A few days after this animated discussion at Lady Carey’s, there were to
be seen dashing along Pall Mall numerous chariots which halted at the
ex-Walton Club, where also fair ladies were alighting from their wheeled
couches (these had been designed by Sinclair at Lionel’s suggestion).
There were also public conveyances of a practical and artistic shape,
made to accommodate several passengers in a comfortable posture. The
fastidious designer could not conceal his satisfaction at the
disappearance of advertisements, which formerly had distracted his
æsthetic mind, and roused his indignation at the public’s gullibility.
The Walton was filling fast. Everyone interested in the future of art
was there, as Lord Somerville had promised to give an address on the
Royal Academy; and the telephones had been kept going by friends and
acquaintances of his, inviting their friends to attend the meeting.
Who was that throwing the reins to his groom and jumping out of his
chariot? A familiar face. Of course, it was H.R.H. the Duke of Schaum,
so well known to every shoe-black. He had been the very first Royal
Prince to apply to the Committee of Social Guides and was now the mentor
of Mrs Webster. It was only natural that the eldest of the Princes
should make the first move, for rulers still they were, if only in name
and amongst themselves. The other members of the august family had
rushed zealously into the arena, and they were all enjoying the work.
Here was Montagu Vane walking up the steps and entering through the
swing doors at the same time as H.R.H. the Duke of Schaum who
occasionally, when Mrs Webster gave him time to breathe, instructed the
_dilettante_ in the art of knowing who was who. Vane had not yet adopted
a chariot; when he was not going far from home he walked, on other
occasions he would ask his friend Mowbray to give him a lift; for Lord
Mowbray had greatly improved in the handling of the ribbons. He had
lately attached to his service a young member of the Royal Family, for
he could endure no one lower than a scion of royalty as his constant
companion through life! Lord Petersham, his hand on old Watson’s
shoulder, was slowly mounting the steps. Watson had lost his insular
swagger, while his lordly companion was daily forgetting his love of
party politics as he learnt more of humanity. Since they were no more
beholden to each other for liberal cheques, and introductions into
Society, the two men understood each other better. On their heels rushed
Tom Hornsby; he was here, there and everywhere, witty Tom; raillery was
still his weapon, but he appeared very old-fashioned to his
contemporaries, whilst his satirical outbursts seemed now more
antiquated than the _Tatler_ or _Spectator_ of Georgian civilisation.
There, with his nonchalant demeanour, came along George Murray, who had,
a few days previously, begged his publishers to destroy his last MS., as
he wished to observe the turn of events before bringing out his next
novel.
The hall was full, but not over-crowded. The Parliamentarians and many
of the members in the Upper House still kept away in the country, where,
unconsciously, they did some good work in the resuscitation of rural
life. It was remarkable what the so-called leading classes could do now
that the greatest incentive to snobbery had been torn from their backs.
But Danford had always prophesied as much to his pupil.
Groups were forming in the spacious hall; in one corner were Mrs
Archibald, Lady Carey and Montagu Vane; whilst in one of the large bow
windows overlooking the garden was Hornsby, feverishly expounding some
State paradox to Lord Mowbray and a few more ex-club men. Men came in,
bowed to each other—even when they did not recognise each other—for
politeness and courtesy had been found to be the best policy; women lay
down on large couches carved in the walls, talking gaily to one another,
without any superciliousness. Simplicity and graciousness was the order
of the day. Many said that they could not do otherwise than be natural:
“It is by force that we are simple, not by taste.” But never mind what
caused this transformation, the point at least was gained: very often
the scoffer who hurls a stone at a new edifice, in course of time sees
his very weapon help to build that which he intended to destroy. That is
the irony of Fate.
“You will never convince me that this kind of democracy can last,” said
Mrs Archibald to Danford, as the latter accompanied Lionel. “I think it
is most _infra dig._ of our Royal Family to forget who they are and to
lose the little bit of prestige which they possessed. The lowest urchin
in the street looked up to our Royalty. Do you believe anything good can
come of their vulgarising themselves as they do?”
“It was quite natural that the lower classes should have looked up to
their rulers,” replied Dan, “for they had, for centuries, told them to
do so. As you know, madam, the power of gross credulity is great in the
British nation, therefore they will only believe you to be their equals
when you repeatedly tell it to them.”
“I always thought, Mr Danford”—Vane’s voice was pitched unusually
high—“that you were cut out for a missionary, and possessed the
necessary gifts to set right all social wrongs.”
“My dear Mr Vane,” replied the buffoon, “there often is a gospel wrapped
up in a howling joke. My long experience at the Tivoli and other Music
Halls taught me my Catechism more exhaustively than my early attendance
at Sunday Schools.”
“Somerville is mounting the platform,” remarked George Murray to a group
of Royal Academicians Silence soon reigned, enabling the clear, ringing
voice of the lecturer to be heard.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I have a new plan to submit to you.” (“Hear!
hear!”) “A plan which suggested itself to me after my first visit, this
season, to the Royal Academy. I was struck by the attitude of the
public, and noticed group after group passing scornfully in front of
portraits, historical subjects, and war pictures. In fact, very few were
the pictures that attracted any attention at all. Then I observed that
landscapes aroused a good deal of attention on the part of the
dissatisfied crowds, and that pictures representing the human form in
its Edenic attire were the object of their closest observation. I was
filled with wonderment at the evolution of a public who the preceding
year had rushed to gaze at pictures by Sargent, Orchardson, Collier,
Alma Tadema, and the rest. As I strolled through the rooms I saw many a
woman blushing as she came in front of a portrait of an over-dressed
woman; men with downcast eyes hurried away from the pictures of our
so-called great men in their military uniforms or in any other garments.
My first determination on leaving the place was to have my portrait
removed; and, strange to say, the committee did not in any way oppose my
wish, as many had thought fit, like me, to have their likenesses taken
away. This is a great sign of the present evolution towards true art. I
do not for one moment expect our artists—who have already made their
names—to approve at once of my reform; but in time they may come to see
their past errors, as already one step towards the reform of art has
been taken by closing the doors of the Royal Academy.” (Here there were
murmurs amongst the minority of malcontents.) “Yes, I heard this very
morning that this would be the last day of the exhibition; the President
having resolved to take this ominous resolution to punish the public,
and teach them a lesson. We must, all of us, bear this well in mind:
that art cannot any longer, in our new mode of life, be the means of
obtaining wealth or position, and that nature is the sole guide and
model which is to lead the artist to artistic eminence. As to painting
garments from memory, the mere notion of such a sartorial nightmare
ought to make the true artist shudder with horror. I therefore propose
that a committee should be organised, similar to the one appointed for
the reform of public monuments, to judge of the pictures which, in
future, shall be sent to the Academy. The name of the artist would only
be submitted to the committee after the picture had been accepted or
rejected. The name of the person who had sat for the portrait would
equally remain unknown, until the majority of the members on the
committee should have recognised whom it was. The subject of an
historical picture would likewise remain unrevealed, until the majority
of members had been able to guess the subject when they looked at the
picture—I see a few R.A.’s at the end of the hall, laughing and
whispering. I quite understand their mirth, for they are looking forward
to mystifying the committee, whose members are often sadly lacking in
historical knowledge. I can only advise those gentlemen at the end of
the hall to develop a keener sense of discrimination in the choice of
their subjects, before they attempt to represent on wood, or copper—for
there is no canvas—an historical incident, without the aid of local
colour or garments. Our stage was reformed the day that Nature held up
her mirror and showed man as God had made him; fiction said her last
word when the high pressure of our abnormal civilisation suddenly
collapsed, and allowed man and woman to look into each other’s eyes, and
for the first time realise the abnormal condition of their former lives.
The same evolution awaits plastic art and the painter’s avocation, for
if a committee cannot tell, by looking at a picture, what the subject
is, they will have to retire so as to learn how to observe and how to
remember. Likewise, if an artist is unable to paint his subject without
the trapping of garment, the sooner such an exponent of art takes to
some other means of expressing his thoughts, the better. The aim of art,
in our present civilisation, is to be useful, either in the material or
the abstract world; and to be useful one must be clear and true—I hear
someone saying that I am limiting art most shamefully; I think it is Mr
Vane. No, I beg his pardon, truth and lucidity do not limit art. Had Mr
Vane said that my new plan would limit the number of artists he would no
doubt have been nearer the truth. We need only a very few artists, just
as we need very few writers, and you will soon see that vanishing of
clothes and upholstery will reduce their number. Now, I want to propose
that a branch should be added to this committee, whose work should be to
judge the past works hanging in our numerous galleries, more especially
those of our English artists who have won fame. Let us take as one
example out of thousands, ‘The Huguenots’ by Millais. Have a perfect
copy drawn of it, without the clothes which cover the figures, and let
this picture be shown to a committee of historians unacquainted with the
picture, and ask them to tell you what is ailing these three souls at
war with each other. I defy the committee to tell you. The incidental
feud which tortures these three souls is merely anecdotal, and not an
eternally human conflict. How few of our standard works would be
comprehended without the external label which makes the subject
intelligible. But those few, who would escape the public’s condemnation,
would be sufficient to stimulate our young artists who are penetrated
with a true and disinterested love of art. As to the rest who cannot
learn the lesson taught them by nature, let them put their cerebral
energy to other uses, either industrial or scientific. We are going fast
towards the time, when, as Prudhon said, ‘The artist must at last be
convinced of this, that there is no difference between an artistic
creation and an industrial invention.’
“Instead of limiting art by subjecting its productions to truth and
lucidity, I believe that we shall give a more powerful impetus to
artistic expression. Our new mode of life will inevitably create in us
new sentiments, and more simple morals, even new sensations, which will
inevitably develop in us new modes of expressions; so that a greater
display of facial expressions will forcibly be followed by a richer
scale of artistic execution. Besides which, we cannot take all the
credit to ourselves in this reform of art; the public has given us a
lesson by scorning the false manifestations of art, which inadequately
represent his present condition. We cannot stop the reform, for the
current is too strong and we must go with it.” (Cheers and applause.) “I
believe Mr Sinclair has a few words to say to you, for which he has this
morning begged me to ask your indulgence, though I feel sure he does not
in any way need it.”
Lionel left the platform, shook hands with several men who had gathered
round him, and joined the group which included Lady Carey and Mrs
Archibald.
Sinclair took the position vacated by Lionel, and leaning indolently
against the table spoke as in a reverie:—
“I have come to tell you, ladies and gentlemen, of the death of the art
critic.” Every head turned towards him; one could have heard a pin drop.
Sinclair seemed to wake suddenly from his meditation at the sound of his
own voice, and began earnestly to address his audience. “I hope you will
take it well from me, for you know how wedded I was to my profession.
But if I have come here this day to tell you of the total decomposition
of the critic, it is only after having maturely reflected over, and
analysed my past career. The eclipse of journalism, the judicious
weeding of publishers’ lists, have worked a transformation in our
conception of art, be it plastic, dramatic or lyric, and we are now
asking ourselves what caused the feverish infatuation for one particular
author, painter or musician? But we find it next to impossible to
answer. Real talent certainly was not sufficient to force the market,
nor did the eulogies of critics help to boom a work which was
distasteful to the public. On the other hand, no anathema showered at
the head of a despised author ever stopped the sale of his inferior
work.” (Laughter—many heads looked round the hall to see if the
much-abused author was there.) “The critic did not guide the artist, nor
did he teach the public what it had to admire or condemn. The public was
a hydra with many heads and many judgments; from the _Letters of
Elizabeth_ to Herbert Spencer’s _Ethics_, it devoured all, for its
appetite was varied though at times unhealthy. I am sorry to say that
the only achievement of the critic was to make the public believe he was
leading it. It was indeed very clever of him to convince the hydra of
his own importance, and as long as it lasted it was well and good; but
the reign of the critic was ephemeral, for at every corner the public is
having its revenge now. The masses disdainfully pass in front of
pictures we extolled, hiss the plays we boomed, and roar at the music we
admired. We coaxed the public, and conciliated the fashionable centres
of Society so as to solidify our position and fill our purses; we
blinded the many-headed hydra, stuffed cottonwool in its ears, and
anæsthetised its power of appreciation into believing that we were
indispensable to the development of art. The irony of it is, that it is
that very public which is giving us a colossal lesson. Changed
surroundings have altered the standard of art; and the hydra is giving
us tit for tat. We have nothing else to do but to retire cheerfully. My
dear friends, I come to you to cry, _Peccavi_, and to beg for your
forgiveness for past errors of judgment. We have no need to dog the
artist’s footsteps when there exists no longer any stimulus to inferior
work, and when the reign of saleable art is over. The era of the
artist-his-own-critic is at hand. Let the artist fight his battle with
the hydra; best of all, leave the artist to fight his own battle with
his own conscience, for the latter will prompt him to do only that which
is necessary for the happiness of himself and others.”
“What about Sargent?” broke in the clarion voice of Hornsby, who was
standing at the end of the hall, close to the President of the Academy.
“Ah! _mea culpa_,” solemnly uttered Sinclair, “when you come to Sargent,
you touch the depth of artificiality—if such a thing can be said. But
our past Society was the age of tragic frivolity, and Sargent was the
Homer of that modish _Odyssey_. He illustrated the law of natural
selection by making garments the main feature in his portraits. Under
his brush the inner souls of his models withered away, while artificial
surroundings and vestments emphasised in his pictures a condition of
spurious passions and morbid excitability. Run through, mentally, the
gallery of Sargent’s portraits, and you will see their anatomy wither
under the robe of Nessus. He endowed flounces, feathers and ribands with
Medusa-like ferocity; and the Laocoon is not more fatally begirded, nor
are his limbs more piteously crushed by snakes, than are these frail
women’s hearts muffled and hidden by clouds of lace and chiffon. Do you
remember that youth whom he immortalised a few years ago? That heir to
great properties on whose fatuous brow was stamped the mark of the
symbol of militarism? That diagonal mark of white skin on a sunburnt
forehead is a painted satire. Kipling gave us a high-flavoured
_philippic_ on Tommy Atkins; to Sargent was entrusted the mission of
immortalising the Tommy of the upper classes. Like a faithful
chronicler, Sargent intended to hand down to posterity the biography of
Society as he saw it—that is to say—the living product of artificial
environment. Hogarth was a dramatic historian of the unbridled passions
of a brutal Society. Disrobe the figures of the _Mariage à la Mode_, or
of the _Rake’s Progress_, and I believe the committee, which my friend
Lord Somerville wishes to appoint to judge our past works of art, will
easily be able to guess at a glance what tragedy is breaking the hearts
of these ungentle personages. Sargent is the satirist of a clothed
Society. His models would exist no longer were you to divest them of
their meretricious furbelows; for their garments are the parts which
help to form the aggregate of their psychology, and without their frills
and trimmings, they would merely be marionettes stuffed with sawdust and
held together with screws.” (Murmurs from several groups. The President
of the Academy leaves the hall.) “The end of Society was nigh, when it
could only boast of a School of Athens in which a Socrates was a tailor,
Aspasia a Court dressmaker, and Diogenes an upholsterer. Plato and
Aristotle’s philosophy did not more potently influence the world of
thought of their epoch, than did the unappealable decretals of a Paquin,
and the arbitrary ukase of a Poole.” The small minority of malcontents
were endeavouring to stop the lecturer, whose clear voice managed to
drown the hisses and the groans. He silenced them all. “We must have the
courage to face this, for since the late cataclysm, we have been
suddenly placed on a platform from which we are able to clearly view our
past civilisation; and we can see that formerly we had no sense of
objectivity, and that what we erroneously termed the modern world was
but the heaping together of complexities and incongruities. Do you
remember that perfect short story by Balzac, _The Unknown Masterpiece_?
It is the story of an artist who jealously hides the picture he is
painting from any intruding eye. He alone enters his sanctum, and there
for hours he works at this great work. One day, some profane creature
enters the studio, irreverently lifts the curtain which covers the
canvas, and sees—nothing. Blurrs, daubs, uncertain design, in fact,
confusion is all he can detect. This is what we have been doing for
centuries; we daubed and smudged our social work for want of a proper
perspective; we created a huge monstrosity just as this artist produced
an incomprehensible picture, because he, and we, could not judge our
production from the standpoint of another. I have digressed from my
subject, and wandered far away from what was the purpose of this
address. Let me conclude by telling you that the miserable efforts of
the critic are futile in the new era of—art for art’s sake.”
Sinclair, on his way across the hall, was dazed by the thunderous
applause which greeted him on his passage. The group of A.R.A.’s had
left the hall, no doubt to ponder these weighty questions in solitude,
and with the exception of Vane, Mowbray, Mrs Archibald and their small
group, the whole audience was acquiescent.
“I never would have believed it of you, old man,” sneered Vane. “What is
to become of us, when men like you, who kept the public taste in check,
give up the game?”
“My dear Montagu, that is just what we did not do. We played
hide-and-seek with the many-headed hydra, and it has collared us now,
and our game is up. On the day when you see the triviality of our past,
as I do, you will act as I act, and you will say what I have said.”
“My dear fellow”—Vane shook his head wisely—“_that_ is quite impossible
unless I become a Goth. I am one of those who never alter; but, the day
you recognise your folly, you will find me the same as ever, ready to
welcome you as our critic in all matters of art.” And he passed on.
“Ever the same, incorrigible; I dare not think what his end will be.”
And Sinclair turned his steps towards the window where Eva and Gwen were
sitting.
“I always told you, darling Eva, that Sinclair would be brought
unconsciously to understand the right purport of life on the day when he
realised the true meaning of art.” Gwen pressed Eva’s hand. “Sinclair
the fastidious, the cynic, is no more, and the man whom you honoured
with your love and trust is coming to claim you.” Eva laid her head on
her friend’s shoulder, as she watched Sinclair, who was coming towards
them.
“Mr Danford,” said Lady Carey, who was reclining in another window, “you
have just arrived in time. Do tell us who that is going on to the
platform? I am so short-sighted.”
The little satirist briskly turned on his heels and looked at the
thick-set, purple-faced man who was besieging the platform.
“Why, that is ex-General Wellingford!”
“What, the man who bungled so disastrously the early part of our African
campaign?” inquired Lady Carey.
“The very same, madam,” answered Danford.
“I am off,” suddenly exclaimed Lionel. “The old fellow does not interest
me in the least. Besides, there is nothing more to be said about the
African campaign since our troops have had to return from South Africa,
leaving the country and the people to themselves. _Au revoir_, Lady
Carey. Are you staying, Mowbray?”
“I think it is our duty as loyal subjects to listen to what the head of
our army has to say,” stiffly replied Lord Mowbray.
“Come along then, Dan.” The two men left the window, and passed through
the crowd who were loudly discussing the subject of art reform. As they
came to the next bow window, Lionel saw Gwen and Eva engrossed in a
lively conversation with Sinclair. Lionel stopped, and laying his hand
on Danford’s arm said, “I shall not disturb them. When a man has found
one of the rings that form the chain of life, he must be left to rivet
it without any interference.”
They passed into the vestibule.
“What is to be done with the War Office?” the rough voice of the
ex-general suddenly hushed the buzzing _causerie_; and these portentous
words reached the ears of Lionel and Danford as they swung the doors
open, and passed out.
“Ha! ha! ha!” Danford held his sides, convulsed with laughter. “Even the
ex-hero of civilised warfare is puzzled at what is to be done with his
obsolete bag of tricks!”
“Poor Mowbray will lose another illusion,” remarked Lionel, and the two
men walked up toward St James’s Park.