ers
and adulteries cluster as thick as flies, or the shaking of a reed in a
stream as the current plucks it softly from below. If a man can
communicate to others his amazed bewilderment in the presence of the
tragedy, or his exquisite delight in the form and texture and motion of
the reed, he is an artist. Of course, there will always be more people
who will be affected by a melodrama, by strange and ghastly events, by
the extremes of horror and pathos, than will be affected by the
delicate grace of familiar things--the tastes of the multitude are
coarse and immature. But a man must not measure his success by the
range of his audience, though the largest art will appeal to the widest
circle. Art can be great and perfect without being large and
surprising. And thus the function of the artist is to determine what he
can see clearly and perfectly, and to take that as his subject. It may
be to build a cathedral or to engrave a gem; but the art will be great
in proportion as he sees his end with absolute distinctness, and loves
the detail of the labour that makes the execution flawless and perfect.
The artist, if he would prevail, must not be seduced by any temptation,
any extraneous desire, any peevish criticism, any well-meant rebuke,
into trying a subject that he knows is too large for him. He must be
his own severest critic. No artistic effort can be effective, if it is
a joyless straining after things falteringly grasped. Joy is the
essential quality; it need not always be a present, a momentary joy.
There are weary spaces, as when a footsore traveller plods along the
interminable road that leads him to the city where he would be. But he
must know in his heart that the joy of arrival will outweigh all the
dreariness of the road, and he must, above all things, mean to arrive.
If at any moment the artist feels that he is not making way, and doubts
whether the object of his quest is really worth the trouble, then he
had better abandon the quest; unless, indeed, he has some moral motive,
apart from the artistic motive, in continuing it. For the end of art is
delight and the quickening of the pulse of emotion; and delight cannot
be imparted by one who is weary of the aim, and the pulse cannot be
quickened by one whose heart is failing him. There may, as I say, be
moral reasons for perseverance, and if a man feels that it is his duty
to complete a work when his artistic impulse has failed him, he had
better do it. But he must