consequently suffers triglyphs and metopes to fall away in the flat frieze, introducing in their place as its principal means of decoration, heads of sacrificial animals united with flowery coils, and, instead of the suspended mutule[100] tops, we find tooth-like ornamentation[101].
(γ) Finally, to come to the Corinthian order, we find it is in fundamentals composed upon the Ionic, only that with a similar slenderness it is elaborated in more tasteful luxuriance, and unfolds the consummate finish of adornment and embellishment. Like it content to possess the definite and various divisions of its structure as a legacy from the wood building, it emphasizes the same without permitting their origin to be conspicuous by means of its decorative work, and expresses, in its manifold ledges and borders on cornice and beam, on its weather moulds, its moulding flutes, its variously articulated pediments and its more luxuriant capitals, a multiplicity of pleasing features.
The Corinthian column, it is true, does not exceed in height the Ionic, rising as a rule with a grooving of similar character, merely eight times or eight and a half times as high as the diameter of the lower portion of the column, but it appears more slender and above all more exuberant by virtue of a loftier capital. For the capital's height is one and an eighth times the diameter beneath, and has at each of its four corners more slender volutes which suffer the pulvination of the previous type to fall off, while the part below is decorated with acanthus leaves. The Greeks have a charming tale relative to this. A maiden of exceptional beauty, they tell us, died. Her nurse collected her playthings in a little basket and placed it on her grave, where an acanthus plant sprang up. The leaves very soon embraced the basket, and it was this which suggested the thought of the capital of a column.
Of other points of difference between the Corinthian and the Ionic and Doric orders, I will only further mention the delicately curved mutules under the cornices, and the projection of the water moulding, and the indentations and corbel-heads on the cornice[102].
(b) We may, secondly, regard the Roman type of building as an intermediate form standing between that of Greek and Christian architecture, in so far as here we find mainly the application of arch and vaultings. It is not possible to determine with accuracy the time when the construction of arches was first discovered; it appears, however, certain that neither the Egyptians, despite the great progress they made in the arts of building, nor the Babylonians, Israelites, and Phoenicians were cognisant of the ogive or the vault. The monuments of Egyptian architecture at any rate only show us that when it was a question of superimposing a roof over the interior of a building the one means the Egyptians had at their disposal was that of placing huge slabs of stone across like beams in horizontal position. If it was required to arch up broad entrances, or cross arches they knew of no other way of doing this than letting one stone on either side project forward, with another still more projecting one above it, so that the side walls gradually approached upwards until they reached a point where only one stone was necessary to close the remaining space between. Where such an expedient was not necessary they covered the spaces with huge slabs of stone arranged across in the manner of rafters.
Among the Greeks we do, I believe, find monuments in which the arch construction has already been adopted, but they are rare; and Hirt, who has written with most authority over the building and the history of the building of antiquity, affirms that among such monuments we can rely on none with security as dating from a time previous to that of Pericles. In other words, in Greek architecture the features which are characteristic and elaborated are the column and beam in horizontal position, so that we find here the column very little used in a relation which lies apart from its true function, namely that of supporting beams. Moreover the arch that is vaulted from two piers or columns, and the knob-like formation, connotes a yet further feature, for we find here that the column already begins to forsake its determinate attribute of support. For the circular arch in its rise, its flexure and its declivity is related to a centre which has nothing to do with the column as a means of support. The separate parts of the circular arch are carried in mutual opposition; they support and prolong each other in a way that shows them far more remote from the direct assistance of the column than is the horizontally superimposed beam.
In Roman architecture, then, as stated, the arch-construction and vaulting is of very common occurrence, or rather we have certain remains which we can only attribute to the age of the Roman kings, if we may fully believe the evidence of later times. Of this type are the catacombs and cloaca, which were vaulted, but must be regarded as works of a more recent restoration. The most probable discoverer yet suggested of the vault is Democritus[103], who occupied himself in a variety of ways with mathematical problems and is held to be the discoverer of lithotomy.
One of the most famous buildings of Roman architecture, in which the circular arch appears as fundamental type is the Pantheon of Agrippa dedicated to Jupiter Ultor, which, in addition to the statue of Jupiter, contained colossal images of gods in no less than six other niches, namely, Mars, Venus, the deified Julius Caesar as well as three others whose identity we cannot fix with accuracy. In either side of these niches stood two Corinthian columns, and the whole was vaulted with one majestic vault in form of the half globe and corresponding to the vault of heaven. With reference to the material of this vault we may note that it is not a stone one. In other words the Romans, in the majority of their vaultings, in the first instance carried out a construction of wood, and covered the same with a composition of chalk and puzzolana cement, which was made of the dust of a light kind of tufa and broken tile shards. When this composition was dry the whole was formed into a mass so that the wooden scaffolding could be removed and the vaulting, by virtue of the lightness of its material and the stability of its consolidation, exercised only an insignificant pressure on the walls.
(c) The architecture of the Romans possessed moreover generally, and apart from this novel employment of arch construction, an entirely different scope and character than that of Greece. The Greeks distinguished themselves, while carrying throughout their work its main purpose, and by virtue of their perfection as artists, in the nobility, the simplicity no less than the airy delicacy of their decorations. The Romans on the contrary are, as artists, at least on the mechanical side of construction more rich and more ostentatious, but at the same time of less nobility and grace. Add to this in their architecture we meet with a variety of intention which was unknown to the Greek. As I have already observed the Greeks entirely devoted the splendour and beauty of art to public objects. Their private dwellings remained insignificant. Among the Romans, however, not only do we find an increase of public buildings, whose main purpose of construction was splendidly embellished in theatres, spaces for animal combats and other means of public sport, but architecture received a deliberate impulse in the direction of private use. More especially after the civil wars villas, baths, colonnades, flights of steps were constructed with the imposing character of the most luxurious extravagance, and by this means a new opening was made for the arts of building, which also included that of gardening, which was perfected in a way that evinced very considerable talent and taste. The villa of Lucullus is a striking example.
This type of Roman architecture has in many respects rendered service as a model to Italians and Frenchmen of t more recent times. Among ourselves we have for a long time to some measure followed in the steps of the Italians, and also to some extent in those of the French; finally men have once more devoted their attention to the Greeks, and have accepted as an object of imitation the antique in its purer form.
CHAPTER III
ROMANTIC ARCHITECTURE
The Gothic architecture of the Middle Ages, which constitutes here the characteristic centre of the truly romantic type, has for a long time, more especially since the popularization and predominance of the French taste, been regarded as something rude and barbarous. In recent times it was Goethe who mainly, in the first instance, and in the youthful freshness of his own nature and artistic outlook, brought once more the Gothic type to its place of honour. Critical taste has been more and more concerned to appreciate and respect these imposing works as giving effective expression both to the distinctive purpose of Christian culture, and the harmonious unity thereby created between architectonic form and the ideal spirit of Christendom.
1. GENERAL CHARACTER
In so far as the general character of these buildings is concerned, in which religious architecture is that which is most prominent, we discovered already in our introduction to this part of our inquiry that in this type both those of independent and serviceable architecture are united. This unity, however, does not in any way consist in a fusion of the architectural forms of the Oriental and the Greek, but we must look for it in the fact that, on the one hand, the house or dwelling-enclosure furnishes yet more the fundamental type than in the Greek temple construction, and, on the other, mere serviceableness and purpose is to that extent eliminated, and the house is emphasized apart from it in its free independence. No doubt these houses of God and other buildings of this type appear to the fullest extent as constructed for definite objects, as already stated, but their true character is precisely this, that it reaches over and beyond the determinate aim and presents itself in a form of self-seclusion and positive local independence. The creation stands up in its place independent, secure, and eternal. For this reason the character of the entirety is no longer to be deduced from any purely scientific or theoretical relation. Within the interior the box-like envelope of our Protestant churches falls away which are built simply that they may be filled with men and women, and do not possess church pews as stalls; in their exterior, the building soars in its roofing and pinnacles freely upwards, so that the relation of purpose, however much it be also present, tends again to disappear, leaving the impression of the whole that of a self-subsistent existence. Such a building is entirely filled up by nothing expressly; everything is absorbed in the grandeur of the whole: it possesses and declares a definite object, but in its grandiose proportions and sublime repose it is essentially and with an infinite significance exalted[104] above all mere intentional serviceableness. This exaltation over finitude and simple security is that which constitutes the unique characteristic aspect of it. From another point of view it is precisely in this type that architecture finds the greatest opportunity for particularisation, diversion of effect and variety, without permitting, however, the whole to fall into mere details and accidental particulars. The imposing character of the art we are considering restores, on the contrary, this aspect of division and dismemberment in the original impression of simplicity. It is the substantive being of the whole which is set in division and dismemberment in an infinite multiplicity throughout the entire complexus of individual and varied distinctions; but this unbounded complexity is subdivided in a simple way, is articulated according to rule, broken into parts symmetrically by the same substance, which is the motive and constitutive principle throughout in a harmonious co-ordination which entirely satisfies, and which combines without let or hindrance the mass of detail in all their length and breadth in securest unity and most perspicuous independence.
2. PARTICULAR ARCHITECTURAL MODES OF CONFORMATION
If we pass now to a consideration of the particular forms in which romantic architecture receives its specific character we shall find, as we have already above noticed, that our entire discussion will be confined to what is genuine Gothic architecture, and mainly that of the church buildings of Christendom, in their contrast to the Greek temple.
(a) As fundamental form underlying all the rest, we have here the wholly shut off dwelling-house.
(α) In other words, just as the Christian spirit withdraws itself within an ideal realm, the building is the place essentially delimited on all sides for the congregation of the Christian community and the gathering together of spiritual life. It is the concentration of essential soul-life which thus encloses itself in spatial relations. The devotion of the Christian heart, however, is at the same time and in the same degree an exaltation over finitude, so that this exaltation, moreover, determines the character of God's house. Architecture secures thereby as its significance, independently of the object which renders it necessary as a building, this exaltation to the Infinite, a significance which it is forced to express through the spatial relations of architectural forms. The impression, therefore, which art is now called upon to emphasize is, in one aspect of it, and in contrast to the open gaiety of the Greek temple, that of the tranquillity of the soul which, released from external nature and worldly conditions, retires wholly into self-seclusion; in the other aspect of it it is that impress of a solemn sublimity, which strains and soars over and beyond all rational limits. If, therefore, the buildings of classical architecture as a rule offer the expansion of breadth, we find in contrast to this that the romantic character of Christian churches asserts itself in the growth upwards from the soil and a soaring to the skies.
(β) In this oblivion of external Nature and all the diverting occupations and interests of finite existence, which is to be effected by means of such seclusion, the open forecourts and colonnades and the like, which are in direct communication with that world, furthermore and of necessity fall away, or only receive an entirely modified representation within the interior of the building. And in like manner the light of the sun is either excluded, or glimmers in broken rays through windows of painted glass, which, to prevent total immersion in darkness, are perforce admitted. What humanity needs here is not the gift of external Nature, but a world created through it and for it alone, for its devotion and the activity of its soul-life.
(γ) We may fix as the pervading type by which the house of God is generally and with particular reference to its sections characterized that of the free rise and running up into pinnacles, whether they be built up by means of the arch or straight lines. In classical architecture, where we find columns and piers with superimposed beams is the fundamental form, rectangularity and the office of support is the feature of importance. For the construction superimposed at right angles marks in a definite way that it is supported. And even though the beams do in their turn carry the roofing, the surfaces of this latter portion incline to one another in an obtuse angle. In such a construction we find no trace of a genuine tendency to points and a soaring up: we find simply repose and support. In the same way, too, a circular arch, which extends in a continuous and equally gradated incline from one column to another, and is referable to one and the same centre, rests on its substructure of support. In romantic architecture, however, we no longer find the relation of support simply and rectangularity the fundamental form, but rather we have before us the fact that all that is enclosed either on its interior or exterior side independently springs upward, and, without the secure and express distinction between the relationship of weight and support, concentrates in a point. This pre-eminently free striving upwards and tendency to inclines that run to culminating points is what constitutes here the essential determinant, by virtue of which either acute-angled triangles with a more slender or broader base or pointed arches appear, both of which aspects stand out most obviously in the characterization of Gothic architecture.
(b) Moreover, the obligations of spiritual devotion and exaltation, regarded as a cultus, bring before us a variety of definite conditions and features which cannot be fully met on the exterior of the building in the open halls or forecourts of a temple, but can only be satisfied within the house of God itself. If, therefore, in the case of the temple of classical architecture it is the external form which is of most importance, and we find it remaining by means of the colonnades more independent of the interior construction, romantic architecture presents a contrast to this not merely in the fact that the interior of the building is more essentially important, for the reason that the whole purports to be simply an enclosure, but also in this, that the interior permeates the very form of the exterior throughout, and determines its specific shape and mode of articulation.
In this connection we will, in order to examine the matter more closely, first make an entrance into the interior, and working outwards therefrom endeavour to elucidate the exterior.
(α) The definition I have already adduced as best describing the interior of the church is that of a certain place set apart and enclosed in all its aspects, whether it be in opposition to the inclemency of the weather or the distractions of the outer world, for the community and its spiritual worship. The space of the interior is consequently an enclosure in the completest sense, whereas Greek temples, apart from the presence of open passages and halls in the environment, not unfrequently possessed open cells.
Inasmuch as, moreover, Christian worship is an exaltation of the soul above the limitations of natural existence and a reconciliation of the individual with God, we find in this fact a mediation of points of view which are separably distinct in one and the same essentially concrete unity. At the same time romantic architecture receives the function in the form and co-ordination of its building to make the above content of spiritual life, to enclose which is the prime object of its construction, so far as this is architecturally feasible, shine through and determine the actual shape both of the exterior and the interior. The following points will assist our understanding of the nature of this problem.
(αα) The space of the interior will have to be no abstractly undifferentiated and empty one, which possesses no essentially defined features or links that relate them respectively. It must have a concrete form, one, that is, which presents differences in respect to all the mutual relations of length, breadth, height, and the mode of such dimensions. The form of the circle, the square, the oblong, with the equality of enclosing walls and roofing which is necessary to these figures, will not be suitable here. The movement, severation, and mediation of soul-life in its exaltation from that which is of earth to that which is eternal, to the far-off and the more lofty, would fail to find apt expression in this bare equality of a square figure.
(ββ) It is only a corollary to this that in the Gothic style the substantial purport of the house, both in respect of its enclosing form of sidewalls and roof, and in that of its columns and beams relatively to the configuration of the whole and its parts, becomes a matter of subordinate importance. And with this disappears, on the one hand, as we have already noticed, the strict distinction between burden and support, as on the other we find no longer rectangularity is emphasized as essential to the building's purpose. Recourse is made once more to an analogous form of Nature, namely, one that prefigures a solemn place of assemblage and enclosure which freely soars upwards. If we step into the interior of a cathedral of the Middle Ages we have brought before us not so much the stability and mechanical purpose of supporting piers and a vault that rests upon it. We are rather reminded of the arches of a forest, whose rows of trees incline with their branches to one another and form an enclosure by this means. A cross-beam requires a secure centre of gravity and the horizontal position. In Gothic architecture, however, the walls mount up freely and independently, and in the same way the piers, which then expand above in several directions apart from one another, and coalesce as though by accident. In other words their function, to support the vaulting, is, although the same in truth reposes on the piers, not expressly emphasized and independently set forth[105]. The effect is as though they did not carry such, just as in the tree the branches do not appear as though supported by the stem, but rather in their airy incurvation as a continuation of the stem, and with the branches of other trees, form a roof of leaves. A roofing of this kind, which is thus fixed upon as the cover of the life of Spirit, this awful environment, which invites us to contemplation, it is which the cathedral presents us, in so far as the walls and among them the forest of piers freely coalesce in their summits. But for all that we do not actually assert that Gothic architecture has accepted trees and woods for the actual exemplar of its forms.
While the sharpening to a point offers us generally the basic type in Gothic we find in the interior of churches this tendency take the more specialized shape of the pointed arch. By this means the columns in particular receive an entirely fresh significance and appearance.
The broad Gothic churches require a roofing to close them in, a roofing which on account of the breadth is a severe burden and renders support unavoidable. Here, therefore, the columns appear to be in their right place. For the reason, however, that the straining upwards is precisely that which converts support into the appearance of free soaring-up columns are unable to be employed here with the significance they possess in classical architecture. They become, on the contrary, piers which, in lieu of the cross-beam, carry arches in a manner whereby they appear as simply a continuation of the pier and coalesce together without definite object in a point. We may, no doubt, conceive the unavoidable termination of two piers that stand apart from one another as analogous to a gut-roof that rests on corner posts; but taking into consideration the surfaces at the sides, although they, too, are planted on piers in entirely obtuse angles, and incline to one another in an acute angle, we find in the latter case none the less the conception on the one hand of burden, and on the other of support. The pointed arch, on the contrary, which apparently in the first instance mounts up in a straight line, and only by imperceptible and slower degrees leans forward in order to incline to the opposite side, presents for the first time the complete idea as though it was just nothing but the continuation of the pier itself, which forms an arch with another. Piers and vaulting appear, in their contrast to columns and the beam, as one and the same image, although the arches rest upon the capitals from which they spring. The capitals, too, in specific cases, such as occur in Netherland churches, keep away altogether, and by this means the inseparable unity above-mentioned is made expressly visible to the eye.
Moreover, on account of the fact that this striving upwards is declared as the fundamental character, the height of the piers exceeds that of the breadth of their base in a proportion that we cannot calculate at sight. The piers are thin, slender, and soar up so high the sight is unable to take in the entire form at a glance, and is compelled to rove about in its upward flight until it attains repose at last in the gently inclined vaulting of the uniting arch, much as the soul moving with restlessness in its devotion from the ground of finitude uplifts itself and finds rest in God alone.
The final point of distinction between piers and columns consists in this, that the piers which are distinctively Gothic, and, where they are elaborated in their specific character, do not, as columns do, remain in the circular form, essentially secure in that, and one and the same cylinder, but to begin with at their base in a reed-like way constitute a convolute, a bundle of fibres, which break into varied distinction as the pier mounts and radiate forth on all sides under various modes of continuation. And, while we find already in classical architecture that the column represents an advance from that which is merely subject to laws of gravity, from the solid and simple to that which is more slender and more adorned, so, too, we find much the same change visible in the pier, which, in this more slender upgrowth, ever withdraws itself more from the mere service of support, and freely soars upward albeit shut in at its summit.
The same form of piers and pointed arches is repeated in windows and doors. More particularly the windows, not merely the lower ones of the side aisles, but also in a still higher degree, the upper ones of the transepts and choir, are of colossal size in order that the glance, which rests upon their lower portion, may not at once take in the upper part as well and may be uplifted as in the case of the vaultings. This adds to the restless motion of the upward flight which it is intended to communicate to the spectator. Add to this the window panes, as we have already remarked, are with their coloured glass only partially transparent. Sometimes they present sacred histories and sometimes they are merely panes of varied colour with the object of increasing the twilight effect and permitting the light of the wax candles to shine forth. For in these buildings it is another daylight than that of Nature which illumines.
(γγ) Finally, as regards the entire articulation of the interior of Gothic churches we have already seen that it is imperative that the particular parts of such should be differentiated in their breadth, height, and length. The primary distinction to consider in this respect is that of choir, transept, and nave from the encircling aisles. These latter are constructed on the sides external to the fabric by means of walls which enclose it, and from which piers and arches are carried, and in their separation from the interior by means of piers and pointed arches, which present openings toward the nave, having no partition walls between. They receive therefore the converse aspect to that of the colonnades in Greek temples, which are open on the outside and are enclosed towards the interior, whereas the aisles in Gothic churches permit free passage between the piers to the nave. In certain examples we find two such aisles in juxtaposition; in fact, Antwerp cathedral is an example which possesses three of them at either side of the nave.
The nave itself soars up by means of enclosing walls on either side, at different degrees of elevation, according to various modes of disposition, above the aisles, broken by colossal windows in such a way that the walls themselves at the same time have the appearance of being slender piers, which everywhere separate in pointed arches and build up vaultings. There are, however, churches in which the side aisles have the same height as the nave, as, for example, in the later choirs of the Sebaldus Church in Nuremberg, which offers the impression of an imposing, free, and capacious type of slenderness and delicacy. In this way the whole is divided by means of rows of piers, which are brought together at their summits like a forest in flights of branching arches. Attempts have been made to discover in the number of these piers, and generally in the relations of number much mystical significance. There can be no question but that at the period of the finest efflorescence of Gothic architecture, that, for example, of Cologne Cathedral, a great significance was attached to the symbols of number, the as yet more gloomy presentiment of what is rational falling in readily with an insistence on external traits of this kind. But despite this fact the artistic productions of architecture, which are carried through by means of that which is always to a greater or less degree merely the capricious play of a symbolism of subordinate rank, is neither of the profoundest significance, nor of the most exalted form of beauty, for the reason that the genuine spirit of these is expressed in entirely different forms and modes than those applicable to the significance of numeral distinctions. We must therefore be especially cautious not to carry such investigations too far. To attempt to go to the root of everything and in every direction to desire to discover a deeper meaning will tend quite as much to contract our horizon and destroy our thoroughness of search as is common with all short-sighted learning which passes over the depth which is clearly expressed and presented without grasping it. In respect to the more detailed distinction between choir and nave, I will in conclusion emphasize the following points. The high-altar, this real centre of the ritual, is placed in the choir, which is thus dedicated as the place for the priesthood as distinct from the community, whose proper place is that of the nave, where we find the pulpit for the preacher. A flight of steps, which varies in its height, conducts us to the choir, so that this latter section and all that takes place in it is visible everywhere. In the same way this choir section is relatively to decoration more ornate, and, moreover, in its distinction from the more prolonged nave, even where the vaultings in both cases are of equal height, is more serious, solemn, and sublime. Above all we find here that the entire building is finally enclosed with piers of greater thickness and more closely, by means of which the breadth tends to disappear, and the entire effect is one of greater stillness and height, whereas the transepts and the nave through their towers still provide with their means of entrance and exit a connection with the outside world. According to the points of the compass the choir is placed to the east, the nave lies in a westerly direction, and the transepts stand towards the north and south. We find, however, churches with a double choir, in which the two choirs lie respectively in the direction of morning and evening and the main entrances are placed in the transepts. The stone font for baptism, that is, for the sanctification of human entry into the Christian community, is placed in a porch by the main entrance into the church. And, finally, we may note that, while the more express worship is provided for by the entire building, and notably the choir and nave, there are also small chapels which form in each case a fresh and independent church.
This must suffice as a description of the articulate structure of the whole. In a cathedral of this type there is space enough for an entire people. For here it is the intention that the community of a city and district do not congregate round the building, but within the same. And for this reason all the varied interests of life which in any way come into contact with religion have, too, a place assigned them. No fixed divisions of seats placed in rows divide and diminish the broad space, but everyone comes and departs in peace, engages for himself or takes a seat for immediate use, kneels down, offers his prayer and removes himself once more. If it is not the hour of high mass the most various things take place at the same time, and there is no confusion. In one portion a sermon is delivered, in another a sick man is brought in; between these points we may find a slow procession; at one spot, we have a baptism, at another a deceased person is carried through the church. Or we may find in one place a priest delivering mass or celebrating the marriage services and in every direction the people in broken groups kneel before altars and sacred images. All such things are embraced by one and the same building. But this very variety and individualization disappears, nevertheless, with its alternations when contrasted with the expanse and size of the building. Nothing completely fills up the whole, every incident passes by; individuals with all that they do are lost and dispersed as points in this grandiose whole. What happens at a given time is merely visible in its passing flight, and over and above all the huge and almost measureless spaces soar up in their secure and immutable form and construction.
Such, then, are the fundamental characteristics of the interior of Gothic churches. We must not look here for any definite purpose as such, but rather an object for the private devotion of the soul in its self-absorption in every detail of the spiritual life[106], and its elevation over all that is isolated and finite. For this reason these buildings are cut off from Nature by spaces enclosed on all sides, built up in the atmosphere of gloom and at the same time to the smallest detail in a spirit that strives upwards sublime and immeasurable.
(β) If we direct our attention now to the external aspect we shall find, as we have already above observed, that in contrast to the Greek temple the exterior configuration in Gothic architecture, the decoration and co-ordination of the walls and all else is determined from within outwards, the exterior having to appear simply as an enclosure of the interior.
In this connection we have good reason to emphasize the following points:
(αα) In the first place in the form of the cross which we find dominates the whole exterior we cannot fail to recognize in outline a similar construction as that which obtains within, a form which cuts, the nave and choir in two, and supplies, moreover, the distinctions of height which obtain between the aisles, the nave and choir.
On closer inspection we find that the principal façade, as the external form of the aisles and nave, corresponds in the portals to the particular construction within. A more lofty principal door, by which we pass direct into the nave, stands between the smaller entrances into the aisles, and suggests by means of the contraction in perspective that the exterior must draw together, grow more narrow, and disappear in order than an entrance may be thereby provided. The interior is the background already visible, into the depths of which the exterior is carried, just as the soul is constrained to grow more profound as ideality when it enters its own intrinsic wealth. Over the doors at the sides extend in the most direct connection with the interior colossal windows, just as the portals rise up to similar pointed arches, in a way similar to that in which they are employed as the particular form for the vaultings of the interior. Between these doors over the principal portal a large circular window branches out, the rose-window, a form which is, we may add, the exclusive and peculiar possession of this type of building, and only fitted to it. Where such rose-windows are absent we find substituted for them a still more colossal window with pointed arches. The façades of the transepts are divided in a similar way while the walls of the nave, the choir, and the aisles in their windows and their form, no less than in the position of the solid walls between, repeat in all respects the form of the interior and set the same forth on the outside.
(ββ) In the second place, however, the exterior begins to make itself at the same time intelligible to itself[107] in this close association with the form and subdivision of the interior for the very reason that it has its own peculiar tasks to fulfil. In this connection we may mention the flying buttresses. They represent the position of the many piers within the building and are necessary as points of support for the elevation and security of the whole. At the same time they further make apparent on the outside, so far as interval, number, and other features are concerned, the rows of piers on the inside, albeit they do not exactly reproduce the shape of the interior piers, but the higher they mount up become reduced in the strength of their springing buttresses.
(γγ) Inasmuch as, however, in the third place, it is only the interior which has to be one essentially complete enclosure, this feature is lost in the form of the exterior and makes way in every respect for the all-prevailing characteristics of continuous elevation. And for this reason the exterior receives at the same time a form independent of the interior, which asserts itself mainly in a tendency to strive upwards on all sides into points and pinnacles, breaking out in them one on the top of another. To this fundamental feature belong the lofty uplifted triangles which, independently of the pointed arches, soar upwards over the portals, pre-eminently the principal façade, though also over the colossal windows of the nave and choir, and in a similar way the slenderly pointed shape of the roof, whose gable-end is especially prominent in the façades of the transepts. Add to these the flying buttresses, which everywhere terminate in little pointed pinnacles, and in this way, just as the rows of piers within the building create a forest of stems, branches, and vaultings, on their part on the exterior stretch up heavenwards a forest of points.
With most independence and most emphatically, however, it is the towers which rise upwards in their sublime summits. In other words we find that the entire mass of the building concentrates among other things itself in them, in order that thus in its main towers it may be without hindrance uplifted to an incalculable height without thereby losing its character of repose and stability. Such towers are either placed in the principal façade over the two side entrances, while a third and broader main tower springs up at the point where the vaulting of the transepts, choir, and nave meet, or one single tower constitutes the principal façade and is raised above the entire breadth of the nave. Such are at any rate the positions which are most usual. In direct connection with the worship such towers have belfries, that is, to the extent that the ringing of bells properly applies to Christian services. This merely indefinite tone of the bell is a solemn stimulus of the soul-life, though in the first instance one that as yet prepares the worshipper only on the outside of the building. The articulate tone, on the other hand, wherein a definite content of feelings and ideas is expressed, is the song which is only to be heard within the church. The inarticulate clang of the bell finds its right place on the outside and only there and is sounded forth from the towers that its peal may pass forth as from some pure height far over the land.
(c) As to the mode of decoration I have already pointed to the main features of determinate character.
(α) The first point we have to emphasize is the importance of ornament generally for Gothic architecture. Classical architecture preserves as a rule a wise mean in the adornment of its constructions. Inasmuch as, however, it is the main interest of Gothic architecture to make the masses which it places in position appear larger and considerably more lofty than they in fact are it is not satisfied with plain surfaces, but subdivides the same throughout; and, moreover, breaks them up with forms which themselves suggest on their part a striving upwards. Piers, pointed arches, and triangles, which rise above them with their pinnacles, occur, too, as decorative work. In this way we find that the simple unity of the great masses is impaired, and the elaboration is carried to the point of every conceivable detail, leaving the entire effect, however, involved in the most flagrant contradiction. On the one hand we cannot fail to observe the most obvious outlines in a clearly defined co-ordination, on the other we have fulness and variety of delicate embellishment impossible to follow with the eye, so that the most motley particularity is directly set up in contrast to what is most universal and simple, just as the soul, in the opposition implied in Christian worship, is deeply engaged in finite things, and indeed carries its life into the mere detail and the trifle. This very opposition acts as a stimulus to contemplation, this striving up invites to a like action. For what is of paramount importance in this style of decoration is this that it do not, by the mass and alternation of its ornament, destroy or cover up the fundamental outlines, but rather suffer them completely to make their way through such variety as the essential feature of importance. Only when it can do this, and I speak in particular of Gothic buildings, is the solemnity of their imposing seriousness kept intact. Just as religious devotion has to permeate all particular experiences of soul-life, the life-conditions of every type of humanity, has further to engrave indelibly on the heart its universal and incommutable ideas, so in the same way the simple and fundamental architectural features should have strength sufficient to recall the most varied articulation, diversity and embellishment of the structure once more within the fundamental impression of those outlines and wholly thus absorb them.
(β) A further aspect in decorative work is bound up in the same way with the romantic type of art in general. The romantic has on the one hand for its principle Ideality, the return of the Ideal to itself. On the other the Ideal has to re-appear in that which is external, and then withdraw itself into itself from the same. In architecture it is the sensuous, material mass in relations of Space, in which the most Ideal essence itself is, so far as that is possible, to be presented in visible shape. With a material such as this to deal with there is no other alternative possible than that of not suffering this material to assert itself with power in its materiality, but to break up and dismember its masses in every direction, and to wrest from the same the appearance of its immediate coherence and self-subsistency. In this connection the ornamentation, more particularly that of the exterior, which has not to display the fact of enclosure as such, assumes the character of a net-work[108] carried in every direction, or rather interwoven over the surfaces; and we have no example of an architecture which, taking into account the enormous and heavily weighted masses of its stone and their secure coherence, nevertheless has preserved to such a complete extent the character of lightness and delicacy.
(γ) We have only further and thirdly to remark with reference to such embellishments that in addition to pointed arches, piers, and circles, the forms once more call to mind those of the real organic world. The fretwork and working out of the mass already carries a suggestion of this. Regarded in more detail, however, we actually find leaves, rosettes of flowers, and, in entwining work of an arabesque character, human figures and those of animals partly realistically and partly fantastically linked together; the romantic imagination, in short, even in architecture, displays its wealth of imaginative creation, and its power to unite in unexpected ways heterogeneous elements, although from another point of view, at any rate during the period of the purest type of Gothic architecture, even in the matter of ornament, as, for example, in the pointed arches of the windows, we may observe a decisive return to simple forms.
3. DIFFERENT TYPES OF BUILDING IN ROMANTIC ARCHITECTURE
The last point on which I have a few observations to make is that of the principal types followed by romantic architecture in its course of development at different periods. I must, however, add the premise that in this work no attempt can be made to supply a history of this branch of the art.
(a) We must wholly distinguish from Gothic architecture, such as I have above described it, the so-called pre-Gothic, whose development originated in Roman architecture. The most ancient form of Christian churches is that of the basilica. These originated out of the public buildings of the Empire, huge oblong halls, with the frame-work of their roofing of wood, such as Constantine placed at the disposal of Christians. In buildings such as these there was a tribune, on which, during congregational religious services conducted by priests, there was singing and an address delivered, or merely reading aloud. The conception of the choir may have originated with this. In the same way Christian architecture accepted other of its forms such as the use of columns with circular arches, the rotunda and the modes of classical embellishment throughout, more particularly in the western Roman Empire, while in the eastern section it appears to have remained constant to this type until the time of Justinian. Even buildings erected by the Ostrogoths and Lombards in Italy retained essentially the fundamental Roman type. In the more recent architecture, however, of the Byzantine Empire several modifications made their appearance. A rotunda supported on four great piers forms the centre, to which different constructions were attached to meet the particular objects of Greek as distinct from the Roman ritual. We must not, however, confuse this genuine architecture of the Byzantine Empire with that which, in its general relation to architectural types, goes by the name of Byzantine, and which was employed in Italy, France, England, Germany, and other places up to the close of the twelfth century.
(b) In the thirteenth century was evolved the Gothic architecture in the distinctive form whose main characteristics I have above described in detail. It is nowadays denied that it is the work of Gothic architects, and the name given it is that of Deutsch or German architecture. We may, however, retain the more customary and ancient nomenclature. In other words we find in Spain very ancient indications of this type of construction, which suggest an association with historical circumstances under which Gothic kings, forced back into the mountains of Asturia and Galicia, retained their independence in such localities. Under such conditions, no doubt, a close affiliation of Gothic and Arab architecture appears probable, yet both may be essentially distinguished. For the characteristic trait of Arab architecture in the Middle Ages is not the pointed arch, but the so-called horseshoe form. Moreover, these buildings, which are constructed for an entirely different ritual, exhibit an Oriental wealth and splendour, embellishments resembling plant-life and other forms of decoration, which, in an external form, mix together what is of Roman ancestry and that which belongs to the Middle Ages.
(c) On parallel lines with this evolution of religious architecture we find, too, the course of civil construction, which from its particular point of view imitates and modifies the character of ecclesiastical buildings. In an architecture directed to the uses of citizen life, however, art has less opportunity for display inasmuch as here objects of more restricted character, combined with a great variety of requirements, are more strict in the range of satisfaction presented, and do not suffer beauty to pass beyond mere decoration. Except for the general harmonious disposition of its forms and masses, art is in the main merely able to assert itself in the embellishment of façades, staircases, windows, doors, gables, towers, and the like, and has to do this throughout subject to the condition that the practical purpose of the building is what finally determines everything. In the Middle Ages it is pre-eminently the tower-like form of secure dwellings, which is the fundamental type of structure not merely for particular declivities and summits but also within the towns, where every palace, every private dwelling, as in Italy for example, received the form of a small fortification or keep. Walls, doors, towers, bridges and the like are executed as necessity dictates, and are decorated and embellished by art. Stability and security coupled with a grandiose type of splendour and a vital individuality of single forms and their connecting links constitute the determining factors, to enter into the detail of which would carry us beyond our present purpose. By way of supplement we may in conclusion briefly allude to the art of gardening, which does not only create under a wholly novel form an environment for spirit, we may call it a second exterior Nature, but draws the landscape of Nature itself within the operation of its constructive purpose and treats the same architectonically as an environment of buildings. I will only take as an example of what I mean the famous and exceedingly imposing terrace of Sans-souci.
In our examination of the genuine art of gardening it is most important to distinguish the painter's point of view of it from that of the architect. All that pertains to mere park construction, for instance, is not truly architectonic, no building, that is, with freely disposed natural objects, but an artist's portrayal[109], which leaves the objects in their natural form and aims at imitating wide Nature in its freedom. Everything is here suggested in turn, which finds its glad place in a landscape—whether rocks and the huge rough masses which are their substance, or dales, woods, pastures, meandering brooks, broad streams with their animated banks, still lakes, wreathed round with trees, rushing waterfalls, and everything else of the kind, and is brought together with one total effect. In this way the gardening art of the Chinese embraces entire landscapes together with their islands, rivers, expanding views, and rockeries.
In a park of this kind, particularly in modern examples of such, everything is, on the one hand, intended to hold intact the freedom of Nature, while, on the other, it is artificially elaborated and constructed and conditioned by the locality where it is situated. This involves a contradiction which is never satisfactorily disposed of. In this respect, for the most part, it is impossible to instance an example of worse taste than such an attempt to make visible in all directions a studied purpose in that which is without purpose, and to force that which refuses to be compelled. Add to this the fact that here the genuine character of what is strictly a garden disappears, in so far, that is, as a garden is primarily adapted for strolling about in at pleasure and conversation within a certain place, which is no longer simply Nature, but a Nature remodelled by man to meet his desire for an environment created by himself. A huge park, on the contrary, particularly if it be garnished with Chinese temples, Turkish mosques, Swiss châlets, bridges, hermitages, and any other conceivable foreign importation, makes an independent claim on our interest as spectator. It offers an independent pretension of being and signifying something. A charm of this sort disappears as soon as it arises; we do not care to see it twice, for an addition like this spreads before our sight no suggestion of infinity, nothing that possesses a really existent vitality[110], and is further only wearisome and tedious for conversation as we pass through it.
A garden, strictly speaking, should be only a cheerful environment and simply an environment, which will not pass for something independently valid and withdraw men from their own life and concerns. It is here that architecture, with its scientific lines, order, regularity, and symmetry, is in its proper place and co-ordinates natural objects themselves architectonically. The art of the Mongols on the other side of the great wall, in Tibet, the paradise of the Persians, already adapt themselves more closely to this type. They are no parks in the English sense, but halls with flowers, springs, courts, and palaces, which have in the form of a retreat in Nature been arranged on a splendid, grandiose, and extravagant scale for the needs of mankind and their convenience. But we find the architectural principle most thoroughly carried out in the French art of gardening, which, as a rule, borders upon great palaces, plants trees in the strictest conformity of line in long avenues, prunes them, builds up straight walls from trimmed fences, and in this way converts Nature herself into a broad dwelling beneath the open sky.
[34] Simply as a physical object.
[35] That of symbolic architecture.
[36] Als Momente eines Subjektes. That is as the constituent parts of the mind of one individual.
[37] Herod. I, c. 181.
[38] I, c. 98.
[39] I, p. 469.
[40] As in obelisks, Memnons, etc.
[41] II, c. 162.
[42] c. 106.
[43] Symb. (2nd ed.), p. 469. The solar city of Heliopolis.
[44] XXXVI, 14, and XXXVII, 8.
[45] Creutzer I, p. 778.
[46] "History of Architecture," vol. I, p. 69.
[47] Wandungen. I presume this refers to every kind of subdivision no less than boundary walls.
[48] Pracktgewänden. Presumably this refers to the isolated structures in which the columns are built—having flat surfaces like walls.
[49] Balken. The word would suggest perhaps that Hegel means here beams of any kind.
[50] II, c. 155.
[51] Her. II, c. 108.
[52] Herodotus dwells on this in the above passage.
[53] II, c. 148.
[54] Commentators of Herodotus point out that we have no direct evidence here of their number, which, comparing this with Strabo's account, is doubtful, and still more so the number of the chambers (οἱκήματα). Strabo says there were twenty-seven courts. The connection between the halls was not an architectural one but by means of the chambers and colonnades (παστάδες). See Blakesley's notes, vol. I, pp. 279-80. Neither from Herodotus nor Hegel is it very easy to form a clear notion of the building.
[55] "History of Ancient Building," vol. I, p. 75.
[56] XXXVI, 19.
[57] Ein Individuelles. Lit., An individual entity.
[58] The relative pronoun refers to the separation of both aspects.
[59] II, c. 126-7.
[60] Her. II, c. 125.