a treatise on parents and children(父母与子女专题研究)-第27节
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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；
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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
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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
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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；
