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Page 9
At the apex of the top segment stands often one man, and only
one. His joyful vision cloaks a vast sorrow. Even those who are
nearest to him in sympathy do not understand him. Angrily they
abuse him as charlatan or madman. So in his lifetime stood
Beethoven, solitary and insulted.
[Footnote: Weber, composer of Der Freischutz, said of Beethoven's
Seventh Symphony: "The extravagances of genius have reached the
limit; Beethoven is now ripe for an asylum." Of the opening
phrase, on a reiterated "e," the Abbe Stadler said to his
neighbour, when first he heard it: "Always that miserable 'e'; he
seems to be deaf to it himself, the idiot!"]
How many years will it be before a greater segment of the
triangle reaches the spot where he once stood alone? Despite
memorials and statues, are they really many who have risen to his
level? [Footnote 2: Are not many monuments in themselves answers
to that question?]
In every segment of the triangle are artists. Each one of them
who can see beyond the limits of his segment is a prophet to
those about him, and helps the advance of the obstinate whole.
But those who are blind, or those who retard the movement of the
triangle for baser reasons, are fully understood by their fellows
and acclaimed for their genius. The greater the segment (which is
the same as saying the lower it lies in the triangle) so the
greater the number who understand the words of the artist. Every
segment hungers consciously or, much more often, unconsciously
for their corresponding spiritual food. This food is offered by
the artists, and for this food the segment immediately below will
tomorrow be stretching out eager hands.
This simile of the triangle cannot be said to express every
aspect of the spiritual life. For instance, there is never an
absolute shadow-side to the picture, never a piece of unrelieved
gloom. Even too often it happens that one level of spiritual food
suffices for the nourishment of those who are already in a higher
segment. But for them this food is poison; in small quantities it
depresses their souls gradually into a lower segment; in large
quantities it hurls them suddenly into the depths ever lower and
lower. Sienkiewicz, in one of his novels, compares the spiritual
life to swimming; for the man who does not strive tirelessly, who
does not fight continually against sinking, will mentally and
morally go under. In this strait a man's talent (again in the
biblical sense) becomes a curse--and not only the talent of the
artist, but also of those who eat this poisoned food. The artist
uses his strength to flatter his lower needs; in an ostensibly
artistic form he presents what is impure, draws the weaker
elements to him, mixes them with evil, betrays men and helps them
to betray themselves, while they convince themselves and others
that they are spiritually thirsty, and that from this pure spring
they may quench their thirst. Such art does not help the forward
movement, but hinders it, dragging back those who are striving to
press onward, and spreading pestilence abroad.
Such periods, during which art has no noble champion, during
which the true spiritual food is wanting, are periods of
retrogression in the spiritual world. Ceaselessly souls fall from
the higher to the lower segments of the triangle, and the whole
seems motionless, or even to move down and backwards. Men
attribute to these blind and dumb periods a special value, for
they judge them by outward results, thinking only of material
well-being. They hail some technical advance, which can help
nothing but the body, as a great achievement. Real spiritual
gains are at best under-valued, at worst entirely ignored.
The solitary visionaries are despised or regarded as abnormal and
eccentric. Those who are not wrapped in lethargy and who feel
vague longings for spiritual life and knowledge and progress, cry
in harsh chorus, without any to comfort them. The night of the
spirit falls more and more darkly. Deeper becomes the misery of
these blind and terrified guides, and their followers, tormented
and unnerved by fear and doubt, prefer to this gradual darkening
the final sudden leap into the blackness.
At such a time art ministers to lower needs, and is used for
material ends. She seeks her substance in hard realities because
she knows of nothing nobler. Objects, the reproduction of which
is considered her sole aim, remain monotonously the same. The
question "what?" disappears from art; only the question "how?"
remains. By what method are these material objects to be
reproduced? The word becomes a creed. Art has lost her soul.
In the search for method the artist goes still further. Art
becomes so specialized as to be comprehensible only to artists,
and they complain bitterly of public indifference to their work.
For since the artist in such times has no need to say much, but
only to be notorious for some small originality and consequently
lauded by a small group of patrons and connoisseurs (which
incidentally is also a very profitable business for him), there
arise a crowd of gifted and skilful painters, so easy does the
conquest of art appear. In each artistic circle are thousands of
such artists, of whom the majority seek only for some new
technical manner, and who produce millions of works of art
without enthusiasm, with cold hearts and souls asleep.
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