What Is Art and Essays on Art

Leo Nikolayevich Tolstoy

• Editore: Obscure Press
• Anno: 2020
• ISBN:
  9781528769648
• Argomento: Art
• Categoria: Art général

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.

PART VIII

WHAT IS ART?

CONTENTS

I.	Time and labour spent on art—Lives stunted in its service—Morality sacrificed to art—The rehearsal of an opera described.
II.	Does art compensate for so much evil?—What is art?—Confusion of opinions—Is it ‘that which produces beauty’?—The word ‘beauty’ in Russian—Chaos in æsthetics.
III.	Summary of various æsthetic theories and definitions, from Baumgarten to the present day.
IV.	Definitions of art founded on beauty—Taste not definable—A clear definition needed to enable us to recognize works of art.
V.	Definitions not founded on beauty—Tolstóy’s definition—The extent and necessity of art—How people in the past distinguished good from bad in art.
VI.	How art for pleasure’s sake came into esteem—Religions indicate what is considered good and bad—Church Christianity—The Renaissance—Scepticism of the upper classes—They confuse beauty with goodness.
VII.	An æsthetic theory framed to suit the view of life of the ruling classes.
VIII.	Who have adopted this æsthetic theory—Real art needful for all men—Our art too expensive, too unintelligible, and too harmful, for the masses—The theory of ‘the elect’ in art.
IX.	The perversion of our art—It has lost its natural subject-matter—Has no flow of fresh feeling—Transmits chiefly three base emotions.
X.	Loss of comprehensibility—Decadent art—Recent French art—Have we a right to say it is bad?—The highest art has always been comprehensible to normal people—What fails to infect normal people is not art.
XI.	Counterfeits of art produced by: Borrowing; Imitation; being Striking; Interesting—Qualifications needful for the production of real works of art, and those sufficient for the production of counterfeits.
XII.	Causes of production of counterfeits—Professionalism—Criticism—Schools of art. Perfection of form necessary to produce the infection which characterizes a true work of art.
XIII.	Wagner’s ‘Nibelungen-Ring’ a type of counterfeit art—Its success and the reasons thereof.
XIV.	Truths fatal to preconceived views not readily recognized—Proportion of works of art to counterfeits—Perversion of taste and incapacity to recognize art—Examples.
XV.	THE QUALITY OF ART (WHICH DEPENDS ON ITS FORM) CONSIDERED APART FROM ITS SUBJECT-MATTER—The sign of art: infectiousness—Art incomprehensible to those whose taste is perverted—Conditions 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.—The better the feeling the more valuable the art—The cultured crowd—The religious perception of our age—New ideals place fresh demands on art—Art unites—Religious art—Universal art—Both co-operate to one result—The new appraisement of art—Bad art—Examples. Beauty, though it can supply no standard of art, has its legitimate place in art. Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.
XVII.	Results of absence of true art—Results of perversion of art: Labour and lives spent on what is useless and harmful—The abnormal life of the rich—Perplexity of children and, plain folk—Confusion of right and wrong—Nietzsche and Redbeard—Superstition, Patriotism, and Sensuality.
XVIII.	The purpose of human life is the brotherly union of man—Art 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 art—The mendacious sciences; the trivial sciences—Science 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 Wagner’s 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

BAUDELAIRE’S ‘FLOWERS OF EVIL’

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 night’s beautifier, that you

Still heap up those leagues—yes! ironically heap!—

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!

BAUDELAIRE’S ‘FLOWERS OF EVIL’

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 that’s a prey to the raging of love.

The rapiers are broken! and so is our youth,

But the dagger’s 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 BAUDELAIRE’S PROSE WORK ENTITLED ‘LITTLE POEMS IN PROSE’

The Stranger

Whom dost thou love best? say, enigmatical man—thy father, thy mother, thy sister, or thy brother?

‘I have neither father, nor mother, nor sister, nor brother.’

Thy friends?

‘There you use an expression the meaning of which till now remains unknown to me.’

Thy country?

‘I know not in what latitude it is situated.’

Beauty?

‘I would gladly love her, goddess and immortal.’

Gold?

‘I hate it, as you hate God.’

Then what do you love, extraordinary stranger?

‘I love the clouds . . . the clouds that pass . . . there . . . the marvellous clouds!’

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 d——b——of 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 wife—that 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 mark—one even penetrated the ceiling; and as the charming creature laughed wildly, mocking her husband’s 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!

Verlaine’s ‘Forgotten Airs’

No. I

‘The wind in the plain

Suspends its breath.’—FAVART.

’Tis 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

’Neath 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.

Verlaine’s ‘Forgotten Airs’

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 trees—

Cloudlike they seem—

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 he’s 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.—A. M.

APPENDIX II

This is the first page of Mallarmé’s book Divagations, referred to in Chapter X, page 146.

Le Phénomène Futur

UN ciel pâle, sur le monde qui finit de décrépitude, va peut-être partir avec les nuages: les lambeaux de la pourpre usée des couchants déteignent dans une rivière dormant à l’horizon submergé de rayons et d’eau. Les arbres s’ennuient, et, sous leur feuillage blanchi (de la poussière du temps plutôt que celle des chemins), monte la maison en toile de Montreur de choses Passées: maint réverbère attend le crépuscule et ravive les visages d’une malheureuse foule, vaincue par la maladie immortelle et le péché des siècles, d’hommes près de leurs chétives complices enceintes des fruits misérables avec lesquels périra la terre. Dans le silence inquiet de tous les yeux suppliant là-bas le soleil qui, sous l’eau, s’enfonce avec le désespoir d’un cri, voici le simple boniment: ‘Nulle enseigne ne vous régale du spectacle intérieur, car il n’est pas maintenant un peintre capable d’en donner une ombre triste. J’apporte, vivante (et préservée à travers les ans par la science souveraine), une Femme d’autrefois. Quelque folie, originelle et naïve, une extase d’or, je ne sais quoi! par elle nommée sa chevelure, se ploie avec la grâce des étoffes autour d’un visage qu’éclaire la nudité sanglante de ses lèvres. A la place du vêtement 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 levés comme s’ils étaient pleins d’un lait éternel, la pointe vers le ciel, les jambes lisses qui gardent le sel de la mer première.’ Se rappelant leurs pauvres épouses, chauves, morbides et pleines d’horreur, les maris se pressent: elles aussi par curiosité, mélancoliques, veulent voir.

Quand tous auront contemplé la noble créature, vestige de quelque époque déjà maudite, les uns indifférents, car ils n’auront pas eu la force de comprendre, mais d’autres navrés et la paupière humide de larmes résignées, se regarderont; tandis que les poètes de ces temps, sentant se rallumer leurs yeux éteints, s’achemineront vers leur lampe, le cerveau ivre un instant d’une gloire confuse, hantés du Rythme et dans l’oubli d’exister à une époque qui survit à la beauté.

The Future Phenomenon—BY MALLARMÉ

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 ‘Showman of Things Past.’ 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...