in a way, though all this has been said before, we may as well remind
ourselves and others why the light is so dim; why there is so much bad
and false fiction; why the demand for it is so great. Living in a world
where demand creates supply, we writers of fiction furnish the exception
to this rule. For, consider how, as a class, we come into existence.
Unlike the followers of any other occupation, nothing whatever compels
any one of us to serve an apprenticeship. We go to no school, have to
pass no examination, attain no standard, receive no diploma. We need not
study that which should be studied; we are at liberty to flood our minds
with all that should not be studied. Like mushrooms, in a single
sight we spring up—a pen in our hands, very little in our brains, and
who-knows-what in our hearts!
Few of us sit down in cold blood to write our first stories; we have
something in us that we feel we must express. This is the beginning of
the vicious circle. Our first books often have some thing in them. We
are sincere in trying to express that something. It is true we cannot
express it, not having learnt how, but its ghost haunts the pages
the ghost of real experience and real life—just enough to attract the
untrained intelligence, just enough to make a generous Press remark:
“This shows promise.” We have tasted blood, we pant for more. Those of
us who had a carking occupation hasten to throw it aside, those who
had no occupation have now found one; some few of us keep both the old
occupation and the new. Whichever of these courses we pursue, the hurry
with which we pursue it undoes us. For, often we have only that one book
in us, which we did not know how to write, and having expressed that
which we have felt, we are driven in our second, our third, our fourth,
to warm up variations, like those dressed remains of last night's dinner
which are served for lunch; or to spin from our usually commonplace
imaginations thin extravagances which those who do not try to think for
themselves are ever ready to accept as full of inspiration and vitality.
Anything for a book, we say—anything for a book!
From time immemorial we have acted in this immoral manner, till we have
accustomed the Press and Public to expect it. From time immemorial we
have allowed ourselves to be driven by those powerful drivers, Bread,
and Praise, and cared little for the quality of either. Sensibly, or
insensibly, we tune our songs to earn the nuts of our twilight forest.
We tune them, not to the key of: “Is it good?” but to the key of: “Will
it pay?” and at each tuning the nuts fall fast! It is all so natural.
How can we help it, seeing that we are undisciplined and standardless,
seeing that we started without the backbone that schooling gives? Here
and there among us is a genius, here and there a man of exceptional
stability who trains himself in spite of all the forces working for his
destruction. But those who do not publish until they can express, and do
not express until they have something worth expressing, are so rare
that they can be counted on the fingers of three or perhaps four hands;
mercifully, we all—or nearly all believe ourselves of that company.
It is the fashion to say that the public will have what it wants.
Certainly the Public will have what it wants if what it wants is given
to the Public. If what it now wants were suddenly withdrawn, the Public,
the big Public, would by an obvious natural law take the lowest of what
remained; if that again were withdrawn, it would take the next lowest,
until by degrees it took a relatively good article. The Public, the big
Public, is a mechanical and helpless consumer at the mercy of what is
supplied to it, and this must ever be so. The Public then is not to
blame for the supply of bad, false fiction. The Press is not to blame,
for the Press, like the Public, must take what is set before it; their
Critics, for the most part, like ourselves have been to no school,
passed no test of fitness, received no certificate; they cannot lead
us, it is we who lead them, for without the Critics we could live but
without us the Critics would die. We cannot, therefore, blame the Press.
Nor is the Publisher to blame; for the Publisher will publish what is
set before him. It is true that if he published no books on commission
he would deserve the praise of the State, but it is quite unreasonable
for us to expect him to deserve the praise of the State, since it is
we who supply him with these books and incite him to publish them. We
cannot, therefore, lay the blame on the Publisher.
We must lay the blame where it clearly should be laid, on ourselves. We
ourselves create the demand for bad and false fiction. Very many of us
have private means; for such there is no excuse. Very many of us have
none; for such, once started on this journey of fiction, there is
much, often tragic, excuse—the less reason then for not having trained
ourselves before setting out on our way. There is no getting out of it;
the fault is ours. If we will not put ourselves to school when we are
young; if we must rush into print before we can spell; if we will not
repress our natural desires and walk before we run; if we will not learn
at least what not to do—we shall go on wandering through the forest,
singing our foolish songs.
And since we cannot train ourselves except by writing, let us write, and
burn what we write; then shall we soon stop writing, or produce what we
need not burn!
For, as things are now, without compass, without map, we set out into
the twilight forest of fiction; without path, without track—and we never
emerge.
Yes, with the French writer, we must say:
“Et nous jongleurs inutiles, frivoles joueurs de luth!” . . .
1906.
REFLECTIONS ON OUR DISLIKE OF THINGS AS THEY ARE
Yes! Why is this the chief characteristic of our art? What secret
instincts are responsible for this inveterate distaste? But, first, is
it true that we have it?
To stand still and look at a thing for the joy of looking, without
reference to any material advantage, and personal benefit, either to
ourselves or our neighbours, just simply to indulge our curiosity! Is
that a British habit? I think not.
If, on some November afternoon, we walk into Kensington Gardens, where
they join the Park on the Bayswater side, and, crossing in front of the
ornamental fountain, glance at the semicircular seat let into a dismal
little Temple of the Sun, we shall see a half-moon of apathetic figures.
There, enjoying a moment of lugubrious idleness, may be sitting an old
countrywoman with steady eyes in a lean, dusty-black dress and an old
poke-bonnet; by her side, some gin-faced creature of the town, all
blousy and draggled; a hollow-eyed foreigner, far gone in consumption; a
bronzed young navvy, asleep, with his muddy boots jutting straight out;
a bearded, dreary being, chin on chest; and more consumptives, and more
vagabonds, and more people dead-tired, speechless, and staring before
them from that crescent-shaped haven where there is no draught at
their backs, and the sun occasionally shines. And as we look at them,
according to the state of our temper, we think: Poor creatures, I wish
I could do something for them! or: Revolting! They oughtn't to allow it!
But do we feel any pleasure in just watching them; any of that intimate
sensation a cat entertains when its back is being rubbed; are we
curiously enjoying the sight of these people, simply as manifestations
of life, as objects fashioned by the ebb and flow of its tides? Again,
I think, not. And why? Either, because we have instantly felt that we
ought to do something; that here is a danger in our midst, which one day
might affect our own security; and at all events, a sight revolting to
us who came out to look at this remarkably fine fountain. Or, because
we are too humane! Though very possibly that frequent murmuring of ours:
Ah! It's too sad! is but another way of putting the words: Stand aside,
please, you're too depressing! Or, again, is it that we avoid the sight
of things as they are, avoid the unedifying, because of what may be
called “the uncreative instinct,” that safeguard and concomitant of
a civilisation which demands of us complete efficiency, practical and
thorough employment of every second of our time and every inch of our
space? We know, of course, that out of nothing nothing can be made, that
to “create” anything a man must first receive impressions, and that to
receive impressions requires an apparatus of nerves and feelers, exposed
and quivering to every vibration round it, an apparatus so entirely
opposed to our national spirit and traditions that the bare thought of
it causes us to blush. A robust recognition of this, a steadfast resolve
not to be forced out of the current of strenuous civilisation into
the sleepy backwater of pure impression ism, makes us distrustful
of attempts to foster in ourselves that receptivity and subsequent
creativeness, the microbes of which exist in every man: To watch a thing
simply because it is a thing, entirely without considering how it can
affect us, and without even seeing at the moment how we are to get
anything out of it, jars our consciences, jars that inner feeling which
keeps secure and makes harmonious the whole concert of our lives, for we
feel it to be a waste of time, dangerous to the community, contributing
neither to our meat and drink, our clothes and comfort, nor to the
stability and order of our lives.
Of these three possible reasons for our dislike of things as they are,
the first two are perhaps contained within the third. But, to whatever
our dislike is due, we have it—Oh! we have it! With the possible
exception of Hogarth in his non-preaching pictures, and Constable in
his sketches of the sky,—I speak of dead men only, —have we produced
any painter of reality like Manet or Millet, any writer like Flaubert
or Maupassant, like Turgenev, or Tchekov. We are, I think, too deeply
civilised, so deeply civilised that we have come to look on Nature as
indecent. The acts and emotions of life undraped with ethics seem to
us anathema. It has long been, and still is, the fashion among the
intellectuals of the Continent to regard us as barbarians in most
aesthetic matters. Ah! If they only knew how infinitely barbarous they
seem to us in their naive contempt of our barbarism, and in what we
regard as their infantine concern with things as they are. How far have
we not gone past all that—we of the oldest settled Western country, who
have so veneered our lives that we no longer know of what wood they are
made! Whom generations have so soaked with the preserve “good form”
that we are impervious to the claims and clamour of that ill-bred
creature—life! Who think it either dreadful, or 'vieux jeu', that such
things as the crude emotions and the raw struggles of Fate should be
even mentioned, much less presented in terms of art! For whom an artist
is 'suspect' if he is not, in his work, a sportsman and a gentleman? Who
shake a solemn head over writers who will treat of sex; and, with the
remark: “Worst of it is, there's so much truth in those fellows!” close
the book.
Ah! well! I suppose we have been too long familiar with the
unprofitableness of speculation, have surrendered too definitely to
action—to the material side of things, retaining for what relaxation
our spirits may require, a habit of sentimental aspiration, carefully
divorced from things as they are. We seem to have decided that things
are not, or, if they are, ought not to be—and what is the good of
thinking of things like that? In fact, our national ideal has become the
Will to Health, to Material Efficiency, and to it we have sacrificed the
Will to Sensibility. It is a point of view. And yet—to the philosophy
that craves Perfection, to the spirit that desires the golden mean, and
hankers for the serene and balanced seat in the centre of the see-saw,
it seems a little pitiful, and constricted; a confession of defeat, a
hedging and limitation of the soul. Need we put up with this, must
we for ever turn our eyes away from things as they are, stifle our
imaginations and our sensibilities, for fear that they should become
our masters, and destroy our sanity? This is the eternal question that
confronts the artist and the thinker. Because of the inevitable decline
after full flowering-point is reached, the inevitable fading of the fire
that follows the full flame and glow, are we to recoil from striving to
reach the perfect and harmonious climacteric? Better to have loved and
lost, I think, than never to have loved at all; better to reach out and
grasp the fullest expression of the individual and the national soul,
than to keep for ever under the shelter of the wall. I would even think
it possible to be sensitive without neurasthenia, to be sympathetic
without insanity, to be alive to all the winds that blow without getting
influenza. God forbid that our Letters and our Arts should decade into
Beardsleyism; but between that and their present “health” there lies
full flowering-point, not yet, by a long way, reached.
To flower like that, I suspect, we must see things just a little more—as
they are!
1905-1912.
THE WINDLESTRAW
A certain writer, returning one afternoon from rehearsal of his play,
sat down in the hall of the hotel where he was staying. “No,” he
reflected, “this play of mine will not please the Public; it is gloomy,
almost terrible. This very day I read these words in my morning paper:
'No artist can afford to despise his Public, for, whether he confesses
it or not, the artist exists to give the Public what it wants.' I have,
then, not only done what I cannot afford to do, but I have been false to
the reason of my existence.”
The hall was full of people, for it was the hour of tea; and looking
round him, the writer thought “And this is the Public—the Public that
my play is destined not to please!” And for several minutes he looked
at them as if he had been hypnotised. Presently, between two tables he
noticed a waiter standing, lost in his thoughts. The mask of the man's
professional civility had come awry, and the expression of his face and
figure was curiously remote from the faces and forms of those from whom
he had been taking orders; he seemed like a bird discovered in its own
haunts, all unconscious as yet of human eyes. And the writer thought:
“But if those people at the tables are the Public, what is that waiter?
How if I was mistaken, and not they, but he were the real Public?”
And testing this thought, his mind began at once to range over all the
people he had lately seen. He thought of the Founder's Day dinner of a
great School, which he had attended the night before. “No,” he mused, “I
see very little resemblance between the men at that dinner and the men
in this hall; still less between them and the waiter. How if they were
the real Public, and neither the waiter, nor these people here!” But no
sooner had he made this reflection, than he bethought him of a gathering
of workers whom he had watched two days ago. “Again,” he mused, “I do
not recollect any resemblance at all between those workers and the men
at the dinner, and certainly they are not like any one here. What if
those workers are the real Public, not the men at the dinner, nor the
waiter, nor the people in this hall!” And thereupon his mind flew off
again, and this time rested on the figures of his own immediate circle
of friends. They seemed very different from the four real Publics whom
he had as yet discovered. “Yes,” he considered, “when I come to think of
it, my associates painters, and writers, and critics, and all that kind
of person—do not seem to have anything to speak of in common with any of
these people. Perhaps my own associates, then, are the real Public, and
not these others!” Perceiving that this would be the fifth real Public,
he felt discouraged. But presently he began to think: “The past is the
past and cannot be undone, and with this play of mine I shall not please
the Public; but there is always the future! Now, I do not wish to do
what the artist cannot afford to do, I earnestly desire to be true to
the reason of my existence; and since the reason of that existence is
to give the Public what it wants, it is really vital to discover who
and what the Public is!” And he began to look very closely at the
faces around him, hoping to find out from types what he had failed to
ascertain from classes. Two men were sitting near, one on each side of a
woman. The first, who was all crumpled in his arm-chair, had curly
lips and wrinkles round the eyes, cheeks at once rather fat and rather
shadowy, and a dimple in his chin. It seemed certain that he was
humourous, and kind, sympathetic, rather diffident, speculative,
moderately intelligent, with the rudiments perhaps of an imagination.
And he looked at the second man, who was sitting very upright, as if he
had a particularly fine backbone, of which he was not a little proud.
He was extremely big and handsome, with pronounced and regular nose and
chin, firm, well-cut lips beneath a smooth moustache, direct and rather
insolent eyes, a some what receding forehead, and an air of mastery over
all around. It was obvious that he possessed a complete knowledge of his
own mind, some brutality, much practical intelligence, great resolution,
no imagination, and plenty of conceit. And he looked at the woman. She
was pretty, but her face was vapid, and seemed to have no character at
all. And from one to the other he looked, and the more he looked the
less resemblance he saw between them, till the objects of his scrutiny
grew restive.... Then, ceasing to examine them, an idea came to him.
“No! The Public is not this or that class, this or that type; the Public
is an hypothetical average human being, endowed with average human
qualities—a distillation, in fact, of all the people in this hall, the
people in the street outside, the people of this country everywhere.”
And for a moment he was pleased; but soon he began again to feel
uneasy. “Since,” he reflected, “it is necessary for me to supply this
hypothetical average human being with what he wants, I shall have to
find out how to distil him from all the ingredients around me. Now how
am I to do that? It will certainly take me more than all my life to
collect and boil the souls of all of them, which is necessary if I am to
extract the genuine article, and I should then apparently have no time
left to supply the precipitated spirit, when I had obtained it, with
what it wanted! Yet this hypothetical average human being must be found,
or I must stay for ever haunted by the thought that I am not
supplying him with what he wants!” And the writer became more and more
discouraged, for to arrogate to himself knowledge of all the heights and
depths, and even of all the virtues and vices, tastes and dislikes of
all the people of the country, without having first obtained it, seemed
to him to savour of insolence. And still more did it appear impertinent,
having taken this mass of knowledge which he had not got, to extract
from it a golden mean man, in order to supply him with what he wanted.
And yet this was what every artist did who justified his existence—or
it would not have been so stated in a newspaper. And he gaped up at the
lofty ceiling, as if he might perchance see the Public flying up there
in the faint bluish mist of smoke. And suddenly he thought: “Suppose, by
some miracle, my golden-mean bird came flying to me with its beak open
for the food with which it is my duty to supply it—would it after all be
such a very strange-looking creature; would it not be extremely like
my normal self? Am I not, in fact, myself the Public? For, without the
strongest and most reprehensible conceit, can I claim for my normal self
a single attribute or quality not possessed by an hypothetical average
human being? Yes, I am myself the Public; or at all events all that my
consciousness can ever know of it for certain.” And he began to consider
deeply. For sitting there in cold blood, with his nerves at rest, and
his brain and senses normal, the play he had written did seem to him
to put an unnecessary strain upon the faculties. “Ah!” he thought, “in
future I must take good care never to write anything except in cold
blood, with my nerves well clothed, and my brain and senses quiet. I
ought only to write when I feel as normal as I do now.” And for some
minutes he remained motionless, looking at his boots. Then there
crept into his mind an uncomfortable thought. “But have I ever written
anything without feeling a little-abnormal, at the time? Have I ever
even felt inclined to write anything, until my emotions had been unduly
excited, my brain immoderately stirred, my senses unusually quickened,
or my spirit extravagantly roused? Never! Alas, never! I am then a
miserable renegade, false to the whole purpose of my being—nor do I see
the slightest hope of becoming a better man, a less unworthy artist!
For I literally cannot write without the stimulus of some feeling
exaggerated at the expense of other feelings. What has been in the past
will be in the future: I shall never be taking up my pen when I feel my
comfortable and normal self never be satisfying that self which is the
Public!” And he thought: “I am lost. For, to satisfy that normal self,
to give the Public what it wants, is, I am told, and therefore must
believe, what all artists exist for. AEschylus in his 'Choephorae' and
his 'Prometheus'; Sophocles in his 'OEdipus Tyrannus'; Euripides when he
wrote 'The Trojan Women,' 'Medea,'—and 'Hippolytus'; Shakespeare in
his 'Leer'; Goethe in his 'Faust'; Ibsen in his 'Ghosts' and his 'Peer
Gynt'; Tolstoy in 'The Powers of Darkness'; all—all in those great
works, must have satisfied their most comfortable and normal selves;
all—all must have given to the average human being, to the Public, what
it wants; for to do that, we know, was the reason of their existence,
and who shall say those noble artists were not true to it? That is
surely unthinkable. And yet—and yet—we are assured, and, indeed, it is
true, that there is no real Public in this country for just those plays!
Therefore AEschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, Shakespeare, Goethe, Ibsen,
Tolstoy, in their greatest works did not give the Public what it wants,
did not satisfy the average human being, their more comfortable and
normal selves, and as artists were not true to the reason of their
existence. Therefore they were not artists, which is unthinkable;
therefore I have not yet found the Public!”
And perceiving that in this impasse his last hope of discovery had
foundered, the writer let his head fall on his chest.
But even as he did so a gleam of light, like a faint moonbeam, stole out
into the garden of his despair. “Is it possible,” he thought, “that,
by a writer, until his play has been performed (when, alas! it is too
late), 'the Public' is inconceivable—in fact that for him there is no
such thing? But if there be no such thing, I cannot exist to give it
what it wants. What then is the reason of my existence? Am I but a
windlestraw?” And wearied out with his perplexity, he fell into a doze.
And while he dozed he dreamed that he saw the figure of a woman standing
in darkness, from whose face and form came a misty refulgence, such
as steals out into the dusk from white campion flowers along summer
hedgerows. She was holding her pale hands before her, wide apart, with
the palms turned down, quivering as might doves about to settle; and for
all it was so dark, her grey eyes were visible-full of light, with black
rims round the irises. To gaze at those eyes was almost painful; for
though they were beautiful, they seemed to see right through his soul,
to pass him by, as though on a far discovering voyage, and forbidden to
rest.
The dreamer spoke to her: “Who are you, standing there in the darkness
with those eyes that I can hardly bear to look at? Who are you?”
And the woman answered: “Friend, I am your Conscience; I am the Truth
as best it may be seen by you. I am she whom you exist to serve.” With
those words she vanished, and the writer woke. A boy was standing before
him with the evening papers.
To cover his confusion at being caught asleep he purchased one and began
to read a leading article. It commenced with these words: “There are
certain playwrights taking themselves very seriously; might we suggest
to them that they are in danger of becoming ridiculous . . . .”
The writer let fall his hand, and the paper fluttered to the ground.
“The Public,” he thought, “I am not able to take seriously, because I
cannot conceive what it may be; myself, my conscience, I am told I must
not take seriously, or I become ridiculous. Yes, I am indeed lost!”
And with a feeling of elation, as of a straw blown on every wind, he
arose.
1910.
CENSORSHIP AND ART