a treatise on parents and children-第20部分

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House　of　Commons；　at　public　meetings；　we　sit　solemnly　listening　to

bores　and　twaddlers　because　from　the　time　we　could　walk　or　speak　we

have　been　snubbed；　scolded；　bullied；　beaten　and　imprisoned　whenever　we

dared　to　resent　being　bored　or　twaddled　at；　or　to　express　our　natural

impatience　and　derision　of　bores　and　twaddlers。　　And　when　a　man　arises

with　a　soul　of　sufficient　native　strength　to　break　the　bonds　of　this

inculcated　reverence　and　to　expose　and　deride　and　tweak　the　noses　of

our　humbugs　and　panjandrums；　like　Voltaire　or　Dickens；　we　are　shocked

and　scandalized；　even　when　we　cannot　help　laughing。　　Worse；　we　dread

and　persecute　those　who　can　see　and　declare　the　truth；　because　their

sincerity　and　insight　reflects　on　our　delusion　and　blindness。　　We　are

all　like　Nell　Gwynne's　footman；　who　defended　Nell's　reputation　with

his　fists；　not　because　he　believed　her　to　be　what　he　called　an　honest

woman；　but　because　he　objected　to　be　scorned　as　the　footman　of　one　who

was　no　better　than　she　should　be。



This　wretched　power　of　allowing　ourselves　to　be　bored　may　seem　to　give

the　fine　arts　a　chance　sometimes。　　People　will　sit　through　a

performance　of　Beethoven's　ninth　symphony　or　of　Wagner's　Ring　just　as

they　will　sit　through　a　dull　sermon　or　a　front　bench　politician　saying

nothing　for　two　hours　whilst　his　unfortunate　country　is　perishing

through　the　delay　of　its　business　in　Parliament。　　But　their　endurance

is　very　bad　for　the　ninth　symphony；　because　they　never　hiss　when　it　is

murdered。　　I　have　heard　an　Italian　conductor　（no　longer　living）　take

the　_adagio_　of　that　symphony　at　a　lively　_allegretto_；　slowing　down

for　the　warmer　major　sections　into　the　speed　and　manner　of　the

heroine's　death　song　in　a　Verdi　opera；　and　the　listeners；　far　from

relieving　my　excruciation　by　rising　with　yells　of　fury　and　hurling

their　programs　and　opera　glasses　at　the　miscreant；　behaved　just　as

they　do　when　Richter　conducts　it。　　The　mass　of　imposture　that　thrives

on　this　combination　of　ignorance　with　despairing　endurance　is

incalculable。　　Given　a　public　trained　from　childhood　to　stand　anything

tedious；　and　so　saturated　with　school　discipline　that　even　with　the

doors　open　and　no　schoolmasters　to　stop　them　they　will　sit　there

helplessly　until　the　end　of　the　concert　or　opera　gives　them　leave　to

go　home；　and　you　will　have　in　great　capitals　hundreds　of　thousands　of

pounds　spent　every　night　in　the　season　on　professedly　artistic

entertainments　which　have　no　other　effect　on　fine　art　than　to

exacerbate　the　hatred　in　which　it　is　already　secretly　held　in　England。



Fortunately；　there　are　arts　that　cannot　be　cut　off　from　the　people　by

bad　performances。　　We　can　read　books　for　ourselves；　and　we　can　play　a

good　deal　of　fine　music　for　ourselves　with　the　help　of　a　pianola。

Nothing　stands　between　us　and　the　actual　handwork　of　the　great　masters

of　painting　except　distance；　and　modern　photographic　methods　of

reproduction　are　in　some　cases　quite　and　in　many　nearly　as　effective

in　conveying　the　artist's　message　as　a　modern　edition　of　Shakespear's

plays　is　in　conveying　the　message　that　first　existed　in　his

handwriting。　　The　reproduction　of　great　feats　of　musical　execution　is

already　on　the　way：　　the　phonograph；　for　all　its　wheezing　and　snarling

and　braying；　is　steadily　improving　in　its　manners；　and　what　with　this

improvement　on　the　one　hand；　and　on　the　other　that　blessed　selective

faculty　which　enables　us　to　ignore　a　good　deal　of　disagreeable　noise

if　there　is　a　thread　of　music　in　the　middle　of　it　（few　critics　of　the

phonograph　seem　to　be　conscious　of　the　very　considerable　mechanical

noise　set　up　by　choirs　and　orchestras）　we　have　at　last　reached　a　point

at　which；　for　example；　a　person　living　in　an　English　village　where　the

church　music　is　the　only　music；　and　that　music　is　made　by　a　few

well…intentioned　ladies　with　the　help　of　a　harmonium；　can　hear　masses

by　Palestrina　very　passably　executed；　and　can　thereby　be　led　to　the

discovery　that　Jackson　in　F　and　Hymns　Ancient　and　Modern　are　not

perhaps　the　last　word　of　beauty　and　propriety　in　the　praise　of　God。



In　short；　there　is　a　vast　body　of　art　now　within　the　reach　of

everybody。　　The　difficulty　is　that　this　art；　which　alone　can　educate

us　in　grace　of　body　and　soul；　and　which　alone　can　make　the　history　of

the　past　live　for　us　or　the　hope　of　the　future　shine　for　us；　which

alone　can　give　delicacy　and　nobility　to　our　crude　lusts；　which　is　the

appointed　vehicle　of　inspiration　and　the　method　of　the　communion　of

saints；　is　actually　branded　as　sinful　among　us　because；　wherever　it

arises；　there　is　resistance　to　tyranny；　breaking　of　fetters；　and　the

breath　of　freedom。　　The　attempt　to　suppress　art　is　not　wholly

successful：　　we　might　as　well　try　to　suppress　oxygen。　　But　it　is

carried　far　enough　to　inflict　on　huge　numbers　of　people　a　most

injurious　art　starvation；　and　to　corrupt　a　great　deal　of　the　art　that

is　tolerated。　　You　will　find　in　England　plenty　of　rich　families　with

little　more　culture　than　their　dogs　and　horses。　　And　you　will　find

poor　families；　cut　off　by　poverty　and　town　life　from　the　contemplation

of　the　beauty　of　the　earth；　with　its　dresses　of　leaves；　its　scarves　of

cloud；　and　its　contours　of　hill　and　valley；　who　would　positively　be

happier　as　hogs；　so　little　have　they　cultivated　their　humanity　by　the

only　effective　instrument　of　culture：　　art。　　The　dearth　is

artificially　maintained　even　when　there　are　the　means　of　satisfying

it。　　Story　books　are　forbidden；　picture　post　cards　are　forbidden；

theatres　are　forbidden；　operas　are　forbidden；　circuses　are　forbidden；

sweetmeats　are　forbidden；　pretty　colors　are　forbidden；　all　exactly　as

vice　is　forbidden。　　The　Creator　is　explicitly　prayed　to；　and

implicitly　convicted　of　indecency　every　day。　　An　association　of　vice

and　sin　with　everything　that　is　delightful　and　of　goodness　with

everything　that　is　wretched　and　detestable　is　set　up。　　All　the　most

perilous　（and　glorious）　appetites　and　propensities　are　at　once

inflamed　by　starvation　and　uneducated　by　art。　　All　the　wholesome

conditions　which　art　imposes　on　appetite　are　waived：　　instead　of

cultivated　men　and　women　restrained　by　a　thousand　delicacies；　repelled

by　ugliness；　chilled　by　vulgarity；　horrified　by　coarseness；　deeply　and

sweetly　moved　by　the　graces　that　art　has　revealed　to　them　and　nursed

in　them；　we　get　indiscrimmate　rapacity　in　pursuit　of　pleasure　and　a

parade　of　the　grossest　stimulations　in　catering　for　it。　　We　have　a

continual　clamor　for　goodness；　beauty；　virtue；　and　sanctity；　with　such

an　appalling　inability　to　recognize　it　or　love　it　when　it　arrives　that

it　is　more　dangerous　to　be　a　great　prophet　or　poet　than　to　promote

twenty　companies　for　swindling　simple　folk　out　of　their　savings。　　Do

not　for　a　moment　suppose　that　uncultivated　people　are　merely

indifferent　to　high　and　noble　qualities。　　They　hate　them　malignantly。

At　best；　such　qualities　are　like　rare　and　beautiful　birds：　　when　they

appear　the　whole　country　takes　down　its　guns；　but　the　birds　receive

the　statuary　tribute　of　having　their　corpses　stuffed。



And　it　really　all　comes　from　the　habit　of　preventing　children　from

being　troublesome。　　You　are　so　careful　of　your　boy's　morals；　knowing

how　troublesome　they　may　be；　that　you　keep　him　away　from　the　Venus　of

Milo　only　to　find　him　in　the　arms　of　the　scullery　maid　or　someone　much

worse。　　You　decide　that　the　Hermes　of　Praxiteles　and　Wagner's　Tristan

are　not　suited　for　young　girls；　and　your　daughter　marries　somebody

appallingly　unlike　either　Hermes　or　Tristan　solely　to　escape　from　your

parental　protection。　　You　have　not　stifled　a　single　passion　nor

averted　a　single　danger：　　you　have　depraved　the　passions　by　starving

them；　and　broken　down　all　the　defences　which　so　effectively　protect

children　brought　up　in　freedom。　　You　have　men　who　imagine　themselves

to　be　ministers　of　religion　openly　declaring　that　when　they　pass

through　the　streets　they　have　to　keep　out　in　the　wheeled　traffic　to

avoid　the　temptations　of　the　pavement。　　You　have　them　organizing　hunts

of　the　women　who　tempt　thempoor　creatures　whom　no　artist　would　touch

without　a　shudderand　wildly　clamoring　for　more　clothes　to　disguise

and　conceal　the　body；　and　for　the　abolition　of　pictures；　statues；

theatres；　and　pretty　colors。　　And　incredible　as　it　seems；　these

unhappy　lunatics　are　left　at　large；　unrebuked；　even　admired　and

revered；　whilst　artists　have　to　struggle　for　toleration。　　To　them　an

undraped　human　body　is　the　most　monstrous；　the　most　blighting；　the

most　obscene；　the　most　unbearable　spectacle　in　the　universe。　　To　an

artist　it　is；　at　its　best；　the　most　admirable　spectacle　in　nature；

and；　at　its　average；　an　object　of　indifference。　　If　every　rag　of

clothing　miraculously　dropped　from　the　inhabitants　of　London　at　noon

tomorrow　（say　as　a　preliminary　to　the　Great　Judgment）；　the　artistic

people　would　not　turn　a　hair；　but　the　artless　people　would　go　mad　and

call　on　the　mountains　to　hide　them。　　I　submit　that　this　indicates　a

thoroughly　healthy　state　on　the　part　of　the　artists；　and　a　thoroughly

morbid　one　on　the　part　of　the　artless。　　And　the　healthy　state　is

attainable　in　a　cold　country　like　ours　only　by　familiarity　with　the

undraped　figure　acquired　through　pictures；　statues；　and　theatrical

representations　in　which　an　illusion　of　natural　clotheslessness　is

produced　and　made　poetic。



In　short；　we　all　grow　up　stupid　and　mad　to　just　the　extent　to　which　we

have　not　been　artistically　educated；　and　the　fact　that　this　taint　of

stupidity　and　madness　has　to　be　tolerated　because　it　is　general；　and

is　even　boasted　of　as　characteristically　English；　makes　the　situation

all　the　worse。　　It　is　becoming　exceedingly　grave　at　present；　because

the　last　ray　of　art　is　being　cut　off　from　our　schools　by　the

discontinuance　of　religious　education。







The　Impossibility　of　Secular　Education



Now　children　must　be　taught　some　sort　of　religion。　　Secular　education

is　an　impossibility。　　Se