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+The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Soul of Man, by Oscar Wilde
+
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
+other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions 
+whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of
+the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at 
+www.gutenberg.org.  If you are not located in the United States, you'll have
+to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.
+
+
+
+
+Title: The Soul of Man
+
+
+Author: Oscar Wilde
+
+
+
+Release Date: September 26, 2014  [eBook #1017]
+[This file was first posted on August 10, 1997]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+
+***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SOUL OF MAN***
+
+
+Transcribed from the 1909 Arthur L. Humphreys edition by David Price,
+email ccx074@pglaf.org
+
+                          [Picture: Book cover]
+
+
+
+
+THE
+SOUL OF MAN
+
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+                                  LONDON
+                            ARTHUR L. HUMPREYS
+                                   1900
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+                           _Second Impression_
+
+
+
+
+THE SOUL OF MAN
+
+
+THE chief advantage that would result from the establishment of Socialism
+is, undoubtedly, the fact that Socialism would relieve us from that
+sordid necessity of living for others which, in the present condition of
+things, presses so hardly upon almost everybody.  In fact, scarcely
+anyone at all escapes.
+
+Now and then, in the course of the century, a great man of science, like
+Darwin; a great poet, like Keats; a fine critical spirit, like M. Renan;
+a supreme artist, like Flaubert, has been able to isolate himself, to
+keep himself out of reach of the clamorous claims of others, to stand
+‘under the shelter of the wall,’ as Plato puts it, and so to realise the
+perfection of what was in him, to his own incomparable gain, and to the
+incomparable and lasting gain of the whole world.  These, however, are
+exceptions.  The majority of people spoil their lives by an unhealthy and
+exaggerated altruism—are forced, indeed, so to spoil them.  They find
+themselves surrounded by hideous poverty, by hideous ugliness, by hideous
+starvation.  It is inevitable that they should be strongly moved by all
+this.  The emotions of man are stirred more quickly than man’s
+intelligence; and, as I pointed out some time ago in an article on the
+function of criticism, it is much more easy to have sympathy with
+suffering than it is to have sympathy with thought.  Accordingly, with
+admirable, though misdirected intentions, they very seriously and very
+sentimentally set themselves to the task of remedying the evils that they
+see.  But their remedies do not cure the disease: they merely prolong it.
+Indeed, their remedies are part of the disease.
+
+They try to solve the problem of poverty, for instance, by keeping the
+poor alive; or, in the case of a very advanced school, by amusing the
+poor.
+
+But this is not a solution: it is an aggravation of the difficulty.  The
+proper aim is to try and reconstruct society on such a basis that poverty
+will be impossible.  And the altruistic virtues have really prevented the
+carrying out of this aim.  Just as the worst slave-owners were those who
+were kind to their slaves, and so prevented the horror of the system
+being realised by those who suffered from it, and understood by those who
+contemplated it, so, in the present state of things in England, the
+people who do most harm are the people who try to do most good; and at
+last we have had the spectacle of men who have really studied the problem
+and know the life—educated men who live in the East End—coming forward
+and imploring the community to restrain its altruistic impulses of
+charity, benevolence, and the like.  They do so on the ground that such
+charity degrades and demoralises.  They are perfectly right.  Charity
+creates a multitude of sins.
+
+There is also this to be said.  It is immoral to use private property in
+order to alleviate the horrible evils that result from the institution of
+private property.  It is both immoral and unfair.
+
+Under Socialism all this will, of course, be altered.  There will be no
+people living in fetid dens and fetid rags, and bringing up unhealthy,
+hunger-pinched children in the midst of impossible and absolutely
+repulsive surroundings.  The security of society will not depend, as it
+does now, on the state of the weather.  If a frost comes we shall not
+have a hundred thousand men out of work, tramping about the streets in a
+state of disgusting misery, or whining to their neighbours for alms, or
+crowding round the doors of loathsome shelters to try and secure a hunch
+of bread and a night’s unclean lodging.  Each member of the society will
+share in the general prosperity and happiness of the society, and if a
+frost comes no one will practically be anything the worse.
+
+Upon the other hand, Socialism itself will be of value simply because it
+will lead to Individualism.
+
+Socialism, Communism, or whatever one chooses to call it, by converting
+private property into public wealth, and substituting co-operation for
+competition, will restore society to its proper condition of a thoroughly
+healthy organism, and insure the material well-being of each member of
+the community.  It will, in fact, give Life its proper basis and its
+proper environment.  But for the full development of Life to its highest
+mode of perfection, something more is needed.  What is needed is
+Individualism.  If the Socialism is Authoritarian; if there are
+Governments armed with economic power as they are now with political
+power; if, in a word, we are to have Industrial Tyrannies, then the last
+state of man will be worse than the first.  At present, in consequence of
+the existence of private property, a great many people are enabled to
+develop a certain very limited amount of Individualism.  They are either
+under no necessity to work for their living, or are enabled to choose the
+sphere of activity that is really congenial to them, and gives them
+pleasure.  These are the poets, the philosophers, the men of science, the
+men of culture—in a word, the real men, the men who have realised
+themselves, and in whom all Humanity gains a partial realisation.  Upon
+the other hand, there are a great many people who, having no private
+property of their own, and being always on the brink of sheer starvation,
+are compelled to do the work of beasts of burden, to do work that is
+quite uncongenial to them, and to which they are forced by the
+peremptory, unreasonable, degrading Tyranny of want.  These are the poor,
+and amongst them there is no grace of manner, or charm of speech, or
+civilisation, or culture, or refinement in pleasures, or joy of life.
+From their collective force Humanity gains much in material prosperity.
+But it is only the material result that it gains, and the man who is poor
+is in himself absolutely of no importance.  He is merely the
+infinitesimal atom of a force that, so far from regarding him, crushes
+him: indeed, prefers him crushed, as in that case he is far more
+obedient.
+
+Of course, it might be said that the Individualism generated under
+conditions of private property is not always, or even as a rule, of a
+fine or wonderful type, and that the poor, if they have not culture and
+charm, have still many virtues.  Both these statements would be quite
+true.  The possession of private property is very often extremely
+demoralising, and that is, of course, one of the reasons why Socialism
+wants to get rid of the institution.  In fact, property is really a
+nuisance.  Some years ago people went about the country saying that
+property has duties.  They said it so often and so tediously that, at
+last, the Church has begun to say it.  One hears it now from every
+pulpit.  It is perfectly true.  Property not merely has duties, but has
+so many duties that its possession to any large extent is a bore.  It
+involves endless claims upon one, endless attention to business, endless
+bother.  If property had simply pleasures, we could stand it; but its
+duties make it unbearable.  In the interest of the rich we must get rid
+of it.  The virtues of the poor may be readily admitted, and are much to
+be regretted.  We are often told that the poor are grateful for charity.
+Some of them are, no doubt, but the best amongst the poor are never
+grateful.  They are ungrateful, discontented, disobedient, and
+rebellious.  They are quite right to be so.  Charity they feel to be a
+ridiculously inadequate mode of partial restitution, or a sentimental
+dole, usually accompanied by some impertinent attempt on the part of the
+sentimentalist to tyrannise over their private lives.  Why should they be
+grateful for the crumbs that fall from the rich man’s table?  They should
+be seated at the board, and are beginning to know it.  As for being
+discontented, a man who would not be discontented with such surroundings
+and such a low mode of life would be a perfect brute.  Disobedience, in
+the eyes of anyone who has read history, is man’s original virtue.  It is
+through disobedience that progress has been made, through disobedience
+and through rebellion.  Sometimes the poor are praised for being thrifty.
+But to recommend thrift to the poor is both grotesque and insulting.  It
+is like advising a man who is starving to eat less.  For a town or
+country labourer to practise thrift would be absolutely immoral.  Man
+should not be ready to show that he can live like a badly-fed animal.  He
+should decline to live like that, and should either steal or go on the
+rates, which is considered by many to be a form of stealing.  As for
+begging, it is safer to beg than to take, but it is finer to take than to
+beg.  No: a poor man who is ungrateful, unthrifty, discontented, and
+rebellious, is probably a real personality, and has much in him.  He is
+at any rate a healthy protest.  As for the virtuous poor, one can pity
+them, of course, but one cannot possibly admire them.  They have made
+private terms with the enemy, and sold their birthright for very bad
+pottage.  They must also be extraordinarily stupid.  I can quite
+understand a man accepting laws that protect private property, and admit
+of its accumulation, as long as he himself is able under those conditions
+to realise some form of beautiful and intellectual life.  But it is
+almost incredible to me how a man whose life is marred and made hideous
+by such laws can possibly acquiesce in their continuance.
+
+However, the explanation is not really difficult to find.  It is simply
+this.  Misery and poverty are so absolutely degrading, and exercise such
+a paralysing effect over the nature of men, that no class is ever really
+conscious of its own suffering.  They have to be told of it by other
+people, and they often entirely disbelieve them.  What is said by great
+employers of labour against agitators is unquestionably true.  Agitators
+are a set of interfering, meddling people, who come down to some
+perfectly contented class of the community, and sow the seeds of
+discontent amongst them.  That is the reason why agitators are so
+absolutely necessary.  Without them, in our incomplete state, there would
+be no advance towards civilisation.  Slavery was put down in America, not
+in consequence of any action on the part of the slaves, or even any
+express desire on their part that they should be free.  It was put down
+entirely through the grossly illegal conduct of certain agitators in
+Boston and elsewhere, who were not slaves themselves, nor owners of
+slaves, nor had anything to do with the question really.  It was,
+undoubtedly, the Abolitionists who set the torch alight, who began the
+whole thing.  And it is curious to note that from the slaves themselves
+they received, not merely very little assistance, but hardly any sympathy
+even; and when at the close of the war the slaves found themselves free,
+found themselves indeed so absolutely free that they were free to starve,
+many of them bitterly regretted the new state of things.  To the thinker,
+the most tragic fact in the whole of the French Revolution is not that
+Marie Antoinette was killed for being a queen, but that the starved
+peasant of the Vendée voluntarily went out to die for the hideous cause
+of feudalism.
+
+It is clear, then, that no Authoritarian Socialism will do.  For while
+under the present system a very large number of people can lead lives of
+a certain amount of freedom and expression and happiness, under an
+industrial-barrack system, or a system of economic tyranny, nobody would
+be able to have any such freedom at all.  It is to be regretted that a
+portion of our community should be practically in slavery, but to propose
+to solve the problem by enslaving the entire community is childish.
+Every man must be left quite free to choose his own work.  No form of
+compulsion must be exercised over him.  If there is, his work will not be
+good for him, will not be good in itself, and will not be good for
+others.  And by work I simply mean activity of any kind.
+
+I hardly think that any Socialist, nowadays, would seriously propose that
+an inspector should call every morning at each house to see that each
+citizen rose up and did manual labour for eight hours.  Humanity has got
+beyond that stage, and reserves such a form of life for the people whom,
+in a very arbitrary manner, it chooses to call criminals.  But I confess
+that many of the socialistic views that I have come across seem to me to
+be tainted with ideas of authority, if not of actual compulsion.  Of
+course, authority and compulsion are out of the question.  All
+association must be quite voluntary.  It is only in voluntary
+associations that man is fine.
+
+But it may be asked how Individualism, which is now more or less
+dependent on the existence of private property for its development, will
+benefit by the abolition of such private property.  The answer is very
+simple.  It is true that, under existing conditions, a few men who have
+had private means of their own, such as Byron, Shelley, Browning, Victor
+Hugo, Baudelaire, and others, have been able to realise their personality
+more or less completely.  Not one of these men ever did a single day’s
+work for hire.  They were relieved from poverty.  They had an immense
+advantage.  The question is whether it would be for the good of
+Individualism that such an advantage should be taken away.  Let us
+suppose that it is taken away.  What happens then to Individualism?  How
+will it benefit?
+
+It will benefit in this way.  Under the new conditions Individualism will
+be far freer, far finer, and far more intensified than it is now.  I am
+not talking of the great imaginatively-realised Individualism of such
+poets as I have mentioned, but of the great actual Individualism latent
+and potential in mankind generally.  For the recognition of private
+property has really harmed Individualism, and obscured it, by confusing a
+man with what he possesses.  It has led Individualism entirely astray.
+It has made gain not growth its aim.  So that man thought that the
+important thing was to have, and did not know that the important thing is
+to be.  The true perfection of man lies, not in what man has, but in what
+man is.  Private property has crushed true Individualism, and set up an
+Individualism that is false.  It has debarred one part of the community
+from being individual by starving them.  It has debarred the other part
+of the community from being individual by putting them on the wrong road,
+and encumbering them.  Indeed, so completely has man’s personality been
+absorbed by his possessions that the English law has always treated
+offences against a man’s property with far more severity than offences
+against his person, and property is still the test of complete
+citizenship.  The industry necessary for the making money is also very
+demoralising.  In a community like ours, where property confers immense
+distinction, social position, honour, respect, titles, and other pleasant
+things of the kind, man, being naturally ambitious, makes it his aim to
+accumulate this property, and goes on wearily and tediously accumulating
+it long after he has got far more than he wants, or can use, or enjoy, or
+perhaps even know of.  Man will kill himself by overwork in order to
+secure property, and really, considering the enormous advantages that
+property brings, one is hardly surprised.  One’s regret is that society
+should be constructed on such a basis that man has been forced into a
+groove in which he cannot freely develop what is wonderful, and
+fascinating, and delightful in him—in which, in fact, he misses the true
+pleasure and joy of living.  He is also, under existing conditions, very
+insecure.  An enormously wealthy merchant may be—often is—at every moment
+of his life at the mercy of things that are not under his control.  If
+the wind blows an extra point or so, or the weather suddenly changes, or
+some trivial thing happens, his ship may go down, his speculations may go
+wrong, and he finds himself a poor man, with his social position quite
+gone.  Now, nothing should be able to harm a man except himself.  Nothing
+should be able to rob a man at all.  What a man really has, is what is in
+him.  What is outside of him should be a matter of no importance.
+
+With the abolition of private property, then, we shall have true,
+beautiful, healthy Individualism.  Nobody will waste his life in
+accumulating things, and the symbols for things.  One will live.  To live
+is the rarest thing in the world.  Most people exist, that is all.
+
+It is a question whether we have ever seen the full expression of a
+personality, except on the imaginative plane of art.  In action, we never
+have.  Cæsar, says Mommsen, was the complete and perfect man.  But how
+tragically insecure was Cæsar!  Wherever there is a man who exercises
+authority, there is a man who resists authority.  Cæsar was very perfect,
+but his perfection travelled by too dangerous a road.  Marcus Aurelius
+was the perfect man, says Renan.  Yes; the great emperor was a perfect
+man.  But how intolerable were the endless claims upon him!  He staggered
+under the burden of the empire.  He was conscious how inadequate one man
+was to bear the weight of that Titan and too vast orb.  What I mean by a
+perfect man is one who develops under perfect conditions; one who is not
+wounded, or worried or maimed, or in danger.  Most personalities have
+been obliged to be rebels.  Half their strength has been wasted in
+friction.  Byron’s personality, for instance, was terribly wasted in its
+battle with the stupidity, and hypocrisy, and Philistinism of the
+English.  Such battles do not always intensify strength: they often
+exaggerate weakness.  Byron was never able to give us what he might have
+given us.  Shelley escaped better.  Like Byron, he got out of England as
+soon as possible.  But he was not so well known.  If the English had had
+any idea of what a great poet he really was, they would have fallen on
+him with tooth and nail, and made his life as unbearable to him as they
+possibly could.  But he was not a remarkable figure in society, and
+consequently he escaped, to a certain degree.  Still, even in Shelley the
+note of rebellion is sometimes too strong.  The note of the perfect
+personality is not rebellion, but peace.
+
+It will be a marvellous thing—the true personality of man—when we see it.
+It will grow naturally and simply, flowerlike, or as a tree grows.  It
+will not be at discord.  It will never argue or dispute.  It will not
+prove things.  It will know everything.  And yet it will not busy itself
+about knowledge.  It will have wisdom.  Its value will not be measured by
+material things.  It will have nothing.  And yet it will have everything,
+and whatever one takes from it, it will still have, so rich will it be.
+It will not be always meddling with others, or asking them to be like
+itself.  It will love them because they will be different.  And yet while
+it will not meddle with others, it will help all, as a beautiful thing
+helps us, by being what it is.  The personality of man will be very
+wonderful.  It will be as wonderful as the personality of a child.
+
+In its development it will be assisted by Christianity, if men desire
+that; but if men do not desire that, it will develop none the less
+surely.  For it will not worry itself about the past, nor care whether
+things happened or did not happen.  Nor will it admit any laws but its
+own laws; nor any authority but its own authority.  Yet it will love
+those who sought to intensify it, and speak often of them.  And of these
+Christ was one.
+
+‘Know thyself’ was written over the portal of the antique world.  Over
+the portal of the new world, ‘Be thyself’ shall be written.  And the
+message of Christ to man was simply ‘Be thyself.’  That is the secret of
+Christ.
+
+When Jesus talks about the poor he simply means personalities, just as
+when he talks about the rich he simply means people who have not
+developed their personalities.  Jesus moved in a community that allowed
+the accumulation of private property just as ours does, and the gospel
+that he preached was not that in such a community it is an advantage for
+a man to live on scanty, unwholesome food, to wear ragged, unwholesome
+clothes, to sleep in horrid, unwholesome dwellings, and a disadvantage
+for a man to live under healthy, pleasant, and decent conditions.  Such a
+view would have been wrong there and then, and would, of course, be still
+more wrong now and in England; for as man moves northward the material
+necessities of life become of more vital importance, and our society is
+infinitely more complex, and displays far greater extremes of luxury and
+pauperism than any society of the antique world.  What Jesus meant, was
+this.  He said to man, ‘You have a wonderful personality.  Develop it.
+Be yourself.  Don’t imagine that your perfection lies in accumulating or
+possessing external things.  Your affection is inside of you.  If only
+you could realise that, you would not want to be rich.  Ordinary riches
+can be stolen from a man.  Real riches cannot.  In the treasury-house of
+your soul, there are infinitely precious things, that may not be taken
+from you.  And so, try to so shape your life that external things will
+not harm you.  And try also to get rid of personal property.  It involves
+sordid preoccupation, endless industry, continual wrong.  Personal
+property hinders Individualism at every step.’  It is to be noted that
+Jesus never says that impoverished people are necessarily good, or
+wealthy people necessarily bad.  That would not have been true.  Wealthy
+people are, as a class, better than impoverished people, more moral, more
+intellectual, more well-behaved.  There is only one class in the
+community that thinks more about money than the rich, and that is the
+poor.  The poor can think of nothing else.  That is the misery of being
+poor.  What Jesus does say is that man reaches his perfection, not
+through what he has, not even through what he does, but entirely through
+what he is.  And so the wealthy young man who comes to Jesus is
+represented as a thoroughly good citizen, who has broken none of the laws
+of his state, none of the commandments of his religion.  He is quite
+respectable, in the ordinary sense of that extraordinary word.  Jesus
+says to him, ‘You should give up private property.  It hinders you from
+realising your perfection.  It is a drag upon you.  It is a burden.  Your
+personality does not need it.  It is within you, and not outside of you,
+that you will find what you really are, and what you really want.’  To
+his own friends he says the same thing.  He tells them to be themselves,
+and not to be always worrying about other things.  What do other things
+matter?  Man is complete in himself.  When they go into the world, the
+world will disagree with them.  That is inevitable.  The world hates
+Individualism.  But that is not to trouble them.  They are to be calm and
+self-centred.  If a man takes their cloak, they are to give him their
+coat, just to show that material things are of no importance.  If people
+abuse them, they are not to answer back.  What does it signify?  The
+things people say of a man do not alter a man.  He is what he is.  Public
+opinion is of no value whatsoever.  Even if people employ actual
+violence, they are not to be violent in turn.  That would be to fall to
+the same low level.  After all, even in prison, a man can be quite free.
+His soul can be free.  His personality can be untroubled.  He can be at
+peace.  And, above all things, they are not to interfere with other
+people or judge them in any way.  Personality is a very mysterious thing.
+A man cannot always be estimated by what he does.  He may keep the law,
+and yet be worthless.  He may break the law, and yet be fine.  He may be
+bad, without ever doing anything bad.  He may commit a sin against
+society, and yet realise through that sin his true perfection.
+
+There was a woman who was taken in adultery.  We are not told the history
+of her love, but that love must have been very great; for Jesus said that
+her sins were forgiven her, not because she repented, but because her
+love was so intense and wonderful.  Later on, a short time before his
+death, as he sat at a feast, the woman came in and poured costly perfumes
+on his hair.  His friends tried to interfere with her, and said that it
+was an extravagance, and that the money that the perfume cost should have
+been expended on charitable relief of people in want, or something of
+that kind.  Jesus did not accept that view.  He pointed out that the
+material needs of Man were great and very permanent, but that the
+spiritual needs of Man were greater still, and that in one divine moment,
+and by selecting its own mode of expression, a personality might make
+itself perfect.  The world worships the woman, even now, as a saint.
+
+Yes; there are suggestive things in Individualism.  Socialism annihilates
+family life, for instance.  With the abolition of private property,
+marriage in its present form must disappear.  This is part of the
+programme.  Individualism accepts this and makes it fine.  It converts
+the abolition of legal restraint into a form of freedom that will help
+the full development of personality, and make the love of man and woman
+more wonderful, more beautiful, and more ennobling.  Jesus knew this.  He
+rejected the claims of family life, although they existed in his day and
+community in a very marked form.  ‘Who is my mother?  Who are my
+brothers?’ he said, when he was told that they wished to speak to him.
+When one of his followers asked leave to go and bury his father, ‘Let the
+dead bury the dead,’ was his terrible answer.  He would allow no claim
+whatsoever to be made on personality.
+
+And so he who would lead a Christlike life is he who is perfectly and
+absolutely himself.  He may be a great poet, or a great man of science;
+or a young student at a University, or one who watches sheep upon a moor;
+or a maker of dramas, like Shakespeare, or a thinker about God, like
+Spinoza; or a child who plays in a garden, or a fisherman who throws his
+net into the sea.  It does not matter what he is, as long as he realises
+the perfection of the soul that is within him.  All imitation in morals
+and in life is wrong.  Through the streets of Jerusalem at the present
+day crawls one who is mad and carries a wooden cross on his shoulders.
+He is a symbol of the lives that are marred by imitation.  Father Damien
+was Christlike when he went out to live with the lepers, because in such
+service he realised fully what was best in him.  But he was not more
+Christlike than Wagner when he realised his soul in music; or than
+Shelley, when he realised his soul in song.  There is no one type for
+man.  There are as many perfections as there are imperfect men.  And
+while to the claims of charity a man may yield and yet be free, to the
+claims of conformity no man may yield and remain free at all.
+
+Individualism, then, is what through Socialism we are to attain to.  As a
+natural result the State must give up all idea of government.  It must
+give it up because, as a wise man once said many centuries before Christ,
+there is such a thing as leaving mankind alone; there is no such thing as
+governing mankind.  All modes of government are failures.  Despotism is
+unjust to everybody, including the despot, who was probably made for
+better things.  Oligarchies are unjust to the many, and ochlocracies are
+unjust to the few.  High hopes were once formed of democracy; but
+democracy means simply the bludgeoning of the people by the people for
+the people.  It has been found out.  I must say that it was high time,
+for all authority is quite degrading.  It degrades those who exercise it,
+and degrades those over whom it is exercised.  When it is violently,
+grossly, and cruelly used, it produces a good effect, by creating, or at
+any rate bringing out, the spirit of revolt and Individualism that is to
+kill it.  When it is used with a certain amount of kindness, and
+accompanied by prizes and rewards, it is dreadfully demoralising.
+People, in that case, are less conscious of the horrible pressure that is
+being put on them, and so go through their lives in a sort of coarse
+comfort, like petted animals, without ever realising that they are
+probably thinking other people’s thoughts, living by other people’s
+standards, wearing practically what one may call other people’s
+second-hand clothes, and never being themselves for a single moment.  ‘He
+who would be free,’ says a fine thinker, ‘must not conform.’  And
+authority, by bribing people to conform, produces a very gross kind of
+over-fed barbarism amongst us.
+
+With authority, punishment will pass away.  This will be a great gain—a
+gain, in fact, of incalculable value.  As one reads history, not in the
+expurgated editions written for school-boys and passmen, but in the
+original authorities of each time, one is absolutely sickened, not by the
+crimes that the wicked have committed, but by the punishments that the
+good have inflicted; and a community is infinitely more brutalised by the
+habitual employment of punishment, than it is by the occurrence of crime.
+It obviously follows that the more punishment is inflicted the more crime
+is produced, and most modern legislation has clearly recognised this, and
+has made it its task to diminish punishment as far as it thinks it can.
+Wherever it has really diminished it, the results have always been
+extremely good.  The less punishment, the less crime.  When there is no
+punishment at all, crime will either cease to exist, or, if it occurs,
+will be treated by physicians as a very distressing form of dementia, to
+be cured by care and kindness.  For what are called criminals nowadays
+are not criminals at all.  Starvation, and not sin, is the parent of
+modern crime.  That indeed is the reason why our criminals are, as a
+class, so absolutely uninteresting from any psychological point of view.
+They are not marvellous Macbeths and terrible Vautrins.  They are merely
+what ordinary, respectable, commonplace people would be if they had not
+got enough to eat.  When private property is abolished there will be no
+necessity for crime, no demand for it; it will cease to exist.  Of
+course, all crimes are not crimes against property, though such are the
+crimes that the English law, valuing what a man has more than what a man
+is, punishes with the harshest and most horrible severity, if we except
+the crime of murder, and regard death as worse than penal servitude, a
+point on which our criminals, I believe, disagree.  But though a crime
+may not be against property, it may spring from the misery and rage and
+depression produced by our wrong system of property-holding, and so, when
+that system is abolished, will disappear.  When each member of the
+community has sufficient for his wants, and is not interfered with by his
+neighbour, it will not be an object of any interest to him to interfere
+with anyone else.  Jealousy, which is an extraordinary source of crime in
+modern life, is an emotion closely bound up with our conceptions of
+property, and under Socialism and Individualism will die out.  It is
+remarkable that in communistic tribes jealousy is entirely unknown.
+
+Now as the State is not to govern, it may be asked what the State is to
+do.  The State is to be a voluntary association that will organise
+labour, and be the manufacturer and distributor of necessary commodities.
+The State is to make what is useful.  The individual is to make what is
+beautiful.  And as I have mentioned the word labour, I cannot help saying
+that a great deal of nonsense is being written and talked nowadays about
+the dignity of manual labour.  There is nothing necessarily dignified
+about manual labour at all, and most of it is absolutely degrading.  It
+is mentally and morally injurious to man to do anything in which he does
+not find pleasure, and many forms of labour are quite pleasureless
+activities, and should be regarded as such.  To sweep a slushy crossing
+for eight hours, on a day when the east wind is blowing is a disgusting
+occupation.  To sweep it with mental, moral, or physical dignity seems to
+me to be impossible.  To sweep it with joy would be appalling.  Man is
+made for something better than disturbing dirt.  All work of that kind
+should be done by a machine.
+
+And I have no doubt that it will be so.  Up to the present, man has been,
+to a certain extent, the slave of machinery, and there is something
+tragic in the fact that as soon as man had invented a machine to do his
+work he began to starve.  This, however, is, of course, the result of our
+property system and our system of competition.  One man owns a machine
+which does the work of five hundred men.  Five hundred men are, in
+consequence, thrown out of employment, and, having no work to do, become
+hungry and take to thieving.  The one man secures the produce of the
+machine and keeps it, and has five hundred times as much as he should
+have, and probably, which is of much more importance, a great deal more
+than he really wants.  Were that machine the property of all, every one
+would benefit by it.  It would be an immense advantage to the community.
+All unintellectual labour, all monotonous, dull labour, all labour that
+deals with dreadful things, and involves unpleasant conditions, must be
+done by machinery.  Machinery must work for us in coal mines, and do all
+sanitary services, and be the stoker of steamers, and clean the streets,
+and run messages on wet days, and do anything that is tedious or
+distressing.  At present machinery competes against man.  Under proper
+conditions machinery will serve man.  There is no doubt at all that this
+is the future of machinery, and just as trees grow while the country
+gentleman is asleep, so while Humanity will be amusing itself, or
+enjoying cultivated leisure—which, and not labour, is the aim of man—or
+making beautiful things, or reading beautiful things, or simply
+contemplating the world with admiration and delight, machinery will be
+doing all the necessary and unpleasant work.  The fact is, that
+civilisation requires slaves.  The Greeks were quite right there.  Unless
+there are slaves to do the ugly, horrible, uninteresting work, culture
+and contemplation become almost impossible.  Human slavery is wrong,
+insecure, and demoralising.  On mechanical slavery, on the slavery of the
+machine, the future of the world depends.  And when scientific men are no
+longer called upon to go down to a depressing East End and distribute bad
+cocoa and worse blankets to starving people, they will have delightful
+leisure in which to devise wonderful and marvellous things for their own
+joy and the joy of everyone else.  There will be great storages of force
+for every city, and for every house if required, and this force man will
+convert into heat, light, or motion, according to his needs.  Is this
+Utopian?  A map of the world that does not include Utopia is not worth
+even glancing at, for it leaves out the one country at which Humanity is
+always landing.  And when Humanity lands there, it looks out, and, seeing
+a better country, sets sail.  Progress is the realisation of Utopias.
+
+Now, I have said that the community by means of organisation of machinery
+will supply the useful things, and that the beautiful things will be made
+by the individual.  This is not merely necessary, but it is the only
+possible way by which we can get either the one or the other.  An
+individual who has to make things for the use of others, and with
+reference to their wants and their wishes, does not work with interest,
+and consequently cannot put into his work what is best in him.  Upon the
+other hand, whenever a community or a powerful section of a community, or
+a government of any kind, attempts to dictate to the artist what he is to
+do, Art either entirely vanishes, or becomes stereotyped, or degenerates
+into a low and ignoble form of craft.  A work of art is the unique result
+of a unique temperament.  Its beauty comes from the fact that the author
+is what he is.  It has nothing to do with the fact that other people want
+what they want.  Indeed, the moment that an artist takes notice of what
+other people want, and tries to supply the demand, he ceases to be an
+artist, and becomes a dull or an amusing craftsman, an honest or a
+dishonest tradesman.  He has no further claim to be considered as an
+artist.  Art is the most intense mode of Individualism that the world has
+known.  I am inclined to say that it is the only real mode of
+Individualism that the world has known.  Crime, which, under certain
+conditions, may seem to have created Individualism, must take cognisance
+of other people and interfere with them.  It belongs to the sphere of
+action.  But alone, without any reference to his neighbours, without any
+interference, the artist can fashion a beautiful thing; and if he does
+not do it solely for his own pleasure, he is not an artist at all.
+
+And it is to be noted that it is the fact that Art is this intense form
+of Individualism that makes the public try to exercise over it in an
+authority that is as immoral as it is ridiculous, and as corrupting as it
+is contemptible.  It is not quite their fault.  The public has always,
+and in every age, been badly brought up.  They are continually asking Art
+to be popular, to please their want of taste, to flatter their absurd
+vanity, to tell them what they have been told before, to show them what
+they ought to be tired of seeing, to amuse them when they feel heavy
+after eating too much, and to distract their thoughts when they are
+wearied of their own stupidity.  Now Art should never try to be popular.
+The public should try to make itself artistic.  There is a very wide
+difference.  If a man of science were told that the results of his
+experiments, and the conclusions that he arrived at, should be of such a
+character that they would not upset the received popular notions on the
+subject, or disturb popular prejudice, or hurt the sensibilities of
+people who knew nothing about science; if a philosopher were told that he
+had a perfect right to speculate in the highest spheres of thought,
+provided that he arrived at the same conclusions as were held by those
+who had never thought in any sphere at all—well, nowadays the man of
+science and the philosopher would be considerably amused.  Yet it is
+really a very few years since both philosophy and science were subjected
+to brutal popular control, to authority in fact—the authority of either
+the general ignorance of the community, or the terror and greed for power
+of an ecclesiastical or governmental class.  Of course, we have to a very
+great extent got rid of any attempt on the part of the community, or the
+Church, or the Government, to interfere with the individualism of
+speculative thought, but the attempt to interfere with the individualism
+of imaginative art still lingers.  In fact, it does more than linger; it
+is aggressive, offensive, and brutalising.
+
+In England, the arts that have escaped best are the arts in which the
+public take no interest.  Poetry is an instance of what I mean.  We have
+been able to have fine poetry in England because the public do not read
+it, and consequently do not influence it.  The public like to insult
+poets because they are individual, but once they have insulted them, they
+leave them alone.  In the case of the novel and the drama, arts in which
+the public do take an interest, the result of the exercise of popular
+authority has been absolutely ridiculous.  No country produces such
+badly-written fiction, such tedious, common work in the novel form, such
+silly, vulgar plays as England.  It must necessarily be so.  The popular
+standard is of such a character that no artist can get to it.  It is at
+once too easy and too difficult to be a popular novelist.  It is too
+easy, because the requirements of the public as far as plot, style,
+psychology, treatment of life, and treatment of literature are concerned
+are within the reach of the very meanest capacity and the most
+uncultivated mind.  It is too difficult, because to meet such
+requirements the artist would have to do violence to his temperament,
+would have to write not for the artistic joy of writing, but for the
+amusement of half-educated people, and so would have to suppress his
+individualism, forget his culture, annihilate his style, and surrender
+everything that is valuable in him.  In the case of the drama, things are
+a little better: the theatre-going public like the obvious, it is true,
+but they do not like the tedious; and burlesque and farcical comedy, the
+two most popular forms, are distinct forms of art.  Delightful work may
+be produced under burlesque and farcical conditions, and in work of this
+kind the artist in England is allowed very great freedom.  It is when one
+comes to the higher forms of the drama that the result of popular control
+is seen.  The one thing that the public dislike is novelty.  Any attempt
+to extend the subject-matter of art is extremely distasteful to the
+public; and yet the vitality and progress of art depend in a large
+measure on the continual extension of subject-matter.  The public dislike
+novelty because they are afraid of it.  It represents to them a mode of
+Individualism, an assertion on the part of the artist that he selects his
+own subject, and treats it as he chooses.  The public are quite right in
+their attitude.  Art is Individualism, and Individualism is a disturbing
+and disintegrating force.  Therein lies its immense value.  For what it
+seeks to disturb is monotony of type, slavery of custom, tyranny of
+habit, and the reduction of man to the level of a machine.  In Art, the
+public accept what has been, because they cannot alter it, not because
+they appreciate it.  They swallow their classics whole, and never taste
+them.  They endure them as the inevitable, and as they cannot mar them,
+they mouth about them.  Strangely enough, or not strangely, according to
+one’s own views, this acceptance of the classics does a great deal of
+harm.  The uncritical admiration of the Bible and Shakespeare in England
+is an instance of what I mean.  With regard to the Bible, considerations
+of ecclesiastical authority enter into the matter, so that I need not
+dwell upon the point.
+
+But in the case of Shakespeare it is quite obvious that the public really
+see neither the beauties nor the defects of his plays.  If they saw the
+beauties, they would not object to the development of the drama; and if
+they saw the defects, they would not object to the development of the
+drama either.  The fact is, the public make use of the classics of a
+country as a means of checking the progress of Art.  They degrade the
+classics into authorities.  They use them as bludgeons for preventing the
+free expression of Beauty in new forms.  They are always asking a writer
+why he does not write like somebody else, or a painter why he does not
+paint like somebody else, quite oblivious of the fact that if either of
+them did anything of the kind he would cease to be an artist.  A fresh
+mode of Beauty is absolutely distasteful to them, and whenever it appears
+they get so angry, and bewildered that they always use two stupid
+expressions—one is that the work of art is grossly unintelligible; the
+other, that the work of art is grossly immoral.  What they mean by these
+words seems to me to be this.  When they say a work is grossly
+unintelligible, they mean that the artist has said or made a beautiful
+thing that is new; when they describe a work as grossly immoral, they
+mean that the artist has said or made a beautiful thing that is true.
+The former expression has reference to style; the latter to
+subject-matter.  But they probably use the words very vaguely, as an
+ordinary mob will use ready-made paving-stones.  There is not a single
+real poet or prose-writer of this century, for instance, on whom the
+British public have not solemnly conferred diplomas of immorality, and
+these diplomas practically take the place, with us, of what in France, is
+the formal recognition of an Academy of Letters, and fortunately make the
+establishment of such an institution quite unnecessary in England.  Of
+course, the public are very reckless in their use of the word.  That they
+should have called Wordsworth an immoral poet, was only to be expected.
+Wordsworth was a poet.  But that they should have called Charles Kingsley
+an immoral novelist is extraordinary.  Kingsley’s prose was not of a very
+fine quality.  Still, there is the word, and they use it as best they
+can.  An artist is, of course, not disturbed by it.  The true artist is a
+man who believes absolutely in himself, because he is absolutely himself.
+But I can fancy that if an artist produced a work of art in England that
+immediately on its appearance was recognised by the public, through their
+medium, which is the public press, as a work that was quite intelligible
+and highly moral, he would begin to seriously question whether in its
+creation he had really been himself at all, and consequently whether the
+work was not quite unworthy of him, and either of a thoroughly
+second-rate order, or of no artistic value whatsoever.
+
+Perhaps, however, I have wronged the public in limiting them to such
+words as ‘immoral,’ ‘unintelligible,’ ‘exotic,’ and ‘unhealthy.’  There
+is one other word that they use.  That word is ‘morbid.’  They do not use
+it often.  The meaning of the word is so simple that they are afraid of
+using it.  Still, they use it sometimes, and, now and then, one comes
+across it in popular newspapers.  It is, of course, a ridiculous word to
+apply to a work of art.  For what is morbidity but a mood of emotion or a
+mode of thought that one cannot express?  The public are all morbid,
+because the public can never find expression for anything.  The artist is
+never morbid.  He expresses everything.  He stands outside his subject,
+and through its medium produces incomparable and artistic effects.  To
+call an artist morbid because he deals with morbidity as his
+subject-matter is as silly as if one called Shakespeare mad because he
+wrote ‘King Lear.’
+
+On the whole, an artist in England gains something by being attacked.
+His individuality is intensified.  He becomes more completely himself.
+Of course, the attacks are very gross, very impertinent, and very
+contemptible.  But then no artist expects grace from the vulgar mind, or
+style from the suburban intellect.  Vulgarity and stupidity are two very
+vivid facts in modern life.  One regrets them, naturally.  But there they
+are.  They are subjects for study, like everything else.  And it is only
+fair to state, with regard to modern journalists, that they always
+apologise to one in private for what they have written against one in
+public.
+
+Within the last few years two other adjectives, it may be mentioned, have
+been added to the very limited vocabulary of art-abuse that is at the
+disposal of the public.  One is the word ‘unhealthy,’ the other is the
+word ‘exotic.’  The latter merely expresses the rage of the momentary
+mushroom against the immortal, entrancing, and exquisitely lovely orchid.
+It is a tribute, but a tribute of no importance.  The word ‘unhealthy,’
+however, admits of analysis.  It is a rather interesting word.  In fact,
+it is so interesting that the people who use it do not know what it
+means.
+
+What does it mean?  What is a healthy, or an unhealthy work of art?  All
+terms that one applies to a work of art, provided that one applies them
+rationally, have reference to either its style or its subject, or to both
+together.  From the point of view of style, a healthy work of art is one
+whose style recognises the beauty of the material it employs, be that
+material one of words or of bronze, of colour or of ivory, and uses that
+beauty as a factor in producing the æsthetic effect.  From the point of
+view of subject, a healthy work of art is one the choice of whose subject
+is conditioned by the temperament of the artist, and comes directly out
+of it.  In fine, a healthy work of art is one that has both perfection
+and personality.  Of course, form and substance cannot be separated in a
+work of art; they are always one.  But for purposes of analysis, and
+setting the wholeness of æsthetic impression aside for a moment, we can
+intellectually so separate them.  An unhealthy work of art, on the other
+hand, is a work whose style is obvious, old-fashioned, and common, and
+whose subject is deliberately chosen, not because the artist has any
+pleasure in it, but because he thinks that the public will pay him for
+it.  In fact, the popular novel that the public calls healthy is always a
+thoroughly unhealthy production; and what the public call an unhealthy
+novel is always a beautiful and healthy work of art.
+
+I need hardly say that I am not, for a single moment, complaining that
+the public and the public press misuse these words.  I do not see how,
+with their lack of comprehension of what Art is, they could possibly use
+them in the proper sense.  I am merely pointing out the misuse; and as
+for the origin of the misuse and the meaning that lies behind it all, the
+explanation is very simple.  It comes from the barbarous conception of
+authority.  It comes from the natural inability of a community corrupted
+by authority to understand or appreciate Individualism.  In a word, it
+comes from that monstrous and ignorant thing that is called Public
+Opinion, which, bad and well-meaning as it is when it tries to control
+action, is infamous and of evil meaning when it tries to control Thought
+or Art.
+
+Indeed, there is much more to be said in favour of the physical force of
+the public than there is in favour of the public’s opinion.  The former
+may be fine.  The latter must be foolish.  It is often said that force is
+no argument.  That, however, entirely depends on what one wants to prove.
+Many of the most important problems of the last few centuries, such as
+the continuance of personal government in England, or of feudalism in
+France, have been solved entirely by means of physical force.  The very
+violence of a revolution may make the public grand and splendid for a
+moment.  It was a fatal day when the public discovered that the pen is
+mightier than the paving-stone, and can be made as offensive as the
+brickbat.  They at once sought for the journalist, found him, developed
+him, and made him their industrious and well-paid servant.  It is greatly
+to be regretted, for both their sakes.  Behind the barricade there may be
+much that is noble and heroic.  But what is there behind the
+leading-article but prejudice, stupidity, cant, and twaddle?  And when
+these four are joined together they make a terrible force, and constitute
+the new authority.
+
+In old days men had the rack.  Now they have the press.  That is an
+improvement certainly.  But still it is very bad, and wrong, and
+demoralising.  Somebody—was it Burke?—called journalism the fourth
+estate.  That was true at the time, no doubt.  But at the present moment
+it really is the only estate.  It has eaten up the other three.  The
+Lords Temporal say nothing, the Lords Spiritual have nothing to say, and
+the House of Commons has nothing to say and says it.  We are dominated by
+Journalism.  In America the President reigns for four years, and
+Journalism governs for ever and ever.  Fortunately in America Journalism
+has carried its authority to the grossest and most brutal extreme.  As a
+natural consequence it has begun to create a spirit of revolt.  People
+are amused by it, or disgusted by it, according to their temperaments.
+But it is no longer the real force it was.  It is not seriously treated.
+In England, Journalism, not, except in a few well-known instances, having
+been carried to such excesses of brutality, is still a great factor, a
+really remarkable power.  The tyranny that it proposes to exercise over
+people’s private lives seems to me to be quite extraordinary.  The fact
+is, that the public have an insatiable curiosity to know everything,
+except what is worth knowing.  Journalism, conscious of this, and having
+tradesman-like habits, supplies their demands.  In centuries before ours
+the public nailed the ears of journalists to the pump.  That was quite
+hideous.  In this century journalists have nailed their own ears to the
+keyhole.  That is much worse.  And what aggravates the mischief is that
+the journalists who are most to blame are not the amusing journalists who
+write for what are called Society papers.  The harm is done by the
+serious, thoughtful, earnest journalists, who solemnly, as they are doing
+at present, will drag before the eyes of the public some incident in the
+private life of a great statesman, of a man who is a leader of political
+thought as he is a creator of political force, and invite the public to
+discuss the incident, to exercise authority in the matter, to give their
+views, and not merely to give their views, but to carry them into action,
+to dictate to the man upon all other points, to dictate to his party, to
+dictate to his country; in fact, to make themselves ridiculous,
+offensive, and harmful.  The private lives of men and women should not be
+told to the public.  The public have nothing to do with them at all.  In
+France they manage these things better.  There they do not allow the
+details of the trials that take place in the divorce courts to be
+published for the amusement or criticism of the public.  All that the
+public are allowed to know is that the divorce has taken place and was
+granted on petition of one or other or both of the married parties
+concerned.  In France, in fact, they limit the journalist, and allow the
+artist almost perfect freedom.  Here we allow absolute freedom to the
+journalist, and entirely limit the artist.  English public opinion, that
+is to say, tries to constrain and impede and warp the man who makes
+things that are beautiful in effect, and compels the journalist to retail
+things that are ugly, or disgusting, or revolting in fact, so that we
+have the most serious journalists in the world, and the most indecent
+newspapers.  It is no exaggeration to talk of compulsion.  There are
+possibly some journalists who take a real pleasure in publishing horrible
+things, or who, being poor, look to scandals as forming a sort of
+permanent basis for an income.  But there are other journalists, I feel
+certain, men of education and cultivation, who really dislike publishing
+these things, who know that it is wrong to do so, and only do it because
+the unhealthy conditions under which their occupation is carried on
+oblige them to supply the public with what the public wants, and to
+compete with other journalists in making that supply as full and
+satisfying to the gross popular appetite as possible.  It is a very
+degrading position for any body of educated men to be placed in, and I
+have no doubt that most of them feel it acutely.
+
+However, let us leave what is really a very sordid side of the subject,
+and return to the question of popular control in the matter of Art, by
+which I mean Public Opinion dictating to the artist the form which he is
+to use, the mode in which he is to use it, and the materials with which
+he is to work.  I have pointed out that the arts which have escaped best
+in England are the arts in which the public have not been interested.
+They are, however, interested in the drama, and as a certain advance has
+been made in the drama within the last ten or fifteen years, it is
+important to point out that this advance is entirely due to a few
+individual artists refusing to accept the popular want of taste as their
+standard, and refusing to regard Art as a mere matter of demand and
+supply.  With his marvellous and vivid personality, with a style that has
+really a true colour-element in it, with his extraordinary power, not
+over mere mimicry but over imaginative and intellectual creation, Mr
+Irving, had his sole object been to give the public what they wanted,
+could have produced the commonest plays in the commonest manner, and made
+as much success and money as a man could possibly desire.  But his object
+was not that.  His object was to realise his own perfection as an artist,
+under certain conditions, and in certain forms of Art.  At first he
+appealed to the few: now he has educated the many.  He has created in the
+public both taste and temperament.  The public appreciate his artistic
+success immensely.  I often wonder, however, whether the public
+understand that that success is entirely due to the fact that he did not
+accept their standard, but realised his own.  With their standard the
+Lyceum would have been a sort of second-rate booth, as some of the
+popular theatres in London are at present.  Whether they understand it or
+not the fact however remains, that taste and temperament have, to a
+certain extent been created in the public, and that the public is capable
+of developing these qualities.  The problem then is, why do not the
+public become more civilised?  They have the capacity.  What stops them?
+
+The thing that stops them, it must be said again, is their desire to
+exercise authority over the artist and over works of art.  To certain
+theatres, such as the Lyceum and the Haymarket, the public seem to come
+in a proper mood.  In both of these theatres there have been individual
+artists, who have succeeded in creating in their audiences—and every
+theatre in London has its own audience—the temperament to which Art
+appeals.  And what is that temperament?  It is the temperament of
+receptivity.  That is all.
+
+If a man approaches a work of art with any desire to exercise authority
+over it and the artist, he approaches it in such a spirit that he cannot
+receive any artistic impression from it at all.  The work of art is to
+dominate the spectator: the spectator is not to dominate the work of art.
+The spectator is to be receptive.  He is to be the violin on which the
+master is to play.  And the more completely he can suppress his own silly
+views, his own foolish prejudices, his own absurd ideas of what Art
+should be, or should not be, the more likely he is to understand and
+appreciate the work of art in question.  This is, of course, quite
+obvious in the case of the vulgar theatre-going public of English men and
+women.  But it is equally true of what are called educated people.  For
+an educated person’s ideas of Art are drawn naturally from what Art has
+been, whereas the new work of art is beautiful by being what Art has
+never been; and to measure it by the standard of the past is to measure
+it by a standard on the rejection of which its real perfection depends.
+A temperament capable of receiving, through an imaginative medium, and
+under imaginative conditions, new and beautiful impressions, is the only
+temperament that can appreciate a work of art.  And true as this is in
+the case of the appreciation of sculpture and painting, it is still more
+true of the appreciation of such arts as the drama.  For a picture and a
+statue are not at war with Time.  They take no count of its succession.
+In one moment their unity may be apprehended.  In the case of literature
+it is different.  Time must be traversed before the unity of effect is
+realised.  And so, in the drama, there may occur in the first act of the
+play something whose real artistic value may not be evident to the
+spectator till the third or fourth act is reached.  Is the silly fellow
+to get angry and call out, and disturb the play, and annoy the artists?
+No.  The honest man is to sit quietly, and know the delightful emotions
+of wonder, curiosity, and suspense.  He is not to go to the play to lose
+a vulgar temper.  He is to go to the play to realise an artistic
+temperament.  He is to go to the play to gain an artistic temperament.
+He is not the arbiter of the work of art.  He is one who is admitted to
+contemplate the work of art, and, if the work be fine, to forget in its
+contemplation and the egotism that mars him—the egotism of his ignorance,
+or the egotism of his information.  This point about the drama is hardly,
+I think, sufficiently recognised.  I can quite understand that were
+‘Macbeth’ produced for the first time before a modern London audience,
+many of the people present would strongly and vigorously object to the
+introduction of the witches in the first act, with their grotesque
+phrases and their ridiculous words.  But when the play is over one
+realises that the laughter of the witches in ‘Macbeth’ is as terrible as
+the laughter of madness in ‘Lear,’ more terrible than the laughter of
+Iago in the tragedy of the Moor.  No spectator of art needs a more
+perfect mood of receptivity than the spectator of a play.  The moment he
+seeks to exercise authority he becomes the avowed enemy of Art and of
+himself.  Art does not mind.  It is he who suffers.
+
+With the novel it is the same thing.  Popular authority and the
+recognition of popular authority are fatal.  Thackeray’s ‘Esmond’ is a
+beautiful work of art because he wrote it to please himself.  In his
+other novels, in ‘Pendennis,’ in ‘Philip,’ in ‘Vanity Fair’ even, at
+times, he is too conscious of the public, and spoils his work by
+appealing directly to the sympathies of the public, or by directly
+mocking at them.  A true artist takes no notice whatever of the public.
+The public are to him non-existent.  He has no poppied or honeyed cakes
+through which to give the monster sleep or sustenance.  He leaves that to
+the popular novelist.  One incomparable novelist we have now in England,
+Mr George Meredith.  There are better artists in France, but France has
+no one whose view of life is so large, so varied, so imaginatively true.
+There are tellers of stories in Russia who have a more vivid sense of
+what pain in fiction may be.  But to him belongs philosophy in fiction.
+His people not merely live, but they live in thought.  One can see them
+from myriad points of view.  They are suggestive.  There is soul in them
+and around them.  They are interpretative and symbolic.  And he who made
+them, those wonderful quickly-moving figures, made them for his own
+pleasure, and has never asked the public what they wanted, has never
+cared to know what they wanted, has never allowed the public to dictate
+to him or influence him in any way but has gone on intensifying his own
+personality, and producing his own individual work.  At first none came
+to him.  That did not matter.  Then the few came to him.  That did not
+change him.  The many have come now.  He is still the same.  He is an
+incomparable novelist.
+
+With the decorative arts it is not different.  The public clung with
+really pathetic tenacity to what I believe were the direct traditions of
+the Great Exhibition of international vulgarity, traditions that were so
+appalling that the houses in which people lived were only fit for blind
+people to live in.  Beautiful things began to be made, beautiful colours
+came from the dyer’s hand, beautiful patterns from the artist’s brain,
+and the use of beautiful things and their value and importance were set
+forth.  The public were really very indignant.  They lost their temper.
+They said silly things.  No one minded.  No one was a whit the worse.  No
+one accepted the authority of public opinion.  And now it is almost
+impossible to enter any modern house without seeing some recognition of
+good taste, some recognition of the value of lovely surroundings, some
+sign of appreciation of beauty.  In fact, people’s houses are, as a rule,
+quite charming nowadays.  People have been to a very great extent
+civilised.  It is only fair to state, however, that the extraordinary
+success of the revolution in house-decoration and furniture and the like
+has not really been due to the majority of the public developing a very
+fine taste in such matters.  It has been chiefly due to the fact that the
+craftsmen of things so appreciated the pleasure of making what was
+beautiful, and woke to such a vivid consciousness of the hideousness and
+vulgarity of what the public had previously wanted, that they simply
+starved the public out.  It would be quite impossible at the present
+moment to furnish a room as rooms were furnished a few years ago, without
+going for everything to an auction of second-hand furniture from some
+third-rate lodging-house.  The things are no longer made.  However they
+may object to it, people must nowadays have something charming in their
+surroundings.  Fortunately for them, their assumption of authority in
+these art-matters came to entire grief.
+
+It is evident, then, that all authority in such things is bad.  People
+sometimes inquire what form of government is most suitable for an artist
+to live under.  To this question there is only one answer.  The form of
+government that is most suitable to the artist is no government at all.
+Authority over him and his art is ridiculous.  It has been stated that
+under despotisms artists have produced lovely work.  This is not quite
+so.  Artists have visited despots, not as subjects to be tyrannised over,
+but as wandering wonder-makers, as fascinating vagrant personalities, to
+be entertained and charmed and suffered to be at peace, and allowed to
+create.  There is this to be said in favour of the despot, that he, being
+an individual, may have culture, while the mob, being a monster, has
+none.  One who is an Emperor and King may stoop down to pick up a brush
+for a painter, but when the democracy stoops down it is merely to throw
+mud.  And yet the democracy have not so far to stoop as the emperor.  In
+fact, when they want to throw mud they have not to stoop at all.  But
+there is no necessity to separate the monarch from the mob; all authority
+is equally bad.
+
+There are three kinds of despots.  There is the despot who tyrannises
+over the body.  There is the despot who tyrannises over the soul.  There
+is the despot who tyrannises over the soul and body alike.  The first is
+called the Prince.  The second is called the Pope.  The third is called
+the People.  The Prince may be cultivated.  Many Princes have been.  Yet
+in the Prince there is danger.  One thinks of Dante at the bitter feast
+in Verona, of Tasso in Ferrara’s madman’s cell.  It is better for the
+artist not to live with Princes.  The Pope may be cultivated.  Many Popes
+have been; the bad Popes have been.  The bad Popes loved Beauty, almost
+as passionately, nay, with as much passion as the good Popes hated
+Thought.  To the wickedness of the Papacy humanity owes much.  The
+goodness of the Papacy owes a terrible debt to humanity.  Yet, though the
+Vatican has kept the rhetoric of its thunders, and lost the rod of its
+lightning, it is better for the artist not to live with Popes.  It was a
+Pope who said of Cellini to a conclave of Cardinals that common laws and
+common authority were not made for men such as he; but it was a Pope who
+thrust Cellini into prison, and kept him there till he sickened with
+rage, and created unreal visions for himself, and saw the gilded sun
+enter his room, and grew so enamoured of it that he sought to escape, and
+crept out from tower to tower, and falling through dizzy air at dawn,
+maimed himself, and was by a vine-dresser covered with vine leaves, and
+carried in a cart to one who, loving beautiful things, had care of him.
+There is danger in Popes.  And as for the People, what of them and their
+authority?  Perhaps of them and their authority one has spoken enough.
+Their authority is a thing blind, deaf, hideous, grotesque, tragic,
+amusing, serious, and obscene.  It is impossible for the artist to live
+with the People.  All despots bribe.  The people bribe and brutalise.
+Who told them to exercise authority?  They were made to live, to listen,
+and to love.  Someone has done them a great wrong.  They have marred
+themselves by imitation of their inferiors.  They have taken the sceptre
+of the Prince.  How should they use it?  They have taken the triple tiara
+of the Pope.  How should they carry its burden?  They are as a clown
+whose heart is broken.  They are as a priest whose soul is not yet born.
+Let all who love Beauty pity them.  Though they themselves love not
+Beauty, yet let them pity themselves.  Who taught them the trick of
+tyranny?
+
+There are many other things that one might point out.  One might point
+out how the Renaissance was great, because it sought to solve no social
+problem, and busied itself not about such things, but suffered the
+individual to develop freely, beautifully, and naturally, and so had
+great and individual artists, and great and individual men.  One might
+point out how Louis XIV., by creating the modern state, destroyed the
+individualism of the artist, and made things monstrous in their monotony
+of repetition, and contemptible in their conformity to rule, and
+destroyed throughout all France all those fine freedoms of expression
+that had made tradition new in beauty, and new modes one with antique
+form.  But the past is of no importance.  The present is of no
+importance.  It is with the future that we have to deal.  For the past is
+what man should not have been.  The present is what man ought not to be.
+The future is what artists are.
+
+It will, of course, be said that such a scheme as is set forth here is
+quite unpractical, and goes against human nature.  This is perfectly
+true.  It is unpractical, and it goes against human nature.  This is why
+it is worth carrying out, and that is why one proposes it.  For what is a
+practical scheme?  A practical scheme is either a scheme that is already
+in existence, or a scheme that could be carried out under existing
+conditions.  But it is exactly the existing conditions that one objects
+to; and any scheme that could accept these conditions is wrong and
+foolish.  The conditions will be done away with, and human nature will
+change.  The only thing that one really knows about human nature is that
+it changes.  Change is the one quality we can predicate of it.  The
+systems that fail are those that rely on the permanency of human nature,
+and not on its growth and development.  The error of Louis XIV. was that
+he thought human nature would always be the same.  The result of his
+error was the French Revolution.  It was an admirable result.  All the
+results of the mistakes of governments are quite admirable.
+
+It is to be noted also that Individualism does not come to man with any
+sickly cant about duty, which merely means doing what other people want
+because they want it; or any hideous cant about self-sacrifice, which is
+merely a survival of savage mutilation.  In fact, it does not come to man
+with any claims upon him at all.  It comes naturally and inevitably out
+of man.  It is the point to which all development tends.  It is the
+differentiation to which all organisms grow.  It is the perfection that
+is inherent in every mode of life, and towards which every mode of life
+quickens.  And so Individualism exercises no compulsion over man.  On the
+contrary, it says to man that he should suffer no compulsion to be
+exercised over him.  It does not try to force people to be good.  It
+knows that people are good when they are let alone.  Man will develop
+Individualism out of himself.  Man is now so developing Individualism.
+To ask whether Individualism is practical is like asking whether
+Evolution is practical.  Evolution is the law of life, and there is no
+evolution except towards Individualism.  Where this tendency is not
+expressed, it is a case of artificially-arrested growth, or of disease,
+or of death.
+
+Individualism will also be unselfish and unaffected.  It has been pointed
+out that one of the results of the extraordinary tyranny of authority is
+that words are absolutely distorted from their proper and simple meaning,
+and are used to express the obverse of their right signification.  What
+is true about Art is true about Life.  A man is called affected,
+nowadays, if he dresses as he likes to dress.  But in doing that he is
+acting in a perfectly natural manner.  Affectation, in such matters,
+consists in dressing according to the views of one’s neighbour, whose
+views, as they are the views of the majority, will probably be extremely
+stupid.  Or a man is called selfish if he lives in the manner that seems
+to him most suitable for the full realisation of his own personality; if,
+in fact, the primary aim of his life is self-development.  But this is
+the way in which everyone should live.  Selfishness is not living as one
+wishes to live, it is asking others to live as one wishes to live.  And
+unselfishness is letting other people’s lives alone, not interfering with
+them.  Selfishness always aims at creating around it an absolute
+uniformity of type.  Unselfishness recognises infinite variety of type as
+a delightful thing, accepts it, acquiesces in it, enjoys it.  It is not
+selfish to think for oneself.  A man who does not think for himself does
+not think at all.  It is grossly selfish to require of ones neighbour
+that he should think in the same way, and hold the same opinions.  Why
+should he?  If he can think, he will probably think differently.  If he
+cannot think, it is monstrous to require thought of any kind from him.  A
+red rose is not selfish because it wants to be a red rose.  It would be
+horribly selfish if it wanted all the other flowers in the garden to be
+both red and roses.  Under Individualism people will be quite natural and
+absolutely unselfish, and will know the meanings of the words, and
+realise them in their free, beautiful lives.  Nor will men be egotistic
+as they are now.  For the egotist is he who makes claims upon others, and
+the Individualist will not desire to do that.  It will not give him
+pleasure.  When man has realised Individualism, he will also realise
+sympathy and exercise it freely and spontaneously.  Up to the present man
+has hardly cultivated sympathy at all.  He has merely sympathy with pain,
+and sympathy with pain is not the highest form of sympathy.  All sympathy
+is fine, but sympathy with suffering is the least fine mode.  It is
+tainted with egotism.  It is apt to become morbid.  There is in it a
+certain element of terror for our own safety.  We become afraid that we
+ourselves might be as the leper or as the blind, and that no man would
+have care of us.  It is curiously limiting, too.  One should sympathise
+with the entirety of life, not with life’s sores and maladies merely, but
+with life’s joy and beauty and energy and health and freedom.  The wider
+sympathy is, of course, the more difficult.  It requires more
+unselfishness.  Anybody can sympathise with the sufferings of a friend,
+but it requires a very fine nature—it requires, in fact, the nature of a
+true Individualist—to sympathise with a friend’s success.
+
+In the modern stress of competition and struggle for place, such sympathy
+is naturally rare, and is also very much stifled by the immoral ideal of
+uniformity of type and conformity to rule which is so prevalent
+everywhere, and is perhaps most obnoxious in England.
+
+Sympathy with pain there will, of course, always be.  It is one of the
+first instincts of man.  The animals which are individual, the higher
+animals, that is to say, share it with us.  But it must be remembered
+that while sympathy with joy intensifies the sum of joy in the world,
+sympathy with pain does not really diminish the amount of pain.  It may
+make man better able to endure evil, but the evil remains.  Sympathy with
+consumption does not cure consumption; that is what Science does.  And
+when Socialism has solved the problem of poverty, and Science solved the
+problem of disease, the area of the sentimentalists will be lessened, and
+the sympathy of man will be large, healthy, and spontaneous.  Man will
+have joy in the contemplation of the joyous life of others.
+
+For it is through joy that the Individualism of the future will develop
+itself.  Christ made no attempt to reconstruct society, and consequently
+the Individualism that he preached to man could be realised only through
+pain or in solitude.  The ideals that we owe to Christ are the ideals of
+the man who abandons society entirely, or of the man who resists society
+absolutely.  But man is naturally social.  Even the Thebaid became
+peopled at last.  And though the cenobite realises his personality, it is
+often an impoverished personality that he so realises.  Upon the other
+hand, the terrible truth that pain is a mode through which man may
+realise himself exercises a wonderful fascination over the world.
+Shallow speakers and shallow thinkers in pulpits and on platforms often
+talk about the world’s worship of pleasure, and whine against it.  But it
+is rarely in the world’s history that its ideal has been one of joy and
+beauty.  The worship of pain has far more often dominated the world.
+Mediævalism, with its saints and martyrs, its love of self-torture, its
+wild passion for wounding itself, its gashing with knives, and its
+whipping with rods—Mediævalism is real Christianity, and the mediæval
+Christ is the real Christ.  When the Renaissance dawned upon the world,
+and brought with it the new ideals of the beauty of life and the joy of
+living, men could not understand Christ.  Even Art shows us that.  The
+painters of the Renaissance drew Christ as a little boy playing with
+another boy in a palace or a garden, or lying back in his mother’s arms,
+smiling at her, or at a flower, or at a bright bird; or as a noble,
+stately figure moving nobly through the world; or as a wonderful figure
+rising in a sort of ecstasy from death to life.  Even when they drew him
+crucified they drew him as a beautiful God on whom evil men had inflicted
+suffering.  But he did not preoccupy them much.  What delighted them was
+to paint the men and women whom they admired, and to show the loveliness
+of this lovely earth.  They painted many religious pictures—in fact, they
+painted far too many, and the monotony of type and motive is wearisome,
+and was bad for art.  It was the result of the authority of the public in
+art-matters, and is to be deplored.  But their soul was not in the
+subject.  Raphael was a great artist when he painted his portrait of the
+Pope.  When he painted his Madonnas and infant Christs, he is not a great
+artist at all.  Christ had no message for the Renaissance, which was
+wonderful because it brought an ideal at variance with his, and to find
+the presentation of the real Christ we must go to mediæval art.  There he
+is one maimed and marred; one who is not comely to look on, because
+Beauty is a joy; one who is not in fair raiment, because that may be a
+joy also: he is a beggar who has a marvellous soul; he is a leper whose
+soul is divine; he needs neither property nor health; he is a God
+realising his perfection through pain.
+
+The evolution of man is slow.  The injustice of men is great.  It was
+necessary that pain should be put forward as a mode of self-realisation.
+Even now, in some places in the world, the message of Christ is
+necessary.  No one who lived in modern Russia could possibly realise his
+perfection except by pain.  A few Russian artists have realised
+themselves in Art; in a fiction that is mediæval in character, because
+its dominant note is the realisation of men through suffering.  But for
+those who are not artists, and to whom there is no mode of life but the
+actual life of fact, pain is the only door to perfection.  A Russian who
+lives happily under the present system of government in Russia must
+either believe that man has no soul, or that, if he has, it is not worth
+developing.  A Nihilist who rejects all authority, because he knows
+authority to be evil, and welcomes all pain, because through that he
+realises his personality, is a real Christian.  To him the Christian
+ideal is a true thing.
+
+And yet, Christ did not revolt against authority.  He accepted the
+imperial authority of the Roman Empire and paid tribute.  He endured the
+ecclesiastical authority of the Jewish Church, and would not repel its
+violence by any violence of his own.  He had, as I said before, no scheme
+for the reconstruction of society.  But the modern world has schemes.  It
+proposes to do away with poverty and the suffering that it entails.  It
+desires to get rid of pain, and the suffering that pain entails.  It
+trusts to Socialism and to Science as its methods.  What it aims at is an
+Individualism expressing itself through joy.  This Individualism will be
+larger, fuller, lovelier than any Individualism has ever been.  Pain is
+not the ultimate mode of perfection.  It is merely provisional and a
+protest.  It has reference to wrong, unhealthy, unjust surroundings.
+When the wrong, and the disease, and the injustice are removed, it will
+have no further place.  It will have done its work.  It was a great work,
+but it is almost over.  Its sphere lessens every day.
+
+Nor will man miss it.  For what man has sought for is, indeed, neither
+pain nor pleasure, but simply Life.  Man has sought to live intensely,
+fully, perfectly.  When he can do so without exercising restraint on
+others, or suffering it ever, and his activities are all pleasurable to
+him, he will be saner, healthier, more civilised, more himself.  Pleasure
+is Nature’s test, her sign of approval.  When man is happy, he is in
+harmony with himself and his environment.  The new Individualism, for
+whose service Socialism, whether it wills it or not, is working, will be
+perfect harmony.  It will be what the Greeks sought for, but could not,
+except in Thought, realise completely, because they had slaves, and fed
+them; it will be what the Renaissance sought for, but could not realise
+completely except in Art, because they had slaves, and starved them.  It
+will be complete, and through it each man will attain to his perfection.
+The new Individualism is the new Hellenism.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+               _Reprinted from the_ ‘_Fortnightly Review_,’
+               _by permission of Messrs Chapman and Hall_.
+
+
+
+
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