IV
What do we demand of a short story before we are willing to consider that it deserves the name of art? And is art, as I am sorry to know that many admirers of Stevenson would at this juncture ask, worth bothering about? Art is surely the quality which distinguishes some of these stories from others; and art, to me, is the disinterested rendering, to perfection, of a theme intensely felt through, and in accordance with, the artist’s philosophic conception of life. I do not suggest that art must involve the conscious expression of a consistent philosophy. I think it should not do that. But unless a writer has a considerable æsthetic and emotional experience which does directly inform his work with a wisdom greater than our utilitarian scheme of conventional morality, no practical experience of life and no sense of æsthetic form can suffice to make that writer an artist. Mr. Clive Bell, in his very brilliant and amusing book “Art,” says that “art is significant form,” which is a very much better and less pretentious definition than the one I have given. It is also easier to apply; but I purposely added a reference to the artist’s philosophic conception, because it seems to me that there can be no art which is not primarily a thing of unblemished artistic sincerity. A thing pretended (artistically, not morally pretended) can, I think, no more be art, in spite of its significant form, than it can be artistically sincere. It may be retorted that there is nothing in this connection between the artist and the charlatan; but there is. There is the craftsman, one who, denied or forgoing the artist’s intellectual basis, makes goods like unto works of art, which are charged with significance of form, but not with that consistency with philosophic belief which makes significant the artistic vision. For the artist’s vision is not merely executive: it is conceptual. And while significant form means perfect execution of the artist’s concept, there must be a relative connection between the concept and the artist’s fundamental, and possibly inscrutable or inexpressible, “idea.” Otherwise the brilliant men would have it all their own way, which is obviously not the law of such things. To take an example. I regard The Pavilion on the Links as doubtful art. In form it is better than certain stories which seem to me superior in content, better than, say, The Beach of Falesá. But it seems to me empty, without heart, so that its warmth is like the warmth of anger, and is chilled when its excitement is done. Ought there not to remain in one’s mind, when the story is finished, some other emotion than stale excitement? I think there ought. I think that an æsthetic emotion remains in the case of all art that is really art; that one continues to feel, not the immediate clash of will or incident, but the author’s true emotion, of which the mere incidents of the story are only the bridge which the author has chosen to bear his emotion by symbol, or example, into our hearts. If I were to say of The Pavilion on the Links: “It is not true,” I should by ninety-nine of every hundred people be called unimaginative, and told that “nobody ever said it was.” But of course I should mean, not that the incidents were rare, but that Stevenson had never artistically believed them, that they hung suspended in the air only by virtue of their power to interest or to excite, by means of the “heat of composition.” I should mean that Stevenson had not first imagined the story, but that he had planned it in cold blood, saying, “We’ll have an estate, and a pavilion, and two men who have quarrelled ...” and so on, when he might equally well have been planning to describe a dairy, or a balloon, or a cataclysm at St. Malo. If I look for emotion in the story I find none. If I look for an æsthetic idea I find none. Perhaps that is where Mr. Bell revives. The story stands there as a piece of virtuosity; and if that is deliberate virtuosity, if there is no artistic conviction behind it, then the story is a fake. I think it is a fake. I am quite ready to think of it as an extraordinary clever piece of business. But if it is fake, it is not art. Does significant form imply the presence of a conviction or merely of craft?
On the other hand, I find what I should like to call conceptual integrity in Thrawn Janet and in The Beach of Falesá, and these stories seem to me to be art. For the same reason, The Treasure of Franchard, Providence and the Guitar, and The Bottle Imp seem to me to be art. In all these stories I am conscious of æsthetic conviction. I am aware of that delightful emotion also in The Young Man with the Cream Tarts, and in other parts of The Suicide Club, but not in all. I see art baulked by literature in Will o’ the Mill, in Markheim, and Olalla; and, greatly muddied by clotted moralising, in Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, which as a whole is suspiciously glib, as though it had been falsified in the transformation from dream to morality. I do not find art in the other short stories by Stevenson. They seem all to have been produced, some from one impulse, some from another, some with painstaking shrewdness, some from vanity, some even from a want of something better to do. The artist receives an inspiration, which shapes his work with the fine glow of vitality (much as a sick person is transformed by mountain air, until his features shape and colour into a new fleshly verve). The craftsman waits upon invention, and sedulously cultivates its friendliness, with a thrifty economy which brings him in the course of his life much respect from his fellows. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde was dreamed by an artist; and was written by a craftsman. If Sir J. M. Barrie had, as Stevenson once wrote, “a journalist at his elbow,” shall we not admit that, in the same position, Stevenson had an equally dangerous devil, who goes by the name of a craftsman?