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Page 55
"'There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy!'
"You seem in some strange way to be dominated by the shade of
Cleopatra. Now, if I believed in metempsychosis, I should think you
were Mark Antony brought down to date. There, with that present
sober air of yours, you'd pass anywhere for such an anachronism.
But to be serious, and to give you advice which is positively bilious
with gravity, I should say, investigate this thing fully; make a
study of this ancient charmer. By the way, why not begin by going
to see Davenport in Sardou's 'Cleopatra'? You have never seen her
in it, have you?"
In this way, I succeeded in getting him out of his depressed state.
We got into an argument concerning the merits of Miss Davenport's
work. I know of nothing Maitland would sooner do than argue, and,
if attacked on a subject upon which he feels strongly, he is, for
the time being, totally oblivious of everything else. For this
reason I trapped him into this argument. I abominate what is now
known as "realism" just as much as he does, but you don't have much
of an argument without some apparent difference of opinion, so, for
the nonce, I became a realist of whom Zola himself would have been
proud. "Why, man," I said, "realism is truth. You certainly can't
have any quarrel with that." I knew this would have the effect of
a red rag flaunted in the face of a bull.
"Truth! Bah!" he exclaimed excitedly. "I have no patience with
such aesthetic hod-carriers! Truth, indeed! Is there no other truth
in art but that coarse verisimilitude, that vulgar trickery, which
appeals to the eyes and the ears of the rabble? Are there not
psychological truths of immensely greater importance? What sane man
imagines for a moment that the pleasure he derives from seeing that
greatest of all tragedians, Edwin Booth, in one of Shakespeare's
matchless tragedies, is dependent upon his believing that this or
that character is actually killed? Why, even the day of the
cranberry-juice dagger is long since passed. When Miss Davenport
shrieks in 'Fedora,' the shriek is literal--'real,' you would call
it--and you find yourself instinctively saying, 'Don't!---don't!'
and wishing you were out of the house. When Mr. Booth, as 'Shylock'
shrieks at 'Tubal's' news, the cry is not real, is not literal, but
is suggestive, and you see at once the fiendish glee of which it is
the expression. The difference between the two is the difference
between vocal cords and grey matter."
"But surely," I rejoined, "one doesn't want untruth; one wants--"
but he did not let me finish.
"Always that cry of truth!" he retorted. "Do you not see how absurd
it is, as used by your exponents of realism? With a bit of charcoal
some Raphael draws a face with five lines, and some photographer
snaps a camera at the same face. Which would any sane man choose as
the best work of art? The five-line face, of course. Why? Is the
work of the camera unreal? Is it not more accurate in drawing, more
subtle in gradation than the less mechanical picture? To be sure.
What, then, makes the superiority of the few lines of our Raphael?
That which makes the superiority of all noble art--its truth,, not
on a low, but on a high, plane: its power of interpreting. See!"
he said, fairly aglow with excitement. "What does your realist do,
even assuming that he has reached that never-to--be-attained
perfection which is the lifelong Mecca of his desires? He gives
you, by his absolutely realistic goes with you, and interprets its
grandeur to you. Stand before his canvas and enjoy it as you would
Nature herself if there. Surely, you say, nothing more could be
desired, and you clap your hands, and shout, 'Bravo!' But wait a
bit; the other side is yet to be heard from. What does the true
artist do for you by his picture of Yosemite Valley? He not only
gives you a free conveyance to it, but he goes with you, and
interprets its grandeur to you. He translates into the language of
your consciousness beauties which, without him, you would entirely
miss. It is this very capability of seeing more in Nature than is
ever perceived by the common throng that constitutes the especial
genius of the artist, and a work that is not aglow with its creator's
personality--personality, mind you, not coarse realism--can never
rank as a masterpiece. But, come, this won't do. Why did you want
to get me astride my hobby?"
I thought it advisable to answer this question by asking another,
so I said: "But how about Davenport? Will you go?"
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