absolutely silent, absent in thought completely, even with that friend
one wears in one's heart's core, will at length become dull for one or
other; sitting thus one is tempted, too, to speech. Walking, it is not
so. One may talk or one may not. If both wish to think, both feel as
if something sociable is being done in just walking together. If one
does not care to go wool-gathering, the other does not leave him
without entertainment; walking alone is entertainment. It is assumed,
of course, that one goes a journey in silence as in speech with the
companion with whom one has been best seasoned. Silently walking, the
movement of the mind keeps step in thought exactly with the movement of
the man, so that the pace is a thermometer of the temperature at that
moment of one's brain.
One who has written on going a journey as well perhaps as the world
will ever see it done owned that he never had had a watch. Further, he
intimated that the possession of one was an indication of poverty of
mental resource. It was his own wont, he said, to pass hours, whole
days, unconscious of the night of time. He described his father as
taking out his watch to look at whenever he could think of nothing else
to do. His father, our author says, was no metaphysician. It must be
confessed that one now writing of journeys, sometimes, somewhat
unmetaphysician-like, conscious of the flight of time, has
communication with a watch; and, finding the day well advanced,
decides, speaking very figuratively, to lay the cloth, beneath some
twisted, low, gnarled apple tree.
"At the next shadow," he suggests.
"Let's wait until we get to the top of this hill, first."
"Here we are."
Sweet rest! when one throws one's members down upon the turf and there
lets them lie, as if they were so many detached packages dropped. Then
one feels the exquisite nerve luxury of having legs: while one rests
them. One's back could lie thus prone forever. One feels, sucking all
the rich pleasure of it, that one couldn't move one's arms, lift one's
hand, if one had to. What are the world's rewards if this is not one!
At length in going a journey comes a time when one tiredly shrinks from
the work of speech, when observation dozes, and thought lolls like a
limp sail that only idly stirs at the passing zephyrs; the legs like
piston-rods strike on; when the pleasure is like that almost of dull
narcotics; one realises only dimly that one is moving. At such times
as these, coming from one knows not whence, and one feels too weak to
search back to discover, there flit across the mind strange fragments,
relevant, as they seem, to nothing whatever present.
When a journey has been made one way, the trick has been done; the
superfluous energy which inspired it has found escape; the way to
return is not by walking. A friend to fatigue is this, that in walking
back one is not on a voyage of discovery; one knows the way and very
much what one will see on it; one knows the distance. In fact, the
fruit has been plucked: the bloom is gone; to walk back would be like
tedious marching with a regiment. One should return resting. On
trains one _returns_ from a journey.
Whoso hath life, one thinks as his journey draws to its close, let him
live it! What does it profit a man, if he gain the whole world and
never know his own soul?
III
GOING TO ART EXHIBITIONS
There are two opposing views as to going to art exhibitions. And much
with a good deal of reason may be said on both sides. There is one very
vigorous attitude which holds that the pictures are the thing. This,
indeed, is a perfectly ponderable theory. But it may be questioned
whether in its ardour it does not go a little far. For it affirms that
people are a confounded nuisance at art exhibitions, and should not be
permitted to be there, to distract one's attention from the peaceful
contemplation of works of art, and to infuriate one by their asinine
remarks in the holy presence of beauty. I have heard it declared with
very impressive spirit, and reasoned with much force, that only one
person, or at most only one person and his chosen companion, should be
allowed in an art gallery at a time. It is debatable, however, whether
this intellectually aristocratic idea is altogether practicable. On the
other hand, was it not even Little Billie who found the people at art
exhibitions frequently more interesting than the pictures?
Anyhow, persons who write about art exhibitions confine themselves
exclusively to the subject of art. When they gossip it is about the
pictures, the painters, and the sculpture. True, of course, this is
their job, and then, these persons go on press days and so only see,
outside of that which is intentionally exhibited, other critics.
Now, there is nothing in all the world quite like art exhibitions.
Beyond any other sort of show they possess a spirit which (to use a pet
and an excellent critical expression of one of our foremost art critics)
is "grand, gloomy, and peculiar." You feel this charged atmosphere at
once at an art exhibition. You walk softly, you speak low, and you
endeavour to become as intelligent as possible. Art exhibitions, in
short, present various features indigenous to themselves which, so far as
I am aware, have not before been adequately commented upon. The
principal observations which they solicit are as follows:
First, art exhibitions are attended by two classes of people: very
fine-looking people, and funny-looking people. There is a very striking
kind of a young man goes to art exhibitions that I myself never
accomplish seeing anywhere else, though sometimes I see pictures of him.
This young man is superbly patrician. You may have remarked this
singular phenomenon. All the young men in all the advertisements in the
magazine _Vanity Fair_ are the same young man, whether riding in a
splendid motor car, elegantly attending the play, or doing a little
shooting of birds. You know him, for one thing, by his exquisite
moustache. This fastidiously groomed, exclusively tailored young man, to
be seen in the pages spoken of and at art exhibitions, is certainly not
of Art, nor is he of business. He takes no account whatever, apparently,
of time, as men of business do; and manifestly one could not work in such
a moustache and such clothes without mussing them. He is, in fine, of
Vanity Fair. Oscar Wilde was, as usual, wrong when he said that all
beautiful things were quite useless. This immaculate young man's
practical function at art exhibitions, as perhaps elsewhere, is that of
escort.
He is escort to groups of very handsome and very expensive-looking young
ladies; and these fragrant, rustling groups, with the waxen, patrician
young man in tow, stroll slowly about, catalogues unnoticed in hand,
without pause skirting the picture-hung walls. They are very still, and
they gaze upon the art that they pass with the look of a doe
contemplating the meaning of the appearance of a man. The perfect
escorts of these groups, who would seem naturally to be rather gay young
men, look very serious indeed. Now one of them gracefully, though as if
careful not to make any noise, bends to one of the young ladies; and,
indicating by a solemn look one of the paintings, he whispers to her
apparently concerning it. She silently nods: it is, evidently, quite as
he says. When an art exhibition is so undertakery a thing you wouldn't
think that one would come. Though perhaps it is that one ought.
At any rate, there is quite a turn-out to-day moving beneath the ghostly
glow of the shrouded sky-light ceiling. Half the Avenue seems to be
here. What a play it is, this highly urban throng! Let us sit here on
this divan down the middle of the room. With what a stately march the
pictures go in their golden frames along the symphonious, burlap walls!
There, by that copious piece of intelligence, Manet's "Music Lesson," is--
But see! What has come over our earnest group? Those who compose it are
all quite changed. They look as happy as can be, all beaming with
smiles, their backs to the neighbouring walls. Friends, it seems, have
greeted them. How they all bubble on, all about the outside world! But
goodness! Now what is the matter? Suddenly one of the newcomers is
struck by a startled look. She sees, that is it, one of the pictures.
In an arrested voice she says: "Oh, isn't that perfectly lovely!" At
once the happy light fades from the faces of all. An awed hush falls
upon them as stiffly they turn their heads in the direction of her view.
"Charming!" one of the young men breathes, staring intently at the
painting which has come upon them. That it is awkward for everybody is
plain. But, happily, there is much rebound to youth. One of the young
ladies, at length, shakes herself free from the pall upon her spirits;
the mesmeric spell is broken; and presently all are chatting again, gaily
oblivious to Art.
By the way, there is the proprietor of the gallery, just before the three
Renoir pastels. Is there anything about art exhibitions that more
enlists the imagination than the study of the "dealers" themselves? The
gentlemen who preside at art exhibitions fall, rather violently, into
three, perhaps four, classes. You have, I dare say, been repeatedly
struck by the quaintly inappropriate character in appearance of those of
one of these classes. I mean, of course, those very horsey-looking men,
with decidedly "hard" faces, loudly dressed, and dowered with hoarse
voices. They would seem to be bookmakers, exceedingly prosperous
publicans, bunco-brokers, militant politicians--anything save of the
Kingdom of Art. Are their polished Bill Sykes' exteriors but bizarre
domiciles for lofty souls? I cannot tell.
Here and there, it is true, you find the aesthete in effect among
dealers: the wired moustaches, the spindle-legged voice, and the ardent
spirit in discussing his wares with lady visitors. Our horsey type seems
rather ponderous and phlegmatic in this matter. Then there is, too, a
land of art exhibition which is very close indeed to Art, a kind of
spirited propaganda, in fact, which is presided over by those of
hierarchical character, beings as to hair and cravat, swarthy complexion
and mystic gesticulation, holy from the world and mocked by the profane.
But, to my mind, the most satisfying sort of a host to observe at an art
exhibition is that of the description of this admirable dealer before us.
Benign, frock-coated, hands clasped behind him, he stands, symbol of
gentlemanly, merchantly dignity. Occasionally he rises upon his toes,
and then sinks again to his heels obviously with satisfaction. But that
which proclaims the perfect equity of his mind is this: his nice
recognition of the nuances in human kind. You perceive that his bow to
each of his guests, that he recognises at all, is graduated according to
the precise degree of that person's value to Art; that to some few, royal
patrons presumably, being at an angle of forty-five degrees; while a
common amateur of Art is acknowledged by one of five. Where--to continue
the paraphrase of a pleasant observation upon Mr. George Brummell--it is
a mere question of recognising the fact that a certain person dwells on
the same planet with Art "a slight relaxation of the features" is made to
suffice.
So! This profound bow is plainly meant for a particular tribute to one
who wears the richest purple. Lo! He advances with unclasped hands.
Pleasure beams from his countenance. Without such as she Art, and
dealers, and galleries, and the recorded beauty of the world would
perforce pass away. This entertaining personage, who is the great flurry
at art exhibitions, is of the novelists' dowager Duchess type. A short,
obese, and jovial figure, or dried and withered but imperious
distinction, as the case may be. There is much crackling of fine
garments, a brilliant display of lorgnette, and this penetrating and
comprehensive royal critical dictum: "Isn't that interesting! So full of
feeling."
Two outstanding features, you mark, of art exhibitions everywhere are
here presented. Is any one who doesn't know what he is talking about at
art exhibitions (and which of us does?) properly equipped for attendance
there without this happy esoteric phrase "full of feeling"? It is safe,
or as safe as anything can be, to say about any picture. It graphically
indicates in the speaker delicate sensitivity and emotional
responsiveness to Art. And, most beneficently, it subtly evades anything
like the trying ordeal of an analysis of a work of art. It is, indeed,
invaluable.
The other thing is this: There is no place going which is so well adapted
to the exhibition of handsome, fashionable, or eccentric eye-glasses as
an art exhibition. You observe there all that is newest and classy in
glasses, and you are insistently invited to admiring study of the art of
wearing queer glasses effectively, and of taking them off, letting them
bound on their leash, doubling them up, opening them out, and putting
them on with a gesture.
The complimentary type to the storied Duchess at art exhibitions is
represented by yonder portly blood, in this case a replica of the late
King Edward. The fruitful spectacle of art exhibitions, I think,
presents nothing which gives one a more gratifying sense of their dignity
and of the imperial character of Art than the presence there of these
patently highly solvent, ruddy joweled, admirably tailored, and
impressively worldly looking connoisseurs of painting to be seen
scrutinising the pictures at close range, in a near-sighted way, and
rather grimly, as though somewhat sceptically appraising possibly dubious
merchandise.
Hello, there's Mr. Chase! And that's a fortunate thing, too, as no
sympathetic picture of a representative American art exhibition should
omit Mr. Chase. Whether or not we think of him as our premier painter,
we should be inordinately proud of him. Undoubtedly he is a great
artist. He has wrought himself in the grand manner. In person he
delights the eye, and satisfies the imagination. With his inevitable
top-hat, his heavy eye-glasses cord, his military moustaches and upward
pointing beard, his pouter-pigeon carriage, his glowing spats and his
boutonniere, his aroma of distinction, and his ruddy consciousness of his
prestige, he is our great tour-de-force as a figure in the artistic
scene. He is here, naturally, now the target of popular interest.
The practice of having artists shown at their own exhibitions is one too
little cultivated. The Napoleonic brow and the Napoleonic forelock
(famous in their circle) of George Luks, the torrential Luksean mirth,
how would not their actual presence open the spiritual eyes of visiting
school-children to the humane qualities of the works of the Luksean
genius! And why should we who procure for our better perception of their
works illuminating biographies of the Old Masters not be permitted the
intellectual stimulation of beholding the Ten American Painters seated
along on a bench at their annual show? The subject of the artists
themselves, however, brings us around to the line between the two kinds
of people having to do with art exhibitions: fine-looking people and
funny-looking people.
Come; let us trot along. Artists themselves are, in a most pronounced
degree, of both kinds. And a very singular thing is this: the funnier an
artist's pictures are, the funnier-looking is the artist that made them.
We'll stop in here, at The Advanced Gallery.
"Ah! How are you?"
That, just going out, is one of the newest groups of painters, known as
the Homeopathics. I used to know him before he went abroad. And the
curious thing is, that at that time he was very good-looking. He was
clean shaven. This strange assortment of whiskers of different fashions
on various parts of his face, imperial, goatee, burnsides, he brought
back with him.
Notice as we step from the car at the gallery floor the numerous others
here who also were at the show we just left. And those who are thus
making the rounds, you perceive, are not of what is called society, but
of the kind known in these circles, doubtless, as interesting. Nearly
everybody in this gallery, in fact, is of the interesting sort. At once
it is apparent that there is nothing of the perfunctory here. Art is
vital. Art is earnest. The atmosphere is tense. The young women are
clad in a manner giving much freedom to the movement of their bodies.
They walk with a stride. Their clothes are not of the mode of the
Avenue, but they have--how shall I say? To twist what Whistler said of
his model: Character, character is what these clothes have. They
suggest, many of these young women, the type that has never got back
from--
"Do you know Chelsea at all?" asks one of them, of an anarchic-looking
young man.
Never got back, as I was about to say, from Chelsea. A couple of other
anarchic-looking young men are viewing a painting in the manner that a
painting, or perhaps this particular painting, is intended to be viewed;
that is by squinting at it first over the tops of their hands and then
through their fingers. They discuss it darkly, in low, passionate tones.
They advance upon it; and, a few inches before it, one, as though holding
a brush in his hand, sweeps eloquently with his arm, following the
contour of the painted figure. Legerdemain kind of thing, painting,
isn't it? Sort of a black art, when you see into the science of it.
Well, I declare! Here's a friend of mine--there, talking with the
Titian-haired lady in the exotic gown. Now, he is coming over to us.
He says he wants us to know Ben-Gunn, who is here, "one of the new
crowd," he says. My friend is very keen on the new crowd; everything
else he declares is "passe." Anyhow, it is a very valuable experience to
talk with an exhibitor at an art exhibition. Your mind is impregnated,
until it swells dizzily in your head. That would be he, the
illiterate-looking little creature with the uncombed and
unsanitary-looking mop.
There! I knew he would say something, something that would never leave
you again the same. "Nothing is shiny in Nature," says Mr. Ben-Gunn as
though rather depressed, surveying a canvas in this respect unhappily
divorced from the truth. "Nature," he adds with Brahminic finality, "is
always dull."
Mr. Ben-Gunn is greeted affectionately by a gentleman you always see at
every art exhibition. This is Mr.--I forget his name--it is French; I
know he writes on Art for _Demos_; a remarkable being who apparently
talks, hears, and sees nothing else but aestheticism. For as there are
types peculiar to art exhibitions, so there are certain individuals
apparently quite peculiar to art exhibitions. Come, let us go on down to
see some Old Masters. Notice there in the corner the foreign-looking
gentleman with the three foreign-looking children. That, the quiet,
cultivated, foreign father and his children, is one of the pleasantest
sights frequently to be seen at art exhibitions. Thus he is to be seen,
easily and intimately discussing the pictures with his attentive
followers.
The great point about the study of art exhibitions from the point of view
of the humanist is the affinity between pictures and people. Here, for
instance, on Madison Square, amid the art heritage of times past, what is
it that at once strikes you? Why, that old paintings evidently are quite
passe to the new crowd. At these exhibitions preliminary to the big
auction sales of venerable masters, and of middle-aged masters, and of
venerable and middle-aged not-quite-masters, there is a very attractive
class of people, a class of funny-looking, fine-looking people, a class,
that is, of rather shabby-looking people who look as if they might be
very rich, of dull-looking people who look as if they might be very
bright. They buy huge catalogues at a dollar or so apiece, which they
consult continually. They arrive early and remain a long time.
The women of this audience frequently are rather dowdy, and shapen in
very individual fashions. The men generally are elderly beings, now and
then reminiscent of the period of Horace Greeley. They are very bald, or
with untrimmed white (not grey) hair, and, sometimes, Uncle-Sam-like
whiskers. They are usually very wrinkled as to trowsers and overcoats.
Here and there among the gentlemen of this company is to be seen one who
looks strikingly like Emile Zola, or the late Mr. Pierpont Morgan
slightly gone to seed. All these charming folk make of looking at
old-fashioned pictures a very busy occupation, and also in effect a
rather mundane occupation, as though they were alertly considering the
possibility of making a selection from among a variety of serviceable
kitchen chairs.
Argumenting the throng are authentic representatives of the world of
fashion; some who appear to be students; the ever present foreigners,
including the frequently present Jap; a number of those enigmatic beings
who continually take notes at art exhibitions; and a respectable quota of
those ladies we always have with us at art exhibitions who in the
presence of pictures and it necessary to say: "Isn't that wonderful,
marvellous tone quality!" Occasionally a decidedly quaint student of Art
strolls in, past the imposing flunky (in finery a bit faded) at the door,
strolls in in the form of a lodger in Madison Square. He looks at the
pictures as if thoughtfully, but without animation.
Well, we have now covered, in an elementary way, about every important
species of art show, except one, the most human perhaps of all, that held
annually on Fifty-seventh Street. We should hardly have time to go up
there to-day. I'll tell you about it. There are several reasons why
this exhibition is the most human perhaps of all. One is that more
people go than to any other. And these people, taken by and large, are
more human, too, than one sees at most art exhibitions, that is more like
just ordinary people. This may be, for one thing, because the pictures
as a rule are more ordinary pictures. And a very human touch, indeed, is
this: when you see the card "Sold" on a painting it is fairly certain to
be one of the most ordinary pictures of the lot.
That reminds one of museums. People who are called in the world to the
curious pursuit of copying pictures in museums, for some reason or other
which I have been unable as yet to work out, apparently always copy the
most bourgeois pictures there. But museums, with their throngs of
subdued holiday makers and their crowds of weary gaping aliens of the
submerged order, museums comprise a separate study.
At any rate, I hope in our stroll I have been able to give you a new
insight into the fascination of the great world of Art.
IV
A ROUNDABOUT PAPER
No reader of _The Spectator_ will have forgotten an article which
appeared there some years ago entitled "As to Bears." Or ever will
forget it until his shall be "the shut lid and the granite lip of him
who has done with sunsets and skating, and has turned away his face
from all manner of Irish," as William Vaughn Moody says. Not only
because it was one of the finest things ever in _The Spectator_, or
anywhere else (after, possibly, that imperishable dissertation of the
great Dean's--or was it Sir William Temple's?--"On a Broomstick"), but
also because it was one pure flower in our day of a kind of art little
cultivated any more. "As to Bears." All, me! How engaging, simple,
gracious, and at ease; what perfection of literary breeding; what an
amused and genial wave of the finger tips; how marked by good-humoured
acuteness, and animated nonchalance; how saturated with a
distinguished, humane tradition of letters--that title!