short stories and essays-第23部分

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occasion　for　anxiety。　　Not　unnaturally　there　was　a　black…hearted　villain
in　the　piece；　so　very　black…hearted　that　he　seemed　not　to　have　a　single
good　impulse　from　first　to　last。　　Yet　he　was；　in　the　keeping　of　the　stage
Providence；　as　harmless　as　a　blank　cartridge；　in　spite　of　his　deadly
aims。　　He　accomplished　no　more　mischief；　in　fact；　than　if　all　his　intents
had　been　of　the　best；　except　for　the　satisfaction　afforded　by　the
edifying　spectacle　of　his　defeat　and　shame；　he　need　not　have　been　in　the
play　at　all；　and　one　might　almost　have　felt　sorry　for　him；　he　was　so
continually　baffled。　　But　this　was　not　enough　for　the　audience；　or　for
that　part　of　it　which　filled　the　gallery　to　the　roof。　　Perhaps　he　was
such　an　uncommonly　black…hearted　villain；　so　very；　very　cold…blooded　in
his　wickedness　that　the　justice　unsparingly　dealt　out　to　him　by　the
dramatist　could　not　suffice。　　At　any　rate；　the　gallery　took　such　a　vivid
interest　in　his　punishment　that　it　had　out　the　actor　who　impersonated　the
wretch　between　all　the　acts；　and　hissed　him　throughout　his　deliberate
passage　across　the　stage　before　the　curtain。　　The　hisses　were　not　at　all
for　the　actor；　but　altogether　for　the　character。　　The　performance　was
fairly　good；　quite　as　good　as　the　performance　of　any　virtuous　part　in　the
piece；　and　easily　up　to　the　level　of　other　villanous　performances　（I
never　find　much　nature　in　them；　perhaps　because　there　is　not　much　nature
in　villany　itself；　that　is；　villany　pure　and　simple）；　but　the　mere
conception　of　the　wickedness　this　bad　man　had　attempted　was　too　much　for
an　audience　of　the　average　popular　goodness。　　It　was　only　after　he　had
taken　poison；　and　fallen　dead　before　their　eyes；　that　the　spectators
forbore　to　visit　him　with　a　lively　proof　of　their　abhorrence；　apparently
they　did　not　care　to　〃give　him　a　realizing　sense　that　there　was　a
punishment　after　death；〃　as　the　man　in　Lincoln's　story　did　with　the　dead
dog。




II。

The　whole　affair　was　very　amusing　at　first；　but　it　has　since　put　me　upon
thinking　（I　like　to　be　put　upon　thinking；　the　eighteenth…century
essayists　were）　that　the　attitude　of　the　audience　towards　this　deplorable
reprobate　is　really　the　attitude　of　most　readers　of　books；　lookers　at
pictures　and　statues；　listeners　to　music；　and　so　on　through　the　whole
list　of　the　arts。　　It　is　absolutely　different　from　the　artist's　attitude；
from　the　connoisseur's　attitude；　it　is　quite　irreconcilable　with　their
attitude；　and　yet　I　wonder　if　in　the　end　it　is　not　what　the　artist　works
for。　　Art　is　not　produced　for　artists；　or　even　for　connoisseurs；　it　is
produced　for　the　general；　who　can　never　view　it　otherwise　than　morally；
personally；　partially；　from　their　associations　and　preconceptions。

Whether　the　effect　with　the　general　is　what　the　artist　works　for　or　not；
he；　does　not　succeed　without　it。　　Their　brute　liking　or　misliking　is　the
final　test；　it　is　universal　suffrage　that　elects；　after　all。　　Only；　in
some　cases　of　this　sort　the　polls　do　not　close　at　four　o'clock　on　the
first　Tuesday　after　the　first　Monday　of　November；　but　remain　open
forever；　and　the　voting　goes　on。　　Still；　even　the　first　day's　canvass　is
important；　or　at　least　significant。　　It　will　not　do　for　the　artist　to
electioneer；　but　if　he　is　beaten；　he　ought　to　ponder　the　causes　of　his
defeat；　and　question　how　he　has　failed　to　touch　the　chord　of　universal
interest。　　He　is　in　the　world　to　make　beauty　and　truth　evident　to　his
fellowmen；　who　are　as　a　rule　incredibly　stupid　and　ignorant　of　both；　but
whose　judgment　he　must　nevertheless　not　despise。　　If　he　can　make
something　that　they　will　cheer；　or　something　that　they　will　hiss；　he　may
not　have　done　any　great　thing；　but　if　he　has　made　something　that　they
will　neither　cheer　nor　hiss；　he　may　well　have　his　misgivings；　no　matter
how　well；　how　finely；　how　truly　he　has　done　the　thing。

This　is　very　humiliating；　but　a　tacit　snub　to　one's　artist…pride　such　as
one　gets　from　public　silence　is　not　a　bad　thing　for　one。　　Not　long　ago　I
was　talking　about　pictures　with　a　painter；　a　very　great　painter；　to　my
thinking；　one　whose　pieces　give　me　the　same　feeling　I　have　from　reading
poetry；　and　I　was　excusing　myself　to　him　with　respect　to　art；　and　perhaps
putting　on　a　little　more　modesty　than　I　felt。　　I　said　that　I　could　enjoy
pictures　only　on　the　literary　side；　and　could　get　no　answer　from　my　soul
to　those　excellences　of　handling　and　execution　which　seem　chiefly　to
interest　painters。　　He　replied　that　it　was　a　confession　of　weakness　in　a
painter　if　he　appealed　merely　or　mainly　to　technical　knowledge　in　the
spectator；　that　he　narrowed　his　field　and　dwarfed　his　work　by　it；　and
that　if　he　painted　for　painters　merely；　or　for　the　connoisseurs　of
painting；　he　was　denying　his　office；　which　was　to　say　something　clear　and
appreciable　to　all　sorts　of　men　in　the　terms　of　art。　　He　even　insisted
that　a　picture　ought　to　tell　a　story。

The　difficulty　in　humbling　one's　self　to　this　view　of　art　is　in　the　ease
with　which　one　may　please　the　general　by　art　which　is　no　art。　　Neither
the　play　nor　the　playing　that　I　saw　at　the　theatre　when　the　actor　was
hissed　for　the　wickedness　of　the　villain　he　was　personating；　was　at　all
fine；　and　yet　I　perceived；　on　reflection；　that　they　had　achieved　a
supreme　effect。　　If　I　may　be　so　confidential；　I　will　say　that　I　should　be
very　sorry　to　have　written　that　piece；　yet　I　should　be　very　proud　if；　on
the　level　I　chose　and　with　the　quality　I　cared　for；　I　could　invent　a
villain　that　the　populace　would　have　out　and　hiss　for　his　surpassing
wickedness。　　In　other　words；　I　think　it　a　thousand　pities　whenever　an
artist　gets　so　far　away　from　the　general；　so　far　within　himself　or　a
little　circle　of　amateurs；　that　his　highest　and　best　work　awakens　no
response　in　the　multitude。　　I　am　afraid　this　is　rather　the　danger　of　the
arts　among　us；　and　how　to　escape　it　is　not　so　very　plain。　　It　makes　one
sick　and　sorry　often　to　see　how　cheaply　the　applause　of　the　common　people
is　won。　　It　is　not　an　infallible　test　of　merit；　but　if　it　is　wanting　to
any　performance；　we　may　be　pretty　sure　it　is　not　the　greatest
performance。




III。

The　paradox　lies　in　wait　here；　as　in　most　other　human　affairs；　to
confound　us；　and　we　try　to　baffle　it；　in　this　way　and　in　that。　　We　talk；
for　instance；　of　poetry　for　poets；　and　we　fondly　imagine　that　this　is
different　from　talking　of　cookery　for　cooks。　　Poetry　is　not　made　for
poets；　they　have　enough　poetry　of　their　own；　but　it　is　made　for　people
who　are　not　poets。　　If　it　does　not　please　these；　it　may　still　be　poetry；
but　it　is　poetry　which　has　failed　of　its　truest　office。　　It　is　none　the
less　its　truest　office　because　some　very　wretched　verse　seems　often　to　do
it。

The　logic　of　such　a　fact　is　not　that　the　poet　should　try　to　achieve　this
truest　office　of　his　art　by　means　of　doggerel；　but　that　he　should　study
how　and　where　and　why　the　beauty　and　the　truth　he　has　made　manifest　are
wanting　in　universal　interest；　in　human　appeal。　　Leaving　the　drama　out　of
the　question；　and　the　theatre　which　seems　now　to　be　seeking　only　the
favor　of　the　dull　rich；　I　believe　that　there　never　was　a　time　or　a　race
more　open　to　the　impressions　of　beauty　and　of　truth　than　ours。　　The
artist　who　feels　their　divine　charm；　and　longs　to　impart　it；　has　now　and
here　a　chance　to　impart　it　more　widely　than　ever　artist　had　in　the　world
before。　　Of　course；　the　means　of　reaching　the　widest　range　of　humanity
are　the　simple　and　the　elementary；　but　there　is　no　telling　when　the
complex　and　the　recondite　may　not　universally　please。　　288

The　art　is　to　make　them　plain　to　every　one；　for　every　one　has　them　in
him。　　Lowell　used　to　say　that　Shakespeare　was　subtle；　but　in　letters　a
foot　high。

The　painter；　sculptor；　or　author　who　pleases　the　polite　only　has　a
success　to　be　proud　of　as　far　as　it　goes；　and　to　be　ashamed　of　that　it
goes　no　further。　　He　need　not　shrink　from　giving　pleasure　to　the　vulgar
because　bad　art　pleases　them。　　It　is　part　of　his　reason　for　being　that　he
should　please　them；　too；　and　if　he　does　not　it　is　a　proof　that　he　is
wanting　in　force；　however　much　he　abounds　in　fineness。　　Who　would　not
wish　his　picture　to　draw　a　crowd　about　it？　　Who　would　not　wish　his　novel
to　sell　five　hundred　thousand　copies；　for　reasons　besides　the　sordid　love
of　gain　which　I　am　told　governs　novelists？　　One　should　not　really　wish　it
any　the　less　because　chromos　and　historical　romances　are　popular。

Sometime；　I　believe；　the　artist　and　his　public　will　draw　nearer　together
in　a　mutual　understanding；　though　perhaps　not　in　our　present　conditions。
I　put　that　understanding　off　till　the　good　time　when　life　shall　be　more
than　living；　more　even　than　the　question　of　getting　a　living；　but　in　the
mean　time　I　think　that　the　artist　might　very　well　study　the　springs　of
feeling　in　others；　and　if　I　were　a　dramatist　I　think　I　should　quite
humbly　go　to　that　play　where　they　hiss　the　villain　for　his　villany；　and
inquire　how　his　wickedness　had　been　made　so　appreciable；　so　vital；　so
personal。　　Not　being　a　dramatist；　I　still　cannot　indulge　the　greatest
contempt　of　that　play　and　its　public。






POLITICS　OF　AMERICAN　AUTHORS

No　thornier　theme　could　well　be　suggested　than　I　was　once　invited　to
consider　by　an　Englishman　who　wished　to　know　how　far　American　politicians
were　scholars；　and　how　far　American　authors　took　part　in　politics。　　In　my
mind　I　first　revolted　from　the　inquiry；　and　then　I　cast　about；　in　the
fascination　it　began　to　have　for　me；　to　see　how　I　might　handle　it　and
prick　myself　least。　　In　a　sort；　which　it　would　take　too　long　to　set
forth；　politics　are　very　intimate　matters　with　us；　and　if　one　were　to
deal　quite　frankly　with　the　politics　of　a　contemporary　author；　one　might
accuse　one's　self　of　an　unwarrantable　personality。　　So；　in　what　I　shall
have　to　say　in　answer　to　the　question　asked　me；　I　shall　seek　above　all
things　not　to　be　quite　frank。




I。

My　uncandor　need　not　be　so　jealously　guarded　in　speaking　of　authors　no
longer　living。　　Not　to　go　too　far　back　among　these；　it　is　perfectly　safe
to　say　that　when　the　slavery　question　began　to　divide　all　kinds　of　men
among　us；　Lowell；　Longfellow；　Whittier；　Curtis；　Emerson；　and　Bryant　more
or　less　promptly　and　openly　to