Having now obtained, I trust, clear ideas, up to a certain point, of
what is generally right and wrong in all art, both in conception and
in workmanship, we have to apply these laws of right to the particular
branch of art which is the subject of our present inquiry, namely,
landscape-painting. Respecting which, after the various meditations
into which we have been led on the high duties and ideals of art, it
may not improbably occur to us first to ask,--whether it be worth
inquiring about at all.
That question, perhaps the reader thinks, should have been asked and
answered before I had written, or he read, two volumes and a half
about it. So I _had_ answered it, in my own mind; but it seems time
now to give the grounds for this answer. If, indeed, the reader has
never suspected that landscape-painting was anything but good, right,
and healthy work, I should be sorry to put any doubt of its being so
into his mind; but if, as seems to me more likely, he, living in this
busy and perhaps somewhat calamitous age, has some suspicion that
landscape-painting is but an idle and empty business, not worth all
our long talk about it, then, perhaps, he will be pleased to have such
suspicion done away, before troubling himself farther with these
disquisitions.
I should rather be glad, than otherwise, that he _had_ formed some
suspicion on this matter. If he has at all admitted the truth of
anything hitherto said respecting great art, and its choices of
subject, it seems to me he ought, by this time, to be questioning with
himself whether road-side weeds, old cottages, broken stones, and such
other materials, be worthy matters for grave men to busy themselves in
the imitation of. And I should like him to probe this doubt to the
deep of it, and bring all his misgivings out to the broad light, that
we may see how we are to deal with them, or ascertain if indeed they
are too well founded to be dealt with.
And to this end I would ask him now to imagine himself entering, for
the first time in his life, the room of the Old Water-Colour
Society:[51] and to suppose that he has entered it, not for the sake of
a quiet examination of the paintings one by one, but in order to seize
such ideas as it may generally suggest respecting the state and
meaning of modern, as compared with elder, art. I suppose him, of
course, that he may be capable of such a comparison, to be in some
degree familiar with the different forms in which art has developed
itself within the periods historically known to us; but never, till
that moment, to have seen any completely modern work. So prepared, and
so unprepared, he would, as his ideas began to arrange themselves, be
first struck by the number of paintings representing blue mountains,
clear lakes, and ruined castles or cathedrals, and he would say to
himself: "There is something strange in the mind of these modern
people! Nobody ever cared about blue mountains before, or tried to
paint the broken stones of old walls." And the more he considered the
subject, the more he would feel the peculiarity; and, as he thought
over the art of Greeks and Romans, he would still repeat, with
increasing certainty of conviction: "Mountains! I remember none. The
Greeks did not seem, as artists, to know that such things were in the
world. They carved, or variously represented, men, and horses, and
beasts, and birds, and all kinds of living creatures,--yes, even down
to cuttle-fish; and trees, in a sort of way; but not so much as the
outline of a mountain; and as for lakes, they merely showed they knew
the difference between salt and fresh water by the fish they put into
each." Then he would pass on to mediæval art; and still he would be
obliged to repeat: "Mountains! I remember none. Some careless and
jagged arrangements of blue spires or spikes on the horizon, and, here
and there, an attempt at representing an overhanging rock with a hole
through it; but merely in order to divide the light behind some human
figure. Lakes! No, nothing of the kind,--only blue bays of sea put in
to fill up the background when the painter could not think of anything
else. Broken-down buildings! No; for the most part very complete and
well-appointed buildings, if any; and never buildings at all, but to
give place or explanation to some circumstance of human conduct." And
then he would look up again to the modern pictures, observing, with an
increasing astonishment, that here the human interest had, in many
cases, altogether disappeared. That mountains, instead of being used
only as a blue ground for the relief of the heads of saints, were
themselves the exclusive subjects of reverent contemplation; that
their ravines, and peaks, and forests, were all painted with an
appearance of as much enthusiasm as had formerly been devoted to the
dimple of beauty, or the frowns of asceticism; and that all the living
interest which was still supposed necessary to the scene, might be
supplied by a traveller in a slouched hat, a beggar in a scarlet
cloak, or, in default of these, even by a heron or a wild duck.
And if he could entirely divest himself of his own modern habits of
thought, and regard the subjects in question with the feelings of a
knight or monk of the Middle Ages, it might be a question whether
those feelings would not rapidly verge towards contempt. "What!" he
might perhaps mutter to himself, "here are human beings spending the
whole of their lives in making pictures of bits of stone and runlets
of water, withered sticks and flying fogs, and actually not a picture
of the gods or the heroes! none of the saints or the martyrs! none of
the angels and demons! none of councils or battles, or any other
single thing worth the thought of a man! Trees and clouds indeed! as
if I should not see as many trees as I cared to see, and more, in the
first half of my day's journey to-morrow, or as if it mattered to any
man whether the sky were clear or cloudy, so long as his armour did
not get too hot in the sun!"
There can be no question that this would have been somewhat the tone
of thought with which either a Lacedæmonian, a soldier of Rome in her
strength, or a knight of the thirteenth century, would have been apt
to regard these particular forms of our present art. Nor can there be
any question that, in many respects, their judgment would have been
just. It is true that the indignation of the Spartan or Roman would
have been equally excited against any appearance of luxurious
industry; but the mediæval knight would, to the full, have admitted
the nobleness of art; only he would have had it employed in decorating
his church or his prayer-book, not in imitating moors and clouds. And
the feelings of all the three would have agreed in this,--that their
main ground of offence must have been the want of _seriousness_ and
_purpose_ in what they saw. They would all have admitted the nobleness
of whatever conduced to the honour of the gods, or the power of the
nation; but they would not have understood how the skill of human life
could be wisely spent in that which did no honour either to Jupiter or
to the Virgin; and which in no wise tended, apparently, either to the
accumulation of wealth, the excitement of patriotism, or the
advancement of morality.
And exactly so far forth their judgment would be just, as the
landscape-painting could indeed be shown, for others as well as for
them, to be art of this nugatory kind; and so far forth unjust, as
that painting could be shown to depend upon, or cultivate, certain
sensibilities which neither the Greek nor mediæval knight possessed,
and which have resulted from some extraordinary change in human nature
since their time. We have no right to assume, without very accurate
examination of it, that this change has been an ennobling one. The
simple fact, that we are, in some strange way, different from all the
great races that have existed before us, cannot at once be received as
the proof of our own greatness; nor can it be granted, without any
question, that we have a legitimate subject of complacency in being
under the influence of feelings, with which neither Miltiades nor the
Black Prince, neither Homer nor Dante, neither Socrates nor St.
Francis, could for an instant have sympathized.
Whether, however, this fact be one to excite our pride or not, it is
assuredly one to excite our deepest interest. The fact itself is
certain. For nearly six thousand years the energies of man have
pursued certain beaten paths, manifesting some constancy of feeling
throughout all that period, and involving some fellowship at heart,
among the various nations who by turns succeeded or surpassed each
other in the several aims of art or policy. So that, for these
thousands of years, the whole human race might be to some extent
described in general terms. Man was a creature separated from all
others by his instinctive sense of an Existence superior to his own,
invariably manifesting this sense of the being of a God more strongly
in proportion to his own perfectness of mind and body; and making
enormous and self-denying efforts, in order to obtain some persuasion
of the immediate presence or approval of the Divinity. So that, on the
whole, the best things he did were done as in the presence, or for the
honour, of his gods; and, whether in statues, to help him to imagine
them, or temples raised to their honour, or acts of self-sacrifice
done in the hope of their love, he brought whatever was best and
skilfullest in him into their service, and lived in a perpetual
subjection to their unseen power. Also, he was always anxious to know
something definite about them; and his chief books, songs, and
pictures were filled with legends about them, or specially devoted to
illustration of their lives and nature.
Next to these gods, he was always anxious to know something about his
human ancestors; fond of exalting the memory, and telling or painting
the history of old rulers and benefactors; yet full of an enthusiastic
confidence in himself, as having in many ways advanced beyond the best
efforts of past time; and eager to record his own doings for future
fame. He was a creature eminently warlike, placing his principal pride
in dominion; eminently beautiful, and having great delight in his own
beauty; setting forth this beauty by every species of invention in
dress, and rendering his arms and accoutrements superbly decorative of
his form. He took, however, very little interest in anything but what
belonged to humanity; caring in no wise for the external world, except
as it influenced his own destiny; honouring the lightning because it
could strike him, the sea because it could drown him, the fountains
because they gave him drink, and the grass because it yielded him
seed; but utterly incapable of feeling any special happiness in the
love of such things, or any earnest emotion about them, considered as
separate from man; therefore giving no time to the study of
them;--knowing little of herbs, except only which were hurtful and
which healing; of stones, only which would glitter brightest in a
crown, or last the longest in a wall: of the wild beasts, which were
best for food, and which the stoutest quarry for the hunter;--thus
spending only on the lower creatures and inanimate things his waste
energy, his dullest thoughts, his most languid emotions, and reserving
all his acuter intellect for researches into his own nature and that
of the gods; all his strength of will for the acquirement of political
or moral power; all his sense of beauty for things immediately
connected with his own person and life; and all his deep affections
for domestic or divine companionship.
Such, in broad light and brief terms, was man for five thousand years.
Such he is no longer. Let us consider what he is now, comparing the
descriptions clause by clause.
I. He _was_ invariably sensible of the existence of gods, and went about
all his speculations or works holding this as an acknowledged fact, making
his best efforts in their service. _Now_ he is capable of going through
life with hardly any positive idea on this subject,--doubting, fearing,
suspecting, analyzing,--doing everything, in fact, _but_ believing;
hardly ever getting quite up to that point which hitherto was wont to be
the starting-point for all generations. And human work has accordingly
hardly any reference to spiritual beings, but is done either from a
patriotic or personal interest,--either to benefit mankind, or reach
some selfish end, not (I speak of human work in the broad sense) to
please the gods.
II. He _was_ a beautiful creature, setting forth this beauty by all
means in his power, and depending upon it for much of his authority
over his fellows. So that the ruddy cheek of David, and the ivory skin
of Atrides, and the towering presence of Saul, and the blue eyes of
Coeur de Lion, were among chief reasons why they should be kings; and
it was one of the aims of all education, and of all dress, to make the
presence of the human form stately and lovely. _Now_ it has become the
task of grave philosophy partly to depreciate or conceal this bodily
beauty; and even by those who esteem it in their hearts, it is not
made one of the great ends of education; man has become, upon the
whole, an ugly animal, and is not ashamed of his ugliness.
III. He _was_ eminently warlike. He is _now_ gradually becoming more
and more ashamed of all the arts and aims of battle. So that the
desire of dominion, which was once frankly confessed or boasted of as
a heroic passion, is now sternly reprobated or cunningly disclaimed.
IV. He _used_ to take no interest in anything but what immediately
concerned himself. _Now_, he has deep interest in the abstract nature
of things, inquires as eagerly into the laws which regulate the
economy of the material world, as into those of his own being, and
manifests a passionate admiration of inanimate objects, closely
resembling, in its elevation and tenderness, the affection which he
bears to those living souls with which he is brought into the nearest
fellowship.
It is this last change only which is to be the subject of our present
inquiry; but it cannot be doubted that it is closely connected with
all the others, and that we can only thoroughly understand its nature
by considering il in this connection. For, regarded by itself, we
might perhaps, too rashly assume it to be a natural consequence of the
progress of the race. There appears to be a diminution of selfishness
in it, and a more extended and heartfelt desire of understanding the
manner of God's working; and this the more, because one of the
permanent characters of this change is a greater accuracy in the
statement of external facts. When the eyes of men were fixed first
upon themselves, and upon nature solely and secondarily as bearing
upon their interests, it was of less consequence to them what the
ultimate laws of nature were, than what their immediate effects were
upon human beings. Hence they could rest satisfied with phenomena
instead of principles, and accepted without scrutiny every fable which
seemed sufficiently or gracefully to account for those phenomena. But
so far as the eyes of men are now withdrawn from themselves, and
turned upon the inanimate things about them, the results cease to be
of importance, and the laws become essential.
In these respects, it might easily appear to us that this change was
assuredly one of steady and natural advance. But when we contemplate
the others above noted, of which it is clearly one of the branches or
consequences, we may suspect ourselves of over-rashness in our
self-congratulation, and admit the necessity of a scrupulous analysis
both of the feeling itself and of its tendencies.
Of course a complete analysis, or anything like it, would involve a
treatise on the whole history of the world. I shall merely endeavour
to note some of the leading and more interesting circumstances bearing
on the subject, and to show sufficient practical ground for the
conclusion, that landscape-painting is indeed a noble and useful art,
though one not long known by man. I shall therefore examine, as best I
can, the effect of landscape, 1st, on the Classical mind; 2dly, on the
Mediæval mind; and lastly, on the Modern mind. But there is one point
of some interest respecting the effect of it on _any mind_, which must
be settled first; and this I will endeavour to do in the next chapter.
[51] The Society of Painters in Water-Colours, often referred to as
the Old Water-Colour Society. Ruskin was elected an honorary member
in 1873.