Transcriber’s Notes

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations in hyphenation have been standardised but all other spelling and punctuation remains unchanged.

The cover was prepared by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

THE ORIGINS OF ART

THE
ORIGINS OF ART

A PSYCHOLOGICAL & SOCIOLOGICAL
INQUIRY

BY

YRJÖ HIRN

LECTURER ON ÆSTHETIC AND MODERN LITERATURE AT THE
UNIVERSITY OF FINLAND, HELSINGFORS

London
MACMILLAN AND CO., Limited
NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1900

All rights reserved

PREFACE

The aim and scope of this book is sufficiently indicated by its title. I have endeavoured throughout to restrict my attention to questions connected with the origins of art. Points of history and criticism have been touched upon only in so far as they appeared to contribute towards the elucidation of this purely psychological and sociological problem. In order to save space as well as to spare the reader’s attention, the descriptive parts have been concentrated as much as possible. As a rule, only one ethnological example, which has been selected as typical, is described in the text, while the corroborating examples are represented by references in the footnotes. And even of these references only such are adduced as have been considered especially significant. Only in one matter have I aimed at completeness, viz. that of reference to authors from whom I have borrowed facts or observations. And whenever in earlier literature I have found theories which have appeared similar to the views advanced in this book, these similarities have been pointed out in the footnotes.

There is one point, however, to which the reader’s attention should be called in this Preface. When treating of the art-impulse I have—especially in the tenth chapter—mentioned in the footnotes some modern writers on æsthetic, who, although starting from different assumptions, have arrived at a conception of art which in many points may be compared to the one advanced in this book. This comparison, however, has not been carried out in the text. Considerations of space account for this omission; but it has a further ground in the circumstances under which the present work has originated. A part of it, containing the examination of feeling and its expression, and the chapter on “Animal Display,” was published in Swedish as early as 1896[1]—that is, before the above-mentioned authors had made their theories known. This is not mentioned in order to raise any futile questions of priority, but only as a justification of the way in which my conclusions have been presented.

It has appeared to me that the continuity of the argument could not but have been broken if, instead of proceeding from my original starting-point, I had based my conclusions upon a critical examination of modern æsthetic doctrines. And I trust that the differences between the thesis of this book and other emotionalistic explanations will appear with sufficient clearness to the attentive reader even if they have not been expressly pointed out in the text.

There are, no doubt, many points, a fuller treatment of which might have been to the advantage of the book. The force of circumstances has compelled me to aim at brevity before anything. But even if it had been possible to give this study a far greater comprehensiveness, the difficulties of expressing myself in a foreign tongue would have withheld me from any avoidable amplification. I have constantly been conscious of my audacity in appearing before the English public without sufficiently mastering the English language, and I have been anxious not to make my offence greater by any number of pages than it already is.

That it has been possible at all to publish this research in English is only a result of the kind assistance which I have received from my English friends. I am indebted to Mr. G. G. Berry in Oxford, and Mr. Leonard Pomeroy in London, who have revised parts of the manuscript. And I am further indebted to my publishers for procuring me the assistance of Mr. Stephen Gwynn in preparing the book for the press. He has helped me to avoid needlessly technical expressions, and in other ways has given the work a more readable style. But he has not restricted himself to these emendations. He has assisted me with valuable suggestions as well as with information. The improvement which the work has derived from his collaboration can be sufficiently appreciated only by its author.

In purely scientific matters I have benefited much from discussions with students of psychology and sociology in my own country as well as in England. My thanks are due to all of them, but especially to my old friends, Dr. Edward Westermarck and Dr. Richard Wallaschek.

The “List of Authorities quoted” and the Indexes have been compiled by my wife. This is, however, only the least important part of the assistance which throughout the book has been rendered to me by the constant collaborator in all my researches.

Y. H.

Helsingfors, August 1900.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I
THE PROBLEM STATED

When, one hundred and fifty years ago, Baumgarten wrote the treatise to which he gave the name Aesthetica, and which he described as a “theory of liberal arts and beautiful thinking,” it seemed to him needful to apologise for attracting attention to a field of inquiry so low and sensuous as that province of philosophy to which he then affixed a name. Many, he thought, might regard art and beauty, which appeal primarily to the senses, as subjects beneath the dignity of philosophers.[2] Yet the theories and the ideas which were first brought together as an organised body of thought in Baumgarten’s short manual had so deeply influenced the speculations of his age that, a generation later, the most important questions of life came to be treated as æsthetic problems. The philosophy of art, far from needing to justify its existence, dominated all philosophy—ethics, metaphysics, and even cosmogony. Imagination was treated as the ruling faculty in all creation, and beauty was referred to as the criterion, not only in art, but in morality. Yet the importance thus given to æsthetic speculation was transitory, and the period during which philosophers were concerned, not only to find a general criterion of beauty for the arts, but also to apply that criterion far beyond the sphere of art, has been succeeded by an age which neglects speculation on art and beauty for other tasks which are regarded as far more important. Such rapid changes within a few generations appear almost incomprehensible. But they can easily be explained if we take into account the intimate connection which always exists between æsthetic speculation and prevailing currents of thought.

In Mr. Bosanquet’s History of Æsthetic it has been pointed out with great clearness to what extent the earlier prosperity of æsthetic studies was caused by the general philosophical situation. The theory of æsthetic, as set forth in Baumgarten’s chapter on cognitio sensitiva, and further developed in Kant’s Kritik der Urtheilskraft, dealt, as is well known, with a form of judgment which is neither purely rational nor purely sensual.[3] In metaphysics, for philosophers who had to struggle with what seemed to them an irreconcilable opposition between reason and the senses, this conception of a mediative faculty must have satisfied a most urgent need. Similarly we may suppose that the ethical observer felt himself emancipated from the narrow antagonism between body and spirit by looking at our actions in the æsthetic way. In proportion, however, as general science has been able to do away with the old dualism of higher and lower faculties, the judgment of taste has necessarily lost importance. In the development of monistic philosophy and monistic morals we may thus see one important factor, by the influence of which æsthetic has been ousted from its central position.

The evolution of modern art has been still more injurious to æsthetic speculation than the progress of science. In the palmy days of art-philosophy conditions were eminently favourable to universal generalisations. The great periods of art, classical antiquity and the Renaissance, were so remote that only their simplest and most salient features were discerned. Nor did the art of the period exhibit the bewildering multiplicity of a fertile age,—least of all in Germany, the home and centre of æsthetic inquiry. The formative arts were less important than ever before; music, which was so soon to eclipse all other arts, had not yet awakened the interest of philosophers. The crafts were at a low ebb; landscape-gardening is indeed the only kind of applied art that we hear about at this time. Beauty, art, the ideal—these and all other general notions must have been suggested with unsurpassable simplicity by this uniform and monotonous artistic output. It is easy to understand the eagerness and the delight with which the earlier writers on æsthetic, once the impulse given, drew conclusions, made comparisons, and laid down laws. But it is equally evident that speculative zeal was bound to fall off as soon as the province of art was enlarged and its products differentiated.

Even the more intimate knowledge of classical culture which was subsequently gained, necessitated important corrections in æsthetic dogmas. The artistic activities of savage tribes, which have been practically unknown to æsthetic writers until recent years, display many features that cannot be harmonised with the general laws. And in a yet higher degree contemporary art defies the generalisations of a uniform theory. With greater mastery over materials and technique, the different arts have been able to produce more and more specialised forms of beauty. The painter’s ideal can no longer be confused with that of the poet or the story-teller, nor the sculptor’s with that of the actor. Pure music, pure poetry, pure painting, thus develop into isolated, independent arts, of which each one establishes its own laws and conditions for itself. The critic who, in spite of this evolution, tries to apply a narrow æsthetic standard of beauty to all the various arts may indeed—according to his influence—delay the public appreciation of modern works, and thus indirectly impede artistic development. But no amount of theorising will enable him to arrest the growth of artistic forms whose very existence contradicts the generalisations of the old systems. And he is equally powerless to stop such violations of the supposed frontiers of the different arts as continually occur, for instance, in descriptive music, or in poetry like that of Gautier, which aims at producing a pictorial impression by means of words.

It is only natural that, in times so inopportune, general speculations on art and beauty have been more and more abandoned in favour of detailed studies in the technicalities of art, historical researches in which works of art are considered chiefly as documents bearing on culture, and experiments on the physiology and psychology of æsthetic perception. For art itself and its development it would perhaps be unimportant if a science which has never exercised any great positive and direct influence on artistic production should completely disappear. But from the theoretical point of view it would be matter for regret if artistic activities ceased to be considered as a whole. And so also would it be if æsthetic feelings, judgments of taste, and ideals of beauty came to be treated only in appendices to works on psychology. It is true that all these notions have irremediably lost their former metaphysical and philosophical importance. But in compensation, art and beauty have for modern thinking acquired a social and psychological significance. To determine the part which the production and the enjoyment of works of art play in their relation to the other factors of individual and social life—that is indeed a task which is momentous enough to be treated in a science of its own. Modern æsthetic, therefore, has still its own ends, which, if not so ambitious as those of the former speculative science of beauty, are nevertheless of no small importance. These ends, however, can no longer be attained by the procedure of the old æsthetic systems. As the problems have changed with changing conditions, so too the methods must be brought into line with the general scientific development. Historical and psychological investigation must replace the dialectic treatment of the subject. Art can no longer be deduced from general, philosophical, and metaphysical principles; it must be studied—by the methods of inductive psychology—as a human activity. Beauty cannot be considered as a semi-transcendental reality; it must be interpreted as an object of human longing and a source of human enjoyment. In æsthetic proper, as well as in the philosophy of art, every research must start, not from theoretical assumptions, but from the psychological and sociological data of the æsthetic life.

Such a procedure, however, is encumbered with difficulties, of which the writers on speculative æsthetic were scarcely aware. When theories of art and beauty were based on general a priori principles, there could not possibly be any doubt as to the point of departure in the several researches. But when we have no assumptions to start from, the very demarcation of the subject may become a matter of uncertainty. In the philosophy of art, to which department of æsthetic I wish to restrict my researches in the present work, this difficulty of formulating the data and quæsita—the facts which we have to go upon, and the facts which we wish to find out—constitutes the first, and by no means the least important, problem.

If we are to embark upon a scientific treatment of art without any preconceived definitions, the aim and conditions of such treatment can only be determined by examining the prevailing notions on the subject, as they are expressed in language and in literature. As an interpretation for general use and of general applicability, a theory of art can claim attention only if it conforms to the recognised usage of the principal æsthetic terms. In the various definitions of art which are contained in the different æsthetic systems, we must therefore try to find some point of unity from which to approach our subject. The difficulties of such a task are evident to any one who has gone through the discouraging experience of reading a history of æsthetic. The investigator who seeks an accurate demarcation of the whole area of art, as distinguished from other departments of life, meets with partial definitions which can be applied only to certain fixed forms of art. We need mention but a few of the most typical instances. Even an ardent admirer of Taine is compelled to admit that his generalisations are too exclusively derived from the study of poetry and the formative arts. In the same way it is only by laborious adjustments that the theory of Vischer can be applied to music and lyric poetry; the aphorisms of Ruskin do not even pretend to apply to any but the formative arts; and Mr. Marshall’s Æsthetic Principles—to adduce one of the most recent attempts in general art-theory—are too obviously those of an expert in architecture. In none of the modern systems has sufficient room been made for certain forms of art which, from the evolutionist’s standpoint, are of the highest importance: such as acting, dancing, and decoration. All the one-sided definitions are, moreover, so inconsistent with each other that it seems impossible to make up for their individual deficiencies by an eclectic combination. It is not to be wondered at, therefore, if some writers on art, confused by the bewildering contradictions of æsthetic theories, have called in question the very existence of any universal art-criterion.[4]

Those who adopt this attitude—which seems the more justified now that the arts have become widely differentiated—deny the possibility, not only of all general art-philosophy, but also of any sociological and psychological treatment of artistic activities as a whole. But even if all other hypotheses are banished, æsthetic research cannot possibly dispense with the fundamental assumption of the unity of art. And in point of fact there can be found in most systems, if we do not insist on too minute and positive demarcations, at least one common quality which is ascribed to all its different forms. Notwithstanding the mutual contradictions of art-theories, the believers in a general æsthetic can always appeal to the consent with which the majority of authors have upheld the negative criterion of art. Metaphysicians as well as psychologists, Hegelians as well as Darwinians, all agree in declaring that a work, or performance, which can be proved to serve any utilitarian, non-æsthetic object must not be considered as a genuine work of art. True art has its one end in itself, and rejects every extraneous purpose: that is the doctrine which, with more or less explicitness, has been stated by Kant,[5] Schiller,[6] Spencer,[7] Hennequin,[8] Grosse,[9] Grant Allen,[10] and others. And popular opinion agrees in this respect with the conclusions of science. This distinctive quality of independence seems therefore to afford us a convenient starting-point for the treatment of art in general.

Owing to its negative character, this criterion does not give us much information as to the real qualities of art. But even the poorest definition is enough to begin with, if it only holds good with regard to all particular cases. Unfortunately, however, we need only apply the test of independence in the concrete instance to find that even the applicability of this single accepted criterion may be seriously disputed. There is scarcely any author, however he may formulate his general definitions of art, who would assess the relative value of art-works according to their degrees of disinterestedness. No candid man would, for instance, nowadays contend that an arabesque composition is per se more æsthetically pure than a statue or a poem.[11] But we may even go farther. We must question whether every work of art ought to be degraded from its æsthetic rank, if it can be convicted of having served any external utilitarian purpose. This strict conception of the æsthetic boundaries has been eloquently attacked by Guyau in his celebrated treatise, Le principe de l’art et de la poésie.[12] Though the ultimate conclusions of this work are perhaps not so clear as might be desired, yet we do not see how his attitude in estimating concrete manifestations of art can be assailed. It would, to take an example, be absurd to contend that the singing of Taillefer lost in æsthetic value by contributing to the victory of Hastings. And however strictly we may insist upon the requirement that every genuine work of art should have been created purely for its own sake, we cannot possibly conceal the fact that some of the world’s finest love lyrics were originally composed, not in æsthetic freedom, which is independent of all by-purposes, but with the express end of gaining the ear and the favour of a beloved woman. The influence which such foreign, non-æsthetic motives have exercised on art will also become more and more apparent with increased knowledge of the conditions of æsthetic production. The further the psychological biographer pushes his indiscreet researches into the private life of individual artists, the more often will he find that some form of interest—personal, political, ethical, religious—enters into the so-called disinterested æsthetic activity. Such instances must induce undogmatic authors to relax to some extent the strict application of this criterion. And even those philosophers who, in spite of the historical evidence, insist upon applying it will be compelled to admit that they have taken for works of genuine art productions which, from their philosophic standpoint, have no claim to the title.

The danger of such mistakes is all the greater when one has to deal with the lower stages of artistic development. In point of fact recent ethnological researches have conclusively proved that it is not only difficult, but quite impossible, to apply the criterion of æsthetic independence to the productions of savage and barbarous tribes. It is true that the large province of primitive art has not as yet in its entirety been made the subject of systematic study. But, on the other hand, the results which have been arrived at with regard to decoration, its most typical form, amply bear out our view. In almost every case where the ornaments of a tribe have been closely examined, it has appeared that what to us seems a mere embellishment is for the natives in question full of practical, non-æsthetic significance. Carvings on weapons and implements, tattooings, woven and plaited patterns, all of which the uncritical observer is apt to take for purely artistic compositions, are now explained as religious symbols, owners’ marks, or ideograms. There is still room for discussion as to whether in certain individual interpretations the tendency to look for concealed meanings has not been carried too far. But there can be no doubt that the general principles which to many students seemed so fantastic when first formulated by Stolpe, Read,[13] and others, have derived additional support from every fresh inquiry into primitive systems of decoration.

The isolated researches which have been carried on within the department of primitive literature and drama all point in the same direction. Wherever ethnologists have the opportunity of gaining some insight into the inner life of a savage tribe, they are surprised at the religious or magical significance which lies concealed behind the most apparently trivial of amusements. And it is to be remarked that they have learned to appreciate this esoteric meaning, not by a closer study of the manifestations themselves, but through information acquired by intercourse with the natives. There is often not a single feature in a savage dance which would give the uninitiated any reason to suspect the non-æsthetic purpose. When North American Indians, Kaffirs, or Negroes perform a dance in which all the movements of the animals they hunt are imitated, we unavoidably see in their antics an instance of primitive but still purely artistic drama. It is only from the descriptions of Catlin, Lichtenstein, and Reade[14] that we learn that these pantomimes have in reality quite as practical a purpose as those imitations and representations of animals by which hunters all over the world try to entice their game within shooting distance. According to the doctrine of sympathetic magic, it is simply an axiomatic truth that the copy of a thing may at any distance influence the thing itself, and that thus a buffalo dance, even when it is performed in the camp, may compel the buffaloes to come within range of the hunters. But the deceptive appearance of disinterestedness, which in these cases might have led one to mistake a mere piece of hunting magic for a specimen of pure dramatic art, is apt to make us cautious about accepting as independently æsthetic any performance of primitive man.

In the songs and dances by which savages exhort themselves to work and regulate their exertions we find an aspect of utilitarian advantage which is real and not imaginary. Evidently also this advantage, and not any independent æsthetic pleasure, is—intentionally or unintentionally—aimed at in the war-pantomimes, the boating songs, dances, etc. And it is no doubt for this reason that music and dance have attained so surprising a development in the lower stages of culture. In trying, therefore, to explain the historical development of art, we are compelled to take into account that foreign purpose which is repudiated in art-theory.

If every work of art were really an end in itself—a Selbstzweck—standing quite isolated from all the practical utilities of life, it would be nothing less than a miracle that art should be met with in tribes which have not yet learnt to satisfy, nor even to feel, the most elementary necessities of life. In such a case it is not music only which would, as Wallace thinks, have to be explained by supernatural causes:[15] primitive art in all its departments would baffle our attempts at rational interpretation. By studying, however, the artistic activities of savage and barbarous man in their connection with his non-æsthetic life, writers on evolutionary æsthetic have succeeded in solving this great crux of art-history. The dances, poems, and even the formative arts of the lower tribes possess indeed, as every ethnologist will admit, unquestionable æsthetic value. But this art is seldom free and disinterested; it has generally a usefulness—real or supposed—and is often even a necessity of life.[16]

A historical conception of art is thus, it appears, incompatible with a strict maintenance of the æsthetic criterion. But it may still be asked whether we are therefore compelled to join Guyau in abolishing all distinctions between art and other manifestations of human energy.[17] By doing away with the only definition which is common to the majority of æsthetic systems, we should dissociate ourselves from all previous views on art. And it seems hard to believe that all dogmatic writers on æsthetic, one-sided as they may often seem, have founded their theories on a pure fiction. The independent æsthetic activity, which simply aims at its own satisfaction, cannot have been invented for the sake of the systems. The mere fact that so many theories have been proposed for its explanation furnishes, it seems to us, a sufficient proof that the conception of this activity corresponds to some psychological reality. Certainly the “end in itself” has not played so important a part in the practice of artists as writers on æsthetic would have us believe; and it is impossible to distinguish its effects in concrete individual instances. But from all we know of the life and work of artists, there appears to be a tendency—more or less consciously followed, it is true, in different cases—to make the work its own end. And in the public we can in the same way notice an inclination—which grows with increasing culture—to regard art as something which exists for its own sake, and to contemplate its manifestations with independent æsthetic attention. Whatever we may think about the genesis of particular pictures and poems, we know that at least they need no utilitarian, non-æsthetic justification in order to be appreciated by us. And with as much assurance as we can ever feel in comparative psychology we may take it for granted that the same way of looking at art has prevailed in other stages of culture as well. However cautious one may be in drawing conclusions from analogies between higher and lower forms, a closer study of primitive art must needs compel every one to admit that these dances, poems, and ornaments, even if they originally served practical, religious, or political aims, may at least have come by degrees to be enjoyed in the same way as we enjoy our art. By denying such subjective independence in the creation and enjoyment of art, we should be no less guilty of one-sidedness than those authors who deny that genuine art has ever been influenced by “foreign purposes.” If it is presumptuous to adduce any particular works or manifestations in proof of free and independent production, it may be no less audacious to contend that even the most primitive form of art has flourished in tribes destitute of all æsthetic cravings. There is room for discussion on the degree of influence which “autotelic”[18] artistic activity has exercised in particular works and manifestations. It may also be made an object of research to determine at which precise stage of development æsthetic attention becomes so emancipated as to entitle us to speak of a pure and free art-life. But it does not seem that such inquiries can ever lead to any positive result. The more one studies art, especially primitive art, from a comparative and historical point of view, the more one is compelled to admit the impossibility of deciding where the non-æsthetic motives end and the æsthetic motives begin. The only result we can reach is the somewhat indefinite one that it is as impossible to explain away the artistic purpose as it is to detect its presence in a pure state in any concrete work of art.

For art-philosophy as a distinct science even this non-committal conclusion is of vital importance. It gives us a right to regard all the forms and developments of art as witnesses to an activity which tends to become more and more independent of the immediate utilities of life. This tendency, on the other hand, not only affords us a point of unity from which to start upon a research into the general philosophy of art; it also presents to us one of the greatest problems of the same science. How it is that mankind has come to devote energy and zeal to an activity which may be almost entirely devoid of a utilitarian purpose is indeed the riddle, sociological as well as psychological, which would seem in the first place to claim the attention of the philosopher. To the writer of this book, at any rate, it appeared that a discussion, and an attempt at solution, of this seeming paradox was a task sufficiently important and interesting to form of itself the subject of a special investigation.

But although the aspects of autotelic artistic activity give us at once a datum and a problem on which we may confidently base our research, we must not overlook the peculiar difficulties that will necessarily arise from the exclusively psychological, non-historical character of this basis. A historic study of art shows us that the artistic activity proper can never be explained by examining concrete works as we meet them in reality. Whenever we have to deal with art as autotelic, the need of theoretical abstraction forces itself upon us with irresistible cogency. It is of no avail to argue from the data of art-history, because we can never fully know the mental origin of the works. The problem presented to us by the tendency to engage in artistic production and artistic enjoyment for their own sake can only be solved by studying the psychology both of artists and of their public. The “art-impulse” and the “art-sense,” as referring to subjective tendencies in creators and spectators, are the chief notions with which we have to operate in such an investigation. And when we are obliged to introduce the notion of the “work of art” we have to remember that this term, strictly speaking, refers to an abstract and ideal datum. Only by thus restricting our attention to the psychical facts can we attain any clear conception of that autotelic aspect of art on which so much stress has been laid in all æsthetic philosophy.

It is needless to say, however, that even a purely philosophic interpretation of art would be impossible without a knowledge of its works and manifestations as they appear in real life, with all their extraneous, non-æsthetic elements. The psychological examination must therefore necessarily be supplemented by an historical one. The methods of the latter research cannot be the same as those used in a strictly æsthetic inquiry. And the words will naturally be employed in a different sense. We do not at that stage demand of a poem, a painting, or a drama, that it should fulfil more than the technical requirements of the several arts. The ornamentation of a vase, e.g. is in this sense a work of art even if it serves a magical, i.e. a supposed practical purpose. Indeed it is most advantageous, if we wish to bring out the influence of sociological factors with the greatest possible clearness, to concentrate our attention upon the very qualities which we have to disregard in the treatment of purely artistic activity. The productions of primitive tribes, in which art is so closely connected with life, supply the most profitable material for such a study. After having examined, in these simple forms, all the sociological aspects of art, it will be possible to place the two art-factors in the most illustrative antithesis and to study their mutual influence. From this it should be possible to suggest—although in this work no detailed attempt will be made to follow out the reasoning—why it is that the concrete work of art, although its historical origin may be entirely non-æsthetic, has always proved so eminently adapted to serve the needs of the purely aesthetic craving. And by starting from the conception of æsthetic activities which has been arrived at on psychological grounds, it should also be possible to determine the particular qualities in individual works of art which make them more or less able to satisfy this craving. Thus a theory of the psychological and sociological origins of art may furnish suggestions for those which have been considered as distinctive of æsthetic proper, such as the critical estimation of works of art, or the derivation of laws which govern artistic production.

CHAPTER II
THE ART-IMPULSE

There are two things which have to be investigated—the reason why works of art are created, and the reason why works of art are enjoyed. By choosing at the outset to approach art in its active aspect—to examine into the impulse of the artist—we do not desert the central field of æsthetic inquiry. On the contrary, it seems that a study of art-production affords the most convenient starting-point for any comprehensive treatment of art; all the more because every æsthetic pleasure, even when apparently most passive, always involves an element of unconscious artistic creation.[19] When absorbed in the beauty of nature we do in fact appear to ourselves to be entirely receptive; but in truth our enjoyment, if the enjoyment has any æsthetic value at all, is always more or less derived from the activity of our own mind. It does not matter much, from the psychological point of view, whether we make an abortive but original effort to select and arrange the impressions which we receive, as is the case when a new aspect of nature delights us, or whether we merely reproduce at second hand the impression originally arranged by an artist, as happens when we admire a statue, or recognise in a landscape some effect that Turner has recorded.[20] In either case the passive attitude can never be explained without reference to the active one.

In the historic interpretation of art it is of no less importance to study its productive side. It is only by considering art as an activity that we can explain the great influence which it has exercised on social as well as on individual life. These are, however, views which can only be properly established in the later chapters. Here we have merely to dwell on the aspects which present themselves to the psychological observer; and there is no doubt that from his point of view the impulse to produce works of pure art constitutes the chief æsthetic problem. If once the creation has been satisfactorily accounted for, it is relatively easy to explain the subsequent enjoyment of art. Accordingly, by concentrating our attention on the art-impulse we approach the art-problem at its very core.

It has, however, been contended by some authors that the independence of external motives is nothing peculiar to art-production. There is, undoubtedly, a certain kind of scientific study—for instance, some departments of higher mathematics—which may be carried on entirely for its own sake without any regard to practical application, or even to increased knowledge of nature. And it is even more impossible to find any immediate utilitarian purpose for all the intense activity, mental and physical, which is devoted to sports and games. Every one knows that the “end in itself” which any of these affords may in many cases exercise as great an attraction as any of the utilitarian aims in life. Chess is said to have a demoniac power over its devotees, and the attachment of a golfer to his game can only be described in the language of the most intense passion. The same sacrifice of energy and interests to a one-sided and apparently useless purpose, which in art seems so mysterious, may thus, as Professor Groos remarks, be found in activities of far less repute.[21] It is evident that if artistic creation were in no wise different from these other examples of autotelic manifestations, there would be no ground for considering the art-impulse as a separate or distinctive problem.

We can scarcely believe, however, that even Professor Groos himself would seriously maintain the parallel between art-production and the last-mentioned activities. There are indeed cases in which a man of science devotes his whole energy to a task which is so abstract that it seems to give no satisfaction to the craving for positive truth. But it is always an open question whether the attractiveness of such researches is not, strictly speaking, more æsthetic than scientific. Higher mathematics is perhaps, for those that live in the world of abstract quantities, only an abstract form of art, a soundless music or a wordless poetry. In other cases the eagerness with which pure science is pursued as an autotelic end may be explained as a result of acquired habits. Like the miser, the passionate researcher may often gradually lose sight of the ultimate aim of his activity and concentrate all his attention on the means. There can be no question of denying the emotional value and the great attractive force which thus comes to be attached to these secondary purposes. But in comparing such autotelic activities to those of art we have to remember that the passion, however intense it may be, is probably not primary but derived; and it is in any case self-evident that it can be developed only in exceptional cases and in peculiarly predisposed individuals.

By the same criterion we can also separate the art-desire from the love of games and sports. However passionate the sporting mania may be in individuals or nations, it can never be compared as a universal and primary impulse with the craving for æsthetic creation. Philosophers who bestow their whole attention only on the mature works which can be studied in the history of art, may indeed contend that even the art-impulse is given to some favoured few. But this view, which would reduce all art-life to the status of a great and marvellous exception, cannot possibly be upheld in a psychological æsthetic.

It is, no doubt, the fact that the percentage of executive artists in modern nations is an almost negligible quantity. It is also probable that—contrary to a common notion—the poets, the painters, and the dramatists form a distinct class even among the lower tribes.[22] But in treating the art-impulse as a psychological phenomenon the inquiry cannot be restricted to the few individuals who publicly practise a certain art. As far as the artistic powers are concerned, these undoubtedly stand apart from the rest of mankind. But we are not entitled to maintain that they are also distinguished by some peculiar psychical impulse. From the point of view of artistic perfection, there is all the world between the youthful verses of Goethe and the doggerel of a common schoolboy. But, psychologically, the schoolboy’s doggerel may be the result of as strong a craving for poetic expression as any of the world’s greatest poems.[23] Bad or good, known or unknown, every manifestation of artistic activity is equally illustrative for our purpose. We have to count with the immense number of dilettanti who produce in privacy and in secret, as well as with recognised artists. And even those unfortunate persons who have never been able to find for themselves any satisfactory mode of æsthetic expression may still be adduced in proof of the universality of the artistic desire. If the notion of art is conceived in its most general sense, every normal man, at some time of his life at least, is an artist—in aspiration, if not in capacity.

If, moreover, we take into consideration the eagerness and devotion which is lavished upon artistic activity—not least, perhaps, by those who have never appeared as artists—we shall be compelled to admit that the art-impulse is not only commoner, but also stronger and deeper, than any of the above-mentioned non-utilitarian impulses. If it can be explained at all, it is only by deriving it from some great and fundamental tendency of the human mind. This fact has, naturally enough, not been realised by those writers on æsthetic who only study the ideal work of art as it appears among civilised nations. In short, the great systems of æsthetic philosophy have never expressly stated the problem of finding an origin for the art-impulse; and any interpretation of that impulse which may be derived constructively from their speculations upon the work of acknowledged artists is irreconcilable with the wider notion of art as a universal human activity. If the aim of every artist really were, as Vischer must have thought, to reinstate by the creation of a semblance the Idea in the position from which it is in Reality always thrust by material accidents; if he desired, for instance, to show a human character as it would be but for the accidents of life;[24] or if, to use the language of Taine, the artist’s main object were to produce a representation of nature in which the essential characters enjoy an absolute sovereignty; if he strove to depict a lion in such a way to emphasise specially these leonine traits which distinguish the lion from any other great cat,[25]—then it would be hard to understand the attraction which art has exercised on people who are almost devoid of intellectual cravings. We could not possibly find any connection between modern and primitive art. Nor could we explain why, for instance, poetry and music are so often cultivated by persons who do not otherwise show the slightest eagerness to understand the hidden nature of things, who do not meddle with ideas or “dominating faculties.” Even in the case of philosophically-minded artists such motives are probably somewhat feeble. The intellectualistic definitions may perhaps explain the æsthetic qualities of the work of art itself. But they can never account for the constraining force by which every genuine work of art is called into existence.

There are some authors, however, who have felt the need of a dynamic explanation of the art-impulse, which should trace the motive force to its origin. It was so with Aristotle when he interpreted artistic production as a manifestation of the desire to imitate. By this theory art is indeed brought into connection with a general animal impulse, the æsthetic importance of which can scarcely be overestimated. It is only by reference to the psychology of imitative movements that we shall be able to explain the enjoyment of art. But it seems, nevertheless, somewhat strained to make imitation the basis and purpose of artistic activity, seeing that there are various forms of art, as, for instance, architecture and purely lyrical music or poetry, in which we can scarcely detect any imitative element at all. The theories of Aristotle, of Seneca, and all their modern followers, can only be upheld if the word “imitation” is used in a much wider sense than that which it generally bears. But even those who, with Engel, would consider the bodily movements as “imitating the thoughts,”[26] or those who in æsthetic would speak of “circulary reaction”[27] as a phenomenon of imitation, would find it hard to discover in any of these relatively automatic manifestations such a mental compulsion as that which impels to artistic activity. Moreover, as we need scarcely point out, art in all its forms always strives after something more than a mere likeness.

It seems equally superfluous to emphasise the fact that no genuine artist has made it his sole object to please. The fatal confusion between art-theory and the science of beauty has indeed led some writers on æsthetic to derive artistic activities from an impulse to “produce objects or objective conditions which should attract by pleasing.”[28] Such views will especially recommend themselves to those who believe in an animal art called forth by sexual selection. Nor can it be denied that the means of attraction employed in the competition for the favour of the opposite sex supply a part of the material which is used in the various arts.[29] With the artistic impulse itself, which, according to its very definition, is independent of external motives, the various means of attraction have no connection whatever.[30]

From the theoretical point of view it is undoubtedly easier to defend Professor Baldwin’s way of stating the case, in which the “self-exhibiting impulse” takes the place of the “instinct to attract by pleasing.”[31] Figuratively speaking, an element of self-exhibition is involved in every artistic creation which addresses itself to a public. And without a public—in the largest sense of the word—no art would ever have appeared. But it seems somewhat difficult to make this self-exhibiting—in a sense which implies an actual audience—the aim and purpose of, for instance, the most intimate and personal examples of lyrical poetry.

It may of course be contended, by those who advocate the importance of the last-mentioned interpretations, that the variety of art-forms compels us to assume, not one, but several art-impulses. At this stage of our research we cannot enter upon a discussion of such views; but it will at least be admitted that explanations which can be applied in the whole field of art must be preferable to partial definitions.

This merit of universality, at least, cannot be denied to the theories which derive art from the playing impulse. The notion of a sportive activity involves precisely that freedom from external, consciously utilitarian motives which, according to the consensus of almost all writers on æsthetic, is required in every genuine manifestation of art. It is not surprising, therefore, that it was by reference to the play-impulse that Schiller tried to distinguish artistic production from all “unfree” forms of activity.[32] It is true that the notion of “play” as used by Schiller and Spencer—who has given the theory a physiological foundation—is chiefly important as a negative demarcation. But even Schiller brings in a positive factor when he speaks of the force by which “overflowing life itself urges the animal to action” (“wenn das überflüssige Leben sich selbst zur Thätigkeit stachelt”).[33] In Spencer’s theory, on the other hand, the “excessive readiness” to nervous discharge which accompanies every surplus of vigour, and which, in his view, accounts for play, represents a motor element, the impelling force of which must be considered as very strong.[34] As is well known, Spencer, Wallace, and Hudson have applied this principle of surplus energy to explain so-called animal art, rejecting the theory which ascribes æsthetic judgment to the female.[35]

As formulated by the last-mentioned authors, the play-theory is, however, open to objection from a physiological point of view. It has been remarked by Dr. Wallaschek that, in speaking of animals, the phrase “surplus of vigour” ought to be superseded by “inapplicability of energy” or “unemployed energy.”[36] And still more explicitly Professor Groos has shown that a stored-up supply of energy is by no means a necessary condition for play.[37] But these criticisms have by no means deprived the play-instinct of its importance as a dynamic factor. Since Groos by his epoch-making researches has been able to prove that the majority of games—especially the games of youth—are based upon instincts, we can adduce as an impelling force “the demon instinct that urges and even compels to activity not only if and so long as the vessel overflows (to use a figure of speech), but even when there is but a last drop left in it.”[38] By considering artistic activity as a kind of play, one is therefore able to account for its great attractiveness, even when no “surplus of vigour” can be shown to exist.

In the beginning of this chapter we did indeed contend that the “compulsion” which prompts to artistic activity is too strong to be even compared with the passion for sports and games. But this superiority may of course be explained as a result of some peculiarity of this special kind of play. As a matter of fact art is, in a far higher degree than any of the sports and games, able to satisfy the greatest and most fundamental instincts of man. Groos has tried to prove that the artistic motives which in all times have been most popular, offer to the spectator as well as to the producer an opportunity for warlike and erotic stimulation;[39] and Guyau had already remarked how important a part the moods of war, or rather of struggle, play in all enjoyment of art.[40] It is easy to understand the eager prosecution of an activity which thus affords free, if imaginary, exercise for instincts and tendencies which would otherwise be thwarted by the narrow restrictions of social life. We are all animals in captivity, and we eagerly seize every kind of vicarious function which can give at least a memory of the life from which we are excluded.

At lower stages of social evolution, where instincts are more in harmony with life, the play-element in art must evidently be of still greater importance. Artistic production and artistic enjoyment provide exercise for those very functions which are most important in real life. Art fulfils a great social mission, and is developed in subservience to the struggle for life. The play-theory, as formulated by Professor Groos, affords, therefore, in many cases an explanation of the high artistic level reached by the lower tribes. In our historical treatment of primitive dances and dramas we shall be continually obliged to have recourse to this theory. And it will thus appear that it is no deficient appreciation of its importance which compels us to look elsewhere for an explanation for the artistic impulse.

Play and art have indeed many important characteristics in common. Neither of them has any immediate practical utility, and both of them do nevertheless serve some of the fundamental needs of life. All art, therefore, can in a certain sense be called play. But art is something more than this. The aim of play is attained when the surplus of vigour is discharged or the instinct has had its momentary exercise. But the function of art is not confined to the act of production; in every manifestation of art, properly so called, something is made and something survives. It is true that in certain manifestations—for instance in the dance or in acting—the effect is destroyed as soon as created; it survives only in the rhythm devised by the dancer, or in the spectator’s memory of the part played. But this is accidental, not essential to the nature of the arts as arts. On the other hand, there is nothing in the nature of the play-impulse to call for a stereotyping of the state of mind and feelings to which it gives rise. Still less can the artistic qualities, such as beauty and rhythm, which, however difficult to define scientifically, always characterise works of art, be interpreted as a result of the play-impulse. The theories of Schiller, Spencer, and Groos may indeed explain the negative criterion of art, but they cannot, any more than the imitation theories or the Darwinian interpretation, give us any positive information as to the nature of art.

In order to understand the art-impulse as a tendency to æsthetic production, we must bring it into connection with some function, from the nature of which the specifically artistic qualities may be derived. Such a function is to be found, we believe, in the activities of emotional expression.

It is therefore to the psychology of feeling and expression that we shall turn for the solution of the problem of the art-impulse.

CHAPTER III
THE FEELING-TONE OF SENSATION

Before attempting to prove that the impelling force in art-creation is to be explained by the psychology of feeling, we must first pay some attention to the general theory of emotional states. It would be impossible to assert anything about the æsthetic importance of such activities as have their origin in emotional conditions without first having made out the relation between feeling and movement.

In this purely psychological investigation it is advantageous to postpone all æsthetic considerations. The important thing is to get hold of the mental factors in their simplest possible form. Even the lowest feelings, therefore, the feeling-tones of mere physical sensation or the vaguest emotional states, such as comfort or discomfort, which are overlooked in all works on æsthetic proper, may be of great value in this preliminary discussion.

It is preferable to begin with the feeling-tones of definitely physical origin, because these hedonic elements have been subjected to an experimental investigation which could never be undertaken with regard to the complex emotions and sentiments. As early as 1887 Féré published some important researches on the relation between sensation and movement. By submitting persons to various external stimuli, he showed that every such stimulus calls forth a modification of the activities of the body, which modification, according to the intensity and the duration of the stimulus, takes the character either of enhancement or of arrest. In all cases when the apparatus used in the experiments indicated a shortened reaction-time and an increased development of energy, the subject of the experiment had experienced a feeling of pleasure. Every painful stimulus, on the other hand, was connected with a diminution of energy.[41]

These results have been corroborated in the main by the later researches of Lehmann. He has not, however, restricted his attention to the development of energy, but has also measured the changes in pulsation and respiration which occur under the influence of various stimuli. His conclusions are these:—

“Simple pleasurable sensations are accompanied by dilatation of the blood-vessels, and perhaps also by an increase in the amplitude of heart-contraction, together with an increase in the innervation of the voluntary muscles, at least of those connected with respiration. In sensations of pain one has to distinguish the first shock of irritation from the subsequent state. At the moment of irritation there ensues a deeper inhalation, and, if the irritation is strong, also an increase in the innervation of voluntary muscles. Then there generally follows a relaxation.”[42]

The physiological theory of pleasure and pain which can be deduced from these experiments is, however, neither new nor original. Féré has himself pointed out that his researches only serve to prove the views which have been advanced with more or less explicitness by Kant, Bain, Darwin, and Dumont.[43] All authors who have closely studied the movements of expression have also remarked that pleasurable feelings are accompanied by a tendency towards increased activity (Gratiolet, Darwin, Bain, Bouillier, Mantegazza).[44] And the popular views on pleasure and pain, as we find them expressed in literature, all agree on this point: “La joie est l’air vital de notre âme. La tristesse est un asthme compliqué d’atonie.”[45] Every one knows that movement and unchecked increased activity generally create pleasure. And, on the other hand, functional inhibition is in our experience closely connected with feelings of pain.

Although these broad facts are universally recognised, there is nevertheless no unanimity with regard to their interpretation. It may be held, on the one hand, that the perception of those objective conditions which call forth pleasure is accompanied by a tendency to movement. That, conversely, movement creates pleasure would thus be the result of an association. But it may also be contended that the functional enhancement, the stimulation itself, when present to consciousness, is perceived as pleasure, and that the feeling-tone created by movement is thus not indirect and secondary, but, on the contrary, is a typical pleasure.

We do not by any means deny the influence which associative processes exercise on all our feelings and on the activities connected with them. As has been shown by Darwin, animals as well as primitive man have earned their chief enjoyment, outside their delight of warmth and repose, by violent actions, such as hunting, war, and pairing fights.[46] And if it be objected that memories from those distant times cannot now influence our feelings, it must at least be admitted that within the life of the individual a firm foundation is laid for association between pleasure and activity.[47] Independently of all general theories, we must therefore reckon with association as a factor by which the motor element of pleasure is greatly increased. But it seems to us impossible to make the remembrance—conscious or unconscious—of earlier similar states the only ground of the activity which is connected with pleasurable feelings.

It is at least far more simple and consistent to explain, with Hamilton and Bain, the activity itself as the physiological condition of pleasure. If any increase of function—whether brought about by chemical, mechanical, or psychical (that is, indirectly mechanical) influences—be considered as a physiological condition of pleasure, and any arrest of function in the same way be considered as a counterpart of pain, then all states of pleasure or pain may be included in one common interpretation. Only it must be remembered that the increase of function can never be measured by any absolute standard. The same stimulus which in one individual calls forth pleasure may in another individual cause pain, and the same bodily activity which we enjoy when in a vigorous state of health may occasion suffering when we are weak or ill. Such variations are evidently conditioned by the varying functional powers of the organs involved. When these powers are reduced, a stimulus, or a movement which usually produces a stimulating effect, may instead call forth depression and pain.

In every explanation of pleasure-pain, attention must therefore be paid not only to the claims which are made on the several organs by the objective causes (stimuli or movements), but also to the capacity of the organs to meet these claims. This capacity, on the other hand, is evidently dependent upon the supply of energy afforded by the nutritive processes. In the endeavour to pay due attention to both these factors Lehmann has been led to this conclusion: “Pleasure and pain may in all cases be assumed to be the psychical outcome of the relation between the consumption of energy which at a given moment is demanded from the organs, and the supply of energy which is afforded by nutrition.”[48] In the course of a lengthy and laborious investigation Marshall has arrived at a very similar result: “Pleasure and pain are determined by the relation between the energy given out and the energy received at any given moment by the physical organs which determine the content of that moment.” Pleasure is experienced, according to Marshall’s definition, whenever a surplus of stored energy is discharged in the reaction to the stimulus; pain is experienced whenever a stimulus claims a greater development of energy in the reaction than the organ is capable of affording.[49]

In this mode of treatment due attention is paid to those theories according to which the conditions of pleasure are to be sought, not in expenditure of force, but in the receiving of force or in the recovery of balance.[50] But though this point has its own importance, it cannot by any means be put on a level with the dynamic aspect. Pleasure can never arise when the organs are not well-nourished, strong, and capable of function; but it arises only on the condition that they actually do perform a function. As Marshall has rightly remarked, there is no reason to believe that surplus of vigour and receipt of nourishment in themselves could ever be objects of consciousness.[51] As long as we can speak of mental states, these must be accompanied by corresponding activities. The chief merit of Marshall’s thesis is precisely this, that every emotional state, independently of its tone and of its perceptible manifestations, can be interpreted in terms of activity. Pleasure, acute or massive, appears as the result of a stimulus, which, owing to a happy proportion between its intensity and the functional capacity of the organ, has modified the bodily functions in such a way as to produce manifestations of energy. Pain, acute or massive, appears as the result of a stimulus, possibly of the same kind, which, owing to a disproportion arising from its own greater intensity or the smaller functional capacity in the organ, has called forth a functional inhibition—that is to say, that kind of activity which is manifested to us as an arrest of energy.

It would be too sanguine to expect the real nature of pleasure and pain to be exhaustively defined in any formula such as the above. From a theoretical point of view grave objections may undoubtedly be raised against Marshall’s theory as well as against every general interpretation of emotional states. It may even be admitted, and we desire to admit it as soon as possible, that in several cases it seems extremely difficult to derive the feeling-tone of even the simplest sensations from the proportion between “energy given out and energy received.”[52] But since, as far as we can see, similar difficulties meet us in the application of every existing emotional theory, for the present we must consider the constructions of Mr. Marshall, notwithstanding their speculative and necessarily unsafe character, as affording us the most consistent explanation of the hedonic phenomena. In an earlier work, Förstudier till en konstfilosofi (A Preliminary Study for a Philosophy of Art), I have tried to discuss and refute some of the arguments which can be adduced against this theory. In the present work such a theoretic digression would lead us too far away from the main subject. For a right understanding of the relation between feeling and “expressional” movements it is not necessary, we believe, to adopt exclusively any one of the emotional theories. We shall be quite content if it is admitted that Mr. Marshall’s interpretation affords us a scheme or formula by the aid of which we can account, if not for the nature, at least for the external manifestations of our feelings.

In applying his definitions to the various kinds of pleasure and pain, Mr. Marshall has recourse to three important principles, viz. the limited amount of energy which our system is capable of developing at any given moment, the storage of surplus supplies of nourishment, and the transference of energy from one organ to another. By referring to these principles he has been able to bring under his explanation those feelings which seem to correspond not to “activities,” but to “states.”[53]

As is well known, Hamilton had already pointed out the important, though unsuspected, element of activity which is involved in our enjoyment of dolce far niente.[54] But with the physiology at his command he could scarcely have explained why rest after heavy work is always accompanied by eminently pleasurable feelings. If it be assumed, however, that in the case of psychical effort, e.g., the call upon our limited fund of energy has reduced the vegetative functions to inactivity, and that this inactivity has caused a storage of nutritive supply, then it is self-evident that the vegetative functions, as soon as the one-sided effort has ceased, must discharge their surplus in movements of a pleasurable character.

The pain arising from restricted activity can equally be explained in terms of movement. If we believe that our system has a limited amount of energy which—as long as life is maintained—must necessarily be active in some direction or other, then we shall also understand that anything which closes the natural and usual outlet of this energy will give rise to activities in related organs, the nutritive state of which does not present the conditions of pleasurable function. Mr. Marshall has tried to indicate the details of the transition by which inactivity in one organ causes excessive activity in other organs. His description of the “gorging of the nutritive channels,” “the calling for aid of the disabled elements,” etc., is, however, too figurative and poetical to be of any importance in a psychological argument.[55] Taken as a vague and necessarily coarse metaphor, this physiological image may, however, illustrate a process which perhaps can never be exactly analysed, but which is nevertheless familiar to everybody. No one who has experienced in any higher degree the diffused sensation of gnawing inactivity can doubt the active element in this corroding feeling. One seems to feel how the checked and thwarted impulses devouringly turn themselves inward. Poetical literature is full of passionate outcries against the tortures which imposed inaction inflicts on active spirits; and modern autobiographies give us pathetic examples of the sufferings of those whose intellectual activity has been diverted from outward aims to internal analysis. The candid confessions of Amiel and Kierkegaard show the inevitable necessity with which mental energy, if arrested in its natural course, finds itself an outlet in destructive activity. This truth had already been expressed in simple and drastic form in Logau’s old epigram:—

Ein Mühlstein und ein Menschenherz wird stets herumgetrieben.

Wenn beides nicht zu reiben hat, wird beides selbst zerrieben.

The displacement of mental attention corresponding to the transference of energy from one organ to another in the inevitable search for a channel of outlet causes arrested activity to be felt as an unbearable massive pain; but this process implies at the same time a possibility of relief. If the sufferings of restriction can be considered as brought about by arrested impulses which have turned inwards, then it is evident that any outward activity may overcome the obstruction. Pleasure can perhaps not be achieved before the checked organ resumes its functions; but even a vicarious activity in some related organ may relieve the pain. Hence the diffused, undirected movements by which we instinctively try to get rid of a feeling of restriction. Every high-strung emotional state which has not yet found its appropriate expression affords an instance of this sensation. Exalted delight therefore often manifests itself in ecstatic dances and songs, which, properly speaking, rather relieve an incipient pain than express a pleasure. Violent movements act as unconscious expedients by which the organism restores itself to its normal balance.

A similar instinct ought, one would expect, to operate in sensations of acute pain. In point of fact, an obscure consciousness of the limitation of functional energy, or, to put it in psychological terms, of attentive power, leads us to seek and find relief from pain in violent movement. Some of the frantic dances of savage tribes undoubtedly serve to deaden the sufferings inflicted by ritual tortures. But it is, of course, only in exceptional cases that these anæsthetic expedients are intentionally resorted to. As a rule they are to be considered as a radiation of nervous tension, and are so little conscious that we can scarcely even call them instinctive. Besides all the motor manifestations which thus follow upon a sensation of severe pain in almost direct physiological sequence, some pantomimic activity of defence or avoidance will generally be called forth by the notion of an objective source of pain. Owing to associations derived from earlier similar states, this reaction may often appear even when there is no definite object which can be assigned as the cause of the feeling. Among primitive people the pantomime of pain undoubtedly has its ground in a mythological conception of the nature of feeling. Pain is regarded as a concrete thing which the body may be capable of shaking off or avoiding. Crude as it may seem, this illusion is so closely bound up with our instinctive reactions that even the most enlightened man can never completely emancipate himself from its influence. There is thus nearly always an intellectual factor which co-operates with the physical tendency towards energetic reaction to pain.

Thus pain, notwithstanding its inhibitive character, may act, especially when it is acute, as a motor incitement. Hence the curious cases of favourable medical effects produced by severe physical suffering, which may serve not only as a distraction of the attention, but also as a positive stimulation of sinking vitality. Hence also the enhanced intellectual activity which often follows upon pain.[56] There was perhaps more malignity than truth in the remark of Michelet that Flaubert might imperil his talent by curing his boils;[57] but there are unquestionable instances to prove that wounds and acute diseases have exercised a powerful exciting influence on certain artistic temperaments.

All these stimulating effects of pain must naturally be taken into account in every emotional theory. But they can by no means be adduced, as Fechner thinks, as an argument against the definition which we have already given.[58] Reactions to pain follow, indeed, so immediately upon the sensation, that they cannot be separated in time from its proper expression. But it must always be remembered that the activities, whether of writhing under the influence of pain or of combating it, are secondary manifestations by which the feeling-tone is gradually weakened. Whether the stimulating effects appear at the very moment of impression or only when the sensation has become fully conscious, pain is always, we believe, at its keenest when the outward development of energy is lowest. If the notion “expression” is conceived in its strictest sense, i.e. as the physiological counterpart of the emotional state, then pain has only one expression—inhibition.

With regard to states of pleasure it is more difficult to make any distinction between primary and secondary manifestations. Every new movement is a new expression of the same feeling which—as long as fatigue does not set up its peculiar pain—is only enhanced by these repeated “somatic resonances.” If pleasure is originated by the increased function of one individual organ, then this stimulation must, owing to the solidarity of the functions, gradually extend over wider areas in the system. The more numerous the organs which take part in the activity, the more numerous also are our sensations of function, and the greater the gain of our pleasure in richness and variety. An undefined feeling of vigour, assurance, or power can only acquire distinctness and intensity by expressing itself in some mode of physical or mental activity. But while stimulation is thus directly connected with the feeling-tone of pleasurable states, it must be admitted, on the other hand, that—as has been remarked above—associative influences also contribute towards enhancing their active manifestations. By these secondary motor-impulses, however, the original feeling is only increased. It can therefore be said that pleasure feeds and nurtures itself by expression. Pain, on the contrary, increases in strength in the same degree as the inhibition extends over the organism. But it can only be weakened by active manifestations. Movements, as we have shown, deliver us from the massive, indistinct pains of restriction as well as mitigate our acute sufferings.

The life-preserving tendency which, under the feeling of pleasure, leads us to movements which intensify the sensation and make it more distinct for consciousness, compels us in pain to seek for relief and deliverance in violent motor discharge. In either case the activity is called expressional, and it seems difficult to avoid this equivocal usage. But it is indispensable to make a strict distinction between the expression which operates in the direction of the initial feeling itself, and the expression by which this feeling is weakened.

This distinction will appear with greater clearness in the following chapter, where we shall apply the laws of expression to the complex emotional states. Then it will also be possible for us to point out some æsthetic result of the psychological survey which perhaps may seem for the moment a departure from our proper subject.

CHAPTER IV
THE EMOTIONS

The discussion of complex emotional states on which we enter in the present chapter will be subject to the same reservation as was our previous discussion of simple sensation-feeling. It is not proposed to attempt a definitive explanation of the nature of emotion, nor even to criticise the various emotion-theories which have been advanced in psychological literature. For the purposes of an æsthetic investigation we are only concerned with the external aspects, the outward manifestations, of mental states. We need not therefore dilate upon the controversies as to the exact relation between simple feeling and emotion. It is enough for us that all authors—those who consider pain and pleasure as elements sui generis as well as those who count them among sensations or emotions—agree in emphasising the prominent hedonic element which enters into all our emotions. Starting from this universally recognised fact, we shall try to explain the impulse to expression, as it appears in complex emotions, by the same laws which we deduced from an examination of simple hedonic states.

The legitimacy of such a course will scarcely be contested by any one who admits the vital and necessary connection between emotional states and movement-sensations. And in point of fact, this connection does not seem to be denied by many modern psychologists. There is indeed much controversy as to the best mode of formulating the well-known theory due to James and Lange, and there is also much to discuss in its general theoretic aspect. But the observation on which this theory was based by James, viz. that it is impossible for us to imagine any emotion which is not connected with feelings of bodily symptoms, seems nowadays to be pretty safe against attack. Before and after James, the fundamental importance of bodily changes has been acknowledged by almost all authors who have specially studied the emotional states. We need only refer to Bain, Ribot, Féré, Paulhan, and Godfernaux.[59] Even Professor Stout, who on general grounds takes exception to the views of James, leaves unassailed the thesis from which the latter starts in his chapter on the emotions.[60] And it is even somewhat superfluous to adduce all these authorities in support of a fact which must have been noted by every one who pays any attention to his own mental states. We never experience any intense emotion, such as fear, anger, or sorrow, without at the same time experiencing some distinct sensation of change in our functions of respiration and circulation, as well as in the activities of our voluntary muscles. In the case of emotions of slight intensity, where no changes of this character are perceptible, we are justified in assuming that they do nevertheless occur, only on a much smaller scale, and possibly in different organs. The clinical and experimental researches of medical science, as well as experiments undertaken in psychological laboratories, tend to prove that all ideas, even of the most abstract kind, are accompanied by modifications of organic activity, similar to, but weaker than, those which accompany the simple sensations. It is only natural, therefore, to conclude that the feeling-element in emotions and sentiments, as well as in simple pain and pleasure, is correlated with the quality—stimulating or inhibitive—and intensity of these modifications. All hedonic states, whether called forth directly by a simple physiological stimulus, or indirectly by the mediation of perceptions, memories, and ideas, can thus, in so far as they are feelings, be considered as essentially alike. The complete emotion, such as joy or anger, with all its elements of thought and conscious or unconscious volition, is of course something quite different from the simple feeling-tone of mere pleasure or pain. Physiological psychology does not, as its opponents maintain, assimilate gratifications of the sense of taste to æsthetic enjoyment or religious exaltation. We allow rank to a sentiment in virtue of the mental conceptions by which it is justified in the breast of the person who feels it. But the strength of such a sentiment, as feeling, we deem to be proportioned to the organic changes by which enthusiasm and devotion, just as much as sensual pleasure, are always accompanied. We do not assert that these organic changes are always identical in kind. In the simplest forms of hedonic sensation—sensation proper—they have their main equivalent in changes of the vegetative functions; in the emotions they are accompanied by movements of our voluntary muscles; and in the sentiments they may correspond to an activity which takes place chiefly in the organ of thought. And from these differences arise other important differences in duration as well as in intensity of the pleasure-pain. But all these various limitations cannot modify the essential fact, which is, that pleasure is always connected with an enhancement, and pain with a depression, of the vital functions.

For a satisfactory explanation of our emotions it would no doubt be desirable to have all the complicated physiological concomitants reduced to simple terms of functional enhancement and functional arrest. Such a reduction can, however, be undertaken only in a few favourable cases. We can easily see, for instance, that in pride and humiliation a series of perceptions and ideas have brought about conditions of facilitated and checked activity similar to those which, in sensational pleasure-pain, are created by simple physiological stimuli.[61] We may also agree with Lehmann when he endeavours to prove that the pain a child experiences when its mother leaves its bedside can be reduced to a sensation of arrested activity.[62] And we may in the same way explain our own feelings after losses which, from our point of view, are more serious, as largely due to the fact that an occasion of activity for our senses, thoughts, or bodily powers has been suddenly withdrawn. But it would be too laborious to enter upon such an analysis of all our compound emotions, and it is also superfluous. Even when the organic conditions of pleasure and pain cannot be detected among the intricate mass of intellectual and volitional elements which make up what we can observe of an emotion, we must still, from analogy, conclude that some kind of functional enhancement or arrest corresponds to the feeling-tone.

Seeing, then, that what we may call “pure feeling” remains the same in all possible combinations, we must expect to meet with the same phenomena in connection with the manifestations of the higher emotions and sentiments, as those already described in case of simple pain or pleasure. It is true that in fully formed anger, joy, contempt, and so on, the tendency to expression for expression’s sake—as when a child laughs or dances for mere joy—is seldom found pure and unmixed. But even in such complex states we may in the abstract distinguish the impulse directly and inherently connected with the physiological change—the impulse which tends automatically to bring out the tone of pleasure with more prominence or to relieve the tone of pain—from all the conscious and volitional activities by which the external cause of the feeling is either approached or avoided. We have only to remember that, as was the case with sensation-feelings, those intentional movements which are directly or by virtue of association connected with an emotion will always work in the same direction as the purely automatic expression.

With regard to anger, for instance, we can in theory, at all events, distinguish the activity which follows as a purely physiological reaction upon the initial inhibition, and which therefore is quite undirected by any idea of attacking an enemy, from the conscious reaction by which we strive with all our powers to overcome and annihilate a real or imaginary foe. But we know that both these kinds of expression produce similar mental effects. Whether we concentrate our attention on the element of pure feeling and its accompanying activities, or on the intermixture of intellectual and volitional elements by which the emotion is distinguished from simple pleasure-pain, we shall thus find that active manifestations always enhance the positive tone of feeling, which is in itself the counterpart of a functional enhancement, and relieve the negative tone, which is the counterpart of functional arrest.

To prove this assertion with regard to all the different emotions would mean an unnecessary repetition of the arguments adduced in the preceding chapter. We need therefore only dwell on a few individual cases in which the effects of expression, owing to the complex nature of all fully developed emotions, are subject to misinterpretation. It has, for instance, often been contended in psychological literature that pleasurable emotions lose in strength in the same degree as they are expressed. Mr. Spencer, who finds the physiological basis of all emotion in nervous tension, has tried to prove that joy is always strongest when most restrained. But the argument he adduces is by no means unimpeachable. He says that people who show the finest appreciation of humour are often capable of saying and doing the most laughable things with the utmost gravity.[63] In this instance joy has, however, been confounded with the sense of the comic, which is of course a purely intellectual gift, and which does not even presuppose a cheerful disposition. The less the expenditure of nervous force on outward activity, the greater is the efficiency with which the work of thought can be carried on.[64] There is thus a physiological reason why he who laughs least utters the best jokes. But all the fools whose mouths overflow with laughter (risus abundat in ore stultorum) may no doubt often be happier than the most talented humourist. No sane man would say that Swift was happy.

It is, however, undeniable that even joy gradually decreases if it is allowed an unimpeded outlet. But that is often a result of bodily fatigue, which makes thought as well as feeling impossible. Pleasure may also increase qua feeling, if its most outward manifestations are controlled. But hereby the activity has only, as Spencer himself remarks, been directed into new channels.[65] The motor impulses reflect themselves inwards and accumulate when their outlet is stopped. From bodily movements, which are its simplest and most natural expression, joy may thus be diverted into the region of thought. When a savage has attained so high a state of development as to be able to control the impulse to dance and yell for joy, the first dithyramb has been composed.

It is impossible for us to estimate the relative importance of internal and external activity. All we can say is that a joy, the outward expressions of which are controlled, probably gains in durability. But on the other hand it is possible that a joy which has been allowed a free discharge, in the very moment of expression is stronger qua feeling. If the motor impulses find no outlet in any direction, the emotional state will, as has already been pointed out, become more and more affected with elements of pain.

When the physiological counterpart of an emotion takes the form of an inhibition, the feeling-tone will of course gain in intensity in the same degree as wider and wider areas of activity come under the influence of the arrest. This law can also be observed in the course of development of all pain-emotions. Sorrow, despair, humiliation, and so on, are relatively mild as long as the inhibition is restricted to the voluntary muscles. They acquire their full and proper strength as feeling only when the involuntary activities take part in the functional disturbance. And we can often notice in ourselves how, in the same degree as a painful emotion increases, the inhibition cuts its way deeper and deeper into the organism.[66] Humiliation, which of all emotions is the most hopelessly and irredeemably painful, is in its higher degrees always accompanied by functional changes which make themselves felt even in our digestive organs. Literature, to which in questions of emotional psychology we must apply for the information which no experiment can supply, proves that it is hard to swallow. It has a bitter taste, and is sickening even in purely physical sense.[67] The greatest grief, on the other hand, that man has been able to imagine manifests itself physiologically as a complete internal as well as external paralysis, such as is suggested by the Greek myth of the sorrowing mother turned into stone.

The progress of functional inhibition from organ to organ and the accompanying increase of the pain-emotion does of course generally take place without the co-operation of volition. But the increase of an incipient pain-sentiment can also be facilitated by voluntary efforts. As Professor James remarks, we may effectively strengthen a mood of sadness if we only consistently arrest the activity of all the organs which are under the control of our will.[68] And it is well known that much is possible in the way of working up feelings of melancholy. It may seem somewhat strange that the cultivation of such painful states has attained so high a development in man. But the apparent paradox is solved if we direct our attention to the secondary tones of pleasure which can always be derived from artificial moods of suffering. Sentimental reflection is able to extract from them a peculiar satisfaction which is highly appreciated by certain temperaments. We need only refer to the literature of romanticism, which gives us most instructive instances of pride in sensibility. Another kind of enjoyment is attained when persons who consider themselves unfairly treated by cruel fortune deliberately feed upon their own sufferings. As Spencer has shrewdly pointed out, they will infallibly derive a pleasurable sensation of their own value when contrasting their fate with the happiness which they consider their due.[69] Melancholy people, on the other hand, may perhaps be inclined to make themselves as helpless and unfortunate as possible for the sake of experiencing both sides of that “love of the helpless”[70] which, according to Spencer, is the most primordial form of altruistic feeling. The expressions and pantomimes of sadness often strike us as a kind of self-caressing in which the sufferer, by division of his own personality, enjoys the double pleasure of giving and receiving.

According to the most consistent terminology, this tendency to enhance feeling by voluntary co-operation with functional inhibition ought perhaps to be considered as the characteristic expression of painful emotion. It is, however, as has already been pointed out in our treatment of sensation-feeling, more in conformity with ordinary usage—and also with etymology—to apply the word expression to those active, outward manifestations by which the inhibition is relieved. There can be no inconvenience in doing so if we only keep constantly in mind the distinction between the expression which enhances and the expression which relieves. As long as these two notions are confounded, a consistent explanation of emotional states is quite impossible. The contradictions in Professor James’ brilliant chapter on the emotions furnish us with a ready proof of this impossibility. If he had based his theory upon a close discrimination of either class of expression, as they can be distinguished in simple sensational feeling, he would probably not have contended that sorrow is increased by sobbing,[71] while admitting in another passage that “dry and shrunken sorrow” is more painful than any “crying fit.”[72]

It is, however, impossible to deny that sighing, sobbing, twisting the hands, and other active manifestations are often effectively used, by actors, for example, as means for working up despair or sorrows.[73] But it seems to us indubitable that these movements when they succeed in creating the real feeling do so by help of association. A pain-emotion which has been called into existence by such dramatic mechanism is therefore seldom quite genuine. Real sorrow, hate, or anger, as pain-feelings, are on their physiological side much more deeply seated than these surface expressions, which, properly speaking, are merely a reproduction of the usual reactions upon the primary feeling. They are therefore not to be easily stirred up by aid of mimetic action.

It may perhaps be contended that these remarks apply only to the artificial creation of pain-emotion. When under the sway of veritable sorrow we undoubtedly feel as if the mental state were really intensified during its expression by the direct influence of the muscular activities, which constitute the sighing, sobbing, or crying. As far as the compound emotion is concerned, this observation is unquestionably correct. Sorrow, with all its intellectual and volitional elements, may become more distinct for consciousness the more it is actively expressed. But the pain itself, which constitutes the primary and initial state of this emotion, has by no means been increased. On the contrary, a crying fit, for instance, as even Professor James admits, may be accompanied by a kind of excitement which has a peculiar tone of pungent pleasure.[74]

The same process can be observed in the course of all the so-called pain-emotions. During active expression, while the general mental state increases in definiteness, the purely “algedonic” element of pain is gradually weakened or changed. Anger, which begins with an inhibition and a vascular contraction, to which,[75] on the mental side, corresponds a feeling of intense pain, is thus in its active stage a decidedly pleasurable emotion.[76] Fear, which in its initial stage is paralysing and depressing, often changes in tone when the first shock has been relieved by motor reaction.[77] And to some extent the same may be said even of despair. In every pain-emotion where there is a development of active energy involved in the reaction upon the initial feeling, the tone of this feeling is apt to undergo some change owing to the influence of this activity.

This circumstance explains why expression for expression’s sake as a life-preserving principle occupies so important a place in the life of man. But it also accounts for another phenomenon which, although not directly connected with the expressional impulse, is æsthetically so important that it cannot properly be passed over in this work. We refer to the apparent paradox that anger, fear, sorrow, notwithstanding their distinctly painful initial stage, are often not only not avoided, but even deliberately sought. Taken in connection with those perhaps even more curious cases, in which sensation-feelings of pain are intentionally provoked, this apparent inversion of the normal course constitutes one of the most important problems in emotional psychology. The question of such “luxuries of grief,” or, to use a more appropriate German phrase, “Die Wonne des Leids,” is, however, so complicated that its treatment will require a chapter to itself.

CHAPTER V
THE ENJOYMENT OF PAIN

We have pointed out that enjoyment can be derived by sentimental reflection on moods of sadness. Such refined forms of the “luxury of grief” presuppose a certain intellectual development and a tendency to introspection, which cannot possibly be assumed in primitive man. But as the active forms of the so-called pain-emotions are highly appreciated—we may even say indulged in as enjoyments—by the lower tribes of man, there must evidently be some more immediate cause of this delight. And we are the more tempted to look for this cause in the emotional process itself, by the fact that even bodily pains, which do not admit of any sentimental interpretation, may be deliberately excited.

We remarked in our treatment of the simple emotional elements, that pleasure and pain can in no case be estimated by any absolute measure. Now that we have to find some explanation of the delight in pain, which applies to purely physical as well as to mental pain, we begin by admitting that the relative character of feeling probably accounts for many instances in which the pain is merely apparent. The same external stimulus which acts on one individual with hypernormal strength, and therefore evokes pain, may in the case of another individual who has duller senses, produce a weaker impression, and thus call forth a pleasurable reaction. The taste and smell anomalies of hysterical patients afford us good examples of such abnormal pleasure. And, on the other hand, there are plenty of instances, too familiar to be enumerated, in which an impression which a sick person would call painful brings pleasure to a healthy one.

Again, the power of receiving pleasurable sensations from strong stimuli may often be increased by exercise. Mr. Marshall has applied his psycho-physiological principles to the interpretation of these “acquired pleasure-gettings” and though he perhaps does not exhaustively and convincingly explain the process, he at least gives a graphic and clear account of its most probable course. He thinks that a hypernormal stimulus indirectly increases the blood-supply to the stimulated organ. This organ will therefore, if the operation of the stimulus is not too prolonged, store up some portion of unused nutritive force during the subsequent repose. And thus, if the same stimulus is shortly afterwards repeated, the organ will be able to respond with greater facility and intensity, i.e. react under the conditions of pleasurable reaction. In this way Marshall accounts for the classic instances of acquired liking for olives and tobacco.[78]

It is probable that a similar influence of repeated exercise may also operate in the department of compound emotions. Lehmann, who explains the transformation of originally painful impressions into pleasurable ones in a somewhat different way, viz. by his law of “the indispensability of accustomed things” refers to this law those instances in which persons who have had many troubles grow so accustomed to them, that in a moment of ease they feel a kind of loss.[79] The validity of this law will be recognised by every one who has any opportunity of observing the vaguely and weakly unpleasant feeling which sometimes appears when we are suddenly liberated from some pursuing anxiety. And the indispensability of accustomed sensations may impel persons to create new mental pains or worries to replace the old ones.

Yet the mere craving for customary sensations cannot explain those cases of genuine luxury in grief in which pain-sensations and pain-emotions are sought precisely because they are painful. But if we take into account the powerful stimulating effect which is produced by acute pain, we may easily understand why people submit to momentary unpleasantness for the sake of enjoying the subsequent excitement. This motive leads to the deliberate creation not only of pain-sensations, but also of emotions in which pain enters as an element. The violent activity which is involved in the reaction against fear, and still more in that against anger, affords us a sensation of pleasurable excitement which is well worth the cost of the passing unpleasantness. It is, moreover, notorious that some persons have developed a peculiar art of making the initial pain of anger so transient that they can enjoy the active elements in it with almost undivided delight. Such an accomplishment is far more difficult in the case of sorrow. The reactions are here seldom allowed so free a course as to be able to change the feeling-tone of the state. Moreover, the remembrance of the objective cause will always tend to reawaken the original feeling with its accompanying inhibition. Besides, a man of culture and refinement is generally deterred by a kind of respect for his own emotional life from artificially stirring up states of sorrow for his own enjoyment. This reluctance, however, does not seem to exist in lower stages of development. The crying feasts of the Maoris and the Todas—which afford a striking parallel to the ceremonial wailings of ancient Greece—are no doubt, whatever their ritual significance may be, attended with a kind of pleasure.[80] By seizing on some real or fictitious cause for grief—the death of a Linos or an Adonis—the participants succeed, we imagine, in creating a state of sorrow in which the active and stimulating elements outweigh the pain.

However barbarous this kind of amusement may seem to us, it is by no means certain that we have completely outgrown such pleasures. The delight in witnessing the performance of a tragedy undoubtedly involves the enjoyment of a borrowed pain, which, by unconscious sympathetic imitation, we make partially our own.[81] And the same phenomenon appears in a yet cruder form in the custom, so general among the lower classes of most countries, of visiting funerals and similar ceremonies where sorrow can be contemplated and shared. Even civilised man is thus able to enjoy the pleasure which may be connected with emotions of sorrow and despair, at least in second-hand reproduction.

It is scarcely necessary to go through all the various emotional states in order to prove that every one of them, if it can per se be enjoyed (in nature or art), is either primarily or by its reactions connected with an increase of outward activity. But we must point out that the pleasure derived from this motor excitement is often still further enhanced by the agency of an intellectual element which is simpler than sentimental reflection, and does not presuppose any tendency towards introspection. In pain as in pleasure, in suffering as in voluptuousness, we attain a heightened and enriched sensation of life. The more we love life, the more must we also enjoy this sensation, even if it be called into existence by pain. Lessing, who cannot possibly be called morbid, confesses to this taste in an interesting letter written to Mendelssohn: “Darinn sind wir doch wohl einig, l.F., dass alle Leidenschaften entweder heftige Begierden oder heftige Verabscheuengen sind? Auch darinn: dass wir uns bei jeder heftigen Begierde oder Verabscheuung, eines grösser Grads unserer Realität bewusst sind und dass dieses Bewusstsein nicht anders als angenehm sein kann? Folglich sind alle Leidenschaften, auch die allerunangenehmsten, als Leidenschaften angenehm.”[82] (“We are agreed in this, my dear friend, that all passions are either vehement cravings or vehement loathings, and also that in every vehement craving or loathing we acquire an increased consciousness of our reality, and that this consciousness cannot but be pleasurable. Consequently, all our passions, even the most painful, are, as passions, pleasurable.”) And Helvetius has expressed almost the same idea: “Nous souhaiterons donc, par des impressions toujours nouvelles, être à chaque instant avertis de notre existence, parceque chacun de ces avertissements est pour nous un plaisir.”[83] (“Accordingly, we shall desire, by means of constantly renewed impressions, to be at every moment reminded of our existence, because each of these reminders is for us a pleasure.”) For the sake of this “avertissement” of existence, individuals of intense vital temperament, like Richard Jefferies and Maryia Bashkirtseff, have positively loved their very sufferings.[84]

It is evident that pain as a sign of life and function may be especially welcome when the vital sensation has for any reason become weakened. The self-woundings of the heathen and Christian saints, although no doubt fully justified to the sufferers themselves by religious motives, may thus have had their innermost unconscious motive in an endeavour to overcome that anæsthesia which is so usual an accompaniment of hysterical disturbances.[85] It is hard to believe that the tortures which they inflict upon themselves are really felt as neutral or pleasurable. But we can easily understand that such torture, although more or less painful, may afford a kind of satisfaction by compelling the slow and dull senses to function. Professor Lange has in his work on the emotions laid special stress upon this point. “It is a condition of our well-being,” he says, “that our sensorial centres should be in a certain degree of activity called forth by the impressions which reach them through the sensorial nerves from the outside. If from some cause or other—for instance, from a decrease in the functional powers of these centres—there arises an insensibility, anæsthesia, then we feel a longing to force them to their usual activity by addressing to them an abnormally strong appeal, or, in other words, by intensifying the external impressions and thereby neutralising the insensibility.”[86] This principle has, indeed, as applied by Lange to the expressions of anger, been mercilessly ridiculed by Wundt.[87] But it seems to us that the observation itself can scarcely be contested. Whether we explain it as a case of the indispensability of the accustomed or as the result of some peculiar yearning for life—a soul-desire, as Mr. Jefferies would have called it—a deficient consciousness of function is in most cases distinctly unpleasant. And, on the other hand, it seems as if an increased consciousness of function were per se pleasurable. It is of course difficult to prove by exact argument the existence of a feeling which can be observed only as the innermost concealed motive of our life. But on as strong evidence as can ever be adduced on matters of emotional life, we may believe that in every conscious life there operates a dim instinctive craving for fuller and greater consciousness, or, if the expression be preferred, for the most complete self-realisation. Happiness itself has been defined by a philosopher so little inclined to mysticism as Mr. Brinton, as “the increasing consciousness of self.”[88] It is therefore easy to understand why, when this consciousness has been blunted by some cause or other, we may even long for suffering and pain as a means of escaping the dulness, emptiness, and darkness of insensibility. It may seem to be a disturbance of all normal instincts that pain—an element hostile to vital activity—can thus be preferred to a state the unpleasantness of which is only diffuse. But we have to remember that the absence of sensation and function frightens us by its similarity to what we fear more than pain.

The sufferings of insensibility, this highest possible form of tedium, which—if we are to judge from the descriptions in literature and poetry—may in themselves be unbearable enough, must needs be unusually keen in individuals who are given up to philosophic reflection. The feeling of inanity which is caused by a suspense of vital sensations is apt to spread itself over the whole field of sense-experience.[89] In default of strong impressions, with their subsequent reactions, we may lose the sense not only of our own existence, but also of that of the external world.[90] The relatively neutral evidence of our higher senses does not afford us the same assurance of reality as is given by grosser impressions, which affect us more directly in the way of pleasure or pain. On purely physiological grounds there may thus be produced a morbid conception of the universe which, having neither ego nor non-ego to rely on, lacks the conviction either of subjective or objective existence. From this vertiginous inanity, which must bring every philosophic temperament into despair, life delivers us by the same means which Molière uses to confute the Pyrrhonists. Pain is the most convincing reality we can imagine. It may therefore, even when it is not deliberately sought for, afford a welcome support to thought.

“Suffice it thee

Thy pain is a reality.”

(Tennyson, “The Two Voices”).

In this connection, however, we have not to dwell on the philosophical importance of pain. We are here only concerned with its significance for the immediate sense of life. And in this respect we believe that an artificial creation of pain may play some part not only in anger, but in the expression of all high-strung emotions. It is well known that the orgiastic state of mind, whether originally caused by religious exaltation or by erotic delirium, may often, when it has reached its highest stage, express itself in self-laceration. These facts are no doubt difficult to interpret. But it seems justifiable to assume that a tendency towards the creating of pain-sensations may have been derived from the emotional process itself. Explained in this way, orgiastic self-tortures may be adduced as the most remarkable proofs of this desire for an enhanced sense of life which lies at the bottom of all our appetence.

However energetically strong emotions may accentuate our existence, and however deeply we may enjoy the “realisation of ourselves” which we find in the violent excitement accompanying them, high-strung states are naturally bound to be followed by exhaustion and stupor. And thus even the intoxication of life, this most powerful of sensations, sooner or later passes its climax and sinks into dull insensibility. The lower the function by the incitement of which the exaltation is produced, the greater probably is its orgiastic power. But its duration is also so much the shorter. A wild dance, for instance, invariably ends in impotent prostration, during which the power of function and sensation is completely exhausted. As long as the mental desire for increased excitement is unsatisfied, this state must be distinctly disagreeable. Hence all the frenetic manifestations by which man, when raging in insatiable exaltation, strives to awake and rouse his failing powers of enjoyment.

In the whole domain of comparative psychology there can scarcely be adduced an example which throws so much light on the orgiastic state of mind as the Bacchanal frenzy. And the descriptions of this “Dionysischer Zustand” which are to be found in classic literature give us the most complete idea of the various expedients by which the devotee tries to maintain and increase his state of exaltation in spite of the growing tendency to relaxation. By noise, roaring, and loud cries, by frenetic dance and wild actions, the “Maenads” strive to preserve and recover the fading sense of life, which ever baffles their exertions. And as the last, infallible means of excitement, resorted to when all other stimulations have proved unable to stir up the dulled senses, we may explain the tortures which the partly insensible Bacchante inflicts upon herself. “Suum Bacchis non sentit saucia vulnus.”[91]

There are various kinds of orgiastic exaltation connected with self-torture—as that of the tarantella dancers, of the dervishes, of the shamans, and others—in which the creation of pain-sensations may be explained as a desperate device for enhancing the intensity of the emotional state. Acute pain often makes it possible to overcome momentarily the exhaustion or the dulness which unfits us for work. And it is evident that pain may produce a similar excitement when we require an increase of energy, not for the sake of obtaining the greatest possible result from a working activity, but for the sake of extracting the greatest possible enjoyment out of an emotional state.

But if this interpretation be admitted as possible, there will be ample room for discussion as to its application to individual cases. For it is to be remembered that even pain may fulfil the task of relieving a nervous tension. In cases of bodily suffering counter irritation may thus bring about a wholesome diversion of the attention from an otherwise unbearable pain.[92] And it is unquestionable that self-inflicted lacerations during violent emotion often subserve the same purpose. When a savage scarifies himself on receiving bad news, or at a funeral feast, his action is an instinctive effort to procure relief from the overpowering feelings.[93] That he is not simply performing a sacrificial rite,[94] but is merely seeking the relief which experience has taught him may be afforded by pain as well as by the subsequent exhaustion (especially from loss of blood), is proved by the fact that the same expedient is employed in order to overcome humiliation or bodily pain.[95] It is not stimulation, but a lulling of the senses, which is here aimed at.

It must also be admitted that even the other orgiastic manifestations may serve as purely cathartic means of relieving emotional pressure. It is, as has already been remarked, impossible to decide in individual cases whether an activity of expression—a dance, for instance—serves to enhance a pleasurable feeling or to relieve a pain. Suffering, sorrow, and despair may often, in their outward reactions, borrow the forms of expression which are usually connected with joy. Thus frenetic games and dances are often met with on occasions when we should least of all expect them, as, for instance, in time of famine, epidemic, or war.[96] Such paradoxical manifestations, in which an overstrained despair attempts to obtain some kind of relief, are externally not to be distinguished from the genuine expression of joy. On the other hand, an abnormally strong emotion, which is primarily caused by the objective conditions of pleasure, may in its excess be perceived as a pain. Joy itself can thus be felt as an oppressive burden, which we try with all our power to get rid of. The motor discharges, by which we seek relief from such a “Noth der Fülle und der Überfülle,” can, however, only indirectly offer us any real deliverance. A wild dance, for instance, will inevitably accentuate the original feeling as a conscious state, and thereby increase its intensity. But with this increase the craving for relief will also become stronger. As long as expression is unable to satisfy the ever-growing nervous tension, there must remain an element of “never enough” in the orgiastic exaltation. It is only when repeated solicitation has brought on bodily exhaustion that a real release is attained.

There is no doubt that such a relief-bringing exhaustion was the ultimate aim of all those exalted manifestations to which the poor tarantuli and the Vitus dancers abandoned themselves. But the problem presented by the similarity between the pathological despair which constitutes the initial stage of such epidemic mental disorders, and the oppressive feeling of joy whose expression has been thwarted, is so difficult that we can hardly expect to obtain a decisive answer to such questions as whether, for example, the mænadic exaltation is to be considered as a melancholic or a cheerful state of mind. And in most cases it would probably be equally impossible to ascertain whether in a given manifestation we have to do with pleasure that seeks enhancement, or with pain that seeks relief in exhaustion.

While every one is thus free to interpret the facts according to his optimistic or pessimistic bias, it must nevertheless be considered as a confusion of ideas to make the quest of unconsciousness a universal and fundamental impulse in man. It is impossible for us to assign any psychological importance to commonplaces on the enviable state of the insensible and the happiness to be found in unconsciousness. It is only when it delivers us from pain that a state of partial insensibility and cessation of function may be perceived as relatively agreeable. That an absolute absence of feeling could afford us any pleasure is a psychological contradiction in terms.

This illusion of unconsciousness can, however, be easily explained by the fact that intense emotional states are generally dominated by a single preoccupation. A strong feeling, by reason of the limitations of our consciousness, annihilates external sensations and ideas. Ecstasy, that “over-conscious” state of highly concentrated activity, rises above space and time to a state in which we feel liberated from all forms of perception. But the highest pleasure which we may thus experience is not, as Wagner in his pessimistic period would have it, a sinking and drowning of ourselves in unconsciousness; it is far rather—

“endlos ewig

einbewuszt.”

To enjoy so rich and complete a sensation of life has, we believe, been the object for which, each in his own manner, all men of strong vitality have striven. Even if there are individuals so unfortunate that for them a cessation of life and function appears as the highest end of desire, such negative instances need hardly be taken into account in a survey of universal human impulses. The longing for unconsciousness is moreover so passive a condition of mind, that by itself it could never explain expressional activities of the more violent or elaborate sort. And it is even more insufficient as an explanation of all those secondary expressions which are to occupy us in the sequel. Art production would never have reached so high a development if it had served only as a sedative for human feelings. But neither does art, any more than the direct activities of expression, involve mere excitement; it too fulfils, and with even greater efficacy, a relieving and cathartic mission. While supplying man with a means of intensifying the feelings connected with all the varied activities of the soul, art at the same time bestows upon him that inward calm in which all strong emotions find their relief.

Every interpretation of art which does not pay due attention to both of these aspects must needs be one-sided and incomplete.

CHAPTER VI
SOCIAL EXPRESSION

In order to find an explanation of the nature and origin of the art-impulse we were compelled to enter upon a digression on the general psychology of feeling. It appeared from this hasty examination that in the motor concomitants of physical as well as of mental feeling we have to do with a form of activity which, taken by itself, is independent of all external motives. It was shown that the diffusion of a feeling-tone always corresponds to some active manifestation, generally outward, which increases in the same degree as the state of consciousness gains in intensity and distinctness. Besides these immediate transformations of energy which, owing to the law of inertia, follow the primary enhancement or inhibition of function, we met with reactions of a more conscious kind, by which the organism strives to overcome the inhibition of pain, and to keep up the excitement of pleasure. And it was also found that the universal animal desire to increase every pleasure and to relieve every pain has given rise to a multitude of secondary manifestations, by which we try to sustain every pleasure, to make it more distinct for consciousness, and thus enhance it by expression, while, during states of pain, we strive for relief in diversion or in violent motor discharge. Finally it was remarked that by the side of this expressional impulse we must take account of a yearning after increased consciousness, which leads us to pursue, even at the risk of some passing pain, all feelings and emotions by which our sensation of life is reinforced and intensified. All these impulses, accompanied by higher or lower degrees of conscious endeavour, are psychical phenomena of fundamental importance. They are not restricted to any particular stage of culture. And their coercive force is equal—nay, even superior to that of the imitative impulse, the play-impulse, and the impulse “to attract by pleasing.” If we could deduce the desire for artistic creation from the activities connected with feeling, we should here find the explanation of its universality as well as of its force.

But among the manifestations described in the foregoing chapters there is none which directly leads us to the artistic activity. As against the Spieltrieb theories it was objected that play never develops of itself into art, so it may now be objected, with as much reason, that all immediate or secondary emotional manifestations, however interesting they may be, give us no information on artistic manifestations. The instinctive tendency to express overmastering feeling, to enhance pleasure, and to seek relief from pain, forms the most deep-seated motive of all human activity. We can therefore derive the distinctive qualities of artistic production from this impulse only when it has been proved that art is better able than any other kind of mental function to serve and satisfy the requirements which arise from this impulse when it occurs in its purest form.

That this is the case, is the fundamental hypothesis upon which this work is based. It was impossible to prove its validity as long as emotional manifestations were treated as phenomena in the psychical life of the individual. For art is in its innermost nature a social activity. In order to elucidate the connection between art-impulse and emotional activities, we must therefore examine the latter as they appear in the social relations of mankind. We do not believe that any new principles are necessary for this purpose. We need only apply to social phenomena the same laws which were found to be valid for the emotional life of the individual. As, however, the legitimacy of such a course may be questioned, we must first devote some pages to a treatment of what we may call—if the expression is allowed—the interindividual life.

This digression brings us into a field of inquiry—that of the psychical conditions of social life—which during recent years has been the object of certain most important scientific researches. The investigations into the psychology of masses, as well as the experiments on suggestive therapeutics, have proved to how great an extent mental states may be transmitted from individual to individual by unconscious imitation of the accompanying movements. The doctrine of universal sympathy, a clear statement of which was given long ago in the ethical theory of Adam Smith,[97] has thus acquired a psychological justification in the modern theories of imitative movement. Contemporary science has at last learned to appreciate the fundamental importance of imitation for the development of human culture.[98] And some authors have even gone so far as to endeavour to deduce all sociological laws from this one principle. At the same time natural history has begun to pay more and more attention to the indispensability of imitation for the full development of instincts, as well as for training in those activities which are the most necessary in life.[99]

It is fortunate for the theory of art that the importance of the imitative functions has thus been simultaneously acknowledged in various departments of science. Whatever one may think of the somewhat audacious generalisations which have been made in the recent application of this new principle, it is incontestable that the æsthetic activities can be understood and explained only by reference to universal tendency to imitate. It is also significant that writers on æsthetic had felt themselves compelled to set up a theory of imitation long before experimental psychologists had begun to turn their attention in this direction. In Germany the enjoyment of form and form-relations has since Vischer’s time been interpreted as the result of the movements by which not only our eye, but also our whole body, follows the outlines of external things.[100] In France Jouffroy stated the condition for the receiving of æsthetic impressions to be a “power of internally imitating the states which are externally manifested in living nature.”[101] In England, finally, Vernon Lee and Anstruther Thompson have founded a theory of beauty and ugliness upon this same psychical impulse to copy in our own unconscious movements the forms of objects.[102] And in the writings of, for instance, Home,[103] Hogarth,[104] Dugald Stewart,[105] and Spencer,[106] there can be found a multitude of isolated remarks on the influence which is in a direct way exercised on our mental life by the perception of lines and forms.

In most of these theories and observations, however, the imitative activity has been noticed only in so far as it contributes to the æsthetic delight which may be derived from sensual impressions. But its importance is by no means so restricted as this; on the contrary, we believe it to be a fundamental condition for the existence of intuition itself. Without all these imperceptible tracing movements with which our body accompanies the adaptation of the eye-muscles to the outlines of external objects, our notions of depth, height, and distance, and so on, would certainly be far less distinct than they are.[107] On the other hand, the habit of executing such movements has, so to say, brought the external world within the sphere of the internal. The world has been measured with man as a standard, and objects have been translated into the language of mental experience. The impressions have hereby gained not only in emotional tone, but also in intellectual comprehensibility.[108]

Greater still is the importance of imitation for our intuition of moving objects. And a difficult movement itself is fully understood only when it has been imitated, either internally or in actual outward activity. The idea of a movement, therefore, is generally associated with an arrested impulse to perform it.[109] Closer introspection will show every one to how great a part our knowledge, even of persons, is built up of motor elements. By unconsciously and imperceptibly copying in our own body the external behaviour of a man, we may learn to understand him with benevolent or malevolent sympathy.[110] And it will no doubt be admitted by most readers that the reason why they know their friends and foes better than they know any one else is that they carry the remembrance of them not only in their eyes, but in their whole body. When in idle moments we find the memory of an absent friend surging up in our mind with no apparent reason, we may often note, to our astonishment, that we have just been unconsciously adopting one of his characteristic attitudes, or imitating his peculiar gestures or gait.

It may, however, be objected that the above-mentioned instances refer only to a particular class of individuals. In other minds, it will be said, the world-picture is entirely built up of visual and acoustic elements. It is also impossible to deny that the classification of minds in different types, which modern psychology has introduced, is as legitimate as it is advantageous for the purposes of research. But we can hardly believe that such divisions have in view anything more than a relative predominance of the several psychical elements.[111] It is easily understood that a man in whose store of memory visual or acoustic images occupy the foremost place may be inclined to deny that motor sensations of unconscious copying enter to any extent into his psychical experience. But an exclusively visual world-image, if such a thing is possible, must evidently be not only emotionally poorer, but also intellectually less distinct and less complete, than an intuition, in which such motor elements are included.

The importance of motor sensations in the psychology of knowledge is by itself of no æsthetic interest. The question has been touched upon in this connection only because of the illustration which it gives to the imitation theory. If, as we believe is the case, it is really necessary, for the purpose of acquiring a complete comprehension of things and events, to “experience” them—that is to say, to pursue and seize upon them, not only with the particular organ of sense to which they appeal, but also by tracing movements of the whole body, then there is no need to wonder at the universality of the imitative impulse. Imitation does not only, according to this view, facilitate our training in useful activities, and aid us in deriving an æsthetic delight from our sensations: it serves also, and perhaps primarily, as an expedient for the accommodating of ourselves to the external world, and for the explaining of things by reference to ourselves. It is therefore natural that imitative movements should occupy so great a place among the activities of children and primitive men. And we can also understand why this fundamental impulse, which has played so important a part in racial as well as in individual education, may become so great as to be a disease and dominate the whole of conscious life.[112] As children we all imitated before we comprehended, and we have learned to comprehend by imitating.[113] It is only when we have grown familiar by imitation with the most important data of perception that we become capable of appropriating knowledge in a more rational way. Although no adult has any need to resort to external imitation in order to comprehend new impressions, it is still only natural that in a pathological condition he should relapse into the primitive imitative reaction. And it is equally natural that an internal, i.e. arrested, imitation should take place in all our perceptions. After this explanation of the universality of this phenomenon we have no further need to occupy ourselves with the general psychology of imitation. We have here only to take notice of its importance for the communication of feeling.

As is well known, it is only in cases of abnormally increased sensibility—for instance, in some of the stages of hypnotism and thought transmission—that the motor counterpart of a mental state can be imitated with such faithfulness and completeness that the imitator is thereby enabled to partake of all the intellectual elements of the state existing in another. The hedonic qualities, on the other hand, which are physiologically conditioned by much simpler motor counterparts, may of course be transmitted with far greater perfection: it is easier to suggest a pleasure than a thought. It is also evident that it is the most general hedonic and volitional elements which have been considered by the German authors on æsthetic in their theories on internal imitation (“Die innere Nachahmung”). They seem to have thought that the adoption of the attitudes and the performance of the movements which usually accompany a given emotional state will also succeed to some extent in producing a similar emotional state. This assumption is perfectly legitimate, even if the connection between feeling and movement be interpreted in the associative way. And it needs no justification when the motor changes are considered as the physiological correlate of the feeling itself.

Everyday experience affords many examples of the way in which feelings are called into existence by the imitation of their expressive movements. A child repeats the smiles and the laughter of its parents, and can thus partake of their joy long before it is able to understand its cause.[114] Adult life naturally does not give us many opportunities of observing this pure form of direct and almost automatic transmission. But even in adult life we may often meet with an exchange of feeling which seems almost independent of any intellectual communication. Lovers know it, and intimate friends like the brothers Goncourt,[115] to say nothing of people who stand in so close a rapport with each other as a hypnotiser and his subject.[116] And even where there is no previous sympathetic relation, a state of joy or sadness may often, if it is only distinctly expressed, pass over, so to say, from the individual who has been under the influence of its objective cause, to another who, as it were, borrows the feeling, but remains unconscious of its cause. We experience this phenomenon almost daily in the influence exerted upon us by social intercourse, and even by those aspects of nature—for instance, blue open sky or overhanging mountains—which naturally call up in us the physical manifestation of emotional states. The coercive force with which our surroundings—animate or inanimate—compel us to adopt the feelings which are suggested by their attitudes, forms, or movements, is perhaps as a rule too weak to be noticed by a self-controlled, unemotional man. But if we want an example of this influence at its strongest, we need but remember how difficult it is for an individual to resist the contagion of collective feeling.[117] On public occasions the common mood, whether of joy or sorrow, is often communicated even to those who were originally possessed by the opposite feeling. So powerful is the infection of great excitement that—according to M. Féré—even a perfectly sober man who takes part in a drinking bout may often be tempted to join in the antics of his drunken comrades in a sort of second-hand intoxication, “drunkenness by induction.”[118] In the great mental epidemics of the Middle Ages this kind of contagion operated with more fatal results than ever before or afterwards. But even in modern times a popular street riot may often show us something of the same phenomenon. The great tumult in London in 1886 afforded, it is said, a good opportunity of observing how people who had originally maintained an indifferent attitude were gradually carried away by the general excitement, even to the extent of joining in the outrages.[119] In this instance the contagious effect of expressional movements was undoubtedly facilitated by their connection with so primary an impulse as that of rapine and destruction. But the case is the same with all the activities which appear as the outward manifestations of our strongest feeling-states. They all consist of instinctive actions with which every one is well familiar from his own experience. It is therefore natural that anger, hate, or love may be communicated almost automatically from an individual to masses, and from masses to individuals.

Now that the principle of the interindividual diffusion of feeling has been stated and explained, we may return to our main line of research and examine its bearings on the expressional impulse. We have seen that in the social surroundings of the individual there is enacted a process resembling that which takes place within his own organism. Just as functional modifications spread from organ to organ, just as wider and wider zones of the system are brought into participation in the primary enhancement or inhibition, so a feeling is diffused from an individual to a circle of sympathisers who repeat its expressional movements. And just as all the widened “somatic resonances” contribute to the primary feeling-tone increased strength and increased definiteness, so must the emotional state of an individual be enhanced by retroactive stimulation from the expressions by which the state has, so to say, been continued in others. By the reciprocal action of primary movements and borrowed movements, which mutually imitate each other, the social expression operates in the same way as the individual expression. And we are entitled to consider it as a secondary result of the general expressional impulse, that when mastered by an overpowering feeling we seek enhancement or relief by retroaction from sympathisers, who reproduce and in their expression represent the mental state by which we are dominated.

In point of fact we can observe in the manifestations of all strong feelings which have not found a satisfactory relief in individual expression, a pursuit of social resonance. A happy man wants to see glad faces around him, in order that from their expression he may derive further nourishment and increase for his own feeling. Hence the benevolent attitude of mind which as a rule accompanies all strong and pure joy. Hence also the widespread tendency to express joy by gifts or hospitality. In moods of depression we similarly desire a response to our feeling from our surroundings. In the depth of despair we may long for a universal cataclysm to extend, as it were, our own pain. As joy naturally makes men good, so pain often makes them hard and cruel. That this is not always the case is a result of the increased power of sympathy which we gain by every experienced pain. Moreover, we have need of sympathetic rapport for our motor reactions against pain. All the active manifestations of sorrow, despair, or anger which are not wholly painful in themselves are facilitated by the reciprocal influence of collective excitement. Thus all strong feelings, whether pleasurable or painful, act as socialising factors.[120] This socialising action may be observed at all stages of development. Even the animals seek their fellows in order to stimulate themselves and each other by the common expression of an overpowering feeling. As has been remarked by Espinas, the flocking together of the male birds during the pairing season is perhaps as much due to this craving for mutual stimulation as to the desire to compete for the favour of the hen.[121] The howling choirs of the macaws[122] and the drum concerts of the chimpanzees[123] are still better and unmistakable instances of collective emotional expression. In man we find the results of the same craving for social expression in the gatherings for rejoicing or mourning which are to be met with in all tribes, of all degrees of development. And as a still higher development of the same fundamental impulse, there appears in man the artistic activity.

The more conscious our craving for retroaction from sympathisers, the more there must also be developed in us a conscious endeavour to cause the feeling to be appropriated by as many as possible and as completely as possible. The expressional impulse is not satisfied by the resonance which an occasional public, however sympathetic, is able to afford. Its natural aim is to bring more and more sentient beings under the influence of the same emotional state. It seeks to vanquish the refractory and arouse the indifferent. An echo, a true and powerful echo—that is what it desires with all the energy of an unsatisfied longing. As a result of this craving the expressional activities lead to artistic production. The work of art presents itself as the most effective means by which the individual is enabled to convey to wider and wider circles of sympathisers an emotional state similar to that by which he is himself dominated.

We propose in the next chapter to indicate the way in which art in its various forms has served the expressional craving.

CHAPTER VII
DEDUCTION OF ART-FORMS

In the science of art many hypotheses have been advanced as to the order in which the different art-forms have made their appearance. We do not intend to bring forward any new arguments on this much-debated question. Even if our knowledge of prehistoric man were so complete and trustworthy as to entitle us to draw any conclusions as to the earliest stages in art-development, such an appeal to history would in the present connection constitute a grave confusion of standpoints. As long as we are occupied with that abstract datum, the purely artistic activity, we cannot possibly find any support for our reasoning in existing works of art, concerning which the question may always be raised whether the motive was or was not a purely autotelic art-impulse. We shall therefore in the following pages entirely ignore the question of historical sequence and restrict our attention to the various degrees of theoretical priority. Starting from the interpretation of artistic activity which was postulated, but not yet proved, in the preceding chapter, we shall consider those art-forms as most primordial which stand in the closest connection with the expression of feeling. By comparing those manifestations of art-activity which are from our standpoint elementary, with the non-æsthetic expression of emotional states, we shall try to isolate the peculiarly artistic qualities in their simplest possible form. If the result of such a treatment prove consistent with general æsthetic ideals, as exhibited in the literature of art, this fact will naturally go to the credit of our explanation.

The purest and most typical expression of simple feeling is that which consists of mere random movements. Those activities, whether of the whole body or of special parts,—the larynx, for instance,—which follow immediately upon, or rather accompany, a state of pleasure or pain, are in themselves entirely non-æsthetic. Thus it is impossible to see anything artistic in the spectacle of a man leaping or shouting for joy. Yet the lowest kind of lyrical music and lyrical “gymnastic” dance may be almost as directly connected with the original state of feeling as these purely expressional activities. The only difference is that in music and dance the movements have been limited and restrained by the adoption of a fixed sequence in time. This fixed sequence in time—the rhythm—must therefore, from our point of view, be considered as the simplest of all art-forms.

If we were to give a complete account of the psychology of rhythm, it would be impossible not to resort to a sociological and historical mode of treatment. By Dr. Wallaschek’s researches on primitive music it has been conclusively shown how important a part rhythm, as a means of facilitating co-operation, has played in the struggle for existence.[124] And this utilitarian explanation has recently been carried even farther by Professor Bücher, who points out the invaluable saving of effort which the individual obtains by regulating his movements in a fixed sequence of time.[125] We may think that Professor Bücher has stretched his point too far in endeavouring to derive almost all music and poetry from the economical exigencies of labour;[126] but there can be no doubt that in whichever way the ultimate origin of musical arts be explained, their development is largely due to the practical advantages of rhythm. These considerations, however, which will be developed in the following chapters, need not detain us here, where we have to do with the presumably non-utilitarian and purely æsthetic work of art. If the practical advantages of economy and co-operation can be eliminated,—if we can imagine a dance and a song which has not for its aim the facilitation or regulation of some form of work or the stimulation of some effort, which, in short, has its sole aim and purpose in itself,—then the art-element in this dance or song must be explicable without reference to “foreign” purposes.

The only explanation we have been able to find is one which brings us back to the standpoint of the last chapter. Looking upon art as an essentially social activity, we naturally bestow our main attention upon rhythm as a factor of unification. But as we are not allowed to take into account its importance for practical co-operation, we can only interpret it as a means of bringing about emotional community. And it is evident that the fixed sequence in time, when used for the purpose of communicating a state of feeling, must produce the same effect as when it serves the purpose of diffusing and regulating the impulses to work.

This fact can also be observed in all cases of social expression. The most general and simple states of emotional excitement, such as a festive mood or a warlike intoxication, may indeed be diffused with sufficient efficacy by simple contagious imitation. But even with regard to such eminently infectious feelings, if a great mass of men is to be collectively and simultaneously stimulated by a common execution of the appropriate expressive movements, these movements must be regulated by the adoption of a rhythm. On the other hand, as soon as the expression is fixed in rhythmical form its contagious power is incalculably increased. By its incessant and regular recurrence, the rhythm takes a ruthless hold of the attention, and thereby compels even the most recalcitrant to yield to the power of the transmitted feeling.[127]

As evidence of the irresistibility with which a rhythmical expression may rouse an audience to an almost unvoluntary imitation, one may refer to the familiar effects of the southern dances. The tarantella, as is well known, often entices the unwilling as well as the willing to join in its wild movements. And the same is said of several other Spanish and Italian dances. We need only refer to the apologue of the Fandango, so often used as a motive of ballets, in which the dance, brought into court for causing disturbance, compels judge and jury to yield to its temptations and dissolve the sitting for a fierce gambade.[128] Such stories give an exaggerated yet typical example of the great influence which the sight of dancing exercises on the lively Latin nations. An impassive Northerner can indeed always master the impulse to join actively in a wild dance. But even he cannot avoid sharing the excitement by internal imitation.

It is, however, impossible to decide with any exactitude whether the effects which a dance-performance exercises on the spectators are mainly due to the movements themselves or to the rhythm by which they are regulated. In order, therefore, to estimate at its proper value the importance of time, it is necessary to examine it as it appears when isolated from bodily movement. The lowest types of music, in which the element of melody is of no importance, show us rhythm in its simplest and purest form. Such instruments as drums, tom-toms, and castanets may serve as a most effective means of emotional excitation. The same exaltation or depression, which in a dance is conveyed by a series of varied expressive movements, may be transmitted with almost equal effectiveness by a simple sequence of sounds. Any group of acoustic impressions following each other in a fixed rhythm may, independently of their character, arouse in the listener the same modifications of functions and activities, and hence also the same emotional state, as was originally expressed by this particular time-sequence. Thus pure feeling, as it appears when abstraction has been made of all intellectual elements, can be as it were exteriorised in rhythmical form. And, which is of still greater importance, a pure feeling can in this exteriorisation be fixed down for future repetition. Even in its simplest manifestations art is thus capable of raising an emotional state beyond the limitations of space and time.

It is most natural, when speaking of the connection between feeling and rhythm, to refer to dance and the simplest vocal and instrumental music. But it goes without saying that the effects are the same in kind, although less in degree, when the time-sequence is impressed upon our mind in some more indirect way. Thus, by appropriating the element of rhythm, which enters into all poetry, we may in reciting or reading a verse partake of an emotional state in the same way as we do when joining, actively or “internally,” the movements of a dance. Similarly, the formative and decorative arts may, by compelling our eye to follow a regular arrangement of lines and figures, transmit to us an emotional excitement by the mediation of rhythm. Ornament, that purely popular art, may therefore be compared as to its psychological effects with simple popular dances and melodies.[129]

In these three logically most primordial arts, viz. gymnastic dance, geometric ornament, and unmelodic, simply rhythmical music or singing, the unmotived “objectless” feeling is expressed in a medium which directly conveys to us its accompanying modifications of activity. Notwithstanding the meagreness of their intellectual content, these purely lyrical forms, if we may so call them, are therefore emotionally suggestive to a high degree. General and indistinct moods, such as a feeling of ease, of liberation from restraint, of assurance and power, etc., may by them be transmitted with unsurpassable fidelity. But their expressive power is also confined to such purely hedonic states. Whenever, therefore, the feeling forms a part of a differentiated and fully formed emotion, the impulse to social expression must avail itself of some more adequate means of transmission.

In point of fact there will nearly always, even in the most impulsive outburst of pleasure or pain, enter an element of simple dramatic representation, by which some of the mental qualities distinctive of the various emotions are communicated. With regard to dancing, for instance, we can only speak in the abstract of any simply “gymnastic” forms.[130] Even if the movements originally aim at nothing but enhancement or relief for an indistinct emotional state, they will unavoidably take the character of such movements as have been connected with some emotion, and thereby, in spectators as well as in performers, awaken some faint revival of this complex state of feeling. This process can be very clearly observed in the case of the pseudo-pantomimes which are so general among lower tribes. When a savage is in a high-strung state of feeling, he generally resorts to the same movements which have served him to express the greatest and most frequent excitements of his life. Among warlike tribes the dances of joy, as well as their developments, salutation dances, and complimentary dances,[131] generally have a distinct military character.[132] No doubt it may be contended that the particular character of these pantomimes was originally a result of political considerations. In a military state of society it is perhaps simply a measure of safety to receive strangers with threats. But however important this utilitarian aspect may be, it seems more probable that a great part of these apparently unmotived pantomimes, which are executed when we should expect only a simple outburst of joy, are best interpreted as real instances of borrowed expression, necessitated by the limitations of our means of expression and furthered by associative processes.

In the life of self-contained educated men we do not generally meet with this phenomenon in so distinct a form. But even here the fragmentary pantomimes into which a man often falls when mastered by a quite indistinct feeling—we need only refer to the erotic character of embraces and other gestures of joy—show us that expression always adds an element of definiteness to the psychical state expressed. When treating of the reactions consequent upon bodily pain, we have already had to take into account the species of imaginative materialisation, as though pain were a concrete thing, a shirt of Nessus, by which a sufferer is generally induced to explain his automatic movements. Here we need only point out that a similar, so to speak, mythogenic influence, a natural tendency to personification, results not only from reactions to pain, but also from all expressive activities. An indistinct mood of pleasure thus generally passes over into a joy—that is, a feeling which is referred to some cause, imaginary or real—when the functional enhancement has reached our voluntary muscles. An oppression, which in its origin may be purely physiological, is transformed, when the bodily modifications become more differentiated,[133] into fear of something unknown—for instance, some impending danger.

Since it is so difficult for the individual himself to perceive a mental state as one of pure sensation with no element of thought, we need not wonder that his expression always transmits to the spectator something more than the mere excitement or depression of simple feeling. However strictly we try to isolate the pure rhythm of a lyrical performance, there will always slip into it an element of mimetic expression—we do not know of a better adjective—which suggests a mental state, distincter and better defined than that of pure feeling. In reality, therefore, the dramatic forms of dancing are no less primordial than those purely rhythmical manifestations which the necessities of treatment have compelled us to consider as a separate group.[134] It is also evident that the dramatic or mimetic element will increase in importance as the endeavour to represent mental states and transmit them to outsiders becomes more conscious and deliberate.

We have dealt at sufficient length with the transmission of emotion by mimetic expression. A striking instance of this process has already been found outside the domain of art in the contagiousness of collective states of mind. When art adopts emotional transmission as an end in itself, this contagiousness is naturally increased. On the side of the executant we have to suppose a conscious endeavour to make the mimic expression as easily appropriated as possible; on the side of the spectator an increased readiness to partake of the expressed feeling. A theatrical audience, indeed, unlike a riotous mob, does not generally go so far as to imitate its leader, the actor, by actual movement. Conscious of the fictitious character of the performance, the spectators are able to resist the sub-conscious volitional impulses which they receive. But while thus controlling their outward activity, those who attentively follow the acting may nevertheless appropriate in an almost direct manner the feelings represented. Although they remain passive spectators and preserve an appearance of immobility, they are apt to follow, in a kind of abridgment, the attitudes and facial play of the performers. At the most critical stages of a popular melodrama the audience always falls into an unconscious pantomime, which, as Engel remarked, to the psychological observer is of far greater interest than that enacted on the stage.[135] In the higher forms of dramatic art this direct transmission of feeling no doubt loses a great deal of its importance. But we believe that every attentive playgoer has occasional opportunities of observing, in himself if not in his neighbours, faint traces of an unconscious and involuntary imitation which follows all the movements of the performers. Such imitation will, of course, become more and more pronounced the more the dialogue gives place to pantomimic action, and the more vividly and convincingly this action is represented. As an example of the power with which a good mimic may compel even the most critical spectator to participate in emotional moods, we cannot quote anything better than the description of Garrick in Lichtenberg’s Briefe aus England. “His facial expression is so powerful as to invite imitation. When he is grave his audience is grave. When he frowns the house frowns, and it smiles when he smiles. In his hidden pleasure, and in his intimate manner, when, in an aside, he gives the audience his confidence, there is something so winning that one’s whole soul goes out to this fascinating man.”[136]

It may be thought that the above described processes occur only in those arts which can be called dramatic in the proper sense of the word. If this were the case, the principle of emotional transmission by direct imitation would of course be of very restricted æsthetic importance. We think, however, that a histrionic element can be noticed, with greater or less distinctness, no doubt, in all the various forms of artistic production. It certainly enters into literature, where popular authors, especially of the sentimental class, always possessed the secret of suggesting feelings by representing their manifestations in “contagious” description. And it plays an important part in all the arts of design, formative as well as decorative.

We may often catch ourselves faintly imitating movements or attitudes represented in sculpture. And this influence of suggestion is felt not only, as Professor Lange thinks, in the case of melodramatic sculpture—expressive of the most violent passions—it contributes also, in no slight degree, to our enjoyment of the forms which represent the gentler moods.[137] However calm and impassive the facial expression of a statue may be, the attitude of the body will always communicate to us a feeling of some kind, of strength and assurance, or perhaps of settled melancholy.

In the art of painting this mimetic principle tends to be lost among the descriptive elements. The direct transmission of feeling is replaced by an indirect and associative one. Still, there are few works, if any, in which the histrionic factor is entirely lacking. It may be detected with especial clearness in sentimental or comic figure-painting, which often literally infects us with the emotions it represents. When looking at a Japanese caricature, for instance, of the gods of happiness, we often laugh with the laughter of the picture long before we have realised the cause of it, or formulated any judgment as to the artistic merits of the representation.

It is true that pictorial art has many branches in which the human figure does not appear at all. But this absence does not by any means entail a complete loss of mimetic suggestiveness. As our perceptions, whether of animate or inanimate objects, are always accompanied by a complete or abortive imitation, any kind of form or movement may call forth in us activities distinctive of some emotional mood. Just as a rhythmic series of simple acoustic or visual impressions may occasion in us the functional modifications accompanying simple feeling, and thereby arouse in us the mental state of which this rhythm is an exteriorisation, so the mimic movements which are the physiological counterparts of distinct emotion may be, so to speak, translated into lines and forms, by which the emotion is reproduced in other minds. Thus even an object of handicraft—a vase, for instance—may, by the suggestiveness of its shape, affect our emotional life in an almost immediate way. And geometric ornament has an equal, if not even greater, power of conjuring up in us emotional states, which we read into the angles and volutes. Finally, the concrete objects of nature are full of “expressive qualities” which make them available as a means of conveying our feelings. The whole world of visual reality can thus be used in a kind of indirect mimetism,—a dramatic expression, so to speak, in which natural and abstract forms replace the human body.

The course of our argument has led us to emphasise the lyrical and dramatic elements in artistic activity. But we do not by any means wish to underrate the fact that it is only a very small minority of works the nature of which can be exhaustively described by these two qualities. With increased importance of the intellectual elements accompanying the emotional states, direct emotional suggestion must unavoidably appear an inadequate means of communication. A joy or a sorrow, together with a notion of some objective cause of it, rapture or admiration, anger, hate, or despair,—all these and similar states can be completely conveyed to an outsider only in so far as they have been accounted for to his intellect. As the theoretically latest manifestation of the craving for social expression there will thus appear an impulse to represent or describe objective events or things, by which a feeling similar to that of the producing artist may be called forth in his audience. And thus in almost all art-forms, in ornament and music as well as in painting and novels, there will be found an imitation of nature which serves what in the widest use of the term we may call an epic purpose.

The intellectual justification of a feeling by representation of a cause and the orderly form of its direct or secondary expression are, however, in themselves insufficient to secure a response; the attention and goodwill of the audience must first be conciliated. A sympathetic rapport always presupposes a state of compliance in at least one of the parties involved. When seeking by means of a work of art to obtain a response to an overmastering feeling the artist is thus constrained to exercise persuasion upon his real or fictitious public. As M. Sully-Prudhomme has finely remarked, it is only by first caressing our senses that art rouses our feelings and awakens our thoughts.[138] Besides that element of beauty which can be immediately derived from the expressed content, and that element of gracefulness which follows as result of the psychical freedom attained by expression, there are in nearly all works of art qualities whose aim is exclusively to please. If we may risk a somewhat audacious parallel, we may say that the work of art, in the same way as a living organism, an animal or a plant, entices the attention and charms the senses with the beauty of its “means of attraction,” not for the sake of these attractions themselves, but for the secret they at the same time conceal and disclose. All these allurements might easily cause a superficial observer to lose sight of the simple fact which lies at the bottom of the artistic work, viz. the feeling-state which demands expression and response. We thus see why the impulse to attract by pleasing has been considered as synonymous with the art-impulse.

As has already been remarked, such an interpretation cannot account for the coercive force of the artistic impulse. And equally with the theories based upon the epic or descriptive elements in art, it is incompatible with the principle of the unity of art. If the logical evolution of the art-forms is conceived in the way we have described, all the various manifestations of artistic activity can be derived from one common principle. And by the aid of this one principle we are able to explain the force of that impulse which, with similar coercive force, urges to creation within the various art-forms.

However much the artistic impulse may become differentiated with the progress of culture, its innermost nature will always remain the same. However complex its manifestations, their aim is always to secure a faithful response to an overmastering feeling. The more accomplished the work of art, the more its creator will become independent of the chance audience, which by its sympathetic expression produces an enhancing retroaction on his feeling. He learns to give his mental states an embodiment which facilitates their reproduction in wider surroundings. Thus the expressional impulse directs him to place himself in sympathetic rapport with a fictitious public. He creates, that is to say, expresses himself, for an ideal spectator,—for posterity or for himself. With a proud indifference to his most immediate social environment, he may thus consider his own production as perfectly exempt of any social motivation. The aphorism of Mill, “All poetry is a soliloquy,” would no doubt be accepted by many of the most eminent poets. But the psychological observer cannot help remarking that in such soliloquies the ego serves as a substitute for an external public. The artist has in a sense a double capacity; and artistic creation in solitude may be always explained by the fact that the creator exists also as his own spectator.

The production of even the most individualistic and most isolated artists can therefore be explained only by sociological considerations. And the same is the case with those artists who work only for posterity. It would be wrong to say that art in any one of its higher manifestations aims at transmitting a feeling. Its purpose is far rather an immortalisation. But this very desire to perpetuate a mental state, this desire which constrains the artist to strive indefatigably for the attainment of a form, capable of imparting to all men of every country and every age the same enhancement and the same rapture which he has himself experienced—this highest manifestation of the expressional impulse—can be fully explained only by reference to the enhancing and relieving power of social expression. In whatever light the art-impulse may appear to the reflecting consciousness of the producing artist, this is the only consistent interpretation at which we can arrive by an examination of the artistic activity on psychological grounds.

CHAPTER VIII
ART THE RELIEVER

In the endeavour to secure the transmission and perpetuation of a feeling, the expressional activity gradually loses its purely impulsive character. From an almost reflex outlet for abnormal nervous pressure, it is more and more transformed into deliberate artistic production, which is conscious of its aim as well as of the means for attaining it. The elaboration of a work of art, in which the expression of a feeling-state is to be concentrated, and concentrated in a way which not only facilitates but even enforces in the spectator the assimilation of this state, is a complicated operation which cannot of course take place without the effectual co-operation of intellectual and volitional activities. And their co-operation, on the other hand, must evidently exercise some influence on the primordial feeling.

It is a familiar observation, duly emphasised in all psychological handbooks, that strong feelings make clear thought impossible. Everyday experience, as well as scientific experiment, gives unmistakable evidence of the influence which abnormal excitement or depression exercises, not only on our ideas and their associations, but even on the perceptions. The converse has perhaps not been stated so often. Still, it does not admit of doubt that intensified intellectual activity may, in some cases, even more effectually than motor reaction, overcome the tyranny of a hypernormal feeling. It is true that every mental state becomes more distinct as a phenomenon of consciousness when our thoughts are directed towards it. Feelings of low and moderate intensity may even be enhanced in their purely emotional aspect if we let our intellect play on them. But as soon as a greater intensity of feeling is reached, this relation is reversed. Joy which is so great as to be a burden, “Die Noth der Fülle,”[139] and numbing despair, must inevitably decrease when there is an increase of distinctness in their intellectual elements. The more we can compel ourselves to contemplate with cool and clear attention the causes and manifestations of such high-strung states, the more we are also able to master them. It is a familiar experience to everyone that strong fear can be vanquished, if only we can succeed in diverting all our attention to its objective source, and “stare the danger in the face.” When the attention is concentrated and intensified to the utmost degree, it may even, as in the case of fascination, entirely prevent, to our own danger, the very rise of this self-preserving emotion.

In artistic creation we are not concerned with an intentional or unintentional effort to overcome feeling. On the contrary the aim is here to keep the strongest possible hold of it in order to give it the most effective embodiment. So irreconcilable, however, is the conflict between emotional excitement and intellectual activity, that the latter, even when it expressly serves the purposes of emotional enhancement, must neutralise the excess of feeling. A state of strong pleasure or pain can never be rendered intelligible to outsiders, unless its expression is bridled and disciplined by thought. By being thus embodied in a fixed form the feeling gains in conceivability as well as in infectious power. But while the effect on spectators and listeners is in this way increased, the artistic form influences the feeling subject himself in a quite different way. Its very clearness and distinctness necessarily brings something of that calm which all excitement seeks as relief.

The immediate reaction which the work of art exercises on its own creator is of course most easily seen and understood in the “higher” art-forms with their pronounced intellectual elements. Literary instances of the “poetic cure” for harassing or oppressing emotion are too numerous to be mentioned. The only point we need dwell on is the question how these instances are to be interpreted. When a poet seeks to give shape and form to his own sufferings by means of fiction, the relief he obtains is no doubt in part an effect of the diversion of activity into the channels of expression. But to a still greater degree it may be a result of the healthful influence exercised by the contemplation of objective reality in the finished work of art. Such an influence is unmistakable in the most illustrious instance of artistic production as a life-preserving expedient: Goethe’s Leiden des jungen Werther. In his memoirs the old poet frankly and unreservedly describes how, when lacerated by the conflict between hypochondriac, suicidal thoughts and an ineradicable love of life and cheerfulness, he resorted to the old homely remedy of writing down his sufferings. He lays especial stress on his desire to give definite form and body to his vague feelings of distress. And as we read that afterwards, when the work lay finished before him, “bound in boards, as a picture in its frame, so as to prove the more convincingly its individual and concrete existence,” he could feel “free and joyful, and entitled to a new life,” we cannot but explain this renewed courage to live as a result of the sensation of security and support which the beholding of external form affords.[140]

Thus, to begin with, by its character as a palpable, objective reality, the work of art may diminish the subjective disturbance in which it originates. This influence is supplemented by the retroaction of the æsthetic qualities, in the narrowest sense of the term, such as beauty, symmetry, and the like, by which an artist always seeks, intentionally or unintentionally, to arrest the attention of his public. The more therefore the work grows in definiteness in the thought and under the hand of the artist, the more it will repress and subdue the chaotic tumult of emotional excitement. The Dionysiac rapture, as the ancients would have said, gives place to Apolline serenity. In language pruned of mythological symbolism, this only means that art is better able than any of the immediate expressional activities to give complete and effective relief from emotional pressure. And it further implies that however earnestly an artist may strive to communicate to his public the exact feeling he has himself experienced, the emotional content expressed in his work will always be of another and more harmonious character than the mental state by which his production was originally called into existence. To the extent that artistic form appears in a given work or manifestation there will also be present, independently of the subject,—cheerful or sad, passionate or calm,—a sense of mental liberation, which atones for the excesses of emotional excitement.

In a final and exhaustive treatment of æsthetic problems this influence of artistic form would need to be traced through all the departments of art-activity. And it would be one of the most interesting parts of such a research to estimate the relative power with which art in its various branches is able to assuage at the same time as it excites. We need not here undertake such a thorough comparative examination of the different arts. What has been said about literary creation may be applied in substance to formative production as well. And it even remains true with regard to those most lyrical and immediately expressive arts which seem to be altogether destitute of objective form and intellectual content. Although it has often been said that the lowest kinds of music are purely emotional manifestations, we may still discern an element of form in the rhythm which regulates even the simplest songs and dances.[141] And the creation of this form undoubtedly requires a certain amount of conscious intention and intellectual activity. It is therefore natural that the intensest and most abnormally enhanced feeling should exclude the possibility of rhythmical movement. Exalted joy and violent despair are in their external manifestations not only inharmonious and ungraceful, but also unrhythmic.[142] But by subjecting the expression to the yoke of a fixed time order we may succeed in harmonising it. And while the regular recurrence of intervals facilitates our movements—which thereby gain in ease and gracefulness—the vehemence of our feeling will be abated. Thus it is possible that although rhythm powerfully reinforces musical or dramatic excitement, it may at the same time exercise a restraining influence on hypernormal feeling. And its effects in music and dance show us, in the simplest and most comprehensive of all examples, the importance of artistic form. The musical katharsis or relief to sensation always involves stimulation, but it may nevertheless affect us as a sedative. The more the form-element and attention to form gain in prominence, the more effectual also is the relieving influence of art. Where the stimulative element is predominant in a work of art, there the relief is less complete.

This contrast, which can be observed at all stages of artistic development, is eminently conspicuous in ancient art, where high and low forms are often to be found in close juxtaposition. The superiority of Greek music over Phrygian music was a favourite topic of the old writers on art, and the legend of the contest between Apollo and Marsyas served as a mythological variation on the same theme. Lyre and flute stood as symbols for two different classes of art, of which one was violent, orgiastic, and barbarous, while the other was calm in its Olympian serenity.[143]

But the contrast expressed in these parables by the ancient authors and some of their modern followers is not so sharp in reality. Even the lively notes of a flute may, to use the old metaphor, by their bound time exercise a kind of restraining influence on the passions. And on the other hand the sedative power of soft music is by no means so great as has often been contended. While acting hygienically as a cure for excess of passion or sorrow it cannot produce any moral result properly so called. As M. Combarieu has pointed out in his acute criticism of Cardinal Perraud’s Eurythmie et Harmonie, it is an incontestable fact, which has only too often been overlooked by Platonising philosophers, that even the most immoral feelings may be expressed in perfect melody.[144] The musical, and still more the merely rhythmical, form cannot change the quality of these feelings; it can only deprive them of their dangerous intensity. The mental state thereby gains in pure and unmingled pleasure; it becomes ennobled as enjoyment, but it is by no means moralised, at least not according to modern views. It is only from the standpoint of a purely hedonic system of ethics that music, or any other art, can be said to exercise an immediate moral influence.

When trying to summarise our researches on the differences between artistic and non-artistic expression of emotional states in a comprehensive conclusion, we are again led to that eminently illustrative instance—the Bacchantic condition of the ancient Maenads. We have seen that in their description of Dionysiac mania the classical authors enumerate almost all the various orgiastic manifestations which can be found in all periods in different parts of the world. And if ancient literature affords us an epitome of the various expedients to which the expressional impulse resorts in its endeavour to enhance and relieve an emotional state, the force of this craving for expression, on the other hand, nowhere appears with such convincing clearness as in the Dionysiac monuments of classical art.

The frieze around the Bacchic candelabra in the Louvre proves better than any psychological analysis to how great a degree the Dionysiac state is alloyed with pain and the longing for relief. If these Maenads be compared with the figures on the great vases in the British Museum and with the various Agave reliefs, it will still more conclusively appear that it is real distress which compels the dancers to seek in ever-increasing excitement deliverance from the burden of their feelings. No movement could be more eloquently expressive of the corresponding psychical state than the peculiar toss on the head and the backward curve of the upper trunk which can always be recognised in the most violent of the dancers. An approach to this attitude (“opisthotonos”) sometimes appears, as Spencer remarks in his essay on the Physiology of Laughter, in movements of great joy, which has not been able to find expression by the usual channels of discharge.[145] But there is no doubt that, however pleasurable the quality of the original state may have been, its tone must have been radically transformed before it could produce these strained postures. A feeling which distorts the body by its efforts to find relief, which is not satisfied with the wild cries, the dances, and all the madness of the Bacchic intoxication, must in its abnormal exaggeration be perceived as a pain. The pathological character of this feeling appears further from the fact that the very same movement may be observed in Pierre Breughel’s paintings of hysteric patients and in M. Charcot’s photographs from La Salpétrière.[146] And this same backward toss of the head may be seen in sculptures of witches, the mediæval Bacchantes, where it sometimes gives an impression of proud and insolent defiance, sometimes one of profound melancholy.[147] But in the reliefs representing Bacchic orgies, side by side with the dancers whose distorted attitude and violent movements betray the pain underlying the appearance of revel and riot, there may always be seen the figures of women moving with easy and graceful step. The freedom of their motion shows that they at least have found deliverance from the oppression of overstrung feeling. The nervous tension which in their companions manifests itself in unrhythmic, inharmonious leapings and withings, has in their case found relief and given place to a feeling of rest and calm. This expression of peace in their faces, attitudes, and draperies affords an instructive comment on the Greek notion of Dionysos, the god of music, who, with all his wildness is none the less able to still the tempests of overpowering feelings.

This god of music, as conceived by those who gave him a place among the Olympians, was not a symbol of dissolute pleasure. On the contrary, the myths tell us how those who oppose his ritual themselves fall victims to a mania even more violent than the Bacchic frenzy itself. His devotees, on the other hand, receive from the stirring notes of his flute and cymbals a determinate form and mould for their otherwise vehement and irregular expression-movements. Their joy loses its defiant and barbaric character, their black despair is dissolved into gentle sadness. Rightly, therefore, was Dionysos saluted as a deliverer when, with his merry crew, he marched from village to village. Like him art moves among men, ennobling their joy and blunting the edge of their sufferings.

CHAPTER IX
THE WORK OF ART

According to an old theory the classical drama originated in the Dionysiac cultus.[148] The artistic development of savage and barbarous tribes supplies many analogies which strongly support this view. The simplest drama and the most primitive poetry have in most nations been connected with orgiastic rites which, from the psychological point of view, closely resemble the Bacchic ceremonies. But we may go still further. It has been contended on good grounds that even the formative arts made their earliest appearance on the occasion of great public festivals.[149] It might seem that if this view could only be corroborated by a sufficient body of ethnological evidence, there would be no need of any further argument in favour of the emotionalistic interpretation of art. Granted that the simplest manifestations of all the different arts served primarily as means of heightening a festive mood, then the psychological origin of the artistic activity ought to be ascertained by an analysis of high-pitch feeling. The same mental causes and conditions which called forth the most primitive manifestations of art, and determined their character, may naturally be assumed to have influenced in greater or less degree the higher forms as well. And thus in further support of our view we might simply refer to the study of a typical exaltation with which the preceding chapter was concluded.

We have here an apparently easy solution of the problem before us. But by resorting to it we should expose ourselves to the risk of mistakes which is inherent in every historical method. Not only is it impossible, as has already been remarked, to make any positive assertion as to the purely æsthetic and autotelic character of a given manifestation: it is almost equally difficult to quote a rite or practice the interpretation of which, from the emotional standpoint, is clear and undisputed. Even the wild antics of the Maenads, in spite of the numerous analogies to them presented by the diseased mental states of modern man, have been explained by some archæologists as a stereotyped ritual. The self-wounding and the tearing up of living animals have been interpreted as different forms of a sacrificial cult; the frantic gestures and songs as dramatic representations of ancient myths.[150] It would require too cumbrous an apparatus merely to state and criticise existing theories on this point. And even if we could prove that the Bacchantic manifestations may be explained without reference to religious or commemorative intentions in the dancers, as purely emotional activities, grave objections would still remain to be answered. From the medical point of view it might be maintained that the Dionysiac state, as well as all analogous conditions among savage and civilised nations, is a purely pathological phenomenon.[151] By connecting artistic production with these states we should therefore expose ourselves to the accusation of treating art as an abnormality. And it would be of no use to appeal to Nietzsche’s brilliant but unconvincing defence of the position that the ancient Dionysiac orgies ought really to be considered as splendid disorders of health and overflowing vigour.[152]

It is therefore necessary to state explicitly that what we have said about the Dionysiac state must by no means be taken as referring to actual historic facts known about the bacchanals. The descriptions of Euripides and other classical authors are valuable as expressions of the predominant notions of art quite independently of the reality which may or may not have corresponded to them. The corybantic mania afforded to the Greek mind a typical simile by which to illustrate that state of formless excitement which precedes the artistic creation. In the mythical descriptions of the melancholia of the Thyiads, and in the sculptural representations of their dances and extravagances, it was easy to recognise—more by instinct, perhaps, than by reflection—the same dissatisfaction and the same longing for fuller and deeper expression which compels the artist to seek in æsthetic production compensation for the deficiencies of life. And the feeling of liberation, which in the artist, upon the attainment of artistic form, supersedes overmastering and inharmonious excitement, seemed explicable by the analogy of the relief which the mythical Dionysus bestowed upon his devotees. At a time, therefore, when dancing occupied a prominent place among the arts, it must have been quite natural to consider the god of dance and music as an embodiment of the feelings and impulses of artistic creation. For modern times, however, this poetic parable has scarcely even an illustrative value. It would be too far-fetched to treat the simple, lyrical dance and song as a general type of art, seeing that in real life dancing has long ago been almost entirely superseded by more complicated forms of artistic activity.

It is, however, only in such direct manifestations as the simplest song, dance, and poetry that the artistic activity itself is accessible to our analysis. With regard to those higher forms of art in which the dramatic and epic elements play an important part, it may indeed be contended that even they originate in an emotional craving for expression. And it can be proved, as we have tried to show in the preceding chapters, that such a theory gives us the best explanation of the life-preserving influence of artistic creation. But it is not to be concealed that, as far as painting, sculpture, and the higher forms of poetry are concerned, this view is exclusively based upon hypothesis. It cannot be considered as established so long as we have no authentic information on the feelings and impulses which direct a sculptor or a painter in his work. The only competent witnesses who can give us this information—namely, the artists themselves—have generally paid too little attention to theoretic problems to make any observations on their own mental states during the task of creation; and even when they do so they are deterred by a natural sense of propriety from making any public revelations on a matter which affects their most intimate emotional life. All the more impertinent would it be for an outsider to make a priori assertions on the psychical motives for their work. While entitled to speak with some confidence on the simple, universal arts, the theoretical observer cannot, with regard to the specialised crafts, rely upon either experience or sympathetic understanding. The only safe point of departure is here the objective work. Our interpretation can be considered as conclusively established only if we are able to show that the distinctive qualities of the work of art, as met with in the highest manifestations of art, are such as to provide some emotional state with the most adequate and most convincing expression.

The work of art has been the subject of theoretical investigation to a far greater extent than the artistic impulse. When examining its distinctive qualities we can therefore constantly avail ourselves of the researches of earlier writers on æsthetic. There is no need to search for the problems to be solved nor to justify the scheme of inquiry. We have to show that our interpretation of the artistic activity is consistent with the general principles according to which the value of art-works is estimated. These principles, on the other hand, can evidently be discovered only by studying the judgments on art which have been embodied in æsthetical literature. Owing to the mutual contradictions between the several æsthetic systems, such a study is indeed not an easy one. But if minor differences are disregarded it is not impossible to find a common standard on which almost all writers agree. For while the theories on art, as different from other departments of life, have been based upon varying philosophical assumptions, the ideal of excellence in art has, at least in the case of all real æstheticians, been developed under the influence of a close familiarity with the best manifestations of living art. Notwithstanding the ever-varying currents of taste and the individual predilections which affect even the most impartial judgment, it is thus possible to point to a common fund of simple and catholic principles of criticism.

As far as the lyrical forms of art are concerned we need not dwell at any length on the æsthetic requirements which they are generally expected to fulfil. It is easy to understand that, however one may explain the purpose of artistic activity and the impulse which leads to it, the accomplished work of art must always possess some element of sensual beauty which may attract and hold the attention. If we were attempting a complete treatment of all æsthetic problems we might attempt to prove that such qualities appear to a very great extent as unintentional by-products of artistic expression. The perfect gracefulness, for example, which forms the distinguishing merit of all genuine art, is seldom a result of conscious endeavour. As, according to its nature, pleasure is necessarily accompanied by facilitated conditions of life, an artistic manifestation will generally be graceful in the same degree as it expresses pure and unmingled joy. And even if the feeling which originally called forth a dance, a song, or a drama is one of pain, its expression will unavoidably acquire under the influence of artistic form an element of ease. The freedom, and, still more, the unconsciousness, that characterise the “inspired” creation may thus clothe with a peculiar grace even the representation of such mental states as in real life manifest themselves in the most inharmonious forms.[153] In the same way dignity, the quality complementary to grace, may be deduced directly from the emotional conditions of artistic activity.

This explanation does not apply, however, to such special qualities as, for instance, symmetry and proportion. Neither can it be denied that these qualities may be of incalculable importance in art as means of heightening the effectiveness of the work. But we hold that a problem like that of symmetry belongs to the science of beauty rather than to the theory of art. By a symmetrical arrangement of its parts, or by a right proportion between them, an object may indeed become a thing of beauty; but it acquires an artistic character only in so far as this symmetry and proportion perform or assist the function of expression. Even among the most authors who lay most stress on the paramount importance of form there are few who contend that these abstract qualities can by themselves bestow the title of art upon a work or a manifestation.

Quite different is the case of those æsthetic laws which have been deduced from the arts of description. As the majority of writers on æsthetic have restricted their attention to works of art in which nature has been imitated or represented, it is only natural that artistic merit should be thought to depend on the relation of the copy to the original. The most simple explanation is undoubtedly that which is adopted by a large section of the public, viz., that an artistic manifestation is perfect in proportion as it gives a faithful rendering of objective nature. For all that has been contended by the opponents of the realistic movements which predominated in the eighties, we do not think that many producing authors have been guided in their work by such narrow notions. In æsthetic literature at least so radical a realism has been upheld only by a few isolated authors.[154] Ever since Aristotle’s time it has been laid down that a work of art must be something other and better than a mere copy. And æsthetic science from its first beginning has in the main agreed upon the general principles by which artistic imitation attains perfection. These principles, formulated with varying clearness in the earlier systems, have found their most philosophical elaboration in the works of Vischer and Taine. In his Hegelian terminology the German author puts it that the work of art must show us, in an æsthetic semblance, the full and whole presence of an idea which is underlying the things represented. In the philosophy of Taine, which, by making science its point of departure, differs so greatly from Hegelianism and yet resembles it so strikingly in general character, the same thought has been expressed in the doctrine of dominant qualities.[155] If these criteria are divested of the technical garb which makes them so inconvenient to handle, they appear to rest ultimately on a simple observation which may be repeated in all æsthetic experience. We find in all descriptive art-works a subordination of qualities supposed to be of inferior importance to what philosophers of Taine’s school term “la faculté maîtresse.” In most works too there may be found a relation of the represented thing to the rest of nature, which in a Hegelian mind may awaken the notion of a general idea behind the individual phenomenon. But, as we have already observed, it is a mark of excessive intellectualism to assume that the desire to discover predominant qualities or hidden ideas is the impelling force in art-creation. And we shall now endeavour to show that it is equally one-sided to consider the enjoyment of art as conditioned by increased intellectual knowledge of individual or universal phenomena and ideas.

The defects of intellectualistic art-theories are perhaps most manifest in the system of Taine. Taine himself seems to believe that the “faculté mère” really exists, and that it can be not only represented by an artistical treatment of nature, but also discovered by scientific study; he is consequently unable to make any proper distinction between the departments of science and art.[156] And, on the other hand, his own critical studies show us how incompatible is the principle of dominant faculties with a purely scientific conception of reality. Too often, in the attempt to deduce every manifestation and every personality from a determinate, all-explaining and all-conditioning quality, he loses sight of the rich variety of life, and gains instead merely a brilliant formula. Thus, however suggestive his criticisms may be, they are seldom scientifically exact. There is none, however, of all his admirers who would wish to have anything changed in his writings on art; for we know that by this very one-sidedness, which is the source of his scientific shortcomings, he has at the same time attained his greatest, though perhaps unintentional, triumphs as an artist.

In illustration of this we need only refer to one instance: his celebrated description of the lion.[157] Objections may be raised from the zoological point of view to his selecting the lion as a representative of animal strength, and from the anatomical point of view to his deducing its whole configuration from the structure of its jaws. But it is impossible to deny that precisely by such a one-sided and exaggerated portrait Taine has succeeded in giving an expression to his admiration for elementary force better than would have been possible by a scientifically faithful description. Accordingly Taine’s lion, in spite of its faults from the point of view of science, remains a classical illustration of the æsthetic importance of dominant qualities.

If we try to explain why it is that the subordination of all characters under one “faculté maîtresse,” although unfavourable to scientific comprehension, is nevertheless so useful for artistic representation, we shall be unavoidably led to that distinction between scientific and artistic purposes which has been overlooked in the intellectualistic systems of æsthetic. The work of art does not claim to give us, nor do we expect to receive from it, increased knowledge as to the real nature or predominant characters of things and events. We only wish to get the clearest and strongest impression of the feelings with which an object has been contemplated by the artist. It is therefore to the psychological conditions for conveying a feeling-state by help of intellectual mediation that we should look for the explanation of those laws of artistic composition which Vischer and Taine have interpreted in a manner exclusively intellectualistic, and therefore unæsthetic.

The desire to fix a passing emotional state—in order to facilitate either the revival of the same state or its transmission to outsiders—by help of intellectual elements with which the feelings have been associated, is not restricted to the purely artistic mental processes. In religion and in love this endeavour to evade the transience of feeling is especially evident. And here we may observe a selection of the intellectual elements and a mode of treating them, which, although it cannot be called artistic, is nevertheless somewhat analogous to the selective treatment of nature which takes place in artistic representation. The institutors of religion have all been well aware of the fact that it is not immaterial what kind of ideas and sensations are chosen to embody a feeling. They have understood how impossible it is to impress an emotional state on the mind by the mediation of complex conceptions, which, to be fully apperceived, necessitate a particular activity of the intellectual functions. When seeking a means of conveying and perpetuating their deepest teaching, they have always, more instinctively perhaps than by any process of conscious search, been led to intellectual notions of the simplest possible kind. A single impression of sight, touch, or even of taste, may thus, by artificial association, be made the bearer of an emotional content which could not possibly be conveyed with anything like the same fulness by a less concentrated medium. In virtue, therefore, of their very simplicity, the vehicles and symbols of religious ritualism are the most powerful of all means of emotional suggestion. They offer us a simple impression which we can easily embrace with our senses, and by the aid of which we can infuse into our mind a rich complex of all the moods, such as reverence, ecstasy, and awe, which enter in the religious state.

In its most abnormally exalted developments love may give rise to a fetichistic adoration of objects connected with the beloved which is psychologically analogous to the cults of religion. And the same tendency to select some single representation or object as vehicle of a psychical state, which is so manifest in the case of these high-strung emotions, may also be noticed in connection with feelings of lower intensity. In all departments of psychical life we may thus find a corroboration of the assertion, which was already expressed by Hemsterhuis in his speculations on our desires, which always aim at “un grand nombre d’idées dans le plus petit espace de temps possible.”[158] We need only consult our memories—for example, of landscapes we have seen—to find that the emotional element of the recollection, our admiration, is always closely bound up with some single feature of the impression. We may indeed be able to revive the visual image itself by allowing the mind’s eye gradually to pass along all its details. But the subjective feelings in which we appropriated the impression and made it our own will not be resuscitated until we arrive at one particular detail—a single tree, or perhaps a figure—and concentrate our attention upon that. The experience of this law of emotional mechanics teaches us to look with a selective attention on everything of which we wish to preserve a vivid remembrance. The more emotional our intuition of a given whole, the greater is always our desire to concentrate it upon a single impression which supports and reconstitutes the original vision. The art of arranging great complexes of intellectual and emotional elements around single focal points, so to speak, may undoubtedly be greatly developed by exercise. But the procedure itself does not presuppose any conscious intention. It occurs almost as an instinctive expedient for escaping the incompatibility between diffused intellectual attention and strong feeling. On purely psychological grounds, therefore, we may adopt the aphorism of Teufelsdröckh: “For the soul, of its own unity, always gives unity to whatever it looks on with love.”[159]

As the artistic representation of nature, according to our view, expressly serves the purpose of perpetuating an emotional state, we should expect to meet with such a unity in every work of descriptive art. And this assumption may be amply corroborated by reference to art-history. We need not go for examples to such extreme schools as that of those modern French painters who endeavour to make every line in their pictures converge towards a point or a sharp angle. Within the domain of universally recognised art we may observe how the artist always tries to create a centre of gravity by accentuating some single feature in the event, the landscape, or the figure which serves as his model. The principle is the same as that of which we avail ourselves when endeavouring to preserve an emotional state in our memory for future enjoyment. But the procedure must necessarily be somewhat changed when the task is added of enabling outsiders to partake of the moods we have experienced. It is not then a matter of indifference which particular detail of a complex impression we single out as focal, and in which way we arrange the bulk of the impression around this focus. Indeed, any random quality, if it is given prominence and emphasis, may serve as a means of attracting attention to the work. But if one wishes to impart to spectators the exact emotional mood, of which a given fragment of nature acts as a representative, it is not sufficient to attract the attention of the spectators. We must also induce the spectators to look upon the whole of our model from our point of view. Instead of the casual connection by which in our own mind emotional memories may be bound up with some single sensation memory, we must try to introduce a causal connection which persuades the outsider to agree with our choice of the focal quality. The features selected for accentuation are to be made central, not only in the technical, but also in the logical sense. Figuratively speaking, it is not enough that the lines in a picture should converge towards a certain part; this part must also appear to the spectator as the one in which all other parts have their cause and their explanation. Thus the artistic imitation of nature will necessarily be connected with a search for a predominant quality, and an endeavour to represent this quality as a “faculté mère.” The things and events which are selected for the embodiment of a given emotional state become displayed in such a way that their whole being appears to be derived from the one quality which is most suited to represent this emotional state. The imitation is transformed into a construction, or rather reconstruction, by which objective nature is adjusted so as to harmonise with the subjective point of view.

Such a process of adjusting nature to the requirements of emotional transmission need not always lead to any definite and concrete work of art. It may also, as an unrealised tendency, accompany our intuition. And it is only by virtue of this creative element that the feeling for nature may be placed on a level with artistic production. If we are to explain, with Richard Wagner, the æsthetic attention of the layman as the result of a natural poetic gift (“Natürliche Dichtungsgabe”), we cannot possibly—as he does—base the artistic value of this attention on the fact that it is “concentrating” and “isolating.”[160] For so is necessarily every emotional way of looking at things. Artistic treatment of nature, on the other hand, whether abortive or carried to completion, always involves an endeavour to make the concentrated and isolated view acceptable to others. As we cannot explain the creation of concrete works of art without reference to a craving for social expression, so we cannot distinguish the artistic from the non-artistic intuition without assuming a tendency—unconscious and unintentional it may be, but none the less powerful—to socialise the emotional content, which is connected with a given intuition. The potential poet or painter, whose embryo work is bound to remain for ever a fact only of his own experience, is seldom apt to realise the purpose of his endeavour; he is not aware that he is composing a poem or a picture for himself as spectator or audience. Instinctively, however, he pursues in the adjusting of his intuition an end which is essentially similar to that of the actually creating artist. In both these cases of creation the impelling motive is, we believe, an emotional one. And in both cases the creative activity aims at making an emotional mood independent of the accidental and individual conditions under which it originally appeared. Instead of an intuition, the emotional content of which is concentrated in a conventional symbol, comprehensible only to the initiated, or in arbitrary centres of association, significant only for those by whom they have been selected, the artistic imagination tries to construct an intuition which, if embodied in external form, would by its own force impress itself, with all its accompanying emotional elements, upon any spectator. It tends, in short, whether consciously or unconsciously, to perpetuate and to transmit a complex of feeling.

We may now understand why it is that the artistic activity has so often been interpreted in an intellectualistic spirit. The search for an all-conditioning and all-explaining “faculté mère” by the help of which to convey in the most forcible way a representation of things and events, may, of course, easily be taken for an endeavour to discover the real nature of these things and events. And, in point of fact, every artist who has a true and keen eye for nature and life will necessarily light upon qualities which, while affording the most appropriate centre of gravity for his representation, are, also in the intellectualistic sense, explanatory of the subjects represented. By making every feature of his model converge towards this selected quality, he may thus produce an imitation which, even if it deviates from the visible reality, may appear truer than this reality itself. In proportion as his representation thus convinces us of its conformity with the actual or essential nature of things, it will, other things being equal, elicit a readier response from the spectator. It is only natural, therefore, that the very works which have exercised the most powerful influence on mankind should afford apparent support to the views of intellectualistic philosophers. Nor can it be wondered at that critics, in apportioning censure and praise, have attached so great an importance to the degree of exactness with which a work of art represents things or ideas.

Such an attitude on the part of art-judges becomes the more explicable when one takes into account the historical conditions under which the several forms of descriptive art have developed. Poetic and pictorial representation have both been extensively used for intellectual purposes. And it cannot be expected that the essential aims of artistic activity—as they appear to us when we theoretically distinguish this activity from other forms of life—should be clearly comprehended as long as the concrete works serve a non-æsthetic purpose. In proportion, however, as more exact and convenient methods replace the poetic and pictorial means of thought-conveyance, art will become freer to realise its own ends and consequently be judged more and more on its intrinsic merits. As rhythmic form and rhyme gained in distinctly artistic character from the time when the invention of systems of writing relieved them from the mnemonic task of preserving a record of events, so an æsthetic emancipation of the formative arts will necessarily follow as a result of increased efficiency in the mechanical means of recording sights. And in point of fact recent movements in art have already shown us how painting has grown more conscious of its essential aims, from being compelled to give up competition with instantaneous photography.

It is only the most narrow forms, however, of naturalistically imitative art that are thus made superfluous by scientific inventions. Those artists whose aim is, not to attain the level of nature by servile imitation, but to rival it by idealisation, will always be able to point to their task of representing essential qualities as one which remains for ever a prerogative of artistic production. But there are other signs which make us believe that even this form of intellectualistic purpose will gradually lose importance for creators as well as for spectators. The currents of thought which now prevail are scarcely such as to favour the continuance of professedly or covertly metaphysical doctrines of art. And even if philosophical opinion, which, after all, only has to do with the secondary justification of feelings and impulses, had remained unchanged ever since Hegel’s time, the changes which have taken place in the very personality of modern man could not but exercise an important influence on the production and estimation of art.

The intellectualistic illusion that every artistic representation has something to teach us about the essential nature of the things represented, can only arise on condition of there being a certain agreement between the world-view of the artist and that of his public. It presupposes a certain uniformity in the intellectual make of the individual creators and spectators. This condition, however, is fulfilled less than ever in modern life. By the influence of the increasing division of labour, characters become more and more differentiated; and these different characters naturally develop different ways of looking at things. The deviations from actual nature which are to be met with in the work of an individual artist have therefore a poor chance of convincing each individual spectator that they are in conformity with essential reality, as he is apt to conceive it from his individual point of view. Instead of the “eternal truths” so often spoken of in earlier æsthetic literature, we now read about the “illusions particulières” of the several artists. This sceptical attitude would of course exclude all vivid æsthetic life if the motives of artistic production and enjoyment were such as intellectualistic authors declare them to be. It cannot be observed, however, that the changed conceptions of art-activity have exercised any influence on the practice of artists. The same eagerness with which works were created when they were thought to represent the essential nature of things is now displayed by those who are endeavouring to produce works which often do not even pretend to give more than their personal impressions. And the critical public has shown itself ready to adopt a corresponding attitude in estimating the value of artistic manifestations. It no longer lays the chief stress on the intellectualistic requirement that artistic representation should be true to nature. It demands before all that the work of art should give a faithful rendering of the feelings with which the represented fragment of nature has been comprehended by the artist. Sincerity, as involving poetical truthfulness, thus becomes the chief claim which is set up for a work of modern art.

It may be objected that the principles of art-criticism which now prevail are too closely bound up with a transient movement to be adduced as proof in a discussion of art in general. When the contemporary current of subjectivism has been succeeded by new schools of art, the claim for objective veracity may again acquire greater importance. We have no desire to contend that such an evolution would be wholly regrettable. It is impossible in estimating works of art to put aside all logical and ethical considerations; and attachment to truth is too ineradicable an ethical instinct not to influence—consciously or unconsciously—our æsthetic judgments. But although it is neither possible nor desirable to exclude regard for intellectualistic elements, it may be theoretically advantageous to emphasise the distinct character of the æsthetic judgment. Modern criticism, as it has developed under the influence of modern subjective art, exhibits, we believe, the essentially artistic way of enjoying and estimating art. Although this attitude, owing to different influences, has been now more, now less, strictly maintained in various periods of art history, it has always been adhered to by all who enjoy art for its own sake. Whenever we regard a work of art without any secondary motive, we are not concerned with the objective realities which it depicts. We are not interested in the historic Laura whose praises we read in a poem. For all we care she may in reality have been lame, and red-haired, and hump-backed. We are quite contented if we receive a faithful impression of the beauty with which she charmed her poet.

When it has been proved that the rules governing the artistic adjustment of reality, which have been stated and vindicated on the basis of intellectualistic theories, may be equally well deduced from an emotionalistic interpretation, the argument can easily be extended so as to cover the principles governing the selection of subjects and motives for artistic representation. It is required in the Hegelian æsthetic that every single phenomenon which is represented in a work of art should suggest the presence of a greater and more universal idea.[161] In Goethe’s theory of style in art we meet with the same claim—which is closely connected with his general philosophy of nature—that every individual form or movement should have something to tell us about the world-process.[162] And when Taine tries to lay down a scale of gradation for the relative value of works of art, he assigns the highest place to those works in which the qualities exhibited are, firstly, as remarkable and essential as possible, and in which, secondly, these remarkable and essential qualities have been made as predominant as possible.[163] It can easily be seen that the reasoning which is here applied to the choice between different things is exactly the same which was used with regard to the different features of the same thing; and the psychological interpretation is, therefore, also the same in both cases. As the craving for the fullest and most adequate expression of an emotional state influences the artist in his representation of a given fragment of nature or life, so this craving must also influence his selection of the model to be represented. Owing to variations in temperament and æsthetic predilections the relative significance of these two aspects may be differently estimated in different art-schools. But the main principle cannot be invalidated by the fact that, for example, in French art and French æsthetic the definiteness is emphasised at the cost, perhaps, of richness, while in English art suggestiveness is often allowed to make up for lack of concentration.[164] A catholic theory must necessarily account for all the varying æsthetic ideals which have influenced artistic production. Although it must be considered as essentially non-æsthetic to contend, as Mr. Ruskin did at one time, that “that art is greatest which conveys to the mind of the spectator by any means whatsoever the greatest number of the greatest ideas,”[165] it must, on the other hand, be admitted that an individual thing is adequate as a means of conveying the fulness of feeling only if through this individual thing there can be suggested a multitude of other things recalled and represented.

Without assuming the philosophical principles from which Taine has derived his theory of the ideal in art, we may therefore understand and accept his scale of gradation of the relative value of works of art. And similarly we may interpret in an emotionalistic way all the rules of artistic composition and of conventionalising treatment of nature which have been proposed by intellectualistic authors on æsthetic. The nude figure in painting and sculpture, as well as the simple mythological themes in poetry and literature, will thus for ever retain their pre-eminence as subjects of artistic treatment. But this pre-eminence does not depend for its justification upon the fact that they give us an incarnation of the philosophical notion of the ideal man. It is sufficiently accounted for by their power of conveying a fuller and richer emotional content than any individually defined motive. Thus it can be explained why even spectators who have almost completely outgrown—or, if the expression is preferred, have fallen away from—idealistic ways of thought are nevertheless ready to appreciate the idealistic feeling in the art of Puvis de Chavannes.

It cannot be denied, however, that those motives which in the Hegelian æsthetic are considered as beautiful par excellence have been relatively neglected in modern art. To some extent this circumstance may be explained by the notion which is gaining more and more ground in the public mind—to wit, that in every single phenomenon we may see a résumé of the whole process of evolution. For it is evident that a spectator who has once adopted this philosophical way of looking at things may find even a well-represented piece of still-life quite as rich and æsthetically saturated as a painting of the most universal motive. A more important cause, however, is to be found in the fact that modern art, when endeavouring to convey large and full contents by single vehicle-impressions, has learned to avail itself of vehicles which cannot, properly speaking, be called either typical or representative. In literature especially we may observe that authors dwell with instinctive predilection on the description of scenes and events which open our eyes to large views behind them. It would be impossible to characterise all such favourite motives as beautiful; it is also often difficult to show that there is any general idea embodied in them. But they have invariably the quality of being emotional centres, in which a multiplicity of feelings and sensations has been united. By this quality they become apt to serve the purposes which are essential to the artistic craving; and by the same quality they satisfy the requirement of fullest possible enjoyment which is made by the spectator. What we demand of the perfect work of art is—to resort to an often-used image—that it shall be as a shell, which we may lift in our hand and bring to our ear, but in which, notwithstanding its smallness, we may hear the roaring and singing of the sea.

CHAPTER X
OBJECTIONS AND ANSWERS

If the preceding discussion has been to any degree convincing, the reader may perhaps have put to himself a question which has often presented itself to the author—why no complete æsthetic system has been based on the psychology of feeling. In recent times some attempts have indeed been made to deduce the æsthetic value of art-works from their emotional content.[166] But we do not know of any comprehensive theory in which all the distinctive features of art had been consistently explained by reference to an emotionalistic principle. This fact is so much the more remarkable as the importance of feeling has been at least accidentally acknowledged by some of the greatest writers on æsthetic, such as, for instance, Taine and Ruskin.[167] It cannot have been without some reason that these authors have refrained from basing their art-theories on the notion of a craving for expression,—which would have provided a clear line of demarcation between æsthetic and non-æsthetic activities,—and have instead explained art as an intellectual function, which appears confused alternately with scientific, philosophic, and ethical activity. An attempt to trace the causes of this attitude will contribute to a further elucidation of the emotionalistic theory of art.

It may be contended with some appearance of truth that as soon as authors, who are themselves artists, have pronounced their opinion on the purposes of their own art, those who are not artists have no call to continue the discussion. But this would be to overlook the fact that the pure artist, as well as the purely artistic activity, must be considered as an abstraction. The bent of Goethe’s genius, for example, was perhaps by nature quite as much towards science, particularly philosophy, as towards art. Thus, although an artist may himself lay the chief stress on the intellectual or ethical elements in his work, his opinion should not induce us to give up the purely æsthetic criteria which we need for the theoretical definition of art-production as an activity to itself.

It is again only natural that intellectualistic elements should occupy the foremost place in the practical art-ideals which artists place before themselves and each other. Technical perfection is the only quality which can be consciously and intentionally aimed at. In works, therefore, which, like Herr Hirth’s Physiologie der Kunst, are written from the point of view of the executive artist, this quality has received special attention.[168] For those who teach it or learn it, art must unavoidably appear as being chiefly a power and a skill. But for the theoretical observer it is evident that no kind of technical accomplishment, however wonderful it may be in itself, can impart to a work that purely æsthetic merit, art-value. The differences in the opinions of artists and theorists may therefore to a great extent have their ground in the different aspects of art, differently emphasised by either side to suit its own purposes.

It may, however, be objected that in the case of many artists and æstheticians it has been more than a negative cause which has deterred them from the emotionalistic interpretation. Goethe’s zealous championship of the intellectualistic elements in art was no doubt part of his crusade against prevailing sentimentalism.[169] There are many expressions in the æsthetic writings of Schiller which in their exaggeration would appear quite incomprehensible if we did not take into account the polemic position which he maintained towards the romantic currents in art.[170] In more recent times the reaction against the sentimental ideals has given rise to theories which are still more intellectualistic than the maxims of German classicism. By their dislike of that art which exhibits all the personal and most intimate emotions of the artist, the French Parnassians have been led to deny completely the part of feeling in all genuine art; and the mere existence of such a poetic school may be thought to prove the inadequacy of the interpretation of art which has been put forward in the preceding chapters.

The noblest expression of the personal pride that compels the artist to conceive his production as a purely intellectual function may be found in Leconte de Lisle’s sonnet “Les Montreurs,” where the poet refuses to be a beggar for the gross pity or laughter of the crowd.

Dans mon orgueil muet, dans ma tombe sans gloire,

Dussé-je m’engloutir pour l’éternité noire,

Je ne te vendrai pas mon ivresse ou mon mal,

Je ne livrerai pas ma vie à tes huées,

Je ne danserai pas sur ton tréteau banal

Avec tes histrions et tes prostituées.[171]

Nothing could indeed be further from our intentions than to enter the lists against the so-called Parnassian ideas. At a time when intimate confessions seem to be the most sought-for things in literature, we have reason to value every appeal to the dignity of the artist. But it is only a confusion of ideas which can lead any one to think that this dignity would be in any way infringed by the adoption of an emotionalistic art-theory. We have been especially anxious not to be misunderstood on this point, and this is the only reason why in the preceding chapters we have taken so much pains to disentangle the psychology of feeling, especially the relation between simple feeling and emotions. The word feeling, as it is used colloquially, generally involves only the fully formed emotions, especially those which are painful. Owing to this narrow and inadequate usage, every one who speaks of the importance of feeling for art exposes himself to the accusation of sentimentalism. But it is sufficient to point out, with regard to such misconceptions, that even pride, joy, elation, and all the other pleasurable states, may be quite as emotional as any sorrow or melancholy. The poem of Leconte de Lisle, quoted above, may therefore, in spite of all that the author himself may have objected against such an interpretation, be considered as an expression of feeling. And we can in the same way point out that in every one of the most orthodox Parnassian poems some emotional state has been expressed by the poet and conveyed to the reader. It is only by virtue of this element that the poems of this school have attained to their high poetical quality.

Within the department of the pictorial arts want of precision in the use of terms has given rise to a confusion which is even greater than that which prevails with regard to poetry. It has been a natural result of intellectualistic views that in every painting the subject, the situation represented, has been considered as the most important element. As the endeavour to give an explanatory representation of external things and events has been assumed as essential to the artistic craving, so the essence of the artistic work, its real content, has been looked for in the things and events depicted. Especially when paintings are designated by a descriptive title, spectators will be apt to turn their attention solely to those situations or impressions which can be subsumed under the title. If they cannot find any emotional element in the subject, they declare the whole painting to be devoid of feeling. And for this misconception they may even find support in the utterances of the artists; for there are many painters who, fearing lest they might be confused with the melodramatic sensation-mongers, have emphatically pronounced their abhorrence of all emotional suggestion. For the unbiassed observer, however, it is evident that the painter’s joy over a colour or a nuance, or the melancholy which can be expressed, without any anthropomorphic element, by a mere relation between light and shadow, may be as emotional states as those which are embodied in the humorous or sentimental subjects of genre-painting. Every artistic representation, whether landscape, figure, or still-life, always conveys to us some emotional mood of the painter. If this feeling element has been conveyed in some pictures with greater distinctness than in others, this fact must not prevent us from acknowledging that it enters into every kind of art. We do not say, therefore, with Professor van Dyke, “Art to Phidias was a matter of form; to Titian a matter of colour; to Corot a matter of feeling;”[172] but we say, Art to Phidias was a matter of feeling expressed by form; to Titian a matter of feeling expressed by colour; and to Corot a matter of feeling expressed by lights.

In the essential unity of all feeling we may thus find the point in which all forms of art, notwithstanding their different subjects and materials, have their unity. By laying the chief stress on the emotional mood which in every work is conveyed from creator to spectator, we save the trouble of dividing the works into different classes. We need not then assume any peculiar principle of admiration for technical skill to explain the enjoyment of Dutch painting or of Greek sculpture. Nor need we put ourselves to the pains of deciding whether the subject or the execution is to be considered more important. The problem of content and form, so much debated throughout intellectualistic æsthetic, does not exist for the emotionalistic interpretation, which sees the essence of art in the feeling embodied, sometimes in a great and important subject, sometimes in some insignificant feature of nature or life. And the element of technical perfection becomes acknowledged in its proper light when interpreted as the indispensable condition for effectually achieving such an embodiment.

It would be impossible, however, to explain as merely a confusion of standpoints the fact that certain schools of art have been considered entirely unemotional. To some extent, no doubt, the deficient appreciation of purely pictorial art is the result of the disastrous influence which has, especially in England, been exercised by prevailing currents of criticism. By systematically diverting the attention of the public from the essential element in painting, the leaders of taste may, no doubt, accomplish great things in deadening the art-sense of nations. But it is scarcely probable that, even if he knew better than to look for a “story” and literary interest in a work of pure painting, the general spectator would be able to enjoy the état d’âme which is expressed in an intérieur of Ver Meer or a landscape of Whistler. To him a painting the whole subject of which is sunshine, and the figures of which have no mission but that of absorbing or reflecting the light, would appear inane and cold. “Pictorial ideas,” which may represent such a wealth of feeling for the initiated, are thus to the artistically uneducated devoid of any emotional content.

Though emphasising as much as possible the unity of art, we are compelled to admit that the feelings which are conveyed in its higher and lower forms may be essentially different. While meeting in the “lower” art of our own and earlier times with an expression of the most general emotions and instincts which, by the very vehemence of their pathos, may awaken the aversion of the refined critic, we partake, in the higher art-forms, of feelings that can be derived only from a dispassionate contemplation of nature. This difference between higher and lower manifestations, though especially marked in painting, can be observed in all forms of art. We have no wish to deny the necessity of discriminating between these “æsthetic feelings” of the higher art-forms and the elementary affections, which form the content of the sentimental, or, as the German philosophers would say, pathological art. The moods of æsthetic contemplation are, on the contrary, of so great significance that we can easily understand why they have been made the basis of so many systems of art-philosophy. From the point of view of the present work, which does not pretend to lay down a detailed criterion of perfection in art, but which only aims at explaining the most general social and psychological aspects of art-activity, it is necessary to adhere to the element which is common to all art, higher as well as lower, primitive or barbaric as well as civilised. And we can only, in passing, indicate the direction in which we believe an explanation is to be sought for the development of æsthetic attention and refined art-sense—those great problems which could be properly treated only in a separate work.

It has been pointed out by several authors on æsthetic, and even emphasised to excess, that a certain independence of the struggle for life is a condition for the appearance of a higher art. It is indeed a current fallacy that art must be the growth of culture and prosperity. But it is nevertheless incontestable, that the peculiar art-sense, the artistic intuition par excellence, can be developed only in nations and individuals who—be it by success in the struggle for life, by advantageous circumstances, or simply by a natural lightheartedness of their own—have grown superior to care for life’s necessities. This factor, however, is only a negative condition. By itself mere independence of wants could never have taught any one to derive an ever deeper and stronger pleasure from a thing which stands in no immediate relation to the primary emotions or the primary desires of the beholder or the artist. The æsthetic education of mankind, its growth in artistic refinement, could not have been accomplished without the influence of more positive factors.

In looking for such factors we unavoidably come to that datum which has been carefully excluded from the present part of our research, namely, the concrete work of art. Whatever may have been the conditions of their origin,—whether utilitarian or not,—poems, paintings, and sculptures must all have occasioned exercise of that interest and attention which is independent of the most immediate utilitarian interests. Even if poems, for instance, were written with a purpose primarily historical, they must have afforded both to the poet and to his audience the opportunity to consider them as pure works of art. Just as moral feelings have been gradually developed under the influence of actions which may originally have been quite non-ethical, so the refinement of æsthetic sense has been promoted by works of art, which may themselves have served entirely non-æsthetic purposes.

CHAPTER XI
THE CONCRETE ORIGINS OF ART

By explaining the art-impulse as a form of social expression we have accounted for art-creation and art-enjoyment as activities which have their end in themselves. The emotionalistic interpretation supplied us with a principle, which we were able to apply to all stages, the lower as well as the higher, of art-development. Without committing ourselves to any definite statements as to the purely æsthetic and autotelic character of the individual works of art, we felt ourselves to be right in assuming that a desire of “expression for its own sake,” or rather for the sake of its immediately enhancing or relieving effects on feeling, may have operated as an art-factor on all stages of culture, and thus have given an autotelic value even to the lowest manifestations of art. The driving force in art-creation became comprehensible by this assumption; and the most distinctive features of the creation itself could be deduced from this psychological principle. In attempting, however, to explain the refinement of artistic attention, we could no longer proceed with purely psychical factors. We were compelled to appeal to the influence exercised by the concrete work of art. The psychological demonstration proving inadequate, it was necessary to supplement it by an historical argument.

It may be thought, however, that in referring to the educative effects of the work of art we need not desert the domain of a strictly æsthetic and psychological inquiry. There is nothing improbable in the supposition that the products of an activity of themselves influence this activity, so as to bring about gradually a thorough change of its character. From the expressional impulse, which in the lower stages of culture gives rise to crude and simple manifestations, there might thus be derived, by the retroactive effects of these manifestations themselves, an increasingly refined form of expression. But such a sequence of tendency, however clear and consistent it may appear at the outset, cannot possibly be thought of as unsupported by outside influences. The more we examine it, the more we shall find that the series of causes is insufficient to explain the series of effects. This view, to which we are necessarily led by investigating any period of art-history, forces itself upon us with particular cogency when we turn our attention to the earliest stages of art-development.

Before the first work of art had been created, the art-impulse as well as the art-sense must necessarily have been in a very undeveloped state. The æsthetic cravings cannot possibly have gained any consciousness of their purposes ere they had realised themselves in some objective works. Of these objective works, on the other hand, it is only the simplest forms that can be derived solely from the pure art-impulse. We may consider a lyrical dance, or even a lyrical song, as direct outbursts of an emotional pressure, which, if unrelieved, would prove dangerous to the system. But we can scarcely imagine that any human being should be able to invent, say, a fully formed drama simply in order to convey in the most efficacious manner the feeling by which he is dominated. And it is yet more difficult to understand how the craving after social expression could have created, merely for its own satisfaction, such highly developed art-forms as painting and sculpture. While we are able to derive the mental compulsion which forces the artist to production, and the æsthetic qualities which give their distinctive character to his productions from the psychological notion of the art-impulse, we are compelled to look elsewhere for the origin and development of the concrete technical medium of which he avails himself in fulfilling his purpose.

As in this investigation we are no longer concerned with the abstract and ideal work of art, it seems that we may now reasonably appeal to those theories which we before found inadequate only because they did not account for the purely æsthetic qualities of artistic activity. The play-impulse, the impulse to attract by pleasing, the imitative impulse, etc., although they give us no information as to the essentially artistic criterion, may nevertheless have called into existence works and manifestations which fulfil the requirements of the several art-forms. Man may have composed dramas, may have painted pictures, may have made poems, in play, or out of the desire to please, or out of the inborn taste for mimicry. In particular the play-impulse must, as we have already admitted in the first part of this work, be dealt with as a factor of incalculable importance in the history of art. In his conclusive researches on animal and human play Professor Groos has succeeded in showing that the chief classes of art-forms are already foreshadowed in the various forms of experimentation—that most general and most important kind of play which can be observed not only among children, but even among the higher animals.[173] In the outcome of this simple and common activity we have, it may be said, a sufficient bulk of raw material of which the art-impulse, when once fully developed, can avail itself in order to fulfil its own essentially artistic purposes. And it would therefore seem as if there were no further problem to be solved with regard to the evolution of art.

Adherents of this view may, moreover, point to the fact that, apart from all the motive factors represented by the various non-æsthetic impulses, the development of art has been favoured by influences of a more passive or static character. It has evidently been of vital importance to the evolution of architecture and decoration that things of useful nature have provided these arts with a kind of concrete frame within which to display their manifestations. The effects of this material condition are so much the greater because with his constitutional conservatism man—whether civilised or primitive—always allows himself to be bound by old forms long after he has relinquished the technical procedures which have originally called these forms into existence. By the scientific “biological” researches on decorative art it has been conclusively shown how great a portion of the ornamental “store” consists of lines and combinations of lines which have quite automatically been borrowed from an earlier technique. Decorative motives, which to the uninitiated observer appear as products of spontaneous artistic activity, thus reveal themselves to the historical student as unintentional by-products of work. Where earlier investigators assumed an æsthetic composition, modern researches refer to the force of mental inertia and the cravings of expectant attention.[174]

There is no intention here to undervalue the methods which are nowadays employed in the study of decorative art, and which, indeed, the writer himself has endeavoured to apply in some earlier studies on art-theory. In the present research, however, it would be inappropriate to trace in detail the evolution by which forms originating in mere utility—as in basket-work—are gradually transformed into patterns or other artistic decorations; for this process, however fertile in effects it may be considered, cannot account for that phenomenon which, above all, constitutes the main object of our investigation. Although the psychical causes adduced above undeniably have called into existence some of the most familiar ideas in decoration, they cannot possibly explain the importance which decoration itself has attained in the various human societies. And the same remark evidently applies to all the other psychological sources from which art may be derived. The play-impulse, for example, no doubt suggests a concrete source, but it can in no way explain the important position which art occupies as a leading factor in social life. In order to understand why even in the lowest stages of development art has been acknowledged as a purpose worthy of being seriously pursued, we must investigate this activity in its connection with the most important biological and sociological purposes of life.

We propose in the following chapters to examine the most powerful non-æsthetic factors that have favoured the origin and development of the several art-forms. And while we are keeping in view especially such utilitarian requirements as those of intellectual information, of stimulation for work or war, of sexual propitiation or of magic efficiency, we shall be compelled to leave out of consideration all distinctively æsthetic factors and conditions. Accordingly we shall not be able to maintain in this historical and ethnological inquiry the strictest æsthetic distinctions. But we hope that the unavoidable vagueness in our terminology will not obscure those limitations and demarcations which have—perhaps even too laboriously—been laid down in the first part of this work. To preserve consistency between our inquiries into the abstract and the concrete origins of art, it need only be stated, once and for all, that the several works and manifestations, as they are to be treated hereafter, are, strictly speaking, only the raw material of art, if art is to be considered in the purest sense as an autotelic activity.

CHAPTER XII
ART AND INFORMATION

It is well known that, in the earlier classical times, philosophy, history, and science were inseparably connected with poetry. And it is as familiar a truth that pictographs and ideograms were used for writing before phonetic signs had been invented. But it is not enough to recall that poetry and the arts of design have in this way been serving the requirements of intellectual information; it can also be shown that among primitive tribes every one of the lower art-forms—the dance, the pantomime, and even the ornament—has been of great importance as a means of interchanging thoughts.

When attempting in this chapter to take a cursory survey of the various art-forms as used for purely intellectual purposes, we find it most advantageous to start with the dramatic examples. It is true that the art of the theatre, in the modern sense of the word, must be considered as a late, perhaps even as the very latest, result of artistic evolution. A literary drama, which fulfils all the claims of a work of art, is possible only on a highly advanced level of culture, and it has consequently by most authors on æsthetic been considered as the latest of all art-forms.[175] When dealing, however, with the productions of primitive tribes, we have to adopt a lower æsthetic standard. Although we do not meet with any tragedies, nor even with any real comedies, at this stage of evolution, we can at least point to the fact that simple farces, pantomimes, and pantomimic dances are to be found among tribes which have so far been unable to create any kind of epics, and whose lyrical poetry is restricted to a few rhythmical phrases with no intrinsic meaning. And if we use the word in its widest sense, so as to include every representation by action, drama can be spoken of as the very earliest of all the imitative arts. It was certainly in use long before the invention of writing, either by pictures or letters; perhaps it is even older than language itself. As an outward sign of thought, action is more immediate than words. Dramatic communication does not even presuppose any conscious intention nor any common consent. It may appear on the side of the “speaker” as the unchecked result of the “Einhaltsstreben,” the universal impulse to put into gesture any idea of action which is distinctly conceived—for instance to clench the fist at the thought of striking—and it may be comprehended without any effort by the audience, which by unconscious imitation partakes of the communicated thoughts.[176] Such pantomimic forms of intellectual exchange seldom indeed occur in civilised life. The “Einhaltsstreben” in a civilised man is generally lost during the transfer from thought to word. Pantomimic display, which involves an unnecessary waste of force and time, was doomed to disappearance with the growing development of conventional language. Moreover, the rules of propriety tend to confine, at least in educated society, the language of the body within as narrow limits as possible. But as soon as, by pathological influences, these conditions are annulled, even civilised man necessarily falls back upon pantomimic language. In the extreme forms of aphasia we may thus observe how strong the mimetic impulse is when unchecked. There is the more reason to consider these pathological instances as in some degree typical of the primeval methods of communication, as it is only by assuming an earlier system of impulsive, self-interpreting signs that we can explain the subsequent development of conventional word or gesture-language.[177]

We cannot, however, argue from cases of mental disturbance as to the original language of primitive man. For example, even if aphasia could be considered as a case of atavism,[178] we could scarcely compare the mimic capabilities of modern man with those of the unknown, wordless being whose system of expressive signs, although he were compelled to rely exclusively upon it, cannot possibly have been brought to any great degree of perfection. Illustrations from deaf-mutes and from the isolated specimens of “homo sapiens ferus”—Mr. Kipling’s Mowgli—are for the same reason inadequate.[179] As long as ethnology is ignorant of any wordless tribes, our notions as to the assumed dramatic language rest entirely upon psychological deductions.[180] But the probability of these deductions is, more or less, supported by what we know about the lowest tribes now existing. It is true that the information on this point is even more inconsistent than is usual in ethnological evidence. But although due allowance must be made for the errors into which a deficient knowledge of the primitive custom and languages has led the various authors, there will nevertheless remain a sufficient body of facts proving the important part which pantomimic communication plays in the lower stages of mental evolution. Bushmen, Australians, and Eskimos show us a highly developed dramatic language.[181] In some parts of Australia it has been noticed that the store of gestures is richest among tribes which have enjoyed the least contact with Europeans.[182] And a further ground for considering this mode of thought-conveyance as old and primitive is afforded by the fact that, according to Mr. W. E. Roth, its “use is strictly enforced on certain special occasions, such as some of the initiation ceremonies.”[183] Mr. Fraser also believes that gesture-language is taught at the Bora ceremonies.[184]

It would, however, be presumption to see in every instance of dramatic thought-communication a rudiment of an old and primitive language. There are many causes which favour the adaptation and elaboration of mimic language even after a system of phonetic signs has been established. In a passage which has already been quoted Mr. Roth observes that pantomimic ideograms must be very advantageous “on the war-path or the chase, where silence is so essential an adjunct to success.”[185] Another reason still more important is the fact that pantomimic action can be understood by people who speak different languages. Among civilised nations we may find many instances of the high state of development which gesture-language has attained in border countries where different peoples must necessarily often meet.[186] And it is significant that among primitive tribes gestures and motions are nowhere so full of significance and intellectual expressiveness as on the plains of Australia,[187] among the savages in the interior parts of Brazil,[188] and on the great prairies of North America,[189]—in a word, in countries where the breaking up of a nation into small vagrant tribes has been the cause of an extreme dialectical disseverance. Under these conditions, however, the impulsive, self-interpreting pantomime is apt to develop gradually into an elaborate system of conventional signs. The gesture-language of the North American Indians, for example, which consists almost entirely of abbreviated “moves” of indication and delineation, is no doubt eminently adapted to fulfil the practical requirements of comprehensibility and explicitness. But it has not much to do with dramatic art in any sense of the word.

Of a more immediate importance for art-history are the pantomimics which accompany public speaking. In a state of society where every member is entitled to take part in the common deliberations, oral language will often prove an inadequate vehicle of thought. Only through displaying his speech in action is the chief or the priest capable of making its purport comprehensible to the large audiences at a popular meeting. Rhetoric, therefore, is still among many primitive tribes what it used to be in classical antiquity—a dramatic as well as a literary art.[190]

A pantomime will, of course, by virtue of its greater vividness, convey its content of thoughts and feelings with a far greater efficiency than a merely spoken oration. It may, when especially infectious, induce the audience to join in it as a dramatic chorus. And even when the imitation which it calls forth remains purely internal, this imitation, nevertheless, enables the spectators to appropriate the text of the acted oration in a way which is deeper and far more complete than could ever be possible with regard to an oral speech. As a natural sign of emotion pantomimic language opens, as Home would say in his quaint way, “a direct avenue to our heart.”[191] It is no wonder, therefore, that dramatic performances on all but the highest stages of culture have been used for political agitation as well as for religious edification.[192]

We shall in the following pages, when treating of the religious and political aspects of art, obtain a fitting opportunity of examining these forms of drama. In the present connection we need only refer to them as means of further emphasising the utilitarian aspect of mimic representation in the intercourse between savages. After having realised how on the lower stages of culture practical advantages as well as social and religious considerations concur in favouring the development of this early language, we may understand the surprisingly high dramatic ability of primitive peoples. But while psychological as well as sociological reasons thus confirm us in considering dramatic action as the earliest means of conveying intellectual information, we are nevertheless compelled to admit that even in primitive stages the other art-forms also may have served this purpose. In reality it is impossible to draw any sharp distinction between dumb-drama and primitive poetry. The pantomimic performance will in most cases spontaneously supplement itself with a recital, spoken or sung. In the simple representations therefore of real occurrences which characterise the lowest forms of narrative art these two means of intellectual expression generally appear together.

And in this connection one will also meet with an early manifestation of pictorial art in the form of an extempore design, which serves to bring out more fully and clearly the content of the recital. The transition from a delineative gesture to a contour-design is indeed so direct and easy that it must have taken place even among tribes on a very low plane of culture. In some instances we can distinctly see how the one art grows out of the other. Mr. Mallery has described a dialogue between some Alaskan Indians, in which the left hand is used as an imaginary drawing board upon which lines are drawn with the index finger of the right hand.[193] Herr von Steinen has observed that the natives in Central Brazil, as soon as the gestures prove insufficient for conveying an idea, fashion an explanatory design in the sand.[194] These designs are only a projection on a different surface of the hand-movements with which in their pantomimic language they describe the outlines of the objects in the air. One is tempted, therefore, to find in these transferred gestures the origin of pictorial art. And such an hypothesis seems the more probable as in some tribes—particularly among the North American Indians—the picture-signs for denoting things and phenomena have evidently been derived from the corresponding gesture-signs.[195] But it is, as Professor Groos cautiously remarks, difficult to know whether any primitive man could ever have thought of delineating the contours of an object had he not beforehand possessed some idea of drawing.[196] Without endeavouring to solve this question of origins, it is sufficient for our purpose to state that a kind of extempore design, almost as spontaneous and fugitive as the dramatic art, appears together with the mimic and poetic representations. And we have now only to devote our attention to these various means of information in so far as they may give rise to a manifestation of art, while serving the purely intellectual purpose of conveying or elucidating a thought-content.

It is only natural that the requirements of practical life should call into existence various kinds of mimic, pictorial, or literary information which have little whatever to do with art, even if this notion is conceived in its widest sense. There is no reason for us to delay our argument by enumerating pantomimics, gestures, or paintings which aim at communicating notices of trivial importance, such as directions about the way to be taken by travellers, warnings with regard to dangerous passages, etc.[197] Even as a purely technical product a work is of little interest as long as its subject is so poor and insignificant. We feel justified, therefore, in restricting our attention to such manifestations as present in their contents some degree of coherence and continuity.

The simplest examples of purely narrative art which fulfil the technical claims of a complete work will of course appear when the text of the narration consists of some real occurrence which is represented with all its episodes and incidents. Primitive life affords many inducements to such relation. The men who have returned from war, or from a hunting or a fishing expedition, will thus often repeat their experiences in a dramatic dance performed before the women and children at home. Although in many cases there is reason to suppose that even these performances may be executed to satisfy some superstitious or religious motive, they have undoubtedly, to a certain extent, been prompted by the desire to revive and communicate the memories of eventful days. Other incidents that have made a strong impression upon the minds of the people are in the same way displayed in pantomimic action. It is sufficient here to refer to the elaborate dramas “Coming from Town” performed by Macusi children, in which all the episodes of a journey are reproduced with the utmost possible exactness,[198] to the Corrobberrees in Queensland, in which incidents of individual or tribal interests, such as hunting or war adventures, but only those of recent occurrence, are enacted,[199] and to the performance in a Wanyoro village, where M. de Bellefond’s behaviour during a recent battle was closely imitated.[200] At the dramatic entertainment held before some members of Captain Cook’s expedition an elopement scene which had in reality taken place some time previously was performed in the presence of the runaway girl herself. The play is said to have made a very strong impression upon the poor girl, who could hardly refrain from tears when she saw her own escapade thus reproduced.[201] The imitation of the real action was in this case evidently designed as punishment for the guilty spectator; and as the piece concluded with a scene representing the girl’s return to her friends and the unfavourable reception she met with from them, it tended no doubt to exercise a salutary influence.

This naïve little interlude, with its satirical and moralising vein, naturally reminds us of those old farces which candidly defined themselves as adaptations of some “scandale du quartier.”

Là elle fut exécutée

Icy vous est representée.[202]

The wordless pantomimes and dramatic dances of the modern savages give us no information of this kind. But there is no doubt that a closer investigation would reveal that a great number of the comical and heroical episodes which, are described in ethnological literature have had their prototypes in some incidents of recent occurrence.

This opinion can only be corroborated by extending our investigation to the other departments of narrative art. Whatever other merits one might discover in primitive poetry, its strength does certainly not lie in invention. When the songs contain any narrative element at all, it refers to some simple experience of the day. Travel, hunting, and war afford the themes for the simplest epical poems as well as for the most primitive dramatic recitals.[203] And any event of unusual occurrence will of course be made use of by the poets. Travellers who have learned to understand the languages of the natives they sojourn with have often observed that their own persons have been described in impromptu songs.[204] Sometimes these songs have a satirical tendency;[205] sometimes they are composed as glorifications of the white man.[206] But there is no need to assume either of these tendencies in every case. The mere fact of his being a strange and new thing qualifies the European as a fitting subject for the primitive drama and poetry. And on the same grounds all the marvels of civilisation—the rifles, steamers and so on—will often be described in poetry.[207] In the savage mind these unknown facts will easily give rise to the most marvellous interpretations. For an instance of such apparently fantastic products of poetic imagination, which in reality have their origin in an unavoidable misconstruction of an unknown reality, we need only refer to the description of Captain Cook’s ships in the Hawaii song, which has been taken down by M. de Varigny. The ships themselves are spoken of as great islands, their masts are trees, the sailors are gods, who drink blood (i.e. claret), and eat fire and smoke through long tubes (i.e. pipes), and carry about things which they keep in holes in their flanks.[208] It is but natural to assume that—if researches on the origins of the subjects were possible—the seeming richness of invention in many similar poems could be accounted for by the deficient observation and the faults of memory in uneducated man. And by such researches the importance of actual experience would be substantiated even with regard to the art of barbaric nations. As to the songs of the lower savages, to which we have to restrict our attention at present, it is, as shown by the above adduced examples, unnecessary to appeal to this explanation.

Not less ephemeral than the literary subjects are the motives of primitive pictorial art. In Herr von den Steinen’s account of the Xingu tribes we can find some most typical examples of such explanatory designs by which the poetic and dramatic recitals of battles, travels, etc., are supplemented.[209] Owing to their fugitive character these simple manifestations can never be reduced to a scientific account. But there is reason to believe that in all parts of the world pictures have been drawn in the air or in the sand, of which there remain no more trace than of the gesture that is over or of the unwritten poem that is forgotten.

It is evident, however, that in some instances at least there have remained traces of these ephemeral narrations. The picture might have been drawn on some piece of bark or cloth instead of on the sand, the pantomime might have been repeated even after its subject had lost its actuality, or the text remembered after it had served its immediate purpose in the narration. The fugitive recital, whether pictorial, mimic, or oral, which lives only for the moment might in this way have become a permanent work, conveying the contents of the narrative to future times. One would think that as soon as such a means of preserving a record of past events had been, intentionally or accidentally, discovered, it would have immediately been turned to account. There is, after all, but one step between the impromptu dance or poem, which tells of a recent occurrence, and the work of art, which forwards the memory of the same occurrence to consecutive generations.

Ethnological science shows, however, that this distinction is by no means a theoretical one only. There are tribes amongst the lower savages in which the pantomimes and dances refer only to the most recent events. And if amongst these tribes some pictures or some dances have been preserved from older times, they appear to be quite isolated exceptions, the presence of which one is tempted to attribute to accident rather than design. It is only when we look to a higher degree of culture that we find a commemorative art, in the true sense of the word, appearing.

From the point of view of comparative psychology this fact is easily explained. The distance between an impromptu recital of a recent occurrence and historical art and literature, as we understand them to-day, however short it may appear, covers perhaps the most momentous progress that man has made in his advancement towards culture. Whether commemorative art is to be considered as retrospective with regard to something that is past, the memory of which it endeavours to revive, or as directed towards future generations whom the artist would wish to make participators of the present, it presupposes a power of conferring attention upon matters the interest in which is not confined to the immediate present. No psychologist would include this faculty among the attributes of those in the lowest stage of mental development. Ethnological science, on the other hand, shows that it is as yet lacking in some of the existing tribes of the lower savages. In an æsthetic research it is of the highest importance to know exactly when and where this attribute appears. In the general history of art no date can be more significant than that which marks the commencement of a larger conception in the mind of the artist of the public for whom he works, bringing in its train, as it does, wider aims concerning his work.

CHAPTER XIII
HISTORICAL ART

It is exceedingly difficult to decide at what precise stage in the evolution of mankind we can first distinguish signs of a true commemorative art. It seems pretty evident that the lowest of the known tribes—such as the Veddas, the Bubis, the Kubus—live exclusively in and for the present, without any memories or traditions as to their past. When we turn our attention, however, to tribes in the somewhat higher condition of culture we find that the statements of travellers are not at one with regard to this. The Fuegians are said by M. Hyades to lack any kind of history and tradition.[210] But, on the other hand, one of their pantomimical dances (or rather dramas) has been explained by M. Martial, another member of the Cape Horn expedition, as commemorating the revolt of the men against the women, “who formerly had the authority and possessed the secrets of sorcery.”[211] The inconsistency between these two assertions can, however, be explained by the fact that Hyades evidently had in view only the oral tradition. The interpretation of M. Martial again seems to be merely hypothetical. Mr. Bridges, who is more competent than any one else to speak about this tribe, does not allude to any commemorative element in the “Kina,” although even he thinks that these plays, in which the parts were formerly acted by women, are old and traditional in their form.[212]

A similar inconsistency in the use of terms has no doubt been the cause of the conflicting reports on the traditional poetry of the Greenlanders. In his account of their “Wissenschaften” Cranz says that they have no heroic songs describing the doings of their ancestors. But the very wording of this negation—“They know nothing about them except that they were brave hunters, and slew the old Norsemen”—shows that it can by no means be adduced to prove complete default of oral tradition.[213] And in another passage Cranz expressly says that the Eskimos, at their sunfeasts, praise the feats of their ancestors.[214]

It is more difficult to bring into accord the various statements concerning the Melanesians. Mr. Codrington sees a distinguishing feature of this ethnological group in the fact that they, in contrast to the Polynesians, are conspicuously devoid of native history and oral tradition.[215] But this rule is evidently subject to at least one important exception, as the Fijians are known to celebrate subjects from their legendary history in their choral dance-songs.[216] One is led to believe, therefore, that in some other island, also of the Melanesian group, traditional poetry and traditional dramas may have existed, but escaped the attention of the ethnologists. Negative statements are never to be unreservedly relied upon, least of all perhaps in accounts of uncivilised men. The case of the Navajo affords an instructive and warning example, which falls exactly within the limits of the present investigation. In spite of the statement by Dr. Letherman, who is acknowledged to have been a “man of unusual ability,” that the Navajos had “no knowledge of their origin or of the history of their tribe,”[217] Dr. Washington Matthews has been able to gather his imposing collection of historical songs and traditional commemorative customs.[218]

An incident of this kind is apt to make us sceptical with regard to the assertion of Captain Cook, which has, however, been unreservedly quoted by Lubbock and Spencer, that the Maoris, a race noted for old legends and ancient lore, in 1770 had no recollection of Tasman’s visit to their island.[219] And one is inclined to doubt the trustworthiness of Schoolcraft’s informant when he says that the Appalachian Indians had lost all recollection of De Soto’s expedition.[220] Compared with the statements concerning the Lenape and the Mohicans, who still remember Hudson, and the Iroquois and the Algonquins, who preserve traditions of the first white immigrants,[221] this assertion will, in any case, lose its force as a judgment upon the whole North American race, in which sense it has, however, been used by Lubbock.[222] On a closer investigation the Chinooks will perhaps be also discharged from the unfavourable verdict passed upon them by Kane, who could never hear any traditions as to their former origin.[223]

It is safest, therefore, merely to state generally and approximately that among the lower savages the commemorative element is lost sight of amid the prevailing impromptu productions. With higher culture the commemorative inclination appears to become intensified. But its growth cannot be considered as closely accompanying the general mental evolution. Whatever great treasures of epical poetry and literature may some day be found amongst the Melanesians, their relative inferiority in this respect can never be contested. When a group like this, notwithstanding its unsurpassed ability in formative art,—which, however, seems to suggest a commemorative purpose,[224]—can be outdone in matters of oral history and tradition, not only by the Polynesians but even, it would seem, by the Australians,[225] there is of course no possibility of applying the general scheme of evolution to fix the definite beginnings of commemorative art. A priori assertions do not count in a question in which the reality defeats the assumptions of probability in such a surprising manner. Before the ethnological knowledge becomes more complete no statement as to traditional art can be accepted as definite.

The scantiness of reliable information does not, however, constitute the greatest difficulty. The facts themselves, even if their authenticity is granted, are often liable to the most inconsistent interpretations. For an exact appreciation of the influence which the commemorative impulse has exercised on the history of art it is insufficient to enumerate examples, however many might be found, of traditionally preserved works of art. The really important thing is to distinguish works which can be considered as genuine specimens of historical art, i.e. as the outcome of a commemorative intention, from the mere survivals which resemble these in so confusing a manner. In almost every artistic manifestation we can read a story of the past. The tenacity with which the old forms and the old technical procedures are retained lends a documentary value to every ornament, picture, or poem. By authors with a predilection for historic interpretations this record element is apt to be considered as intentionally aimed at. The euhemeristic view will in this way be applied to the history of art, with results that are often as extravagant as the mythological theories themselves. For every detail in a dance or dramatic performance a reason has been looked for in some event of real occurrence. This method has its strong and sensible side—and a very sensible one indeed—in that it does away with the idea of a rich and creative imagination in primitive man. It can also be applied to with great advantage for the explanation of artistic manifestation, which would otherwise be quite incomprehensible.[226] But its use is not, any more than that of any other general theory, to be recommended as a master-key to all the mysteries of ceremonialism and ritual art. The shortcomings of the method are strongly emphasised by the fact that it has failed in cases which have been chosen expressly for its illustration.

Foremost amongst the advocates of euhemerism in the study of ceremonial stands Captain Bourke, who has taken up and extended to the rites and dramas of the living savages the theory of Higgins, that all ceremonies of antiquity were created with a view of preserving to the memory ancient learning and ancient traditions.[227] It would be extremely unfair to accuse this indefatigable hunter after analogies of a limited understanding. In questions of ritualistic detail, such, for instance, as those of the flour-sprinkling customs, his comparative studies are not only unsurpassed as proofs of learning, but are also full of valuable and instructive suggestions.[228] The stately array of facts which he has collected from all stages of culture does not, however, convince any impartial reader of the correctness of the main assertions in his books. A student of comparative psychology, for instance, will always remember the psycho-pathological influences which everywhere and always tend to provoke the same sort of horrid, scatological orgies, in which Captain Bourke has seen a commemoration of some old, exceptional conditions of life.[229] As to the snake-dance at Walpi, which forms the subject of his earliest great work, it cannot be denied that some details in the rite and some of the ceremonial paraphernalia are illustrative of a way of life which presumably predominated amongst the prehistoric Pueblo-Indians.[230] From the dance one might therefore reconstruct an epitomised history of the tribe, which would supplement the tales that are told by the constructional details of the “kiva” architecture and the decorative adornments of the Pueblo pottery.[231] But it seems unjustifiable to adduce, as Mr. Spencer has done, this rite as a typical specimen of commemorative ancestor-worship.[232] In attempting to explain the origin and the purpose of the rite, the later investigators have also on good grounds neglected to appeal to the commemorative intention. As has been conclusively shown by the consummate researches of Mr. Fewkes, the snake-ceremonials are mainly and chiefly to be considered as dramatic expressions of the water-cult, which permeates every department in the life of the Pueblo-Indians.[233] Through such an interpretation the drama is brought into close connection with the religious system as well as with the practical necessities of the Pueblo-Indians. Its significance as the most important of all the national ceremonies is easily understood, when the rite in its entirety is regarded as only an active form of the same prayer for rain, which is pictorially conveyed in the sand-mosaics and in the painted ornaments of the tribe.[234] Its various details, on the other hand, will find their most unsought-for explanation when considered as contributing to the great propitiatory purpose. Whatever value and interest an euhemeristic interpretation might have for a student of the prehistoric Pueblo-life, the psycho-sociological conditions of the rite, so to speak, can be fully comprehended only when they are investigated in connection with the ideas of ritual magic and religious propitiation. The same view holds good, we believe, with regard to almost all the religious ceremonies of uncivilised man, although it may be impossible to prove it in every individual case, as the facts themselves generally are entangled in a most exasperating manner. They must be detached not only from the theoretical constructions of the anthropologists, but also from the euhemeristic interpretations of the natives themselves. The native dogmatism will often be even more misleading than that of the scientists.

It is a well-known phenomenon, which often repeats itself, that when a higher stage of culture is reached the original significance of a rite or a custom falls into oblivion. The custom itself, will, however, with the tenacious conservatism that characterises man, be rigorously maintained long after its origin has been forgotten. Amongst the lower savages no other justification of these ceremonies—incomprehensible to the participants themselves—is necessary than the oft-quoted “our fathers did so before us.” But with increased intellectual development there must arise a craving for some reasonable explanation. The semi-civilised man never cares to admit to how great an extent his actions are automatical. Hence the rationalisation of rites and customs,—familiar to every student of Christian theology,—which has its beginnings even in the higher stages of savagery. The rationalisation most readily adopted by tribes without developed philosophical or ethical notions is the historical one. The simple and honest argument “because our fathers did so” is replaced by the fictitious motive of keeping up the memory of the doings of the fathers. When once this reasoning obtains full power it will soon cover the whole field of ritual life. Every incomprehensible feature in ceremonies or customs will be explained through reference to the past. And when knowledge of events falls short of affording such an explanation, popular imagination will always be prone to substitute itself for the missing reality.[235] In this way a commemorative excuse can easily be found for every apparently illogical action in life.

In fact, the creation of “etiological” or justificatory history and mythology is by no means limited to the department of religious ritualism. Even more trivial actions, such as games and pastimes, will, amongst tribes with developed historical tendencies, be connected with imaginary occurrences, which latter will be found to account for every detail in such games and pastimes. With the Cherokee Indians, for example, we find a most intricate animal story, in which the action of the bat, the eagle, and other creatures closely correspond to the movements of the different participators in the national ball-play.[236] Although much may be said in favour of the ingenious hypothesis of Professor Groos, who suggests that military games, such as chess and draughts, may have been developed from dramatic narratives of real battles, supplemented perhaps with maps drawn in the sand and simple symbols—stones, pebbles, etc.—representing the various armies and soldiers;[237] and although it may reasonably be assumed that the beasts in the animal story of the Cherokees represents the totems of some old Indian chiefs,—a story like this must be considered as secondary, in its details at least, to the play. More artificial still it sounds when the Moondahs in Bengal affirm that their popular Easter-game of pushing eggs the one against the other in reality serves as a means of commemorating the feats of Sing Bonga, who, with a single hen’s egg, crushed the iron globes of his rivals.[238]

Unfortunately, it is but seldom that the commemorative motive shows its fictitious nature with so much evidence as in this game. In most cases there will always be a doubt as to whether the religious drama, poem, or design was originally intended as a means of conveying knowledge of some real or legendary event, or whether the idea of these events was derived from a simple game, a propitiative poem, or a magical design. We have quoted some instances in which the historical interpretation is secondary only. But there could easily be adduced other instances in which the opposite is the case. Ancient poems, whose historical and legendary character is quite incontestable, may often be used as charms in magical ceremonies.[239] It seems quite impossible therefore to pronounce any definite judgment as to priority between myth and ceremony without special investigation of every single case. In the department of pictorial art it is scarcely less difficult to separate the genuinely commemorative elements from the close interweaving of different motives, which call into existence a work of art.

Foremost in rank amongst all the works of design and sculpture that have influenced artistic evolution stand the likenesses of a deceased person which are placed by the relatives on his grave or in his home. To civilised man it is most natural to look upon these effigies as tokens of loving remembrance by which the survivors endeavour to keep fresh the memory of the departed. It is also easy for us to understand that the pious feelings extended towards such effigies may acquire an almost religious character. There is something to be said therefore on behalf of the view that commemorative monuments have been the predecessors of idols proper. Lubbock, who interprets Erman’s description of the Ostyak religion[240] in this way, quotes in further corroboration The Wisdom of Solomon, in which work there is to be found a detailed account of the evolution of idolatry from memorial images.[241] The probability, however, is that in pictorial as well as in dramatic art the purely commemorative intention belongs to the latter stages of culture. It seems in most cases to be beyond doubt that among the lowest tribes the images serve as paraphernalia in the animistic rites. They are either taken to be embodiments of the ancestors’ soul, or receptacles in which this soul, if properly invoked, might take up its abode for the occasion. And similar superstitious notions are entertained, not only with regard to the monuments proper erected on the graves of powerful ancestors, but also with regard to such minor works as, e.g., the dolls which are often prepared by West African mothers when they have lost a favourite child.[242] The vague and indistinct character of these images shows us also that no intellectual record of the individual has been aimed at. No more than the poetic effusions of regret with which the pious survivors endeavour to propitiate the names of the deceased, do these formative works of “pietas” give us any information as to the personality of him whom they pretend to represent.

This general notion, however, must not be allowed to prevent us from admitting that among sundry tribes of mankind the images may be historical. This is asserted with regard to the Bongos by Schweinfurth, and with regard to the Gold Coast negroes by Cruickshank. The wooden effigies on the Marquesas Islands are described by Herr Schmeltz as “constructed in memory of celebrated members of the tribe.”[243] The Melanesian sculptures also, according to Codrington, are chiefly commemorative. It must be observed, however, that according to his own description a sort of religious respect is paid at least to some of them.[244] More undeniably commemorative examples are to be found in New Zealand. Although no attempt to reproduce likenesses is made in these colossal wooden statues, they nevertheless more nearly approach the idea of monumental commemorative portraiture than any similar works of primitive art. The patterns of tattooing, that infallible means of identification amongst the Maoris, render it possible to preserve the memories of the individual ancestors through pictorial representation.[245]

Not less problematic than ancestral sculptures are the much-debated rock-paintings and engravings that can be found in every part of the world. Herr Andree finds a sort of learned bias in the general tendency to look for some serious, sacred, or historical meaning in every petroglyph. He points, very sensibly as it seems, to the prevailing impulse of the idle hand to scratch some figures, however meaningless, on every inviting and empty surface. Especially at much frequented localities—such as meeting-places, common thoroughfares, and places of rest for travellers—where the drawings of previous visitors call for imitation, this temptation must be looked upon as a very strong one.[246] There is no reason for regarding the savage and the prehistoric man as devoid of an impulse, which, as we all know, shows its strength among the very lowest and most primitive layers of civilised society. It is unnecessary, therefore, to find anything more remarkable in the petroglyphs than is to be found in the familiar pictures on walls, trees, and rocks which have been wantonly decorated by the modern vandal. This common-sense explanation is undoubtedly sufficient to account for the origin of many much-debated works of glyphic art. But however sound within its proper limits it cannot be extended so as to give a general solution of the petroglyph problem. It is not likely, as Mr. Im Thurn observes, that pictures such as the rock-engravings in Guiana, to produce which must have cost so much time and trouble, should have their origin in mere caprice and idleness.[247]

But even if the serious aspect of the petroglyphs is granted there still remains the difficulty of determining their special purpose. The historical explanation, although it would appear the most natural for us to adopt, is not to be taken unreservedly with regard to tribes on a low degree of development. What to us seems a sort of picture-writing might possibly serve a purpose anything but communicative. The so-called ideograms of the Nicobarese have, for example, according to Herr Svoboda, for their object the distraction of the attention of the malevolent demons from their houses and implements[248]. When investigating the ritual, especially the funeral ceremonies, one meets with various specimens of similar ideography, the thought-conveying purpose of which is deceptive.

By the above examples the ambiguous character of primitive art-works has been proved almost ad nauseam. It appears that every single conclusion based upon isolated ethnological examples only is liable to be upset after a closer study of the facts. In order, therefore, to make any positive assertions as to the commemorative element in art we need some safer and more reliable grounds of argument than the inconsistent stories of travellers. We have, in other words, to investigate the social and psychological conditions which, in the respective cases, speak for or against the assumption of a commemorative impulse as a motive for art-production. Owing to our deficient knowledge of primitive life we are not able to rely upon these social and psychological data in every individual case. But we may nevertheless arrive at some broad results which in the main tally with, and corroborate the evidence afforded by, the majority of ethnological facts.

It is easy to understand why historical art holds no high place among the lower—that is, the hunting and fishing—tribes. Even if, as is the case in Australia, every unusual occurrence is represented in art with a view of keeping up its memory,[249] these accidental interruptions in a monotonous life cannot possibly contribute to the development of an historical interest—that is to say, a commemorative attention in the people. When, on the other hand, we meet, in barbaric and semi-barbaric tribes, with a flourishing traditional art, we can also, in most cases, point to some peculiar features in their life which have called for commemoration. In a general survey of traditional poetry one cannot but be struck by the great prevalence of legends about migrations.[250] As travels and incidents of travel were found to provide a favourite subject for the pantomimes and poems described in the preceding chapter, so these experiences have also exercised an important influence on the songs that have been preserved by oral tradition. And as we meet with numerous instances of improvised drama and poetry called forth by so eminently interesting an occurrence as the visit of some white people, so we can also trace the same theme in manifestations of historical art from dim and distorted narrations up to richly detailed descriptions like those of the Hawajian songs or of the Mangaian “Drama of Cook.”[251] The influence which these motives have exercised on the history of art is only in accordance with the universal laws of psychology. Tribal memory, no less than individual memory, is dependent for its development on some favourable external influences that stimulate the attention.

It must not surprise us, therefore, that the varying experiences of war have everywhere acted as a strong incentive on the commemorative impulse. In this case, however, we have to count with a factor of still greater importance in the directly utilitarian advantage which military nations derive from historical art. Through recounting or representing the exploits of earlier generations, the descendants acquire that healthy feeling of pride which is the most important factor of success in all brutal forms of the struggle for life. So it has come about that historic art has everywhere reached its highest state of development amongst nations who have had to hold their own vi et armis against neighbouring tribes, or in the midst of which antagonistic families have fought for supremacy. The more the social institutions have been influenced by the customs of war, the more important is usually the part which commemoration plays in public life. It is highly prominent in semi-feudal Polynesia,[252] where domestic warfare was at all times of regular occurrence; it has developed to some extent in warlike Fiji,[253] notwithstanding the Melanesian indifference for the past; and it has obtained the position of a state function in military despotisms, such as the barbaric kingdoms of Central and South America and Western Africa.[254] In isolated tribes, on the other hand, whose whole struggle has been one against nature, historical art is generally to be found at a very low ebb.

That bygone events have been preserved in history and art chiefly for the sake of their effect in enhancing the national pride can also be concluded from the way in which humiliating incidents are treated. There are, it is true, a few isolated and unhappy tribes which keep up some dim traditions of their inglorious past.[255] Generally, however, defeats are totally ignored in the earliest chronicles. If, however, an unsuccessful battle should have provoked artistic manifestations, these aim at masking the humiliation.[256] The ancient history of Greece affords the most curious examples of myths and inventions by means of which the popular imagination contrived to conceal disagreeable truths. The fate of Phrynichos, who was fined for having revived the memory of the defeat at Miletus, shows that Greece, even at a much later period, preserved the same primitive ideas as to the raison d’être of historic art. It is needless to point out to how great an extent similar conceptions still prevail amongst all warlike nations, civilised and barbarous alike.

We must not overlook the fact, however, that defeats are often represented in unmasked form for the purpose of stirring up a revengeful spirit. But this apparent exception only proves the rule. By appealing to the wounded dignity of the people, poems and dramas of this kind serve the cravings of collective pride as effectively—although, no doubt, indirectly—as manifestations of the opposite order. An increased attention to the past, with a corresponding richness of traditional art, can also generally be found in nations where revenge is considered as a sacred duty bequeathed to descendants by their ancestors.

When historic art is regarded as a means of handing down to posterity a knowledge of the present, a connection with the same group of emotions is easily discoverable. The great works of commemoration are all monuments of boasting. By the grandiloquent hieroglyphs on palaces and pyramids and by the extolling hymns that he orders to be sung in his praise, the exultant hero endeavours to win from future admirers a meed of praise which shall quench his unsatisfied thirst for glorification. Even in this case, therefore, history, in its psychological sense—that is, the concentration of attention upon times other than the present—has been born of pride.

By relying on this emotionalistic interpretation we can explain the otherwise extraordinary development of commemorative art amongst tribes on relatively low stages of intellectual development. The same explanation also accounts for the artistic value of the primitive records. The intensely emotional element of exultation, pride, and boasting that pervades so many of the commemorative poems and dramas makes this kind of history an art in the proper sense of the word.

It is needless to point out expressly that literary and formative arts may be used for conveying thought-contents which cannot, properly speaking, be called historical. We have restricted our attention to the unmistakably commemorative forms, because in these alone can the purpose of information be isolated with any degree of certainty. By tracing the gradual development of narrative art from those simplest manifestations in which the work is immediately connected with the real occurrence that called it into existence, up to the more complex forms of transmitted art, in which distant events are represented, we have endeavoured to keep our argument within the limits of positive research. This safe ground we should be compelled to abandon if we were to engage in the otherwise so fascinating task of unearthing historical elements in mythological tradition.

It seems impossible, moreover, to treat of such art-forms as the nature-myths, the tales, and the animal stories without bringing in those factors which should especially be kept outside the present research—the art-impulse, the play-impulse, or the delight in pure invention for invention’s sake; whereas we are justified in treating even the highest purely commemorative art as the development of an activity which was connected with the utilitarian end of information.

It must not be overlooked, however, that primitive art offers some important and purely didactic manifestations which have no historical purpose. Thus, among savages and barbarians, dramatic performances, poetic recitals, and pictorial representations often serve as means of expounding religious or philosophical doctrines. We need only refer to the most striking instances, such as the Australian miracle-plays, in which the old men enact before the boys a representation of death and resurrection.[257] Although less elaborate in dramatic detail and stage-management, the fragmentary dramas in which the Indian shaman novitiates are supposed to be killed and recalled to life present to us a scarcely less interesting result of the same great thought.[258] There are indeed, especially in this later example, good reasons for assuming that the simulated death and resurrection are supposed to effect, in a magical way, some kind of spiritual regeneration in the novitiates on whose behalf the drama is performed. But while admitting this, we may nevertheless take it for granted that an endeavour to elucidate the doctrines of the shaman priesthood may be combined with the magical rite in question. And similarly, with regard to analogous ceremonies in other tribes, we feel justified in assuming the presence of a didactic purpose. The more the doctrinal system becomes fixed and elaborated, the greater need will there ensue of affording these doctrines a clear expression in the objective forms of art.

What has been said about religious and philosophical subjects in dramatical art refers equally to poems and paintings. We have therefore to regard the requirements of religious instruction as a factor which has favoured the development of art in all its departments. But we have no means of ascertaining at what precise stage in the evolution this factor, as distinct from other motives, began to exercise its influence. The settlement of this special point, however, is not indispensable to a general comprehension of the principles of art-history.

It is more important, from our point of view, to determine the influence which the purely intellectual motive of conveying with the greatest possible clearness a thought-content, be it historical, religious, or philosophical, has exercised on the artistic representations of life and nature. Although of itself essentially non-æsthetic, this purpose has nevertheless called into existence some most important æsthetic qualities. Especially in narrative painting we may often observe how the virtues of exactness, explicitness, and comprehensibility give a character of beauty to representations which may have originated in a purely practical intention. As has been clearly pointed out by Mr. Walter Crane, the Egyptian hieroglyphs have reached their “wonderful pitch of abstract yet exact characterisation” precisely because they had the character and the purpose of a “decorative record.” The same necessity, viz. that “every object had to be clearly defined so as to be recognised at once and easily deciphered,”[259] is undoubtedly to a great degree responsible for the element of beauty which is to be found in the pictography of North American Indians. Practical utility has in this way subserved the development of an attention to the picturesque side of things. But one has only to look at the more symbolical systems of ideographic writing, such as the Assyrian, the Mexican, and the Chinese, in order to understand that the intellectual requirement by itself never would have created an artistic representation of nature.[260]

This distinction is especially indispensable for a right conception of the intellectual elements in poetry. It is undeniable that some of the most important qualities in literature were developed during the time when it was used chiefly as a means for conveying information. The practical considerations therein have undoubtedly influenced the form of the oral narrative. It is evident, for example, that the metrical and rhythmical recital must have proved the more serviceable whenever a thought-content was to be preserved for futurity. But this fact gives no authorisation to those curious theories according to which poetry was invented and developed, thanks to its merits as a mnemonic device. It is, as was long since remarked by Brown,[261] difficult to understand how rhythm, numbers, and verse could have been devised as assistance for the memory, supposing nothing of that kind to have been existing before. And even if we admit that they could have been invented by accident, it is plain, when we fix our mind on the essential qualities of poetry, that the use of rhythm and metre to aid memory could only have supplied a mechanical condition to facilitate the development of poetic art.

CHAPTER XIV
ANIMAL DISPLAY

In a treatment of the relation between art and sexual life the facts must necessarily be classified under two different headings, namely, the influence of artistic activity upon sexual selection and the importance of erotic motives in works of art. These two points of view have indeed often been confounded with each other. But it will soon appear from the following how indispensable it is to maintain the distinction between them.

In modern literature there has scarcely appeared any treatise of the same importance, not only for the theory of art, but also for æsthetic proper, as the chapters on sexual selection in The Descent of Man. As is well known, Darwin supposes a necessary connection between beauty and art. He takes it for granted that music, poetry, drama, and the rest chiefly aim at pleasing. When he sees that activities and forms, which at least technically correspond to the various kinds of art, are to be met with not only among the lower tribes of man, but even among some of the higher animals, he therefore explains these forms and activities as emanating from a conscious or unconscious endeavour to please through beauty. And for this endeavour he finds a reason in the necessity of gaining preference in the favour of the female. By endowing the female with æsthetic attention and æsthetic judgment[262] he has been able not only to explain the appearance of art amongst savages and animals, but also to account for the importance of beauty in life.

In the foregoing arguments we have already with sufficient clearness pronounced our dissent from Darwin’s primary supposition. In the chapter upon the art-impulse we have tried to show that this tendency in its essence is something quite different from the tendency to “attract by pleasing.” But with all this theoretical argumentation it has of course not been proved that the endeavour of the males to win the favour of the females by singing, dancing, and other similar performances has exercised no influence on the history of art. However little these activities may have to do with real art, they might, however, have afforded a raw material to be used by the art-impulse proper for its own purposes. In this connection it is necessary, therefore, to discuss the question, To what extent has æsthetic choice, exercised by either of the sexes in selecting a mate, favoured the development of artistic activities in the other sex?

The æsthetic theory of Darwin has its chief interest in the fact that it can be applied to the activities of animals as well as to those of men. Darwin himself has chosen the majority of his examples from bird life, and his critics have generally restricted the discussion to the zoological application of his thesis. As the data of animal psychology are less complicated than the corresponding facts in the mental life of man, it is in every respect advantageous to begin with this supposed animal art. When the illustrations are chosen from bird life the argumentation can, moreover, be handled with a freedom which would be impossible in discussing the delicate questions of human erotics and sexual life.

The theory of an appeal to some primordial æsthetic appreciation in the hen birds is one which, however well it may account for the beautiful plumage of some species and for the melodious singing of some others, necessarily must arouse objections from the point of view of comparative psychology. Æsthetic judgment presupposes a certain development not only of intellectual qualities, but also of moral self-restraint. In other words, it might be said that attention to beauty, whether manifested in forms or colours or sounds, always is what Ribot calls an “attention volontaire.”[263] It is hard to believe that the hen really has reached such a state of spiritual freedom that, when looking at the finery and the antics of her rival suitors, she could be able to bestow her attention upon the æsthetic qualities in the display. One has only to work out into all its details and consequences the idea of a bird who approves or disapproves the performance, and who, after balancing the merits of the various competitors, awards her prize to the one nearest her ideal of beauty, in order to realise the improbability, not to say the absurdity, of this avian connoisseurship. M. Espinas, who describes in detail the dilemma of the anxiously hesitating arbiter, has added nothing to the theory of æsthetic selection. But it may safely be said that his illustration of the thesis acts as a caricature of it.[264]

The improbability of an æsthetic judgment is yet more palpable when one considers the state of mind in which the hen is likely to be on the occasion. It has indeed been contended with regard to some species—as, for instance, the satyr bird—that the hen behaves with a perfect calm and indifference during the display of the cock.[265] But it would be undoubtedly too rash to form any general conclusion on the ground of her outward show in some single instances. Amongst the wood-birds, on the other hand, the hens are known to be so excited during the “Balz” that they can easily be caught with the hands.[266]

To all these a priori objections there may also be added the remark of Geddes and Thomson, that if the females of insects and birds had really called into existence all the detailed patterns on the dresses of their respective males by the exercise of æsthetic selection, they would possess more discrimination than is shown in their predilection for any sort of gaudy-coloured objects, such as pebbles, slips of paper, and rags.[267]

However great the psychological improbability of the supposed æsthetic selection, there is still more reason to take exception to it from an evolutionistic point of view. The female appreciation for gaudy and gorgeous dresses must necessarily, as Darwin himself remarks, in many cases give rise to a plumage, as a result of which the males become encumbered in their movements and easily discovered by their enemies.[268] Æsthetic judgment, which is in itself so incomprehensible, would thus have been developed in a continuous conflict with natural selection. This circumstance, more than anything else, makes it indispensable to look for some more utilitarian cause of the secondary sexual characters and activities than the hypothetical necessity of satisfying a sense of beauty in the female sex.

By the theory that has been advanced by Wallace, and further developed by Westermarck, the nuptial dresses of the males have indeed been accounted for in a simple way.[269] Reference to the need of recognisable marks for every different species can explain the most prominent characteristics in male plumage without any appeal to an æsthetic sense. This need, together with the equally great indispensability of protective colouring, must necessarily give rise to precisely such brilliant coloured spots on a monotonous or plain surface as are so often found on the bodies of the northern birds. The gaudier coloration of the tropical species, on the other hand, appears as a result of their more brilliant surroundings. Even here protective colouring often leaves to the colour of recognition only a narrow and limited space, on which this has to develop itself with so much the greater intensity. In this way one can find a reason not only for the decorations, which are beautiful according to our standard, but also for the inharmonious and glaring colour-combinations.

An adherent of sexual selection can, however, easily object that these theories, however sound and sensible they may be, still leave the main point in Darwin’s thesis quite unaffected. When trying to prove the existence of an æsthetic judgment in birds, he did not lay so much stress upon decorative plumage itself as upon the fact of its being displayed in the presence of the hen. If secondary sexual characters had their only purpose in facilitating recognition between individuals of the same species, then these elaborate performances would be quite superfluous. And this argument can of course be further strengthened by reference to the musical and dancing entertainments given by the males. Any theory which leaves these activities unexplained must therefore be regarded as incomplete.

In Mr. Wallace’s Darwinism due attention has indeed been paid to pre-nuptial performances. But his explanation, viz. that the dancing and singing, etc., are only the effect of an inner impulse to movement and activity which accompanies sexual maturity,[270] can but incompletely unriddle the problem. For the purpose of affording an outflow to a surplus of vigour or of discharging a nervous tension, activities of a far simpler character would have been sufficient. As, however, amongst birds with gorgeous plumage every movement in the display tends towards exhibiting their splendour with the greatest possible éclat, an influence upon the hen cannot be argued away. It is, as Darwin remarks, impossible to believe that the Argus pheasant, for instance, should have developed precisely such a curious and peculiar sort of dance, through which his beautiful dress is so effectively shown forth, if this dance had been of no effect upon its spectators.[271] This effect cannot, as has been shown above, be considered an æsthetic one. It is also difficult to believe that the hen, as it has been suggested, should appreciate the secondary sexual characters as signs of greater or smaller vital force, and thus prefer not the most beautiful, but the most vigorous and ardent mate.[272] Whether it is founded on an æsthetic judgment or on an estimation of the force displayed, her conscious choosing seems to be alike improbable.

But if it is difficult to believe that the display of the males could call forth an intellectual activity in the hen, such as that of comparing and valuing the merits of the rival suitors,[273] one can safely assume that it might influence her emotional and instinctive life. And for the production of such an effect there is no need to suppose any intervening æsthetic activity. Considering the close parallelism which shows itself in the development of either sex, it would only be natural if a colour and voice alteration in the cock, which undeniably is dependent upon sexual ripening,[274] should directly and almost physiologically imply a reaction in the sexual life of the hen. The more energetically the male forces himself upon the attention of the female by the conspicuous visual and acoustic signs of his sex, the more powerful must necessarily be the emotional response in her.

If secondary sexual characters are interpreted in this way, as signs, by which the sex of the male is manifested in an unmistakable manner, then one can easily understand the influence of a prolonged display. When the cock is exhibiting his plumes or pouring forth his notes, and thereby impressing upon his female listener the notion of his malehood, he cannot but produce in her an enhanced inclination for pairing.[275] She needs no æsthetic appreciation or intellectual judgment in order to comprehend the simple text of all his utterances. With all her instincts and impulses she can at once grasp the only thing she wants to know—the thing that is brought home to her with a greater and greater clearness during the continuation of his performance, namely, that the passionate actor in front of her is a mature representative of the other sex. And besides this, the secondary sexual characters and activities tell another tale of no less importance. If the colours and the tones of the cock, as Westermarck has shown, are of great consequence for facilitating from a distance recognition between members of the same species,[276] their biological significance is perhaps yet greater when they, during the display before the hen, accentuate the community of species. By virtue of her inherited constitution, the instinctive life of the hen will be deeper stirred the more the male is able to show that he “wears the feathers of her tribe.”

It is evident that the effect upon the hen must be greater in proportion as the sex marks and species marks of the male are more clearly defined, and therefore easier to perceive. Not only as means of recognition, but also as instruments for sexual incitement, colour-patterns with lucent points must be more advantageous than any other system of decoration. It is easily understood that a design like that on the tails of pheasants and peacocks is eminently capable of attracting the female attention to the displaying cock. But it would be stretching the theory too far if the marvellous “balls on sockets” were explained as nothing but conspicuous signals, the meaning of which the hen is able to decipher by help of her inherited instincts. The influence of the display is amongst these species undoubtedly strengthened by an action which is quite independent of any sexual associations. Besides accentuating the sex and kind of the cock, these luminous spheres will, moreover, in virtue of their very smallness and brilliancy, provoke a stimulation in the mind of the hen before whom they are vibrated. To understand this effect, it is necessary to investigate the more general question of animal appreciation of brilliancy.

The powerful attraction exercised by lucent things can be sufficiently proved by numerous instances from the life of insects and fishes as well as of higher animals. It is needless to dwell upon the various means by which man has availed himself of this disastrous predilection in order to entice animals within reach of his weapons.[277] More important in this connection is the mania for collecting lustrous objects that has been noticed in the case of ravens, jays, magpies, jackdaws, goldfinches, chiff-chaffs, sea-pies, etc.[278] It has scarcely ever been suggested that the thievish jackdaw is prompted by any æsthetic liking for brilliant plate. But as it shows itself amongst the atlas birds and the bower birds, this exaggeration of the appropriative impulse has been regarded as an indication of artistic inclination. It has been contended that these birds not only appreciate shining and gorgeous objects, but even understand how to arrange them according to a decorative plan.[279]

No one will deny that structures, such as, for instance, the gardens of the atlas birds, which have been depicted by Beccari, are most wonderful specimens of animal industry.[280] But it is undoubtedly misleading to speak of them as artistic. As far as can be judged from the descriptions—which are seldom complete—the arrangement of the objects seems to be quite accidental. Darwin has indeed collected some most eulogistic accounts of the decorative taste of the Australian bower bird. But he has also, candidly enough, illustrated them with a picture, on which an irregular heap of shells and bones is to be seen in front of the bower. And the description he borrows from Mr. Strange is yet more significant. To judge from this account, which is further corroborated by the statement of Captain Stokes, the chief interest of the birds seems to be not the arranging of their treasures, but the playing with them. It has been noticed that the cock of the great bower bird amuses himself by flying to and fro in the bower carrying a shell in his bill, which he picks up on one side and carries to the other.[281] On an anthropomorphic interpretation such a behaviour would perhaps indicate a desire of trying some new decorative effect. But it seems more natural to assume that brilliant objects, even after they have been stored up in the nest, still exercise their irresistible attraction, and thereby tempt the birds to repeated trifling with them. If the supposed redecorations of the gardens be accounted for in this manner, then there is no reason for considering the collecting impulse in the Australian birds as anything more than a higher development of the same tendency which shows itself in our common magpies and jackdaws.

By the Australian instances, however, the general predilection for brilliant objects is brought into connection with the pairing dresses of pheasants, peacocks, and humming birds. The small and brilliant objects with which the bower birds play during their pairing season remind us irresistibly of the “balls on sockets” and of the ocelli designs of the colibri.[282] It is true that the pheasants carry on their tail what the Australian birds keep in their bill. But apart from this unimportant difference, the display seems to be the same in both cases. In Mr. Strange’s letter it is said that the cock, when performing the exalted antics that precede pairing, “runs to the bower, picks up a gaudy feather or a spotted leaf, pours forth some peculiar notes, and runs through the pavilion.” It is not quite clear from this wording whether the objects really are exhibited before the hen. But one may safely assume that she in any case has paid some attention to her consort’s performance. She has decidedly not, any more than the pea-hen, received any sort of æsthetic impression from the display. But the brilliancy has undoubtedly stimulated her, as it stimulates all the other birds quoted in this connection, in a purely physiological way. This action, on the other hand, is sufficiently explained by recent researches on the physiological effects which the contemplation of concentrated lustre produces on animal organisms. It is also well known that objects with exactly the same qualities as the ocelli on the peacock’s tail play an important part in hypnotic experiments. And the primitive shamans as well as the modern cultivators of “crystal-gazing” are acquainted with the peculiar effects of prolonged gazing on glass-balls or the shining surface of water. More familiar still is the fascinating influence exercised by that lustrous little globe, the human eye.

In all these various examples the smallness of the object fetters the attention, and thereby makes the mind a defenceless prey to the images, feelings, and impulses which for the moment invade it. The lustre, on the other hand, will, to use the language of M. Binet, strengthen the intensity of these mental images.[283] There is no reason why these effects, which presuppose no sort of intellectual activity, should not take place in animals as well as in man. In the case of the peacock, therefore, the idea “male” will imprint itself with greater and more efficacy upon the mind of the hen when she is exposed on every side to the twinkling eyes on the expanded tail of her mate.

Even in the very cases that have been regarded as the most incontestable proofs of a taste for the beautiful, the influence on the hen can thus be explained as one which directly, i.e. without any æsthetic mediation, has served the interests of pairing. But it may still be asked, Whence the need of strengthening and intensifying the emotions in the female, which must already have been awakened by the mere presence of the male? This objection, however, is easily met by a reference to the psychological aspects of pairing. Throughout the animal kingdom the males have to conquer a resistance from the side of the females. This instinctive coyness, the importance of which for the maintenance of the species is incalculable and self-evident, constitutes by itself a sufficient cause for the supposed æsthetic characters and activities of the males.[284] It has made it necessary for them to have a stately carriage, which makes them bigger and more pompous than ever, and to display their bodies in flying tricks, or dances and antics,—in a word, to emphasise their sex as energetically as possible by colours and tunes and movements. And this necessity has, by means of a natural selection, called forth a colouring which is not only easily recognisable from a distance, but which also forces itself on the senses when seen at close quarters.

The æsthetic judgment of the hen forms the pivot of the whole Darwinian theory. When it has been eliminated, it is therefore quite superfluous to controvert the assertion, which Darwin himself would not positively defend, that the performances of the males have originated in an artistic endeavour.[285] Once granted an instinctive coyness in the hen, which must be overcome by every possible means, one can easily understand that secondary sexual characters and activities would gradually appear in the males. The expressive movements in which they seek to relieve their nervous tension afford a material out of which natural selection will shape, as the most effective means of incitation, the various forms of display, or dance, or song. As is well known, Wallace,[286] Spencer,[287] and Hudson[288] have even contended that emotional pressure, or, as they put it, overflowing vitality, by itself constitutes a sufficient explanation of the “Balz.” In the above treatment of the question, which in its main points accords with the conclusive researches of Professor Groos, we have endeavoured to show that the various sorts of display never could have reached their special and differentiated forms if it had not been for the necessity of overcoming female coyness. But, on the other hand, this necessity could never have created out of nothing all these complicated activities. It is difficult—perhaps even impossible—to make any general assertions about the relative importance of these two explanations.[289] The only point which it is necessary to bring out in this connection is that a sort of nuptial performance would have appeared amongst the males even independently of its influence upon the hen. The hygienic need of an outburst is one reason, and a very strong one indeed, for such motor manifestations. But it seems also as if their purpose ought not to be restricted to this cathartic effect. The “lek” of the wood-birds tends no doubt to increase nervous force at the same time as it relieves the tension. M. Espinas thinks that the males, when collecting in great numbers during the pairing season, are led by an unconscious desire to stimulate their feelings by the view of other equally excited fellow-males.[290] Such an unconscious desire of enhancing nervous force probably lies also behind the inclination for brilliant objects and the trifling with them in the bowers.[291] That a sort of artificial stimulation really is necessary may perhaps be concluded from Brehm’s general remark about the sexual life of birds: “The pairing is often repeated, and still more often ineffectually attempted.”[292] In a private communication to Groos, Professor Ziegler, the eminent zoologist, also refers to the increased nervous activity which is necessary for pairing, and the passionate preludes which precede it in so many animals.[293]