The Man in the Work
The general mind possesses a kind of divination which discovers itself in
those comments, criticisms, and judgments which pass from man to man
through a wide area and sometimes through long periods of time. The
opinion which appears at first glance to be an expression of materialism
often shows, upon closer study, an element of idealism or a touch of
spiritual discernment. It is customary, for instance, to say of a man that
he lives in his works; as if the enduring quality of his fame rested in
and was dependent upon the tangible products of his genius or his skill.
There is truth in the phrase even when its scope is limited to this
obvious meaning; but there is a deeper truth behind the truism,--the truth
that a man lives in his works, not only because they commemorate but
because they express him. They are products of his skill; but they are
also the products of his soul. The man is revealed in them, and abides in
them, not as a statue in a temple, but as a seed in the grain and the
fruit. They have grown out of him, and they uncover the secrets of his
spiritual life. No man can conceal himself from his fellows; everything he
fashions or creates interprets and explains him.
This deepest significance of work has always been divined even when it has
not been clearly perceived. Men have understood that there is a spiritual
quality even in the most material products of a man's activity, and, even
in ruder times, they have discerned the inner relation of the things which
a man makes with the man himself. In our time, when the immense
significance of this essential harmony between spirit and product has been
accepted as a guiding principle in historic investigation, the stray
spear-head and broken potsherd are prized by the anthropologist, because a
past race lives in them. The lowest and commonest kind of domestic vessels
and implements disclose to the student of to-day not only the stage of
manual skill which their makers had reached, but also the general ideas of
life which those makers held. When it comes to the higher products,
character, temperament, and genius are discerned in every mutilated
fragment. The line on an urn reveals the spirit of the unknown sculptor
who cut it in the enduring stone. It has often been said that if every
memorial of the Greek race save the Parthenon had perished, it would be
possible to gain a clear and true impression of the spiritual condition
and quality of that race.
The great artists are the typical and representative men of the race, and
whatever is true of them is true, in a lesser degree, of men in general.
There is in the work of every great sculptor, painter, writer, composer,
architect, a distinctive and individual manner so marked and unmistakable
as to identify the man whenever and wherever a bit of his work appears. If
a statue of Phidias were to be found without any mark of the sculptor upon
it, there would be no delay in determining whose work it was; no educated
musician would be uncertain for a moment about a composition of Wagner's
if he heard it for the first time without knowledge of its source; nor
would a short story from the hand of Hawthorne remain unclaimed a day
after its publication. Now, this individual manner and quality, so evident
that it is impossible not to recognise it whenever it appears, is not a
trick of skill; it has its source in a man's temperament and genius; it is
the subtlest and most deep-going disclosure of his nature. In so far as a
spiritual quality can be contained and expressed in any form of speech
known among men--and all the arts are forms of speech--that which is most
secret and sacred in a man is freely given to the world in his work.
Work is sacred, therefore, not only because it is the fruit of self-
denial, patience, and toil, but because it uncovers the soul of the
worker. We deal with each other on so many planes, and have so much speech
with each other about things of little moment, that we often lose the
sense of the sanctity which attaches to personality whenever it appears.
There come moments, however, when some intimate experience is confided to
us, and then, in the pause of talk, we become aware that we are in
presence of a human soul behind the familiar face of our friend, and that
we are on holy ground. In such moments the quick emotion, the sudden
thrill, bear eloquent witness to that deeper and diviner life in which we
all share, but of which we rarely seem aware. This perception of the
presence of a man's soul comes to us when we stand before a true work of
art. We not only uncover our heads, but our hearts are uncovered as well.
Here is one who through all his skill speaks to us in a language which we
understand, but which we rarely hear. A great work of art not only
liberates the imagination, but the heart as well; for it speaks to us more
intimately than our friends are able to speak, and that reticence which
holds us back from perfect intercourse when we look into each other's
faces vanishes. A few lines read in the solitude of the woods, or before
the open fire, often kindle the emotion and imagination which slumber
within us; in companionship with the greatest minds our shyness vanishes;
we not only take but give with unconscious freedom. When we reach this
stage we have reached the man who lives not only by but in the work, and
whose innermost nature speaks to us and confides in us through the form of
speech which he has chosen.
The higher the quality of the work, the clearer the disclosure of the
spirit which fashioned it and gave it the power to search and liberate.
The plays of Sophocles are, in many ways, the highest and most
representative products of the Greek literary genius; they show that
genius at the moment when all its qualities were in harmony and perfectly
balanced between the spiritual vision which it formed of life, and the art
form to which it commits that precious and impalpable possession. One of
the distinctive qualities of these plays is their objectivity; their
detachment from the moods and experiences of the dramatist. This
detachment is so complete that at first glance every trace of the
dramatist seems to have been erased. But there are many passages besides
the famous lines descriptive of the grove at Colonus which betray the
personality behind the plays; and, studied more closely, the very
detachment of the drama from the dramatist is significant of character. In
the poise, harmony, and balance of these beautiful creations there is
revealed the instinct for proportion, the self-control and the
subordination of the parts to the whole which betray a nature committed by
its very instincts to a passionate devotion to beauty. In one of the poems
of our own century which belongs in the first rank of artistic
achievements, "In Memoriam," the highest themes are touched with the
strength of one who knows how to face the problems of life with impartial
and impersonal courage, and with the tenderness of one whose own heart has
felt the immediate pressure of these tremendous questions. So every great
work, whether personal or impersonal in intention, conveys to the
intelligent reader an impression of the thought behind the skill, and of
the character behind the thought. Goethe frankly declared that his works
constituted one great confession. All work is confession and revelation as
well.