A Note on Realism
First published in the Magazine of Art in 1883.
Style is the invariable mark of any master; and for the student who does not aspire1 so high as to be numbered with the giants, it is still the one quality in which he may improve himself at will. Passion, wisdom, creative force, the power of mystery or colour, are allotted2 in the hour of birth, and can be neither learned nor simulated. But the just and dexterous3 use of what qualities we have, the proportion of one part to another and to the whole, the elision of the useless, the accentuation of the important, and the preservation4 of a uniform character from end to end — these, which taken together constitute technical perfection, are to some degree within the reach of industry and intellectual courage. What to put in and what to leave out; whether some particular fact be organically necessary or purely5 ornamental7; whether, if it be purely ornamental, it may not weaken or obscure the general design; and finally, whether, if we decide to use it, we should do so grossly and notably8, or in some conventional disguise: are questions of plastic style continually rearising. And the sphinx that patrols the highways of executive art has no more unanswerable riddle9 to propound10.
In literature (from which I must draw my instances) the great change of the past century has been effected by the admission of detail. It was inaugurated by the romantic Scott; and at length, by the semi-romantic Balzac and his more or less wholly unromantic followers11, bound like a duty on the novelist. For some time it signified and expressed a more ample contemplation of the conditions of man’s life; but it has recently (at least in France) fallen into a merely technical and decorative13 stage, which it is, perhaps, still too harsh to call survival. With a movement of alarm, the wiser or more timid begin to fall a little back from these extremities14; they begin to aspire after a more naked, narrative15 articulation16; after the succinct17, the dignified18, and the poetic19; and as a means to this, after a general lightening of this baggage of detail. After Scott we beheld20 the starveling story — once, in the hands of Voltaire, as abstract as a parable21 — begin to be pampered22 upon facts. The introduction of these details developed a particular ability of hand; and that ability, childishly indulged, has led to the works that now amaze us on a railway journey. A man of the unquestionable force of M. Zola spends himself on technical successes. To afford a popular flavour and attract the mob, he adds a steady current of what I may be allowed to call the rancid. That is exciting to the moralist; but what more particularly interests the artist is this tendency of the extreme of detail, when followed as a principle, to degenerate23 into mere12 feux-de-joie of literary tricking. The other day even M. Daudet was to be heard babbling24 of audible colours and visible sounds.
This odd suicide of one branch of the realists may serve to remind us of the fact which underlies25 a very dusty conflict of the critics. All representative art, which can be said to live, is both realistic and ideal; and the realism about which we quarrel is a matter purely of externals. It is no especial cultus of nature and veracity26, but a mere whim27 of veering28 fashion, that has made us turn our back upon the larger, more various, and more romantic art of yore. A photographic exactitude in dialogue is now the exclusive fashion; but even in the ablest hands it tells us no more — I think it even tells us less — than Moliere, wielding29 his artificial medium, has told to us and to all time of Alceste or Orgon, Dorine or Chrysale. The historical novel is forgotten. Yet truth to the conditions of man’s nature and the conditions of man’s life, the truth of literary art, is free of the ages. It may be told us in a carpet comedy, in a novel of adventure, or a fairy tale. The scene may be pitched in London, on the sea-coast of Bohemia, or away on the mountains of Beulah. And by an odd and luminous30 accident, if there is any page of literature calculated to awake the envy of M. Zola, it must be that Troilus and Cressida which Shakespeare, in a spasm31 of unmanly anger with the world, grafted32 on the heroic story of the siege of Troy.
This question of realism, let it then be clearly understood, regards not in the least degree the fundamental truth, but only the technical method, of a work of art. Be as ideal or as abstract as you please, you will be none the less veracious33; but if you be weak, you run the risk of being tedious and inexpressive; and if you be very strong and honest, you may chance upon a masterpiece.
A work of art is first cloudily conceived in the mind; during the period of gestation35 it stands more clearly forward from these swaddling mists, puts on expressive34 lineaments, and becomes at length that most faultless, but also, alas36! that incommunicable product of the human mind, a perfected design. On the approach to execution all is changed. The artist must now step down, don his working clothes, and become the artisan. He now resolutely37 commits his airy conception, his delicate Ariel, to the touch of matter; he must decide, almost in a breath, the scale, the style, the spirit, and the particularity of execution of his whole design.
The engendering38 idea of some works is stylistic; a technical preoccupation stands them instead of some robuster principle of life. And with these the execution is but play; for the stylistic problem is resolved beforehand, and all large originality39 of treatment wilfully40 foregone. Such are the verses, intricately designed, which we have learnt to admire, with a certain smiling admiration41, at the hands of Mr. Lang and Mr. Dobson; such, too, are those canvases where dexterity42 or even breadth of plastic style takes the place of pictorial43 nobility of design. So, it may be remarked, it was easier to begin to write Esmond than Vanity Fair, since, in the first, the style was dictated44 by the nature of the plan; and Thackeray, a man probably of some indolence of mind, enjoyed and got good profit of this economy of effort. But the case is exceptional. Usually in all works of art that have been conceived from within outwards45, and generously nourished from the author’s mind, the moment in which he begins to execute is one of extreme perplexity and strain. Artists of indifferent energy and an imperfect devotion to their own ideal make this ungrateful effort once for all; and, having formed a style, adhere to it through life. But those of a higher order cannot rest content with a process which, as they continue to employ it, must infallibly degenerate towards the academic and the cut-and-dried. Every fresh work in which they embark46 is the signal for a fresh engagement of the whole forces of their mind; and the changing views which accompany the growth of their experience are marked by still more sweeping47 alterations48 in the manner of their art. So that criticism loves to dwell upon and distinguish the varying periods of a Raphael, a Shakespeare, or a Beethoven.
It is, then, first of all, at this initial and decisive moment when execution is begun, and thenceforth only in a less degree, that the ideal and the real do indeed, like good and evil angels, contend for the direction of the work. Marble, paint, and language, the pen, the needle, and the brush, all have their grossnesses, their ineffable49 impotences, their hours, if I may so express myself, of insubordination. It is the work and it is a great part of the delight of any artist to contend with these unruly tools, and now by brute51 energy, now by witty52 expedient53, to drive and coax54 them to effect his will. Given these means, so laughably inadequate55, and given the interest, the intensity56, and the multiplicity of the actual sensation whose effect he is to render with their aid, the artist has one main and necessary resource which he must, in every case and upon any theory, employ. He must, that is, suppress much and omit more. He must omit what is tedious or irrelevant57, and suppress what is tedious and necessary. But such facts as, in regard to the main design, subserve a variety of purposes, he will perforce and eagerly retain. And it is the mark of the very highest order of creative art to be woven exclusively of such. There, any fact that is registered is contrived58 a double or a treble debt to pay, and is at once an ornament6 in its place, and a pillar in the main design. Nothing would find room in such a picture that did not serve, at once, to complete the composition, to accentuate59 the scheme of colour, to distinguish the planes of distance, and to strike the note of the selected sentiment; nothing would be allowed in such a story that did not, at the same time, expedite the progress of the fable50, build up the characters, and strike home the moral or the philosophical60 design. But this is unattainable. As a rule, so far from building the fabric61 of our works exclusively with these, we are thrown into a rapture62 if we think we can muster63 a dozen or a score of them, to be the plums of our confection. And hence, in order that the canvas may be filled or the story proceed from point to point, other details must be admitted. They must be admitted, alas! upon a doubtful title; many without marriage robes. Thus any work of art, as it proceeds towards completion, too often — I had almost written always — loses in force and poignancy64 of main design. Our little air is swamped and dwarfed65 among hardly relevant orchestration; our little passionate66 story drowns in a deep sea of descriptive eloquence67 or slipshod talk.
But again, we are rather more tempted68 to admit those particulars which we know we can describe; and hence those most of all which, having been described very often, have grown to be conventionally treated in the practice of our art. These we choose, as the mason chooses the acanthus to adorn70 his capital, because they come naturally to the accustomed hand. The old stock incidents and accessories, tricks of workmanship and schemes of composition (all being admirably good, or they would long have been forgotten) haunt and tempt69 our fancy, offer us ready-made but not perfectly71 appropriate solutions for any problem that arises, and wean us from the study of nature and the uncompromising practice of art. To struggle, to face nature, to find fresh solutions, and give expression to facts which have not yet been adequately or not yet elegantly expressed, is to run a little upon the danger of extreme self-love. Difficulty sets a high price upon achievement; and the artist may easily fall into the error of the French naturalists73, and consider any fact as welcome to admission if it be the ground of brilliant handiwork; or, again, into the error of the modern landscape-painter, who is apt to think that difficulty overcome and science well displayed can take the place of what is, after all, the one excuse and breath of art — charm. A little further, and he will regard charm in the light of an unworthy sacrifice to prettiness, and the omission74 of a tedious passage as an infidelity to art.
We have now the matter of this difference before us. The idealist, his eye singly fixed75 upon the greater outlines, loves rather to fill up the interval76 with detail of the conventional order, briefly77 touched, soberly suppressed in tone, courting neglect. But the realist, with a fine intemperance78, will not suffer the presence of anything so dead as a convention; he shall have all fiery79, all hot- pressed from nature, all charactered and notable, seizing the eye. The style that befits either of these extremes, once chosen, brings with it its necessary disabilities and dangers. The immediate80 danger of the realist is to sacrifice the beauty and significance of the whole to local dexterity, or, in the insane pursuit of completion, to immolate81 his readers under facts; but he comes in the last resort, and as his energy declines, to discard all design, abjure82 all choice, and, with scientific thoroughness, steadily83 to communicate matter which is not worth learning. The danger of the idealist is, of course, to become merely null and lose all grip of fact, particularity, or passion.
We talk of bad and good. Everything, indeed, is good which is conceived with honesty and executed with communicative ardour. But though on neither side is dogmatism fitting, and though in every case the artist must decide for himself, and decide afresh and yet afresh for each succeeding work and new creation; yet one thing may be generally said, that we of the last quarter of the nineteenth century, breathing as we do the intellectual atmosphere of our age, are more apt to err72 upon the side of realism than to sin in quest of the ideal. Upon that theory it may be well to watch and correct our own decisions, always holding back the hand from the least appearance of irrelevant dexterity, and resolutely fixed to begin no work that is not philosophical, passionate, dignified, happily mirthful, or, at the last and least, romantic in design.
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aspire
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| vi.(to，after)渴望，追求，有志于 | |
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allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dexterous
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| adj.灵敏的；灵巧的 | |
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preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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notably
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| adv.值得注意地，显著地，尤其地，特别地 | |
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riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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propound
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| v.提出 | |
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followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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decorative
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| adj.装饰的，可作装饰的 | |
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extremities
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| n.端点( extremity的名词复数 )；尽头；手和足；极窘迫的境地 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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articulation
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| n.（清楚的）发音；清晰度，咬合 | |
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succinct
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| adj.简明的，简洁的 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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parable
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| n.寓言，比喻 | |
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pampered
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| adj.饮食过量的，饮食奢侈的v.纵容，宠，娇养( pamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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degenerate
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| v.退步，堕落；adj.退步的，堕落的；n.堕落者 | |
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babbling
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| n.胡说，婴儿发出的咿哑声adj.胡说的v.喋喋不休( babble的现在分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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underlies
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| v.位于或存在于（某物）之下( underlie的第三人称单数 )；构成…的基础（或起因），引起 | |
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veracity
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| n.诚实 | |
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whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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veering
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| n.改变的；犹豫的；顺时针方向转向；特指使船尾转向上风来改变航向v.（尤指交通工具）改变方向或路线( veer的现在分词 )；（指谈话内容、人的行为或观点）突然改变；（指风） （在北半球按顺时针方向、在南半球按逆时针方向）逐渐转向；风向顺时针转 | |
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wielding
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的现在分词 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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grafted
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| 移植( graft的过去式和过去分词 )； 嫁接； 使（思想、制度等）成为（…的一部份）； 植根 | |
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veracious
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| adj.诚实可靠的 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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gestation
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| n.怀孕；酝酿 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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engendering
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的现在分词 ) | |
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originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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pictorial
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| adj.绘画的；图片的；n．画报 | |
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dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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outwards
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| adj.外面的，公开的，向外的；adv.向外；n.外形 | |
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embark
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| vi.乘船，着手，从事，上飞机 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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alterations
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| n.改动( alteration的名词复数 )；更改；变化；改变 | |
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ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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coax
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| v.哄诱，劝诱，用诱哄得到，诱取 | |
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inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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accentuate
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| v.着重，强调 | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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poignancy
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| n.辛酸事，尖锐 | |
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dwarfed
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| vt.（使）显得矮小（dwarf的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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err
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| vi.犯错误，出差错 | |
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naturalists
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| n.博物学家( naturalist的名词复数 )；（文学艺术的）自然主义者 | |
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omission
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| n.省略，删节；遗漏或省略的事物，冗长 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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intemperance
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| n.放纵 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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80
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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81
immolate
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| v.牺牲 | |
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82
abjure
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| v.发誓放弃 | |
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83
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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