Part 17 (1/2)

Let us have no more flaunting of these equivocal and noisy t.i.tles, _naturalism, realism_, and so forth! Art is Nature, yes, _in the first place_; but Nature verified and registered, weighed--_judged_, in a word, before the tribunal of a discernment which a.n.a.lyses, and a reason which rectifies and restores her. Art is a reparation of the failures and forgetfulness of Reality. It is the immortalisation of mortal things by a wise process of elimination, not by a blind and servile wors.h.i.+p of their defective and perishable qualities. At all costs and against all comers, then, let us preserve our splendid ecole de Rome, whose archives bear such names as those of David, Ingres, Flandrin, Regnault, Duret, Herold, Halevy, Berlioz, Bizet--none of which, as far as I am aware, warrant the scornful pity under which some people would fain wither a dynasty already over a century old.

Let us put forth all our strength to defend the sacred retreat which shelters our growing artist, frees him from premature anxiety concerning his daily bread, and forewarns and forearms him, not against the temptation to mere money-getting only, but against the vulgar triumphs of a paltry and evanescent popularity.

THE ARTIST AND MODERN

SOCIETY

The immense extension of social relations in modern times has had considerable influence on artistic life and work; an influence which, if I mistake not, has done more harm than good.

Formerly, and not so very long ago either, an artist, like a man of learning, was held, and justly so, to be a member of one of the great corporations of intellectual workers. He was looked on as a sort of recluse, whose retreat was sacred from disturbance. Men would have hesitated to tear him from the silence and meditation without which the conception and production of healthy work which will withstand the onslaught of Time--that merciless judge who ”never spares aught he did not help to make”--becomes difficult, if not utterly impossible.

Nowadays, the artist is no longer his own master. He belongs to the world at large. He is worse than its target. He is its prey. His own personal and productive life is almost entirely absorbed, swamped, squandered, in so-called social obligations, which gradually stifle him in that network of sham and barren duties which go to make up many an existence devoid of serious object or high motive. In a word, society eats him up.

Now, what is society? It is an aggregation of individuals who are afraid of being bored, and whose sole idea is to get away from their own selves, because of the terror with which the idea of being left in their own sole company inspires them.

Once we begin to tot up the amount of time levied on the artist's working hours by the constantly increasing number of small calls struggling and fighting for his attention all day long, we wonder how, by what extra activity, what effort of concentration, he contrives to perform his chief duty--that of doing honour to the career he has chosen, and to which his best powers and his highest faculties by right belong. It must surely be admitted that in removing the barrier which its scornful indifference, rather than its intelligent discretion, had placed between itself and artists in general, modern society has done them a mischief in no way atoned for by the attractions it offers.

Moliere, whose searching glance so deeply fathomed human weaknesses, and who portrayed them with such an unerring hand, addressed the following lines, full of the deepest wisdom and the healthiest philosophy, to the great Colbert:--

”L'etude et la visite ont leurs talents a part Qui se donne a la Cour se derobe a son art.

Un esprit partage rarement s'y consomme Et les emplois de feu demandant tout un homme.”

Let any one try to realise what can in fairness be expected from the mind of a man incessantly torn hither and thither by evening parties, dinners, perpetual invitations to social gatherings of every sort, a ma.s.s of correspondence which leaves him no peace, and the guilty authors of which never dream of saying to themselves, ”I am stealing this man's time and thoughts, his very life;” and by all the petty tyrannies, in fine, which go to make up that monster one, called the indiscretion of the public.

And then the visitors, the crowd of idle and curious loungers, who a.s.sail your privacy from dawn till dark! Somebody says, ”That's all your own fault--you can say you are not at home.” Very fine indeed! But how about those letters of introduction, frequently requesting some service on your part which you cannot well refuse? You make up your mind to do your duty, and the visitor is shown in.

”Excuse me; I fear I disturb you!”

”Well, frankly, yes!”

”I beg your pardon; I will not stay now. I'll call another time.”

”Oh, pray don't!”

”But--when can I see you without disturbing you?”

”The fact is, I am always busy when I am at home.”

”Are you really always so hard at work?”

”Yes, always, unless I am interrupted.”

”Oh, I am so sorry to trouble you! But I will only detain you a very few minutes.”

”Well, well, sir, that's long enough to kill a man, not to mention an idea! But as you are here, pray proceed.”

This is a sample of what occurs daily; and I speak here of artists as a general cla.s.s. But there is a certain category of artists who have quite special advantages in this line. I can speak out of my own experience, for I refer to musicians. A painter or a sculptor can easily protect his working hours by mercilessly closing his door. He can plead a sitting model, or, if the worst comes to the worst, he can wield the brush or chisel even in the presence of visitors. But the musician? His case is quite different. As his work can be done in daylight, people take his evenings to provide amus.e.m.e.nt for their guests; and as he can work at night, they come and waste and fritter away his days without the slightest scruple. ”And besides,” they say, ”musical composition is such an easy thing! It is not a matter of labour; it comes of itself, an inspiration!”