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Page 51
Such a man I should call, not an operative, but a workman. You may
call him an artist if you will, for I have been describing the
qualities of artists as I know them; but a capitalist will be apt to
call him a 'troublesome fellow,' a radical of radicals, and, in
fact, he will be troublesome--mere grit and friction in the wheels
of the money-grinding machine.
Yes, such a man will stop the machine perhaps; but it is only
through him that you can have art, i.e. civilisation unmaimed, if
you really want it; so consider, if you do want it, and will pay the
price and give the workman his due.
What is his due? that is, what can he take from you, and be the man
that you want? Money enough to keep him from fear of want or
degradation for him and his; leisure enough from bread-earning work
(even though it be pleasant to him) to give him time to read and
think, and connect his own life with the life of the great world;
work enough of the kind aforesaid, and praise of it, and
encouragement enough to make him feel good friends with his fellows;
and lastly (not least, for 'tis verily part of the bargain), his own
due share of art, the chief part of which will be a dwelling that
does not lack the beauty which Nature would freely allow it, if our
own perversity did not turn Nature out of doors.
That is the bargain to be struck, such work and such wages; and I
believe that if the world wants the work and is willing to pay the
wages, the workmen will not long be wanting.
On the other hand, if it be certain that the world--that is, modern
civilised society--will nevermore ask for such workmen, then I am as
sure as that I stand here breathing, that art is dying: that the
spark still smouldering is not to be quickened into life, but damped
into death. And indeed, often, in my fear of that, I think, 'Would
that I could see what is to take the place of art!' For, whether
modern civilised society CAN make that bargain aforesaid, who shall
say? I know well--who could fail to know it?--that the difficulties
are great.
Too apt has the world ever been, 'for the sake of life to cast away
the reasons for living,' and perhaps is more and more apt to it as
the conditions of life get more intricate, as the race to avoid
ruin, which seems always imminent and overwhelming, gets swifter and
more terrible. Yet how would it be if we were to lay aside fear and
turn in the face of all that, and stand by our claim to have, one
and all of us, reasons for living. Mayhap the heavens would not
fall on us if we did.
Anyhow, let us make up our minds which we want, art, or the absence
of art, and be prepared if we want art, to give up many things, and
in many ways to change the conditions of life. Perhaps there are
those who will understand me when I say that that necessary change
may make life poorer for the rich, rougher for the refined, and, it
may be, duller for the gifted--for a while; that it may even take
such forms that not the best or wisest of us shall always be able to
know it for a friend, but may at whiles fight against it as a foe.
Yet, when the day comes that gives us visible token of art rising
like the sun from below--when it is no longer a justly despised whim
of the rich, or a lazy habit of the so-called educated, but a thing
that labour begins to crave as a necessity, even as labour is a
necessity for all men--in that day how shall all trouble be
forgotten, all folly forgiven--even our own!
Little by little it must come, I know. Patience and prudence must
not be lacking to us, but courage still less. Let us be a Gideon's
band. 'Whosoever is fearful and afraid, let him return, and depart
early from Mount Gilead.' And among that band let there be no
delusions; let the last encouraging lie have been told, the last
after-dinner humbug spoken, for surely, though the days seem dark,
we may remember that men longed for freedom while yet they were
slaves; that it was in times when swords were reddened every day
that men began to think of peace and order, and to strive to win
them.
We who think, and can enjoy the feast that Nature has spread for us,
is it not both our right and our duty to rebel against that slavery
of the waste of life's joys, which people thoughtless and joyless,
by no fault of their own, have wrapped the world in? From our own
selves we can tell that there is hope of victory in our rebellion,
since we have art enough in our lives, not to content us, but to
make us long for more, and that longing drives us into trying to
spread art and the longing for art; and as it is with us so it will
be with those that we win over: little by little, we may well hope,
will do its work, till at last a great many men will have enough of
art to see how little they have, and how much they might better
their lives, if every man had his due share of art--that is, just so
much as he could use if a fair chance were given him.
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