not unpleasantly insistent, like the images aroused by worry and sorrow,
but spontaneous and self-rewarding, hence beautiful. There are also
events in the lives of other people, and people themselves, whose lives
read like a story, which, by absorbing our pity or joy or awe, claim
from us a like fascinated regard. And there are actions we ourselves
perform, magnificent or humble, like sweeping a room, which, if we put
ourselves into them and enjoy them, have an equal charm. And they too
have the quality of beauty.

Despite the community between beautiful nature and art, the differences
are striking. Suppose, in order fix our ideas, we compare one of Monet's
pictures of a lily pond with the aesthetic appreciation of the real
pond. The pond is undoubtedly beautiful every time it is seen; with
its round outline, its sunlit, flower-covered surface, its background
of foliage, it is perhaps the source and expression of an unfailing
gladness and repose. Now the painting has very much the same value,
but with these essential differences. First, the painting is something
deliberately constructed and composed, the artist himself controlling
and composing the colors and shapes, and hence their values also; while
the natural beauty is an immediate reaction to given stimuli, each
observer giving meaning to his sensations without intention or effort.
Like the beauty of woman, it is almost a matter of instinct. In natural
beauty, there is, to be sure, an element of conscious intention, in
so far as we may purposely select our point of view and hold the object
in our attention; hence this contrast with art, although real and
important, is not absolute. Moreover, beauty in perception and memory
is the basis of art; the artist, while he composes, nevertheless partly
transcribes significant memories and observations. Yet, although
relative, the difference remains; art always consists of works of art,
natural beauty of more immediate experiences. And from this difference