9 / Croce /
The Essence of Aesthetic
principle that animates it, making it all one with itself; but
what is this principle?
The answer to such a question may be said to result from
the examination of the greatest ideal strife that has ever
taken place in the field of art (and is not confined to the
epoch that took its name from it and in which it was
predominant): the strife between romanticism and
classicism. Giving the general definition,
here convenient,
and setting aside minor and accidental definitions,
romanticism asks of art, above all, the spontaneous and
violent effusion of the affections, of love and hate, of
anguish and joy, of despair and elation; and is willingly
satisfied and pleased with vaporous and indeterminate
images, broken and allusive in style, with vague
suggestions, with approximate phrases, with powerful and
confused sketches: while classicism loves the peaceful
soul, the wise design, figures studied in their
characteristics and precise in outline, ponderation,
equilibrium, clarity; and resolutely tends toward
representation, as the other tends toward
feeling. And
whoever puts himself at one or the other point of view
finds crowds of reasons for maintaining it and for
confuting the opposite point of view; because (say the
romantics), What value has an art, rich in beautiful
images, when it does not speak to the heart? And if it do
speak to the heart, what does it matter though the images
are not beautiful? And the others say, What is the use of
the shock of the passions, if the spirit do not rest upon a
beautiful image? And if the image be beautiful, if our
taste be satisfied, what matters the absence of those
emotions which can all of them be obtained outside art,
and which life does not fail to provide, sometimes in
greater quantity than we desire? But when we begin to
feel weary of the fruitless defence of both partial views;
above all, when we turn away from ordinary works of art
produced by the romantic and classical schools, from
works convulsed with passion or coldly decorous, to fix
them upon the works, not of the disciples, but of the
masters, not of the mediocre, but of the supreme, we see
the struggle cease and find ourselves unable to call the
great portions of these works romantic or classic or
representative, because they are both classic and
romantic, feelings and representations, a vigorous feeling
which has become all most brilliant representation. Such,
for example, are the works of Hellenic art, and such those
of Italian poetry and art: the transcendentalism of the
Middle Ages became fixed in the bronze of the Dantean
terzina; melancholy and suave fancy,
in the transparency
of the songs and sonnets of Petrarch; sage experience of
life and badinage with the fables of the past, in the limpid
ottava rima of Ariosto; heroism and the thought of death,
in the perfect blank-verse hendecasyllabics of Foscolo;
the infinite variety of everything, in the sober and austere
songs of Giacomo Leopardi. Finally (be it said in
parenthesis and without intending comparison with the
other examples adduced), the voluptuous refinements and
animal sensuality of international decadentism have
received their most perfect expression in the prose and
verse of an Italian, D’Annunzio. All these souls were
profoundly passionate (all, even the serene Lodovico
Ariosto, who was so amorous, so tender, and so often
represses his emotion with a smile); their works of art are
the eternal flower that springs from their passions.
These expressions and these critical judgments can be
theoretically resumed in the formula, that what gives
coherence and unity to the intuition is feeling: the
intuition is really such because it represents a feeling, and
can only appear from and upon that. Not the idea, but the
feeling, is what confers upon art the airy lightness of the
symbol: an aspiration enclosed in the circle of a
representation — that is art; and in it the aspiration alone
stands for the representation, and the representation alone
for the aspiration. Epic and lyric, or drama and lyric, are
scholastic divisions of the indivisible: art is always
lyrical — that is, epic and dramatic in feeling. What we
admire in genuine works of art is the perfect imaginative
form which a state of the soul assumes; and we call this
life, unity, compactness and fulness of the work of art.
What displeases us in the false and imperfect forms is the
struggle of several different states of the soul not yet
unified, their stratification, or mixture, their vacillating
method, which obtains apparent unity from the will of the
author, who for this purpose avails himself of an abstract
plan or idea, or of extra-aesthetic, passionate emotion. A
series of images which seem to be, each in turn,
convincingly powerful, leaves us nevertheless deluded
and diffident, because we do not see them generated from
a state of the soul, from a “study” (as the painters call it),
from a motive; and they follow upon and crowd one
another without that precise intonation, without that
accent, which comes from the heart. And what is the
figure cut out from its background in a picture or
transported and placed against another background, what
is the personage of drama or of romance outside his
relation with all the other personages and with the general
action? And what is the value of this general action if it be
not an action of the spirit of the author? The secular
disputes concerning dramatic unity are interesting in this
connection; they are first applied to the unity of “action,”
when they have been obtained from the external
definitions of time and place, and this finally applied to
the unity of “interest,” and the interest should be in its
turn dissolved in the interest of the spirit of the poet in the
ideal that animates him. The negative issue of the great
dispute between classicists and romanticists is interesting,
for it resulted in the negation of the art which strives to
distract and illude the soul as to the deficiency of the
image based upon abstract feeling, upon practical
violence of feeling, upon feeling that has not become
contemplation, and equally in the negation of the art
which, by means of the superficial clearness of the image,
of drawing correctly false, of the falsely correct word,
seeks to deceive as to its lack of inspiration and its lack of
an aesthetic reason to justify what it has produced. A