The mural paintings at Herculaneum and Pompeii are distinguished by grace of representation, as also by a pronounced sense for perspective and correct illumination, yet they are not at all scrupulous in construction. Here still we find abbreviations avoided. But to offset this defect, the members of the body are brought into unnatural positions, in which they appear in their full lengths. Abridgements are more frequently observed in clothed than in unclothed figures.
A satisfactory explanation of these phenomena first occurred to me on the making of a few simple experiments which show how differently one may see the same object, after some mastery of one's senses has been attained, simply by the arbitrary movement of the attention.
Look at the annexed drawing (Fig. 22). It represents a folded sheet of paper with either its depressed or its elevated side turned towards you, as you wish. You can conceive the drawing in either sense, and in either case it will appear to you differently.
If, now, you have a real folded sheet of paper on the table before you, with its sharp edges turned towards you, you can, on looking at it with one eye, see the sheet alternately elevated, as it really is, or depressed. Here, however, a remarkable phenomenon is presented. When you see the sheet properly, neither illumination nor form presents anything conspicuous. When you see it bent back you see it perspectively distorted. Light and shadow appear much brighter or darker, or as if overlaid thickly with bright colors. Light and shadow now appear devoid of all cause. They no longer harmonise with the body's form, and are thus rendered much more prominent.
In common life we employ the perspective and illumination of objects to determine their forms and position. Hence we do not notice the lights, the shadows, and the distortions. They first powerfully enter consciousness when we employ a different construction from the usual spatial one. In looking at the planar image of a camera obscura we are amazed at the plenitude of the light and the profundity of the shadows, both of which we do not notice in real objects.
In my earliest youth the shadows and lights on pictures appeared to me as spots void of meaning. When I began to draw I regarded shading as a mere custom of artists. I once drew the portrait of our pastor, a friend of the family, and shaded, from no necessity, but simply from having seen something similar in other pictures, the whole half of his face black. I was subjected for this to a severe criticism on the part of my mother, and my deeply offended artist's pride is probably the reason that these facts remained so strongly impressed upon my memory.
You see, then, that many strange things, not only in the life of individuals, but also in that of humanity, and in the history of general civilisation, may be explained from the simple fact that man has two eyes.
Change man's eye and you change his conception of the world. We have observed the truth of this fact among our nearest kin, the Egyptians, the Chinese, and the lake-dwellers; how must it be among some of our remoter relatives—with monkeys and other animals? Nature must appear totally different to animals equipped with substantially different eyes from those of men, as, for example, to insects. But for the present science must forego the pleasure of portraying this appearance, as we know very little as yet of the mode of operation of these organs.
It is an enigma even how nature appears to animals closely related to man; as to birds, who see scarcely anything with two eyes at once, but since their eyes are placed on opposite sides of their heads, have a separate field of vision for each.[18]
The soul of man is pent up in the prison-house of his head; it looks at nature through its two windows, the eyes. It would also fain know how nature looks through other windows. A desire apparently never to be fulfilled. But our love for nature is inventive, and here, too, much has been accomplished.
Placing before me an angular mirror, consisting of two plane mirrors slightly inclined to each other, I see my face twice reflected. In the right-hand mirror I obtain a view of the right side, and in the left-hand mirror a view of the left side, of my face. Also I shall see the face of a person standing in front of me, more to the right with my right eye, more to the left with my left. But in order to obtain such widely different views of a face as those shown in the angular mirror, my two eyes would have to be set much further apart from each other than they actually are.
Squinting with my right eye at the image in the right-hand mirror, with my left eye at the image in the left-hand mirror, my vision will be the vision of a giant having an enormous head with his two eyes set far apart. This, also, is the impression which my own face makes upon me. I see it now, single and solid. Fixing my gaze, the relief from second to second is magnified, the eyebrows start forth prominently from above the eyes, the nose seems to grow a foot in length, my mustache shoots forth like a fountain from my lip, the teeth seem to retreat immeasurably. But by far the most horrible aspect of the phenomenon is the nose.
Interesting in this connexion is the telestereoscope of Helmholtz. In the telestereoscope we view a landscape by looking with our right eye (Fig. 24) through the mirror a into the mirror A, and with our left eye through the mirror b into the mirror B. The mirrors A and B stand far apart. Again we see with the widely separated eyes of a giant. Everything appears dwarfed and near us. The distant mountains look like moss-covered stones at our feet. Between, you see the reduced model of a city, a veritable Liliput. You are tempted almost to stroke with your hand the soft forest and city, did you not fear that you might prick your fingers on the sharp, needle-shaped steeples, or that they might crackle and break off.
Liliput is no fable. We need only Swift's eyes, the telestereoscope, to see it.
Picture to yourself the reverse case. Let us suppose ourselves so small that we could take long walks in a forest of moss, and that our eyes were correspondingly near each other. The moss-fibres would appear like trees. On them we should see strange, unshapely monsters creeping about. Branches of the oak-tree, at whose base our moss-forest lay, would seem to us dark, immovable, myriad-branched clouds, painted high on the vault of heaven; just as the inhabitants of Saturn, forsooth, might see their enormous ring. On the tree-trunks of our mossy woodland we should find colossal globes several feet in diameter, brilliantly transparent, swayed by the winds with slow, peculiar motions. We should approach inquisitively and should find that these globes, in which here and there animals were gaily sporting, were liquid globes, in fact that they were water. A short, incautious step, the slightest contact, and woe betide us, our arm is irresistibly drawn by an invisible power into the interior of the sphere and held there unrelentingly fast! A drop of dew has engulfed in its capillary maw a manikin, in revenge for the thousands of drops that its big human counterparts have quaffed at breakfast. Thou shouldst have known, thou pygmy natural scientist, that with thy present puny bulk thou shouldst not joke with capillarity!
My terror at the accident brings me back to my senses. I see I have turned idyllic. You must pardon me. A patch of greensward, a moss or heather forest with its tiny inhabitants have incomparably more charms for me than many a bit of literature with its apotheosis of human character. If I had the gift of writing novels I should certainly not make John and Mary my characters. Nor should I transfer my loving pair to the Nile, nor to the age of the old Egyptian Pharaohs, although perhaps I should choose that time in preference to the present. For I must candidly confess that I hate the rubbish of history, interesting though it may be as a mere phenomenon, because we cannot simply observe it but must also feel it, because it comes to us mostly with supercilious arrogance, mostly unvanquished. The hero of my novel would be a cockchafer, venturing forth in his fifth year for the first time with his newly grown wings into the light, free air. Truly it could do no harm if man would thus throw off his inherited and acquired narrowness of mind