Part 16

Few of us think that spiritualism will ever prove the immortality of the soul to the satisfaction of the scientific mind. Still when Professor Hyslop of Columbia University declares that that very thing is about to be done, we are quite ready to give him our attention. We have heard before of Mrs. Piper, the Cambridge medium, who has been for ten or twelve years in the charge of the Psychical Research Society. We know that she is looked upon as a remarkable medium, and that the closest watching for years past has failed to detect her in deceit. It is through her Professor Hyslop says that the proofs which he finds satisfactory have come. They have come then by a notable and reputable route, and they are indorsed by an observer whose indorsement is probably as good as can be given, for Professor Hyslop is not only a man of high character but of a ripe experience in matters of this sort. Psychology is his specialty. He knows the tricks of commercial spiritualism, and has often detected and exposed them. It is human to err, and it is entirely possible that his certainties may turn vague on exposure, and that his conclusions will not stand; but certainly his proofs deserve and will receive respectful inspection.

But, of course, the question is not whether or not we are going to believe the soul immortal, but merely whether we shall consider that these newly advertised proofs of it are worth anything. Most of us instinctively believe in a future life as it is, and will go on believing in it however new proofs may triumph or fail. We think there must be a future life. It is not improbable. What is grossly improbable is that there is none. The wonder is not that there should seem to be feeble glimmerings of intercourse between us who are still here and those who have gone before. The wonder is that it has proved to be so extraordinarily difficult to speak across a grave. Professor Hyslop has probability overwhelmingly with him in his general contention. If we are not agitated by his promises and impatient to read his disclosures, it is because proofs of the sort he deals with have heretofore been inconclusive and disappointing. For some reason the life of earth seems to have been isolated. We scarcely even dream of what life may have preceded it, and though we do dream much about the life that is to follow, we gather surprisingly little information about it. Still, all knowledge is hidden from man until he finds it out. It is not forbidden to him to discover the secrets of earth. Who shall say that it is unlawful to go farther, if he can, and pry into the mysteries that seem to lie outside of earth? Is it trespassing to seek for sure tokens of another life? Who shall say so? The most that conservative observers may say is that, so far, spiritualism has seemed trivial, misleading, and inexpedient. That demoralization, if not madness, has seemed to lie that way; and that those who have been content to go about their business here, taking the future life on trust, have seemed to fare better than those who have directed earthly energies into a search for proofs of unearthly facts.

It may be that science is about to buttress the edifice that faith has reared; but proofs or no proofs, most of us will continue to read "to be continued" at the bottom of the page of this life, and simply wait, each for himself, for the page to be turned. The story does not conclude: it simply breaks off. Of course there will be more of it.

* * * * *

During the recent war with Spain, a statement often made was that women were more in favor of it than men. If its truth or falsity cannot be determined, one may wonder at least how there could have been the slightest justification for it. Hardly any fact in history thrusts itself to the front more persistently and conspicuously than the evils that war brings upon women. Not even the men that bear the brunt of battle pay a greater tribute to Mars than they. To be sure, they do not to-day as in the past fall a prey to a savage soldiery. "Civilized warfare" has done much for them, as it has for men. But there are still moral, intellectual, and economic effects that ought to make them all members of peace societies and ardent advocates of international arbitration.

Several hundred thousand men cannot be withdrawn from the industrial pursuits of a country and assigned to the work of destruction, or to preparations for it, without a profound disturbance. The greatest harm thus wrought is not the enormous waste, positive and negative—the unproductive consumption, as the economists call it, and the check to the production of so many toilers; it is the diversion of women from the lighter duties that belong to them to the heavier ones that belong to men. Whenever or wherever war has levied on the workshop and the field, they have had to fill the vacant places. It is not the savage alone that becomes lost to the feeling of courtesy and humanity and turns his women into beasts of burden. The most enlightened nations commit the same barbarous offence. The drain upon the English working-classes during the Napoleonic wars forced even young children into the exhausting work of adults, leading to a physical degeneracy that was thought to threaten the primacy of the Anglo-Saxon. How many American tourists in Europe realize the terrible significance of the spectacle of women toiling in the fields or dragging through the streets a heavily laden cart? To most of them it seems rather picturesque and attractive. Yet it is the reverse of the medal that commemorates some great battle or some military genius.

In all militant countries, the soldier is the ideal man. His is the most honorable business. Whoever does not bear arms or is unable to endure the hardships of a campaign sinks to a lower level. But no class is thrust into a more intolerable position by this false test of social worth than women. A double stigma attaches to them—that of weakness and that of toilers. Only as mothers of soldiers do they hold a place in public esteem. Napoleon's idea of the noblest woman was she that bore the greatest number of children for his armies. The idea of the present Emperor of Germany is much the same. "_Küche, Kirche, Kinder_," is the alliterative description attributed to him of the narrow sphere in which he would have them move. Little wonder, therefore, that the condition of the women in the military countries of Europe differs but little from that ignoble ideal. Little wonder, too, that American women that transplant themselves by marriage to the countries where it prevails often find that they have sold their birthright for a mess of pottage.

It is a commonplace of sociology that intellectual as well as political despotism is born of war. When a nation is engaged in a desperate struggle with an enemy, the central power must be invested, under penalty of defeat, with all the authority needful to wield effectively the resources of the state. Besides drafting soldiers and levying taxes, it crushes opposition and criticism. The result is that in countries like Russia and Germany, freedom of thought and action has still to be won. Especially is it so in all that relates, even remotely, to politics. But the rights denied to women include many not denied to men. Despite German universities, German science, German philosophy, and German culture in every direction, about which so much is said in glowing praise, the women of the Fatherland are still in the shackles forged by feudalism and despotism. The temples of learning are closed against them. The right of the toilers among them to become associated together to better their condition is repressed. Only as they move in the narrow circle drawn by the soldier can they escape the look of amazement that might be bestowed upon any freak of nature.

Militarism works equal havoc in the moral and spiritual domain. Recently Count Tolstoi described the deplorable condition of the inhabitants of the famous black-earth region. The startling feature of his powerful picture of these victims of military despotism was the apathy, melancholy, and fatalism that have seized them. Perhaps the Russian women do not have to bear more than the men; but since they belong to the more fragile sex, they are less able to bear it. As in France during the last years of the Grand Monarch, the share of the fruits of toil taken by the government to support armies of soldiers and officials has become so large that these unfortunate people are constantly on the verge of starvation. Their normal diet is a third less than sufficient to maintain health and strength. They are not simply weakened by the lack of food—they are paralyzed by the outlook that however much they may exert themselves, they cannot better their condition. "Why should we trouble ourselves?" they say. "We shall not get fat. If we can only live." Bending under this despairing thought, they take little interest in their task. They avail themselves of no discovery and no invention that will make it easier or more profitable. With their primitive plough and staggering horse, they move slowly and drearily over their fields, glad when night comes to deliver them from their thraldom and sad when morning breaks to renew it. The priests themselves testify to their indifference to the consolations of religion. Aside from their desire to get enough to keep them alive, they have no other but to forget their sufferings and disappointments. When surcease is not sought in the natural sleep that comes from heavy toil, it is sought in deep draughts of Russian spirits.

The degradation of character due to militarism takes many forms. There is the vicious ethics of war carried into social and industrial life. The deceit and fraud, more common in militant countries than in pacific, are evils that women must endure with men. There are the callousness and cruelty of war, from which they suffer far mere than men. There is, finally, the moral laxity of war. The full story of the sufferings of women from this cause cannot be written. The standing armies of Europe spread a poison that penetrates the remotest corner of the social fabric. No class escapes it. The gallantry of officers is notorious. Not less so are their mercenary marriages. Among the rank and file occur those illegitimate unions common to every garrison town. Among the toilers the same evil prevails. Militarism acts directly and indirectly to make them unwilling to assume the responsibilities of marriage. How serious this evil has become may be gathered from the report of Dr. Hirscherberg, of Berlin. In that city alone in 1897, 8,000 victims of these _Arbeiter-Ehen_, as they are called, who had been deserted by their companions, appealed for public relief. In 1895 the number reached 12,000. But Berlin is not the only capital thronging with these unfortunates. They crowd the dark corners of the cities of all the militant countries of Europe.

THE FIELD OF ART

_ART IN THE SCHOOLS—FIRST CONSIDERATIONS._

It is not this year for the first time that the Regents of the University of New York State have prepared valuable photographs for distribution among the schools of the State. Now, however, there comes a "tentative list" of similar photographs, and this brings up in a forcible way the old question, whether there is any such thing possible as teaching art in the schools, and if so, how it may best be undertaken.

Some preliminary definitions seem to be required, however. The question as to the fitness of the photograph for this purpose is nearly always stated, as if the graphic and plastic arts were expressible in terms of the literary art. Unfortunately, this is not true at all. Indeed, the student of those arts of non-literary expression is apt to go rather too far in asserting the falsity of it.

When the student first perceives clearly that each of the fine arts differs very widely from all the others, he is very apt to assume too much importance for his own differentiation of those arts. He sees such striking differences that he ignores resemblances and similarities; or he is very ready to do so. It is evident to him that the piece of literature needs a subject of the nature of narrative, or description, or exhortation, or prayer, or jest, and that the dignity or meanness of the subject has much to do with the artistical result. Then it appears to him that music requires no subject of that character; that music goes to work in another way and addresses the spirit of man, not by relating or describing, not by appeals to morals or to memory. He hardly disputes Arnold's dictum that poetry is "a criticism of life;" referring only to the same author's explanation of criticism and to the further elucidation of the thought which is contained in the phrases "We turn to poetry to interpret life for us, to console us, to sustain us;" but he reflects that he would be a rash critic who should try to judge any piece of music in that way. This is clear to the mind of the student; but still he ponders over the graphic arts, over sculpture and painting, in all their forms, wondering why those arts seem to him half-way between literature and music, having less to do with preaching or portraiture than the one, and more, it seems, than the other. He finds that painters are more concerned with light and shade, and also more busy with composition and the leading lines and, again, more thoughtful of bringing whites prettily together, than they are of telling any story or influencing any person's conduct. And the sculptors are concerned with dignity of form, and care as little about whether they deal with piety or with passion as do the musical composers.

He reflects upon architecture, too, if his imagination and memory take him so far out of the present time that architecture seems to him a fine art at all; and he asks: What is the "subject" of that work of art which exists in the interior of Aya Sophia, and which one sees as he enters it by the _Porta Basilica_? It is, indeed, not surprising that some writers are always at work, comparing architecture and music. Suppose that one were to try to give in words that impressive effect of the inside of the great church. He would have either to describe the effect produced upon him, thus translating from one language into another, or he would have so to combine thoughts, expressed in words, as to give the same impression of awe-inspiring dignity, mingled with grace, with charm, with what one might call suavity. In order to produce this effect upon the reader of a prose passage or a piece of verse, the writer would have to take a subject other than that afforded by the mere description of a building. In other words, he could not translate; the language would break down under him; he could not give the same impression in the language of words which the artist has given in the language of space, of masses, of delicate tones, of light and shade. And he would recall the fact that the time was when Aya Sophia gave also an impression of soft blooming color, of which now only a slight indication remains.

It is not then essential that the work of art in architecture should have a subject in the sense in which the work of art in literature must have a subject. Unless our logic is too rapid for us, it would seem that the same rule must apply in the case of any comparison between two of the fine arts, and that it does not follow from the need of a subject in literature, as of narrative in one poem, of description in another, of patriotism, mingled with exhortation to courage, in a third, and so on, that a painting must needs have similar subject. And the first painting that the student meets as he enters a gallery of pictures will very likely be a landscape, and he will at once see that in this picture there is no narration, no morality, no piety, no appeal to the spirit—nothing but description, and a description admittedly so slight and cursory, so deliberately incomplete, that it may almost be dismissed as not of weight in the consideration of the picture's value. And yet a picture must represent something natural, something tangible; it cannot go straight to the emotions as music can, but has to act through memory and knowledge. And the student is left wondering, as we found him wondering a few lines above, whether painting be, indeed, half-way between music and literature in requiring less subject of the kind that is not merely artistic than the one art, and more than the other.

II

The question is rather What is the practice of the artist than What ought to be the practice of the artist. When, in some future epoch of thought, these questions about fine art shall be more generally understood by the writers and thinkers than they now are, it may become possible for some Ruskin of the future to preach an acceptable creed as to the proper mission of the artist; but it has not been possible for the Ruskins of the past or of the present to do so, simply because they have failed to understand the conditions under which the artist does his work. There is very little use in exhorting a man to better things until you are able to sympathize with what he is already engaged upon. Now, it requires but a limited observation of artists to ascertain that they are little occupied in narration, in description, in preaching, in devotion, or in jesting; but a very long continued and minute observance of their ways will leave the beholder in the same mind about these, and more and more convinced that artists are chiefly occupied in producing works of art and nothing else. And what are the works of art which they are trying to produce? In the matter of painting, which is our present subject, it is unfortunate that the word _impression_ has been used in a special sense as describing the way of work of a certain special body of painters, because it more accurately described the way in which most painters work than any other single word will suggest it. The object of the landscape-painter is commonly to paint something upon his canvas which will convey to the spectator an impression which he, the landscape-painter, has already received from external nature. That impression may have come upon him during the watches of the night, as he thought about what he had seen by day; or it may have come upon him instantaneously as he faced a piece of hill-side with trees, or a single old tree. Suppose it even to be a sunset sky, with miles of ocean illuminated by the colored fire above; it is with no hope of adequately representing that sea and sky that he sits down to paint, but he proposes to paint an impression which that sea and sky have made upon his sensitive mind, and which he thinks will be interesting when painted. That, then, is the landscape-painter's subject. Not the whole truth, nor even any essential part of the truth, about a hay-stack or a mountain-range, but an interesting artistic impression made upon the artist's mind by the hay-stack or the mountain-range. Here, as in literature, there are nobler subjects and less noble subjects; but here much less than in literature is the nobility of the work of art affected by the nobility of the subject. In two pictures by Homer Martin, one represents the stretch of an Adirondack lake, with mountain and forest and a great wealth of varied cloud-form in the sky above; while the other represents only the ridge of a hill seen from a point so low that the ridge cuts the sky and nothing else is seen against the sky but the tops of a few trees which grow on the farther slope. It is impossible to say which of the two pictures is the nobler. The bigger and fuller picture may, indeed, be a greater work of art than the smaller one could ever be, and yet that is so very small a fact! What the artist has done is, first, to make a design out of the material afforded him by a broad landscape and the varied sky, and in the other instance to make a design out of a monotonous grassy slope, a few tree-tops, left unaccounted for except by the beholder's intelligence, and a very uniform gray firmament beyond. Who shall say which is the nobler design of the two?

Mr. George Moore has published an essay well worthy of consideration, in which he undertakes to show that the "failure of the nineteenth century" in painting is that it has assumed the necessity of taking a subject in the literary sense, in the moral sense, in the sense of those frequenters of picture-galleries who prefer the picture which is to them the most like a novel, or a pathetic poem in words. The assumption is, and it is certainly a safe one, that those persons who are attracted to these pictures in order that they may study archæology or feel a religious thrill, or be made curious and inclined to look up the facts in either story, or, finally, to feel the domestic pathos of the scene at the sick child's bedside—those students of art are on the wrong track, and will never discover what, in most cases, the painter is after when he paints a picture. Italian art and Dutch art had died before "the subject" had appeared, and it was not until the end of the eighteenth century that this evil thing "really began to make itself felt, and like the potato blight, it soon became clear that it had come to stay." And the conclusion is that if the painter would now produce pictures worthy of himself he must reject the temptation to attract spectators by tickling their feelings or showing off his learning, and must paint pictures with painter's subjects only.

III

The argument continually carries us away into a seeming denial to the graphic arts of all subject of any sort other than the painter's subject pure and simple, that is to say, form expressed on a flat surface, light and shade, tints and gradations, and color. And yet we cannot be quite satisfied with this conclusion in view of the fact that the great painters of the past, the men whom Mr. Moore cites throughout his article named above as regardless of "the subject in the modern sense," still painted humanity, and that with interest. The thought expressed in the discussion given above, if it stands alone and by itself, is likely to mislead the student in this way, that he will suppose that the artist in color or light and shade is indifferent to human interest. But this is not exactly so, and an anecdote, nothing in itself, may illustrate this fact. It is only a few days ago that a certain wide reader, one who has much knowledge of men and of affairs, a traveller, too, and a student, but an artist always and primarily, an artist of forty years' constant practice, meditation, and severe training, alone with a friend, was talking to him of Mr. Kipling's recent poem about the torpedo-boats, and the destruction of the enemy's ships by night—and, as this seemed to interest neither party very much, our artist's friend turned to that other poem of Mr. Kipling's which begins with the couplet:

This 'appened in a battle to a batt'ry of the corps. Which is first among the women an' amazin' first in war.