Tolstoy: What is Art? & Wherein is Truth in Art (Essays on Aesthetics and Literature). Leo Tolstoy

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СКАЧАТЬ Par une trompe sans vertu.

       Quel sépulcral naufrage (tu

       Le soir, écume, mais y baves)

       Suprême une entre les épaves

       Abolit le mât dévêtu.

       Ou cela que furibond faute

       De quelque perdition haute

       Tout l'abîme vain éployé

       Dans le si blanc cheveu qui traîne

       Avarement aura noyé

       Le flanc enfant d'une sirène. [113]

      ("Pan," 1895, No. 1.)

      This poem is not exceptional in its incomprehensibility. I have read several poems by Mallarmé, and they also had no meaning whatever. I give a sample of his prose in Appendix I. There is a whole volume of this prose called "Divagations." It is impossible to understand any of it. And that is evidently what the author intended.

      And here is a song by Maeterlinck, another celebrated author of to-day:—

       Quand il est sorti,

       (J'entendis la porte)

       Quand il est sorti

       Elle avait souri ....

       Mais quand il entra

       (J'entendis la lampe)

       Mais quand il entra

       Une autre était là ....

      Et j'ai vu la mort,

       (J'entendis son âme)

       Et j'ai vu la mort

       Qui l'attend encore ....

      On est venu dire,

       (Mon enfant j'ai peur)

       On est venu dire

       Qu'il allait partir ....

      Ma lampe allumée,

       (Mon enfant j'ai peur)

       Ma lampe allumée

       Me suis approchée ....

      A la première porte,

       (Mon enfant j'ai peur)

      A la première porte,

       La flamme a tremblé ....

      A la seconde porte,

       (Mon enfant j'ai peur)

      A la seconde porte,

       La flamme a parlé ....

      A la troisième porte,

       (Mon enfant j'ai peur)

      A la troisième porte,

       La lumière est morte ....

       Et s'il revenait un jour

       Que faut-il lui dire?

       Dites-lui qu'on l'attendit

       Jusqu'à s'en mourir ....

       Et s'il demande où vous êtes

       Que faut-il répondre?

       Donnez-lui mon anneau d'or

       Sans rien lui répondre ....

       Et s'il m'interroge alors

       Sur la dernière heure?

       Dites lui que j'ai souri

       De peur qu'il ne pleure ....

       Et s'il m'interroge encore

       Sans me reconnaître?

       Parlez-lui comme une sœur,

       Il souffre peut-être ....

       Et s'il veut savoir pourquoi

       La salle est déserte?

       Montrez lui la lampe éteinte

       Et la porte ouverte .... [114]

      ("Pan," 1895, No. 2.)

      Who went out? Who came in? Who is speaking? Who died?

      I beg the reader to be at the pains of reading through the samples I cite in Appendix II. of the celebrated and esteemed young poets—Griffin, Verhaeren, Moréas, and Montesquiou. It is important to do so in order to form a clear conception of the present position of art, and not to suppose, as many do, that Decadentism is an accidental and transitory phenomenon. To avoid the reproach of having selected the worst verses, I have copied out of each volume the poem which happened to stand on page 28.

      All the other productions of these poets are equally unintelligible, or can only be understood with great difficulty, and then not fully. All the productions of those hundreds of poets, of whom I have named a few, are the same in kind. And among the Germans, Swedes, Norwegians, Italians, and us Russians, similar verses are printed. And such productions are printed and made up into book form, if not by the million, then by the hundred thousand (some of these works sell in tens of thousands). For type-setting, paging, printing, and binding these books, millions and millions of working days are spent—not less, I think, than went to build the great pyramid. And this is not all. The same is going on in all the other arts: millions and millions of working days are being spent on the production of equally incomprehensible works in painting, in music, and in the drama.

      Painting not only does not lag behind poetry in this matter, but rather outstrips it. Here is an extract from the diary of an amateur of art, written when visiting the Paris exhibitions in 1894:—

      "I was to-day at three exhibitions: the Symbolists', the Impressionists', and the Neo-Impressionists'. I looked at the pictures conscientiously and carefully, СКАЧАТЬ