[_6 Oct. '10_]
A month ago, apropos of the difficulties of running a high-class literary
periodical, I wrote the following words: "Idle to argue that genuine
artists ought to be indifferent to money! They are not. And what is still
more curious, they will seldom produce their best work unless they really
do want money." This pronouncement came at an unfortunate moment, which
was the very moment when Mr. Sampson happened to be denying, with a
certain fine heat, the thesis of Lord Rosebery that poverty is good for
poets. Somebody even quoted me against Mr. Sampson in favour of Lord
Rosebery. This I much regret, and it has been on my mind ever since. I do
not wish to be impolite on the subject of Lord Rosebery. He is an ageing
man, probably exacerbated by the consciousness of failure. At one
time--many years ago--he had his hours of righteous enthusiasm. And he has
always upheld the banner of letters in a social sphere whose notorious
proud stupidity has been immemorially blind to the true function of art in
life. But if any remark of Lord Rosebery's at a public banquet could
fairly be adduced in real support of an argument of mine, I should be
disturbed. And, fact, I heartily agreed with Mr. Sampson's demolishment of
Lord Rosebery's speech about genius and poverty. Lord Rosebery was talking
nonsense, and as with all his faults he cannot be charged with the
stupidity of his class, he must have known that he was talking nonsense.
The truth is that as the official mouthpiece of the nation he was merely
trying to excuse, in an official perfunctory way, the inexcusable
behaviour of the nation towards its artists.
* * * * *
As regards my own assertion that genuine artists will seldom produce their
best work unless they really do want money, I fail to see how it conspires
with Lord Rosebery's assertion. Moreover, I must explain that I was not
thinking of poets. I was thinking of prose-writers, who do have a chance
of making a bit of money. Money has scarcely any influence on the activity
of poets, because they are aware that, no matter how well they succeed,
the chances are a million to one against any appreciable monetary reward.
An extreme lack of money will, of course, hamper them, and must, of
course, do harm to the artist in them. An assured plenty of money may
conceivably induce lethargy. But the hope of making money by their art
will not spur them on, for there is no hope. No! I ought to have said
explicitly at the time that I had in mind, not poets, who by the
indifference of the public are set apart from money, but of those artists
who have a reasonable opportunity of becoming public darlings and of
earning now and then incomes which a grocer would not despise. That these
latter are constantly influenced by money, and spurred to their finest
efforts by the need of the money necessary for the satisfaction of their
tastes, is a fact amply proved by the experience of everybody who is on
intimate terms with them in real life. It almost amounts to common
literary knowledge. It applies equally to the mediocre and to the
distinguished artist. Those persons who have not participated in the
pleasures and the pains of intimacy with distinguished writers depending
for a livelihood on their pens, can learn the truth about them by reading
the correspondence of such authors as Scott, Balzac, Dickens, de
Maupassant, and Stevenson. It is an absolute certainty that we owe about
half the "Comédie Humaine" to Balzac's extravagant imprudence. It is
equally sure that Scott's mania for landed estate was responsible for a
very considerable part of his artistic output. And so on. When once an
artist has "tasted" the money of art, the desire thus set up will keep his
genius hard at work better than any other incentive. It occasionally
happens that an artist financially prudent, after doing a few fine things,
either makes or comes into so much money that he is wealthy for the rest
of his life. Such a condition induces idleness, induces a disinclination
to fight against artistic difficulties. Naturally! I could give living
instances in England to-day. But my discretion sends me to France for an
instance. Take François de Curel. François de Curel was writing, twenty
years ago, dramatic works of the very best kind. Their value was
acknowledged by the few, and it remains permanent. The author is
definitely classed as a genius in the history of the French theatre. But
the verdict has not yet been endorsed by the public. For quite a number of
years M. de Curel has produced practically nothing on the stage. He has
preferred to withdraw from the battle against the indifference of the
public. Had he needed money, the hope of money would have forced him to
continue the battle, and we should have had perhaps half a dozen really
fine plays by François de Curel that do not at present exist. But he did
not need money. He is in receipt of a large income from iron foundries.