| BROWNING
in his poem, “One Word More,” has the well-known
line:
“Gain the man’s
joy, miss the artist’s sorrow.”
What
is the artist’s sorrow? Can you ask? After all,
it is a sorrow not so different from other men’s.
In one word, it is disappointment; and disappointment
of a kind we all have felt, — the sense of thwarted
and baffled expression. Fancy the artist, with his fair
and enthralling ideal at first mistily afloat in his
brain, then gradually growing clearer and clearer as
he broods over it in serene happiness, and finally beginning
to take created form. Is there any greater or purer
pleasure than his? How fresh, how alluring, how untarnished
[Page 205] is the beauty of that thought!
And with what untold delight he broods upon it, expectant
of the unique revelation never yet vouchsafed to man,
and which he alone is to communicate to his fellows!
No, not a vain or conscious brooding; for I doubt if
any artist pauses to think of himself. His joy is too
instinctive, too elemental; he cannot himself quite
tell why he is so happy; if you should ask him, he would
be at a loss to explain. But happy he is, bearing about
in his dark mind the imperishable splendour. His whole
being, his character, his personality, nay, his person,
are illumined as with the sacred fire. He irradiates
the glad glory of the elect. He has been enkindled with
a coal from the altar of the very god. He is not consciously
better than others; he is consciously only a normal
man, and saddened only because others can be sad. In
this rapt state he walks the earth, his head in the
clouds — child of eternity and progenitor of unimagined
beauty. [Page 206]
But
wait an hour! Wait until the vanishing, evanescent ideal
is nearer his grasp. Wait until he tries to embody it
in palpable form — in terms of colour or sound
or shape. Ah, then you shall see a shadow of gloom overspread
his face. That magic thought, so new and lovely, which
seemed at first so easy to express, refuses to be made
manifest. Toil as he may, the artistry is still at fault.
The report he can give of his wonderful vision is in
no wise a faithful representation. Perhaps by a sudden
flash, as of enchantment, he is able to render some
phrase of his ideal almost perfectly; but then, alas,
the enchantment does not hold! The next instant he fails
again, and the harder he tries the more futile do his
attempts become. O artist, save thy tears! Vex not thy
heart at this bitter sorrow, for it is the common fate
of all thy guild — never to be satisfied with
the effort.
Yes,
and this is the common sorrow of all of thy fellow mortals,
too. Are we not, every one, beset by this very hindrance,
the impossibility [Page 207] of expression?
And does not this difficulty explain much of our disappointment
and discontent with life? What a relief and pleasure
it is to feel one’s self thoroughly and adequately
represented or expressed, even for a moment! When the
complete idea in our mind, which may have been lying
unexpressed for a long time, suddenly some day finds
its very self embodied in a perfect phrase or line or
sentence of literature, how glad we are! How we welcome
that artist, and how grateful we are to him for giving
voice to our very thought! And when some sentiment or
emotion finds a like embodiment, what a feeling of satisfaction
we have! And in these cases, it is only the expression
of another which we have borrowed. How much more, then,
are we delighted when the expression is spontaneous,
when we can unaided find the fit and perfect form in
which to embody the breath of our own being, the word
of the spirit.
This
same satisfaction, less in degree but [Page
208] not the least different in kind, is ours
in daily human intercourse, when we move happily and
among our fellow men, — when we feel ourselves
perfectly understood. It seems to me that we should
come a shade nearer happiness in life if we constantly
reminded ourselves of this truth: that life as we live
it is an art, — is one of the greatest of the
fine arts, — that, indeed, it is the one art which
embraces all others. We should, I think, keep in mind
the joy and the sorrow of the artist, and remember that
our own happiness and discontent are largely similar
to his. We should not forget that in the arts of speech
and gesture and dress — in the arts of human intercourse
— we are every instant using exactly the methods
of all the other fine arts, and are making, for good
or ill, undeniable revelations of ourselves. It is inevitable
that we should be making hourly impressions on our friends.
And does it not become an evident duty that those impressions
should be true, that they should actually represent
us, [Page 209] that they should at
least be brought under our conscious control, and made
expressive as well as impressive? If we allow a discrepancy
between the impression we make on others and the expression
we intended to embody, certainly nothing but unhappiness
can result. For the joy of life depends in no small
measure on living adequately, in filling our sphere,
in leaving no chinks between the veritable self and
the great, beautiful, fascinating dominion of the senses.
A being placed on this earth is fitted, you may be sure,
both by inheritance and training, for living in accord
with his surroundings. To bring himself into this close
and satisfying relation is the clear duty and first
privilege of all. And it can be done only through expression,
only by honestly making the inward self real to the
outward world.
If
we neglect to secure for ourselves true, sincere, pleasing,
and reliable expression, which shall enable us to reach
the utmost bounds of our being, it is as if a seed should
[Page 210] never grow to fill its outer
shell. We should then hopelessly rattle about in a vast,
reverberating, empty world. I should, indeed, like to
be the master of some fine art. I can fancy no more
luxurious gladness in life. At least I should insist
on cultivating the lesser arts of expression, —
the personal arts, the arts of life. [Page 211]
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