short stories and essays-第25节

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As　a　matter　of　fact；　the　religion　of　New　England　is　not　now　so
Puritanical　as　that　of　many　parts　of　the　South　and　West；　and　yet　the
inherited　Puritanism　stamps　the　New　England　manner；　and　differences　it
from　the　manner　of　the　straightest　sects　elsewhere。　　There　was；　however；
always　a　revolt　against　Puritanism　when　Puritanism　was　severest　and
securest；　this　resulted　in　types　of　shiftlessness　if　not　wickedness；
which　have　not　yet　been　duly　studied；　and　which　would　make　the　fortune　of
some　novelist　who　cared　to　do　a　fresh　thing。　　There　is　also　a
sentimentality；　or　pseudo…emotionality　（I　have　not　the　right　phrase　for
it）；　which　awaits　full　recognition　in　fiction。　　This　efflorescence　from
the　dust　of　systems　and　creeds；　carried　into　natures　left　vacant　by　the
ancestral　doctrine；　has　scarcely　been　noticed　by　the　painters　of　New
England　manners。　　It　is　often　a　last　state　of　Unitarianism；　which
prevailed　in　the　larger　towns　and　cities　when　the　Calvinistic　theology
ceased　to　be　dominant；　and　it　is　often　an　effect　of　the　spiritualism　so
common　in　New　England；　and；　in　fact；　everywhere　in　America。　　Then；　there
is　a　wide…spread　love　of　literature　in　the　country　towns　and　villages
which　has　in　great　measure　replaced　the　old　interest　in　dogma；　and　which
forms　with　us　an　author's　closest　appreciation；　if　not　his　best。　　But　as
yet　little　hint　of　all　this　has　got　into　the　short　stories；　and　still
less　of　that　larger　intellectual　life　of　New　England；　or　that　exalted
beauty　of　character　which　tempts　one　to　say　that　Puritanism　was　a
blessing　if　it　made　the　New…Englanders　what　they　are；　though　one　can
always　be　glad　not　to　have　lived　among　them　in　the　disciplinary　period。
Boston；　the　capital　of　that　New　England　nation　which　is　fast　losing
itself　in　the　American　nation；　is　no　longer　of　its　old　literary　primacy；
and　yet　most　of　our　right　thinking；　our　high　thinking；　still　begins
there；　and　qualifies　the　thinking　of　the　country　at　large。　　The　good
causes；　the　generous　causes；　are　first　befriended　there；　and　in　a
wholesome　sort　the　New　England　culture；　as　well　as　the　New　England
conscience；　has　imparted　itself　to　the　American　people。

Even　the　power　of　writing　short　stories；　which　we　suppose　ourselves　to
have　in　such　excellent　degree；　has　spread　from　New　England。　　That　is；
indeed；　the　home　of　the　American　short　story；　and　it　has　there　been
brought　to　such　perfection　in　the　work　of　Miss　Wilkins；　of　Miss　Jewett；
of　Miss　Brown；　and　of　that　most　faithful；　forgotten　painter　of　manners；
Mrs。　Rose　Terry　Cook；　that　it　presents　upon　the　whole　a　truthful　picture
of　New　England　village　life　in　some　of　its　more　obvious　phases。　　I　say
obvious　because　I　must；　but　I　have　already　said　that　this　is　a　life　which
is　very　little　obvious；　and　I　should　not　blame　any　one　who　brought　the
portrait　to　the　test　of　reality；　and　found　it　exaggerated；　overdrawn；　and
unnatural；　though　I　should　be　perfectly　sure　that　such　a　critic　was
wrong。






THE　WHAT　AND　THE　HOW　IN　ART

One　of　the　things　always　enforcing　itself　upon　the　consciousness　of　the
artist　in　any　sort　is　the　fact　that　those　whom　artists　work　for　rarely
care　for　their　work　artistically。　　They　care　for　it　morally；　personally；
partially。　　I　suspect　that　criticism　itself　has　rather　a　muddled
preference　for　the　what　over　the　how；　and　that　it　is　always　haunted　by　a
philistine　question　of　the　material　when　it　should；　aesthetically
speaking；　be　concerned　solely　with　the　form。




I。

The　other　night　at　the　theatre　I　was　witness　of　a　curious　and　amusing
illustration　of　my　point。　　They　were　playing　a　most　soul…filling
melodrama；　of　the　sort　which　gives　you　assurance　from　the　very　first　that
there　will　be　no　trouble　in　the　end；　but　everything　will　come　out　just　as
it　should；　no　matter　what　obstacles　oppose　themselves　in　the　course　of
the　action。　　An　over…ruling　Providence；　long　accustomed　to　the　exigencies
of　the　stage；　could　not　fail　to　intervene　at　the　critical　moment　in
behalf　of　innocence　and　virtue；　and　the　spectator　never　had　the　least
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；