from The Academy, 19 August 1911, p. 25


                 The Genteel Artist 

     Perhaps there was once a day when the artist was
capable of vying in industry with the farm labourer and of
excelling him in most things else. One likes, for example,
to think of those medieval gilders and carvers and stainers
as sitting all day from dawn till dusk by leaded panes in
queer old silent houses, plying their tasks with relentless
perseverance, careless of the weather and the antics of
history. One likes to think of them taking frugal meals
beside their work, munching an apple while putting the
finishing touches to a gilded devil, holding the tankard
with one hand and the brush with the other. One feels sure
that when the night came they went to bed with a very
pleasant weariness, slept soundly, and did not lie awake
wondering how they had managed to foozle at the eighth
green. No doubt their pleasures were simple; and the
invention of some slight artistic device was the joy of many
weeks. They lived quiet lives and died quiet deaths, leaving
behind them arts which we mimic with a vain superficiality.
No doubt, like all enthusiasts, they were capable of
quarrelling violently over very small details. No doubt they
were on occasion careless of their morals, and rather
neglected to arrange the universe and to populate Valhalla
according to their private moods. They had their faults,
being human; but when we turn from them to their successors
of these days, how very favourable to them is the
comparison! How very garish seem the surroundings of the
prosperous ladies and gentlemen who paint our successful
pictures and write our successful books; the pleasant people
who sit in padded chairs before mahogany writing-tables,
wielding gold-banded fountain pens or dictating in a
leisurely manner over a choice cigar or cigarette!
     There appeared once, in one of those popular articles
on contemporary painters which have long been a feature of a
certain magazine, the portrait of a gentleman standing
elegantly before the easel upon which one of his own
creations reposed. A spotless silk handkerchief peeped from
his pocket, his cuffs were stiff and white as if they had
only just left the haberdasher's, his beard was as trim as
an aristocratic shrubbery, the crease in his trousers was
perfect, the cut of his coat ideal, the radiance of his
shoes all that dreams could desire. He had a negligent air,
as of being about to do something interesting with a perfect
ease and politeness. A cigarette drooped from the corner of
his mouth, and his half-closed eyes seemed more intent upon
the floating smoke than on anything else in this transient
world. In the background were rich curtains and expensive
furniture. Beneath his feet was a thick carpet upon which
presumably no spot of paint had ever fallen. And the sum
total of one's idea of this gentleman was that he was in no
danger of producing a great painting. He might be a charming
companion, he was more than well-groomed, and he was very
possibly more than usually clever. But the beholder felt
quite sure that he was not a great artist. He had never felt
the sweet bitterness of the gar- ret, he had never dreamed a
day away on a hillside, he had never shuddered at a vision
or wept over a fantastic sorrow. Or, if he had, at a simpler
age, done any of these things, the experience had left no
mark, and had not made him any more cunning in his work.
     The story goes, it is true, of one great painter of a
past century who always attired himself for his easel as if
for a fashion- able gathering, in the stiffest of ruffs, the
richest of velvet, and the most costly lace. And it is easy
to sympathise with his attitude. He looked upon his art as
something to be attempted only in a perfect purity of mind
and body; he clad himself for his work as the bride for her
wedding or the young girl for her first Communion. And if
any such sentiment was present in the breasts of our modern
genteel artists and writers, one could welcome it and
approve. But to them their art is a business or a whim or a
side issue of some sort, a thing to do for a couple of hours
in the evening before dinner. It would never be permitted to
interfere with a social function or a motor-excursion. It
would never cause its devotees to miss a meal or to bundle a
friend out of the room with a vigorous rudeness. It would
never produce exhaustion or the sweat of a terrible toil.
Its creators do not weep like Dickens over their imaginary
deathbeds nor tremble like Poe at the horror of their own
visions. They do not sit for impotent hours over a blank
sheet, nor revile all created things because they cannot
attain the impossible. So far from being a religion their
art is scarce even a profession; it is merely an exercise.
They may gather fortunes, but they are never more than
dilettanti, and the poorest hack of Grub-street or the most
utterly forgotten carver of Ghent is their better.
     Art is not the be-all and end-all even of this present
life, and it is possible for the artist to take himself and
his work far too seriously. One would not have every poet
and painter possessed of devils; but surely a touch of
fanaticism makes for great achievement. Art has, in these
days, real and apparent enemies which it never had in ages
of infinitely less widespread culture, and the artist who
aspires to the meagrely-rewarded success of true distinction
will get through the easier if he be lightly touched with
fanaticism. Nothing in a man of character breeds this
healthy fanaticism more certainly than a little hardship and
want of luxury. Other things being equal, one feels that a
great poem is more likely to be written on a deal table than
on an article of inlaid rosewood. The genius in the garret
may have an uncomfortable time in many ways, but he has one
great advantage over his more luxurious rivalsÄhe is
compelled to throw himself body and soul into his work. He
must live with it entirely. All moods and all hours must
contribute their inspiration to it, all sensations of the
mind and body must wait upon it, every thought and
impression must carve some line, however faint, in its ideal
structure. The night spreads her wings about it, all the
colours of the sun light it up, all the noises of the city,
all the voices of Nature are somehow echoed in it. It lies
as close to life as any work of man may lie, and in the
result, be it failure or success, it has not lacked
attention. The garreteer, whether he eventually dies famous
or completely un- known, has been worthy of his craft. But
the genteel artist, in his expensive study or studio, smiled
upon by electric lights, flattered by costly mirrors,
embraced by Russia-leather chairs, can seldom make any such
claim. His successes are usually mere tours de force, like
juggling with billiard balls, noteworthy only because they
amuse and because not everyone can imitate them. He turns
out a novel or a painting as neatly and as coldly as the
machine turns out the packed ounce of tobacco, and probably
in the general scheme of things the three products are of
similar value.

                                  R. T. CHANDLER.