But since life has got two rhythms, why should art have only one? Our
poor mankind by no means always feel braced, serene, and energetic;
and we are far from necessarily keeping step with the movements of the
universe which imply happiness.
Let alone the fact of wretched circumstances beyond our control, of
natural decay and death, and loss of our nearest and dearest; the
universe has made it excessively difficult, nay, impossible, for us to
follow constantly its calm behest, "Be as healthy as possible." It is
all very fine to say _be healthy_. Of course we should be willing
enough. But it must be admitted that the Powers That Be have not
troubled about making it easy. Be healthy indeed! When health is so
nicely balanced that it is at the mercy of a myriad of microscopic
germs, of every infinitesimal increase of cold or heat, or damp or
dryness, of alternations of work and play, oscillation of want and
excess incalculably small, any of which may disturb the beautiful
needle-point balance and topple us over into disease. Such Job's
comforting is one of the many sledge-hammer ironies with which the
Cosmos diverts itself at our expense; and of course the Cosmos may
permit itself what it likes, and none of us can complain. But is it
possible for one of ourselves, a poor, sick, hustled human being, to
take up the jest of the absentee gods of Lucretius, and say to his
fellow-men: "Believe me, you would do much better to be quite healthy,
and quite happy?"
And, as art is one of mankind's modes of expressing itself, why in the
world should we expect it to be the expression only of mankind's
health and happiness? Even admitting that the very existence of the
race proves that the healthy and happy states of living must on the
whole preponderate (a matter which can, after all, not be proved so
easily), even admitting that, why should mankind be allowed artistic
emotions only at those moments, and requested not to express itself or
feel artistically during the others? Bay-trees are delightful things,
no doubt, and we are all very fond of them off and on. But why must we
pretend to enjoy them when we don't; why must we hide the fact that
they sometimes irritate or bore us, and that every now and then we
very much prefer--well, weeping-willows, upas-trees, and all the livid
or phosphorescent eccentricities of the various _fleurs du mal_?
Is it not stupid thus to "blink and shut our apprehension up?" Nay,
worse, is it not positively heartless, brutal?