The third method is by action, often purely physical, on the outer

senses. Work of this kind is said to be "striking," "effectful." In

all arts these effects consist chiefly in contrasts; in bringing

together the terrible and the tender, the beautiful and the hideous,

the loud and the soft, darkness and light, the most ordinary and

the most extraordinary. In verbal art, besides effects of contrast,

there are also effects consisting in the description of things that

have never before been described. These are usually pornographic

details evoking sexual desire, or details of suffering and death

evoking feelings of horror, as, for instance, when describing a

murder, to give a detailed medical account of the lacerated tissues,

of the swellings, of the smell, quantity, and appearance of the

blood. It is the same in painting: besides all kinds of other

contrasts, one is coming into vogue which consists in giving careful

finish to one object and being careless about all the rest. The

chief and usual effects in painting are effects of light and the

depiction of the horrible. In the drama, the most common effects,

besides contrasts, are tempests, thunder, moonlight, scenes at sea

or by the seashore, changes of costume, exposure of the female body,

madness, murders, and death generally: the dying person exhibiting

in detail all the phases of agony. In music the most usual effects

are a _crescendo_, passing from the softest and simplest sounds

to the loudest and most complex crash of the full orchestra; a

repetition of the same sounds _arpeggio_ in all the octaves and on

various instruments; or that the harmony, tone, and rhythm be not at

all those naturally flowing from the course of the musical thought,

but such as strike one by their unexpectedness. Besides these, the

commonest effects in music are produced in a purely physical manner

by strength of sound, especially in an orchestra.

Such are some of the most usual effects in the various arts, but

there yet remains one common to them all; namely, to convey by

means of one art what it would be natural to convey by another: for

instance, to make music describe (as is done by the programme music

of Wagner and his followers), or to make painting, the drama, or

poetry, induce a frame of mind (as is aimed at by all the Decadent

art).

The fourth method is that of interesting (that is, absorbing the

mind) in connection with works of art. The interest may lie in

an intricate plot--a method till quite recently much employed in

English novels and French plays, but now going out of fashion and

being replaced by authenticity, _i.e._ by detailed description of

some historical period or some branch of contemporary life. For

example, in a novel, interestingness may consist in a description of

Egyptian or Roman life, the life of miners, or that of the clerks

in a large shop. The reader becomes interested and mistakes this

interest for an artistic impression. The interest may also depend on

the very method of expression; a kind of interest that has now come

much into use. Both verse and prose, as well as pictures, plays, and

music, are constructed so that they must be guessed like riddles,

and this process of guessing again affords pleasure and gives a

semblance of the feeling received from art.

It is very often said that a work of art is very good because it is

poetic, or realistic, or striking, or interesting; whereas not only

can neither the first, nor the second, nor the third, nor the fourth

of these attributes supply a standard of excellence in art, but they

have not even anything in common with art.

Poetic--means borrowed. All borrowing merely recalls to the reader,

spectator, or listener some dim recollection of artistic impressions

they have received from previous works of art, and does not infect

them with feeling which the artist has himself experienced. A

work founded on something borrowed, like Goethe's "Faust," for

instance, may be very well executed and be full of mind and every

beauty, but because it lacks the chief characteristic of a work

of art--completeness, oneness, the inseparable unity of form and

contents expressing the feeling the artist has experienced--it

cannot produce a really artistic impression. In availing himself

of this method, the artist only transmits the feeling received by

him from a previous work of art; therefore every borrowing, whether

it be of whole subjects, or of various scenes, situations, or

descriptions, is but a reflection of art, a simulation of it, but

not art itself. And therefore, to say that a certain production is

good because it is poetic--_i.e._ resembles a work of art--is like

saying of a coin that it is good because it resembles real money.

Equally little can imitation, realism, serve, as many people think,

as a measure of the quality of art. Imitation cannot be such a

measure; for the chief characteristic of art is the infection of

others with the feelings the artist has experienced, and infection

with a feeling is not only not identical with description of the

accessories of what is transmitted, but is usually hindered by

superfluous details. The attention of the receiver of the artistic

impression is diverted by all these well-observed details, and they

hinder the transmission of feeling even when it exists.

To value a work of art by the degree of its realism, by the

accuracy of the details reproduced, is as strange as to judge of

the nutritive quality of food by its external appearance. When we

appraise a work according to its realism, we only show that we are

talking, not of a work of art, but of its counterfeit.

Neither does the third method of imitating art--by the use of

what is striking or effectual--coincide with real art any better

than the two former methods; for in effectfulness--the effects of

novelty, of the unexpected, of contrasts, of the horrible--there

is no transmission of feeling, but only an action on the nerves.

If an artist were to paint a bloody wound admirably, the sight of

the wound would strike me, but it would not be art. One prolonged

note on a powerful organ will produce a striking impression, will

often even cause tears, but there is no music in it, because

no feeling is transmitted. Yet such physiological effects are

constantly mistaken for art by people of our circle, and this not

only in music, but also in poetry, painting, and the drama. It is

said that art has become refined. On the contrary, thanks to the

pursuit of effectfulness, it has become very coarse. A new piece

is brought out and accepted all over Europe, such, for instance,

as "Hannele," in which play the author wishes to transmit to the

spectators pity for a persecuted girl. To evoke this feeling in the

audience by means of art, the author should either make one of the

characters express this pity in such a way as to infect every one,

or he should describe the girl's feelings correctly. But he cannot,

or will not, do this, and chooses another way, more complicated

in stage management, but easier for the author. He makes the girl

die on the stage; and, still further to increase the physiological

effect on the spectators, he extinguishes the lights in the theater,

leaving the audience in the dark, and to the sound of dismal music

he shows how the girl is pursued and beaten by her drunken father.

The girl shrinks--screams--groans--and falls. Angels appear and

carry her away. And the audience, experiencing some excitement while

this is going on, are fully convinced that this is true æsthetic

feeling. But there is nothing æsthetic in such excitement; for there

is no infecting of man by man, but only a mingled feeling of pity

for another, and of self-congratulation that it is not I who am

suffering: it is like what we feel at the sight of an execution, or

what the Romans felt in their circuses.

The substitution of effectfulness for æsthetic feeling is

particularly noticeable in musical art--that art which by its nature

has an immediate physiological action on the nerves. Instead of

transmitting by means of a melody the feelings he has experienced,

a composer of the new school accumulates and complicates sounds,

and by now strengthening, now weakening them, he produces on the

audience a physiological effect of a kind that can be measured by an

apparatus invented for the purpose.[118] And the public mistake this

physiological effect for the effect of art.

[118] An apparatus exists by means of which a very sensitive arrow,

in dependence on the tension of a muscle of the arm, will indicate

the physiological action of music on the nerves and muscles.

As to the fourth method--that of interesting--it also is frequently

confounded with art. One often hears it said, not only of a poem,

a novel, or a picture, but even of a musical work, that it is

interesting. What does this mean? To speak of an interesting work of

art means either that we receive from a work of art information new

to us, or that the work is not fully intelligible, and that little

by little, and with effort, we arrive at its meaning, and experience

a certain pleasure in this process of guessing it. In neither case

has the interest anything in common with artistic impression. Art

aims at infecting people with feeling experienced by the artist.

But the mental effort necessary to enable the spectator, listener,

or reader to assimilate the new information contained in the work,

or to guess the puzzles propounded, by distracting him, hinders the

infection. And therefore the interestingness of a work, not only

has nothing to do with its excellence as a work of art, but rather

hinders than assists artistic impression.

We may, in a work of art, meet with what is poetic, and realistic,

and striking, and interesting, but these things cannot replace the

essential of art,--feeling experienced by the artist. Latterly, in

upper-class art, most of the objects given out as being works of

art are of the kind which only resemble art, and are devoid of its

essential quality,--feeling experienced by the artist. And, for the

diversion of the rich, such objects are continually being produced

in enormous quantities by the artisans of art.

Many conditions must be fulfilled to enable a man to produce a real

work of art. It is necessary that he should stand on the level of

the highest life-conception of his time, that he should experience

feeling and have the desire and capacity to transmit it, and that

he should, moreover, have a talent for some one of the forms of

art. It is very seldom that all these conditions necessary to the

production of true art are combined. But in order--aided by the

customary methods of borrowing, imitating, introducing effects, and

interesting--unceasingly to produce counterfeits of art which pass

for art in our society and are well paid for, it is only necessary

to have a talent for some branch of art; and this is very often

to be met with. By talent I mean ability: in literary art, the

ability to express one's thoughts and impressions easily and to

notice and remember characteristic details; in the depictive arts,

to distinguish and remember lines, forms, and colors; in music, to

distinguish the intervals, and to remember and transmit the sequence

of sounds. And a man, in our times, if only he possesses such a

talent and selects some specialty, may, after learning the methods

of counterfeiting used in his branch of art,--if he has patience

and if his æsthetic feeling (which would render such productions

revolting to him) be atrophied,--unceasingly, till the end of his

life, turn out works which will pass for art in our society.

To produce such counterfeits, definite rules or recipes exist in

each branch of art. So that the talented man, having assimilated

them, may produce such works _à froid_, cold drawn, without any

feeling.

In order to write poems a man of literary talent needs only

these qualifications: to acquire the knack, conformably with the

requirements of rhyme and rhythm, of using, instead of the one

really suitable word, ten others meaning approximately the same;

to learn how to take any phrase which, to be clear, has but one

natural order of words, and despite all possible dislocations still

to retain some sense in it; and lastly, to be able, guided by the

words required for the rhymes, to devise some semblance of thoughts,

feelings, or descriptions to suit these words. Having acquired these

qualifications, he may unceasingly produce poems--short or long,

religious, amatory, or patriotic, according to the demand.

If a man of literary talent wishes to write a story or novel, he

need only form his style--_i.e._ learn how to describe all that he

sees--and accustom himself to remember or note down details. When he

has accustomed himself to this, he can, according to his inclination

or the demand, unceasingly produce novels or stories--historical,

naturalistic, social, erotic, psychological, or even religious, for

which latter kind a demand and fashion begins to show itself. He can

take subjects from books or from the events of life, and can copy

the characters of the people in his book from his acquaintances.

And such novels and stories, if only they are decked out with

well-observed and carefully noted details, preferably erotic ones,

will be considered works of art, even though they may not contain a

spark of feeling experienced.

To produce art in dramatic form, a talented man, in addition to all

that is required for novels and stories, must also learn to furnish

his characters with as many smart and witty sentences as possible,

must know how to utilize theatrical effects, and how to entwine

the action of his characters so that there should not be any long

conversations, but as much bustle and movement on the stage as

possible. If the writer is able to do this, he may produce dramatic

works one after another without stopping, selecting his subjects

from the reports of the law courts, or from the latest society

topic, such as hypnotism, heredity, etc., or from deep antiquity, or

even from the realms of fancy.

In the sphere of painting and sculpture it is still easier for the

talented man to produce imitations of art. He need only learn to

draw, paint, and model--especially naked bodies. Thus equipped he

can continue to paint pictures, or model statues, one after another,

choosing subjects according to his bent--mythological, or religious,

or fantastic, or symbolical; or he may depict what is written about

in the papers--a coronation, a strike, the Turko-Grecian war, famine

scenes; or, commonest of all, he may just copy anything he thinks

beautiful--from naked women to copper basins.

For the production of musical art the talented man needs still

less of what constitutes the essence of art, _i.e._ feeling

wherewith to infect others: but on the other hand, he requires

more physical, gymnastic labor than for any other art, unless it

be dancing. To produce works of musical art, he must first learn

to move his fingers on some instrument as rapidly as those who

have reached the highest perfection; next, he must know how in

former times polyphonic music was written, must study what are

called counterpoint and fugue; and, furthermore, he must learn

orchestration, _i.e._ how to utilize the effects of the instruments.

But once he has learned all this, the composer may unceasingly

produce one work after another; whether programme-music, opera, or

song (devising sounds more or less corresponding to the words), or

chamber music, _i.e._ he may take another man's themes and work

them up into definite forms by means of counterpoint and fugue; or,

what is commonest of all, he may compose fantastic music, _i.e._ he

may take a conjunction of sounds which happens to come to hand, and

pile every sort of complication and ornamentation on to this chance

combination.

Thus, in all realms of art, counterfeits of art are manufactured to

a ready-made, prearranged recipe, and these counterfeits the public

of our upper classes accept for real art.

And this substitution of counterfeits for real works of art was the

third and most important consequence of the separation of the art of

the upper classes from universal art.

CHAPTER XII

In our society three conditions coöperate to cause the production of

objects of counterfeit art. They are--(1) the considerable remuneration

of artists for their productions, and the professionalization of

artists which this has produced, (2) art criticism, and (3) schools of

art.

While art was as yet undivided, and only religious art was valued

and rewarded while indiscriminate art was left unrewarded, there

were no counterfeits of art, or, if any existed, being exposed to

the criticism of the whole people, they quickly disappeared. But as

soon as that division occurred, and the upper classes acclaaimed

every kind of art as good if only it afforded them pleasure, and

began to reward such art more highly than any other social activity,

immediately a large number of people devoted themselves to this

activity, and art assumed quite a different character, and became a

profession.

And as soon as this occurred, the chief and most precious quality

of art--its sincerity--was at once greatly weakened and eventually

quite destroyed.

The professional artist lives by his art, and has continually

to invent subjects for his works, and does invent them. And it

is obvious how great a difference must exist between works of

art produced on the one hand by men such as the Jewish prophets,

the authors of the Psalms, Francis of Assisi, the authors of the

"Iliad" and "Odyssey," of folk-stories, legends, and folk-songs,

many of whom not only received no remuneration for their work, but

did not even attach their names to it; and, on the other hand,

works produced by court poets, dramatists and musicians receiving

honors and remuneration; and later on by professional artists, who

lived by the trade, receiving remuneration from newspaper editors,

publishers, impresarios, and in general from those agents who come

between the artists and the town public--the consumers of art.

Professionalism is the first condition of the diffusion of false,

counterfeit art.

The second condition is the growth, in recent times, of artistic

criticism, _i.e._ the valuation of art, not by everybody, and, above

all, not by plain men, but by erudite, that is, by perverted and at

the same time self-confident individuals.

A friend of mine, speaking of the relation of critics to artists,

half jokingly defined it thus: "Critics are the stupid who discuss

the wise." However partial, inexact, and rude this definition may

be, it is yet partly true, and is incomparably juster than the

definition which considers critics to be men who can explain works

of art.

"Critics explain!" What do they explain?

The artist, if a real artist, has by his work transmitted to others

the feeling he experienced. What is there, then, to explain?

If a work be good as art, then the feeling expressed by the

artist--be it moral or immoral--transmits itself to other people. If

transmitted to others, then they feel it, and all interpretations

are superfluous. If the work does not infect people, no explanation

can make it contagious. An artist's work cannot be interpreted.

Had it been possible to explain in words what he wished to convey,

the artist would have expressed himself in words. He expressed it

by his art only because the feeling he experienced could not be

otherwise transmitted. The interpretation of works of art by words

only indicates that the interpreter is himself incapable of feeling

the infection of art. And this is actually the case; for, however

strange it may seem to say so, critics have always been people less

susceptible than other men to the contagion of art. For the most

part they are able writers, educated and clever, but with their

capacity of being infected by art quite perverted or atrophied. And

therefore their writings have always largely contributed, and still

contribute, to the perversion of the taste of that public which

reads them and trusts them.

Artistic criticism did not exist--could not and cannot exist--in

societies where art is undivided, and where, consequently, it is

appraised by the religious understanding of life common to the whole

people. Art criticism grew, and could grow, only on the art of the

upper classes, who did not acknowledge the religious perception of

their time.

Universal art has a definite and indubitable internal

criterion,--religious perception; upper-class art lacks this, and

therefore the appreciators of that art are obliged to cling to

some external criterion. And they find it in "the judgments of the

finest-nurtured," as an English æsthetician has phrased it, that

is, in the authority of the people who are considered educated,

nor in this alone, but also in a tradition of such authorities.

This tradition is extremely misleading, both because the opinions

of "the finest-nurtured" are often mistaken, and also because

judgments which were valid once cease to be so with the lapse of

time. But the critics, having no basis for their judgments, never

cease to repeat their traditions. The classical tragedians were

once considered good, and therefore criticism considers them to be

so still. Dante was esteemed a great poet, Raphael a great painter,

Bach a great musician--and the critics, lacking a standard by which

to separate good art from bad, not only consider these artists

great, but regard all their productions as admirable and worthy of

imitation. Nothing has contributed, and still contributes, so much

to the perversion of art as these authorities set up by criticism. A

man produces a work of art, like every true artist expressing in his

own peculiar manner a feeling he has experienced. Most people are

infected by the artist's feeling; and his work becomes known. Then

criticism, discussing the artist, says that the work is not bad,

but all the same the artist is not a Dante, nor a Shakespear, nor a

Goethe, nor a Raphael, nor what Beethoven was in his last period.

And the young artist sets to work to copy those who are held up for

his imitation, and he produces not only feeble works, but false

works,--counterfeits of art.

Thus, for instance, our Pushkin writes his short poems, "Evgeniy

Onegin," "The Gipsies," and his stories--works all varying in

quality, but all true art. But then, under the influence of false

criticism extolling Shakespear, he writes "Boris Godunoff," a cold,

brain-spun work, and this production is lauded by the critics, set

up as a model, and imitations of it appear: "Minin," by Ostrovsky,

and "Tsar Boris," by Alexée Tolstoï, and such imitations of

imitations as crowd all literatures with insignificant productions.

The chief harm done by the critics is this,--that themselves lacking

the capacity to be infected by art (and that is the characteristic

of all critics; for did they not lack this they could not attempt

the impossible--the interpretation of works of art), they pay most

attention to, and eulogize, brain-spun, invented works, and set

these up as models worthy of imitation. That is the reason they so

confidently extol, in literature, the Greek tragedians, Dante,

Tasso, Milton, Shakespear, Goethe (almost all he wrote), and, among

recent writers, Zola and Ibsen; in music, Beethoven's last period,

and Wagner. To justify their praise of these brain-spun, invented

works, they devise entire theories (of which the famous theory of

beauty is one); and not only dull but also talented people compose

works in strict deference to these theories; and often even real

artists, doing violence to their genius, submit to them.

Every false work extolled by the critics serves as a door through

which the hypocrites of art at once crowd in.

It is solely due to the critics, who in our times still praise rude,

savage, and, for us, often meaningless works of the ancient Greeks:

Sophocles, Euripides, Æschylus, and especially Aristophanes; or,

of modern writers, Dante, Tasso, Milton, Shakespear; in painting,

all of Raphael, all of Michael Angelo, including his absurd "Last

Judgment"; in music, the whole of Bach, and the whole of Beethoven,

including his last period,--thanks only to them have the Ibsens,

Maeterlincks, Verlaines, Mallarmés, Puvis de Chavannes, Klingers,

Böcklins, Stucks, Schneiders; in music, the Wagners, Liszts,

Berliozes, Brahmses, and Richard Strausses, etc., and all that

immense mass of good-for-nothing imitators of these imitators,

become possible in our day.

As a good illustration of the harmful influence of criticism, take

its relation to Beethoven. Among his innumerable hasty productions

written to order, there are, notwithstanding their artificiality

of form, works of true art. But he grows deaf, cannot hear, and

begins to write invented, unfinished works, which are consequently

often meaningless and musically unintelligible. I know that

musicians can imagine sounds vividly enough, and can almost hear

what they read, but imaginary sounds can never replace real ones,

and every composer must hear his production in order to perfect it.

Beethoven, however, could not hear, could not perfect his work, and

consequently published productions which are artistic ravings. But

criticism, having once acknowledged him to be a great composer,

seizes on just these abnormal works with special gusto, and searches

for extraordinary beauties in them. And, to justify its laudations

(perverting the very meaning of musical art), it attributed to music

the property of describing what it cannot describe. And imitators

appear--an innumerable host of imitators of these abnormal attempts

at artistic productions which Beethoven wrote when he was deaf.

Then Wagner appears, who at first in critical articles praises just

Beethoven's last period, and connects this music with Schopenhauer's

mystical theory that music is the expression of Will--not of

separate manifestations of will objectivized on various planes,

but its very essence--which is in itself as absurd as this music

of Beethoven. And afterward he composes music of his own on this

theory, in conjunction with another still more erroneous system of

the union of all the arts. After Wagner yet new imitators appear,

diverging yet further from art: Brahms, Richard Strauss, and others.

Such are the results of criticism. But the third condition of the

perversion of art, namely, art schools, is almost more harmful still.

As soon as art became, not art for the whole people, but for a rich

class, it became a profession; as soon as it became a profession,

methods were devised to teach it; people who chose this profession

of art began to learn these methods, and thus professional schools

sprang up: classes of rhetoric or literature in the public schools,

academies for painting, conservatoires for music, schools for

dramatic art.

In these schools art is taught! But art is the transmission to

others of a special feeling experienced by the artist. How can this

be taught in schools?

No school can evoke feeling in a man, and still less can it teach

him how to manifest it in the one particular manner natural to him

alone. But the essence of art lies in these things.

The one thing these schools can teach is how to transmit feelings

experienced by other artists in the way those other artists

transmitted them. And this is just what the professional schools do

teach; and such instruction not only does not assist the spread of

true art, but, on the contrary, by diffusing counterfeits of art,

does more than anything else to deprive people of the capacity to

understand true art.

In literary art people are taught how, without having anything they

wish to say, to write a many-paged composition on a theme about

which they have never thought, and, moreover, to write it so that

it should resemble the work of an author admitted to be celebrated.

This is taught in schools.

In painting, the chief training consists in learning to draw and

paint from copies and models, the naked body chiefly (the very

thing that is never seen, and which a man occupied with real art

hardly ever has to depict), and to draw and paint as former masters

drew and painted. The composition of pictures is taught by giving

out themes similar to those which have been treated by former

acknowledged celebrities.

So also in dramatic schools, the pupils are taught to recite

monologues just as tragedians, considered celebrated, declaimed them.

It is the same in music. The whole theory of music is nothing but

a disconnected repetition of those methods which the acknowledged

masters of composition made use of.

I have elsewhere quoted the profound remark of the Russian artist

Bruloff on art, but I cannot here refrain from repeating it, because

nothing better illustrates what can and what cannot be taught in

the schools. Once when correcting a pupil's study, Bruloff just

touched it in a few places, and the poor dead study immediately

became animated. "Why, you only touched it a _wee bit_, and it is

quite another thing!" said one of the pupils. "Art begins where

the _wee bit_ begins," replied Bruloff, indicating by these words

just what is most characteristic of art. The remark is true of

all the arts, but its justice is particularly noticeable in the

performance of music. That musical execution should be artistic,

should be art, _i.e._ should infect, three chief conditions must

be observed,--there are many others needed for musical perfection;

the transition from one sound to another must be interrupted or

continuous; the sound must increase or diminish steadily; it must

be blended with one and not with another sound; the sound must

have this or that timbre, and much besides,--but take the three

chief conditions; the pitch, the time, and the strength of the

sound. Musical execution is only then art, only then infects, when

the sound is neither higher nor lower than it should be, that is,

when exactly the infinitely small center of the required note is

taken; when that note is continued exactly as long as is needed;

and when the strength of the sound is neither more nor less than

is required. The slightest deviation of pitch in either direction,

the slightest increase or decrease in time, or the slightest

strengthening or weakening of the sound beyond what is needed,

destroys the perfection and, consequently, the infectiousness of

the work. So that the feeling of infection by the art of music,

which seems so simple and so easily obtained, is a thing we receive

only when the performer finds those infinitely minute degrees which

are necessary to perfection in music. It is the same in all arts:

a wee bit lighter, a wee bit darker, a wee bit higher, lower, to

the right or the left--in painting; a wee bit weaker or stronger in

intonation, or a wee bit sooner or later--in dramatic art; a wee bit

omitted, over-emphasized, or exaggerated--in poetry, and there is

no contagion. Infection is only obtained when an artist finds those

infinitely minute degrees of which a work of art consists, and only

to the extent to which he finds them. And it is quite impossible to

teach people by external means to find these minute degrees; they

can only be found when a man yields to his feeling. No instruction

can make a dancer catch just the tact of the music, or a singer or

a fiddler take exactly the infinitely minute center of his note, or

a sketcher draw of all possible lines the only right one, or a poet

find the only meet arrangement of the only suitable words. All this

is found only by feeling. And therefore schools may teach what is

necessary in order to produce something resembling art, but not art

itself.

The teaching of the schools stops there where the _wee bit_

begins--consequently where art begins.

Accustoming people to something resembling art, disaccustoms them to

the comprehension of real art. And that is how it comes about that

none are more dull to art than those who have passed through the

professional schools and been most successful in them. Professional

schools produce an hypocrisy of art precisely akin to that hypocrisy

of religion which is produced by theological colleges for training

priests, pastors, and religious teachers generally. As it is

impossible in a school to train a man so as to make a religious

teacher of him, so it is impossible to teach a man how to become an

artist.

Art schools are thus doubly destructive of art: first, in that they

destroy the capacity to produce real art in those who have the

misfortune to enter them and go through a seven or eight years'

course; secondly, in that they generate enormous quantities of that

counterfeit art which perverts the taste of the masses and overflows

our world. In order that born artists may know the methods of the

various arts elaborated by former artists, there should exist in

all elementary schools such classes for drawing and music (singing)

that, after passing through them, every talented scholar may, by

using existing models accessible to all, be able to perfect himself

in his art independently.

These three conditions--the professionalization of artists, art

criticism, and art schools--have had this effect: that most people

in our times are quite unable even to understand what art is, and

accept as art the grossest counterfeits of it.

CHAPTER XIII

To what an extent people of our circle and time have lost the

capacity to receive real art, and have become accustomed to accept

as art things that have nothing in common with it, is best seen from

the works of Richard Wagner, which have latterly come to be more and

more esteemed, not only by the Germans, but also by the French and

the English, as the very highest art, revealing new horizons to us.

The peculiarity of Wagner's music, as is known, consists in

this,--that he considered that music should serve poetry, expressing

all the shades of a poetical work.

The union of the drama with music, devised in the fifteenth century

in Italy for the revival of what they imagined to have been the

ancient Greek drama with music, is an artificial form which had,

and has, success only among the upper classes, and that only when

gifted composers, such as Mozart, Weber, Rossini, and others,

drawing inspiration from a dramatic subject, yielded freely to the

inspiration and subordinated the text to the music, so that in their

operas the important thing to the audience was merely the music on

a certain text, and not the text at all, which latter, even when it

was utterly absurd, as, for instance, in the "Magic Flute," still

did not prevent the music from producing an artistic impression.

Wagner wishes to correct the opera by letting music submit to the

demands of poetry and unite with it. But each art has its own

definite realm, which is not identical with the realm of other

arts, but merely comes in contact with them; and therefore, if the

manifestation of, I will not say several, but even of two arts--the

dramatic and the musical--be united in one complete production,

then the demands of the one art will make it impossible to fulfil

the demands of the other, as has always occurred in the ordinary

operas, where the dramatic art has submitted to, or rather yielded

place to, the musical. Wagner wishes that musical art should submit

to dramatic art, and that both should appear in full strength. But

this is impossible; for every work of art, if it be a true one,

is an expression of intimate feelings of the artist, which are

quite exceptional, and not like anything else. Such is a musical

production, and such is a dramatic work, if they be true art.

And therefore, in order that a production in the one branch of

art should coincide with a production in the other branch, it is

necessary that the impossible should happen: that two works from

different realms of art should be absolutely exceptional, unlike

anything that existed before, and yet should coincide, and be

exactly alike.

And this cannot be, just as there cannot be two men, or even two

leaves on a tree, exactly alike. Still less can two works from

different realms of art, the musical and the literary, be absolutely

alike. If they coincide, then either one is a work of art and the

other a counterfeit, or both are counterfeits. Two live leaves

cannot be exactly alike, but two artificial leaves may be. And so it

is with works of art. They can only coincide completely when neither

the one nor the other is art, but only cunningly devised semblances

of it.

If poetry and music may be joined, as occurs in hymns, songs,

and _romances_--(though even in these the music does not follow

the changes of each verse of the text, as Wagner wants to, but

the song and the music merely produce a coincident effect on the

mind)--this occurs only because lyrical poetry and music have, to

some extent, one and the same aim: to produce a mental condition and

the conditions produced by lyrical poetry and by music can, more or

less, coincide. But even in these conjunctions the center of gravity

always lies in one of the two productions, so that it is one of

them that produces the artistic impression while the other remains

unregarded. And still less is it possible for such union to exist

between epic or dramatic poetry and music.

Moreover, one of the chief conditions of artistic creation is the

complete freedom of the artist from every kind of preconceived

demand. And the necessity of adjusting his musical work to a work

from another realm of art is a preconceived demand of such a kind

as to destroy all possibility of creative power; and therefore works

of this kind, adjusted to one another, are, and must be, as has

always happened, not works of art, but only imitations of art, like

the music of a melodrama, signatures to pictures, illustrations, and

librettos to operas.

And such are Wagner's productions. And a confirmation of this is

to be seen in the fact that Wagner's new music lacks the chief

characteristic of every true work of art; namely, such entirety

and completeness that the smallest alteration in its form would

disturb the meaning of the whole work. In a true work of art--poem,

drama, picture, song, or symphony--it is impossible to extract one

line, one scene, one figure, or one bar from its place and put it

in another, without infringing the significance of the whole work;

just as it is impossible, without infringing the life of an organic

being, to extract an organ from one place and insert it in another.

But in the music of Wagner's last period, with the exception of

certain parts of little importance which have an independent musical

meaning, it is possible to make all kinds of transpositions, putting

what was in front behind, and _vice versa_, without altering the

musical sense. And the reason why these transpositions do not alter

the sense of Wagner's music is because the sense lies in the words

and not in the music.

The musical score of Wagner's later operas is like what the result

would be should one of those versifiers--of whom there are now

many, with tongues so broken that they can write verses on any

theme to any rhymes in any rhythm, which sound as if they had a

meaning--conceive the idea of illustrating by his verses some

symphony or sonata of Beethoven, or some ballade of Chopin, in

the following manner. To the first bars, of one character, he

writes verses corresponding in his opinion to those first bars.

Next come some bars of a different character, and he also writes

verses corresponding in his opinion to them, but with no internal

connection with the first verses, and, moreover, without rhymes and

without rhythm. Such a production, without the music, would be

exactly parallel in poetry to what Wagner's operas are in music, if

heard without the words.

But Wagner is not only a musician, he is also a poet, or both

together; and therefore, to judge of Wagner, one must know his

poetry also--that same poetry which the music has to subserve. The

chief poetical production of Wagner is "The Nibelung's Ring." This

work has attained such enormous importance in our time, and has such

influence on all that now professes to be art, that it is necessary

for every one to-day to have some idea of it. I have carefully read

through the four booklets which contain this work, and have drawn

up a brief summary of it, which I give in Appendix III. I would

strongly advise the reader (if he has not perused the poem itself,

which would be the best thing to do) at least to read my account of

it, so as to have an idea of this extraordinary work. It is a model

work of counterfeit art, so gross as to be even ridiculous.

But we are told that it is impossible to judge of Wagner's works

without seeing them on the stage. The Second Day of this drama,

which, as I was told, is the best part of the whole work, was given

in Moscow last winter, and I went to see the performance.

When I arrived the enormous theater was already filled from top to

bottom. There were grand dukes, and the flower of the aristocracy,

of the merchant class, of the learned, and of the middle-class

official public. Most of them held the libretto, fathoming its

meaning. Musicians--some of them elderly, gray-haired men--followed

the music, score in hand. Evidently the performance of this work was

an event of importance.

I was rather late, but I was told that the short prelude, with

which the act begins, was of little importance, and that it did not

matter having missed it. When I arrived, an actor sat on the stage

amid decorations intended to represent a cave, and before something

which was meant to represent a smith's forge. He was dressed in

trico-tights, with a cloak of skins, wore a wig and an artificial

beard, and with white, weak genteel hands (his easy movements,

and especially the shape of his stomach and his lack of muscle

revealed the actor) beat an impossible sword with an unnatural

hammer in a way in which no one ever uses a hammer; and at the

same time, opening his mouth in a strange way, he sang something

incomprehensible. The music of various instruments accompanied the

strange sounds which he emitted. From the libretto one was able

to gather that the actor had to represent a powerful gnome, who

lived in the cave, and who was forging a sword for Siegfried, whom

he had reared. One could tell he was a gnome by the fact that the

actor walked all the time bending the knees of his trico-covered

legs. This gnome, still opening his mouth in the same strange way,

long continued to sing or shout. The music meanwhile runs over

something strange, like beginnings which are not continued and do

not get finished. From the libretto one could learn that the gnome

is telling himself about a ring which a giant had obtained, and

which the gnome wishes to procure through Siegfried's aid, while

Siegfried wants a good sword, on the forging of which the gnome is

occupied. After this conversation or singing to himself has gone

on rather a long time, other sounds are heard in the orchestra,

also like something beginning and not finishing, and another actor

appears, with a horn slung over his shoulder, and accompanied by a

man running on all fours dressed up as a bear, whom he sets at the

smith-gnome. The latter runs away without unbending the knees of

his trico-covered legs. This actor with the horn represented the

hero, Siegfried. The sounds which were emitted in the orchestra on

the entrance of this actor were intended to represent Siegfried's

character, and are called Siegfried's _leit-motiv_. And these

sounds are repeated each time Siegfried appears. There is one fixed

combination of sounds, or _leit-motiv_, for each character, and this

_leit-motiv_ is repeated every time the person whom it represents

appears; and when any one is mentioned the _motiv_ is heard which

relates to that person. Moreover, each article also has its own

_leit-motiv_ or chord. There is a _motiv_ of the ring, a _motiv_

of the helmet, a _motiv_ of the apple, a _motiv_ of fire, spear,

sword, water, etc.; and as soon as the ring, helmet, or apple is

mentioned, the _motiv_ or chord of the ring, helmet, or apple is

heard. The actor with the horn opens his mouth as unnaturally as the

gnome, and long continues in a chanting voice to shout some words,

and in a similar chant Mime (that is the gnome's name) answers

something or other to him. The meaning of this conversation can

only be discovered from the libretto; and it is that Siegfried was

brought up by the gnome, and therefore, for some reason, hates him

and always wishes to kill him. The gnome has forged a sword for

Siegfried, but Siegfried is dissatisfied with it. From a ten-page

conversation (by the libretto), lasting half an hour and conducted

with the same strange openings of the mouth, and chantings, it

appears that Siegfried's mother gave birth to him in the wood, and

that concerning his father all that is known is that he had a sword

which was broken, the pieces of which are in Mime's possession,

and that Siegfried does not know fear and wishes to go out of

the wood. Mime, however, does not want to let him go. During the

conversation the music never omits, at the mention of father, sword,

etc., to sound the _motiv_ of these people and things. After these

conversations fresh sounds are heard--those of the god Wotan--and a

wanderer appears. This wanderer is the god Wotan. Also dressed up in

a wig, and also in tights, this god Wotan, standing in a stupid pose

with a spear, thinks proper to recount what Mime must have known

before, but what it is necessary to tell the audience. He does not

tell it simply, but in the form of riddles which he orders himself

to guess, staking his head (one does not know why) that he will

guess right. Moreover, whenever the wanderer strikes his spear on

the ground, fire comes out of the ground, and in the orchestra the

sounds of spear and of fire are heard. The orchestra accompanies the

conversation, and the _motiv_ of the people and things spoken of

are always artfully intermingled. Besides this the music expresses

feelings in the most naïve manner: the terrible by sounds in the

bass, the frivolous by rapid touches in the treble, etc.

The riddles have no meaning except to tell the audience what the

_nibelungs_ are, what the giants are, what the gods are, and

what has happened before. This conversation also is chanted with

strangely opened mouths and continues for eight libretto pages,

and correspondingly long on the stage. After this the wanderer

departs, and Siegfried returns and talks with Mime for thirteen

pages more. There is not a single melody the whole of this time,

but merely intertwinings of the _leit-motiv_ of the people and

things mentioned. The conversation tells that Mime wishes to teach

Siegfried fear, and that Siegfried does not know what fear is.

Having finished this conversation, Siegfried seizes one of the

pieces of what is meant to represent the broken sword, saws it up,

puts it on what is meant to represent the forge, melts it, and then

forges it and sings: Heiho! heiho! heiho! Ho! ho! Aha! oho! aha!

Heiaho! heiaho! heiaho! Ho! ho! Hahei! hoho! hahei! and Act I.

finishes.

As far as the question I had come to the theater to decide was

concerned, my mind was fully made up, as surely as on the question

of the merits of my lady acquaintance's novel when she read me the

scene between the loose-haired maiden in the white dress and the

hero with two white dogs and a hat with a feather _à la Guillaume

Tell_.

From an author who could compose such spurious scenes, outraging all

æsthetic feeling, as those which I had witnessed, there was nothing

to be hoped; it may safely be decided that all that such an author

can write will be bad, because he evidently does not know what a

true work of art is. I wished to leave, but the friends I was with

asked me to remain, declaring that one could not form an opinion by

that one act, and that the second would be better. So I stopped for

the second act.

Act II., night. Afterward, dawn. In general, the whole piece is

crammed with lights, clouds, moonlight, darkness, magic fires,

thunder, etc.

The scene represents a wood, and in the wood there is a cave. At the

entrance of the cave sits a third actor in tights, representing

another gnome. It dawns. Enter the god Wotan, again with a spear,

and again in the guise of a wanderer. Again his sounds, together

with fresh sounds of the deepest bass that can be produced. These

latter indicate that the dragon is speaking. Wotan awakens the

dragon. The same bass sounds are repeated, growing yet deeper and

deeper. First the dragon says, "I want to sleep," but afterward he

crawls out of the cave. The dragon is represented by two men; it

is dressed in a green, scaly skin, waves a tail at one end, while

at the other it opens a kind of crocodile's jaw that is fastened

on, and from which flames appear. The dragon (who is meant to be

dreadful, and may appear so to five-year-old children) speaks some

words in a terribly bass voice. This is all so stupid, so like what

is done in a booth at a fair, that it is surprising that people

over seven years of age can witness it seriously; yet thousands of

quasi-cultured people sit and attentively hear and see it, and are

delighted.

Siegfried, with his horn, reappears, as does Mime also. In the

orchestra the sounds denoting them are emitted, and they talk about

whether Siegfried does or does not know what fear is. Mime goes

away, and a scene commences which is intended to be most poetical.

Siegfried, in his tights, lies down in a would-be beautiful pose,

and alternately keeps silent and talks to himself. He ponders,

listens to the song of birds, and wishes to imitate them. For this

purpose he cuts a reed with his sword and makes a pipe. The dawn

grows brighter and brighter; the birds sing. Siegfried tries to

imitate the birds. In the orchestra is heard the imitation of birds,

alternating with sounds corresponding to the words he speaks. But

Siegfried does not succeed with his pipe-playing, so he plays on

his horn instead. This scene is unendurable. Of music, _i.e._ of

art serving as a means to transmit a state of mind experienced by

the author, there is not even a suggestion. There is something that

is absolutely unintelligible musically. In a musical sense a hope

is continually experienced, followed by disappointment, as if a

musical thought were commenced only to be broken off. If there are

something like musical commencements, these commencements are so

short, so encumbered with complications of harmony and orchestration

and with effects of contrast, are so obscure and unfinished, and

what is happening on the stage meanwhile is so abominably false,

that it is difficult even to perceive these musical snatches, let

alone to be infected by them. Above all, from the very beginning to

the very end, and in each note, the author's purpose is so audible

and visible that one sees and hears neither Siegfried nor the birds,

but only a limited, self-opinionated German, of bad taste and bad

style, who has a most false conception of poetry, and who, in the

rudest and most primitive manner, wishes to transmit to me these

false and mistaken conceptions of his.

Every one knows the feeling of distrust and resistance which is

always evoked by an author's evident predetermination. A narrator

need only say in advance, Prepare to cry or to laugh, and you are

sure neither to cry nor to laugh. But when you see that an author

prescribes emotion at what is not touching, but only laughable or

disgusting, and when you see, moreover, that the author is fully

assured that he has captivated you, a painfully tormenting feeling

results, similar to what one would feel if an old, deformed woman

put on a ball-dress, and smilingly coquetted before you, confident

of your approbation. This impression was strengthened by the fact

that around me I saw a crowd of three thousand people, who not only

patiently witnessed all this absurd nonsense, but even considered it

their duty to be delighted with it.

I somehow managed to sit out the next scene also, in which the

monster appears, to the accompaniment of his bass notes intermingled

with the _motiv_ of Siegfried; but after the fight with the monster,

and all the roars, fires, and sword-wavings, I could stand no more

of it, and escaped from the theater with a feeling of repulsion

which, even now, I cannot forget.

Listening to this opera, I involuntarily thought of a respected,

wise, educated country laborer,--one, for instance, of those wise

and truly religious men whom I know among the peasants,--and I

pictured to myself the terrible perplexity such a man would be in

were he to witness what I was seeing that evening.

What would he think if he knew of all the labor spent on such

a performance, and saw that audience, those great ones of the

earth,--old, bald-headed, gray-bearded men, whom he had been

accustomed to respect,--sit silent and attentive, listening to and

looking at all these stupidities for five hours on end? Not to speak

of an adult laborer, one can hardly imagine even a child of over

seven occupying himself with such a stupid, incoherent fairy tale.

And yet an enormous audience, the cream of the cultured upper

classes, sits out five hours of this insane performance, and goes

away imagining that by paying tribute to this nonsense it has

acquired a fresh right to esteem itself advanced and enlightened.

I speak of the Moscow public. But what is the Moscow public? It is

but a hundredth part of that public which, while considering itself

most highly enlightened, esteems it a merit to have so lost the

capacity of being infected by art, that not only can it witness this

stupid sham without being revolted, but can even take delight in it.

In Bayreuth, where these performances were first given, people who

consider themselves finely cultured assembled from the ends of the

earth, spent, say one hundred pounds each, to see this performance,

and for four days running they went to see and hear this nonsensical

rubbish, sitting it out for six hours each day.

But why did people go, and why do they still go to these

performances, and why do they admire them? The question naturally

presents itself: How is the success of Wagner's works to be

explained?

That success I explain to myself in this way: thanks to his

exceptional position in having at his disposal the resources of a

king, Wagner was able to command all the methods for counterfeiting

art which have been developed by long usage, and, employing these

methods with great ability, he produced a model work of counterfeit

art. The reason why I have selected his work for my illustration is,

that in no other counterfeit of art known to me are all the methods

by which art is counterfeited--namely, borrowings, imitation,

effects, and interestingness--so ably and powerfully united.

From the subject, borrowed from antiquity, to the clouds and the

risings of the sun and moon, Wagner, in this work, has made use of

all that is considered poetical. We have here the sleeping beauty,

and nymphs, and subterranean fires, and gnomes, and battles, and

swords, and love, and incest, and a monster, and singing-birds--the

whole arsenal of the poetical is brought into action.

Moreover, everything is imitative; the decorations are imitated,

and the costumes are imitated. All are just as, according to the

data supplied by archæology, they would have been in antiquity. The

very sounds are imitative; for Wagner, who was not destitute of

musical talent, invented just such sounds as imitate the strokes of

a hammer, the hissing of molten iron, the singing of birds, etc.

Furthermore, in this work everything is in the highest degree

striking in its effects and in its peculiarities: its monsters, its

magic fires, and its scenes under water; the darkness in which the

audience sit, the invisibility of the orchestra, and the hitherto

unemployed combinations of harmony.

And besides, it is all interesting. The interest lies not only in

the question who will kill whom, and who will marry whom, and who

is whose son, and what will happen next?--the interest lies also

in the relation of the music to the text. The rolling waves of the

Rhine--now how is that to be expressed in music? An evil gnome

appears--how is the music to express an evil gnome?--and how is it

to express the sensuality of this gnome? How will bravery, fire,

or apples be expressed in music? How are the _leit-motiv_ of the

people speaking to be interwoven with the _leit-motiv_ of the

people and objects about whom they speak? Besides, the music has a

further interest. It diverges from all formerly accepted laws, and

most unexpected and totally new modulations crop up (as is not only

possible, but even easy in music having no inner law of its being);

the dissonances are new, and are allowed in a new way--and this,

too, is interesting.

And it is this poeticality, imitativeness, effectfulness, and

interestingness which, thanks to the peculiarities of Wagner's

talent, and to the advantageous position in which he was placed, are

in these productions carried to the highest pitch of perfection,

that so act on the spectator, hypnotizing him as one would be

hypnotized who should listen for several consecutive hours to the

ravings of a maniac pronounced with great oratorical power.

People say: "You cannot judge without having seen Wagner performed

at Bayreuth: in the dark, where the orchestra is out of sight

concealed under the stage, and where the performance is brought

to the highest perfection." And this just proves that we have

here no question of art, but one of hypnotism. It is just what

the spiritualists say. To convince you of the reality of their

apparitions they usually say, "You cannot judge; you must try it,

be present at several séances," _i.e._ come and sit silent in the

dark for hours together in the same room with semi-sane people, and

repeat this some ten times over, and you shall see all that we see.

Yes, naturally! Only place yourself in such conditions, and you

may see what you will. But this can be still more quickly attained

by getting drunk or smoking opium. It is the same when listening

to an opera of Wagner's. Sit in the dark for four days in company

with people who are not quite normal, and, through the auditory

nerves, subject your brain to the strongest action of the sounds

best adapted to excite it, and you will no doubt be reduced to an

abnormal condition, and be enchanted by absurdities. But to attain

this end you do not even need four days; the five hours during

which one "day" is enacted, as in Moscow, are quite enough. Nor

are five hours needed; even one hour is enough for people who have

no clear conception of what art should be, and who have come to the

conclusion in advance that what they are going to see is excellent,

and that indifference or dissatisfaction with this work will serve

as a proof of their inferiority and lack of culture.

I observed the audience present at this representation. The people

who led the whole audience and gave the tone to it were those who

had previously been hypnotized, and who again succumbed to the

hypnotic influence to which they were accustomed. These hypnotized

people, being in an abnormal condition, were perfectly enraptured.

Moreover, all the art critics, who lack the capacity to be infected

by art and therefore always especially prize works like Wagner's

opera where it is all an affair of the intellect, also, with much

profundity, expressed their approval of a work affording such ample

material for ratiocination. And following these two groups went

that large city crowd (indifferent to art, with their capacity to

be infected by it perverted and partly atrophied), headed by the

princes, millionaires, and art patrons, who, like sorry harriers,

keep close to those who most loudly and decidedly express their

opinion.

"Oh, yes, certainly! What poetry! Marvelous! Especially the birds!"

"Yes, yes! I am quite vanquished!" exclaim these people, repeating

in various tones what they have just heard from men whose opinion

appears to them authoritative.

If some people do feel insulted by the absurdity and spuriousness of

the whole thing, they are timidly silent, as sober men are timid and

silent when surrounded by tipsy ones.

And thus, thanks to the masterly skill with which it counterfeits

art while having nothing in common with it, a meaningless, coarse,

spurious production finds acceptance all over the world, costs

millions of roubles to produce, and assists more and more to pervert

the taste of people of the upper classes and their conception of

what is art.

CHAPTER XIV

I know that most men--not only those considered clever, but even

those who are very clever, and capable of understanding most

difficult scientific, mathematical, or philosophic problems--can

very seldom discern even the simplest and most obvious truth if it

be such as to oblige them to admit the falsity of conclusions they

have formed, perhaps with much difficulty--conclusions of which

they are proud, which they have taught to others, and on which they

have built their lives. And therefore I have little hope that what

I adduce as to the perversion of art and taste in our society will

be accepted or even seriously considered. Nevertheless, I must state

fully the inevitable conclusion to which my investigation into the

question of art has brought me. This investigation has brought me

to the conviction that almost all that our society considers to

be art, good art, and the whole of art, far from being real and

good art, and the whole of art, is not even art at all, but only a

counterfeit of it. This position, I know, will seem very strange and

paradoxical; but if we once acknowledge art to be a human activity

by means of which some people transmit their feelings to others (and

not a service of Beauty, nor a manifestation of the Idea, and so

forth), we shall inevitably have to admit this further conclusion

also. If it is true that art is an activity by means of which one

man, having experienced a feeling, intentionally transmits it to

others, then we have inevitably to admit further, that of all that

among us is termed the art of the upper classes--of all those

novels, stories, dramas, comedies, pictures, sculptures, symphonies,

operas, operettas, ballets, etc., which profess to be works of

art--scarcely one in a hundred thousand proceeds from an emotion

felt by its author, all the rest being but manufactured counterfeits

of art, in which borrowing, imitating, effects, and interestingness

replace the contagion of feeling. That the proportion of real

productions of art is to the counterfeits as one to some hundreds of

thousands or even more, may be seen by the following calculation.

I have read somewhere that the artist painters in Paris alone

number 30,000; there will probably be as many in England, as many

in Germany, and as many in Russia, Italy, and the smaller states

combined. So that in all there will be in Europe, say, 120,000

painters; and there are probably as many musicians and as many

literary artists. If these 360,000 individuals produce three works

a year each (and many of them produce ten or more), then each year

yields over a million so-called works of art. How many, then, must

have been produced in the last ten years, and how many in the whole

time since upper-class art broke off from the art of the whole

people? Evidently millions. Yet who of all the connoisseurs of art

has received impressions from all these pseudo works of art? Not to

mention all the laboring classes who have no conception of these

productions, even people of the upper classes cannot know one in a

thousand of them all, and cannot remember those they have known.

These works all appear under the guise of art, produce no impression

on any one (except when they serve as pastimes for the idle crowd of

rich people), and vanish utterly.

In reply to this it is usually said that without this enormous

number of unsuccessful attempts we should not have the real works of

art. But such reasoning is as though a baker, in reply to a reproach

that his bread was bad, were to say that if it were not for the

hundreds of spoiled loaves there would not be any well-baked ones.

It is true that where there is gold there is also much sand; but

that cannot serve as a reason for talking a lot of nonsense in order

to say something wise.

We are surrounded by productions considered artistic. Thousands

of verses, thousands of poems, thousands of novels, thousands of

dramas, thousands of pictures, thousands of musical pieces, follow

one after another. All the verses describe love, or nature, or the

author's state of mind, and in all of them rhyme and rhythm are

observed. All the dramas and comedies are splendidly mounted and

are performed by admirably trained actors. All the novels are

divided into chapters; all of them describe love, contain effective

situations, and correctly describe the details of life. All the

symphonies contain _allegro_, _andante_, _scherzo_, and _finale_;

all consist of modulations and chords, and are played by highly

trained musicians. All the pictures, in gold frames, saliently

depict faces and sundry accessories. But among these productions

in the various branches of art, there is in each branch one among

hundreds of thousands, not only somewhat better than the rest, but

differing from them as a diamond differs from paste. The one is

priceless, the others not only have no value, but are worse than

valueless, for they deceive and pervert taste. And yet, externally,

they are, to a man of perverted or atrophied artistic perception,

precisely alike.

In our society the difficulty of recognizing real works of art is

further increased by the fact that the external quality of the work

in false productions is not only no worse, but often better, than in

real ones; the counterfeit is often more effective than the real,

and its subject more interesting. How is one to discriminate? How is

one to find a production in no way distinguished in externals from

hundreds of thousands of others intentionally made to imitate it

precisely?

For a country peasant of unperverted taste this is as easy as it is

for an animal of unspoilt scent to follow the trace he needs among

a thousand others in wood or forest. The animal unerringly finds

what he needs. So also the man, if only his natural qualities have

not been perverted, will, without fail, select from among thousands

of objects the real work of art he requires,--that infecting him

with the feeling experienced by the artist. But it is not so with

those whose taste has been perverted by their education and life.

The receptive feeling for art of these people is atrophied, and in

valuing artistic productions they must be guided by discussion and

study, which discussion and study completely confuse them. So that

most people in our society are quite unable to distinguish a work of

art from the grossest counterfeit. People sit for whole hours in

concert-rooms and theaters listening to the new composers, consider

it a duty to read the novels of the famous modern novelists, and to

look at pictures representing either something incomprehensible, or

just the very things they see much better in real life; and, above

all, they consider it incumbent on them to be enraptured by all

this, imagining it all to be art, while at the same time they will

pass real works of art by, not only without attention, but even

with contempt, merely because, in their circle, these works are not

included in the list of works of art.

A few days ago I was returning home from a walk feeling depressed,

as occurs sometimes. On nearing the house I heard the loud singing

of a large choir of peasant women. They were welcoming my daughter,

celebrating her return home after her marriage. In this singing,

with its cries and clanging of scythes, such a definite feeling

of joy, cheerfulness, and energy was expressed, that, without

noticing how it infected me, I continued my way toward the house

in a better mood, and reached home smiling, and quite in good

spirits. That same evening, a visitor, an admirable musician,

famed for his execution of classical music, and particularly of

Beethoven, played us Beethoven's sonata, Opus 101. For the benefit

of those who might otherwise attribute my judgment of that sonata

of Beethoven to non-comprehension of it, I should mention that,

whatever other people understand of that sonata and of other

productions of Beethoven's later period, I, being very susceptible

to music, equally understood. For a long time I used to attune

myself so as to delight in those shapeless improvisations which

form the subject-matter of the works of Beethoven's later period,

but I had only to consider the question of art seriously, and to

compare the impression I received from Beethoven's later works with

those pleasant, clear, and strong musical impressions which are

transmitted, for instance, by the melodies of Bach (his arias),

Haydn, Mozart, Chopin, (when his melodies are not overloaded with

complications and ornamentation), and of Beethoven himself in

his earlier period, and, above all, with the impressions produced

by folk-songs,--Italian, Norwegian, or Russian,--by the Hungarian

_tzardas_, and other such simple, clear, and powerful music, and the

obscure, almost unhealthy excitement from Beethoven's later pieces

that I had artificially evoked in myself was immediately destroyed.

On the completion of the performance (though it was noticeable that

every one had become dull) those present, in the accepted manner,

warmly praised Beethoven's profound production, and did not forget

to add that formerly they had not been able to understand that last

period of his, but that they now saw that he was really then at his

very best. And when I ventured to compare the impression made on me

by the singing of the peasant women--an impression which had been

shared by all who heard it--with the effect of this sonata, the

admirers of Beethoven only smiled contemptuously, not considering it

necessary to reply to such strange remarks.

But, for all that, the song of the peasant women was real art,

transmitting a definite and strong feeling; while the 101st sonata

of Beethoven was only an unsuccessful attempt at art, containing no

definite feeling, and therefore not infectious.

For my work on art I have this winter read diligently, though with

great effort, the celebrated novels and stories, praised by all

Europe, written by Zola, Bourget, Huysmans, and Kipling. At the

same time I chanced on a story in a child's magazine, and by a

quite unknown writer, which told of the Easter preparations in a

poor widow's family. The story tells how the mother managed with

difficulty to obtain some wheat-flour, which she poured on the

table ready to knead. She then went out to procure some yeast,

telling the children not to leave the hut, and to take care of the

flour. When the mother had gone, some other children ran shouting

near the window, calling those in the hut to come to play. The

children forgot their mother's warning, ran into the street, and

were soon engrossed in the game. The mother, on her return with

the yeast, finds a hen on the table throwing the last of the flour

to her chickens, who were busily picking it out of the dust of the

earthen floor. The mother, in despair, scolds the children, who

cry bitterly. And the mother begins to feel pity for them--but the

white flour has all gone. So to mend matters she decides to make the

Easter cake with sifted rye-flour, brushing it over with white of

egg, and surrounding it with eggs. "Rye-bread which we bake is akin

to any cake," says the mother, using a rhyming proverb to console

the children for not having an Easter cake made with white flour.

And the children, quickly passing from despair to rapture, repeat

the proverb and await the Easter cake more merrily even than before.

Well! the reading of the novels and stories by Zola, Bourget,

Huysmans, Kipling, and others, handling the most harrowing subjects,

did not touch me for one moment, and I was provoked with the authors

all the while, as one is provoked with a man who considers you so

naïve that he does not even conceal the trick by which he intends to

take you in. From the first lines you see the intention with which

the book is written, and the details all become superfluous, and

one feels dull. Above all, one knows that the author had no other

feeling all the time than a desire to write a story or a novel, and

so one receives no artistic impression. On the other hand, I could

not tear myself away from the unknown author's tale of the children

and the chickens, because I was at once infected by the feeling

which the author had evidently experienced, reëvoked in himself, and

transmitted.

Vasnetsoff is one of our Russian painters. He has painted

ecclesiastical pictures in Kieff Cathedral, and every one praises

him as the founder of some new, elevated kind of Christian art. He

worked at those pictures for ten years, was paid tens of thousands

of roubles for them, and they are all simply bad imitations of

imitations of imitations, destitute of any spark of feeling. And

this same Vasnetsoff drew a picture for Tourgenieff's story, "The

Quail" (in which it is told how, in his son's presence, a father

killed a quail and felt pity for it), showing the boy asleep with

pouting upper lip, and above him, as a dream, the quail. And this

picture is a true work of art.

In the English Academy of 1897 two pictures were exhibited together;

one of which, by J. C. Dolman, was the temptation of St. Anthony.

The saint is on his knees praying. Behind him stands a naked woman

and animals of some kind. It is apparent that the naked woman

pleased the artist very much, but that Anthony did not concern him

at all; and that, so far from the temptation being terrible to him

(the artist) it is highly agreeable. And therefore if there be any

art in this picture, it is very nasty and false. Next in the same

book of academy pictures comes a picture by Langley, showing a stray

beggar-boy, who has evidently been called in by a woman who has

taken pity on him. The boy, pitifully drawing his bare feet under

the bench, is eating; the woman is looking on, probably considering

whether he will not want some more; and a girl of about seven,

leaning on her arm, is carefully and seriously looking on, not

taking her eyes from the hungry boy, and evidently understanding for

the first time what poverty is, and what inequality among people is,

and asking herself why she has everything provided for her while

this boy goes barefoot and hungry? She feels sorry, and yet pleased.

And she loves both the boy and goodness.... And one feels that the

artist loved this girl, and that she too loves. And this picture, by

an artist who, I think, is not very widely known, is an admirable

and true work of art.

I remember seeing a performance of "Hamlet" by Rossi. Both the

tragedy itself and the performer who took the chief part are

considered by our critics to represent the climax of supreme

dramatic art. And yet, both from the subject-matter of the drama

and from the performance, I experienced all the time that peculiar

suffering which is caused by false imitations of works of art. And

I lately read of a theatrical performance among the savage tribe,

the Voguls. A spectator describes the play. A big Vogul and a little

one, both dressed in reindeer skins, represent a reindeer-doe and

its young. A third Vogul, with a bow, represents a huntsman on

snow-shoes, and a fourth imitates with his voice a bird that warns

the reindeer of their danger. The play is that the huntsman follows

the track that the doe with its young one has traveled. The deer run

off the scene, and again reappear. (Such performances take place

in a small tent-house.) The huntsman gains more and more on the

pursued. The little deer is tired, and presses against its mother.

The doe stops to draw breath. The hunter comes up with them and

draws his bow. But just then the bird sounds its note, warning the

deer of their danger. They escape. Again there is a chase, and again

the hunter gains on them, catches them, and lets fly his arrow. The

arrow strikes the young deer. Unable to run, the little one presses

against its mother. The mother licks its wound. The hunter draws

another arrow. The audience, as the eye-witness describes them, are

paralyzed with suspense; deep groans and even weeping is heard among

them. And, from the mere description, I felt that this was a true

work of art.

What I am saying will be considered irrational paradox, at which

one can only be amazed; but for all that I must say what I think;

namely, that people of our circle, of whom some compose verses,

stories, novels, operas, symphonies, and sonatas, paint all

kinds of pictures and make statues, while others hear and look

at these things, and again others appraise and criticize it all,

discuss, condemn, triumph, and raise monuments to one another,

generation after generation,--that all these people, with very few

exceptions, artists, and public, and critics, have never (except

in childhood and earliest youth, before hearing any discussions

on art) experienced that simple feeling familiar to the plainest

man and even to a child, that sense of infection with another's

feeling,--compelling us to joy in another's gladness, to sorrow at

another's grief, and to mingle souls with another,--which is the

very essence of art. And therefore these people not only cannot

distinguish true works of art from counterfeits, but continually

mistake for real art the worst and most artificial, while they do

not even perceive works of real art, because the counterfeits are

always more ornate, while true art is modest.

CHAPTER XV

Art, in our society, has been so perverted that not only has bad art

come to be considered good, but even the very perception of what

art really is has been lost. In order to be able to speak about the

art of our society, it is, therefore, first of all necessary to

distinguish art from counterfeit art.

There is one indubitable indication distinguishing real art from

its counterfeit, namely, the infectiousness of art. If a man,

without exercising effort and without altering his standpoint,

on reading, hearing, or seeing another man's work, experiences a

mental condition which unites him with that man and with other

people who also partake of that work of art, then the object evoking

that condition is a work of art. And however poetical, realistic,

effectful, or interesting a work may be, it is not a work of art

if it does not evoke that feeling (quite distinct from all other

feelings) of joy, and of spiritual union with another (the author)

and with others (those who are also infected by it).

It is true that this indication is an _internal_ one, and that there

are people who have forgotten what the action of real art is, who

expect something else from art (in our society the great majority

are in this state), and that therefore such people may mistake for

this æsthetic feeling the feeling of divertisement and a certain

excitement which they receive from counterfeits of art. But though

it is impossible to undeceive these people, just as it is impossible

to convince a man suffering from "Daltonism" that green is not red,

yet, for all that, this indication remains perfectly definite to

those whose feeling for art is neither perverted nor atrophied, and

it clearly distinguishes the feeling produced by art from all other

feelings.

The chief peculiarity of this feeling is that the receiver of a

true artistic impression is so united to the artist that he feels

as if the work were his own and not some one else's,--as if what

it expresses were just what he had long been wishing to express. A

real work of art destroys, in the consciousness of the receiver, the

separation between himself and the artist; nor that alone, but also

between himself and all whose minds receive this work of art. In

this freeing of our personality from its separation and isolation,

in this uniting of it with others, lies the chief characteristic and

the great attractive force of art.

If a man is infected by the author's condition of soul, if he feels

this emotion and this union with others, then the object which has

effected this is art; but if there be no such infection, if there be

not this union with the author and with others who are moved by the

same work--then it is not art. And not only is infection a sure sign

of art, but the degree of infectiousness is also the sole measure of

excellence in art.

_The stronger the infection the better is the art; as art_, speaking

now apart from its subject-matter, _i.e._ not considering the

quality of the feelings it transmits.

And the degree of the infectiousness of art depends on three

conditions:--

(1) On the greater or lesser individuality of the feeling

transmitted; (2) on the greater or lesser clearness with which the

feeling is transmitted; (3) on the sincerity of the artist, _i.e._

on the greater or lesser force with which the artist himself feels

the emotion he transmits.

The more individual the feeling transmitted the more strongly does

it act on the receiver; the more individual the state of soul into

which he is transferred the more pleasure does the receiver obtain,

and therefore the more readily and strongly does he join in it.

The clearness of expression assists infection, because the receiver,

who mingles in consciousness with the author, is the better

satisfied the more clearly the feeling is transmitted, which, as it

seems to him, he has long known and felt, and for which he has only

now found expression.

But most of all is the degree of infectiousness of art increased by

the degree of sincerity in the artist. As soon as the spectator,

hearer, or reader feels that the artist is infected by his own

production, and writes, sings, or plays for himself, and not merely

to act on others, this mental condition of the artist infects the

receiver; and, contrariwise, as soon as the spectator, reader, or

hearer feels that the author is not writing, singing, or playing

for his own satisfaction,--does not himself feel what he wishes

to express,--but is doing it for him, the receiver, a resistance

immediately springs up, and the most individual and the newest

feelings and the cleverest technique not only fail to produce any

infection, but actually repel.

I have mentioned three conditions of contagiousness in art, but they

may be all summed up into one, the last, sincerity, _i.e._ that the

artist should be impelled by an inner need to express his feeling.

That condition includes the first; for if the artist is sincere he

will express the feeling as he experienced it. And as each man is

different from every one else, his feeling will be individual for

every one else; and the more individual it is,--the more the artist

has drawn it from the depths of his nature,--the more sympathetic

and sincere will it be. And this same sincerity will impel the

artist to find a clear expression of the feeling which he wishes to

transmit.

Therefore this third condition--sincerity--is the most important

of the three. It is always complied with in peasant art, and this

explains why such art always acts so powerfully; but it is a

condition almost entirely absent from our upper-class art, which

is continually produced by artists actuated by personal aims of

covetousness or vanity.

Such are the three conditions which divide art from its

counterfeits, and which also decide the quality of every work of art

apart from its subject-matter.

The absence of any one of these conditions excludes a work from the

category of art and relegates it to that of art's counterfeits. If

the work does not transmit the artist's peculiarity of feeling, and

is therefore not individual, if it is unintelligibly expressed,

or if it has not proceeded from the author's inner need for

expression--it is not a work of art. If all these conditions are

present, even in the smallest degree, then the work, even if a weak

one, is yet a work of art.

The presence in various degrees of these three

conditions--individuality, clearness, and sincerity--decides the

merit of a work of art, as art, apart from subject-matter. All works

of art take rank of merit according to the degree in which they

fulfil the first, the second, and the third of these conditions. In

one the individuality of the feeling transmitted may predominate;

in another, clearness of expression; in a third, sincerity; while

a fourth may have sincerity and individuality, but be deficient in

clearness; a fifth, individuality and clearness, but less sincerity;

and so forth, in all possible degrees and combinations.

Thus is art divided from not art, and thus is the quality of art, as

art, decided, independently of its subject-matter, _i.e._ apart from

whether the feelings it transmits are good or bad.

But how are we to define good and bad art with reference to its

subject-matter?

CHAPTER XVI

How in art are we to decide what is good and what is bad in

subject-matter?

Art, like speech, is a means of communication, and therefore

of progress, _i.e._ of the movement of humanity forward toward

perfection. Speech renders accessible to men of the latest

generations all the knowledge discovered by the experience and

reflection, both of preceding generations and of the best and

foremost men of their own times; art renders accessible to men

of the latest generations all the feelings experienced by their

predecessors, and those also which are being felt by their best and

foremost contemporaries. And as the evolution of knowledge proceeds

by truer and more necessary knowledge dislodging and replacing

what is mistaken and unnecessary, so the evolution of feeling

proceeds through art,--feelings less kind and less needful for the

well-being of mankind are replaced by others kinder and more needful

for that end. That is the purpose of art. And, speaking now of its

subject-matter, the more art fulfils that purpose the better the

art, and the less it fulfils it the worse the art.

And the appraisement of feelings (_i.e._ the acknowledgment of these

or those feelings as being more or less good, more or less necessary

for the well-being of mankind) is made by the religious perception

of the age.

In every period of history, and in every human society, there

exists an understanding of the meaning of life which represents

the highest level to which men of that society have attained,--an

understanding defining the highest good at which that society aims.

And this understanding is the religious perception of the given

time and society. And this religious perception is always clearly

expressed by some advanced men, and more or less vividly perceived

by all the members of the society. Such a religious perception and

its corresponding expression exists always in every society. If it

appears to us that in our society there is no religious perception,

this is not because there really is none, but only because we do

not want to see it. And we often wish not to see it because it

exposes the fact that our life is inconsistent with that religious

perception.

Religious perception in a society is like the direction of a flowing

river. If the river flows at all, it must have a direction. If a

society lives, there must be a religious perception indicating the

direction in which, more or less consciously, all its members tend.

And so there always has been, and there is, a religious perception

in every society. And it is by the standard of this religious

perception that the feelings transmitted by art have always been

estimated. Only on the basis of this religious perception of their

age have men always chosen from the endlessly varied spheres of art

that art which transmitted feelings making religious perception

operative in actual life. And such art has always been highly

valued and encouraged; while art transmitting feelings already

outlived, flowing from the antiquated religious perceptions of a

former age, has always been condemned and despised. All the rest

of art, transmitting those most diverse feelings by means of which

people commune together, was not condemned, and was tolerated, if

only it did not transmit feelings contrary to religious perception.

Thus, for instance, among the Greeks, art transmitting the feeling

of beauty, strength, and courage (Hesiod, Homer, Phidias) was

chosen, approved, and encouraged; while art transmitting feelings

of rude sensuality, despondency, and effeminacy was condemned and

despised. Among the Jews, art transmitting feelings of devotion

and submission to the God of the Hebrews and to His will (the epic

of Genesis, the prophets, the Psalms) was chosen and encouraged,

while art transmitting feelings of idolatry (the golden calf) was

condemned and despised. All the rest of art--stories, songs, dances,

ornamentation of houses, of utensils, and of clothes--which was

not contrary to religious perception, was neither distinguished

nor discussed. Thus, in regard to its subject-matter, has art been

appraised always and everywhere, and thus it should be appraised;

for this attitude toward art proceeds from the fundamental

characteristics of human nature, and those characteristics do not

change.

I know that according to an opinion current in our times religion is

a superstition which humanity has outgrown, and that it is therefore

assumed that no such thing exists as a religious perception, common

to us all, by which art, in our time, can be estimated. I know

that this is the opinion current in the pseudo-cultured circles

of to-day. People who do not acknowledge Christianity in its true

meaning because it undermines all their social privileges, and who,

therefore, invent all kinds of philosophic and æsthetic theories

to hide from themselves the meaninglessness and wrongness of their

lives, cannot think otherwise. These people intentionally, or

sometimes unintentionally, confusing the conception of a religious

cult with the conception of religious perception, think that by

denying the cult they get rid of religious perception. But even

the very attacks on religion, and the attempts to establish a

life-conception contrary to the religious perception of our times,

most clearly demonstrate the existence of a religious perception

condemning the lives that are not in harmony with it.

If humanity progresses, _i.e._ moves forward, there must inevitably

be a guide to the direction of that movement. And religions have

always furnished that guide. All history shows that the progress

of humanity is accomplished not otherwise than under the guidance

of religion. But if the race cannot progress without the guidance

of religion,--and progress is always going on, and consequently

also in our own times,--then there must be a religion of our times.

So that, whether it pleases or displeases the so-called cultured

people of to-day, they must admit the existence of religion,--not

of a religious cult, Catholic, Protestant, or another, but of

religious perception,--which, even in our times, is the guide always

present where there is any progress. And if a religious perception

exists amongst us, then our art should be appraised on the basis

of that religious perception; and, as has always and everywhere

been the case, art transmitting feelings flowing from the religious

perception of our time should be chosen from all the indifferent

art, should be acknowledged, highly esteemed, and encouraged; while

art running counter to that perception should be condemned and

despised, and all the remaining indifferent art should neither be

distinguished nor encouraged.

The religious perception of our time, in its widest and most

practical application, is the consciousness that our well-being,

both material and spiritual, individual and collective, temporal

and eternal, lies in the growth of brotherhood among all men--in

their loving harmony with one another. This perception is not only

expressed by Christ and all the best men of past ages, it is not

only repeated in the most varied forms and from most diverse sides

by the best men of our own times, but it already serves as a clue to

all the complex labor of humanity, consisting as this labor does,

on the one hand, in the destruction of physical and moral obstacles

to the union of men, and, on the other hand, in establishing the

principles common to all men which can and should unite them into

one universal brotherhood. And it is on the basis of this perception

that we should appraise all the phenomena of our life, and, among

the rest, our art also; choosing from all its realms whatever

transmits feelings flowing from this religious perception, highly

prizing and encouraging such art, rejecting whatever is contrary

to this perception, and not attributing to the rest of art an

importance not properly pertaining to it.

The chief mistake made by people of the upper classes of the time of

the so-called Renaissance--a mistake which we still perpetuate--was

not that they ceased to value and to attach importance to religious

art (people of that period could not attach importance to it,

because, like our own upper classes, they could not believe in what

the majority considered to be religion), but their mistake was

that they set up in place of religious art, which was lacking, an

insignificant art which aimed only at giving pleasure, _i.e._ they

began to choose, to value, and to encourage, in place of religious

art, something which, in any case, did not deserve such esteem and

encouragement.

One of the Fathers of the Church said that the great evil is, not

that men do not know God, but that they have set up, instead of

God, that which is not God. So also with art. The great misfortune

of the people of the upper classes of our time is not so much that

they are without a religious art, as that, instead of a supreme

religious art, chosen from all the rest as being specially important

and valuable, they have chosen a most insignificant and, usually,

harmful art, which aims at pleasing certain people, and which,

therefore, if only by its exclusive nature, stands in contradiction

to that Christian principle of universal union which forms the

religious perception of our time. Instead of religious art, an empty

and often vicious art is set up, and this hides from men's notice

the need of that true religious art which should be present in life

in order to improve it.

It is true that art which satisfies the demands of the

religious perception of our time is quite unlike former art,

but, notwithstanding this dissimilarity, to a man who does not

intentionally hide the truth from himself, it is very clear and

definite what does form the religious art of our age. In former

times, when the highest religious perception united only some people

(who, even if they formed a large society, were yet but one society

surrounded by others--Jews, or Athenian or Roman citizens), the

feelings transmitted by the art of that time flowed from a desire

for the might, greatness, glory, and prosperity of that society, and

the heroes of art might be people who contributed to that prosperity

by strength, by craft, by fraud, or by cruelty (Ulysses, Jacob,

David, Samson, Hercules, and all the heroes). But the religious

perception of our times does not select any one society of men; on

the contrary, it demands the union of all,--absolutely of all people

without exception,--and above every other virtue it sets brotherly

love to all men. And, therefore, the feelings transmitted by the art

of our time not only cannot coincide with the feelings transmitted

by former art, but must run counter to them.

Christian, truly Christian, art has been so long in establishing

itself, and has not yet established itself, just because the

Christian religious perception was not one of those small steps by

which humanity advances regularly, but was an enormous revolution,

which, if it has not already altered, must inevitably alter the

entire life-conception of mankind, and, consequently, the whole

internal organization of their life. It is true that the life of

humanity, like that of an individual, moves regularly; but in that

regular movement come, as it were, turning-points, which sharply

divide the preceding from the subsequent life. Christianity was such

a turning-point; such, at least, it must appear to us who live by

the Christian perception of life. Christian perception gave another,

a new, direction to all human feelings, and therefore completely

altered both the contents and the significance of art. The Greeks

could make use of Persian art and the Romans could use Greek art,

or, similarly, the Jews could use Egyptian art,--the fundamental

ideals were one and the same. Now the ideal was the greatness and

prosperity of the Persians, now the greatness and prosperity of the

Greeks, now that of the Romans. The same art was transferred into

other conditions, and served new nations. But the Christian ideal

changed and reversed everything, so that, as the gospel puts it,

"That which was exalted among men has become an abomination in the

sight of God." The ideal is no longer the greatness of Pharaoh or

of a Roman emperor, not the beauty of a Greek, nor the wealth of

Phœnicia, but humility, purity, compassion, love. The hero is no

longer Dives, but Lazarus the beggar; not Mary Magdalene in the

day of her beauty, but in the day of her repentance; not those who

acquire wealth, but those who have abandoned it; not those who dwell

in palaces, but those who dwell in catacombs and huts; not those

who rule over others, but those who acknowledge no authority but

God's. And the greatest work of art is no longer a cathedral of

victory[119] with statues of conquerors, but the representation of

a human soul so transformed by love that a man who is tormented and

murdered yet pities and loves his persecutors.

[119] There is in Moscow a magnificent "Cathedral of our Saviour,"

erected to commemorate the defeat of the French in the war of

1812.--TR.

And the change is so great that men of the Christian world find

it difficult to resist the inertia of the heathen art to which

they have been accustomed all their lives. The subject-matter

of Christian religious art is so new to them, so unlike the

subject-matter of former art, that it seems to them as though

Christian art were a denial of art, and they cling desperately to

the old art. But this old art, having no longer, in our day, any

source in religious perception, has lost its meaning, and we shall

have to abandon it whether we wish to or not.

The essence of the Christian perception consists in the recognition

by every man of his sonship to God, and of the consequent union of

men with God and with one another, as is said in the gospel (John

xvii. 21[120]). Therefore the subject-matter of Christian art is

such feeling as can unite men with God and with one another.

[120] "That they may be one; even as thou, Father, art in me, and I

in thee, that they also may be in us."

The expression _unite men with God and with one another_ may seem

obscure to people accustomed to the misuse of these words which

is so customary, but the words have a perfectly clear meaning

nevertheless. They indicate that the Christian union of man (in

contradiction to the partial, exclusive union of only some men) is

that which unites all without exception.

Art, all art, has this characteristic, that it unites people. Every

art causes those to whom the artist's feeling is transmitted to

unite in soul with the artist, and also with all who receive the

same impression. But non-Christian art, while uniting some people

together, makes that very union a cause of separation between these

united people and others; so that union of this kind is often a

source, not only of division, but even of enmity toward others.

Such is all patriotic art, with its anthems, poems, and monuments;

such is all Church art, _i.e._ the art of certain cults, with their

images, statues, processions, and other local ceremonies. Such art

is belated and non-Christian art, uniting the people of one cult

only to separate them yet more sharply from the members of other

cults, and even to place them in relations of hostility to each

other. Christian art is only such as tends to unite all without

exception, either by evoking in them the perception that each man

and all men stand in like relation toward God and toward their

neighbor, or by evoking in them identical feelings, which may even

be the very simplest, provided only that they are not repugnant to

Christianity and are natural to every one without exception.

Good Christian art of our time may be unintelligible to people

because of imperfections in its form, or because men are inattentive

to it, but it must be such that all men can experience the feelings

it transmits. It must be the art, not of some one group of people,

nor of one class, nor of one nationality, nor of one religious

cult; that is, it must not transmit feelings which are accessible

only to a man educated in a certain way, or only to an aristocrat,

or a merchant, or only to a Russian, or a native of Japan, or a

Roman Catholic, or a Buddhist, etc., but it must transmit feelings

accessible to every one. Only art of this kind can be acknowledged

in our time to be good art, worthy of being chosen out from all the

rest of art and encouraged.

Christian art, _i.e._ the art of our time, should be catholic in

the original meaning of the word, _i.e._ universal, and therefore

it should unite all men. And only two kinds of feeling do unite all

men: first, feelings flowing from the perception of our sonship to

God and of the brotherhood of man; and next, the simple feelings of

common life, accessible to every one without exception--such as the

feeling of merriment, of pity, of cheerfulness, of tranquillity,

etc. Only these two kinds of feelings can now supply material for

art good in its subject-matter.

And the action of these two kinds of art, apparently so dissimilar,

is one and the same. The feelings flowing from perception of our

sonship to God and of the brotherhood of man--such as a feeling of

sureness in truth, devotion to the will of God, self-sacrifice,

respect for and love of man--evoked by Christian religious

perception; and the simplest feelings--such as a softened or a merry

mood caused by a song or an amusing jest intelligible to every one,

or by a touching story, or a drawing, or a little doll: both alike

produce one and the same effect,--the loving union of man with

man. Sometimes people who are together are, if not hostile to one

another, at least estranged in mood and feeling, till perchance a

story, a performance, a picture, or even a building, but oftenest of

all, music, unites them all as by an electric flash, and, in place

of their former isolation or even enmity, they are all conscious

of union and mutual love. Each is glad that another feels what he

feels; glad of the communion established, not only between him

and all present, but also with all now living who will yet share

the same impression; and more than that, he feels the mysterious

gladness of a communion which, reaching beyond the grave, unites us

with all men of the past who have been moved by the same feelings,

and with all men of the future who will yet be touched by them. And

this effect is produced both by the religious art which transmits

feelings of love to God and one's neighbor, and by universal art,

transmitting the very simplest feelings common to all men.

The art of our time should be appraised differently from former art

chiefly in this, that the art of our time, _i.e._ Christian art

(basing itself on a religious perception which demands the union

of man), excludes from the domain of art good in subject-matter

everything transmitting exclusive feelings, which do not unite

but divide men. It relegates such work to the category of art bad

in its subject-matter, while, on the other hand, it includes in

the category of art good in subject-matter a section not formerly

admitted to deserve to be chosen out and respected, namely,

universal art, transmitting even the most trifling and simple

feelings if only they are accessible to all men without exception,

and therefore unite them. Such art cannot, in our time, but be

esteemed good, for it attains the end which the religious perception

of our time, _i.e._ Christianity, sets before humanity.

Christian art either evokes in men those feelings which, through

love of God and of one's neighbor, draw them to greater and ever

greater union, and make them ready for and capable of such union; or

evokes in them those feelings which show them that they are already

united in the joys and sorrows of life. And therefore the Christian

art of our time can be and is of two kinds: (1) art transmitting

feelings flowing from a religious perception of man's position

in the world in relation to God and to his neighbor--religious

art in the limited meaning of the term; and (2) art transmitting

the simplest feelings of common life, but such, always, as are

accessible to all men in the whole world--the art of common

life--the art of a people--universal art. Only these two kinds of

art can be considered good art in our time.

The first, religious art,--transmitting both positive feelings of

love to God and one's neighbor, and negative feelings of indignation

and horror at the violation of love,--manifests itself chiefly

in the form of words, and to some extent also in painting and

sculpture: the second kind (universal art), transmitting feelings

accessible to all, manifests itself in words, in painting, in

sculpture, in dances, in architecture, and, most of all, in music.

If I were asked to give modern examples of each of these kinds of

art, then, as examples of the highest art, flowing from love of God

and man (both of the higher, positive, and of the lower, negative

kind), in literature I should name, "The Robbers," by Schiller;

Victor Hugo's "Les Pauvres Gens" and "Les Misérables"; the novels

and stories of Dickens,--"The Tale of Two Cities," "The Christmas

Carol," "The Chimes," and others; "Uncle Tom's Cabin;" Dostoievsky's

works--especially his "Memoirs from the House of Death"; and "Adam

Bede," by George Eliot.

In modern painting, strange to say, works of this kind, directly

transmitting the Christian feeling of love of God and of one's

neighbor, are hardly to be found, especially among the works of

the celebrated painters. There are plenty of pictures treating of

the gospel stories; they, however, depict historical events with

great wealth of detail, but do not, and cannot, transmit religious

feeling not possessed by their painters. There are many pictures

treating of the personal feelings of various people, but of pictures

representing great deeds of self-sacrifice and of Christian love

there are very few, and what there are, are principally by artists

who are not celebrated, and are, for the most part, not pictures,

but merely sketches. Such, for instance, is the drawing by Kramskoy

(worth many of his finished pictures), showing a drawing-room with a

balcony, past which troops are marching in triumph on their return

from the war. On the balcony stands a wet-nurse holding a baby and a

boy. They are admiring the procession of the troops, but the mother,

covering her face with a handkerchief, has fallen back on the sofa,

sobbing. Such also is the picture by Walter Langley, to which I have

already referred, and such again is a picture by the French artist

Morlon, depicting a lifeboat hastening, in a heavy storm, to the

relief of a steamer that is being wrecked. Approaching these in kind

are pictures which represent the hard-working peasant with respect

and love. Such are the pictures by Millet, and, particularly, his

drawing, "The Man with the Hoe"; also pictures in this style by

Jules Breton, L'Hermitte, Defregger, and others. As examples of

pictures evoking indignation and horror at the violation of love

to God and man, Gay's picture, "Judgment," may serve, and also

Leizen-Mayer's, "Signing the Death Warrant." But there are also very

few of this kind. Anxiety about the technique and the beauty of

the picture for the most part obscures the feeling. For instance,

Gérôme's "Pollice Verso" expresses, not so much horror at what is

being perpetrated as attraction by the beauty of the spectacle.[121]

[121] In this picture the spectators in the Roman Amphitheater are

turning down their thumbs to show that they wish the vanquished

gladiator to be killed.--TR.

To give examples, from the modern art of our upper classes, of art

of the second kind, good universal art or even of the art of a whole

people, is yet more difficult, especially in literary art and music.

If there are some works which by their inner contents might be

assigned to this class (such as "Don Quixote," Molière's comedies,

"David Copperfield" and "The Pickwick Papers" by Dickens, Gogol's

and Pushkin's tales, and some things of Maupassant's), these works

are for the most part--from the exceptional nature of the feelings

they transmit, and the superfluity of special details of time

and locality, and, above all, on account of the poverty of their

subject-matter in comparison with examples of universal ancient

art (such, for instance, as the story of Joseph)--comprehensible

only to people of their own circle. That Joseph's brethren, being

jealous of his father's affection, sell him to the merchants; that

Potiphar's wife wishes to tempt the youth; that having attained the

highest station, he takes pity on his brothers, including Benjamin,

the favorite,--these and all the rest are feelings accessible alike

to a Russian peasant, a Chinese, an African, a child, or an old man,

educated or uneducated; and it is all written with such restraint,

is so free from any superfluous detail, that the story may be told

to any circle and will be equally comprehensible and touching to

every one. But not such are the feelings of Don Quixote or of

Molière's heroes (though Molière is perhaps the most universal,

and therefore the most excellent, artist of modern times), nor of

Pickwick and his friends. These feelings are not common to all

men, but very exceptional; and therefore, to make them infectious,

the authors have surrounded them with abundant details of time and

place. And this abundance of detail makes the stories difficult

of comprehension to all people not living within reach of the

conditions described by the author.

The author of the novel of Joseph did not need to describe in

detail, as would be done nowadays, the blood-stained coat of

Joseph, the dwelling and dress of Jacob, the pose and attire of

Potiphar's wife, and how, adjusting the bracelet on her left arm,

she said, "Come to me," and so on, because the subject-matter of

feelings in this novel is so strong that all details, except the

most essential,--such as that Joseph went out into another room to

weep,--are superfluous, and would only hinder the transmission of

feelings. And therefore this novel is accessible to all men, touches

people of all nations and classes, young and old, and has lasted to

our times, and will yet last for thousands of years to come. But

strip the best novels of our times of their details, and what will

remain?

It is therefore impossible in modern literature to indicate works

fully satisfying the demands of universality. Such works as exist

are, to a great extent, spoilt by what is usually called "realism,"

but would be better termed "provincialism," in art.

In music the same occurs as in verbal art, and for similar reasons.

In consequence of the poorness of the feeling they contain,

the melodies of the modern composers are amazingly empty and

insignificant. And to strengthen the impression produced by these

empty melodies, the new musicians pile complex modulations on to

each trivial melody, not only in their own national manner, but

also in the way characteristic of their own exclusive circle and

particular musical school. Melody--every melody--is free, and may

be understood of all men; but as soon as it is bound up with a

particular harmony, it ceases to be accessible except to people

trained to such harmony, and it becomes strange, not only to

common men of another nationality, but to all who do not belong

to the circle whose members have accustomed themselves to certain

forms of harmonization. So that music, like poetry, travels in a

vicious circle. Trivial and exclusive melodies, in order to make

them attractive, are laden with harmonic, rhythmic, and orchestral

complications, and thus become yet more exclusive; and, far from

being universal, are not even national, _i.e._ they are not

comprehensible to the whole people but only to some people.

In music, besides marches and dances by various composers, which

satisfy the demands of universal art, one can indicate very few

works of this class: Bach's famous violin _aria_, Chopin's nocturne

in E-flat major, and perhaps a dozen bits (not whole pieces,

but parts) selected from the works of Haydn, Mozart, Schubert,

Beethoven, and Chopin.[122]

[122] While offering as examples of art those that seem to me the

best, I attach no special importance to my selection; for, besides

being insufficiently informed in all branches of art, I belong

to the class of people whose taste has, by false training, been

perverted. And therefore my old, inured habits may cause me to

err, and I may mistake for absolute merit the impression a work

produced on me in my youth. My only purpose in mentioning examples

of works of this or that class is to make my meaning clearer, and

to show how, with my present views, I understand excellence in art

in relation to its subject-matter. I must, moreover, mention that

I consign my own artistic productions to the category of bad art,

excepting the story "God sees the Truth," which seeks a place in the

first class, and "The Prisoner of the Caucasus," which belongs to

the second.

Although in painting the same thing is repeated as in poetry and

music,--namely, that in order to make them more interesting, works

weak in conception are surrounded by minutely studied accessories

of time and place, which give them a temporary and local interest

but make them less universal,--still, in painting, more than in the

other spheres of art, may be found works satisfying the demands

of universal Christian art; that is to say, there are more works

expressing feelings in which all men may participate.

In the arts of painting and sculpture, all pictures and statues

in so-called genre style, depictions of animals, landscapes and

caricatures with subjects comprehensible to every one, and also

all kinds of ornaments, are universal in subject-matter. Such

productions in painting and sculpture are very numerous (_e.g._

china dolls), but for the most part such objects (for instance,

ornaments of all kinds) are either not considered to be art or are

considered to be art of a low quality. In reality all such objects,

if only they transmit a true feeling experienced by the artist and

comprehensible to every one (however insignificant it may seem to us

to be) are works of real good Christian art.

I fear it will here be urged against me that having denied that

the conception of beauty can supply a standard for works of art, I

contradict myself by acknowledging ornaments to be works of good

art. The reproach is unjust, for the subject-matter of all kinds of

ornamentation consists not in the beauty, but in the feeling (of

admiration of, and delight in, the combination of lines and colors)

which the artist has experienced and with which he infects the

spectator. Art remains what it was and what it must be: nothing

but the infection by one man of another, or of others, with the

feelings experienced by the infector. Among those feelings is the

feeling of delight at what pleases the sight. Objects pleasing the

sight may be such as please a small or a large number of people,

or such as please all men. And ornaments for the most part are of

the latter kind. A landscape representing a very unusual view, or a

genre picture of a special subject, may not please every one, but

ornaments, from Yakutsk ornaments to Greek ones, are intelligible

to every one and evoke a similar feeling of admiration in all, and

therefore this despised kind of art should, in Christian society, be

esteemed far above exceptional, pretentious pictures and sculptures.

So that there are only two kinds of good Christian art: all the rest

of art not comprised in these two divisions should be acknowledged

to be bad art, deserving not to be encouraged, but to be driven

out, denied, and despised, as being art not uniting but dividing

people. Such, in literary art, are all novels and poems which

transmit Church or patriotic feelings, and also exclusive feelings

pertaining only to the class of the idle rich; such as aristocratic

honor, satiety, spleen, pessimism, and refined and vicious feelings

flowing from sex-love--quite incomprehensible to the great majority

of mankind.

In painting we must similarly place in the class of bad art all

the Church, patriotic, and exclusive pictures; all the pictures

representing the amusements and allurements of a rich and idle life;

all the so-called symbolic pictures, in which the very meaning of

the symbol is comprehensible only to the people of a certain circle;

and, above all, pictures with voluptuous subjects--all that odious

female nudity which fills all the exhibitions and galleries. And to

this class belongs almost all the chamber and opera music of our

times,--beginning especially from Beethoven (Schumann, Berlioz,

Liszt, Wagner), by its subject-matter devoted to the expression of

feelings accessible only to people who have developed in themselves

an unhealthy, nervous irritation evoked by this exclusive,

artificial, and complex music.

"What! the '_Ninth Symphony_' not a good work of art!" I hear

exclaimed by indignant voices.

And I reply, Most certainly it is not. All that I have written I

have written with the sole purpose of finding a clear and reasonable

criterion by which to judge the merits of works of art. And this

criterion, coinciding with the indications of plain and sane sense,

indubitably shows me that that symphony by Beethoven is not a good

work of art. Of course, to people educated in the adoration of

certain productions and of their authors, to people whose taste

has been perverted just by being educated in such adoration, the

acknowledgment that such a celebrated work is bad is amazing and

strange. But how are we to escape the indications of reason and of

common sense?

Beethoven's "Ninth Symphony" is considered a great work of art.

To verify its claim to be such, I must first ask myself whether

this work transmits the highest religious feeling? I reply in the

negative, for music in itself cannot transmit those feelings; and

therefore I ask myself next, Since this work does not belong to the

highest kind of religious art, has it the other characteristic of

the good art of our time,--the quality of uniting all men in one

common feeling: does it rank as Christian universal art? And again I

have no option but to reply in the negative; for not only do I not

see how the feelings transmitted by this work could unite people not

specially trained to submit themselves to its complex hypnotism,

but I am unable to imagine to myself a crowd of normal people who

could understand anything of this long, confused, and artificial

production, except short snatches which are lost in a sea of what

is incomprehensible. And therefore, whether I like it or not, I am

compelled to conclude that this work belongs to the rank of bad art.

It is curious to note in this connection, that attached to the end

of this very symphony is a poem of Schiller's which (though somewhat

obscurely) expresses this very thought, namely, that feeling

(Schiller speaks only of the feeling of gladness) unites people and

evokes love in them. But though this poem is sung at the end of the

symphony, the music does not accord with the thought expressed in

the verses; for the music is exclusive and does not unite all men,

but unites only a few, dividing them off from the rest of mankind.

And just in this same way, in all branches of art, many and many

works considered great by the upper classes of our society will have

to be judged. By this one sure criterion we shall have to judge the

celebrated "Divine Comedy" and "Jerusalem Delivered," and a great

part of Shakespear's and Goethe's works, and in painting every

representation of miracles, including Raphael's "Transfiguration,"

etc.

Whatever the work may be and however it may have been extolled,

we have first to ask whether this work is one of real art or a

counterfeit. Having acknowledged, on the basis of the indication of

its infectiousness even to a small class of people, that a certain

production belongs to the realm of art, it is necessary, on the

basis of the indication of its accessibility, to decide the next

question, Does this work belong to the category of bad, exclusive

art, opposed to religious perception, or to Christian art, uniting

people? And having acknowledged an article to belong to real

Christian art, we must then, according to whether it transmits

the feelings flowing from love to God and man, or merely the

simple feelings uniting all men, assign it a place in the ranks of

religious art or in those of universal art.