ter, so that in the course of time
all real feelings--yes, the very want of and appreciation of the
rightly-developed natural form--are hopelessly lost. Why is it then
that the dilettanti attain their end so much more quickly than the true
artists? Because, with this system of abbreviation, they steer straight
for those results which seem to them of the most importance:
resemblance, spirit, elegance of execution. For that reason they are
often marvelously skillful in mastering the proportions of a face, for
instance, and setting it off by a few dots and strokes so that
everybody cries: 'Oh! how like! how speaking! and how quickly done!'
The true artist knows that the length of time spent in the production
is by no means a measure of excellence; and as he has not only a
general sense of proportion, but also a feeling for the true form
itself, he does not rest until he has done it full justice--until, so
to speak, he has worked outward from the very core of that the exterior
of which his eyes have already taken in and fully comprehended.
However," he went on after a short pause, during which he unwound the
wet cloths from his Bacchante, "you are at liberty to believe that all
this is merely my personal opinion and nothing more than exaggerated
estimate of what constitutes true art. In ordinary life the artist is
distinguished from the dilettante only by the fact that the former
follows the thing as a calling, and the latter only for his own
amusement. According to this, you would be an artist from the moment
you cast aside the baron, the statesman or jurist, the _homme
d'action_, that you have in you, and regularly devoted a certain number
of hours of the day to dirtying your fingers with clay. If you stick to
it persistently, it would be very hard lines indeed if, in the course
of several years, you should not possess the necessary mechanical skill
just as well as any one else. Even to become an academic professor need
not be an unattainable aim of your ambition. And if, in spite of all
that, I should still continue, in my heart, to look upon you as a born
dilettante, you could smile down upon me graciously, and heap coals of
fire upon my head by proposing me as an honorary member of your
academy. Ah! my dear boy, I tell you, if you should make a close
examination of many of our most famous great men, you would bring to
light little else than a disguised and beautiful dilettantism, made up
of humbug, elegant trappings, an