The Anatomy of Melancholy

This astonishing, bewildering, wonderful, lovely beauty—“than which,” says Isocrates, “there is nothing in all nature’s treasury more majestic and sacred, more divine, lovely or precious”—is nature’s crown, gold and glory: “a good which, if not the highest, nevertheless often triumphs over the highest.” We can recognize its power from this: in general we despise and abhor things that are foul and ugly to look at, consider them filthy, but love and covet what is beautiful.

It is beauty in everything that pleases and attracts us: a handsome hawk, a fine garment, a magnificent building, a beautiful house, and so on. When Xerxes the Persian destroyed all those temples of the gods in Greece, he ordered Diana’s alone “to be preserved intact,” because of its outstanding beauty and magnificence. Even inanimate beauty can exercise such authority.

It is what painters, craftsmen and orators all aim at. As Eryximachus the physician argues in Plato, “Beauty first gave art the occasion to discover the techniques of carving, painting and building; to devise models, perspective, rich furnishings and so many remarkable inventions.”

The whiteness of the lily, the red of the rose, the purple of the violet, the lustre of lifeless things, the moon’s clear light, the sun’s bright beams, the splendour of gold, purple and sparkling diamond, the horse’s fine form, the lion’s majesty, the colours of birds, peacocks’ tails and the silver scales of fish: we look on these with exceptional delight and admiration.

And beauty, “which is abundant in plants, delightful in flowers, wonderful in wild beasts, but most glorious in human beings,” makes us love and earnestly desire it. Just as, when we hear sweet harmony or an eloquent voice, or see some excellent quality, an ingenious human work, skilful art or anything exquisite, a longing for it immediately arises in us. We love such people, but chiefly for their good looks; we call them gods and goddesses, divine, serene, blessed, and so on.

And of all mortal people, they alone, Calcagnini maintains, are free from slander. “We attack with injustice those who flourish in wealth, office and glory”: we backbite, wrong and hate famous, rich and fortunate people; we resent their happiness and think they do not deserve it. Fortune is a stepmother to us, a parent to them.

“We envy wise, just and honourable people,” says Isocrates, “unless, by reciprocal services and kindnesses—some good turn or other—they force this love from us. Only beautiful people do we love at first sight, seek to know and adore like gods. We would rather serve them than command others, and consider ourselves the more indebted to them, the more service they demand of us.” Even if they are otherwise vicious and dishonourable, we love them, favour them and stand ready to do them any kindness for their beauty’s sake, although they have no other good quality.

“Speak, then, handsome youth,” as the eloquent Favorinus exclaims in Stobaeus: “Speak, Autilochus: your words are sweeter than nectar. Speak, Telemachus: you speak more forcefully than Ulysses. Speak, Alcibiades, however drunk you are: even drunk, we shall listen to you more gladly.”

Speak, handsome youth; speak, Antiloquus: your words are sweeter than nectar. Speak, Telemachus: you are more powerful than Ulysses. Speak, Alcibiades, though drunk: we will gladly hear you as you are.