Art was once a power in the world: now it is rather an appendage to a power of a different sort. Even while it was patronized by popes and sovereigns, it was held as little less than sovereign itself; it dictated terms, and claimed a full meed of independence in the choice of its expressions within the limitations of orthodox symbolism. Now, on the contrary, it is only tolerated so long as it conforms to the fashion of the hour, so long as it ministers to the belittled taste of to-day. Its votaries are no longer the honored guests of princes, the equals of sovereigns, the arbiters of character. Of old, a painter could immortalize a man by placing him in a certain part of his picture, or he could ruin him by giving him a place on the opposite side. Dante did the same thing in his unrivalled poem, and the sting went home. But now what would the result be? The painter would lose his custom, like a tradesman who sold damaged goods! Truly a dignified position for the successors of Michael Angelo!
To be popular—and popularity just now is apt to be confounded with greatness—art must truckle to the vitiated taste of a mob of ignoramuses; architecture must give up noble proportions for the sake of speed and cheapness; painting must give up historical memories and religious inspirations for the sake of quick sales and gaudy coloring; music and poetry must adapt themselves to the maudlin taste of the age, and pretty, shallow ballads and idyls must take the place of symphonies, anthems, and epic poems. So with oratory—it must be graceful and piquant; that it should be logical and forcible is immaterial. So with sculpture—we must have Rogers’ groups, sewing-girls (why not have a sewing-machine and operator in marble?), shoe-blacks, anything that is domestic and prosaic, provided we have nothing heroic that will strain our powers of admiration, or excite high aspirations after the ideal.
As to minor articles which of old were real objects of art, how do we stand? Our jewelry, for instance—in what stage of decay is it? Would Benvenuto Cellini think our clumsy plate worthy of his attention, or our massive barbaric bracelets artistic productions? On the other hand, the lighter work is flimsy and insecure, equally unworthy of a chiseller’s notice, except he toss it into the furnace, and reduce the materials into an usable shape. Again the money test comes in: the mere value of a precious stone is all, in modern times; the delicacy of the setting, the thought of the designer, the time of the worker, are perfectly immaterial.
Then our glass: it has no individuality whatsoever. We remember noticing the strange contrast which happened to be most vividly exhibited in a certain street in London, where two shops side by side showed a glittering array of their respective specialty, English and Venetian glass. The former, all blown by machinery, showed the most perfect symmetry of design, each glass of a set the exact counterpart of the other, the designs not varied to the extent of more than half a dozen patterns, and the very prettiest things—baskets, for instance, or horns of glass—pairfully, like three or four dozen similar ones, allotted to their particular corner in the shop. The Venetian glass, on the contrary, was a study for a painter. Every conceivable variety of color, shape, and design, a luxuriance of detail, a fertility of invention perfectly incredible, a picturesque individuality which will not allow even pairs to do more than bear a general likeness to each other—such are a few of the characteristics of this beautiful display of ornaments. We took up a fruit-dish of opaque glass, and asked if there were any more of that sort, none but that one being visible in the shop. It was a marvellous conglomeration of colors, veined like marble, vivid shades dying off into browns and dusky yellows, etc. No; there were no more of them. “How was this produced?” we asked. “I cannot tell,” said the polite Venetian who kept watch over these treasures; “this is a mere chance; the glass sometimes runs into these designs, but we might try for years, and never be able to reproduce this.” The other articles, some useful, some ornamental, and all moulded by the hand, attested the most delicate and fantastic skill; the fancy of the workman had been allowed to run riot within certain general limits; no line was the exact counterpart of the other—in a word, the work was artistic, not mechanical. The contrast was evidently unfavorable to the faultlessly mathematical proportions of the English glass, which, however, in its own line, and freed from comparison with higher products, is very beautiful.
Machinery has spoilt many minor arts; even the choir-stalls and the screens of our day are often “turned” instead of carved, and in the place of wrought-iron we have cast-iron in our grates and railings. Even the domain of music has been invaded, and we have barrel-organs, orchestrions, and musical boxes. Some new mechanism in a Geneva box will command thousands of dollars, and for a musical canary with jewelled eyes, caged in a tiny gilded cage, people will give any sum; but who thinks twice of some unknown Beethoven or struggling Mendelssohn whose sonatas and anthems might rival those of the masters of old?
All that we have said is merely an introduction to an explanation of the main subject of which we wish to treat, i.e. the effect of this modern spirit on artists themselves. There are personal ramifications consequent on this low estimate of art which amount just to this: intellectual murder. The artist starts in life full of young enthusiasm—and we include here all scholars and men who, in different professions, reverence the principle more than they care for the use of their craft—he feels that there is an intellectual world beyond and above the world of business and fashion, and he strives to spread the love of this ideal among commoner mortals. He finds them unresponsive, though he feels himself a teacher sent to enlighten them. Still they remain callous; they look on and laugh, and he starves. His art is all he has whereby to live; for the spirit that recruits the ranks of art is a vagrant and fitful one, and does not qualify men for steady habits of lucrative drudgery. The truth now stares him in the face: he must either pocket his principles or lie down and die of hunger. If he is unusually persevering, and has that genius which does not alight more than three or four times in a century on any child of Adam, he may end by winning a place at last in public opinion, by commanding what prices he likes, and by drowning, in the precarious tide of success, the remembrance of the days when he fell below his own standard, and had to drudge for bread. More often he will never succeed at all; he will give up the unequal struggle, and be too glad if, by bartering his independence, he can feed his wife and children.
We need hardly stop to say how baleful marriage too often is in the case of artists; every one must see that. Unless in the rare instances when a man meets a woman heroic enough to help him on in the difficult paths of genius, nothing is more fatally clogging than marriage. It is idle to speak of the joys and comforts which it brings. These are ephemeral in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred where an artist of even average talent is concerned, while the responsibilities and vexations of marriage grow heavier every day. An artist’s joy in his wife can only be of two kinds: it results either from her physical beauty or from her intellectual sympathy. The former any sane man will weary of, even if he be rich enough to surround it with all those adjuncts without which the beauty itself will soon disappear; the latter implies that ideal union which we have reason to deplore as being too rare to be even taken into practical consideration. We are speaking emphatically of poor artists, and every one knows the peculiarly trying circumstances of poverty in any shape, more especially poverty endured by a refined nature. The domestic vexations of a poor artist’s married life are something incalculable, and are almost enough to destroy the patience of a saint. He may be poet, painter, or musician, it little matters what; but it is simply impossible that the daily, hourly shocks to his sensibilities should not leave a woeful impression on his spirit. Is it encouraging to be interrupted in the middle of a fine stanza by shrieks from the kitchen, and frantic appeals to come and rescue the urchin who has pulled the wash-tub over himself? Is it inspiring to be interrupted in a fugue by the sound of a servant’s shrill answer to the scolding of her incensed mistress? The contemplation of an empty larder, and the calculation of how to fill it again at the lowest figure of expense, is not an elevated occupation, nor is it likely to produce a very spirited picture or soul-stirring poem. Except in very rare cases, a rising artist should put off marriage till his fame is in all men’s mouths. A drag is a different thing from a companion, and to most such even a few years’ solitude ending in a mature choice ought to be far preferable to an uncongenial yoke which, long before success has softened it, has become only a necessary evil.
But even to the unmarried artist or scholar, life holds out terrible temptations. Many mistake popularity for greatness, sensationalism for genius. If the higher walks of art do not “pay,” let us forsake them, and pick up gold in the byways! The trace of the clay will not stick to the precious metal, and, if it has come from the pocket of ignorance to pay the price of vulgarity, still it is “hard cash,” and will be none the less welcome at the exchange! It will buy houses and land, it will buy broadcloth and velvet, it will buy champagne suppers and opera tickets. The artist sees that he must be a slave—a slave either to his own necessities or to the bad taste of his patrons. The former means silent worship at the shrine of true art, an early death, an unknown grave, and an obscure name; the latter means unblushing indifference to principle, a long and merry life, and a name on the lips of thousands. Human nature is weak, and, out of twenty men who once had the possibilities of genius, nineteen will crush its development to earn their daily bread. No wonder that we have so few artists nowadays; no wonder that men who might have been so are only caterers for public amusement and “turners-out” of so many landscapes or interiors a year. What are the subjects most in vogue just now, not to speak of nudities and immoralities? Everything that is trivial, pretty, if you will, but commonplace—children picking flowers, drawing-room scenes, a farm kitchen, a group of cattle, a nosegay lying beside a flagon of wine, a few vegetables sliced open, a woman mending a shirt, etc.! Truly most noble subjects whereon to expend the time, care, and ingenuity of a man of genius—a man, at least, who might once have aspired to genius! But these things sell—everything trivial, childish, and mesquin does in our day—and the artist must live! When necessity and art come into collision, art must go to the wall! In music, ballads are the order of the day—pretty little nothings set to pretty little tunes; strains that are often no better than a cross between a popular song and a revival hymn! In poetry, the case is no better; in the drama, it is worse. The very patronage which lifts a man into notice kills his genius and insults his manhood. A drawing-room pet is the highest title an artist can claim in these days, and, to gain that pitiful renown, he must throw overboard all respect for principle, all love of art. He must even make himself uncomfortable, forego innocent habits, burden himself with stupid formalities, in order to reach that favor which he feels in his inmost soul will only degrade him when he has won it. Many a man sells his soul to the devil in these days, just as in former times, but with this difference: that, in the old legends, the devil always gave a generous equivalent, whereas now he puts one off with very shabby gifts.
There is a quaint old tale of this sort current at Bruges, concerning an unhappy organist of very mediocre talents but immense ambition. He was dying with envy because the organist of the cathedral drew crowds to hear his marvellous playing, while he himself could barely draw out a few meagre harmonies. At last, in despair, he made a compact with the devil, bartering his soul for a long lease of years, during which he should be enabled to eclipse the best musicians in Europe. Suddenly it began to be noised about that there had been some strange charm at work; the obscure artist had blossomed into a prodigy, and the cathedral was deserted. Years went on, and all the musical talent of the mediæval world made pilgrimages to Bruges to hear the wonderful musician whose fingers could evoke such matchless harmonies, and cause the most hardened sinners to melt into tears. But one day, the poor man got frightened, and, with much contrition and many prayers, besought a priest to get him back his contract. The priest succeeded, and the devil was compelled to release his victim. The organist went as usual to his instrument. The church was full; foreigners were there and many of the notabilities of the town; but the musician’s power had fled. The result was a disgraceful failure, and the strangers left the church, declaring that a trick had been put upon them. The unhappy man, distracted and overwhelmed with shame, could not bear the ridicule of his altered position, and, in a moment of desperation, called again upon his former ally. The devil forbore to reproach him, and gladly gave him back the fatal talent. Things went on as before; it was said that a sudden indisposition had been the only cause of that memorable break-down, and crowds again flocked to hear the inspired organist. His end is darkly hinted to have been terrible.
Well in this case—supposing it to have been true—the power over the organ was a tangible and valuable gift; but nowadays artists and their patrons rather remind us of the story of Esau selling his birthright for a mess of pottage! Rich men should feel themselves honored by contact with artists, not vice versa. It is no more an honor for an artist to please a millionaire than it is for the church to receive again a truant and gifted son. The abstract laws of art and intellect are above the superficial and shifting necessities of the world, and, if there is to be any intercourse between the votaries of the former and the slaves of the latter, it should be the part of the lower natures to do homage first to the higher. A great king once said to his courtiers, when one of them importuned him to bestow a title upon him: “Assuredly I can make you a duke, monsieur, but God alone can make you a gentleman.” God alone can make an artist; God alone can mould a spirit as refined, a soul as complex, an organization as sensitive, as art requires in its devotees; and it follows that whosoever wilfully debases this spirit destroys God’s own handiwork. The world at large and its absurd maxims are much to blame, but the imprudence or carelessness of artists is none the less deplorable. No one should without reason arrogate to himself this position; it is a species of priesthood, and, except a man or woman be impelled to an æsthetic career by an irresistible impulse, it is not a safe or happy path to tread. None can live in that atmosphere unless God has really fitted them for it, and to them, if they carry their lamps unquenched to the end, it must needs be a path of trial. As a pure speculation, it is the worst career a practical man can embrace. It dooms the artist to a solitary life—solitary in fact if he wishes to succeed; solitary in spirit if he hastily burdens himself with a badly chosen companion.