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The Man of Letters as a Man of Business-Part6_William Dean Howells(1837-1920)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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business men; they are no more of the condition of things than we

workingmen are; they did no more to cause it or create it; but I



would rather be in my place than in theirs, and I wish that I

could make all my fellow-artists realize that economically they



are the same as mechanics, farmers, day-laborers. It ought to be

our glory that we produce something, that we bring into the world



something that was not choately there before; that at least we

fashion or shape something anew; and we ought to feel the tie



that binds us to all the toilers of the shop and field, not as a

galling chain, but as a mystic bond also uniting us to Him who



works hitherto and evermore.

I know very well that to the vast multitude of our



fellow-workingmen we artists are the shadows of names, or not

even the shadows. I like to look the facts in the face, for



though their lineaments are often terrible, yet there is light

nowhere else; and I will not pretend, in this light, that the



masses care any more for us than we care for the masses, or so

much. Nevertheless, and most distinctly, we are not of the



classes. Except in our work, they have no use for us; if now and

then they fancy qualifying their material splendor or their



spiritual dulness with some artistic presence, the attempt is

always a failure that bruises and abashes. In so far as the



artist is a man of the world, he is the less an artist, and if he

fashions himself upon fashion, he deforms his art. We all know



that ghastly type; it is more absurd even than the figure which

is really of the world, which was born and bred in it, and



conceives of nothing outside of it, or above it. In the social

world, as well as in the business world, the artist is anomalous,



in the actual conditions, and he is perhaps a little ridiculous.

Yet he has to be somewhere, poor fellow, and I think that he will



do well to regard himself as in a transition state. He is really

of the masses, but they do not know it, and what is worse, they



do not know him; as yet the common people do not hear him gladly

or hear him at all. He is apparently of the classes; they know



him, and they listen to him; he often amuses them very much; but

he is not quite at ease among them; whether they know it or not,



he knows that he is not of their kind. Perhaps he will never be

at home anywhere in the world as long as there are masses whom he



ought to consort with, and classes whom he cannot consort with.

The prospect is not brilliant for any artist now living, but



perhaps the artist of the future will see in the flesh the

accomplishment of that human equality of which the instinct has



been divinely planted in the human soul.

End




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