It has occurred to me that one might define Art as: an expression,
satisfying and abiding, of the zest of life. This is applicable to every
form of Art devised by man, for, in his creative moment, whether he
produce a great drama or carve a piece of foliage in wood, the artist is
moved and inspired by supreme enjoyment of some aspect of the world about
him; an enjoyment in itself keener than that experienced by another man,
and intensified, prolonged, by the power--which comes to him we know not
how--of recording in visible or audible form that emotion of rare
vitality. Art, in some degree, is within the scope of every human being,
were he but the ploughman who utters a few would-be melodious notes, the
mere outcome of health and strength, in the field at sunrise; he sings,
or tries to, prompted by an unusual gusto in being, and the rude stave is
all his own. Another was he, who also at the plough, sang of the daisy,
of the field-mouse, or shaped the rhythmic tale of Tam o' Shanter. Not
only had life a zest for him incalculably stronger and subtler than that
which stirs the soul of Hodge, but he uttered it in word and music such
as go to the heart of mankind, and hold a magic power for ages.
For some years there has been a great deal of talk about Art in our
country. It began, I suspect, when the veritable artistic impulse of the
Victorian time had flagged, when the energy of a great time was all but
exhausted. Principles always become a matter of vehement discussion when
practice is at ebb. Not by taking thought does one become an artist, or
grow even an inch in that direction--which is not at all the same as
saying that he who _is_ an artist cannot profit by conscious effort.
Goethe (the example so often urged by imitators unlike him in every
feature of humanity) took thought enough about his Faust; but what of
those youthtime lyrics, not the least precious of his achievements, which
were scribbled as fast as pen could go, thwartwise on the paper, because
he could not stop to set it straight? Dare I pen, even for my own eyes,
the venerable truth that an artist is born and not made? It seems not
superfluous, in times which have heard disdainful criticism of Scott, on
the ground that he had no artistic conscience, that he scribbled without
a thought of style, that he never elaborated his scheme before
beginning--as Flaubert, of course you know, invariably did. Why, after
all, has one not heard that a certain William Shakespeare turned out his
so-called works of art with something like criminal carelessness? Is it
not a fact that a bungler named Cervantes was so little in earnest about
his Art that, having in one chapter described the stealing of Sancho's
donkey, he presently, in mere forgetfulness, shows us Sancho riding on
Dapple, as if nothing had happened? Does not one Thackeray shamelessly
avow on the last page of a grossly "subjective" novel that he had killed
Lord Farintosh's mother at one page and brought her to life again at
another? These sinners against Art are none the less among the world's
supreme artists, for they _lived_, in a sense, in a degree,
unintelligible to these critics of theirs, and their work is an
expression, satisfying and abiding, of the zest of life.
Some one, no doubt, hit upon this definition of mine long ago. It
doesn't matter; is it the less original with me? Not long since I should
have fretted over the possibility, for my living depended on an avoidance
of even seeming plagiarism. Now I am at one with Lord Foppington, and
much disposed to take pleasure in the natural sprouts of my own
wit--without troubling whether the same idea has occurred to others.
Suppose me, in total ignorance of Euclid, to have discovered even the
simplest of his geometrical demonstrations, shall I be crestfallen when
some one draws attention to the book? These natural sprouts are, after
all, the best products of our life; it is a mere accident that they may
have no value in the world's market. One of my conscious efforts, in
these days of freedom, is to live intellectually for myself. Formerly,
when in reading I came upon anything that impressed or delighted me, down
it went in my note-book, for "use." I could not read a striking verse,
or sentence of prose, without thinking of it as an apt quotation in
something I might write--one of the evil results of a literary life. Now
that I strive to repel this habit of thought, I find myself asking: To
what end, then, do I read and remember? Surely as foolish a question as
ever man put to himself. You read for your own pleasure, for your solace
and strengthening. Pleasure, then, purely selfish? Solace which endures
for an hour, and strengthening for no combat? Ay, but I know, I know.
With what heart should I live here in my cottage, waiting for life's end,
were it not for those hours of seeming idle reading?
I think sometimes, how good it were had I some one by me to listen when I
am tempted to read a passage aloud. Yes, but is there any mortal in the
whole world upon whom I could invariably depend for sympathetic
understanding?--nay, who would even generally be at one with me in my
appreciation. Such harmony of intelligences is the rarest thing. All
through life we long for it: the desire drives us, like a demon, into
waste places; too often ends by plunging us into mud and morass. And,
after all, we learn that the vision was illusory. To every man is it
decreed: thou shalt live alone. Happy they who imagine that they have
escaped the common lot; happy, whilst they imagine it. Those to whom no
such happiness has ever been granted at least avoid the bitterest of
disillusions. And is it not always good to face a truth, however
discomfortable? The mind which renounces, once and for ever, a futile
hope, has its compensation in ever-growing calm.