I
[Illustration: _An old Russian._]
“Realism—realism!” How very often do we hear this term, and yet how
seldom does it appear to be applied understandingly.
“What do you take realism to be?” I asked a well-educated lady in
Berlin, who had been talking a great deal about realism and the realists
in art. The lady did not seem to be ready with an answer, for she could
only reply that “A realist is he who represents subjects in a realistic
manner.”
I hold, though, that the art of representing subjects in a realistic
manner does not entitle a person to the name of realist. And, in order
to illustrate my meaning, I may present the following example—
When the war of the British with the Zulus came to an end, there could
be found no man among the prominent English artists who would take upon
himself the task of committing to canvas that epopee enacted between the
whites and blacks, and so the English had to have recourse to a very
talented French artist. They gave him money, and explained to him that
such and such were the uniforms and the arms of the English soldiers,
and such and such were the clothes, or what represents clothes, among
the Zulus. Then, eye-witnesses to the military encounters told the
Frenchman of what the background consisted in each case, probably
supplementing their accounts with photographic views. Armed with this
information the artist set to work, without having the least personal
knowledge of the country he was going to reproduce, nor of the types,
the peculiarities, nor the customs of Zululand. With much assurance the
artist went on with his task, and turned out several lively pictures in
which there are a great many men attacking an enemy—defending itself; a
great number of dead and wounded; much blood; much gunpowder-smoke, and
all that kind of thing; yet, with all this, there is total lack of the
principal thing: there are no British nor Zulus to be found in the
pictures. Instead of the former we behold Frenchmen dressed up in
British uniforms, and instead of Zulus, the ordinary Parisian
negro-models, reproduced in various more or less warlike attitudes.
Well, is that realism? No.
Most artists, besides, do not take sufficient pains to reproduce the
true light under which the events they treat have really taken place.
Thus, such scenes as are taken up in the just-mentioned pictures—scenes
of battles under the intolerably torrid sun of Africa, are being painted
by the greyish light of European studios. Of course the sunlight, and
the numerous peculiar effects dependent on it, cannot prove successful
in such a case, and the effect is lost.
Is that realism, then? Certainly not.
* * * * *
I go further, and assert that in cases where there exists but a bare
representation of a fact or of an event without idea, without
generalization, there can possibly be found some qualities of realistic
execution, but of realism there would be none: of that intelligent
realism, I mean, which is built on observation and on facts—in
opposition to idealism, which is founded on impressions and
affirmations, established _à priori_.
Now, can any one bring the reproach against me that there is no idea, no
generalization in my works? Hardly.
Can any one say that I am careless about the types, about the costumes,
about the landscape of the scenes represented by me? That I do not study
out beforehand the personages, the surroundings figuring in my works?
Hardly so.
Can any one say that, with me, any scene, taking place in reality in the
broad sunlight, has been painted by studio light—that a scene, taking
place under the frosty skies of the North, is reproduced in the warm
enclosure of four walls? Hardly so.
Consequently, I can claim to be a representative of realism—such realism
as requires the most severe manipulating of all the details of creation,
and which not only does not exclude an idea, but implies it.
That I am not alone in such an estimate of my work, is proved by the
following lines, from a correspondent to an American paper,[2] sent from
Paris at the time of the last exhibition of my paintings in that city—
“The respect shown to certain pictured ideals—the ideals of a painter so
foreign to Parisian conventions as Verestchagin—is noted as a pleasing
indication of departure from the gross realism that was beginning to
obtain in French art. Mr. Dargenty, of the _Courrier de l’Art_, does not
consider Verestchagin as a ‘seducing’ painter, but concedes to him
knowledge and talent, and declares that for his part he prefers the
refinement of an idea to the ‘brutal expression of vulgar realism.’ He
hopes for a reaction and believes that the crowd that ‘precipitated’
itself in the exposition of Mr. Verestchagin ‘heralded’ a running
victory for the idea.”
Still more notable was the judgment of the London _Christian_ of
December 2, 1887—a view having all the more interest to me because of
the special character of the paper that published it—
“These paintings are the work of a Russian, Verestchagin, a painter
equal to any of his contemporaries in artistic ability, and beyond any
painter who ever lived in the grandeur of his moral aims and the
application of his lessons to the consciences of all who take the least
pains to understand him....
“I will only say that he who misses seeing these paintings will miss the
best opportunity he may ever have of understanding the age in which he
lives; for if ever the nineteenth century has had a prophet, it is the
Russian painter, Verestchagin.”
I repeat it: I cite this last passage expressed in consideration of its
character, as an opinion emitted by a specially religious organ, an
opinion made all the more significant in view of the attacks to which I
had been submitted by people striving to prove themselves greater
papists than the Pope.
* * * * *
Realism is not antagonistic to anything that is held dear by the
contemporary man—it does not clash with common sense, with science, nor
with religion. Can any one have anything but the deepest reverence for
the teachings of Christ concerning the Father and Creator of all that
exists—for the golden rule of Christian charity?
It is true that we are enemies of bigotry, of all ostentatious, assumed
piety; but who is it that can blame us for this since Christ Himself has
said—
“But when ye pray, use not vain repetitions, as the heathen do; for they
think they shall be heard for their much speaking.”[3]
As can be easily conceived, we have a different estimation of many
things that were explained in another way some hundreds of years ago.
The infancy of science and, consequently, of the entire conception of
the universe can interest us now, but it can no more direct us. At the
threshold of the twentieth century, we can no longer admit that the
skies above are peopled by saints and by angels; that the interior of
the earth is occupied by devils engaged in their task of roasting the
sinners of the world. We refuse even to accept, in its literal sense,
the ancient idea of rewards for good deeds, and that of torments in slow
fires as punishment for evil deeds.
In our capacity of artists we do not deny the ideals of the past ages
and of the ancient masters. On the contrary, we give them an honourable
place in the history of art; but we refuse to imitate them, for the very
simple reason that everything is good in its own time, and that the
realism of one century already bears in itself the germs of the idealism
of the next.
The very masters who are held to be great idealists in art—have not they
been great realists in their own time?
Who would risk the assertion that Raphael was not a realist in the age
in which he lived: that his works did not scandalize many of his
contemporaries, whose tastes were formed on the work of primitive
masters?
And Rubens, who transgressed all limits of contemporary decency, and
that, not only in his capacity of painter, but even as a thinker? I hope
no one would be ready to question the fact that his powerful but
one-sided genius has intermingled the types of the personalities of the
Christian religion with those of the heathenish mythology; that his God
the Father is the same as his Jupiter of Olympus; that they are
portraits of the very same red-cheeked studio model; that his Virgin and
his Hebe—one may even say his Venus—are all personalities of the same
type, all alike red-cheeked, handsome, and self-satisfied! Who would
deny that Rubens, having peopled the Christian heavens with heavy,
buxom, healthy, and very immodest ladies and gentlemen, had reversed all
traditions and thus had shown himself to be a talented, powerful realist
in his time? Doubtlessly, he bewildered and scandalized a good many of
his pious contemporaries.
And Rembrandt? and the rest of them, all of whom are now held to be
idealists, more or less: was not each one of them a representative of
realism in his time—realism that has been considerably smoothed down in
our days by the hand of time on one side and the onward march of our
self-consciousness on the other?
Who would think now-a-days of reproaching those painters for all that
boldness, which certainly proved astounding to their contemporaries? And
yet how many were the disputes concerning those painters, how many
lances have been broken in their behalf! As we look back now all that
seems strange to us. But is it not a sign of what awaits the noted works
of our own time? These also were received inimically, were proclaimed to
be too far-reaching, too bold, too realistic, yet will not they also in
their turn acquire lasting strength under the influence of onward
marching thought and technique? Will not the day come when they will
also find themselves, unawares, in the archives of old ideals?
* * * * *
But we have to count with our irascible and exacting contemporaries. It
is generally held to be unpardonable boldness—quite a scandalous
proceeding in fact—to recede from formulas, recognized by successive
generations, through centuries. Novelists, painters, sculptors,
musicians, are all alike invited to make compromises with triviality and
absurdity which invariably retard the development of the idea and of the
technique.
Even such persons as grudgingly admit that we also are “men of
thoughts,” that we also are “men of well-developed technique,” even they
express their regrets that we should prove false to the traditions of
the old masters; that we should not follow the tenets consecrated by
great names.
Yes, it is true: we differ in many ways. We think differently, we are
bolder in our generalization of the facts of the past, the present, and
the future; we even work differently and transfer our impressions in a
different manner.
Can we take it now in its literal sense—the generally-accepted
conception of God, who had once assumed the form of man, and is now
sitting on the right hand of the Father Almighty, with all the hosts of
saints and angels gathered around Him? Can we admit as facts the idea of
all those thrones that surpass in richness the celebrated thrones of the
Great Moguls of India? Can we admit now the idea of all those splendid
vestments, adorned with embroidery, with pearls and precious stones—and
all that in the clouds? Can we sincerely and artlessly represent to
ourselves the saints that are supposed to sit on those same clouds as on
arm-chairs and sofas, likewise in the richest attire—saints who would
thus be found amidst the luxurious surroundings that were so distasteful
to them in their life on earth?
All those splendid garments, all those gilded surroundings, held out as
everlasting rewards for virtue practised on earth—do they not appear to
us quite childish now, not to say wholly inconsistent with good taste?
* * * * *
A good deal has been written about my works: many were the reproaches
brought against my paintings, those treating of religious subjects as
well as of military. And yet they were, all of them, painted without any
preconceived idea,—were painted only because their subjects interested
me. The moral in each case appeared afterwards, coming up of its own
account, from the very truthfulness of impressions.
Now, for instance, I have seen the Emperor Alexander II. on five
consecutive days, as he sat on a little knoll—the battle-field spreading
out before him—watching, with field-glass in hand, first the
bombardment, and then the storming of the enemy’s positions. This surely
was also the way in which the old German Emperor attended battles,—as
well as his son, that admirable man, the late Frederick of Germany. Of
this I have even been assured by eye-witnesses. Certainly, it would be
ridiculous to suppose that an Emperor assisting at battles would canter
about brandishing his sword as a young ensign, and yet the desire has
been attributed to me to undermine by my picture the prestige of the
sovereign in the eyes of the masses, who are prone to imagine their
Emperor prancing on a fiery steed, in times of danger, in the very thick
of the fight.
I have represented the bandaging and the transporting of the wounded
exactly as I have seen it done, and have felt it in my own person when
wounded, bandaged, and transported in the most primitive manner. And
yet, that again has been declared to be a gross exaggeration, a calumny.
I observed during several days how prisoners were slowly freezing to
death on a road extending over thirty miles. I called the attention of
the American artist, Frank D. Millet, who was on the spot, to that
scene; and when he afterwards saw my painting he declared it to be
strikingly correct; yet for that painting I have been treated to such
abuse as would not admit of repetition in print.
I have seen a priest performing the last religious rites on a
battle-field over a mass of killed, plundered, mutilated soldiers, who
had just given up their life in the defence of their country; and that
scene again—a picture which I had painted, literally, with tears in my
eyes—has been also proclaimed in high quarters to be the product of my
imagination, a downright falsehood.
My lofty accusers did not deign to pay any attention to the fact that
the lie was given them by that same priest who, disgusted with the
accusations against me, declared—and that in the presence of the public
standing before the picture—that it was he who had been performing those
last rites over the massed bodies of the killed soldiers—had done it in
the very surroundings reproduced in my picture. Yet, notwithstanding all
this, my picture barely escaped being ejected from the exhibition, and
when afterwards it was intended to publish all those pictures in
coloured prints, the officials put their veto on the scheme, for fear
lest they should find their way among the masses.
It should not be imagined, however, that that indignation prevailed
exclusively in Russian high spheres. It was a very well known Prussian
general who advised the Emperor Alexander II. to have all my military
paintings burned as objects of a most pernicious kind.
* * * * *
There were still more inimical commentaries on those of my pictures
which treat of religious subjects. Yet have I attacked the Christian
morals? No—I hold these very highly. Have I attacked the idea of
Christianity or its founder? No—I have the highest respect for them.
Have I tried to detract from the significance of the Cross? No—this
would be a sheer impossibility.
I have travelled all over the Holy Land with the book of the Gospels in
my hand; I have visited all the places sanctified, centuries ago, by the
presence of our Saviour in them. Consequently, I must have, and do have,
my own ideas and conceptions as to the representation of many events and
facts recorded in the Gospels. My ideas necessarily differ from the
conceptions of artists who have never seen the scenery of the Holy Land,
have not personally observed its population and their customs.
* * * * *
Here is my idea, for instance, of the fact of the Adoration of the Magi;
a painting contemplated, but not yet executed:—
A clear, starry night; travellers are approaching Bethlehem—these are
the Magi, men versed in science, having a knowledge of astrology.
Proceeding on their way toward the city, the wise men notice a star
standing over it—a star which they had never yet observed. Since, at
that time, the idea was prevalent that every man had his own star, and,
_vice versâ_, every star corresponded to some man on earth, so the Magi
naturally conclude that this new star indicates the birth of a child
somewhere in the neighbourhood, and that—the star being exceptionally
brilliant—the new-born child must develop into a most prominent man.
Arriving at Bethlehem, the Magi put up at an inn. Soon after, the
servant, who had been attending to the travellers’ mules, comes in and
tells the Magi that a poor woman had sought refuge in the place where
their animals were kept, and there had given birth to a most beautiful
child. Hearing this, the Magi exchange significant glances—the coming up
of the star has been rightly interpreted by them.
“Let us go and see; it must be an extraordinary child,” they say, and
thereupon proceed to the grotto of the inn, where the horses, the cows,
and the donkeys were kept, being followed by a few other travellers, who
are likewise curious to see the new-born child.
In a corner of the grotto they observe a beautiful, pale young woman,
sitting on a pile of straw and nursing her baby, whilst her husband, an
elderly man, is seen in the distance, outside the grotto, preparing
something for his family.
“What a beautiful child!” exclaimed the Magi, and, turning to the
Virgin, say: “Remember our words, He will be a great man; we have seen
His star.”
Then, their pity being stirred by the poverty of the surroundings, one
of the wise men would offer a gold coin as a gift to the child, while
another would, perhaps, pour out a little of the precious myrrh from his
travelling-flask. As the wise men get ready to leave the grotto, they
turn once more to Mary and repeat their prediction concerning the great
future of the child, and “Mary kept these things, and pondered them in
her heart.”
I firmly believe that such a realistic representation of the poverty and
simplicity attending the nativity of Christ is incomparably loftier than
the idealization of richness and other exaggerations to which the old
masters had recourse. But such a treatment of the subject is new;
therefore it appears strange, and very likely will excite comment. And
only our descendants in a century or two will be able to decide which of
these two opposing views was the correct one.
* * * * *
Among the paintings on exhibition will be noticed one portraying a not
infrequent event in Palestine in the olden time—an event highly
dramatic, yet retaining all its simplicity. I mean “A Crucifixion under
the Romans.”
The sky is overcast by heavy black clouds. Just outside the walls of
Jerusalem, on a small rock, are erected three crosses, all of the same
size, shape, and appearance. The figures of the crucified on the two
sides are of a vulgar type and of coarse build, while the central figure
is of a more refined form. His face is not seen; it is hidden by long
auburn hair that hangs over it; long hair indicates that the crucified
was a man who dedicated himself to God. The wounds on the hands and feet
of the three crucified men bleed profusely (it being a well-known fact
that physicians find it difficult to stop the flow of blood out of
outstretched palms and feet). In front of the crosses stand two priests
of high rank, and they seemingly argue about some matter, as if trying
to prove something to a Roman in military attire; possibly they refer to
the guilt of the man crucified on the middle cross, a guilt about which
the military man seems to retain some doubts. Around the rock soldiers
are forming a chain to restrain the crowd.
In the foreground of the painting are seen people of every description;
some on foot, some on horseback; others mounted on camels or on donkeys.
Those are country folks or nomads, who, returning home from market,
stopped on their way for a moment in order to witness the event of the
day—the execution of a man, the renown of whose deeds had reached even
their huts and tents—a man whose arrest caused almost an insurrection in
the city. Among others in the crowd can be noticed a few Hebrew
merchants with their characteristic head-gear (which was discarded at a
comparatively late date), and Pharisees with the letters of the Law
written on the coverings of their heads. One of the Pharisees is
discussing something with his neighbour concerning a woman who is seen
weeping bitterly, in the corner of the picture, presumably the mother of
one of the crucified men. Her face cannot be seen, but her sorrow must
be great indeed, and none of the women surrounding her seem likely to be
able to console her. Many a time, probably, had she tried to divert her
son from his chosen course, but all in vain, and now his time has come.
By the side of the heart-broken mother stands a handsome young woman
plunged into deep consternation at the sight of the executed man; the
tears run down her cheek, but she is not conscious of it, so thoroughly
absorbed is she by her terrible, unspeakable grief.
As soon as the authorities should retire and the crowd thin out, there
would be a chance for the mother, and those that surround her, to
approach the crosses; then they would find it possible to say their last
farewell....
* * * * *
Further on, we have a representation of a contemporary execution, among
other people and surroundings. Here we see a cold winter day in the
North. A mass of people is crowding into one of the squares of St.
Petersburg, pressing toward the gallows and being held back by mounted
gendarmes. Close to the gallows only a select few are admitted, mostly
the military, all representatives of the gilded youth of the city, who
are in hopes of getting a piece of the cord used by the hangman: the
superstition being very common that a piece of the cord on which a man
is hanged is sure to bring luck at cards to its fortunate possessor.
The criminal, enveloped in a white shroud, with the cap drawn over his
head, has just been hanged and is still whirling round on the cord,
while the people stand in mute bewilderment before the instructive
sight. There is but a single hoarse voice raised from among the crowd:
“There now—serves him right, too!” But these words are immediately
hushed by several women’s voices crying out, “What are you saying? It is
beyond us to condemn him now. Let God Almighty pass judgment on him!”
Meantime the snow continues to fall, the smoke is rising from the
factories, work is going on as usual....
* * * * *
It is worthy of notice that this last painting, while it did not please
the Russians, pleased the English people very much indeed; on the other
side the “Blowing from guns in India” is not at all liked by Englishmen,
and yet the Russians fancied it very much. Men who had seen much service
in India assured me that I was mistaken in presenting such an execution
as a typical, characteristic way of capital punishment in that country;
they insisted that this mode of execution had been adopted but once—in
the course of the last insurrection of the Sepoys—and even at that time
it had been used only in a very few instances. But I maintain that this
mode of execution—a comparatively humane one too—not only has been in
constant use during the revolt referred to, when the Sepoys were blown
from guns by the thousand, but that it was used by the British
authorities in India for many years before and after the Sepoy revolt of
1858. More than that, I am quite positive that that particular mode of
execution will have to be used in future times. The Hindoo does not fear
any other kind of capital punishment received at the hands of the
“heathenish, unclean Europeans.” They hold that any one shot down or
hanged by the European goes to swell the ranks of the martyrs who are
entitled to a high reward in the future life. But an execution by means
of a gun carries positive terror into the heart of a native, for such a
shot tears the criminal’s body in many parts, and thus prevents him from
presenting himself in decent form in heaven. This bugbear was used by
the British, and will be used by them as long as they fear to lose their
Indian possessions.
In order to hold a population of 250,000,000 in political and economical
submission by means of 60,000 bayonets, it is not enough to be brave and
to be possessed of political tact—punishment and bloody reprisals cannot
be avoided.
* * * * *
All this is so self-evident, that it seems really wonderful that, while
we artists are required to observe and discriminate, people are still
inclined to be astonished and indignant whenever we put those faculties
of ours to use and transfer our impressions to canvas or paper.
The artists are on all hands pressed to give the public something new,
something original, something that is not hackneyed by fashion and
triviality; yet, when we make an effort to present something of the
sort, we are accused of insolence.
And what are the results of such a state of things?
People get tired of books and gorge themselves on crude facts from real
life as recorded in daily newspapers; people get tired of picture
galleries and exhibitions, being certain to find in most of them the
very same kind of pictures—all treating of the very same subjects,
painted in an identical manner; people find it a dull task to go to the
theatres where in nine plays out of ten they will find the very same
conventional plot, invariably terminating in a wedding.
Well, what is now generally speaking the part of art?
Why, art is brought down to the level of a toy for such as can be and
like to be amused by it; it is expected, as it were, to stimulate the
public’s digestive powers. Paintings, for instance, are considered
simply as furniture: if there happens to remain an empty space on the
wall between the door and the corner taken up, let us say, by a what-not
surmounted by a vase—why then, that empty space is forthwith covered by
a picture of light contents and of pleasant execution; such a one as
would not distract too much attention from the other furniture and
bric-à-brac, would not interfere with the _dolce far niente_ of
visitors.
And yet the influence and the resources of art are enormous. The
majority of old-time painters were handicapped by their allegiance to
power and riches; they were men who were not weighed down by any sense
of serious civil responsibility, and yet, notwithstanding this, how
powerful was the influence of art during whole centuries! It was felt in
all the corners and hidden recesses of the life of nations!
What, then, is not to be expected from art in our time, when artists are
inspired with their duties as citizens of their country—when they cease
to dance attendance on the rich and powerful, who love to be called
patrons of art—when artists have acquired independence, and have begun
to realize that the first condition of a fruitful activity is to be a
gentleman, not in the narrow meaning of caste, but in the wide
acceptance of the term pertaining to the time we live in?
* * * * *
Armed with the confidence of the public, art will adhere more closely to
society, will constitute itself its ally in the face of the serious
danger that threatens society now-a-days—that kind of society which we
all know, which we are all more or less prompted to love and to respect.
There is no gainsaying the fact that all the other questions of our time
are paling before the question of socialism that advances on us,
threateningly, like a tremendous thunder-cloud.
The masses that have been for centuries leading a life of expectancy
while hanging on the very borders of starvation, are willing to wait no
more. Their former hopes in the future are discarded; their appetites
are whetted, and they are clamouring for arrears, which means now the
division of all the riches, and so as to make the division more lasting,
they are claiming that talents and capacities should be levelled down to
one standard, all workers of progress and comfort alike drawing the same
pay. They are striving to reconstruct society on new foundations, and in
case of opposition to their aims, they threaten to apply the torch to
all the monuments pertaining to an order that, according to them, has
already outlived its usefulness; they threaten to blow up the public
buildings, the churches, the art galleries, libraries and museums—a
downright religion of despair!
* * * * *
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Footnote 2:
_Sunday Express_, Albany, July 22, 1888.
Footnote 3:
St. Matthew vi. 7.
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