it may be the joy of the merchant adventurer in pushing out new
enterprise, or of the engineer in building a bridge, or of the artist in
a masterpiece accomplished; but it is always of the thing created.
Again, contrast joy with glory. Glory comes with success and is
exceedingly _pleasant_; it is not joyous. Some men say an artist's crown
is glory; his deepest satisfaction is in the applause of his fellows.
There is no greater mistake; we care for praise just in proportion as we
are not sure we have succeeded. To the real creative artist even praise
and glory are swallowed up in the supreme joy of creation. Only the
artist himself feels the real divine fire, but it flames over into the
work of art, and even the spectator warms his hands at the glow.

We can now, I think, understand the difference between the artist and
true lover of art on the one hand, and the mere aesthete on the other.
The aesthete does not produce, or, if he produces, his work is thin and
scanty. In this he differs from the artist; he does not feel so strongly
and see so clearly that he is forced to utterance. He has no joy, only
pleasure. He cannot even feel the reflection of this creative joy. In
fact, he does not so much feel as want to feel. He seeks for pleasure,
for sensual pleasure as his name says, not for the grosser kinds, but
for pleasure of that rarefied kind that we call a sense of beauty. The
aesthete, like the flirt, is cold. It is not even that his senses are
easily stirred, but he seeks the sensation of stirring, and most often
feigns it, not finds it. The aesthete is no more released from his own
desires than the practical man, and he is without the practical man's
healthy outlet in action. He sees life, not indeed in relation to
action, but to his own personal sensation. By this alone he is debarred
for ever from being an artist. As M. Andre Beaunier has well observed,
by the irony of things, when we see life in relation to ourselves we
cannot really represent it at all. The profligate thinks he knows women.
It is his irony, his curse that, because he sees them always in relation
to his own desires, his own pleasure, he never really knows them at all.

There is another important point. We have seen that art promotes a part
of life, the spiritual, image-making side. But this side, wonderful
though it is, is never the whole of actual life. There is always the
practical side. The artist is always also a man. Now the aesthete tries
to