Thou dost deserve enough.”
Relying on the judgment of others, rather than on his own, but conscious too that there is good ground for the estimation in which he knows himself held, the chivalrous admiration with which he looks up to the woman he desires, comes in here suddenly with a doubt whether if all that is thought of him is deserved, it is enough to win a pearl of so great price. His conscious manhood refuses, however, to weaken itself by doubting, and he again repeats the clause on which he stopped before. He goes back to the thought of the estimation in which he is held; he thinks of his noble birth, of his princely fortune, of his graces, and qualities of breeding, and enumerating all these, he proves his title to a better nobility by the sudden thought that the love he bears her is enough to make him deserve her were she never so precious, and on that, and that alone, he rests his claim. But before deciding he will read again from the gold casket, and his exclamations on it are only a continuation of his previous thought. It seems perfectly plain to him that this must be the fortunate casket. In his generous love he forgets himself entirely, and as it were to show her how wholly he believes in her, he makes his selection here. Why should he be angry at the failure? He had no self-assertion to be wounded. If he deserved her, it was only because he loved her; and if he did not deserve her, it was only because she was more than any one could deserve.
As Arragon, after passing by the lead, turns to the gold, he begins to be a little more cautious, and repeats like Morocco. But his mind, instead of turning at once to Portia as the only prize in the world wholly desirable, begins from a lofty eminence of superiority to criticise others whom he calls the “fool multitude.” He will not choose what many men desire, because he prefers to keep out of the ranks. No democrat, but a proud aristocrat is he, and so the gold casket is set aside. After reading from the next, he begins to criticise again. It seems as if he stood outside of all the world and coolly reviewed it. On consideration he is quite sure that there is no danger of his losing his place even if “true honor were purchased by the merit of the wearer,” and basing his choice on his belief that he deserves success, he orders peremptorily the opening of the “treasure house.”
Is it not most natural that with such feelings, such self-complacency, he should be angry when he finds he has made a mistake? Nothing can be more galling to a proud spirit than to discover that the estimation set upon him by others is lower than that he sets upon himself.
It was not our purpose to compare Bassanio’s comments with the others. Let us say only that he evidently prizes sincerity above all other virtues, and prefers a leaden casket that is lead all through, to a golden one that is gold only on the outside, and so he wins the woman, who, as she shows us a moment afterwards, is sincere enough to deserve to be won.
LEONARDO DA VINCI’S “LAST SUPPER,”
As treated by Goethe.
[The following extracts from Goethe’s treatment of the master-piece of Leonardo da Vinci were read at a meeting of the St. Louis Art Society, pending the discussion of a fine engraving of this celebrated picture. The MS. kindly presented to us by the translator we print, in order to give to those unacquainted with the original an exhibition of Goethe’s thorough manner of penetrating the spirit of a work of art.—Editor.]
The Last Supper * * * was painted upon the wall of the monastery alle Grazie, at Milan. The place where the picture is painted must first be considered, for here the skill of the artist appears in its most brilliant light. What could be fitter and nobler for a refectory than a parting meal, which should be an object of reverence to the whole world for all future time. Several years ago, when travelling, we beheld this dining-room still undestroyed. Opposite the entrance on the narrow side, stood the table of the prior, on both sides of him the tables of the monks, all of which were raised a step from the floor—and when the visitor turned round, he saw painted on the fourth, above the doors, which are of but moderate height, a fourth table, and Christ and his disciples seated at it, as if they belonged to the society. At meal times it must have been a telling sight, when the tables of the prior and Christ looked upon each other as two opposite pictures, and the monks at their places found themselves enclosed between them. And just on this account the skill of the artist was compelled to take the existing tables of the monks as a pattern. Also, the table-cloth, with its folds still visible with its worked stripes and tied corners, was taken from the wash-room of the monastery. The plates, dishes, cups, and other vessels, are like those which the monks used.
Here was no attempt at imitating an uncertain antiquated costume; it would have been highly improper to stretch out the holy company upon cushions in this place. No, the picture must be brought near to the present; Christ must take his last supper with the Dominicans at Milan. Also, in many other respects, the painting must have produced a great effect; the thirteen figures about ten feet above the floor, one-half larger than life-size, take up the space of twenty-eight feet in length. Only two whole figures can be seen at the opposite ends of the table, the rest are half-figures; and here, too, the artist found his advantage in the necessity of the circumstances. Every moral expression belongs to the upper part of the body, and the feet in such cases are everywhere in the way. The artist has created here twelve half-figures, whose laps and knees are covered by the table and table-cloth, but whose feet are scarcely visible in the modest twilight beneath. Let us now imagine ourselves in the place; let us consider the moral repose which prevails in such a monastic dining-hall, and let us admire the artist who has infused into his picture, powerful emotion, passionate movement, and at the same time has kept his work within the bounds of Nature, and thus brings it in close contrast with the nearest reality.
The means of excitement by which the artist arouses the quiet holy group, are the words of the Master: “There is one among you who shall betray me!” They are spoken—the whole company falls into disquiet; but he inclines his head, with looks cast down; the whole attitude, the motion of the arms, of the hands, everything repeats with heavenly submission the unhappy words: Yes, it is not otherwise, there is one among you who shall betray me!