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What Is Art and Essays on Art
Leo Nikolayevich Tolstoy
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What Is Art and Essays on Art
Leo Nikolayevich Tolstoy
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Originally published in 1930, this book contains the widely respected essay 'What Is Art', by the well-known Russian writer Leo Tolstoy, and is highly recommended for inclusion on the bookshelf of any fan of his works. Many of these earliest books, particularly those dating back to the 1900s and before, are now extremely scarce and increasingly expensive. We are republishing these classic works in affordable, high quality, modern editions, using the original text and artwork.
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Kunst AllgemeinPART VIII
WHAT IS ART?
CONTENTS
I. | Time and labour spent on artâLives stunted in its serviceâMorality sacrificed to artâThe rehearsal of an opera described. |
II. | Does art compensate for so much evil?âWhat is art?âConfusion of opinionsâIs it âthat which produces beautyâ?âThe word âbeautyâ in RussianâChaos in ĂŠsthetics. |
III. | Summary of various ĂŠsthetic theories and definitions, from Baumgarten to the present day. |
IV. | Definitions of art founded on beautyâTaste not definableâA clear definition needed to enable us to recognize works of art. |
V. | Definitions not founded on beautyâTolstĂłyâs definitionâThe extent and necessity of artâHow people in the past distinguished good from bad in art. |
VI. | How art for pleasureâs sake came into esteemâReligions indicate what is considered good and badâChurch ChristianityâThe RenaissanceâScepticism of the upper classesâThey confuse beauty with goodness. |
VII. | An ĂŠsthetic theory framed to suit the view of life of the ruling classes. |
VIII. | Who have adopted this ĂŠsthetic theoryâReal art needful for all menâOur art too expensive, too unintelligible, and too harmful, for the massesâThe theory of âthe electâ in art. |
IX. | The perversion of our artâIt has lost its natural subject-matterâHas no flow of fresh feelingâTransmits chiefly three base emotions. |
X. | Loss of comprehensibilityâDecadent artâRecent French artâHave we a right to say it is bad?âThe highest art has always been comprehensible to normal peopleâWhat fails to infect normal people is not art. |
XI. | Counterfeits of art produced by: Borrowing; Imitation; being Striking; InterestingâQualifications needful for the production of real works of art, and those sufficient for the production of counterfeits. |
XII. | Causes of production of counterfeitsâProfessionalismâCriticismâSchools of art. Perfection of form necessary to produce the infection which characterizes a true work of art. |
XIII. | Wagnerâs âNibelungen-Ringâ a type of counterfeit artâIts success and the reasons thereof. |
XIV. | Truths fatal to preconceived views not readily recognizedâProportion of works of art to counterfeitsâPerversion of taste and incapacity to recognize artâExamples. |
XV. | THE QUALITY OF ART (WHICH DEPENDS ON ITS FORM) CONSIDERED APART FROM ITS SUBJECT-MATTERâThe sign of art: infectiousnessâArt incomprehensible to those whose taste is pervertedâConditions of infectiousness: Individuality, Clearness, and Sincerity of the feeling conveyed. |
XVI. | Having recognized certain productions as being works of art, since their excellence of form renders them infectious, consider now THE QUALITY OF THE FEELINGS WHICH FORM THE SUBJECT-MATTER OF THESE WORKS.âThe better the feeling the more valuable the artâThe cultured crowdâThe religious perception of our ageâNew ideals place fresh demands on artâArt unitesâReligious artâUniversal artâBoth co-operate to one resultâThe new appraisement of artâBad artâExamples. Beauty, though it can supply no standard of art, has its legitimate place in art. Beethovenâs Ninth Symphony. |
XVII. | Results of absence of true artâResults of perversion of art: Labour and lives spent on what is useless and harmfulâThe abnormal life of the richâPerplexity of children and, plain folkâConfusion of right and wrongâNietzsche and RedbeardâSuperstition, Patriotism, and Sensuality. |
XVIII. | The purpose of human life is the brotherly union of manâArt should be guided by this perception. |
XIX. | The art of the future not the possession of a select minority but a means toward perfection and unity. |
XX. | The connexion between science and artâThe mendacious sciences; the trivial sciencesâScience should deal with the great problems of human life and serve as a basis for art. |
APPENDICES
Appendix I. | Translations of French poems and prose quoted in Chap. X of What is Art? |
Appendix II. | Translation from Mallarmé. |
Appendix III. | Poems by Henri de Régnier, Vielé-Griffin, Verhaeren, Moréas, and Montesquiou, with translations. |
Appendix IV. | The contents of Wagnerâs Nibelungen-Ring. |
(This Table of Contents is compiled by the translator.)
APPENDICES
APPENDIX I
Translations of French poems and prose quoted in Chapter X.1
BAUDELAIREâS âFLOWERS OF EVILâ
No. XXIV
I adore thee as much as the vaults of night,
O vessel of grief, taciturnity great,
And I love thee the more because of thy flight.
It seemeth, my nightâs beautifier, that you
Still heap up those leaguesâyes! ironically heap!â
That divide from my arms the immensity blue.
I advance to attack, I climb to assault,
Like a choir of young worms at a corpse in the vault;
Thy coldness, oh cruel, implacable beast!
Yet heightens thy beauty, on which my eyes feast!
BAUDELAIREâS âFLOWERS OF EVILâ
No. XXXVI
Duellum
Two warriors come running, to fight they begin,
With gleaming and blood they bespatter the air;
These games, and this clatter of arms, is the din
Of youth thatâs a prey to the raging of love.
The rapiers are broken! and so is our youth,
But the daggerâs avenged, dear! and so is the sword,
By the nail that is steeled and the hardened tooth.
Oh! the fury of hearts aged and ulcered by love!
In the ditch, where the lynx and the pard have their lair,
Our heroes have rolled in an angry embrace;
Their skin blooms on brambles that erewhile were bare.
That ravine is a friend-inhabited hell!
Then let us roll in, oh woman inhuman,
To immortalize hatred that nothing can quell!
FROM BAUDELAIREâS PROSE WORK ENTITLED âLITTLE POEMS IN PROSEâ
The Stranger
Whom dost thou love best? say, enigmatical manâthy father, thy mother, thy sister, or thy brother?
âI have neither father, nor mother, nor sister, nor brother.â
Thy friends?
âThere you use an expression the meaning of which till now remains unknown to me.â
Thy country?
âI know not in what latitude it is situated.â
Beauty?
âI would gladly love her, goddess and immortal.â
Gold?
âI hate it, as you hate God.â
Then what do you love, extraordinary stranger?
âI love the clouds . . . the clouds that pass . . . there . . . the marvellous clouds!â
The Soup and the Clouds
My beloved little stupid was giving me my dinner, and I was contemplating, through the open window of the dining-room, those moving architectures which God makes out of vapours, the marvellous constructions of the impalpable. And I said to myself, amid my contemplation, All these phantasmagoria are almost as beautiful as the eyes of my beautiful beloved, the monstrous little silly with the green eyes.
Suddenly I felt the violent blow of a fist on my back, and I heard a harsh, charming voice, an hysterical voice, as it were hoarse with brandy, the voice of my dear little well-beloved, saying, Are you going to eat your soup soon, you dââbââof a dealer in clouds?
The Gallant Marksman
As the carriage was passing through the forest he ordered it to be stopped near a shooting-gallery, saying that he wished to shoot off a few bullets to kill Time. To kill this monster, is it not the most ordinary and the most legitimate occupation of every one? And he gallantly offered his arm to his dear, delicious, and execrable wifeâthat mysterious woman to whom he owed so much pleasure, so much pain, and perhaps also a large part of his genius.
Several bullets struck far from the intended markâone even penetrated the ceiling; and as the charming creature laughed wildly, mocking her husbandâs awkwardness, he turned abruptly towards her and said, Notice that doll there on the right with the haughty mien and her nose in the air; well, dear angel, I imagine to myself that it is you! And he closed his eyes and pulled the trigger. The doll was neatly decapitated.
Then, bowing towards his dear one, his delightful, execrable wife, his inevitable, pitiless muse, and kissing her hand respectfully, he added, Ah! my dear angel, how I thank you for my skill!
Verlaineâs âForgotten Airsâ
No. I
âThe wind in the plain
Suspends its breath.ââFAVART.
âTis ecstasy languishing,
Amorous fatigue,
Oh the frail and fresh murmuring!
The twitter and buzz,
The soft cry resembling
Breathed forth by the grass . . .
Oh, the roll of the pebbles
âNeath waters that pass!
Oh, this soul that is groaning
In sleepy complaint!
In us is it moaning?
In me and in you?
Low anthem exhaling
While soft falls the dew.
Verlaineâs âForgotten Airsâ
No. VIII
In the unending
Dullness of this land,
Uncertain the snow
Is gleaming like sand.
No kind of brightness
In copper-hued sky,
The moon you might see
Now live and now die.
Grey float the oak treesâ
Cloudlike they seemâ
Of neighbouring forests,
Mists in between.
Wolves hungry and lean,
And famishing crow,
What happens to you
When acrid winds blow?
In the unending
Dullness of this land,
Uncertain the snow
Is gleaming like sand.
Song by Maeterlinck
When he went away,
(Then I heard the door)
When he went away,
On her lips a smile there lay . . .
Back he came to her,
(Then I heard the lamp)
Back he came to her,
Some one else was there . . .
It was death I met,
(And I heard her soul)
It was death I met,
For her heâs waiting yet . . .
Some one came to say,
(Child, I am afraid)
Some one came to say
That he would go away . . .
With my lamp alight,
(Child, I am afraid)
With my lamp alight,
Approached I in affright . . .
To one door I came,
(Child, I am afraid)
To one door I came,
A shudder shook the flame . . .
At the second door,
(Child, I am afraid)
At the second door
Words did the flame outpour . . .
To the third I came,
(Child, I am afraid)
To the third I came,
Then died the little flame . . .
Should he one day return,
And see you lying dead?
Say I longed for him
When on my dying bed . . .
Should he question more
Without knowing me?
Like a sister speak;
Suffering he may be . . .
If he asks for you,
Say what answer then?
Give him my gold ring
And answer not a thing . . .
Should he question why
Empty is the hall?
Show the gaping door,
The lamp alight no more . . .
Should he question me
Concerning the last hour?
Say I smiled for fear
Lest he should shed a tear . . .
1 The translations in Appendices, I, II and IV are by my wife, Louise Maude. The aim of these renderings has been to keep as close to the originals as the obscurity of meaning allowed. The sense (or absence of sense) has therefore been more considered than the form of the verses.âA. M.
APPENDIX II
This is the first page of MallarmĂ©âs book Divagations, referred to in Chapter X, page 146.
Le PhénomÚne Futur
UN ciel pĂąle, sur le monde qui finit de dĂ©crĂ©pitude, va peut-ĂȘtre partir avec les nuages: les lambeaux de la pourpre usĂ©e des couchants dĂ©teignent dans une riviĂšre dormant Ă lâhorizon submergĂ© de rayons et dâeau. Les arbres sâennuient, et, sous leur feuillage blanchi (de la poussiĂšre du temps plutĂŽt que celle des chemins), monte la maison en toile de Montreur de choses PassĂ©es: maint rĂ©verbĂšre attend le crĂ©puscule et ravive les visages dâune malheureuse foule, vaincue par la maladie immortelle et le pĂ©chĂ© des siĂšcles, dâhommes prĂšs de leurs chĂ©tives complices enceintes des fruits misĂ©rables avec lesquels pĂ©rira la terre. Dans le silence inquiet de tous les yeux suppliant lĂ -bas le soleil qui, sous lâeau, sâenfonce avec le dĂ©sespoir dâun cri, voici le simple boniment: âNulle enseigne ne vous rĂ©gale du spectacle intĂ©rieur, car il nâest pas maintenant un peintre capable dâen donner une ombre triste. Jâapporte, vivante (et prĂ©servĂ©e Ă travers les ans par la science souveraine), une Femme dâautrefois. Quelque folie, originelle et naĂŻve, une extase dâor, je ne sais quoi! par elle nommĂ©e sa chevelure, se ploie avec la grĂące des Ă©toffes autour dâun visage quâĂ©claire la nuditĂ© sanglante de ses lĂšvres. A la place du vĂȘtement vain, elle a un corps; et les yeux, semblables aux pierres rares! ne valent pas ce regard qui sort de sa chair heureuse: des seins levĂ©s comme sâils Ă©taient pleins dâun lait Ă©ternel, la pointe vers le ciel, les jambes lisses qui gardent le sel de la mer premiĂšre.â Se rappelant leurs pauvres Ă©pouses, chauves, morbides et pleines dâhorreur, les maris se pressent: elles aussi par curiositĂ©, mĂ©lancoliques, veulent voir.
Quand tous auront contemplĂ© la noble crĂ©ature, vestige de quelque Ă©poque dĂ©jĂ maudite, les uns indiffĂ©rents, car ils nâauront pas eu la force de comprendre, mais dâautres navrĂ©s et la paupiĂšre humide de larmes rĂ©signĂ©es, se regarderont; tandis que les poĂštes de ces temps, sentant se rallumer leurs yeux Ă©teints, sâachemineront vers leur lampe, le cerveau ivre un instant dâune gloire confuse, hantĂ©s du Rythme et dans lâoubli dâexister Ă une Ă©poque qui survit Ă la beautĂ©.
The Future PhenomenonâBY MALLARMĂ
A pale sky, above the world that is ending through decrepitude, about perhaps to pass away with the clouds: shreds of worn-out purple of the sunsets wash off their colour in a river sleeping on the horizon, submerged with rays and water. The trees are weary, and beneath their whitened foliage (whitened by the dust of time rather than of the roads) rises the canvas house of âShowman of Things Past.â Many a lamp awaits the gloaming and brightens the faces of a miserable crowd vanquished by the everlasting sickness and sin of ages, of men by the sides of their puny accomplices pregnant with the miserable fruit through which the world will perish. In th...