the soul of man-第7部分

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imaginative　medium；　and　under　imaginative　conditions；　new　and

beautiful　impressions；　is　the　only　temperament　that　can　appreciate

a　work　of　art。　　And　true　as　this　is　in　the　case　of　the　appreciation

of　sculpture　and　painting；　it　is　still　more　true　of　the

appreciation　of　such　arts　as　the　drama。　　For　a　picture　and　a　statue

are　not　at　war　with　Time。　　They　take　no　count　of　its　succession。

In　one　moment　their　unity　may　be　apprehended。　　In　the　case　of

literature　it　is　different。　　Time　must　be　traversed　before　the

unity　of　effect　is　realised。　　And　so；　in　the　drama；　there　may　occur

in　the　first　act　of　the　play　something　whose　real　artistic　value

may　not　be　evident　to　the　spectator　till　the　third　or　fourth　act　is

reached。　　Is　the　silly　fellow　to　get　angry　and　call　out；　and

disturb　the　play；　and　annoy　the　artists？　　No。　　The　honest　man　is　to

sit　quietly；　and　know　the　delightful　emotions　of　wonder；　curiosity；

and　suspense。　　He　is　not　to　go　to　the　play　to　lose　a　vulgar　temper。

He　is　to　go　to　the　play　to　realise　an　artistic　temperament。　　He　is

to　go　to　the　play　to　gain　an　artistic　temperament。　　He　is　not　the

arbiter　of　the　work　of　art。　　He　is　one　who　is　admitted　to

contemplate　the　work　of　art；　and；　if　the　work　be　fine；　to　forget　in

its　contemplation　and　the　egotism　that　mars　him　…　the　egotism　of

his　ignorance；　or　the　egotism　of　his　information。　　This　point　about

the　drama　is　hardly；　I　think；　sufficiently　recognised。　　I　can　quite

understand　that　were　'Macbeth'　produced　for　the　first　time　before　a

modern　London　audience；　many　of　the　people　present　would　strongly

and　vigorously　object　to　the　introduction　of　the　witches　in　the

first　act；　with　their　grotesque　phrases　and　their　ridiculous　words。

But　when　the　play　is　over　one　realises　that　the　laughter　of　the

witches　in　'Macbeth'　is　as　terrible　as　the　laughter　of　madness　in

'Lear；'　more　terrible　than　the　laughter　of　Iago　in　the　tragedy　of

the　Moor。　　No　spectator　of　art　needs　a　more　perfect　mood　of

receptivity　than　the　spectator　of　a　play。　　The　moment　he　seeks　to

exercise　authority　he　becomes　the　avowed　enemy　of　Art　and　of

himself。　　Art　does　not　mind。　　It　is　he　who　suffers。



With　the　novel　it　is　the　same　thing。　　Popular　authority　and　the

recognition　of　popular　authority　are　fatal。　　Thackeray's　'Esmond'

is　a　beautiful　work　of　art　because　he　wrote　it　to　please　himself。

In　his　other　novels；　in　'Pendennis；'　in　'Philip；'　in　'Vanity　Fair'

even；　at　times；　he　is　too　conscious　of　the　public；　and　spoils　his

work　by　appealing　directly　to　the　sympathies　of　the　public；　or　by

directly　mocking　at　them。　　A　true　artist　takes　no　notice　whatever

of　the　public。　　The　public　are　to　him　non…existent。　　He　has　no

poppied　or　honeyed　cakes　through　which　to　give　the　monster　sleep　or

sustenance。　　He　leaves　that　to　the　popular　novelist。　　One

incomparable　novelist　we　have　now　in　England；　Mr　George　Meredith。

There　are　better　artists　in　France；　but　France　has　no　one　whose

view　of　life　is　so　large；　so　varied；　so　imaginatively　true。　　There

are　tellers　of　stories　in　Russia　who　have　a　more　vivid　sense　of

what　pain　in　fiction　may　be。　　But　to　him　belongs　philosophy　in

fiction。　　His　people　not　merely　live；　but　they　live　in　thought。

One　can　see　them　from　myriad　points　of　view。　　They　are　suggestive。

There　is　soul　in　them　and　around　them。　　They　are　interpretative　and

symbolic。　　And　he　who　made　them；　those　wonderful　quickly…moving

figures；　made　them　for　his　own　pleasure；　and　has　never　asked　the

public　what　they　wanted；　has　never　cared　to　know　what　they　wanted；

has　never　allowed　the　public　to　dictate　to　him　or　influence　him　in

any　way　but　has　gone　on　intensifying　his　own　personality；　and

producing　his　own　individual　work。　　At　first　none　came　to　him。

That　did　not　matter。　　Then　the　few　came　to　him。　　That　did　not

change　him。　　The　many　have　come　now。　　He　is　still　the　same。　　He　is

an　incomparable　novelist。　　With　the　decorative　arts　it　is　not

different。　　The　public　clung　with　really　pathetic　tenacity　to　what

I　believe　were　the　direct　traditions　of　the　Great　Exhibition　of

international　vulgarity；　traditions　that　were　so　appalling　that　the

houses　in　which　people　lived　were　only　fit　for　blind　people　to　live

in。　　Beautiful　things　began　to　be　made；　beautiful　colours　came　from

the　dyer's　hand；　beautiful　patterns　from　the　artist's　brain；　and

the　use　of　beautiful　things　and　their　value　and　importance　were　set

forth。　　The　public　were　really　very　indignant。　　They　lost　their

temper。　　They　said　silly　things。　　No　one　minded。　　No　one　was　a　whit

the　worse。　　No　one　accepted　the　authority　of　public　opinion。　　And

now　it　is　almost　impossible　to　enter　any　modern　house　without

seeing　some　recognition　of　good　taste；　some　recognition　of　the

value　of　lovely　surroundings；　some　sign　of　appreciation　of　beauty。

In　fact；　people's　houses　are；　as　a　rule；　quite　charming　nowadays。

People　have　been　to　a　very　great　extent　civilised。　　It　is　only　fair

to　state；　however；　that　the　extraordinary　success　of　the　revolution

in　house…decoration　and　furniture　and　the　like　has　not　really　been

due　to　the　majority　of　the　public　developing　a　very　fine　taste　in

such　matters。　　It　has　been　chiefly　due　to　the　fact　that　the

craftsmen　of　things　so　appreciated　the　pleasure　of　making　what　was

beautiful；　and　woke　to　such　a　vivid　consciousness　of　the

hideousness　and　vulgarity　of　what　the　public　had　previously　wanted；

that　they　simply　starved　the　public　out。　　It　would　be　quite

impossible　at　the　present　moment　to　furnish　a　room　as　rooms　were

furnished　a　few　years　ago；　without　going　for　everything　to　an

auction　of　second…hand　furniture　from　some　third…rate　lodging…

house。　　The　things　are　no　longer　made。　　However　they　may　object　to

it；　people　must　nowadays　have　something　charming　in　their

surroundings。　　Fortunately　for　them；　their　assumption　of　authority

in　these　art…matters　came　to　entire　grief。



It　is　evident；　then；　that　all　authority　in　such　things　is　bad。

People　sometimes　inquire　what　form　of　government　is　most　suitable

for　an　artist　to　live　under。　　To　this　question　there　is　only　one

answer。　　The　form　of　government　that　is　most　suitable　to　the　artist

is　no　government　at　all。　　Authority　over　him　and　his　art　is

ridiculous。　　It　has　been　stated　that　under　despotisms　artists　have

produced　lovely　work。　　This　is　not　quite　so。　　Artists　have　visited

despots；　not　as　subjects　to　be　tyrannised　over；　but　as　wandering

wonder…makers；　as　fascinating　vagrant　personalities；　to　be

entertained　and　charmed　and　suffered　to　be　at　peace；　and　allowed　to

create。　　There　is　this　to　be　said　in　favour　of　the　despot；　that　he；

being　an　individual；　may　have　culture；　while　the　mob；　being　a

monster；　has　none。　　One　who　is　an　Emperor　and　King　may　stoop　down

to　pick　up　a　brush　for　a　painter；　but　when　the　democracy　stoops

down　it　is　merely　to　throw　mud。　　And　yet　the　democracy　have　not　so

far　to　stoop　as　the　emperor。　　In　fact；　when　they　want　to　throw　mud

they　have　not　to　stoop　at　all。　　But　there　is　no　necessity　to

separate　the　monarch　from　the　mob；　all　authority　is　equally　bad。



There　are　three　kinds　of　despots。　　There　is　the　despot　who

tyrannises　over　the　body。　　There　is　the　despot　who　tyrannises　over

the　soul。　　There　is　the　despot　who　tyrannises　over　the　soul　and

body　alike。　　The　first　is　called　the　Prince。　　The　second　is　called

the　Pope。　　The　third　is　called　the　People。　　The　Prince　may　be

cultivated。　　Many　Princes　have　been。　　Yet　in　the　Prince　there　is

danger。　　One　thinks　of　Dante　at　the　bitter　feast　in　Verona；　of

Tasso　in　Ferrara's　madman's　cell。　　It　is　better　for　the　artist　not

to　live　with　Princes。　　The　Pope　may　be　cultivated。　　Many　Popes　have

been；　the　bad　Popes　have　been。　　The　bad　Popes　loved　Beauty；　almost

as　passionately；　nay；　with　as　much　passion　as　the　good　Popes　hated

Thought。　　To　the　wickedness　of　the　Papacy　humanity　owes　much。　　The

goodness　of　the　Papacy　owes　a　terrible　debt　to　humanity。　　Yet；

though　the　Vatican　has　kept　the　rhetoric　of　its　thunders；　and　lost

the　rod　of　its　lightning；　it　is　better　for　the　artist　not　to　live

with　Popes。　　It　was　a　Pope　who　said　of　Cellini　to　a　conclave　of

Cardinals　that　common　laws　and　common　authority　were　not　made　for

men　such　as　he；　but　it　was　a　Pope　who　thrust　Cellini　into　prison；

and　kept　him　there　till　he　sickened　with　rage；　and　created　unreal

visions　for　himself；　and　saw　the　gilded　sun　enter　his　room；　and

grew　so　enamoured　of　it　that　he　sought　to　escape；　and　crept　out

from　tower　to　tower；　and　falling　through　dizzy　air　at　dawn；　maimed

himself；　and　was　by　a　vine…dresser　covered　with　vine　leaves；　and

carried　in　a　cart　to　one　who；　loving　beautiful　things；　had　care　of

him。　　There　is　danger　in　Popes。　　And　as　for　the　People；　what　of

them　and　their　authority？　　Perhaps　of　them　and　their　authority　one

has　spoken　enough。　　Their　authority　is　a　thing　blind；　deaf；

hideous；　grotesque；　tragic；　amusing；　serious；　and　obscene。　　It　is

impossible　for　the　artist　to　live　with　the　People。　　All　despots

bribe。　　The　people　bribe　and　brutalise。　　Who　told　them　to　exercise

authority？　　They　were　made　to　live；　to　listen；　and　to　love。

Someone　has　done　them　a　great　wrong。　　They　have　marred　themselves

by　imitation　of　their　inferiors。　　They　have　taken　the　sceptre　of

the　Prince。　　How　should　they　use　it？　　They　have　taken　the　triple

tiara　of　the　Pope。　　How　should　they　carry　its　burden？　　They　are　as

a　clown　whose　heart　is　broken。　　They　are　as　a　priest　whose　soul　is

not　yet　born。　　Let　all　who　love　Beauty　pity　them。　　Though　they

themselves　love　not　Beauty；　yet　let　them　pity　themselves。　　Who

taught　them　the　trick　of　tyranny？



There　are　many　other　things　that　one　might　point　out。　　One　might

point　out　how　the　Renaissance　was　great；　because　it　sought　to　solve

no　social　problem；　and　busied　itself　not　about　such　things；　but

suffered　the　individual　to　develop　freely；　beautifully；　and

naturally；　and　so　had　great　and　individual　artists；　and　great　and

individual　men。　　One　might　point　out　how　Louis　XI