The Kingdom of God is Within You; What is Art?

We have so perverted the conception of science that it seems strange to men of our day to allude to sciences which should prevent the mortality of children, prostitution, syphilis, the deterioration of whole generations, and the wholesale murder of men. It seems to us that science is only then real science when a man in a laboratory pours liquids from one jar into another, or analyzes the spectrum, or cuts up frogs and porpoises, or weaves in a specialized, scientific jargon an obscure network of conventional phrases – theological, philosophical, historical, juridical, or politico-economical – semi-intelligible to the man himself, and intended to demonstrate that what now is, is what should be.

But science, true science, – such science as would really deserve the respect which is now claimed by the followers of one (the least important) part of science, – is not at all such as this: real science lies in knowing what we should and what we should not believe, in knowing how the associated life of man should and should not be constituted; how to treat sexual relations, how to educate children, how to use the land, how to cultivate it oneself without oppressing other people, how to treat foreigners, how to treat animals, and much more that is important for the life of man.

Such has true science ever been and such it should be. And such science is springing up in our times; but, on the one hand, such true science is denied and refuted by all those scientific people who defend the existing order of society, and, on the other hand, it is considered empty, unnecessary, unscientific science by those who are engrossed in experimental science.

For instance, books and sermons appear, demonstrating the antiquatedness and absurdity of Church dogmas, as well as the necessity of establishing a reasonable religious perception suitable to our times, and all the theology that is considered to be real science is only engaged in refuting these works and in exercising human intelligence again and again to find support and justification for superstitions long since outlived, and which have now become quite meaningless. Or a sermon appears showing that land should not be an object of private possession, and that the institution of private property in land is a chief cause of the poverty of the masses. Apparently science, real science, should welcome such a sermon and draw further deductions from this position. But the science of our times does nothing of the kind: on the contrary, political economy demonstrates the opposite position; namely, that landed property, like every other form of property, must be more and more concentrated in the hands of a small number of owners. Again, in the same way, one would suppose it to be the business of real science to demonstrate the irrationality, unprofitableness, and immorality of war and of executions; or the inhumanity and harmfulness of prostitution; or the absurdity, harmfulness, and immorality of using narcotics or of eating animals; or the irrationality, harmfulness, and antiquatedness of patriotism. And such works exist, but are all considered unscientific; while works to prove that all these things ought to continue, and works intended to satisfy an idle thirst for knowledge lacking any relation to human life, are considered to be scientific.

The deviation of the science of our time from its true purpose is strikingly illustrated by those ideals which are put forward by some scientists, and are not denied, but admitted, by the majority of scientific men.

These ideals are expressed not only in stupid, fashionable books, describing the world as it will be in 1000 or 3000 years' time, but also by sociologists who consider themselves serious men of science. These ideals are that food, instead of being obtained from the land by agriculture, will be prepared in laboratories by chemical means, and that human labor will be almost entirely superseded by the utilization of natural forces.

Man will not, as now, eat an egg laid by a hen he has kept, or bread grown on his field, or an apple from a tree he has reared and which has blossomed and matured in his sight; but he will eat tasty, nutritious, food which will be prepared in laboratories by the conjoint labor of many people in which he will take a small part. Man will hardly need to labor, so that all men will be able to yield to idleness as the upper, ruling classes now yield to it.

Nothing shows more plainly than these ideals to what a degree the science of our times has deviated from the true path.

The great majority of men in our times lack good and sufficient food (as well as dwellings and clothes and all the first necessaries of life). And this great majority of men is compelled, to the injury of its well-being, to labor continually beyond its strength. Both these evils can easily be removed by abolishing mutual strife, luxury, and the unrighteous distribution of wealth, in a word, by the abolition of a false and harmful order and the establishment of a reasonable, human manner of life. But science considers the existing order of things to be as immutable as the movements of the planets, and therefore assumes that the purpose of science is – not to elucidate the falseness of this order and to arrange a new, reasonable way of life – but, under the existing order of things, to feed everybody and enable all to be as idle as the ruling classes, who live a depraved life, now are.

And, meanwhile, it is forgotten that nourishment with corn, vegetables, and fruit raised from the soil by one's own labor is the pleasantest, healthiest, easiest, and most natural nourishment, and that the work of using one's muscles is as necessary a condition of life as is the oxidation of the blood by breathing.

To invent means whereby people might, while continuing our false division of property and labor, be well nourished by means of chemically prepared food, and might make the forces of nature work for them, is like inventing means to pump oxygen into the lungs of a man kept in a closed chamber, the air of which is bad, when all that is needed is to cease to confine the man in the closed chamber.

In the vegetable and animal kingdoms a laboratory for the production of food has been arranged, such as can be surpassed by no professors, and to enjoy the fruits of this laboratory, and to participate in it, man has only to yield to that ever joyful impulse to labor, without which man's life is a torment. And lo and behold! the scientists of our times, instead of employing all their strength to abolish whatever hinders man from utilizing the good things prepared for him, acknowledge the conditions under which man is deprived of these blessings to be unalterable, and instead of arranging the life of man so that he might work joyfully and be fed from the soil, they devise methods which will cause him to become an artificial abortion. It is like not helping a man out of confinement into the fresh air, but devising means, instead, to pump into him the necessary quantity of oxygen and arranging so that he may live in a stifling cellar instead of living at home.

Such false ideals could not exist if science were not on a false path.

And yet the feelings transmitted by art grow up on the bases supplied by science.

But what feelings can such misdirected science evoke? One side of this science evokes antiquated feelings, which humanity has used up, and which, in our times, are bad and exclusive. The other side, occupied with the study of subjects unrelated to the conduct of human life, by its very nature cannot serve as a basis for art.

So that art in our times, to be art, must either open up its own road independently of science, or must take direction from the unrecognized science which is denounced by the orthodox section of science. And this is what art, when it even partially fulfils its mission, is doing.

It is to be hoped that the work I have tried to perform concerning art will be performed also for science – that the falseness of the theory of science for science's sake will be demonstrated; that the necessity of acknowledging Christian teaching in its true meaning will be clearly shown, that on the basis of that teaching a reappraisement will be made of the knowledge we possess, and of which we are so proud; that the secondariness and insignificance of experimental science, and the primacy and importance of religious, moral, and social knowledge will be established; and that such knowledge will not, as now, be left to the guidance of the upper classes only, but will form a chief interest of all free, truth-loving men, such as those who, not in agreement with the upper classes, but in their despite, have always forwarded the real science of life.

Astronomical, physical, chemical, and biological science, as also technical and medical science, will be studied only in so far as they can help to free mankind from religious, juridical, or social deceptions, or can serve to promote the well-being of all men, and not of any single class.

Only then will science cease to be what it is now, – on the one hand a system of sophistries, needed for the maintenance of the existing worn-out order of society, and, on the other hand, a shapeless mass of miscellaneous knowledge, for the most part good for little or nothing, – and become a shapely and organic whole, having a definite and reasonable purpose comprehensible to all men; namely, the purpose of bringing to the consciousness of men the truths that flow from the religious perception of our times.

And only then will art, which is always dependent on science, be what it might and should be, an organ co-equally important with science for the life and progress of mankind.

Art is not a pleasure, a solace, or an amusement; art is a great matter. Art is an organ of human life, transmitting man's reasonable perception into feeling. In our age the common religious perception of men is the consciousness of the brotherhood of man – we know that the well-being of man lies in union with his fellow-men. True science should indicate the various methods of applying this consciousness to life. Art should transform this perception into feeling.

The task of art is enormous. Through the influence of real art, aided by science guided by religion, that peaceful coöperation of man which is now obtained by external means – by our law-courts, police, charitable institutions, factory inspection, etc. – should be obtained by man's free and joyous activity. Art should cause violence to be set aside.

And it is only art that can accomplish this.

All that now, independently of the fear of violence and punishment, makes the social life of man possible (and already now this is an enormous part of the order of our lives) – all this has been brought about by art. If by art it has been inculcated how people should treat religious objects, their parents, their children, their wives, their relations, strangers, foreigners; how to conduct themselves to their elders, their superiors, to those who suffer, to their enemies, and to animals; and if this has been obeyed through generations by millions of people, not only unenforced by any violence, but so that the force of such customs can be shaken in no way but by means of art – then, by the same art, other customs, more in accord with the religious perception of our time, may be evoked. If art has been able to convey the sentiment of reverence for images, for the eucharist, and for the king's person; of shame at betraying a comrade, devotion to a flag, the necessity of revenge for an insult, the need to sacrifice one's labor for the erection and adornment of churches, the duty of defending one's honor or the glory of one's native land – then that same art can also evoke reverence for the dignity of every man and for the life of every animal; can make men ashamed of luxury, of violence, of revenge, or of using for their pleasure that of which others are in need; can compel people freely, gladly, and without noticing it, to sacrifice themselves in the service of man.

The task for art to accomplish is to make that feeling of brotherhood and love of one's neighbor, now attained only by the best members of society, the customary feeling and the instinct of all men. By evoking, under imaginary conditions, the feeling of brotherhood and love, religious art will train men to experience those same feelings under similar circumstances in actual life; it will lay in the souls of men the rails along which the actions of those whom art thus educates will naturally pass. And universal art, by uniting the most different people in one common feeling, by destroying separation, will educate people to union, will show them, not by reason, but by life itself, the joy of universal union reaching beyond the bounds set by life.

The destiny of art in our time is to transmit from the realm of reason to the realm of feeling the truth that well-being for men consists in being united together, and to set up, in place of the existing reign of force, that kingdom of God, i. e. of love, which we all recognize to be the highest aim of human life.

Possibly, in the future, science may reveal to art yet newer and higher ideals, which art may realize; but, in our time, the destiny of art is clear and definite. The task for Christian art is to establish brotherly union among men.

APPENDIX I

This is the first page of Mallarmé's book, "Divagations": —

LE PHÉNOMÈNE FUTUR

Un ciel pâle, sur le monde qui finit de décrépitude, va peut-être partir avec les nuages: les lambeaux de la pourpre usée des couchants déteignent dans une rivière dormant à l'horizon submergé de rayons et d'eau. Les arbres s'ennuient, et, sous leur feuillage blanchi (de la poussière du temps plutôt que celle des chemins) monte la maison en toile de Montreur de choses Passées: maint réverbère attend le crépuscule et ravive les visages d'une malheureuse foule, vaincue par la maladie immortelle et le péché des siècles, d'hommes près de leurs chétives complices enceintes des fruits misérables avec lesquels périra la terre. Dans le silence inquiet de tous les yeux suppliant là-bas le soleil qui, sous l'eau, s'enfonce avec le désespoir d'un cri, voici le simple boniment: "Nulle enseigne ne vous régale du spectacle intérieur, car il n'est pas maintenant un peintre capable d'en donner une ombre triste. J'apporte, vivante (et préservée à travers les ans par la science souveraine) une Femme d'autrefois. Quelque folie, originelle et naïve, une extase d'or, je ne sais quoi! par elle nommé sa chevelure, se ploie avec la grâce des étoffes autour d'un visage qu' éclaire la nudité sanglante de ses lèvres. A la place du vêtement vain, elle a un corps; et les yeux, semblables aux pierres rares! ne valent pas ce regard qui sort de sa chair heureuse: des seins levés comme s'ils étaient pleins d'un lait éternel, la pointe vers le ciel, les jambes lisses qui gardent le sel de la mer première." Se rappelant leurs pauvres épouses, chauves, morbides et pleines d'horreur, les maris se pressent: elles aussi par curiosité, mélancoliques, veulent voir.

Quand tous auront contemplé la noble créature, vestige de quelque époque déjà maudite, les uns indifférents, car ils n'auront pas eu la force de comprendre, mais d'autres navrés et la paupière humide de larmes résignées, se regarderont; tandis que les poètes de ces temps, sentant se rallumer leur yeux éteints, s'achemineront vers leur lampe, le cerveau ivre un instant d'une gloire confuse, hantés du Rythme et dans l'oubli d'exister à une époque qui survit à la beauté.

THE FUTURE PHENOMENON – by Mallarmé

A pale sky, above the world that is ending through decrepitude, going, perhaps, to pass away with the clouds: shreds of worn-out purple of the sunsets wash off their color in a river sleeping on the horizon, submerged with rays and water. The trees are weary and, beneath their foliage, whitened (by the dust of time rather than that of the roads), rises the canvas house of "Showman of things Past." Many a lamp awaits the gloaming, and brightens the faces of a miserable crowd vanquished by the immortal illness and the sin of ages, of men by the sides of their puny accomplices pregnant with the miserable fruit with which the world will perish. In the anxious silence of all the eyes supplicating the sun there, which sinks under the water with the desperation of a cry, this is the plain announcement: "No sign-board now regales you with the spectacle that is inside, for there is no painter now capable of giving even a shadow of it. I bring living (and preserved by sovereign science through the years) a Woman of other days. Some kind of folly, naïve and original, an ecstasy of gold, I know not what, by her called her hair, clings with the grace of some material round a face brightened by the blood-red nudity of her lips. In place of vain clothing, she has a body; and her eyes, resembling precious stones! are not worth that look, which comes from her happy flesh: breasts raised as if full of eternal milk, the points toward the sky; the smooth legs, that keep the salt of the first sea." Remembering their poor spouses, bald, morbid, and full of horrors, the husbands press forward: the women, too, from curiosity, gloomily wish to see.

When all shall have contemplated the noble creature, vestige of some epoch already damned, some indifferently, for they will not have had strength to understand, but others, broken-hearted, and with eyelids wet with tears of resignation, will look at each other; while the poets of those times, feeling their dim eyes rekindled, will make their way toward their lamp, their brain for an instant drunk with confused glory, haunted by Rhythm, and forgetful that they exist at an epoch which has survived beauty.

APPENDIX II 128

No. 1

The following verses are by Vielé-Griffin, from page 28 of a volume of his Poems: —

OISEAU BLEU COULEUR DU TEMPS 1 Sait-tu l'oubliD'un vain doux rêve,Oiseau moqueurDe la forêt?Le jour pâlit,La nuit se lève,Et dans mon cœurL'ombre a pleuré; 2 O chante-moiTa folle gamme,Car j'ai dormiCe jour durant;Le lâche emoiOù fut mon âmeSanglote ennuiLe jour mourant… 3 Sais-tu le chantDe sa paroleEt de sa voix,Toi qui redisDans le couchantTon air frivoleComme autrefoisSous les midis? 4 O chante alorsLa mélodieDe son amour,Mon fol espoir,Parmi les orsEt l'incendieDu vain doux jourQui meurt ce soir. Francis Vielé-Griffin. BLUE BIRD 1 Canst thou forget,In dreams so vain,Oh, mocking birdOf forest deep?The day doth set,Night comes again,My heart has heardThe shadows weep; 2 Thy tones let flowIn maddening scale,For I have sleptThe livelong day;Emotions lowIn me now wail,My soul they've kept:Light dies away… 3 That music sweet,Ah, do you knowHer voice and speech?Your airs so lightYou who repeatIn sunset's glow,As you sang, each,At noonday's height. 4 Of my desire,My hope so bold,Her love – up, sing,Sing, 'neath this light,This flaming fire,And all the goldThe eve doth bringEre comes the night. No. 2

And here are some verses by the esteemed young poet Verhaeren, which I also take from page 28 of his Works: —

ATTIRANCES Lointainement, et si étrangement pareils,De grands masques d'argent que la brume recule,Vaguent, au jour tombant, autour des vieux soleils. Les doux lointaines! – et comme, au fond du crépuscule,Ils nous fixent le cœur, immensément le cœur,Avec les yeux défunts de leur visage d'âme. C'est toujours du silence, à moins, dans la pâleurDu soir, un jet de feu soudain, un cri de flamme,Un départ de lumière inattendu vers Dieu. On se laisse charmer et troubler de mystère,Et l'on dirait des morts qui taisent un adieuTrop mystique, pour être écouté par la terre! Sont-ils le souvenir matériel et clairDes éphèbes chrétiens couchés aux catacombesParmi les lys? Sont-ils leur regard et leur chair? Ou seul, ce qui survit de merveilleux aux tombesDe ceux qui sont partis, vers leurs rêves, un soir,Conquérir la folie à l'assaut des nuées? Lointainement, combien nous les sentons vouloirUn peu d'amour pour leurs œuvres destituées,Pour leur errance et leur tristesse aux horizons. Toujours! aux horizons du cœur et des pensées,Alors que les vieux soirs éclatent en blasonsSoudains, pour les gloires noires et angoissées. Émile Verhaeren, Poèmes. ATTRACTIONS Large masks of silver, by mists drawn away,So strangely alike, yet so far apart.Float round the old suns when faileth the day. They transfix our heart, so immensely our heart,Those distances mild, in the twilight deep,Looking out of dead faces with their spirit eyes. All around is now silence, except when there leapIn the pallor of evening, with fiery cries,Some fountains of flame that God-ward do fly. Mysterious trouble and charms us infold,You might think that the dead spoke a silent good-by,Oh! too mystical far on earth to be told! Are they the memories, material and bright,Of the Christian youths that in catacombs sleep'Mid the lilies? Are they their flesh or their sight? Or the marvel alone that survives, in the deep,Of those that, one night, returned to their dreamOf conquering folly by assaulting the skies? For their destitute works – we feel it seems,For a little love their longing criesFrom horizons far – for their errings and pain. In horizons ever of heart and thought,While the evenings old in bright blaze waneSuddenly, for black glories anguish fraught. No. 3

And the following is a poem by Moréas, evidently an admirer of Greek beauty. It is from page 28 of a volume of his Poems: —

ENONE AU CLAIR VISAGE Enone, j'avais cru qu'en aimant ta beautéOù l'âme avec le corps trouvent leur unité,J'allais, m'affermissant et le cœur et l'esprit,Monter jusqu'à cela qui jamais ne périt,N'ayant été crée, qui n'est froideur ou feu,Qui n'est beau quelque part et laid en autre lieu;Et me flattais encor' d'une belle harmonieQue j'eusse composé du meilleur et du pire,Ainsi que le chanteur qui chérit Polimnie,En accordant le grave avec l'aigu, retireUn son bien élevé sur les nerfs de sa lyre.Mais mon courage, hélas! se pâmant comme mort,M'enseigna que le trait qui m'avait fait amantNe fut pas de cet arc que courbe sans effortLa Vénus qui naquit du mâle seulement,Mais que j'avais souffert cette Vénus dernière,Qui a le cœur couard, né d'une faible mère.Et pourtant, ce mauvais garçon, chasseur habile,Qui charge son carquois de sagette subtile,Qui secoue en riant sa torche, pour un jour,Qui ne pose jamais que sur de tendres fleurs,C'est sur un teint charmant qu'il essuie les pleurs,Et c'est encore un Dieu, Enone, cet Amour.Mais, laisse, les oiseaux du printemps sont partis,Et je vois les rayons du soleil amortis.Enone, ma douleur, harmonieux visage,Superbe humilité, doux honnête langage,Hier me remirant dans cet étang glacéQui au bout du jardin se couvre de feuillage,Sur ma face je vis que les jours ont passé. Jean Moréas. ENONE Enone, in loving thy beauty, I thought,Where the soul and the body to union are brought,That mounting by steadying my heart and my mind,In that which can't perish, myself I should find.For it ne'er was created, is not ugly and fair;Is not coldness in one part, while on fire it is there.Yes, I flattered myself that a harmony fineI'd succeed to compose of the worst and the best,Like the bard who adores Polyhymnia divine,And mingling sounds different from the nerves of his lyre,From the grave and the smart draws melodies higher.But, alas! my courage, so faint and nigh spent,The dart that has struck me proves without failNot to be from that bow which is easily bentBy the Venus that's born alone of the male.No, 'twas that other Venus that caused me to smart,Born of frail mother with cowardly heart.And yet that naughty lad, that little hunter bold,Who laughs and shakes his flowery torch just for a day,Who never rests but upon tender flowers and gay,On sweetest skin who dries the tears his eyes that fill,Yet oh, Enone mine, a God's that Cupid still.Let it pass; for the birds of the Spring are away,And dying I see the sun's lingering ray.Enone, my sorrow, oh, harmonious face,Humility grand, words of virtue and grace,I looked yestere'en in the pond frozen fast,Strewn with leaves at the end of the garden's fair space,And I read in my face that those days are now past. No. 4

And this is also from page 28 of a thick book, full of similar poems, by M. Montesquiou.

BERCEUSE D'OMBRE Des formes, des formes, des formesBlanche, bleue, et rose, et d'orDescendront du haut des ormesSur l'enfant qui se rendort.Des formes! Des plumes, des plumes, des plumesPour composer un doux nid.Midi sonne: les enclumesCessent; la rumeur finit…Des plumes! Des roses, des roses, des rosesPour embaumer son sommeil,Vos pétales sont morosesPrès du sourire vermeil.O roses! Des ailes, des ailes, des ailesPour bourdonner à sont front,Abeilles et demoiselles,Des rythmes qui berceront.Des ailes! Des branches, des branches, des branchesPour tresser un pavillon,Par où des clartés moins franchesDescendront sur l'oisillon.Des branches! Des songes, des songes, des songesDans ses pensers entr' ouvertsGlissez un peu de mensongesA voir le vie au traversDes songes! Des fées, des fées, des féesPour filer leurs écheveauxDes mirages, de boufféesDans tous ces petits cerveaux.Des fées! Des anges, des anges, des angesPour emporter dans l'étherLes petits enfants étrangesQui ne veulent pas rester…Nos anges! Comte Robert de Montesquiou-Fezensac, Les Hortensias Bleus. THE SHADOW LULLABY Oh forms, oh forms, oh formsWhite, blue, and gold, and redDescending from the elm trees,On sleeping baby's head.Oh forms! Oh feathers, feathers, feathersTo make a cozy nest.Twelve striking: stops the clamor;The anvils are at rest…Oh feathers! Oh roses, roses, rosesTo scent his sleep awhile,Pale are your fragrant petalsBeside his ruby smile.Oh roses! Oh wings, oh wings, oh wingsOf bees and dragon-flies,To hum around his forehead,And lull him with your sighs.Oh wings! Branches, branches, branchesA shady bower to twine,Through which, oh daylight, faintlyDescend on birdie mine.Branches! Oh dreams, oh dreams, oh dreamsInto his opening mind,Let in a little falsehoodWith sights of life behind.Dreams! Oh fairies, fairies, fairiesTo twine and twist their threadsWith puffs of phantom visionsInto these little heads.Fairies! Angels, angels, angelsTo the ether far away,Those children strange to carryThat here don't wish to stay…Our angels!