NIETZSCHE AND ART

by

ANTHONY M. LUDOVICI

Author of 'Who is to be Master of the World?'

"Rien n'est beau que le vrai, dit un vers respecté;
et moi, je lui réponds, sans crainte d'un blasphème:
Rien n'est vrai sans beauté." —Alfred de Musset.

CONSTABLE & CO. LTD.

LONDON

1911

Sekhet (Louvre)

Preface

"We philosophers are never more delighted than when we are taken for artists."[1]

In this book, which embodies a course of lectures delivered in a somewhat condensed and summarized form at University College, London, during November and December, 1910, I have done two things. I have propounded Nietzsche's general Art doctrine, and, with the view of illustrating it and of defining it further, I have also applied its leading principles to one of the main branches of Art.

As this has not been done before, either in English or in any Continental language, my book is certainly not free from the crudeness and inadvertences which are inseparable from pioneer efforts of this nature. Nevertheless it is with complete confidence, and a deep conviction of its necessity, that I now see it go to print; for, even if here and there its adventurous spirit may ultimately require modification, I feel certain that, in the main, time itself, together with the help of other writers, will fully confirm its general thesis, if I should be unable to do so.

Sooner or later it will be brought home to us in Europe that we cannot with impunity foster and cultivate vulgarity and mob qualities in our architecture, our sculpture, our painting, our music and literature, without paying very dearly for these luxuries in our respective national politics, in our family institutions, and even in our physique. To connect all these things together, and to show their inevitable interdependence, would be a perfectly possible though arduous undertaking. In any case, this is not quite the task I have set myself in this work. I have indeed shown that to bestow admiration on a work of extreme democratic painting and at the same time to be convinced of the value of an aristocratic order of society, is to be guilty of a confusion of ideas which ultimately can lead only to disastrous results in practical life; but further than this I have not gone, simply because the compass of these lectures did not permit of my so doing.

Confining myself strictly to Nietzsche's æsthetic, I have been content merely to show that the highest Art, or Ruler Art, and therefore the highest beauty,—in which culture is opposed to natural rudeness, selection to natural chaos, and simplicity to natural complexity,—can be the flower and product only of an aristocratic society which, in its traditions and its active life, has observed, and continues to observe, the three aristocratic principles,—culture, selection and simplicity.

Following Nietzsche closely, I have sought to demonstrate the difference between the art which comes of inner poverty (realism, or democratic art), and that which is the result of inner riches (Ruler Art).

Identifying the first with the reflex actions which respond to external stimuli, I have shown it to be slavishly dependent upon environment for its existence, and, on that account, either beneath reality (Incompetence), on a level with reality (Realism), or fantastically different from reality (Romanticism). I have, moreover, associated these three forms of inferior art with democracy, because in democracy I find three conditions which are conducive to their cultivation, viz.—(1) The right of self-assertion granted to everybody, and the consequent necessary deterioration of world-interpretations owing to the fact that the function of interpretation is claimed by mediocrity; (2) the belief in a general truth that can be made common to all, which seems to become prevalent in democratic times, and which perforce reduces us to the only truth that can be made common to all, namely Reality; and (3) a democratic dislike of recognizing the mark or stamp of any particular human power in the things interpreted, and man's consequent "return to Nature" untouched by man, which, once again, is Reality.

Identifying Ruler Art, or the Art of inner riches, with the function of giving, I have shown it to be dependent upon four conditions which are quite inseparable from an aristocratic society, and which I therefore associate, without any hesitation, as Nietzsche does, with Higher Man, with Nature's rare and lucky strokes among men. These conditions are —(1) Long tradition under the sway of noble and inviolable values, resulting in an accumulation of will power and a superabundance of good spirits; (2) leisure which allows of meditation, and therefore of that process of lowering pitchers into the wells of inner riches; (3) the disbelief in freedom for freedom's sake without a purpose or without an aim; and (4) an order of rank according to which each is given a place in keeping with his value, and authority and reverence are upheld.

In the course of this exposition, it will be seen that I have to lay realism also at the door of Ruler Art; but I am careful to point out that, although such realism (I call it militant realism in respect to the art both of the Middle Ages and of the later Renaissance, as well as of Greece) is a fault, of Ruler Art which very much reduces the latter's rank among the arts; it is nevertheless above that other realism of mediocrity which, for the want of a better term, I call poverty realism. (See Lecture II, Part II, end.)

In order firmly to establish the difference between the Ruler and Democratic styles I ought, perhaps, to have entered with more thoroughness than I have done into the meditative nature of the one, and the empirical nature of the other. This, apart from a few very unmistakable hints, I have unfortunately been unable to do. I found it quite impossible to include all the detail bearing upon the main thesis, in this first treatise; and, though I have resolved to discuss these important matters very soon, in the form of supplementary essays, I can but acknowledge here that I recognize their omission as a blemish.

The wide field covered by this book, and the small form in which I was compelled to cast it, have thus led to many questions remaining inadequately answered and to many statements being left insufficiently substantiated. In the end I found it quite impossible to avail myself even of a third of the material I had collected for its production, and I should therefore be grateful if it could be regarded more in the light of a preliminary survey of the ground to be built upon, rather than as a finished building taking its foundation in Nietzsche's philosophy of Art.

With regard to all my utterances on Egypt, I should like the reader kindly to bear only this in mind: that my choice of Egyptian art, as the best example of Ruler Art we possess, is neither arbitrary nor capricious; but, because it is neither arbitrary nor capricious, it does not follow that I regard a return to the types of Egypt as the only possible salvation of the graphic arts. This would be sheer Romanticism and sentimentality. "A thousand paths are there which have never yet been trodden; a thousand salubrities and hidden islands of life. Unexhausted and undiscovered is still man and man's world" (Z., I, XXII.).

It is rather the spirit which led to this Egyptian Art, which I regard as so necessary to all great achievements, either in legislation, art, or religion; and whether this spirit happens to be found on the banks of the Nile, in the Vatican, or in Mexico. I point to it merely as something which we ought to prize and cherish, and which we now possess only in an extremely diluted and decadent form. It is the spirit which will establish order at all costs, whose manner of exploiting higher men is to look upon the world through their transfiguring vision, and which believes that it is better for mankind to attain to a high level, even in ones, twos, or threes, than that the bulk of humanity should begin to doubt that man can attain to a high level at all.

This spirit might produce any number of types; it is not necessary, therefore, that the Egyptian type should be regarded as precisely the one to be desired. I do but call your attention to these granite and diorite sculptures, because behind them I feel the presence and the power of that attitude towards life which the ancient Pharaohs held and reverenced, and which I find reflected in Nietzsche's Art values.

* * * * * * *

In quoting from German authorities, where I have not been able to give reference to standard English translations, I have translated the extracts from the original myself, for the convenience of English readers; while, in the case of French works, I have deliberately given the original text, only when I felt that the sense might suffer by translation.

I should now like to express my deep gratitude to Dr. Oscar Levy, who has always been ready to place his valuable time and wide knowledge at my disposal whenever I have expressed the smallest desire of consulting him on any difficult point that may have arisen during the preparation of these lectures. And I should also like to acknowledge the help afforded me by both Mr. J. M. Kennedy and Dr. Mügge,—the one through his extensive acquaintance with Eastern literature, and the other through his valuable bibliography of works relating to Nietzsche's life and philosophy.

It only remains for me to thank the Committee and the Provost of University College, Gower Street, for their kindness, and for the generous hospitality which they have now extended to me on two separate occasions; and, finally, to avail myself of this opportunity in order to express my grateful recognition of the trouble taken on my behalf by Professor Robert Priebsch and Mr. Walter W. Seton of London University, on both occasions when I had the honour of delivering a course of lectures at their College.

Anthony M. Ludovici.
February 1911.

[1] Friedrich Nietzsche's Gesämmelte Briefe, vol. 111, p. 305.

CONTENTS
[LECTURE I]
[Part I]
Anarchy in Modern Art
[The State of Modern Art]
The Fine Arts:
[1. The Artists]
[2. The Public]
[3. The Critics]
[4. Some Art-Criticisms]
[Part II]
Suggested Causes of the Anarchy in Modern Art
[1. Morbid Irritability]
[2. Misleading Systems of Æsthetic]
3. Our Heritage:—
[(a) Christianity]
[(b) Protestantism]
[(c) Philosophical Influences]
[(d) The Evolutionary Hypothesis]
[LECTURE II]
Government in Art—Nietzsche's Definition of Art
[Part I]
Divine Art and the Man—God
[1. The World "Without Form" and "Void"]
[2. The First Artists]
[3. The People and their Man-God]
[4. The Danger]
[5. The Two Kinds of Artists]
[Part II]
Deductions from Part I—Nietzsche's Art Principles
[1. The Spirit of the Age incompatible with Ruler Art]
[2. A Thrust parried. Police or Detective Art defined]
[3. The Purpose of Art Still the Same as Ever]
[4. The Artist's and the Layman's View of Life]
[5. The Confusion of the Two Points of View]
[6. The Meaning of Beauty of Form and of Beauty of Content in Art]
[7. The Meaning of Ugliness of Form and of Ugliness of Content in Art]
[8. The Ruler-Artist's Style and Subject]
[Part III]
Landscape and Portrait Painting
[1. The Value "Ugly" in the Mouth of the Dionysian Artist]
[2. Landscape Painting]
[3. Portrait Painting]
[LECTURE III]
Nietzsche's art principles in the history of art
[Part I]
Christianity and the Renaissance
[1. Rome and the Christian Ideal]
[2. The Pagan Type appropriated and transformed by Christian Art]
[3. The Gothic Building and Sentiment]
[4. The Renaissance]
[Part II]
Greece and Egypt
[1. Greek Art]
[(a) The Parthenon]
[(b) The Apollo of Tenea]
[(c) The Two Art-Wills of Ancient Greece]
[(d) Greek Painting]
[2. Egyptian Art]
[(a) King Khephrën]
[(b) The Lady Nophret]
[(c) The Pyramid]

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
[Sekhet] (Louvre) Frontispiece
[The Marriage of Mary], by Raphael (Brera, Milan)
[Saskia, by Rembrandt] (Dresden Royal Picture Gallery)
[The Canon of Polycleitus] (Rome)
[The Apollo of Tenea] (Glyptothek, Munich)
[The Medusa Metope of Selinus] (Palermo)
[King Khephrën] (Cairo Museum)
[The Lady Nophret] (Cairo Museum)

[Abbreviations Used in Referring to Nietzsche's Works]

The English renderings given in this book are taken from the Complete and Authorized Translation of Nietzsche's Works edited by Oscar Levy.

This edition in 18 volumes is entirely being made available at Project Gutenberg too, also with a linked index to all works as last volume, and will be completed soon.

Nietzsche and Art

[Lecture I][1]

[Part I]

Anarchy in Modern Art

"Therefore is the name of it called Babel; because the Lord did there confound the language of all the earth: and from thence did the Lord scatter them abroad upon the face of all the earth."—Genesis xi. 9.

"Concerning great things," said Nietzsche, "one should either be silent, or one should speak loftily:—loftily, that is to say, cynically and innocently."[2]

Art is a great thing. Maybe it is the greatest thing on earth. Wherever and whenever Nietzsche speaks about it he always does so loftily, and with reverence; while his position as an anchorite, and as an artist who kept aloof from the traffic for fame, allowed him to retain that innocence in his point of view, which he maintains is so necessary in the treatment of such a subject.

As the children of an age in which Art is rapidly losing its prestige, we modern Europeans may perhaps feel a little inclined to purse our lips at the religious solemnity with which Nietzsche approaches this matter. So large a number of vital forces have been applied to the object of giving us entertainment in our large cities, that it is now no longer a simple matter to divorce Art altogether in our minds from the category of things whose sole purpose is to amuse or please us.

Some there are, of course, who would repudiate this suggestion indignantly, and who would claim for Art a very high moral purpose. These moralists apart, however, it seems safe to say, that in the minds of most people to-day, Art is a thing which either leaves them utterly unmoved, or to which they turn only when they are in need of distraction, of decoration for their homes, or of stimulation in their thought.

Leaving the discussion of Nietzsche's personal view of Art to the next lecture, I shall now first attempt, from his standpoint, a general examination of the condition of Art at the present day, which, though it will be necessarily rapid and sketchy, will, I hope, not prove inadequate for my purpose.

Before I proceed, however, I should like to be allowed to call your attention to the difficulties of my task. As far as I am aware, mine is the first attempt that has been made, either here or abroad, to place an exhaustive account of Nietzsche's Art doctrine before any audience. But for one or two German writers, who have discussed Nietzsche —the artist—tentatively and hesitatingly, I know of no one who has endeavoured to do so after having had recourse to all his utterances on the subject, nor do I know of anybody who has applied his æsthetic principles to any particular branch or branches of Art. It is therefore with some reason that I now crave your indulgence for my undertaking and beg you to remember that it is entirely of a pioneer nature.

Many of you here, perhaps, are already acquainted with Nietzsche's philosophy, and are also intimately associated with one of the branches of Art. Nevertheless, let me warn you before I begin, that you may have to listen to heresies that will try your patience to the utmost.

I also am intimately associated with one of the branches of Art, and my traditions are Art traditions. I can well imagine, therefore, how some of you will receive many of the statements I am about to make; and I can only entreat you to bear with me patiently until the end, if only with the hope that, after all, there may be something worth thinking about, if not worth embracing, in what you are going to hear.

Two years ago, in this same hall, I had the honour of addressing an audience on the subject of Nietzsche's moral and evolutionary views, and, since then, I have wondered whether I really selected the more important side of his philosophy for my first lectures. If it were not for the fact that the whole of his thought is, as it were, of one single piece, harmoniously and consistently woven, I should doubt that I had selected the more vital portion of it; for it is impossible to overrate the value of his Art doctrine—especially to us, the children of an age so full of perplexity, doubt and confusion as this one is.

In taking Nietzsche's Art principles and Art criticism as a basis for a new valuation of Art, I am doing nothing that is likely to astonish the careful student of Nietzsche's works.

Friends and foes alike have found themselves compelled to agree upon this point, that Nietzsche, whatever he may have been besides, was at least a great artist and a great thinker on Art.

On the ground that he was solely and purely an artist some have even denied his claim to the title Philosopher. Among the more celebrated of modern writers who have done this, is the Italian critic Benedetto Croce;[3] while Julius Zeitler declares that "Nietzsche's artistic standpoint should be regarded as the very basis of all his thought," and that "no better access could be discovered to his spirit than by way of his æsthetic."[4]

Certainly, from the dawn of his literary career, Art seems to have been one of Nietzsche's most constant preoccupations. Even the general argument of his last work, The Will to Power, is an entirely artistic one; while his hatred of Christianity was the hatred of an artist long before it became the hatred of an aristocratic moralist, or of a prophet of Superman.

In The Birth of Tragedy, a book in which, by the bye, he declares that there can be but one justification of the world, and that is as an æsthetic phenomenon,[5] we find the following words—

"To the purely æsthetic world interpretation ... taught in this book, there is no greater antithesis than the Christian dogma, which is only and will be only moral, and which, with its absolute standards, for instance, its truthfulness of God, relegates—that is, disowns, convicts, condemns—Art, all Art, to the realm of falsehood. Behind such a mode of thought and valuation, which, if at all genuine, must be hostile to Art, I always experienced what was hostile to life, the wrathful vindictive counter will to life itself: for all life rests on appearance, Art, illusion, optics, and necessity of perspective and error."[6]

Nietzsche's works are, however, full of the evidences of an artistic temperament.

Who but an artist, knowing the joy of creating, for instance, could have laid such stress upon the creative act as the great salvation from suffering and an alleviation of life?[7] Who but an artist could have been an atheist out of his lust to create?

"For what could be created, if there were Gods!" cries Zarathustra.(7)

But, above all, who save an artist could have elevated taste to such a high place as a criterion of value, and have made his own personal taste the standard for so many grave valuations?

"And ye tell me, my friends," says Zarathustra, "that there is to be no dispute about taste and tasting? But all life is a dispute about taste and tasting!

"Taste: that is weight at the same time, and scales and weigher; and alas for every living thing that would live without dispute about weight and scales and weighing!"[8]

But it is more particularly in Nietzsche's understanding of the instinct which drove him to expression, and in his attitude towards those whom he would teach, that we recognize the typical artist, in the highest acceptation of the word—that is to say, as a creature of abundance, who must give thereof or perish. Out of plenitude and riches only, do his words come to us. With him there can be no question of eloquence as the result of poverty, vindictiveness, spite, resentment, or envy; for such eloquence is of the swamp.[9] Where he is wrath, he speaks from above, where he despises his contempt is prompted by love alone, and where he annihilates he does so as a creator.[10]

"Mine impatient love," he says, "floweth over in streams, down towards the sunrise and the sunset. From out silent mountains and tempests of affliction, rusheth my soul into the valleys.

"Too long have I yearned and scanned the far horizon. Too long hath the shroud of solitude been upon me: thus have I lost the habit of silence.

"A tongue have I become and little else besides, and the brawling of a brook, falling from lofty rocks: downward into the dale will I pour my words.

"And let the torrent of my love dash into all blocked highways. How could a torrent help but find its way to the sea!

"Verily, a lake lies within me, complacent and alone; but the torrent of my love draws this along with it, down—into the ocean!

"New highways I tread, new worlds come unto me; like all creators I have grown weary of old tongues. No longer will my spirit walk on worn-out soles.

"Too slow footed is all speech for me:—Into thy chariot, O storm, do I leap! And even thee will I scourge with my devilry.

"Thus spake Zarathustra."[11]

[1] Delivered at University College on Dec. 1st, 1910.

[2] W. P., Vol. I, p. 1.

[3] Æsthetic (translation by Douglas Ainslie), p. 350.

[4] Nietzsches Æsthetik, p. 5.

[5] B. T., p. 183.

[6] B. T., pp. 9, 10.

[7] Z., II, XXIV.

[8] Z., II, XXXV. See also La Bruyère's reply to his countrymen's popular belief, "des goûts et des couleurs on ne peut discuter," in Les Caractères: Des ouvrages de l'esprit, Aph. 10.

[9] Z., III, LVI.

[10] Z., II, XXXIV.

[11] Z., II, XXIII.

[The State of Modern Art.]

The Art of to-day, unholy and undivine as the Tower of Babel, seems to have incurred the wrath of a mighty godhead, and those who were at work upon it have abandoned it to its fate, and have scattered apart—all speaking different tongues, and all filled with confusion.

Precisely on account of the disorder which now prevails in this department of life, sincere and honest people find it difficult to show the interest in it, which would be only compatible with its importance.

Probably but few men, to-day, could fall on their knees and sob at the deathbed of a great artist, as Pope Leo X once did. Maybe there are but one or two who, like the Taiko's generals, when Teaism was in the ascendancy in Japan, would prefer the present of a rare work of art to a large grant of territory as a reward of victory;[12] and there is certainly not one individual in our midst but would curl his lips at the thought of a mere servant sacrificing his life for a precious picture.

And yet, says the Japanese writer, Okakura-Kakuzo, "many of our favourite dramas in Japan are based on the loss and subsequent recovery of a noted masterpiece."[13]

In this part of the world to-day, not only the author, but also the audience for such dramas is entirely lacking.

The layman, as well as the artist, knows perfectly well that this is so. Appalled by the disorder, contradictoriness, and difference of opinion among artists, the layman has ceased to think seriously about Art; while artists themselves are so perplexed by the want of solidarity in their ranks, that they too are beginning to question the wherefore of their existence.

Not only does every one arrogate to himself the right to utter his word upon Art; but Art's throne itself is now claimed by thousands upon thousands of usurpers—each of whom has a "free personality" which he insists upon expressing,[14] and to whom severe law and order would be an insuperable barrier. Exaggerated individualism and anarchy are the result. But such results are everywhere inevitable, when all æsthetic canons have been abolished, and when there is no longer anybody strong enough to command or to lead.

"Knowest thou not who is most needed of all?" says Zarathustra. "He who commandeth great things.

"To execute great things is difficult; but the more difficult task is to command great things."[15]

Direct commanding of any sort, however, as Nietzsche declares, has ceased long since. "In cases," he observes, "where it is believed that the leader and bell-wether cannot be dispensed with, attempt after attempt is made nowadays to replace commanders by the summing together of clever gregarious men: all representative constitutions, for example, are of this origin."[16]

Although, in this inquiry, the Fine Arts will be the subject of my particular attention, it should not be supposed that this is necessarily the department in modern life in which Nietzsche believed most disorder, most incompetence, and most scepticism prevails. I selected the Fine Arts, in the first place, merely because they are the arts concerning which I am best informed, and to which the Nietzschean doctrine can be admirably applied; and secondly, because sculpture and painting offer a wealth of examples known to all, which facilitates anything in the way of an exposition. For even outsiders and plain men in the street must be beginning to have more than an inkling of the chaos and confusion which now reigns in other spheres besides the Fine Arts. It must be apparent to most people that, in every department of modern life where culture and not calculation, where taste and not figures, where ability and not qualifications, are alone able to achieve anything great—that is to say, in religion, in morality, in law, in politics, in music, in architecture, and finally in the plastic arts, precision and government are now practically at an end.

"Disintegration," says Nietzsche,"—that is to say, uncertainty—is peculiar to this age: nothing stands on solid ground or on a sound faith.... All our road is slippery and dangerous, while the ice which still bears us has grown unconscionably thin: we all feel the mild and gruesome breath of the thaw-wind—soon, where we are walking, no one will any longer be able to stand!"[17]

We do not require to be told that in religion and moral matters, scarcely any two specialists are agreed—the extraordinarily large number of religious sects in England alone needs but to be mentioned here; in law we divine that things are in a bad state; in politics even our eyes are beginning to give us evidence of the serious uncertainty prevailing; while in architecture and music the case is pitiable.

"If we really wished, if we actually dared to devise a style of architecture which corresponded to the state of our souls," says Nietzsche, "a labyrinth would be the building we should erect. But," he adds, "we are too cowardly to construct anything which would be such a complete revelation of our hearts."[18]

However elementary our technical knowledge of the matter may be, we, as simple inquirers, have but to look about our streets to-day, in order to convince ourselves of the ignominious muddle of modern architecture. Here we find structural expedients used as ornaments,[19] the most rigid parts of buildings, in form (the rectangular parts, etc.), placed near the roof instead of in the basement,[20] and pillars standing supporting, and supported by, nothing.[21] Elsewhere we see solids over voids,[22] mullions supporting arches,[23] key-stones introduced into lintels,[24] real windows appearing as mere holes in the wall, while the ornamental windows are shams,[25] and pilasters resting on key-stones.[26]

And, everywhere, we see recent requirements masked and concealed behind Greek, Roman, Gothic, Renaissance, Rococo, and Baroque embellishments, thrown together helter-skelter, and with a disregard of structural demands which must startle even the uninitiated.[27]

Our streets are ugly in the extreme.[28] Only at night, as Camille Mauclair says, does the artificial light convert their hideousness into a sort of lugubrious grandeur,[29] and that is perhaps why, to the sensitive artistic Londoner, the darkness of night or the pale glow of the moon is such a solace and relief.

As to the state of modern music, this is best described perhaps, though with perfectly unconscious irony, by Mr. Henry Davey, in the opening words of his Student's Musical History.

"Music has indeed been defined," he says, "as 'sound with regular vibrations,' other sounds being called noise. This definition," the author adds, "is only suited to undeveloped music; modern music may include noise and even silence."[30]

People are mistaken if they suppose that Nietzsche, in attacking Wagner as he did, was prompted by any personal animosity or other considerations foreign to the question of music. In Wagner, Nietzsche saw a Romanticist of the strongest possible type, and he was opposed to the Romantic School of Music, because of its indifference to form. Always an opponent of anarchy, despite all that his critics may say to the contrary, Nietzsche saw with great misgiving the decline and decay of melody and rhythm in modern music, and in attacking Wagner as the embodiment of the Romantic School, he merely personified the movement to which he felt himself so fundamentally opposed. And in this opposition he was not alone. The Romantic movement, assailed by many, will continue to be assailed, until all its evil influences are exposed.

"Since the days of Beethoven," says Emil Naumann, "instrumental music, generally speaking, has retrograded as regards spontaneity of invention, thematic working, and mastery of art form,"[31] and the same author declares that he regards all modern masters as the natural outcome of the Romantic era.[32]

Nietzsche has told us in his Wagner pamphlets what he demands from music,[33] and this he certainly could not get from the kind of music which is all the rage just now.

What it lacks in invention it tries to make up in idiosyncrasy, intricacy, and complexity, and that which it cannot assume in the matter of form, it attempts to convert into a virtue and a principle.[34]

"Bombast and complexity in music," says P. von Lind, "as in any other art, are always a sign of inferiority; for they betray an artist's incapacity to express himself simply, clearly, and exhaustively—three leading qualities in our great heroes of music (Tonheroen). In this respect the whole of modern music, including Wagner's, is inferior to the music of the past."[35]

But of all modern musical critics, perhaps Richard Hamann is the most desperate concerning the work of recent composers. His book on Impressionism and Art entirely supports Nietzsche's condemnation of the drift of modern music, and in his references to Wagner, even the words lie uses seem to have been drawn from the Nietzschean vocabulary.[36]

Briefly what he complains of in the music of the day is its want of form,[37] its abuse of discord,[38] its hundred and one different artifices for producing nerve-exciting and nerve-stimulating effects,[39] its predilection in favour of cacophonous instruments,[40] its unwarrantable sudden changes in rhythm or tempo within the same movement,[41] its habit of delaying the solving chord, as in the love-death passage of Tristan and Isolde,[42] and, finally, its realism, of which a typical example is Strauss's "By a Lonely Brook"—all purely Nietzschean objections!

Well might Mr. Allen cry out: "Oh for the classic simplicity of a bygone age, the golden age of music that hath passed away!"[43] But the trouble does not end here; for, if we are to believe a certain organ-builder, bell-founder and pianoforte-maker of ripe experience, it has actually descended into the sphere of instrument-making as well.[44]

[12] Okakura-Kakuzo, The Book of Tea, pp. 112, 113.

[13] The Book of Tea, p. 112.

[14] See in this regard B. T., pp. 54, 55.

[15] Z., II. XLVI.

[16] G. E., p.121.

[17] W. P., Vol. I, p. 55.

[18] D. D., Aph. 169.

[19] This is such a common fault that it is superfluous to give particular examples of it, but the New War Office in Whitehall is a good case in point.

[20] Local Government Board building; Piccadilly Hotel (Regent St. side).

[21] Piccadilly Hotel (Piccadilly side), and the Sicilian Avenue, Bloomsbury.

[22] New Scotland Yard.

[23] Gaiety Theatre; the new Y.M.C.A. building, Tottenham Court Road.

[24] Local Government Board.

[25] Gaiety Theatre.

[26] Marylebone Workhouse.

[27] See Fergusson's Introduction to his History of Modern Architecture.

[28] See W. Morris's Address on the Decorative Arts, pp. 18, 19.

[29] Trois crises de l'art actuel, p. 243.

[30] The Student's Musical History, p. 1.

[31] History of Music, Vol. II, p. 927. See also The Student's Musical History, by Henry Davey, p. 97. "Weakness of rhythm is the main reason of the inferiority of the romantic composers to their predecessors."

[32] History of Music, p. 1195. See also P. v. Lind, Moderner Geschmack und moderne Musik, in which the author complains of the excessive virtuosity, want of faith and science of modern music, while on p. 34 he, too, calls all modern musicians romanticists.

[33] See especially C. W., pp. 59, 60.

[34] W. P., Vol. II, p. 276.

[35] Moderner Geschmack und moderne Musik, p. 54.

[36] Der Impressionismus in Leben und Kunst.

[37] Ibid., pp. 53, 57.

[38] Ibid., p. 64.

[39] Ibid., p. 67.

[40] Ibid., p. 69.

[41] Ibid., p. 74.

[42] Ibid., p. 61.

[43] The Fallacy of Modern Music, p. 10.

[44] A Protest against the Modern Development of Unmusical Tone, by Thomas C. Lewis.

[The Fine Arts.—1. The Artists.]

Turning, now, to Painting and Sculpture, what is it precisely that we see?

In this branch of Art, chaos and anarchy are scarcely the words to use. The condition is rather one of complete and hopeless dissolution. There is neither a direction, a goal, nor a purpose. Slavish realism side by side with crude conventions, incompetence side by side with wasted talent, coloured photography side by side with deliberate eccentricity, and scientific principles applied to things that do not matter in the least: these are a few of the features which are noticeable at a first glance. Going a little deeper, we find that the whole concept of what Art really is seems to be totally lacking in the work of modern painters and sculptors, and, if we were forced to formulate a Broad definition for the painting and sculpture of our time, we should find ourselves compelled to say that they are no more than a field in which more or less interesting people manifest their more or less interesting personalities.

There is nothing in this definition which is likely to offend the modern artist. On the contrary, he would probably approve of it all too hastily. But, in approving of it, he would confess himself utterly ignorant of what Art actually is, and means, and purposes in our midst.

Or to state the case differently: it is not that the modern artist has no notion at all of what Art is; but, that his notion is one which belittles, humiliates and debases Art, root and branch.

To have gazed with understanding at the divine Art of Egypt, to have studied Egyptian realism and Egyptian conventionalism; to have stood doubtfully before Greek sculpture, even of the best period, and to have known how to place it in the order of rank among the art-products of the world; finally, to have learnt to value the Art of the Middle Ages, not so much because of its form, but because of its content: these are experiences which ultimately make one stand aghast before the work of our modern men, and even before the work of some of their predecessors, and to ask oneself into whose hands could Art have passed that she should have fallen so low?

Whether one look on a Sargent or on a Poynter, on a Rodin or on a Brock, on a Vuillard or on a Maurice Denis, on an Alfred East or on a Monet, the question in one's heart will be; not, why are these men so poor? but, why are they so modest?—why are they so humble?—why, in fact, are their voices so obsequiously servile and faint? One will ask: not, why do these men paint or mould as they do? but, why do they paint or mould at all?

Ugliness, in the sense of amorphousness, one will be able to explain. Ugliness, in this sense, although its position in Art has not yet been properly accounted for, one will be able to classify perfectly well. But this tremulousness, this plebeian embarrassment, this democratic desire to please, above all, this democratic disinclination to assume a position of authority,—these are things which contradict the very essence of Art, and these are the things which are found in the productions of almost every European school to-day.

But, as a matter of fact, to do artists justice, beneath all the tremendous activity of modern times in both branches of the art we are discussing, there is, among the thinking members of the profession, a feeling of purposelessness, of doubt and pessimism, which is ill concealed, even in their work. The best of these artists know, and will even tell you, that there are no canons, that individuality is absolute, and that the aim of all their work is extremely doubtful, if not impossible to determine. There is not much quarrelling done, or hand-to-hand scuffling engaged in; because no one feels sufficiently firm on his own legs to stand up and oppose the doctrine that "there is no accounting for tastes." A clammy, deathlike stillness reigns over the whole of this seething disagreement and antagonism in principles. Not since Whistler fired his bright missiles into the press has the report of a decent-sized gun been heard; and this peace in chaos, this silence in confusion, is full of the suggestion of decomposition and decay.

"Art appears to be surrounded by the magic influence of death," says Nietzsche, "and in a short time mankind will be celebrating festivals of memory in honour of it."[45]

With but one or two brilliant exceptions, that which characterizes modern painting and modern sculpture is, generally speaking, its complete lack of Art in the sense in which I shall use this word in my next lecture. This indeed, as you will see, covers everything. For the present purpose, however, let it be said that, from the Nietzschean standpoint, the painters and sculptors of the present age are deficient in dignity, in pride, in faith, and, above all, in love.

They are too dependent upon environment, upon Nature, to give a direction and a meaning to their exalted calling; they are too disunited and too lawless to be leaders; they are in an age too chaotic and too sceptical to be able to find a "wherefore" and a "whither" for themselves; and, above all, there are too many pretenders in their ranks—too many who ought never to have painted or moulded at all—to make it possible for the greatest among them to elevate the Cause of Art to its proper level.

No æsthetic canon is to be seen or traced anywhere; nobody knows one, nobody dares to assert one. The rule that tastes cannot be disputed is now the only rule that prevails, and, behind this rule, the basest, meanest and most preposterous individual claims are able to make their influence felt.

Certainly, it is true, there is no accounting for tastes; but, once a particular taste has revealed itself it ought to be possible to classify it and to point out where it belongs and whither it is going to lead. Undoubtedly a man's taste cannot be taken from him, because its roots are in his constitution; but, once he has identified himself with a particular form of taste, it ought to be possible to identify him too,—that is to say, to realize his rank and his value.

If it is impossible to do this nowadays, it is because there is no criterion to guide us. It will therefore be my endeavour to establish a criterion, based upon Nietzsche's æsthetic, and, in the course of these lectures, to classify a few forms of taste in accordance with it.

Meanwhile, however, the inquiry into the present condition of the Fine Arts must be continued; and this shall now be done by taking up the public's standpoint.

[45] H. A. H., Vol. I, pp. 205, 206.

[2.The Public.]

The man who goes to a modern exhibition of pictures and sculptures, experiences visually what they experience aurally who stand on a Sunday evening within sight of the Marble Arch, just inside Hyde Park. Not only different voices and different subjects are in the air; but fundamentally different conceptions of life, profoundly and utterly antagonistic outlooks.

The Academy, The International Society of Sculptors, Painters and Gravers, The Royal Society of British Artists, The New English Art Club, The Salon des Artistes Français, and the Salon des Beaux Arts, are all alike in this; and the International's scorn of the Academy,[46] or the Academy's scorn of it, is as ridiculous as the Beaux Arts' scorn of the Salon, or vice versâ.

It is quite foolish, therefore, to inveigh against the public for their bad taste, Philistinism and apathy. How can they be expected to know, where there are no teachers? How can they be otherwise than apathetic where keen interest must perforce culminate in confusion? How can they have good taste or any taste at all, where there is no order of rank in tastes?

We know the torments of the modern lay student of Art, when he asks himself uprightly and earnestly whether he should say "yes" or "no" before a picture or a piece of sculpture. We know the moments of impotent hesitancy during which he racks his brains for some canon or rule on which to base his judgment, and we sympathize with his blushes when finally he inquires after the name of the artist, before volunteering to express an opinion.

At least a name is some sort of a standard nowadays. In the absence of other standards it is something to cling to; and the modern visitor to an Art exhibition has precious little to cling to, poor soul!

Still, even names become perplexing in the end; for it soon occurs to the lay student in question that, not only Millais, but also Leighton, Whistler, Rodin, Frith, Watts, Gauguin, John, and Vuillard have names in the Art world.

Now, it is generally at this stage that such a student of Art either retires disconcerted from his first attempts at grappling with the problem, and takes refuge in indifference; or else, from the depth of his despair, draws a certain courage which makes him say that, after all, he knows what he likes. Even if he does utter a heresy at times against fashion or against culture, he knows what pleases him.

And thus is formed that large concourse of people who set up what they like and dislike as the standard of taste.

It is in vain that painters and sculptors deplore the existence of this part of their audience. It is they themselves who are responsible for its existence. It is the anarchy in their own ranks that has infected the bravest of their followers.

The taste of the masses, endowed with self-confidence in this way, is now a potent force in European Art, and among those so-called artists who do not suffer under the existing state of affairs, there are many who actually conform and submit to this mob-rule. In my next lecture I shall show how even the art-canons of the lay masses have been adopted by some painters and sculptors in perfect good faith.

"Too long have we acknowledged them to be right, these petty people," says Zarathustra. "Thus we have at last given them power as well;—and now they teach that 'good' is only what petty people call 'good.'"[47]

It is on this account that many sincere and refined natures turn reluctantly away from Art altogether nowadays, and begin to doubt whether it serves any good purpose in the world at all. They grow weary of the humbug of the studios, the affectation of gushing amateurs, and the snobbery of the lionizing disciple of one particular school, and doubt the honesty even of his leader. They grow timid and renounce all judgment in Art, wondering whether any of it really matters. In a gingerly fashion they still hold on to generally accepted views,— views that time seems to have endorsed,—and thus they very often give all their attention to the Old Masters.[48]

And yet, it is in thus turning away with contempt from modern Art, that sincere people tacitly acknowledge how profoundly serious the question is on which they have turned their backs. For, it is the horror of its disorder that makes them disconsolate: they could continue facing this disorder only if the matter were less important.

Passing over that unfortunately large percentage of up-to-date people, in whose minds Art in general is associated with jewellery, French pastry and goldfish, as a more or less superfluous, though pleasing, luxury, the rest of the civilized world certainly feels with varying degrees of conviction that Art has some essential bearing upon life; and, though few will grant it the importance that Nietzsche claims for it, a goodly number will realize that it is quite impossible to reckon without it.

Now, if by chance, one of the last-mentioned people, having grown disgusted at the prevailing degeneration of Art, should start out in quest of a canon, or a standard whereby he might take his bearings in the sea of confusion around him, what are we to suppose would await him?

Unfortunately, we know only too well what awaits him!

He may turn to the art-critics—the class of men which society sustains for his special benefit in art matters,—or he may turn to the philosophers. He may spend years and years of labour in studying the Art and thought of Antiquity, of the Middle Ages, and of the Renaissance; but, unless he have sufficient independence of spirit to distrust not only the Art, but every single manifestation of modern life, and to try to find what the general corrosive is which seems to be active everywhere, it is extremely doubtful whether he will ever succeed in reaching a bourne or a destination of any sort whatsoever.

He will still be asking: "What is a good poem?" "What is good music?"—and, above all, "What is a good picture or a good statue?"

We know the difficulties of the layman, and even of the artist in this matter; for most of us who have thought about Art at all have experienced these same difficulties.

The general need, then, I repeat, is a definite canon,[49] a definite statement as to the aim and purpose of Art, and the establishment of an order of rank among tastes. Once more, I declare that I have attempted to arrive at these things by the principles of Nietzsche's Æsthetic; but, in order to forestall the amusement which an announcement of this sort is bound to provoke nowadays, let me remind you of two things: First, that any artistic canon must necessarily be relative to a certain type of man; and secondly, that the most that an establishment of an order of rank among tastes can do for you, is to allow you the opportunity of exercising some choice—a choice of type in manhood, therefore a choice as to a mode of life, and therefore a choice of values, and the customs and conditions that spring from them.

At present you have no such choice. You certainly have the option of following either Rodin and Renoir, or Whistler and Manet, or Sargent and Boldini, or John and Gauguin, or Herkomer and Lavery; but not one of you can say, "If I follow the first couple I shall be going in such and such a direction," or, "If I follow the second couple I shall be travelling towards this or that goal,"—this you would scarcely be able to say; neither could your leaders help you.

[46] For some amusing, and, at the same time, shrewd, remarks concerning the International Society, I would refer the reader to Mr. Wake Cook's Anarchism in Art (Cassell & Co.). I agree on the whole with what Mr. Wake Cook says, but cannot appreciate his remarks on Whistler.

[47] Z., IV, LXVII.

[48] In a Times leader of the 20th December, 1909, the writer puts the case very well. After referring to the heated controversy which was then raging round the Berlin wax bust that Dr. Bode declared to be a Leonardo, the writer goes on to say: "... it is amusing to see how the merit of the work is forgotten in the dispute about its origin. It seems to be assumed that if it is by Leonardo it must be a great work of art, and if by Lucas nothing of the kind.... This fact proves what needs no proving, that there are many wealthy connoisseurs who buy works of art not for their intrinsic merit, but for what is supposed to be their authenticity.... This state of things reveals an extraordinary timidity in buyers of works of art. If they all trusted their own taste" [that is to say, if they had a taste of their own based upon some reliable canon] "names would have no value. The intrinsic merit of a work of art is not affected by the name it bears.... Yet in the market the name of a great painter is worth more than the inspiration of a lesser one.... Hence many people believe that it is far more difficult to understand pictures than literature.... But there is no more mystery about pictures than about literature. It is only the market that makes a mystery of them, and the market does this because it is timid." In other words: because it does not know.

[49] On this point see Questionings on Criticism and Beauty, by the Rt. Hon. A. J. Balfour. (Oxford University Press.) Mr. Balfour entirely agrees that to-day we are driven to a kind of anarchy of individual preferences, and he acknowledges that he is not satisfied to remain in this position. He does not seem to recognize, however, how curiously and almost perfectly this anarchy in Art coincides with a certain anarchy in other departments of life, and thus, although it displeases him, he sees in it no imminent danger, or no hint that Art and life react in any way upon each other.

[3. The Critics.]

Now, to return to our lay-student of Art, let us suppose that he first approaches the art-critics of the day for guidance. Will there be one among these men who will satisfy him? Is there a single art-critic either of the nineteenth or twentieth century who knew, or who knows, his business?

It is possible to point to one or two, and even so, in doing this, one is prompted more by a sense of kindness than by a sense of accuracy. Some Continental critics, Camille Mauclair and Muther among them, and here and there an English critic like R. A. M. Stevenson, occasionally seem to hit a nail on the head; but as a rule, one can say with Coventry Patmore: "There is little that is conclusive or fruitful in any of the criticism of the present day."[50]

For the most part it is written by men who know absurdly little of their subject, and who, if they do know it, are acquainted much more with its chronological and encyclopædic than with its philosophical side. There is not much conscience either, or much acumen, in these men; and they are as a rule concerned with questions that are irrelevant to the point at issue. Like a certain kind of insect, as Nietzsche very justly remarks, they live by stinging; but their stings serve no purpose save that of providing them with their food.[51]

They are, perhaps, less to blame than the artists themselves for the state of affairs that exists to-day; but, while the artists have betrayed only themselves, the critics have betrayed the reading public. They have neither resisted nor condemned the flood of anarchy that has swept over the art-world; they have rather promoted it in every way in their power, abetting and applauding artists in their lawlessness. In fairness to some of them, however, it should be said, that in encouraging the confusion and disorder around them they very often acted with almost religious sincerity. This reservation applies to Ruskin, for instance, and to many other critics writing for the better-class papers.

Lest this be considered as an overstatement of the case, hear what one of these men himself actually says concerning his own profession! Mr. Frank Rutter, writing in 1907, expressed himself as follows:—

"In olden days the press used to lead public opinion; now it meekly follows because its courage has been sapped by servile cringing to the advertiser, because its antics and sensational inaccuracy have brought it into contempt. No longer commanding the authority of a parent or guardian, it seeks to attract attention by the methods of the cheap-jack. The few exceptions surviving only prove the rule."[52]

Finding themselves forced to speak of other things than "The Purpose of Art," "The Standard of Beauty," and "The Canons of Art"—simply because nobody now knows anything about these matters, or dares to assert anything concerning them,—the better-class art-critics, feeling that they must do something more than state merely their opinions concerning the work under notice—in fact, that they must give their reasons for their praise or blame—have lately been compelled to have recourse to the only field that is open to them, and that is technique.

Now, while Mr. Clutton Brock seems perfectly justified in deprecating these tactics on the part of some of his brother critics, and while Mr. Rutter seems quite wrong in upholding them, the question which naturally arises out of the controversy is: what is there left to the critic to talk about?

If he is no longer able to judge of the general tendency and teaching of a play, and if he is no longer able to regard it æsthetically, what can he do but analyse the playwright's grammar, and seek out the latter's split infinitives, his insufficient use of the subjunctive mood, his Cockney idioms and Cockney solecisms?

We agree with Mr. Clutton Brock that ... "the public has no concern with the process of production but only with the product"; and that "if Art were in a healthy state[53] the public would know this and would not ask for technical criticism." We also agree that "the critic's proper business is with the product, not with the process of production; to explain their own understanding and enjoyment of the meaning and beauty of works of art, and not the technical means by which they have been made."[54]

But, while we agree with all this, we cannot help sympathizing with the late R. A. M. Stevenson and his admirer Mr. Frank Rutter; for their dilemma is unique.

When Monsieur Domergue of the French Academy assured his friend Beauzée confidentially that he had discovered that Voltaire didn't know grammar, Beauzée very rightly replied with some irony: "I am much obliged to you for telling me; now I know that it is possible to do without it."[55]

And this is the only reply that ought to be made to any criticism which analyses the technique of a real work of Art; since it is obvious, that if technical questions are uppermost, the work is by implication unworthy of consideration in all other respects.[56]

[50] Principles in Art, p. 4.

[51] H. A. H., Vol. II, Aph. 164.

[52] The Academy, August 24th, 1907. Article, "The Pursuit of Taste."

[53] The italic are mine.

[54] The Academy, Oct. 26th, 1907. Article, "The Hypochondria of Art."

[55] Monsieur de Saint Ange's Reception Speech, 1810.

[56] There is, however, a further excuse for Mr. Rutter and his school of critics, and that is, that in an age like this one, in which Amateurism is rampant, the critic very often performs a salutary office in condemning a work on purely technical grounds. I, for my part, am quite convinced that the morbid attention which is now paid to technique is simply a result of the extraordinary preponderance of the art-student element in our midst.

[4. Some Art Criticisms.]

In order further to establish my contention, it might perhaps be an advantage to refer to some criticisms that have actually been made. It will not be necessary to give more than one or two of these, because everybody must know that similar instances could be multiplied indefinitely; but while I shall limit the selection, I should not like it to be thought that the cases I present are not absolutely typical.

Quite recently the art-world has been staring with something akin to amazement, not unmingled here and there with indignation, at the work of one Augustus John, in whose pictures they have found at once a problem and an innovation.

Now, without for the present wishing to express any opinion at all upon Mr. John's work, this at least seemed quite clear to me when I first saw it; namely, that it challenged profound analysis. Unconsciously or consciously, Mr. John seemed to re-question a whole number of things afresh. The direction of Art, the purpose of Art, the essence of Art, the value of Art—these are some of the subjects into which he provoked me to inquire.

Here was an opportunity for the more wise among the critics to show their wisdom. This was essentially a case in which the public required expert guidance. Augustus John comes forward with a new concept of what is beautiful. He says pictorially this and that is beautiful. Are we to follow him or to reject him?

Hear one or two critics:—

Commenting upon one of Mr. Max Beerbohm's caricatures in the Spring Exhibition of the New English Art Club, 1909, the Times critic writes as follows—"Here an art-critic meets a number of Mr. John's strange females with long necks and bent, unlovely heads, like a child's copy of a Primitive; and the puzzled critic ejaculates, 'How odd it seems that thirty years hence I may be desperately in love with these ladies!' Odd, indeed, but perfectly possible," continues the Timesexpert. "Some of us have learned, in twenty years, to find nature in Claude Monet, and the time may come when the women in Mr. John's 'Going to the Sea,' or in the 'Family Group' at the Grafton, will seem as beautiful as the Venus de Milo. The 'return of Night primeval and of old chaos' may be nearer than we think." Then after paying Mr. John's drawing a compliment, the writer continues: "But can any one, for all that, whose mind is not warped by purely technical prepossession in favour of a technician, say that the picture would not have been enormously improved if the artist had thought more of nature and less of his 'types' If Mr. John would throw his types to the winds, look for a beautiful model, and paint her as she is, we should not have to wait the thirty years of Mr. Max Beerbohm's critic, but might begin to fall in love with her at once."[57]

And this, let me assure you, is a comparatively able criticism!

But, what guidance does it give? Why is it so timid and non-committing? And, where it is committing, why is it so vague? The words "beautiful model" mean absolutely nothing nowadays. How, then, can the critic employ them without defining the particular sense in which he wishes them to be understood?

I examined this picture of Mr. John's, as also the one at the Grafton. Both of them were full of his personal solution of the deepest problems associated with the ideas of Art and beauty; but how can we know whether to accept these solutions unless they are made quite plain by our critics? It may be suggested that Mr. John's solutions of these problems is not sufficiently important. Why, then, discuss them at all?

The Daily Telegraph also contained a so-called criticism of Mr. John. After commenting, as the previous critic did, upon Mr. Max Beerbohm's caricature and the words accompanying it, the writer proceeds: "How true—to give the most obvious of all instances—with respect to Wagner! And yet Mr. Max Beerbohm, the satirist, is as regards the actual moment, not quite, quite up to date. To-day, for fear of being accused of a Bœotian denseness, we hasten to acclaim, if not necessarily to enjoy, Cézanne, Maurice Denis, the neo-Impressionists, etc., etc."[58]

"For fear of being accused of Bœotian denseness!" Yes, that is the whole trouble! Apparently, then, if we are to believe the Daily Telegraph critic, Mr. John has been acclaimed, simply in order that his critics may escape the gibe of being classically dense!

Possessing neither the necessary knowledge, nor the necessary values, nor yet the necessary certainty, to take up a definite stand for or against, these critics "acclaim" novelty, in whatever garb it may come, lest, perchance, their intelligence be for one instant doubted. Very good!—at least this is a confession which reveals both their humility and their honesty, and, since it entirely supports my contention, I am entirely grateful for it.

But what ought to be said to the implied, ingenuous and perfectly unwarrantable assumption, that that which posterity endorses must of necessity have been right all along? Why should Wagner be vindicated simply because an age subsequent to his own happens to rave about him? Before such posthumous success can vindicate a man, surely the age in which it occurs must be duly valued. In the event of its being more lofty, more noble, and more tasteful than the age which preceded it, then certainly posthumous fame is a vindication; but if the case be otherwise, then it is a condemnation. In an ascending culture the classic of yesterday becomes the primitive of to-morrow, and in a declining culture the decadent of yesterday becomes the classic of to-morrow. Thus in valuing, say, Michelangelo, it all depends whence you come. If you come from Egypt and walk down towards him, your opinion will be very different from that of the man who comes from twentieth-century Europe and who walks up towards him.

But we are not ascending so rapidly or so materially—if we are ascending at all—as to make posthumous success a guarantee of excellence. In fact, precisely the converse might be true, and men who are now quickly forgotten, may be all the greater on that account alone. In any case, however, the matter is not so obvious as to allow us to make the broad generalizations we do concerning it.

Perhaps, in order to be quite fair, I ought now to refer to other critics, as well as to other criticisms concerning John written by the critics already quoted. True, in the Times for October 14th, 1905, there appears a more elaborate discussion of Mr. John's powers. (I say more elaborate, but I mean more lengthy!) And the Daily Telegraph has also given us more careful views, as, for instance, in their issues of October 17th, 1905, and November 23rd, 1909. I doubt, however, whether it could be honestly said that one really understands any better how to place Mr. John after having read the articles in question, though, in making this objection, I should like it to be understood, that I regard it as applying not only to the art-criticism of the two particular papers to which I have referred, but to art-criticism in general.[59]

Most of what we read on this matter in the sphere of journalism is pure badinage, and little besides—entertainingly and ably written it is true, but generally very wide of the fundamental principles at stake, and of that consciousness of dealing with a deeply serious question, which the subject Art ought to awaken.

No one seems to feel nowadays that a picture, like a sonnet, like a sonata, and like a statue, if it claim attention at all, should claim the attention of all those who are most deeply concerned with the problems of Life, Humanity, and the Future; and that every breath of Art comes from the lungs of Life herself, and is full of indications as to her condition.

When one says these things nowadays, people are apt to regard one as a little peculiar, a little morbid, and perhaps a little too earnest as well. Only two or three months ago, a certain critic, commenting upon a sentence of mine in my Introduction to Nietzsche's Case of Wagner,[60] in which I declared that "the principles of Art are inextricably bound up with the laws of Life," assured the readers of the Nation that "the plainest facts of everyday life contradict this theory of non-artistic philosophers in their arm-chairs."[61] And thus the fundamental questions are shelved, year after year, while Art withers, and real artists become ever more and more scarce.

"I loathe this great city," cried Zarathustra.

"Woe to this great city!—And I would that I already saw the pillar of fire in which it will be consumed!

"For such pillars of fire must precede the great noontide. But this hath its time and its own fate."[62]

[57] The Times, May 22nd, 1909.

[58] The Daily Telegraph, May 31st, 1909.

[59] A further example of what I mean can be found in the Morning Post's article (4th April), on the International Society's 1910 Show. Here the writer's only comments on a Simon Bussy (No. 149), which really required serious treatment, or no treatment at all, are: "Could any English tourist at Mentone see that resort in the terms of M. Bussy?" And his comments on an important Monet (No. 133) are: "What happy Idler at Antibes other than a Frenchman could record the particular impression of Monet (No. 133), even in enjoying the hospitalities of Eilenroe?"

[60] Dr. Oscar Levy's Authorized English Edition of Nietzsche's Complete Works.

[61] The Nation, July 9th, 1910.

[62] Z., III, LI.

[Part II]

Suggested Causes Of The Anarchy In Modern Art

"... To them gave he power to become the sons of God, even to them that do believe in his name."—John i. 12.

And now, what are the causes of this depression and this madness in Art? For Nietzsche was not alone in recognizing it. Many voices, some wholly trustworthy, have been raised in support of his view.

It could only have been the unsatisfactory conditions, even in his time, that made Hegel regard Art as practically dead; for, as Croce and Monsieur Bénard rightly observe, Hegel's Vorlesungen über Æsthetik are Art's dirge.[1] Schopenhauer's extraordinary misunderstanding of Art, also, precisely like Plato's,[2] can be explained only by supposing that the examples of Art which he saw about him misled his otherwise penetrating judgment. Even Ruskin's vague and wholly confused utterances on the subject are evidence of his groping efforts to find his way in the disorder of his time. And, as to the voices of lesser men, their name is legion.

Two eminent Englishmen of the last century, however, were both clear and emphatic in their denunciation of the age in which they lived. I refer to Matthew Arnold and William Morris. The former made a most illuminating analysis of some of the influences which have conduced to bring about the regrettable state of modern life, while William Morris—less philosophical perhaps, and more direct, though totally wrong in the remedies he advocates—bewailed Art's unhappy plight as follows—

"I must in plain words say of the Decorative Arts, of all the arts, that it is not merely that we are inferior in them to all who have gone before us, but also that they are in a state of anarchy and disorganization, that makes a sweeping change necessary and certain."[3]

There can be no doubt, therefore, that what Nietzsche saw was a plain fact to very many thinking men besides; but, in tracing the conditions to precise and definite causes, Nietzsche by far excelled any of his contemporaries.

Before proceeding, however, to examine the more general causes that he suggests, I should like to pause here a moment, in order to dispose of one particular cause which, although of tremendous importance for us moderns, can scarcely be regarded as having been active for a very long period. I refer to the manner in which Nietzsche accounts for a good deal that is incompetent and futile, in the Art of the present day only, by pointing to a psychological misapprehension which is, alas, but all too common. I should not have broken my general narrative with the consideration of this particular cause, had it not been that I feel sure it will help laymen, and artists as well, to account for much that will still remain obscure, even after the more general causes have been discussed.

[1] Benedetto Croce, Æsthetic (translated by Douglas Ainslie), p. 308, and Monsieur Bénard's critical survey of Hegel's Æsthetik in Cours d'Esthétique, Vol. V. p. 493.

[2] On this point see Schelling, Sämmtliche Werke, Vol. V, "Vorlesungen über die Methode des akademischen Studiums," pp. 346-47.

[3] The Decorative Arts, an address delivered before the Trades Guild of Learning, p. 11.

[1. Morbid Irritability.]

Nietzsche recognized that this age is one in which Will is not merely diseased, but almost paralyzed. Everywhere he saw men and women, youths and girls, who are unable to resist a stimulus, however slight; who react with excessive speed in the presence of an irritant, and who bedeck this weakness and this irritability with all the finest gala dresses and disguises that they can lay their hands on.[4]

In Determinism he saw the philosophical abstract of this fact; in our novels and plays he saw its representation under the cloak of passion and emotion; in the Darwinian theory of the influence of environment, he saw it logged out in scientific garb, and in the modern artist's dependence upon an appeal to Nature for inspiration—i. e. for a spur to react upon, he recognized its unhealthiest manifestation.

"The power of resisting stimuli is on the wane," he says; "the strength required in order to stop action, and to cease from reacting, is most seriously diseased."[5]

"Man unlearns the art of doing, and all he does is to react to stimuli coming from his environment."[6]

Speaking of the modern artist, he refers to "the absurd irritability of his system, which makes a crisis out of every one of his experiences, and deprives him of all calm reflection,"[7] and, while describing Europeans in general, he lays stress upon their "spontaneous and changeable natures."[8]

In calling our attention to these things, Nietzsche certainly laid his finger on the root of a good deal for which the other more general causes which I shall adduce fail to account.

There can be no doubt that this irritability does exist, and that it causes large numbers of unrefined and undesirable men and women to enter the arts to-day, who are absolutely mistaken in their diagnosis of their condition. We are all only too ready to conceal our defects beneath euphemistic interpretations of them, and we most decidedly prefer, if we have the choice, to regard any morbid symptoms we may reveal, as the sign of strength rather than of weakness. There is some temptation, therefore, both for our friends and ourselves, to interpret our natures kindly and if possible flatteringly; and, if we suffer from a certain "sickly irritability and sensitiveness" in the presence of what we think beautiful, we prefer to ascribe this to an artistic temperament rather than to a debilitated will.

We are acquainted with the irascible nerve patient who pours his curses on the head of a noisy child; and in his case we are only too ready to suspect a morbid condition of the body. But when we ourselves, or our young friends, or our brothers, sister, or cousins, suddenly display, when still in their teens, a sort of gasping enthusiasm before a landscape, a peasant child, or a sunset; when they show an inability to bide their time, to pause, and to remain inactive in the presence of what they consider beautiful, we immediately conclude from their conduct, not that they have little command of themselves, but that they must of necessity have strong artistic natures.

Our novels are full of such people with weak wills, so are our plays; so, too, unfortunately, are our Art Schools.

We know the Art student who, the moment he sees what he would call "a glorious view," or a "dramatic sunset or sunrise," hurls his materials together helter-skelter and dashes off, ventre à terre, to the most convenient spot whence he can paint it.

We have seen him seize the thing he calls an impression, his teeth clenched the while, and his nostrils dilated. But how often does it occur to us that such a creature has got a bad temper? How often do we realize that he is irritable, self-indulgent, sick in fact?

Only in an age like our own could this ridiculous travesty of an artist pass for an artist. It is only in our age that his neurotic touchiness could possibly be mistaken for strength and vigour; and yet there are hundreds of his kind among the painters and sculptors of the day.

Many a student's call to Art, at present, is merely a reminder, on the part of Nature, that he should cultivate restraint and forbearance, and should go in for commerce; for there is a whole universe between such a man and the artist of value. Not that sensitiveness is absent in the real artist; but it is of a kind which has strength to wait, to reflect, to weigh, and, if necessary, to refrain from action altogether.

"Slow is the experience of all deep wells," says Zarathustra. "Long must they wait ere they know what hath sunk into their depths."[9]

But the people I have just described have only a skin, and any itch upon it they call Art.

No lasting good, no permanent value can come of these irascible people who will be avenged on all that they call beauty, "right away"; who will, so to speak, "pay beauty out," and who cannot contain themselves in its presence. They can but help to swell the ranks of the incompetent, and even if they are successful, as they sometimes are nowadays, all they do is to wreck the sacred calling in which they are but pathological usurpers.

Now, in turning to the more general causes, we find that in accounting for the prevailing anarchy in Europe and in countries like Europe, and particularly in England and in countries like England, Nietzsche pointed to the whole heritage of traditional thought which prevailed and still does prevail in the civilized parts of the Western world, and declared that it was in our most fundamental beliefs, in our most unquestioned dogmas, and in our most vaunted birthrights that this anarchy takes its source.

If Art had lost its prestige in our midst, and even its justification; and if individualism, incompetence, eccentricity, mediocrity and doubt were rife, we must seek the causes of all this neither in Diderot's somewhat disappointing essay on painting, nor in the slur that Rousseau had once cast upon the culture of man, nor in John Stuart Mill's arguments in favour of individualism, nor yet in Spencer's declaration that "the activities we call play are united with the æsthetic activities by the trait that neither subserves in any direct way the processes conducive to life."[10]

All these things are merely symptomatic. Diderot, Rousseau, John Stuart Mill, and Spencer were only symptoms of still deeper influences which have been at work for centuries, and those influences are to be sought in the most vital values upon which our civilization is based.

[4] G. E., p. 145.

[5] W. P., Vol. I, p. 36.

[6] W. P., Vol. I, p. 63.

[7] W. P., Vol. II, p. 258.

[8] W. P., Vol. II, p. 339.

[9] Z., I, XII.

[10] The Principles of Psychology, Vol. II, p. 627.

[2. Misleading Systems of Æsthetic.]

It is perfectly true that from classic times onward the guidance of European thought, on matters of Art, has been almost entirely inadequate if not misleading. But for the subconscious motives of artists and their spectators there seems to have been very little comprehension of what Art actually means and aspires to, and even these subconscious motives have been well-nigh stifled, thanks to the false doctrines with which they have been persistently and systematically smothered. Perhaps, however, the very nature of the subject condemns it to false theoretical treatment; for it has almost always been at the mercy of men who were not themselves performers in the arts. Of the few artists who have written on Art, how many have given us an adequate expression of what they themselves must have felt and aspired to? Not one. Ghiberti, Vasari, Leonardo, Michelangelo, Mengs, Hogarth and Reynolds—to mention the most famous, teach us scarcely anything at all concerning the essence of their life passion, and this is, as Nietzsche observes, perhaps "a necessary fault; for," he continues, "the artist who would begin to understand himself would therewith begin to mistake himself—he must not look backwards, he must not look at all; he must give.—It is an honour for an artist to have no critical faculty; if he can criticize he is mediocre, he is modern."[11]

Still, the greater part of this faulty guidance may, in itself, be but another outcome of the erroneous and rooted beliefs which lie even deeper in the heart of life than Art itself, and for these beliefs we must seek deep down in the foundations of European thought for the last two or three hundred years. In fact, we must ask ourselves what our heritage from by-gone ages has been.