y, there can be no question of
superiority. Beauty is always equally beautiful; the degrees exist only
when we have not yet attained beauty.

And thus the old prejudice against the artist to whom interpretation in
his own special form of creation is really based upon a
misunderstanding. Take the art of music. Bach writes a composition for
the violin: that composition exists, in the abstract, the moment it is
written down upon paper, but, even to those trained musicians who are
able to read it at sight, it exists in a state at best but half alive;
to all the rest of the world it is silent. Ysaye plays it on his violin,
and the thing begins to breathe, has found a voice perhaps more
exquisite than the sound which Bach heard in his brain when he wrote
down the notes. Take the instrument out of Ysaye's hands, and put it
into the hands of the first violin in the orchestra behind him; every
note will be the same, the same general scheme of expression may be
followed, but the thing that we shall hear will be another thing, just
as much Bach, perhaps, but, because Ysaye is wanting, not the work of
art, the creation, to which we have just listened.

That such art should be fragile, evanescent, leaving only a memory which
can never be realised again, is as pathetic and as natural as that a
beautiful woman should die young. To the actor, the dancer, the same
fate is reserved. They work for the instant, and for the memory of the
living, with a supremely prodigal magnanimity. Old people tell us that
they have seen Desclee, Taglioni; soon no one will be old enough to
remember those great artists. Then, if their renown becomes a matter of
charity, of credulity, if you will, it will be but equal with the renown
of all those poets and painters who are only names to us, or whose
masterpieces have perished.

Beauty is infinitely various, always equally beautiful, and can never be
repeated. Gautier, in a famous poem, has wisely praised the artist who
works in durable material:

Oui, l'oeuvre sort plus gelle
D'une forme au travail
Rebelle,
Vers, marbre, onyx, email.

No, not more beautiful; only more lasting.

Tout passe. L'art robuste
Seul a l'eternite.
Le buste
Survit a la cite.

Well, after all, is there not, to one who regards it curiously, a
certain selfishness, even, in this desire to perpetuate oneself or the
work of one's hands; as the most austere saints have found selfishness
at the root of the soul