The Soul Of Man Under Socialism / Oscar Wilde

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

Vendee 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. Caesar, says Mommsen, was the complete and perfect

man. But how tragically insecure was Caesar! Wherever there is a

man who exercises authority, there is a man who resists authority.

Caesar 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 aesthetic 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 aesthetic 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. Mediaevalism, 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--Mediaevalism is real

Christianity, and the mediaeval 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 mediaeval 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

mediaeval 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.