VIVIAN.Certainly I do.Paradox though it may seem -and paradoxes are always dangerous things -it is none the less true that Life imitates art far more than Art imitates life.We have all seen in our own day in England how a certain curious and fascinating type of beauty,invented and emphasised by two imaginative painters,has so influenced Life that whenever one goes to a private view or to an artistic salon one sees,here the mystic eyes of Rossetti's dream,the long ivory throat,the strange square-cut jaw,the loosened shadowy hair that he so ardently loved,there the sweet maidenhood of 'The Golden Stair,'the blossom-like mouth and weary loveliness of the 'Laus Amoris,'the passion-pale face of Andromeda,the thin hands and lithe beauty of the Vivian in 'Merlin's Dream.'And it has always been so.Agreat artist invents a type,and Life tries to copy it,to reproduce it in a popular form,like an enterprising publisher.
Neither Holbein nor Vandyck found in England what they have given us.They brought their types with them,and Life with her keen imitative faculty set herself to supply the master with models.
The Greeks,with their quick artistic instinct,understood this,and set in the bride's chamber the statue of Hermes or of Apollo,that she might bear children as lovely as the works of art that she looked at in her rapture or her pain.They knew that Life gains from art not merely spirituality,depth of thought and feeling,soul-turmoil or soul-peace,but that she can form herself on the very lines and colours of art,and can reproduce the dignity of Pheidias as well as the grace of Praxiteles.Hence came their objection to realism.They disliked it on purely social grounds.
They felt that it inevitably makes people ugly,and they were perfectly right.We try to improve the conditions of the race by means of good air,free sunlight,wholesome water,and hideous bare buildings for the better housing of the lower orders.But these things merely produce health,they do not produce beauty.For this,Art is required,and the true disciples of the great artist are not his studio-imitators,but those who become like his works of art,be they plastic as in Greek days,or pictorial as in modern times;in a word,Life is Art's best,Art's only pupil.
As it is with the visible arts,so it is with literature.The most obvious and the vulgarest form in which this is shown is in the case of the silly boys who,after reading the adventures of Jack Sheppard or Dick Turpin,pillage the stalls of unfortunate apple-women,break into sweet-shops at night,and alarm old gentlemen who are returning home from the city by leaping out on them in suburban lanes,with black masks and unloaded revolvers.This interesting phenomenon,which always occurs after the appearance of a new edition of either of the books I have alluded to,is usually attributed to the influence of literature on the imagination.But this is a mistake.The imagination is essentially creative,and always seeks for a new form.The boy-burglar is simply the inevitable result of life's imitative instinct.He is Fact,occupied as Fact usually is,with trying to reproduce Fiction,and what we see in him is repeated on an extended scale throughout the whole of life.Schopenhauer has analysed the pessimism that characterises modern thought,but Hamlet invented it.The world has become sad because a puppet was once melancholy.The Nihilist,that strange martyr who has no faith,who goes to the stake without enthusiasm,and dies for what he does not believe in,is a purely literary product.He was invented by Tourgenieff,and completed by Dostoieffski.Robespierre came out of the pages of Rousseau as surely as the People's Palace rose out of the DEBRIS of a novel.
