G V Plekhanov Art and Social Life PDF

G. V.
Plekhanov 1912
Art and Social Life
1
Art and Social Life G.V. Plekhanov Halaman 2
Translated: from the Russian by A. Fineberg from the book: G. V.

Plekhanov, Unaddressed Letters. Art and Social Life, Foreign
Languages Publishing House, Moscow, 1957;
Transcribed: by Eugene Hirschfeld.
I
The relation of art to social life is a question that has always
figured largely in all literatures that have reached a definite stage
of development. Most often, the question has been answered in
one of two directly opposite senses.
Some say: man is not made for the sabbath, but the sabbath for
man; society is not made for the artist, but the artist for society.
The function of art is to assist the development of man’s
consciousness, to improve the social system.
Others emphatically reject this view. In their opinion, art is

an aim in itself; to, convert it into a means of achieving any
extraneous aim, even the most noble, is to lower the dignity of a
work of art.
The first of these two views was vividly reflected in our

progressive literature of the sixties. To say nothing of Pisarev,
whose extreme one-sidedness almost turned it into a
caricature, [3] one might mention Chernyshevsky and Dobrolyubov
as the most thorough-going advocates of this view in the critical
literature of the time. Chernyshevsky wrote in one of his earliest
critical articles:
“The idea of ‘art for art’s sake’ is as strange in our times as

‘wealth for wealth’s sake’, ‘science for science’s sake’, and
so forth. All human activities must serve mankind if they
are not to remain useless and idle occupations. Wealth
exists in order that man may benefit by it; science exists in
order to be man’s guide; art, too, must serve some useful
purpose and not fruitless pleasure.” In Chernyshevsky’s
opinion, the value of the arts, and especially of “the most
serious of them,” poetry, is determined by the sum of

knowledge they disseminate in society. He says: “Art, or it
would be better to say poetry (only poetry, for the other arts
do very little in this respect), spreads among the mass of the
reading public an enormous amount of knowledge and,
what is still more important, familiarises them with the
concepts worked out by science – such is poetry’s great
purpose in life.” [4] The same idea is expressed in his
celebrated dissertation, The Aesthetic Relation of Art to
Reality. According to its 17th thesis, art not only reproduces
life but explains it: its productions very often “have the
purpose of pronouncing judgement on the phenomena of
life.”
In the opinion of Chernyshevsky and his disciple, Dobrolyubov,

the function of art was, indeed, to reproduce life and to pass
judgement on its phenomena. [5] And this was not only the opinion
of literary critics and theoreticians of art. It was not fortuitous that
Nekrasov called his muse the muse of “vengeance and grief.” In
one of his poems the Citizen says to the Poet:
Thou poet by the heavens blessed,

Their chosen herald! It is wrong
That the deprived and dispossessed
Are deaf to your inspired song.
Believe, men have not fallen wholly,

God lives yet in the heart of each
And still, though painfully and slowly,
The voice of faith their souls may reach.
Be thou a citizen, serve art.

And for thy fellow-beings live,
To them, to them thy loving heart

And all thy inspiration give. [6]
In these words the Citizen Nekrasov sets forth his own

understanding of the function of art. It was in exactly the same
way that the function of art was understood at that time by the
most outstanding representatives of the plastic arts – painting, for
example. Perov and Kramskoi, like Nekrasov, strove to be
“citizens” in serving art; their works, like his, passed “judgements
on the phenomena of life.” [7]
The opposite view of the function of creative art had a powerful

defender in Pushkin, the Pushkin of the time of Nicholas I.
Everybody, of course, is familiar with such of his poems as The
Rabble and To the Poet. The people plead with the poet to
compose songs that would improve social morals, but meet with a
contemptuous, one might say rude, rebuff:
Begone, ye pharisees! What cares

The peaceful poet for your fate?
Go, boldly steep yourselves in sin:
With you the lyre will bear no weight.
Upon your deeds I turn my back.

The whip, the dungeon and the rack
Till now you suffered as the price
For your stupidity and vice
And, servile madmen, ever shall!
Pushkin set forth his view of the mission of the poet in the much-
quoted words:
No, not for worldly agitation,

Nor worldly greed, nor worldly strife,
But for sweet song, for inspiration,

For prayer the poet comes to life. [8]
Here the so-called theory of art for art’s sake is formulated in the
most striking manner. It was not without reason that Pushkin was
cited so readily and so often by the opponents of the literary
movement of the sixties [9].
Which of these two directly opposite views of the function of art is

to be considered correct?
In undertaking to answer this question, it must first be observed

that it is badly formulated. Like all questions of a similar nature, it
cannot be approached from the standpoint of “duty.” If the artists
of a given country at one period shun “worldly agitation and
strife,” and, at another, long for strife and the agitation that
necessarily goes with it, this is not because somebody prescribes
for them different “duties” at different periods, but because in
certain social conditions they are dominated by one attitude of
mind, and by another attitude of mind in other social conditions.
Hence, if we are to approach the subject correctly, we must look at
it not from the standpoint of what ought to be, but of what actually
is and has been. We shall therefore formulate the question as
follows:
What are the most important social conditions in which

artists and people keenly interested in art conceive and
become possessed by the belief in art for art’s sake?
As we approach the answer to this question, it will not be difficult

to answer another, one closely connected with it and no less
interesting, namely:
What are the most important social conditions in which

artists and people keenly interested in art conceive and
become possessed by the so-called utilitarian view of art,
that is, the tendency to attach to artistic productions the
significance of “judgements on the phenomena of life"?
The first of these two questions impels us once again to recall

Pushkin.
There was a time when he did not believe in the theory of art for
art’s sake. There was a time when he did not avoid strife, in fact,
was eager for it. This was in the period of Alexander I. At that
time he did not think that the “people” should be content with the
whip, dungeon and rack. On the contrary, in the ode
called Freedom, he exclaimed with indignation:
Unhappy nation! Everywhere

Men suffer under whips and chains,
And over all injustice reigns,
And haughty peers abuse their power
And sombre prejudice prevails.
But then his attitude of mind radically changed. In the days of

Nicholas I he espoused the theory of art for art’s sake. What was
the reason for this fundamental change of attitude?
The reign of Nicholas I opened with the catastrophe of December

14 [10], which was to exert an immense influence both on the
subsequent development of our “society” and on the fate of
Pushkin personally. With the suppression of the “Decembrists,”
the most educated and advanced representatives of the “society” of
that time passed from the scene. This could not but considerably
lower its moral and intellectual level. “Young as I was,” Herzen
says, “I remember how markedly high society declined and
became more sordid and servile with the ascension of Nicholas to

the throne. The independence of the aristocracy and the dashing
spirit of the Guards characteristic of Alexander’s time – all this
disappeared in 1826.” It was distressing for a sensitive and
intelligent person to live in such a society. “Deadness and silence
all around,” Herzen wrote in another article: “All were submissive,
inhuman and hopeless, and moreover extremely shallow, stupid
and petty. He who sought for sympathy encountered a look of
fright or the forbidding stare of the lackey; he was shunned or
insulted.” In Pushkin’s letters of the time when his poems The
Rabble and To the Poet were written, we find him constantly
complaining of the tedium and shallowness of both our
capitals. [11] But it was not only from the shallowness of the society
around him that he suffered. His relations with the “ruling
spheres” were also a source of grievous vexation.
According to the touching and very widespread legend, in 1826

Nicholas I graciously “forgave” Pushkin the political “errors of his
youth,” and even became his magnanimous patron. But this is far
from the truth. Nicholas and his right-hand man in affairs of this
kind, Chief of Police Benkendorf, “forgave” Pushkin nothing, and
their “patronage” took the form of a long series of intolerable
humiliations. Benkendorf reported to Nicholas in 1827: “After his
interview with me, Pushkin spoke enthusiastically of Your
Majesty in the English Club, and compelled his fellow diners to
drink Your Majesty’s health. He is a regular ne’er-do-well, but if
we succeed in directing his pen and his tongue, it will be a good
thing.” The last words in this quotation reveal the secret of the
“patronage” accorded to Pushkin. They wanted to make him a
minstrel of the existing order of things. Nicholas I and Benkendorf
had made it their aim to direct Pushkin’s unruly muse into the
channels of official morality. When, after Pushkin’s death, Field
Marshal Paskevich wrote to Nicholas: “I am sorry for Pushkin as a
writer,” the latter replied: “I fully share your opinion, but in all
fairness it may be said that in him one mourns the future, not the
past.” [12] This means that the never-to-be-forgotten emperor prized
the dead poet not for the great things he had written in his short
lifetime, but for what he might have written under proper police
supervision and guidance. Nicholas had expected him to write
“patriotic” works like Kukolnik’s play The Hand of the All-
Highest Saved Our Fatherland. Even so unworldly a poet as V. A.
Zhukovsky, who was withal a very good courtier, tried to make
him listen to reason and inspire him with respect for conventional
morals. In a letter to him dated April 12, 1826, he wrote: “Our
adolescents (that is, all the ripening generation), poorly educated
as they are, and therefore with nothing to buttress them in life,
have become acquainted with your unruly thoughts clothed in the
charm of poetry; you have already done much harm, incurable
harm. This should cause you to tremble. Talent is nothing. The
chief thing is moral grandeur...” [13] You will agree that, being
in such a situation, wearing the chains of such tutelage, and having
to listen to such instruction, it is quite excusable that he conceived
a hatred for “moral grandeur,” came to loathe the “benefits” which
art might confer, and cried to his counsellors and patrons:

In other words, being in such a situation, it was quite natural that

Pushkin became a believer in art for art’s sake and said to the Poet,
in his own person:
You are a king, alone and free to go

Wherever your unfettered mind may lead,
Perfecting, fostering the children of your muse,
Demanding no reward for noble deed. [14]
Pisarev would have taken issue with me and said that Pushkin the
poet addressed these vehement words not to his patrons, but to the
“people.” But the real people never came within the purview of the
writers of that time. With Pushkin, the word “people” had the
same meaning as the word which is often to be found in his
poems: “crowd.” And this latter word, of course, does not refer to
the labouring masses. In his Gypsies Pushkin describes the
inhabitants of the stifling cities as follows:
Of love ashamed, of thought afraid,

Foul prejudices rule their brains.
Their liberty they gladly trade
For money to procure them chains.
It is hard to believe that this description refers, say, to the urban

artisans.
If all this is true, then the following conclusion suggests itself:
The belief in art for art’s sake arises wherever the artist is
at odds with his social environment.
It might be said, of course, that the example of Pushkin is not

sufficient to justify such a conclusion. I will not controvert or
gainsay this. I will give other examples, this time borrowed from
the history of French literature, that is, the literature of a country
whose intellectual trends – at least down to the middle of the last
century – met with the broadest sympathy throughout the
European continent.
Pushkin’s contemporaries, the French romanticists, were also, with

few exceptions, ardent believers in art for art’s sake. Perhaps the
most consistent of them, Théophile Gautier, abused the defenders
of the utilitarian view of art in the following terms:
“No, you fools, no, you goitrous cretins, a book cannot be turned
into gelatine soup, nor a novel into a pair of seamless boots... By
the intestines of all the Popes, future, past and present: No, and a
thousand times no!... I am one of those who consider the
superfluous essential; my love of things and people is in inverse
proportion to the services they may render.” [15]
In a biographical note on Baudelaire, this same Gautier highly

praised the author of the Fleurs du mal for having upheld “the
absolute autonomy of art and for not admitting that poetry had any
aim but itself, or any mission but to excite in the soul of the reader
the sensation of beauty, in the absolute sense of the term”
(“l’autonomie absolue de l’art et qu’il n’admettait pas que la
poésie eût d’autre but qu’elle même et d’autre mission à remplir
que d’exciter dans l’âme du lecteur la sensation du beau; dans le
sens absolu du terme”).
How little the “idea of beauty” could associate in Gautier’s mind

with social and political ideas, may be seen from the following
statement of his:
“I would very gladly (très joyeusement) renounce my rights as a

Frenchman and citizen for the sake of seeing a genuine Raphael or
a beautiful woman in the nude.”
That, surely, is the limit. Yet all the Parnassians (les

parnassiens) [16] would probably have agreed with Gautier, though
some of them may have had certain reservations concerning the
too paradoxical form in which he, especially in his youth,
expressed the demand for the “absolute autonomy of art.”
What was the reason for this attitude of mind of the French
romanticists and Parnassians? Were they also at odds with their
social environment?
In an article Théophile Gautier wrote in 1857 on the revival by the

Théâtre Français of Alfred de Vigny’s play Chatterton, he recalled
its first performance on February 12, 1835. This is what he said:
“The parterre before which Chatterton declaimed was filled with

pallid, long-haired youths, who firmly believed that there was no
dignified occupation save writing poems or painting pictures... and
who looked on the ‘bourgeois’ with a contempt hardly equalled by
that which the fuchses [17] of Heidelberg and Jena entertain for the
philistine.” [18]
Who were these contemptible “bourgeois"?
“They included,” Gautier says, “nearly everybody – bankers,

brokers, lawyers, merchants, shopkeepers, etc. – in a word,
everyone who did not belong to the mystical cénacle [that is, the
romanticist circle. – G.P.] and who earned their living by prosaic
occupations.” [19]
And here is further evidence. In a comment to one of his Odes

funambulesques, Theodore de Banville admits that he too had been
afflicted with this hatred of the “bourgeois.” And he too explains
who was meant by the term. In the language of the romanticists,
the word “bourgeois” meant “a man whose only god was the five-
franc piece, who had no ideal but saving his own skin, and who, in
poetry, loved sentimental romance, and in the plastic arts,
lithography.” [20]
Recalling this, de Banville begs his reader not to be surprised that

his Odes funambulesques – which, mark, appeared towards the
very end of the romantic period – treated people as unmitigated
scoundrels only because they led a bourgeois mode of life and did
not worship romantic geniuses.
These illustrations are fairly convincing evidence that the

romanticists really were at odds with their bourgeois social
environment. True, there was nothing dangerous in this to the
bourgeois social relationships. The romanticist circles consisted of
young bourgeois who had no objection to these relationships, but
were revolted by the sordidness, the tedium and the vulgarity of
bourgeois existence. The new art with which they were so strongly
infatuated was for them a refuge from this sordidness, tedium and
vulgarity. In the latter years of the Restoration [21] and in the first
half of the reign of Louis Philippe, that is, in the best period of
romanticism, it was the more difficult for the French youth to
accustom themselves to the sordid, prosaic and tedious life of the
bourgeoisie, as not long before that France had lived through the
terrible storms of the Great Revolution and the Napoleonic era,
which had deeply stirred all human passions. [22] When the
bourgeoisie assumed the predominant position in society, and
when its life was no longer warmed by the fire of the struggle for
liberty, nothing was left for the new art but to idealise negation of
the bourgeois mode of life. Romantic art was indeed such an
idealisation. The romanticists strove to express their negation of
bourgeois “moderation and conformity” not only in their artistic
works, but even in their own external appearance. We have
already heard from Gautier that the young men who filled the
parterre at the first performance of Chatterton wore long hair.
Who has not heard of Gautier’s own red waistcoat, which made
“decent people” shiver with horror? For the young romanticists,
fantastic costume, like long hair, was a means of drawing a line
between themselves and the detested bourgeois. The pale face was
a similar means: it was, so to speak, a protest against bourgeois
satiety.
Gautier says: “In those days it was the prevailing fashion in the
romantic school to have as pallid a complexion as possible, even
greenish, almost cadaverous. This lent a man a fateful, Byronic

appearance, testified that he was devoured by passions and
remorse. It made him look interesting in the eyes of
women.” [23] Gautier also tells us that the romanticists found it hard
to forgive Victor Hugo his respectable appearance, and in private
conversation often deplored this weakness of the great poet,
“which made him kin with mankind, and even with the
bourgeoisie.” [24] It should be observed, in general, that the effort to
assume a definite outward appearance always reflects the social
relationships of the given period. An interesting sociological
inquiry could be written on this theme.
This being the attitude of the young romanticists to the

bourgeoisie, it was only natural that they were revolted by the idea
of “useful art.” In their eyes, to make art useful was tantamount to
making it serve the bourgeoisie whom they despised so
profoundly. This explains Gautier’s vehement sallies against the
preachers of useful art, which I have just cited, whom he calls
“fools, goitrous cretins” and so on. It also explains the paradox
that in his eyes the value of persons and things is in inverse
proportion to the service they render. Essentially, all these sallies
and paradoxes are a complete counterpart of Pushkin’s:

The Parnassians, and the early French realists (the Goncourt

brothers, Flaubert, etc.) likewise entertained an infinite contempt
for the bourgeois society around them. They, too, were untiring in
their abuse of the detested “bourgeois.” If they printed their
writings, it was not, they averred, for the benefit of the general
reading public, but for a chosen few, “pour les amis inconnus” [25],
as Flaubert puts it in one of his letters. They maintained that only a
writer who was devoid of serious talent could find favour with a
wide circle of readers. Leconte de Lisle held that the popularity of
a writer was proof of his intellectual inferiority (signe d’infériorité
intellectuelle). It need scarcely be added that the Parnassians, like
the romanticists, were staunch believers in the theory of art for
art’s sake.
Many similar examples might be given. But it is quite

unnecessary. It is already sufficiently clear that the belief in art for
art’s sake naturally arises among artists wherever they are at odds
with the society around them. But it would not be amiss to define
this disharmony more precisely.
At the close of the 18th century, in the period immediately

preceding the Great Revolution, the progressive artists of France
were likewise at odds with the prevailing “society” of the time.
David and his friends were foes of the “old order.” And this
disharmony was of course hopeless, because reconciliation
between them and the old order was quite impossible. More, the
disharmony between David and his friends and the old order was
incomparably deeper than the disharmony between the
romanticists and bourgeois society: whereas David and his friends
desired the abolition of the old order, Théophile Gautier and his
colleagues, as I have repeatedly said, had no objection to the
bourgeois social relationships; all they wanted was that the
bourgeois system should cease producing vulgar bourgeois
habits. [26]
But in revolting against the old order, David and his friends were
well aware that behind them marched the serried columns of the
third estate, which was soon, in the well-known words of Abbé
Sieyès, to become everything. With them, consequently, the
feeling of disharmony with the prevailing order was supplemented
by a feeling of sympathy with the new society which had matured

within the womb of the old and was preparing to replace it. But
with the romanticists and the Parnassians we find nothing of the
kind: they neither expected nor desired a change in the social
system of the France of their time. That is why their disharmony
with the society around them was quite hopeless. [27] Nor did our
Pushkin expect any change in the Russia of his time. And in the
period of Nicholas, moreover, it is probable that he no longer
wished for any change. That is why his view of social life was
similarly tinged with pessimism.
Now, I think, I can amplify my former conclusion and say:
The belief in art for art’s sake arises when artists and
people keenly interested in art are hopelessly at odds with
their social environment.
But this is not the whole matter. The example of our “men of the
sixties,” who firmly believed in the early triumph of reason, and
that of David and his friends, who held this belief no less firmly,
show that the so-called utilitarian view of art, that is, the tendency
to impart to its productions the significance of judgements on the
phenomena of life, and the joyful eagerness, which always
accompanies it, to take part in social strife, arises and spreads
wherever there is mutual sympathy between a considerable section
of society and people who have a more or less active interest in
creative art.
How far this is true, is definitely shown by the following fact.
When the refreshing storm of the February Revolution of 1848

broke, many of the French artists who had believed in the theory
of art for art’s sake emphatically rejected it. Even Baudelaire, who
was subsequently cited by Gautier as the model example of an
artist who believed staunchly that art must be absolutely

autonomous, began at once to put out a revolutionary journal, Le
salut public. True, its publication was soon discontinued, but as
late as 1852 Baudelaire, in his foreword to Pierre
Dupont’s Chansons, called the theory of art for art’s sake infantile
(puérile), and declared that art must have a social purpose. Only
the triumph of the counter-revolution induced Baudelaire and
artists of a similar trend of mind to revert once and for all to the
“infantile” theory of art for art’s sake. One of the future luminaries
of “Parnassus,” Leconte de Lisle, brought out the psychological
significance of this reversion very distinctly in the preface to
his Poèmes antiques, the first edition of which appeared in 1852.
He said that poetry would no longer stimulate heroic actions or
inculcate social virtues, because now, as in all periods of literary
decadence, its sacred language could express only petty personal
emotions (mesquines impressions personnelles) and was no longer
capable of instructing (n’est plus apte à enseigner
l’homme). [28] Addressing the poets, Leconte de Lisle said that the
human race, whose teachers they had once been, had now
outgrown them. [29] Now, in the words of the future Parnassian, the
task of poetry was “to give an ideal life” to those who had no “real
life” (donner la vie idéale a celui qui n’a pas la vie
réelle). [30] These profound words disclose the whole psychological
secret of the belief in art for art’s sake. We shall have many an
occasion to revert to Leconte de Lisle’s preface from which I have
just quoted.
To conclude with this side of the question, I would say in addition,

that political authority always prefers the utilitarian view of art, to
the extent, of course, that it pays any attention to art at all. And
this is understandable: it is to its interest to harness all ideologies
to the service of the cause which it serves itself. And since
political authority, although sometimes revolutionary, is most
often conservative and even reactionary, it would clearly be wrong

to think that the utilitarian view of art is shared principally by
revolutionaries, or by people of advanced mind generally. The
history of Russian literature shows very clearly that it has not been
shunned even by our “protectors.” Here are some examples. The
first three parts of V. T. Narezhny’s novel, A Russian Gil Blas, or
the Adventures of Count Gavrila Simonovich Chistyakov, were
published in 1814. The book was at once banned at the instance of
the Minister of Public Education, Count Razumovsky, who took
the occasion to express the following opinion on the relation of
literature to life:
“All too often authors of novels, although apparently

campaigning against vice, paint it in such colours or
describe it in such detail as to lure young people into vices
which it would have been better not to mention at all.
Whatever the literary merit of a novel may be, its
publication can be sanctioned only when it has a truly moral
purpose.”
As we see, Razumovsky believed that art cannot be an aim in

itself.
Art was regarded in exactly the same way by those servitors of

Nicholas I who, by virtue of their official position, were obliged to
have some opinion on the subject. You will remember that
Benkendorf tried to direct Pushkin into the path of virtue. Nor was
Ostrovsky denied the solicitous attention of authority. When, in
March 1850, his comedy The Bankrupt was published and certain
enlightened lovers of literature – and trade – expressed the fear
that it might offend the merchant class, the then Minister of Public
Education (Count Shirinsky-Shikhmatov) ordered the guardian of
the Moscow Educational Area to invite the young dramatist to
come and see him, and “make him understand that the noble and
useful purpose of talent consists not only in the lively depiction of
what is ludicrous or evil, but in justly condemning it; not only in
caricature, but in inculcating lofty moral sentiments; consequently,
in offsetting vice with virtue, the ridiculous and criminal with
thoughts and actions that elevate the soul; lastly, in strengthening
the faith, which is so important to social and private life, that evil
deeds meet with fitting retribution already here on earth.”
Tsar Nicholas I himself looked upon art chiefly from the “moral”
standpoint. As we know, he shared Benkendorf’s opinion that it
would be a good thing to tame Pushkin. He said of Ostrovsky’s
play, Shouldering Another’s Troubles, written at the time when
Ostrovsky had fallen under the influence of the Slavophiles [31] and
was fond of saying at convivial banquets that, with the help of
some of his friends, he would “undo all the work” of Peter [32] – of
this play, which in a certain sense was distinctly didactic, Nicholas
I said with praise: “Ce n’est pas une pièce, c’est une leçon.” [33] Not
to multiply examples, I shall confine myself to the two following
facts. When N. Polevoi’s Moskovsky Telegraf [34] printed an
unfavourable review of Kukolnik’s “patriotic” play, The Hand of
the All-Highest Saved Our Fatherland, the journal became
anathema in the eyes of Nicholas’s ministers and was banned. But
when Polevoi himself wrote patriotic plays – Grandad of the
Russian Navy and Igolkin the Merchant – the tsar, Polevoi’s
brother relates, was delighted with his dramatic talent. “The author
is unusually gifted,” he said. “He should write, write and write.
Yes write (he smiled), not publish magazines.” [35]
And don’t think the Russian rulers were an exception in this

respect. No, so typical an exponent of absolutism as Louis XIV of
France was no less firmly convinced that art could not be an aim
in itself, but must be an instrument of moral education. And all the
literature and all the art of the celebrated era of Louis XIV was
permeated through and through with this conviction. Napoleon I
would similarly have looked upon the theory of art for art’s sake
as a pernicious invention of loathsome “ideologists.” He, too,
wanted literature and art to serve moral purposes. And in this he
largely succeeded, as witnessed for example by the fact that most
of the pictures in the periodical exhibitions (Salons) of the time
were devoted to the warlike feats of the Consulate and the Empire.
His little nephew, Napoleon III, followed in his footsteps, though
with far less success. He, too, tried to make art and literature serve
what he called morality. In November 1852, Professor Laprade of
Lyons scathingly ridiculed this Bonapartist penchant for didactic
art in a satire called Les muses d’Etat. He predicted that the time
would soon come when the state muses would place human reason
under military discipline; then order would reign and not a single
writer would dare to express the slightest dissatisfaction.
Il faut être content, s’il pleut, s’il fait soleil,

S’il fait chaud, s’il fait froid: “Ayez le teint vermeil,
Je déteste les gens maigres, à face pâle;
Celui qui ne rit pas mérite qu’on l’empale,” etc. [36]
I shall remark in passing that for this witty satire Laprade was
deprived of his professorial post. The government of Napoleon III
could not tolerate jibes at the “state muses.”
II
But let us leave the government “spheres.” Among the French
writers of the Second Empire there were some who rejected the
theory of art for art’s sake from anything but progressive
considerations. Alexandre Dumas fils, for instance, declared
categorically that the words “art for art’s sake” were devoid of
meaning. His plays, Le fils naturel and Le Père prodigue were
devoted to the furtherance of definite social aims. He considered it
necessary to bolster up with his writings the “old society,” which,
in his own words, was crumbling on all sides.
Reviewing, in 1857, the literary work of Alfred de Musset who

had just died, Lamartine regretted that it had contained no
expression of religious, social, political or patriotic beliefs (foi),
and he rebuked the contemporary poets for ignoring sense in their
infatuation for rhyme and rhythm. Lastly – to cite a literary figure
of much smaller calibre – Maxime Ducamp, condemning the
passion for form alone, exclaimed:
La forme est belle, soit! quand l’idee est au fond!

Qu’est ce donc qu’on beau front, qui n’a pas de cervelle? [37]
He also attacked the head of the romantic school in painting,

saying: “Just as some writers have created art for art’s sake, Mr.
Delacroix has invented colour for colour’s sake. With him, history
and mankind are an excuse for combining well-chosen tints.” In
the opinion of this same writer, the art-for-art’s sake school had
definitely outlived its day. [38]
Lamartine and Maxime Ducamp can no more be suspected of

destructive tendencies than Alexandre Dumas fils. They rejected
the theory of art for art’s sake not because they wanted to replace
the bourgeois order by a new social system, but because they

wanted to bolster up the bourgeois relationships, which had been
seriously shaken by the liberation movement of the proletariat. In
this respect they differed from romanticists – and especially from
the Parnassians and the early realists – only in that which disposed
them to be far more conciliatory towards the bourgeois mode of
life. They were conservative optimists where the others were
conservative pessimists.
It follows convincingly from all this that the utilitarian view of art
can just as well cohabit with a conservative, as with a
revolutionary attitude of mind. The tendency to adopt this view
necessarily presupposes only one condition: a lively and active
interest in a specific social order or social ideal – no matter which;
and it disappears when, for one reason or another, this interest
evaporates.
We shall proceed to examine which of these two opposite views of

art is more conducive to its progress.
Like all questions of social life and social thought, this question
does not permit of an unconditional answer. Everything depends
on the conditions of time and place. Remember Nicholas I and his
servitors. They wanted to turn Pushkin, Ostrovsky and the other
contemporary artists into ministers of morality, as it was
understood by the Corps of Gendarmes. Let us assume for a
moment that they had succeeded in their firm determination. What
would have come of it? This is easily answered. The muses of the
artists who had succumbed to their influence, having become state
muses, would have betrayed the most evident signs of decadence,
and would have diminished exceedingly in truthfulness,
forcefulness and attractiveness.
Pushkin’s Slanderers of Russia cannot be classed among the best

of his poetical creations. Ostrovsky’s Shouldering Another’s
Troubles, graciously acknowledged by his majesty as a “useful
lesson,” is not such a wonderful thing either. Yet in this play
Ostrovsky made but a step or two towards the ideal which the
Benkendorfs, Shirinsky-Shikhmatovs and similar believers in
useful art were striving to realise.
Let us assume, further, that Théophile Gautier, Théodore de

Banville, Leconte de Lisle, Baudelaire, the Goncourt brothers,
Flaubert – in a word, the romanticists, the Parnassians and the
early French realists – had reconciled themselves to their
bourgeois environment and dedicated their muses to the service of
the gentry who, in the words of de Banville, prized the five-franc
piece above all else. What would have come of it?
This, again, is easily answered. The romanticists, the Parnassians

and the early French realists would have sunk very low. Their
productions would have become far less forceful, far less truthful
and far less attractive.
Which is superior in artistic merit: Flaubert’s Madame Bovary or

Augier’s Gendre de Monsieur Poirier? Surely, it is superfluous to
ask. And the difference is not only in talent. Augier’s dramatic
vulgarity, which was the very apotheosis of bourgeois moderation
and conformity, necessarily called for different creative methods
than those employed by Flaubert, the Goncourt brothers and the
other realists who contemptuously turned their backs on this
moderation and conformity. Lastly, there must have been a reason
why one literary trend attracted far more talented men than the
other.
What does this prove?

It proves a point which romanticists like Théophile Gautier would

never agree with, namely, that the merit of an artistic work is
determined in the final analysis by the weightiness of its content.
Gautier not only maintained that poetry does not try to prove
anything, but that it even does not try to say anything, and that the
beauty of a poem is determined by its music, its rhythm. But this is
a profound error. On the contrary, poetic and artistic works
generally always say something, because they
always express something. Of course, they have their own way of
“saying” things. The artist expresses his idea in images; the
publicist demonstrates his thought with the help of logical
conclusions. And if a writer operates with logical conclusions
instead of images, or if he invents images in order to demonstrate
a definite theme, then he is not an artist but a publicist, even if he
does not write essays or articles, but novels, stories or plays. All
this is true. But it does not follow that ideas are of no importance
in artistic productions. I go further and say that there is no such
thing as an artistic production which is devoid of idea. Even
productions whose authors lay store only on form and are not
concerned for their content, nevertheless express some idea in one
way or another. Gautier, who had no concern for the idea content
of his poetical works, declared, as we know, that he was prepared
to sacrifice his political rights as a French citizen for the pleasure
of seeing a genuine Raphael or a beautiful woman in the nude. The
one was closely connected with the other: his exclusive concern
for form was a product of his social and political indifferentism.
Productions whose authors lay store only on form always reflect a
definite – and as I have already explained, a hopelessly negative –
attitude of their authors to their social environment. And in this
lies an idea common to all of them in general, and expressed in a
different way by each in particular. But while there is no such
thing as an artistic work which is entirely devoid of idea, not every
idea can be expressed in an artistic work. This is excellently put by
Ruskin when he says that a maiden may sing of her lost love, but a
miser cannot sing of his lost money. And he rightly observes that
the merit of an artistic work is determined by the loftiness of the
sentiments it expresses. “Question with yourselves respecting any
feeling that has taken strong possession of your mind. ‘Could this
be sung by a master, and sung nobly, with a true melody and art?’
Then it is a right feeling. Could it not be sung at all, or only sung
ludicrously? It is a base one.” This is true, and it cannot be
otherwise. Art is a means of intellectual communication. And the
loftier the sentiment expressed in an artistic work, the more
effectively, other conditions being equal, can the work serve as
such a means. Why cannot a miser sing of his lost money? Simply
because, if he did sing of his loss, his song would not move
anybody, that is, could not serve as a means of communication
between himself and other people.
What about martial songs, I may be asked; does war, too, serve as
a means of communication between man and man? My reply is
that while martial poetry expresses hatred of the enemy, it at the
same time extols the devoted courage of soldiers, their readiness to
die for their country, their nation, etc. In so far as it expresses this
readiness, it serves as a means of communication between man
and man within confines (tribe, community, nation) whose extent
is determined by the level of cultural development attained by
mankind, or, more exactly, by the given section of mankind.
Turgenev, who had a strong dislike for preachers of the utilitarian

view of art, once said that Venus of Milo is more indubitable than
the principles of 1789. He was quite right. But what does it show?
Certainly not what Turgenev wanted to show.
There are very many people in the world to whom the principles of
1789 are not only “dubitable,” but entirely unknown. Ask a
Hottentot who has not been to a European school what he thinks of

these principles, and you will find that he has never heard of them.
But not only are the principles of 1789 unknown to the Hottentot;
so is the Venus of Milo. And if he ever happened to see her, he
would certainly “have his doubts” about her. He has his own ideal
of feminine beauty, depictions of which are often to be met with in
anthropological works under the name of the Hottentot Venus. The
Venus of Milo is “indubitably” attractive only to a part of the
white race. To this part of the race she really is more indubitable
than the principles of 1789. But why? Solely because these
principles express relationships that correspond only to a certain
phase in the development of the white race – the time when the
bourgeois order was establishing itself in its struggle against the
feudal order [39] – whereas the Venus of Milo is an ideal of the
female form which corresponds to many stages in this
development. Many, but not all.
The Christians had their own ideal of the female exterior. It is to

be seen on Byzantine icons. Everybody knows that the
worshippers of these icons were very “dubious” of the Milo and
all other Venuses. They called them she-devils and, wherever they
could, destroyed them. Then came a time when the antique she-
devils again became pleasing to people of the white race. The way
to this was prepared by the liberation movement of the West
European burghers – the movement, that is, which was most
vividly reflected in the principles of 1789. Turgenev
notwithstanding, therefore, we may say that Venus of Milo
became the more “indubitable” in the new Europe, the more the
European population became ripe for the proclamation of the
principles of 1789. This is not a paradox; it is a sheer historical
fact. The whole meaning of the history of art in the period of the
Renaissance – regarded from the standpoint of the concept of
beauty – is that the Christian-monastic ideal of the human exterior
was gradually forced into the background by that mundane ideal

which owed its origin to the liberation movement of the towns,
and whose elaboration was facilitated by memories of the antique
she-devils. Even Belinsky – who toward the end of his literary
career quite rightly affirmed that “pure, abstract, unconditional, or
as the philosophers say, absolute, art never existed anywhere” –
was nevertheless prepared to admit that “the productions of the
Italian school of painting of the 16th century in some degree
approximated to the ideal of absolute art,” since they were the
creations of an epoch in which “art was the chief interest
exclusively of the most educated part of society.” [40] He pointed, in
illustration, to “Raphael’s ‘Madonna’, that chef-d’oeuvre of 16th-
century Italian painting,” that is, the so-called Sistine Madonna
which is now in the Dresden Gallery. But the Italian schools of the
16th century were the culmination of a long process of struggle of
the mundane ideal against the Christian-monastic. And however
exclusive may have been the interest in art of the highly educated
section of 16th-century society [41], it is indisputable that Raphael’s
Madonnas are one of the most typical artistic expressions of the
victory of the mundane ideal over the Christian-monastic. This
may be said without any exaggeration even of those which
Raphael painted when he was still under the influence of his
teacher Perugino, and whose faces seemingly reflect purely
religious sentiments. But behind their religious exterior one
discerns such a vitality and such a healthy joy in purely mundane
living, that they no longer have anything in common with the
pious Virgin Marys of the Byzantine masters. [42]
The productions of the Italian 16th-century masters were no more

creations of “absolute art” than were those of all the earlier
masters, beginning with Cimabue and Duccio di Buoninsegna.
Indeed, such art had never existed anywhere. And if Turgenev
referred to the Venus of Milo as a product of such art, it was
because he, like all idealists, had a mistaken notion of the actual
course of man’s aesthetic development.
The ideal of beauty prevailing at any time in any society or class

of society is rooted partly in the biological conditions of
mankind’s development – which, incidentally, also produce
distinctive racial features – and partly in the historical conditions
in which the given society or class arose and exists. It therefore
always has a very rich content that is not absolute, not
unconditional, but quite specific. He who worships “pure beauty”
does not thereby become independent of the biological and
historical social conditions which determine his aesthetic taste; he
only more or less consciously closes his eyes to these conditions.
This, incidentally, was the case with romanticists like Théophile
Gautier. I have already said that his exclusive interest in the form
of poetical productions stood in close causal relation with his
social and political indifferentism.
This indifferentism enhanced the merit of his poetic work to the

extent that it saved him from succumbing to bourgeois vulgarity,
to bourgeois moderation and conformity. But it detracted from its
merit to the extent that it narrowed Gautier’s outlook and
prevented him from absorbing the progressive ideas of his time.
Let us turn again to the already familiar preface to Mademoiselle
de Maupin, with its almost childishly petulant attacks on the
defenders of the utilitarian view of art. In this preface, Gautier
exclaims:
“My God, how stupid it is, this supposed faculty of

mankind for self-perfection of which our ears are tired of
hearing! One might think that the human machine is
capable of improvement, and that, by adjusting a wheel or
rearranging a counterpoise, we can make it perform its

functions more effectively.” [43]
To prove that this is not so, Gautier cites Marshal de

Bassompierre, who drank the health of his guns in a bootful of
wine. He observes that it would be just as difficult to perfect the
marshal in the matter of drinking as it would be for the man of
today to surpass, in the matter of eating, Milo of Crotona, who
devoured a whole bull at one sitting. [44] These remarks, which are
quite true in themselves, are eminently characteristic of the theory
of art for art’s sake in the form in which it was professed by the
consistent romanticists.
Who was it, one asks, that tired Gautier’s ears with the assertion
that mankind is capable of self-perfection? The Socialists – more
precisely, the Saint-Simonists, who had been very popular in
France not long before Mademoiselle de Maupin appeared. It was
against the Saint-Simonists that he directed the remarks, quite true
in themselves, about the difficulty of excelling Marshal de
Bassompierre in winebibbing and Milo of Crotona in gluttony. But
these remarks, although quite true in themselves, are entirely
inappropriate when directed against the Saint-Simonists. The self-
perfection of mankind which they were referring to had nothing to
do with enlarging the capacity of the stomach. What the Saint-
Simonists had in mind was improvement of the social organisation
in the interest of the most numerous section of the population, that
is, the working people, the producing section. To call this aim
stupid, and to ask whether it would have the effect of increasing
man’s capacity to over-indulge in wine and meat, was to betray the
very bourgeois narrow-mindedness which was such a thorn in the
flesh to the young romanticists. What was the reason for this?
How could the bourgeois narrow-mindedness have crept into the
reflections of a writer who saw the whole meaning of his existence

in combating it tooth and nail?
I have already answered this question several times, although in

passing, and, as the Germans say, in another connection. I
answered it by comparing the romanticists’ attitude of mind with
that of David and his friends. I said that, although the romanticists
revolted against bourgeois tastes and habits, they had no objection
to the bourgeois social system. We must now examine this point
more thoroughly.
Some of the romanticists – George Sand, for example, at the time

of her intimacy with Pierre Leroux – were sympathetic to
socialism. But they were exceptions. The general rule was that the
romanticists, although they revolted against bourgeois vulgarity,
had a deep dislike for socialist systems, which called for social
reform. The romanticists wanted to change social moeurs without
in any way changing the social system. This, needless to say, was
quite impossible. Consequently, the romanticists’ revolt against
the “bourgeois” had just as little practical consequence as the
contempt of the Gottingen or Jena fuchses for the philistines. From
the practical aspect, the romanticist revolt against the “bourgeois”
was absolutely fruitless. But its practical fruitlessness had literary
consequences of no little importance. It imparted to the romantic
heroes that stilted and affected character which in the end led to
the collapse of the school. Stilted and affected heroes cannot be
considered a merit in an artistic work, and we must now therefore
accompany the aforesaid good mark with a bad mark: while the
artistic productions of the romanticists gained considerably from
their authors’ revolt against the “bourgeois,” they lost no little
from the fact that the revolt had no practical meaning.
The early French realists strove to eliminate the chief defect of

romanticist productions, namely, the affected, stilted character of
their heroes. There is not a trace of the romanticist affectedness
and stiltedness in the novels of Flaubert (with the exception,
perhaps, of Salambo and Les Contes). The early realists continued
to revolt against the “bourgeois,” but did so in a different manner.
They did not set up in contrast to the bourgeois vulgarians heroes
who had no counterpart in reality, but rather sought to make the
vulgarians the object of faithful artistic representation. Flaubert
considered it his duty to be as objective in his attitude to the social
environment he described as the natural scientist is in his attitude
to nature. “One must treat people as one does the mastodon or the
crocodile,” he said. “Why be vexed because some have horns and
others jaws? Show them as they are, make stuffed models of them,
put them into spirit jars. But don’t pass moral judgement on them.
And who are you yourselves, you little toads?” And to the extent
that Flaubert succeeded in being objective, to that extent the
characters he drew in his works acquired the significance of
“documents” the study of which is absolutely essential for all who
engage in a scientific investigation of social psychology.
Objectivity was a powerful feature of his method; but while he
was objective in the process of artistic creation, Flaubert never
ceased to be deeply subjective in his appraisal of contemporary
social movements. With him, as with Théophile Gautier, harsh
contempt for the “bourgeois” went hand in hand with a strong
dislike for all who in one way or other militated against the
bourgeois social relationships. With him, in fact, the dislike was
even stronger. He was an inveterate opponent of universal
suffrage, which he called a “disgrace to the human mind.” “Under
universal suffrage,” he said in a letter to George Sand, “number
outweighs mind, education, race, and even money, which is worth
more than number (argent... vaut mieux que le nombre).” He says
in another letter that universal suffrage is more stupid than the
right of divine mercy. He conceived socialist society as “a great

monster which would swallow up all individual action, all
personality, all thought, which would direct everything and do
everything.” We thus see that in his disapproval of democracy and
socialism, this hater of the “bourgeois” was fully at one with the
most narrow-minded ideologists of the bourgeoisie. And this same
trait is to be observed in all his contemporaries who professed art
for art’s sake. Baudelaire, having long forgotten his
revolutionary Salut public, said in an essay on the life of Edgar
Poe: “Among a people which has no aristocracy, the cult of the
beautiful can only deteriorate, decline, and disappear.” He says in
this same essay that there are only three worthy beings: “the priest,
the soldier and the poet.” This is something more than
conservatism; it is a definitely reactionary state of mind. Just as
much a reactionary is Barbey d’Aurévilly. Speaking, in his
book Les Poètes, of the poetic works of Laurent-Pichat, he says
that he might have been a greater poet “if he had wished to
trample upon atheism and democracy, those two dishonours (ces
deux déshonneurs) of his thought.” [45]
Much water has flown under bridges since Théophile Gautier

wrote his preface to Mademoiselle de Maupin. The Saint-
Simonists, who supposedly tired his ears with talk about
mankind’s faculty for self-perfection, had loudly proclaimed the
necessity for social reform. But, like most utopian Socialists, they
were resolute believers in peaceful social
development, and were therefore no less resolute opponents of
class struggle. Moreover, the utopian Socialists addressed
themselves chiefly to the rich. They did not believe that the
proletariat could act independently. But the events of 1848 showed
that its independent action could be very formidable. After 1848,
the question was no longer whether the rich would be willing to
improve the lot of the poor, but, rather, who would gain the upper
hand in the struggle between the rich and the poor? The relations
between the classes of modern society had become greatly
simplified. All the ideologists of the bourgeoisie now realised that
the point at issue was whether it could succeed in holding the
labouring masses in economic subjection. This realisation also
penetrated to the minds of the advocates of art for the rich. One of
the most remarkable of them in respect to his importance to
science, Ernest Renan, demanded, in his Réforme intellectuelle et
morale, a strong government “which would compel the good
rustics to do our share of the work while we devoted ourselves to
mental speculation” (“qui force de bons rustiques a faire notre part
de travail pendant que nous speculons”). [46]
The fact that the bourgeois ideologists were now infinitely more
cognisant of the import of the struggle between the bourgeoisie
and the proletariat could not but exert a powerful influence on the
nature of their “mental speculations.” Ecclesiastes put it
excellently: “Surely oppression (of others) maketh a wise man
mad.” Having discovered the secret of the struggle between their
class and the proletariat, the bourgeois ideologists gradually lost
the faculty for calm scientific investigation of social phenomena.
And this greatly lowered the inherent value of their more or less
scientific works. Whereas, formerly, bourgeois political economy
was able to produce scientific giants like David Ricardo, now the
tone among its exponents was set by such garrulous dwarfs as
Frédéric Bastiat. Philosophy was increasingly invaded by idealist
reaction, the essence of which was a conservative urge to reconcile
the achievements of modern natural science with the old religious
legends, or, to put it more accurately, to reconcile the chapel with
the laboratory. [47] Nor did art escape the general fate. We shall see
later to what utter absurdities some of the modern painters have
been led under the influence of the present idealist reaction. For
the present I shall say the following.
The conservative and, in part, even reactionary mentality of the

early realists did not prevent them from making a thorough study
of their environment and creating things of great artistic value. But
there can be no doubt that it seriously narrowed their field of view.
Turning their backs in hostility on the great liberation movement
of their time, they excluded the most interesting specimens from
the “mastodons” and “crocodiles” they observed, those which
possessed the richest internal life. Their objective attitude to the
environment they studied implied, in fact, a lack of sympathy with
it. And, naturally, they could not sympathise with that which,
owing to their conservatism, was alone accessible to their
observation, namely, the “petty thoughts” and “petty passions”
which bred in the “filthy slime” of commonplace middle-class
existence. But this lack of sympathy with the objects they
observed or imagined was bound pretty soon to lead, as it did lead,
to a decline of interest. Naturalism, the first beginnings of which
were laid by their splendid writings, soon landed, as Huysmans put
it, “in a blind alley, in a blocked tunnel.” It was able, in
Huysmans’ words, to make everything its theme, syphilis
included. [48] But the modern working-class movement was beyond
its scope. I have not forgotten, of course, that Zola
wrote Germinal. But leaving aside the weak points of this novel, it
must be remembered that, while Zola himself began, as he said, to
incline towards socialism, his so-called experimental method was,
and remained, ill-suited for a scientific study and description of
great social movements. This method was intimately linked with
the standpoint of that materialism which Marx called natural-
scientific, and which fails to realise that the actions, inclinations,
tastes and habits of mind of social man cannot be adequately
explained by physiology or pathology, since they are determined
by social relationships. Artists who remained faithful to this
method could study and depict their “mastodons” and “crocodiles”
as individuals, but not as members of a great whole. This
Huysmans sensed when he said that naturalism had landed in a

blind alley and had nothing left but to relate once more the love
affair of the first chance wine-merchant with the first chance
grocery woman. [49] Stories of such relationships could be of
interest only if they shed light on some aspect of social
relationships, as Russian realism did. But social interest was
lacking in the French realists. The result was that, in the end, the
relation of “the love affair of the first chance wine-merchant with
the first chance grocery woman” became uninteresting, boring,
even revolting. Huysmans himself in his first productions – in the
novel, Les Soeurs Vatard for instance – had been a pure naturalist.
But growing tired of depicting “the seven mortal sins” (his own
words again), he abandoned naturalism, and, as the German saying
goes, threw out the baby with the bath water. In A rebours – a
strange novel, in places extremely tedious, but, because of its very
defects, highly instructive – he depicted – or, better, as they used
to say of old, created – in the person of Des Esseintes a sort of
superman (a member of the degenerate aristocracy), whose whole
manner of life was intended to represent a complete negation of
the life of the “wine-merchant” and the “grocery woman.” The
invention of such types was once more confirmation of Leconte de
Lisle’s idea that where there is no real life it is the task of poetry to
provide an ideal life. But the ideal life of Des Esseintes was so
entirely bereft of human content that its creation offered no way
out of the blind alley. So Huysmans betook himself to mysticism,
which served as an “ideal” escape from a situation from which
there was no “real” escape. This was perfectly natural in the given
circumstances. But see what we get.
An artist who turns mystic does not ignore idea content; he only
lends it a peculiar character. Mysticism is itself an idea, but an
idea which is as obscure and formless as fog, and which is at
mortal enmity with reason. The mystic is quite willing to say
something and even prove something. But he tells of things that

are “not of this world,” and he bases his proofs on a negation of
common sense. Huysmans’ case again shows that there can be no
artistic production without idea content. But when artists become
blind to the major social trends of their time, the inherent value of
the ideas they express in their works is seriously impaired. And
their works inevitably suffer in consequence.
This fact is so important in the history of art and literature that we

must thoroughly examine it from various angles. But before doing
so, let us sum up the conclusions to which we have been led so far
by our inquiry.
The belief in art for art’s sake arises and takes root wherever
people engaged in art are hopelessly out of harmony with their
social environment. This disharmony reflects favourably on
artistic production to the extent that it helps the artists to rise
above their environment. Such was the case with Pushkin in the
period of Nicholas I. It was also the case with the romanticists, the
Parnassians and the early realists in France. By multiplying
examples, it might be shown that this has always been the case
wherever such a disharmony existed. But while revolting against
the vulgarity of their social environment, the romanticists, the
Parnassians and the realists had no objection to the social
relationships in which this vulgarity was rooted. On the contrary,
although they cursed the “bourgeois,” they treasured the bourgeois
system – first instinctively, then quite consciously. And the
stronger the movement for liberation from the bourgeois system
became in modern Europe, the more conscious was the attachment
of the French believers in art for art’s sake to this system. And the
more conscious their attachment to this system became, the less
were they able to remain indifferent to the idea content of their
productions. But because of their blindness to the new trend which
aimed at the complete remaking of social life, their views were

mistaken, narrow and one-sided, and detracted from the quality of
the ideas they expressed in their works. The natural result was that
French realism landed in a hopeless quandary, which engendered
decadent proclivities and mystical tendencies in writers who had
themselves at one time belonged to the realistic (naturalistic)
school.
This conclusion will be submitted to detailed verification in the

next article. It is now time to close. I shall only, before doing so,
say another word or two about Pushkin.
When his poet abuses the “rabble,” we hear much anger in his
words but no vulgarity, whatever Pisarev may have said on the
point. The poet accuses the aristocratic crowd – precisely the
aristocratic crowd, and not the real people who at that time were
entirely outside the purview of Russian literature – of setting
higher store on a cooking pot than on Apollo Belvedere. This only
means that their narrow practical spirit is intolerable to him.
Nothing more. His resolute refusal to instruct the crowd only
testifies that in his opinion they were entirely beyond redemption.
But in this opinion there is not the slightest tinge of reaction. That
is where Pushkin is immensely superior to believers in art for art’s
sake like Gautier. This superiority is conditional. Pushkin did not
jeer at the Saint-Simonists. But he probably never heard of them.
He was an honest and generous soul. But this honest and generous
soul had absorbed certain class prejudices from childhood.
Abolition of the exploitation of one class by another must have
seemed to him an impracticable and even ridiculous utopia. If he
had heard of any practical plans for its abolition, and especially if
these plans had caused such a stir in Russia as the Saint-Simonian
plans had in France, he probably would have campaigned against
them in violent polemical articles and sarcastic epigrams. Some of
his remarks in the article, ‘Thoughts on the Road’, concerning the

superior position of the Russian peasant serf compared with that of
the West European worker lead one to think that in this case
Pushkin, who was a man of sagacity, might have argued almost as
unintelligently as Gautier, who was infinitely less sagacious. He
was saved from this possible weakness by Russia’s economic
backwardness.
This is an old, but eternally new story. When a class lives by

exploiting another class which is below it in the economic scale,
and when it has attained full mastery in society, from then on
its forward movement is a downward movement. Therein lies the
explanation of the fact, which at a first glance seems
incomprehensible and even incredible, that the ideology of the
ruling classes in economically backward countries is often far
superior to that of the ruling classes in advanced countries.
Russia, too, has now reached that level of economic development

at which believers in the theory of art for art’s sake become
conscious defenders of a social order based on the exploitation of
one class by another. In our country too, therefore, a great deal of
social-reactionary nonsense is now being uttered in support of the
“absolute autonomy of art.” But this was not yet so in Pushkin’s
time. And that was his supreme good fortune.
III
I have already said that there is no such thing as a work of art
which is entirely devoid of ideas. And I added that not every idea
can serve as the foundation of a work of art. An artist can be really
inspired only by what is capable of facilitating intercourse among
men. The possible limits of such intercourse are not determined by
the artist, but by the level of culture attained by the social entity to
which he belongs. But in a society divided into classes, they are
also determined by the mutual relations of these classes and,
moreover, by the phase of development in which each of them
happens to be at the time. When the bourgeoisie was still striving
to throw off the aegis of the lay and clerical aristocracy, that is,
when it was itself a revolutionary class, it was the leader of all the
working masses, and together with them constituted a single
“third” estate. And at that time the foremost ideologists of the
bourgeoisie were also the foremost ideologists of “the whole
nation, with the exception of the privileged.” In other words, at
that time the limits of that intercourse of which artistic production
that adhered to the bourgeois standpoint served as the medium,
were relatively very wide. But when the interests of the
bourgeoisie ceased to be the interests of all the labouring masses,
and especially when they came into conflict with the interests of
the proletariat, then the limits of this intercourse considerably
contracted. If Ruskin said that a miser cannot sing of his lost
money, now a time has come when the mental attitude of the
bourgeoisie begins to approximate to that of a miser mourning
over his treasure. The only difference is that the miser mourns
over something already lost, while the bourgeoisie loses its
equanimity at the thought of the loss that menaces it in the future.
“Oppression (of others) maketh a wise man mad,” I would say in
the words of Ecclesiastes. And a wise man (even a wise man!)
may be affected in the same pernicious way by the fear that he

may lose the possibility of oppressing others. The ideology of a
ruling class loses its inherent value as that class ripens for doom.
The art engendered by its emotional experience falls into decay.
The purpose of this article is to supplement what was said in the
previous article with an examination of some of the most vivid
symptoms of the present decay of bourgeois art.
We have seen the reason for the mystical trend in contemporary

French literature. It is due to the realisation of the impossibility of
form without content, that is, without idea, coupled with an
inability to rise to an understanding of the great emancipatory
ideas of our time. This realisation and this inability have led to
many other consequences which, no less than mysticism, lower the
inherent value of artistic productions.
Mysticism is implacably hostile to reason. But it is not only he

who succumbs to mysticism that is at enmity with reason; so is he
who, from one cause or another and in one way or another,
defends a false idea. And when a false idea is made the basis of an
artistic work, it imparts to it inherent contradictions that inevitably
detract from its aesthetic merit.
I have already had occasion to refer to Knut Hamsun’s play, The

Gate of the Kingdom, as an example of an artistic work that suffers
from the falsity of its basic idea. [50]
The reader will forgive me if I refer to it again.
The hero of this play is Ivar Kareno, a young writer who, if not
talented, is at any rate preposterously self-conceited. He calls
himself a man “whose thoughts are as free as a bird.” And what
does this thinker who is as free as a bird write about? About
“resistance,” and about “hate.” And who, in his opinion, must be
resisted, and who hated? It is the proletariat, he advises, that must

be resisted, and the proletariat that must be hated. This, surely, is a
hero of the very latest type. So far we have met very few – not to
say none at all – of his kind in literature. But a man who preaches
resistance to the proletariat is a most unquestionable ideologist of
the bourgeoisie. The ideologist of the bourgeoisie named Ivar
Kareno seems in his own eyes and in those of his creator, Knut
Hamsun, a revolutionary of the first order. We have learned from
the example of the early French romanticists that there are
“revolutionary” attitudes of mind whose chief distinguishing
feature is conservatism. Théophile Gautier hated the “bourgeois,”
yet he fulminated against people who affirmed that the time had
come to abolish the bourgeois social relationships. Ivar Kareno,
evidently, is a spiritual descendant of the famous French
romanticist. But the descendant goes much further than his
ancestor. He is consciously hostile to that for which his ancestor
felt only an instinctive dislike. [51]
If the romanticists were conservatives, Ivar Kareno is a reactionary

of the purest water. And, moreover, a utopian of the type of
Shchedrin’s wild landlord. [52] He wants to exterminate the
proletariat, just as the latter wanted to exterminate the muzhik.
This utopianism is carried to the most comical extremes. And,
generally speaking, all Ivar Kareno’s thoughts that are “as free as a
bird” go to the height of absurdity. To him, the proletariat is a
class which exploits other classes of society. This is the most
erroneous of all Kareno’s free-as-a-bird thoughts. And the
misfortune is that Knut Hamsun apparently shares this erroneous
thought of his hero. His Ivar Kareno suffers so many
misadventures precisely because he hates the proletariat and
“resists” it. It is because of this that he is unable to obtain a
professorial chair, or even publish his book. In brief, he incurs the
persecution of the bourgeois among whom he lives and acts. But
in what part of the world, in what utopia, is there a bourgeoisie

which exacts such inexorable vengeance for “resistance” to the
proletariat? There never has been such a bourgeoisie, and never
will be. Knut Hamsun based his play on an idea which is in
irreconcilable contradiction to reality. And this has vitiated the
play to such an extent that it evokes laughter precisely in those
places where the author intended the action to be tragic.
Knut Hamsun is highly talented. But no talent can convert into

truth that which is its very opposite. The grave defects of his play
are a natural consequence of the utter unsoundness of its basic
idea. And its unsoundness springs from the author’s inability to
understand the struggle of classes in present-day society of which
his play is a literary echo.
Knut Hamsun is not a Frenchman. But this makes no difference.

The Communist Manifesto had pointed out very aptly that in
civilised countries, owing to the development of capitalism,
“national one-sidedness and narrow-mindedness become more and
more impossible, and from the numerous national and local
literatures, there arises a world literature.” [53] True, Hamsun was
born and brought up in a West European country that is far from
being one of the most developed economically. This, of course,
explains why his conception of the position of the embattled
proletariat in contemporary society is so childishly naive. But the
economic backwardness of his country has not prevented him
from conceiving that antipathy for the working class and that
sympathy for the struggle against it which arise naturally among
the bourgeois intellectuals of the more advanced countries. Ivar
Kareno is only a variety of the Nietzschean type. And what is
Nietzscheanism? It is a new edition, revised and supplemented in
response to the demands of modern capitalism, of that already
familiar hostility to the “bourgeois” which cohabits in such perfect
harmony with an unshakable sympathy for the bourgeois system.

We could easily substitute for the example of Hamsun one
borrowed from contemporary French literature.
Undoubtedly, one of the most talented and – what is even more

important in this case – one of the most thoughtful dramatists of
present-day France is François de Curel. And of his dramas, the
one that without the slightest hesitation may be considered the
most worthy of note is the five act play, Le repas du lion, which as
far as I know has received little notice from Russian critics. The
chief character of this play is Jean de Sancy. Under the influence
of certain exceptional circumstances of his childhood, he is carried
away at one time by Christian socialism, but later violently rejects
it and becomes an eloquent advocate of large-scale capitalist
production. In the third scene of the fourth act, he delivers a long
harangue to the workers in which he seeks to persuade them that
“egotism which engages in production (l’égoisme qui produit) is
for the labouring multitude what charity is for the poor.” And as
his auditors voice their disagreement with this view, he gets more
and more excited and tries to explain the role of the capitalist and
his workers in modern industry with the help of a graphic and
picturesque comparison.
“They say,” he thunders, “that a horde of jackals follow the lion in

the desert to enjoy the remains of his prey. Too weak to attack a
buffalo, too slow to run down a gazelle, all their hope is fastened
on the claws of the king of the desert. You hear – on his claws!
When twilight falls he leaves his den and runs, roaring with
hunger, to seek his prey. Here it is! He makes a mighty bound, a
fierce battle ensues, a mortal struggle, and the earth is covered
with blood, which is not always the blood of the victim. Then the
regal feast, which the jackals watch with attention and respect.
When the lion is satiated, it is the turn of the jackals to dine. Do
you think they would have more to eat if the lion divided his prey
equally with each of them, leaving only a small portion for
himself? Not at all! Such a kind-hearted lion would cease to be a
lion; he would hardly be fit for the role of a blind man’s dog. At
the first groan of his prey, he would refrain from killing it and
begin licking its wounds instead. A lion is good only as a savage
beast, ravenous for prey, eager only to kill and shed blood. When
such a lion roars, the jackals lick their chops in expectation.”
Clear as this parable is, the eloquent orator explains its moral in
the following, much briefer, but equally expressive words: “The
employer opens up the nourishing springs whose spray falls upon
the workers.”
I know that an artist cannot be held responsible for the statements

of his heroes. But very often he in one way or another indicates his
own attitude to these statements, and we are thus able to judge
what his own views are. The whole subsequent course of Le repas
du lion shows that Curel himself considers that Jean de Sancy is
perfectly right in comparing the employer to a lion, and the
workers to jackals. It is quite evident that he might with full
conviction repeat the words of his hero: “I believe in the lion. I
bow before the rights which his claws give him.” He himself is
prepared to regard the workers as jackals who feed on the leavings
of what the capitalist secures by his labour. To him, as to Jean de
Sancy, the struggle of the workers against the capitalist is a
struggle of envious jackals against a mighty lion. This comparison
is, in fact, the fundamental idea of his play, with which the fate of
his principal character is linked. But there is not an atom of truth
in this idea. It misrepresents the true character of the social
relationships of contemporary society far more that did the
economic sophistries of Bastiat and all his numerous followers, up
to and including Böhm-Bawerk. The jackals do absolutely nothing
to secure the lion’s food, part of which goes to satisfy their own
hunger. But who will venture to say that the workers employed in
any given factory contribute nothing to the creation of its product?
It is by their labour, obviously, that it is created, all economic
sophistries notwithstanding. True, the employer participates in the
process of production as its organiser. And as an organiser, he is
himself a worker. But, again, everybody knows that the salary of a
factory manager is one thing, and the entrepreneur profit of the
factory-owner quite another. Deducting the salary from the profit,
we get a balance which goes to the share of capital as such. The
whole question is, why does capital get this balance? And to this
question there is not even a hint of an answer in the eloquent
disquisitions of Jean de Sancy – who, incidentally, does not even
suspect that his own income as a big shareholder in the business
would not have been justified even if his absolutely false
comparison of the entrepreneur to a lion, and the workers to
jackals, had been correct: he himself does absolutely nothing for
the business and is content with receiving a big income from it
annually. And if anybody resembles a jackal who feeds on what is
obtained by the effort of others, it is the shareholder, whose work
consists solely in looking after his shares, and also the ideologist
of the bourgeois system, who does not participate in production
himself, but lives on what is left over from the luxurious: banquet
of capital. With all his talent, de Curel, unfortunately, himself
belongs to this category of ideologists. In the struggle of the wage-
workers against the capitalists, he unreservedly takes the side of
the latter and gives an absolutely false picture of their real attitude
toward those whom they exploit.
And what is Bourget’s play, La barricade, but the appeal of a

well-known and, undoubtedly, also talented artist to the
bourgeoisie, urging all the members of this class to unite against
the proletariat? Bourgeois art is becoming belligerent. Its
exponents can no longer say of themselves that they were not born
for “agitation and strife.” No, they are eager for strife, and do not
shun the agitation that goes with it. But what is it waged for – this
strife in which they are anxious to take part? Alas, for the sake of
self-interest. Not, it is true, for their own personal self-interest – it
would be strange to affirm that men like de Curel or Bourget
defend capitalism in the hope of personal enrichment. The self-
interest which “agitates” them, and for which they are eager to
engage in “strife,” is the self-interest of a whole class. But it is
none the less self-interest. And if this is so, just see what we get.
Why did the romanticists despise the “bourgeois” of their time?

We already know why: because the “bourgeois,” in the words of
Théodore de Banville, prized the five-franc piece above all else.
And what do artists like de Curel, Bourget and Hamsun defend in
their writings? Those social relationships which are a plentiful
source of five-franc pieces for the bourgeoisie. How remote these
artists are from the romanticism of the good old days! And what
has made them so remote from it? Nothing but the inadvertible
march of social development. The acuter the inherent
contradictions of the capitalist mode of production became, the
harder it was for artists who remained faithful to the bourgeois
manner of thought to cling to the theory of art for art’s sake – and
to live, as the French term has it, shut up in an ivory tower (tour
d’ivoire).
There is not, I think, a single country in the modern civilised world

where the bourgeois youth is not sympathetic to the ideas of
Friedrich Nietzsche. Nietzsche, perhaps, despised his “sleepy”
(schläfrigen) contemporaries even more than Théophile Gautier
despised the “bourgeois” of his time. But what, in Nietzsche’s
eyes, was wrong with his “sleepy” contemporaries? What was
their principal defect, the source of all the others? It was that they
could not think, feel and – chiefly – act as befits people who hold
the predominant position in society. In the present historical
conditions, this is tantamount to the reproach that they did not
display sufficient energy and consistency in defending the
bourgeois order against the revolutionary attacks of the proletariat.
Witness the anger with which Nietzsche spoke of the Socialists.
But, again, see what we get.
If Pushkin and the romanticists of his time rebuked the “crowd”

for setting too much store on the cooking pot, the inspirers of the
present neo-romanticists rebuke the “crowd” for being too
sluggish in defending it, that is, in not setting sufficient store on it.
Yet the neo-romanticists also proclaim, like the romanticists of the
good old days, the absolute autonomy of art. But can one seriously
call art autonomous when it consciously sets itself the aim of
defending the existing social relationships? Of course not. Such art
is undoubtedly utilitarian. And if its exponents despise creative
work that is guided by utilitarian considerations, this is simply a
misunderstanding. And indeed – leaving aside considerations of
personal benefit, which can never be paramount in the eyes of a
man who is genuinely devoted to art – to them only such
considerations are intolerable as envisage the benefit of the
exploited majority. As to the benefit of the exploiting minority, for
them it is a supreme law. Thus the attitude, say, of Knut Hamsun
or François de Curel to the utilitarian principle in art is actually the
very opposite of that of Théophile Gautier or Flaubert, although
neither of the latter, as we know, were devoid of conservative
prejudices either. But since the time of Gautier and Flaubert, these
prejudices, owing to the greater acuteness of the social
contradictions, have become so strongly developed in artists who
hold to the bourgeois standpoint that it is now incomparably more
difficult for them to adhere consistently to the theory of art for
art’s sake. Of course, it would be a great mistake to imagine that
none of them nowadays adheres to this theory consistently. But, as

we shall soon see, this consistency is now maintained at a very
heavy cost.
The neo-romanticists – also under the influence of Nietzsche –

fondly imagine that they stand “beyond good and evil.” But what
does standing beyond good and evil mean? It means doing a great
historical work which cannot be judged within the framework of
the existing concepts of good and evil, those springing from the
existing social order. The French revolutionaries of 1793, in their
struggle against reaction, undoubtedly did stand beyond good and
evil, that is, their activities were in contradiction to the concepts of
good and evil which had sprung from the old and moribund order.
Such a contradiction, in which there is always a great deal of
tragedy, can only be justified on the ground that the activities of
revolutionaries who are temporarily compelled to stand beyond
good and evil have the result that evil retreats before good in
social life. In order to take the Bastille, its defenders had to be
fought. And whoever wages such a fight must inevitably for the
time being take his stand beyond good and evil. And to the extent
that the capture of the Bastille curbed the tyranny which could
send people to prison “at its good pleasure” (“parce que tel est
notre bon plaisir” [54] – the well-known expression of the French
absolute monarchs), to that extent it compelled evil to retreat
before good in the social life of France, thereby justifying the
stand beyond good and evil temporarily assumed by those who
were fighting tyranny. But such a justification cannot be found for
all who take their stand beyond good and evil. Ivar Kareno, for
example, would probably not hesitate for a moment to go beyond
good and evil for the sake of realising his thoughts that are “as free
as a bird.” But, as we know, his thoughts amount, in sum, to
waging an implacable struggle against the emancipation
movement of the proletariat. For him, therefore, going beyond
good and evil would mean not being deterred in this struggle even
by the few rights which the working class has succeeded in
winning in bourgeois society. And if his struggle were successful,
its effect would be not to diminish, but to increase the evil in
social life. In his case, therefore, going beyond good and evil
could not be justified, as it generally is when it is done for the
furtherance of reactionary aims. It may be argued in objection that
although Ivar Kareno could find no justification from the
standpoint of the proletariat, he certainly would find justification
from the standpoint of the bourgeoisie. I fully agree. But the
standpoint of the bourgeoisie is in this case the standpoint of a
privileged minority which is anxious to perpetuate its privileges.
The standpoint of the proletariat, on the other hand, is that of a
majority which demands the abolition of all privileges. Hence, to
say that the activity of a particular person is justifiable from the
standpoint of the bourgeoisie, is to say that it is condemnable from
the standpoint of all people who are not inclined to defend the
interests of exploiters. And that is all I need, for the inevitable
march of economic development is my guarantee that the number
of such people will most certainly grow larger and larger.
Hating the “sleepers” from the bottom of their hearts, the neo-
romanticists want movement. But the movement they desire is
a protectivemovement, the very opposite of
the emancipation movement of our time. This is the whole secret
of their psychology. It is also the secret of the fact that even the
most talented of them cannot produce the significant works they
would have produced if their social sympathies ran in a different
direction, and if their attitude of mind were different. We have
already seen how erroneous is the idea on which de Curel based
his play, Le repas du lion. And a false idea is bound to injure an
artistic work, since it gives a false twist to the psychology of its
characters. It would not be difficult to demonstrate how much
falsity there is in the psychology of the principal hero of this play,

Jean de Sancy. But this would compel me to make a much longer
digression than the plan of my article warrants. I shall take another
example which will permit me to be more brief.
The basic idea of the play La barricade is that everyone must

participate in the modern class struggle on the side of his own
class. But whom does Bourget consider the “most likeable figure”
in his play? An old worker named Gaucherond [55], who sides not
with the workers, but with the employer. The behaviour of this
worker fundamentally contradicts the basic idea of the play, and
he may seem likeable only to those who are absolutely blinded by
sympathy for the bourgeoisie. The sentiment which guides
Gaucherond is that of a slave who reveres his chains. And we
already know from the time of Count Alexei Tolstoi that it is hard
to evoke sympathy for the devotion of a slave in anyone who has
not been educated in the spirit of slavery. Remember Vasily
Shibanov, who so wonderfully preserved his “slavish
fidelity.” [56] Despite terrible torture, he died a hero:
Tsar, forever the same is his word:

He does naught but sing the praise of his lord.
But this slavish heroism has but little appeal for the modern
reader, who probably cannot even conceive how it is possible for a
“vocal tool” [57] to display such devoted loyalty to his owner. Yet
old Gaucherond in Bourget’s play is a sort of Vasily Shibanov
transformed from a serf into a modern proletarian. One must be
purblind indeed to call him the “most likeable figure” in the play.
And one thing is certain at any rate: if Gaucherond really is
likeable, then it shows that, despite Bourget, each of us must side
not with the class to which he belongs, but with that whose cause
he considers more just.
Bourget’s creation contradicts his own idea. And this is for the
same reason that a wise man who oppresses others becomes mad.
When a talented artist is inspired by a wrong idea, he spoils his
own production. And the modern artist cannot be inspired by a
right idea if he is anxious to defend the bourgeoisie in its struggle
against the proletariat.
I have said that it is incomparably harder than formerly for an

artist who holds to the bourgeois standpoint to adhere consistently
to the theory of art for art’s sake. This, incidentally, is admitted by
Bourget himself, He even puts it far more emphatically. “The role
of an indifferent chronicler,” he says, “is impossible for a thinking
mind and a sensitive heart when it is a case of those terrible
internecine wars on which, it sometimes seems, the whole future
of one’s country and of civilisation depends.” [58] But here it is
appropriate to make a reservation. It is indeed true that a man with
a thinking mind and a responsive heart cannot remain an
indifferent observer of the civil war going on in modern society. If
his field of vision is narrowed by bourgeois prejudices, he will be
on one side of the “barricade”; if he is not infected with these
prejudices, he will be on the other. That is true. But not all the
children of the bourgeoisie – or of any other class, of course –
possess thinking minds. And those who do think, do not always
have responsive hearts. For them, it is easy even now to remain
consistent believers in the theory of art for art’s sake. It eminently
accords with indifference to social – and even narrow class –
interests. And the bourgeois social system is perhaps more capable
than any other of engendering such indifference. When whole
generations are educated in the celebrated principle of each for
himself and the devil take the hindmost, the appearance of egotists
who think only of themselves and are interested only in
themselves, is very natural. And we do, in fact, find that such
egotists are more frequently to be met with among the present-day
bourgeoisie than perhaps at any other time. On this point we have

the very valuable testimony of one of its most prominent
ideologists: Maurice Barrès.
“Our morality, our religion, our national sentiment have all gone
to pieces,” he says. “No rules of life can be borrowed from them.
And until such time as our teachers establish authentic truths, there
is naught we can do but cling to the only reality, our ego.” [59]
When in the eyes of a man all has “fallen to pieces” save his own
ego, then there is nothing to prevent him from acting as a calm
chronicler of the great war raging in the bosom of modern society.
But, no! Even then there is something to prevent him doing so.
This something will be precisely that lack of all social interest
which is vividly described in the lines of Barrès I have quoted.
Why should a man act as a chronicler of the social struggle when
he has not the slightest interest either in the struggle, or in society?
He will be irresistibly bored by everything connected with the
struggle. And if he is an artist, he will not even hint at it in his
works. In them, too, he will be concerned with the “only reality” –
his ego. And as his ego may nevertheless be bored when it has no
company but itself, he will invent for it a fantastic, transcendental
world, a world standing high above the earth and all earthly
“questions.” And that is what many present-day artists do. I am
not labelling them. They say so themselves. Here, for example, is
what our countrywoman, Mrs. Zinaida Hippius, says:
“I consider that a natural and most essential need of human

nature is prayer. Everyone most certainly prays or strives to
pray – whether he is conscious of it or not, whatever the
form his praying may take, and to whatever god it may be
addressed. The form depends on the abilities and
inclinations of each. Poesy in general, and versifying –
verbal music – in particular, is only one of the forms prayer

takes in our hearts.” [60]
This identification of “verbal music” with prayer is of course

utterly untenable. There have been very long periods in the history
of poetry when it bore no relation whatever to prayer. But there is
no necessity to argue this point. It is only important for me here to
acquaint the reader with Mrs. Hippius’s terminology, for unless he
is acquainted with it, he might be rather perplexed on reading the
following passages, which are important for us in substance.
Mrs. Hippius continues: “Are we to blame that every ego has now
become separate, lonely and isolated from every other ego, and
therefore incomprehensible and unnecessary to it? We all of us
passionately need, understand and prize our prayer, our verse – the
reflection of an instantaneous fullness of the heart. But to another,
whose cherished ego is different, my prayer is incomprehensible
and alien. The consciousness of loneliness isolates people from
one another still more, makes them separate, compels them to lock
their hearts. We are ashamed of our prayers, and knowing that all
the same we shall not merge in them with anyone, we say them,
compose them, in a whisper, to ourselves, in hints that are clear
only to ourselves.” [61]
When individualism is carried to such an extreme, then, indeed, as

Mrs. Hippius quite rightly says, there is no longer any “possibility
of communication through prayer [that is, poetry – G. P.], of
community in prayerful [that is, poetical – G. P.] impulse.” But
this cannot but reflect detrimentally on poetry and art in general,
which is one of the media through which people communicate
with one another. It was aptly observed by the biblical Jehovah
that it is not good that man should be alone. And this is eminently
corroborated by the example of Mrs. Hippius herself. In one of her

poems, we read:
‘Tis a merciless road I must plod.

On and on unto death it will roll.
But I love myself as my God,
And that love, it will save my soul.
We may well doubt that. Who “loves himself as God"? A

boundless egotist. And a boundless egotist is scarcely capable of
saving anyone’s soul.
But the point is not whether the souls of Mrs. Hippius and of all
who, like her, “love themselves as God” will be saved or not. The
point is that poets who love themselves as God can have no
interest in what is going on in the society around them. Their
ambitions must of necessity be extremely vague. In her poem, A
Song, Mrs. Hippius “sings”:
Alas, in the madness of sorrow I perish,

I perish,
’Tis a dream of I know not what that I cherish,

I cherish,
This desire has arisen I know not where from,

Where from,
Yet my heart still yearns for a miracle to come,

To come.
Oh that there might befall which never can be,

Never can be!
The cold, pallid skies promise wonders to me,

To me,
Yet I mourn without tears for the broken word,

The broken word.
Give me that which in this world is not,

Is not, O Lord!
This puts it quite neatly. A person who “loves himself as God,”

and has lost all capacity of communication with other people, has
nothing left but to “yearn for a miracle” and to long for that
“which in this world is not” – for what is in this world cannot
interest him. Sergeyev-Tsensky’s Lieutenant Babayev [62] says that
“art is a product of anaemia.” This philosophising son of Mars is
seriously mistaken if he believes that all art is a product of
anaemia. But it cannot be denied that it is anaemia that produces
the art which yearns for what “in this world is not.” This art is
characteristic of the decay of a whole system of social
relationships, and is therefore quite aptly called decadent art.
True, the system of social relationships of whose decay this art is

characteristic, that is, the system of capitalist relations of
production, is still far from having decayed in our own
country. [63] In Russia, capitalism has not yet completely gained the
upper hand over the old order. But since the time of Peter I
Russian literature has been very strongly influenced by West
European literatures. Not infrequently, therefore, it is invaded by
trends which fully correspond to the West European social
relationships and much less to the relatively backward
relationships of Russia. There was a time when some of our
aristocrats had an infatuation for the doctrines of the
Encyclopaedists, [64] which corresponded to one of the last phases
in the struggle of the third estate against the aristocracy in France.
Now a time has come when many of our “intellectuals” conceive

an infatuation for social, philosophical and aesthetic doctrines
which correspond to the era of decay of the West European
bourgeoisie. This infatuation anticipates the course of our own
social development in the same way as it was anticipated by the
infatuation of 18th-century people for the theory of the
Encyclopaedists. [65]
But if the appearance of Russian decadence cannot be adequately

explained, so to speak, by domestic causes, this fact in no way
alters its nature. Introduced into our country from the West, it does
not cease to be what it was at home, namely, a product of the
“anaemia” that accompanies the decay of the class now
predominant in Western Europe.
Mrs. Hippius will probably say that I quite arbitrarily ascribe to

her a complete indifference to social questions. But, in the first
place, I ascribe nothing to her; I cite her own lyrical effusions, and
only define their significance. Whether I have understood these
effusions rightly or not, I leave it to the reader to judge. In the
second place, I am aware of course that nowadays Mrs. Hippius is
not averse to discoursing even on the social movement. The book,
for instance, which she wrote in collaboration with Mr. Dmitry
Merezhkovsky and Mr. Dmitry Filosofov and published in
Germany in 1908, might serve as convincing evidence of her
interest in the Russian social movement. But one has only to read
the introduction to the book to see how extreme is the yearning of
its authors for “they know not what.” It says that Europe is
familiar with the deeds of the Russian revolution, but not with its
soul. And in order, presumably, to acquaint Europe with the soul
of the Russian revolution, the authors tell the Europeans the
following: “We resemble you as the left hand resembles the right...
We are equal with you, but only in the reverse sense... Kant would
have said that our soul lies in the transcendental, and yours in the
phenomenal. Nietzsche would have said that you are ruled by
Apollo, and we by Dionysus; your genius consists in moderation,
ours in impulsiveness. You are able to check yourselves in time; if
you come up against a wall, you stop or go round it; we, however,
dash our heads against it (wir rennen uns aber die Köpfe ein). It is
not easy for us to get going, but once we have, we cannot stop. We
do not walk, we run. We do not run, we fly. We do not fly, we
plunge downwards. You are fond of the golden mean; we are fond
of extremes. You are just; for us there are no laws. You are able to
retain your equanimity; we are always striving to lose it. You
possess the kingdom of the present; we seek the kingdom of the
future. You, in the final analysis, always place government
authority higher than the liberties you may secure. We, on the
other hand, remain rebels and anarchists even when fettered in the
chains of slavery. Reason and emotion lead us to the extreme limit
of negation, yet, despite this, deep down at the bottom of our being
and will, we remain mystics.” [66]
The Europeans further learn that the Russian revolution is as

absolute as the form of government against which it is directed,
and that if its conscious empirical aim is socialism, its unconscious
mystical aim is anarchy. [67] In conclusion, the authors declare that
they are addressing themselves not to the European bourgeoisie,
but – to whom, reader? To the proletariat, you think? You are
mistaken. “Only to individual minds of the universal culture, to
people who share Nietzsche’s view that the state is the coldest of
cold monsters,” etc. [68]
I have not cited these passages for polemical reasons. Generally, I

am not here indulging in polemics, but only trying to characterise
and explain certain mental attitudes of certain social strata. The
quotations I have just given are, I hope, sufficient to show that
Mrs. Hippius, now that she has (at last!) become interested in
social questions, still remains exactly as she appeared to us in the
poems cited above, namely, an extreme individualist of the
decadent type who yearns for a “miracle” only because she has no
serious attitude to real social life. The reader has not forgotten
Leconte de Lisle’s idea that poetry now provides an ideal life for
those who no longer have a real life. And when a man ceases to
have any spiritual intercourse with the people around him, his
ideal life loses all connection with the earth. His imagination then
carries him to heaven, he becomes a mystic. Thoroughly
permeated with mysticism, Mrs. Hippius’s interest in social
questions is absolutely fruitless. [69] But she and her collaborators
are quite mistaken in thinking that the yearning for a “miracle”
and the “mystical” negation of “politics” “as a science” are a
feature peculiar to the Russian decadents. [70] The “sober” West,
before “inebriate” Russia, produced people who revolt against
reason in the name of an irrational aspirations. Przybyszewski’s
Eric Falk abuses the Social-Democrats and “drawing-room
anarchists like John Henry Mackay” solely because, as he claims,
they put too much faith in reason.
“They all,” declares this non-Russian decadent, “preach

peaceful revolution, the changing of the broken wheel while
the cart is in motion. Their whole dogmatic structure is
idiotically stupid just because it is so logical, for it is based
on almighty reason. But up to now everything has taken
place not by virtue of reason, but of foolishness, of
meaningless chance.”
Falk’s reference to “foolishness” and “meaningless chance” is

exactly of the same nature as the yearning for a “miracle” which
permeates the German book of Mrs. Hippius and Messrs.
Merezhkovsky and Filosofov. It is one and the same thought
posing under different names. It owes its origin to the extreme

subjectivity of a large section of the present-day bourgeois
intellectuals. When a man believes that his own ego is the “only
reality,” he cannot admit the existence of an objective, “rational,”
that is, logical connection between his ego and the outer world
around him. To him the outer world must be either entirely unreal,
or only partly real, only to the extent that its existence rests upon
the only true reality, that is, his ego. If such a man is fond of
philosophical cogitation, he will say that, in creating the outer
world, our ego imparts to it at least some modicum of its own
rationality; a philosopher cannot completely revolt against reason
even when he restricts its rights from one or other motive-in the
interest of religion, for example. [71] If a man who believes that the
only reality is his own ego is not given to philosophical cogitation,
he does not bother his head as to how his ego creates the outer
world. In that case he will not be inclined to presume even a
modicum of reason – that is, of law – in the outer world. On the
contrary, the world will seem to him a realm of “meaningless
chance.” And if it should occur to him to sympathise with any
great social movement, he, like Falk, will certainly say that its
success can be ensured not by the natural march of social
development, but only by human “foolishness,” or – which is one
and the same thing – by “meaningless” historical “chance.” But as
I have already said, the mystical view of the Russian emancipation
movement held by Hippius and her two like-thinkers in no way
differs, essentially, from Falk’s view that the causes of great
historical events are “meaningless.” Although anxious to stagger
Europe with the unparalleled immensity of the freedom-loving
ambitions of the Russians, the authors of the German book I have
referred to are decadents of the purest water, who are capable of
feeling sympathy only with that “which never can be, never can
be” – in other words, are incapable of feeling sympathy with
anything which occurs in reality. Their mystical anarchism,
therefore, does not weaken the validity of the conclusions I drew

from Mrs. Hippius’s lyrical effusions.
Since I have touched upon this point, I shall express my thought

without reservation. The events of 1905 – 06 produced just as
strong an impression on the Russian decadents as the events of
1848 – 49 did on the French romanticists. They awoke in them an
interest in social life. But this interest was even less suited to the
temperament of the decadents than it had been to the temperament
of the romanticists. It therefore proved still less durable. And there
are no grounds for taking it seriously.
Let us return to modern art. When a man is disposed to regard his

ego as the only reality, he, like Mrs. Hippius, “loves himself as
God.” This is fully understandable and quite inevitable. And when
a man “loves himself as God,” he will be concerned in his artistic
productions solely with himself. The outer world will interest him
only to the extent that it in one way or another affects this “sole
reality,” this precious ego of his. In Scene I Act II of Sudermann’s
most interesting play, Das Blumenboot, Baroness Erfflingen says
to her daughter Thea: “People of our category exist in order to
make the things of this world into a sort of merry panorama which
passes before us – or, rather, which seems to pass before us.
Because, actually, it is we that are moving. That’s certain. And
what is more, we don’t need any ballast.” These words perfectly
describe the life-aim of people of Baroness Erfflingen’s category;
they could with complete conviction reiterate the words of Barrès:
“The only reality is our ego.” But people who pursue this life aim
must look upon art solely as a means of embellishing the
panorama which “seems” to be passing before them. And here,
too, they will try not to be burdened with any ballast. They will
either completely scorn idea content in artistic works, or will
subordinate it to the caprices and fickle demands of their extreme

subjectiveness.
Let us turn to painting.
Complete indifference to the idea content of their works was

already displayed by the impressionists. One of them very aptly
expressed the conviction of them all when he said: “The chief
dramatis persona in a picture is light.” But the sensation of light is
only a sensation – that is, it is not yet emotion, and not yet thought.
An artist who confines his attention to the realm of sensations is
indifferent to emotion and thought. He may paint a good
landscape. And the impressionists did, in fact, paint many
excellent landscapes. But landscape is not the whole of
painting. [72] Let us recall Leonardo da Vinci’s Last Supper and ask,
is light the chief dramatis persona in this famous fresco? We know
that its subject is that highly dramatic moment in the relationship
of Jesus to his disciples when he says: “One of you shall betray
me.” Leonardo da Vinci’s task was to portray the state of mind of
Jesus himself, who was deeply grieved by his dreadful discovery,
and of his disciples, who could not believe there could be a traitor
in their small company. If the artist had believed that the chief
dramatis persona in a picture is light, he would not have thought of
depicting this drama. And if he had painted the fresco
nevertheless, its chief artistic interest would have been centred not
on what was going on in the hearts of Jesus and his disciples, but
on what was happening on the walls of the chamber in which they
were assembled, on the table at which they were seated, and on
their own skins – that is, on the various light effects. We should
then have had not a terrific spiritual drama, but a series of
excellently painted patches of light: one, say, on a wall of the
chamber, another on the table-cloth, a third on Judas’ hooked
nose, a fourth on Jesus’ cheek, and so on and so forth. But because
of this the impression caused by the fresco would be infinitely

weaker, and the specific importance of Leonardo da Vinci’s
production would be infinitely less. Some French critics have
compared impressionism with realism in literature. And there is
some basis for the comparison. But if the impressionists were
realists, it must be admitted that their realism was quite superficial,
that it did not go deeper than the “husk of appearances.” And
when this realism acquired a firm position in modern art – as it
undoubtedly did – artists trained under its influence had only one
of two alternatives: either to exercise their ingenuity over the
“husk of appearances” and devise ever more astonishing and ever
more artificial light effects; or to attempt to penetrate beneath the
“husk of appearances,” having realised the mistake of the
impressionists and grasped that the chief dramatis persona in a
picture is not light, but man and his highly diversified emotional
experiences. And we do indeed find both these trends in modern
art. Concentration of interest on the “husk of appearances”
accounts for those paradoxical canvases before which even the
most indulgent critic shrugs his shoulders in perplexity and
confesses that modern painting is passing through a “crisis of
ugliness.” [73] Recognition, on the other hand, that it is impossible
to stop at the “husk of appearances” impels artists to seek for idea
content, that is, to worship what they had only recently burned.
But to impart idea content to a production is not so easy as it may
seem. Idea is not something that exists independently of the real
world. A man’s stock of ideas is determined and enriched by his
relations with that world. And he whose relations with that world
are such that he considers his ego the “only reality,” inevitably
becomes an out-and-out pauper in the matter of ideas. Not only is
he bereft of ideas, but – and this is the chief point – he is not in a
position to conceive any. And just as people, when they have no
bread, eat dockweed, so when they have no clear ideas they
content themselves with vague hints at ideas, with surrogates
borrowed from mysticism, symbolism and the similar “isms”

characteristic of the period of decadence. In brief, we find in
painting a repetition of what we have seen in literature: realism
decays because of its inherent vacuity and idealistic reaction
triumphs.
Subjective idealism was always anchored in the idea that there is

no reality save our ego. But it required the boundless
individualism of the era of bourgeois decadence to make this idea
not only an egotistical rule defining the relations between people
each of whom “loves himself as God” – the bourgeoisie was never
distinguished by excessive altruism – but also the theoretical
foundation of a new aesthetics.
The reader has of course heard of the so-called cubists. And if he

has had occasion to see some of their productions, I do not run
much risk of being mistaken if I assume that he was not at all
delighted with them. In me, at any rate, they do not evoke
anything resembling aesthetic enjoyment. “Nonsense cubed!” are
the words that suggest themselves at the sight of these ostensibly
artistic exercises. But cubism, after all, has its cause. Calling it
nonsense raised to the third degree is not explaining its origin.
This, of course, is not the place to attempt such an explanation.
But even here one may indicate the direction in which it is to be
sought. Before me lies an interesting book: Du cubisme, by Albert
Gleizes and Jean Metzinger. Both authors are painters, and both
belong to the cubist school. Let us obey the rule audiatur et altera
pars, [74] and let us hear what they have to say. How do they justify
their bewildering creative methods?
“There is nothing real outside of us,” they say. – “...It does

not occur to us to doubt the existence of the objects which
act upon our senses: but reasonable certainty is possible
only in respect to the images which they evoke in our

mind.” [75]
From this the authors conclude that we do not know what forms
objects have in themselves. And since these forms are unknown,
they consider they are entitled to portray them at their own will
and pleasure. They make the noteworthy reservation that they do
not find it desirable to confine themselves, as the impressionists
do, to the realm of sensation. “We seek the essential,” they assure
us, “but we seek it in our personality not in an eternity laboriously
fashioned by mathematicians and philosophers.” [76]
In these arguments, as the reader will see, we meet, first of all, the
already well-known idea that our ego is the “only reality.” True,
we meet it here in less rigid guise. Gleizes and Metzinger affirm
that nothing is farther from their thought than to doubt the
existence of external objects. But having granted the existence of
the external world, our authors right there and then declare it to be
unknowable. And this means that, for them too, there is nothing
real except their ego.
If images of objects arise in us because the latter act upon our

external senses, then it surely cannot be said that the outer world is
unknowable: we obtain knowledge of it precisely because of this
action. Gleizes and Metzinger are mistaken. Their argument about
forms-in-themselves is also very lame. They cannot seriously be
blamed for their mistakes: similar mistakes have been made by
men infinitely more adept in philosophy than they. But one thing
cannot be passed over, namely, that from the supposed
unknowableness of the outer world, our authors infer that the
essential must be sought in “our personality.” This inference may
be understood in two ways: first, by “personality” may be meant
the whole human race in general; secondly, it may mean each
personality separately. In the first case, we arrive at the

transcendental idealism of Kant; in the second, at the sophistical
recognition that each separate person is the measure of all things.
Our authors incline towards the sophistical interpretation of their
inference.
And once its sophistical interpretation is accepted, [77] one may

permit oneself anything one likes in painting and in everything
else. If instead of the “Woman in Blue” (La femme en bleu – a
painting exhibited by Fernand Léger at last autumn’s Salon), I
depict several stereometric figures, who has the right to say I have
painted a bad picture? Women are part of the outer world around
me. The outer world is unknowable. To portray a woman, I have
to appeal to my own “personality,” and my “personality” lends the
woman the form of several haphazardly arranged cubes, or, rather,
parallepipeds. These cubes cause a smile in everybody who visits
the Salon. But that’s all right. The “crowd” laughs only because it
does not understand the language of the artist. The artist must
under no circumstances give way to the crowd. “Making no
concessions, explaining nothing and telling nothing, the artist
accumulates internal energy which illuminates everything around
him.” [78] And until such energy is accumulated, there is nothing for
it but to draw stereometric figures.
We thus get an amusing parody on Pushkin’s “To The Poet”:
Exacting artist, are you pleased with your creation?

You are? Then let the mob abuse your name
And on the altar spit where burns your flame.
And shake your tripod in its childlike animation.
The amusing thing about the parody is that in this case the
“exacting artist” is content with the most obvious nonsense.
Incidentally, the appearance of such parodies shows that the
inherent dialectics of social life have now led the theory of art for
art’s sake to the point of utter absurdity.
It is not good that man should be alone. The present “innovators”

in art are not satisfied with what their predecessors created. There
is nothing wrong in this. On the contrary, the urge for something
new is very often a source of progress. But not everybody who
searches for something new, really finds it. One must know how to
look for it. He who is blind to the new teachings of social life, he
to whom there is no reality save his own ego, will find in his
search for something “new” nothing but a new absurdity. It is not
good that man should be alone.
It appears, then, that in present-day social conditions the fruits of

art for art’s sake are far from delectable. The extreme
individualism of the era of bourgeois decay cuts off artists from all
sources of true inspiration. It makes them completely blind to what
is going on in social life, and condemns them to sterile
preoccupation with personal emotional experiences that are
entirely without significance and with the phantasies of a morbid
imagination. The end product of their preoccupation is something
that not only has no relation to beauty of any kind, but which
moreover represents an obvious absurdity that can only be
defended with the help of sophistical distortions of the idealist
theory of knowledge.
Pushkin’s “cold and haughty people” listen to the singing poet

with “empty minds.” [79] I have already said that, coming from
Pushkin’s pen, this juxtaposition had historical meaning. In order
to understand it, we must only bear in mind that the epithets “cold
and haughty” were not applicable to the Russian peasant serf of
the time. But they were fully applicable to the high society
“rabble” whose obtuseness led to the ultimate doom of our great
poet. The people who composed this “rabble” might without any
exaggeration say of themselves what the rabble say in Pushkin’s
poem:
We all are treacherous and vicious,

Ungrateful, shameless, meretricious,
Our bearts no feeling ever warms.
Slaves, slanderers and fools, black swarms
Of vices breed in each and all.
Pushkin saw that it would be ridiculous to give “bold” lessons to

the heartless aristocratic crowd: they would not have understood
them. He did right in proudly turning away from them. More, he
did wrong – to the great misfortune of Russian literature – in not
turning away from them resolutely enough. But nowadays in the
more advanced capitalist countries the attitude which the poet –
and artist generally – who is unable to throw off the old bourgeois
Adam maintains toward the people is the very opposite of what we
see in the case of Pushkin: now it is no longer the “people” – the
real people, whose advanced section is becoming more and more
conscious – that can be accused of obtuseness, but the artists who
listen with “empty minds” to the noble calls emanating from the
people. At best, the fault of these artists is that their clocks are
some eighty years behind the time. Repudiating the finest
aspirations of their era, they naively imagine themselves to be
continuers of the struggle waged by the romanticists against
philistinism. The West European aesthetes, and the Russian
aesthetes who follow them, are very fond of dilating on the
philistinism of the present-day proletarian movement.
This is comical. How baseless the charge of philistinism is which

these gentlemen level at the emancipation movement of the
working class, was shown long ago by Richard Wagner. In his
well-founded opinion, the emancipation movement of the working

class, when carefully considered (“genau betrachtet”), proves to be
a movement not toward, but away from philistinism and toward a
free life, toward an “artistic humanity” (“zum künstlerischen
Menschentum”). It is a movement “for dignified enjoyment of life,
the material means for which man will no longer have to procure
at the expense of all his vital energies.” It is this necessity of
expending all one’s vital energies to procure the means of
subsistence that is nowadays the source of “philistine” sentiments.
Constant concern for his means of subsistence “has made man
weak, servile, stupid and mean, has turned him into a creature that
is incapable either of love or hate, into a citizen who is prepared at
any moment to sacrifice the last vestige of free will only that this
concern might be eased.” The emancipation movement of the
working class aims at doing away with this humiliating and
corrupting concern. Wagner maintained that only when it is done
away with, only when the proletariat’s urge for emancipation is
realised, will the words of Jesus – take no thought for what ye
shall eat, etc. – become true. [80] He would have been right in
adding that only when this is realised will there be no serious
grounds for juxtaposing aesthetics to morality, as the believers in
art for art’s sake do – Flaubert, for example. [81] Flaubert held that
“virtuous books are tedious and false” (“les livres vertueux sont
ennuyeux et faux”). He was right – but only because the virtue of
present-day society – bourgeois virtue – is tedious and false.
Flaubert himself saw nothing tedious or false in antique “virtue.”
Yet it only differed from bourgeois virtue in not being tainted with
bourgeois individualism. Shirinsky-Shikhmatov, as Minister of
Education to Nicholas I, considered that the duty of art was to
“strengthen the faith, so important to social and private life, that
evil deeds meet with fitting retribution already here on earth,” that
is, in the society so zealously guarded by the Shirinsky-
Shikhmatovs. That opinion, of course, was eminently false and
tediously vulgar. Artists do right in turning away from such

falsities and vulgarities. And when we read in Flaubert that in
a certain sense “nothing is more poetic than vice,” [82] we
understand that, in its real sense, this is a juxtaposition of vice to
the vulgar, tedious and false virtue of the bourgeois moralists and
the Shirinsky-Shikhmatovs. But when the social order which
breeds this vulgar, tedious and false virtue is done away with,
the moral compulsion to idealise vice will also disappear.
Flaubert, I repeat, saw nothing vulgar, tedious or false in antique
virtue, although, while respecting it, he could at the same time,
owing to the very rudimentary character of his social and political
concepts, admire such a monstrous negation of this virtue as the
behaviour of Nero. In a socialist society the pursuit of art for art’s
sake will be a sheer logical impossibility to the extent that there
will no longer be that vulgarisation of social morals which is now
an inevitable consequence of the determination of the ruling class
to retain its privileges. Flaubert says: “L’art est la recherche de
l’inutile” (“art is a search for the useless”). It is not difficult to
detect in these words the basic idea of Pushkin’s The Rabble. But
his insistence on this idea only signifies that the artist is revolting
against the narrow utilitarianism of the given ruling class, or
caste... With the disappearance of classes, this narrow
utilitarianism, which is closely akin to egotism, will also
disappear. Egotism has nothing in common with aesthetics: a
judgement of taste always carries the presumption that the person
who pronounces it is not actuated by considerations of personal
advantage. But personal advantage is one thing,
and social advantage another. The desire to be useful to society,
which was the basis of antique virtue, is a fountain-head of self-
sacrifice, and an act of self-sacrificing may easily be – and very
often has been, as the history of art shows – an object of aesthetic
portrayal. We have only to remember the songs of the primitive
peoples or, not to go so far afield, the monument to Harmodius

and Aristogeiton in Athens.
The ancient thinkers – Plato and Aristotle, for example – were

fully aware how a man is degraded when all his vital energies are
absorbed by concern for his material subsistence. The present-day
ideologists of the bourgeoisie are also aware of it. They likewise
consider it necessary to relieve people of the degrading burden of
constant economic cares. But the people they have in mind are the
members of the highest social class, which lives by exploiting
labour. They see the solution of the problem where the ancient
thinkers saw it, namely, in the enslavement of the producers by a
fortunate chosen few who more or less approach the ideal of the
“superman.” But if this solution was conservative even in the days
of Plato and Aristotle, now it is arch-reactionary. And if the
conservative Greek slaveowners of Aristotle’s time could hope to
retain their predominant position by dint of their own “valour,” the
present-day preachers of the enslavement of the masses are very
sceptical of the valour of the bourgeois exploiters. That is why
they are so given to dreaming of the appearance at the head of the
state of a superhuman genius who will bolster up, by his iron will,
the already tottering pillars of class rule. Decadents who are not
devoid of political interests are often ardent admirers of Napoleon
I.
If Renan called for a strong government capable of compelling the

“good rustics” to work for him while he dedicated himself to
mental reflection, the present-day aesthetes need a social system
that would force the proletariat to work while they dedicate
themselves to lofty pleasures – such as drawing and painting cubes
and other stereometric figures. Being organically incapable of any
serious work, they are sincerely outraged at the idea of a social
system in which idlers will be entirely unknown.
If you live with the wolves, you must howl with the wolves. The
modern bourgeois aesthetes profess to be warring against
philistinism, but they themselves worship the golden calf no less
than the common or garden philistine. “What they think is a
movement in art,” Mauclair says, “is actually a movement in the
picture mart, where there is also speculation in unlaunched
geniuses.” [83] I would add, in passing, that this speculation in
unlaunched geniuses is due, among other things, to the feverish
hunt for something “new” to which the majority of the present-day
artists are addicted. People always strive for something “new”
when they are not satisfied with the old. But the question
is, why are they not satisfied? Very many contemporary artists are
not satisfied with the old for the sole reason that, so long as the
general public cling to it, their own genius will remain
“unlaunched.” They are driven to revolt against the old by a love
not for some new idea, but for the “only reality,” their own dear
ego. But such a love does not inspire an artist; it only disposes him
to regard even the “idol of Belvedere” from the standpoint of self-
advantage. “The money question is so strongly intertwined with
the question of art,” Mauclair says, “that art criticism is squeezed
in a vice. The best critics cannot say what they think, and the rest
say only what they think is opportune, for, after all, they have to
live by their writing. I do not say this is something to be indignant
about, but it is well to realise the complexity of the problem.” [84]
Thus we find that art for art’s sake has turned into art for money’s
sake. And the whole problem Mauclair is concerned with boils
down to determining the reasons why this has happened. And it is
not very difficult to determine them. “There was a time, as in the
Middle Ages, when only the superfluous, the excess of production
over consumption, was exchanged.
“There was again a time, when not only the superfluous, but
all products, all industrial existence, had passed into
commerce, when the whole of production depended on
exchange...
“Finally, there came a time when everything that men had

considered as inalienable became an object of exchange, of
traffic and could be alienated. This is the time when the
very things which till then had been communicated, but
never exchanged; given, but never sold; acquired, but never
bought – virtue, love, conviction, knowledge, conscience,
etc. – when everything, in short, passed into commerce. It is
the time of general corruption, of universal venality, or, to
speak in terms of political economy, the time when
everything, moral or physical, having become a marketable
value, is brought to the market to be assessed at its truest
value.” [85]
Is it surprising that at a time of universal venality, art also

becomes venal?
Mauclair is reluctant to say whether this is something to be

indignant about. Nor have I any desire to assess this phenomenon
from the moral standpoint. I try, as the saying goes, not to weep or
to laugh, but to understand. I do not say that modern artists “must”
take inspiration from the emancipatory aspirations of the
proletariat. No, if the apple-tree must bear apples, and the pear-
tree must produce pears, artists who adhere to the standpoint of the
bourgeoisie must revolt against the foresaid aspirations. In
decadent times art “must” be decadent. This is inevitable. And
there is no point in being “indignant” about it. But, as
the Communist Manifesto rightly says, “in times when the class
struggle nears the decisive hour, the process of dissolution going
on within the ruling class, in fact within the whole range of old
society, assumes such a violent, glaring character, that a small
section of the ruling class cuts itself adrift, and joins the
revolutionary class, the class that holds the future in its hands. Just
as, therefore, at an earlier period, a section of the nobility went
over to the bourgeoisie, so now a portion of the bourgeoisie goes
over to the proletariat, and in particular, a portion of the bourgeois
ideologists, who have raised themselves to the level of
comprehending theoretically the historical movement as a
whole.” [86]
Among the bourgeois ideologists who go over to the prolelariat,

we find very few artists. The reason probably is that it is only
people who think that can “raise themselves to the level of
comprehending theoretically the historical movement as a whole,”
and modern artists, in contradiction to the great masters of the
Renaissance, do extremely little thinking. [87] But however that may
be, it can be said with certainty that every more or less gifted artist
will increase his power substantially if he absorbs the great
emancipatory ideas of our time. Only these ideas must become
part of his flesh and blood, and he must express them precisely as
an artist. [88] He must be able, moreover, to form a correct opinion
of the artistic modernism of the present-day ideologists of the
bourgeoisie. The ruling class has now reached a position where,
for it, going forward means sinking downward. And this sad fate is
shared by all its ideologists. The most advanced of them are
precisely those who have sunk lower than all their predecessors.
When I expressed the views expounded here, Mr. Lunacharsky

challenged me on several points, the chief of which I shall now
examine.
First, he was surprised, he said, that I seemed to recognise the

existence of an absolute criterion of beauty. There was no such
criterion. Everything flowed and changed. Men’s notions of
beauty also changed. There was no possibility, therefore, of
proving that modern art really was passing through a crisis of
ugliness.
To this I objected, and now object, that I do not think there is, or
can be, an absolute criterion of beauty. [89] People’s notions of
beauty do undoubtedly change in the course of the historical
process. But while there is no absolute criterion of beauty, while
all its criteria are relative, this does not mean that there is
no objective possibility of judging whether a given artistic design
has been well executed or not. Let us suppose that an artist wants
to paint a “woman in blue.” If what he portrays in his picture
really does resemble such a woman, we shall say that he has
succeeded in painting a good picture. But if, instead of a woman
wearing a blue dress, we see on his canvas several stereometric
figures more or less thickly and more or less crudely tinted here
and there with blue colour, we shall say that whatever he has
painted, it certainly is not a good picture. The more the execution
corresponds to the design, or – to use a more general expression –
the more the form of an artistic production corresponds to its idea,
the more successful it is. There you have an objective criterion.
And precisely because there is such a criterion, we are entitled to
say that the drawings of Leonardo da Vinci, for example, are
better than the drawings of some little Themistocles [90] who spoils
good paper for his own distraction. When Leonardo da Vinci, say,
drew an old man with a beard, the result really was an old man
with a beard – so much so that at the sight of him we say: “Why,
he’s alive!” But when Themistocles draws an old man, we would
do well to write underneath: “This is an old man with a beard” –
so that there might be no misunderstanding. In asserting that there
can be no objective criterion of beauty, Mr. Lunacharsky

committed the sin of which so many bourgeois ideologists, up to
and including the cubists, are guilty: the sin of extreme
subjectivism. How a man who calls himself a Marxist can be
guilty of this sin, I simply cannot understand.
It must be added, however, that I here use the term “beautiful” in a

very wide, if you like, in too wide a sense: drawing a bearded old
man beautifully does not mean drawing a beautiful old man. The
realm of art is much wider than the realm of the “beautiful.” But
throughout its broad realm, the criterion I refer to –
correspondence of form to idea – may be applied with equal
convenience. Mr. Lunacharsky maintained (if I understood him
correctly) that form may quite well correspond to a false idea. But
I cannot agree. Remember de Curel’s play Le repas du lion. It is
based, as we know, on the false idea that the employer stands in
the same relation to his workers as the lion stands to the jackals
who feed on the crumbs that fall from his royal table. The question
is, could de Curel have faithfully expressed in his play this
erroneous idea? No. The idea is erroneous because it is in
contradiction to the real relation of the employer to his workers.
To present it in an artistic production is to distort reality. And
when an artistic production distorts reality it is unsuccessful as a
work of art. That is why Le repas du lion is far below de Curel’s
talent. The Gate of the Kingdom is far below Hamsun’s talent for
the same reason.
Secondly, Mr. Lunacharsky accused me of excessive objectivism.

He apparently agreed that an apple-tree must bear apples, and a
pear-tree must produce pears. But he observed that among the
artists who adhere to the bourgeois standpoint there are waverers,
whom it is our duty to convince and not leave to the elemental
action of bourgeois influences.
I must confess that to me this accusation is even more

incomprehensible than the first. In my lecture, I said – and I
should like to hope, proved – that modern art is decaying. [91] I
stated that the reason for this phenomenon – to which nobody who
sincerely loves art can remain indifferent – is that the majority of
our present-day artists adhere to the bourgeois standpoint and are
quite impervious to the great emancipatory ideas of our time. In
what way can this statement influence the waverers? If it is
convincing, it should induce the waverers to adopt the standpoint
of the proletariat. And this is all that can be demanded of a lecture
whose purpose was to examine the question of art, not to expound
or defend the principles of socialism.
Last but not least, Mr. Lunacharsky, having maintained that it is

impossible to prove that bourgeois art is decaying, considered that
I would have done wiser to juxtapose to the bourgeois ideals a
harmonious system – that was his expression, if I remember
rightly – of opposite concepts. And he assured the audience that
such a system would in time be elaborated. Now this objection
completely passes my understanding. If this system is still to
be elaborated, then, clearly, it has not yet been elaborated. And if
it has not yet been elaborated, how could I have juxtaposed it to
the bourgeois views? And what can this harmonious system of
concepts possibly be? Modern scientific socialism is
unquestionably a fully harmonious system. And it has the
advantage that it already exists. But as I have already said, it
would have been very strange if, having undertaken to deliver a
lecture on the subject of Art and Social Life, I had begun to
expound the doctrines of modern scientific socialism – the theory
of surplus-value, for example. Everything is good at the proper
time and in the proper place.
It is possible however that when Mr. Lunacharsky spoke of a

harmonious system of concepts he was referring to the views on
proletarian culture recently put forward in the press by his close
colleague in thought, Mr. Bogdanov. If that is so, then his last
objection amounted to this, that I yet greater praise would earn, if
to Mr. Bogdanov I went to learn. [92] I thank him for the advice, but
I don’t intend to take it. And if anyone should, from inexperience,
think of interesting himself in Mr. Bogdanov’s
pamphlet, Proletarian Culture, I would remind him that it was
very effectively laughed to scorn in Sovremenny Mir [93] by another
of Mr. Lunacharsky’s close colleagues in thought – Mr.
Alexinsky.
Notes
[Footnotes are Plekhanov’s own, except additions by subsequent
editor marked “Note by editor"]
1. The work here presented to the reader is a recast of a lecture which I

delivered, in Russian, in Liège and Paris in November of this year (1912).
It has therefore to some degree retained the form of an oral delivery.
Towards the end of the second part I shall examine certain objections
addressed to me publicly in Paris by Mr. Lunacharsky concerning the
criterion of beauty. I replied to them verbally at the time, but I consider it
useful to discuss them in the press.
2. The article Art and Social Life was originally published in parts in the
journal Sovremennik, November and December 1912, and January 1913. It
is included in Vol. XIV of Plekhanov’s Collected Works, published after
his death. [Note by editor.]
3. Plekhanov’s assessment of Pisarev’s views on art is not quite correct.
Pisarev was a strong opponent of the theory of art for art’s sake, and held
that art should be deeply imbued with thought content and reflect the
progressive ideas of its time. But he did not deny the aesthetic value of art
and literature. [Note by editor.]
4. N. G. Chernyshevsky, Collected Works, 1906 ed., Vol. I, pp. 33-34.
5. This opinion was partly a reiteration and partly a further development of

the views formulated by Belinsky towards the end of his life. In his article,
“A View of Russian Literature of 1847,” Belinsky wrote: “The highest and
most sacred interest of society is its own welfare, equally extended to each
of its members. The road to this welfare is consciousness, and art can
promote consciousness no less than science. Here science and art are
equally indispensable, and neither science can replace art, nor art replace
science.” But art can develop man’s knowledge only by “passing
judgement on the phenomena of life.” Chernyshevsky’s dissertation is thus
linked with Belinsky’s final view of Russian literature.
6. Nekrasov, The Poet and the Citizen. [Note by editor.]
7. Kramskoi’s letter to V. V. Stasov from Mentone, April 30, 1884, shows
that he was strongly influenced by the views of Belinsky, Gogol, Fedotov,
Ivanov, Chernyshevsky, Dobrolyubov, Perov (Ivan Nikolayevich
Kramskoi, His Life, Correspondence and Critical Articles, St. Petersburg,
1888, p. 487). It should be observed, however, that the judgements on the
phenomena of life to be met with in Kramskoi’s critical articles are far
inferior in lucidity to those which we find, for example, in G. I. Uspensky,
to say nothing of Chernyshevsky and Dobrolyubov.
8. This and the previous fragment are from Pushkin’s The Poet and the
Crowd, originally published under the title The Rabble. [Note by editor.]
9. In the 1860s, Russian critics who held that art should be independent of
social life, appealed to the authority of Pushkin against the revolutionary
democrats. They falsely construed these poems and maintained that
Pushkin was a believer in “pure art.” Similar views were held by the
Russian decadents of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.
[Note by editor.]
10. Reference is to the armed uprising of the troops of the St. Petersburg
garrison led by revolutionary officers, members of the Russian nobility, on
December 14, 1825 (hence their name – the Decembrists). The basic
demands in the programmes of their secret societies were abolition of
serfdom and limitation of the tsarist autocracy. The uprising was brutally
suppressed; its leaders were executed and many of the participants exiled
to Siberia. [Note by editor.]
11. Reference is to St. Petersburg and Moscow. [Note by editor.]
12. P. Y. Shchogolev, Pushkin, Essays, St. Petersburg, 1912, p. 357.
13. Ibid., p. 241.
14. From Pushkin’s To the Poet. [Note by editor.]
15. Preface to M-lle de Maupin.

16. A group of French poets (Théophile Gautier, Charles Leconte de Lisle,
Charles Baudelaire, Paul Verlaine and others), which took shape in the
latter half of the 19th century. The name Parnassians was derived
from Parnasse Contemporain, the title of collections of poems they
published in 1866, 1871 and 1876, where they preached the cult of art for
art’s sake. [Note by editor.]
17. The name applied in German student corps to first-year students; here
the reference is to students in Heidelberg and Jena. [Note by editor.]
18. Histoire du romantisme, Paris, 1895, pp. 153-54.
19. Ibid., p. 154.
20. Les odes funambulesques, Paris, 1858, pp. 294-95.
21. Restoration in France – the period (1814-30) of Bourbon rule after the
restoration of the dynasty in 1814. [Note by editor.]
22. Alfred de Musset describes this disharmony in the following words:
“Dès lors se formèrent comme deux camps: d’une part les esprits exaltés,
souffrants; toutes les âmes expansives, qui ont besoin de l’infini, plièrent la
tête en pleurant, ils s’enveloppèrent de rêves maladifs, et l’on ne vit plus
que de frêles roseaux sur un océan d’amertume. D’une autre part, les
hommes de chair restèrent debout, inflexibles, au milieu des jouissances
positives, et il ne leur prit d’autre souci que de compter l’argent qu’ils
avaient. Ce ne fut qu’un sanglot et un éclat de rire, l’un venant de l’âme,
l’autre du corps.” (“Two camps, as it were, formed: on one side, exalted
and suffering minds, expansive souls who yearn for the infinite bowed
their heads and wept, wrapped themselves in morbid dreams, and one saw
nothing but frail reeds in an ocean of bitterness. On the other, men of the
flesh remained erect, inflexible, giving themselves over to positive
pleasures and knowing no care but the counting of their money. Nothing
but sobs and bursts of laughter – the former coming from the soul, the
latter from the body.”) La confession d’un enfant du siècle, p. 10.
23. Op. cit., p. 31.
24. Ibid., p. 32.
25. “For unknown friends.” – Ed.
26. Théodore de Banville says explicitly that the romanticists’ attacks on
the “bourgeois” were not directed against the bourgeoisie as a social class
(Les odes funambulesques, Paris, 1858, p.294). This conservative revolt of
the romanticists against the “bourgeois,” but not against the foundations of
the bourgeois system, has been understood by some of our present-day
Russian... theoreticians (Mr. Ivanov-Razumnik, for instance) as a struggle

against the bourgeois spirit, a struggle which was far superior in scope to
the social and political struggle of the proletariat against the bourgeoisie. I
leave it to the reader to judge the profundity of this conception. In reality,
it points to the regrettable fact that people who undertake to expound the
history of Russian social thought do not always go to the trouble of
acquainting themselves preliminarily with the history of thought in
Western Europe.
27. The attitude of mind of the German romanticists was marked by an
equally hopeless disharmony with their social environment, as is
excellently shown by Brandes in his Die romantische Schule in
Deutschland, which is the second volume of his work, Die
Hauptströmungen der Literatur des 19-ten Jahrhunderts.
28. Poèmes antiques, Paris, 1852, Preface, p. vii.
29. Ibid., p. ix.
30. Ibid., p. xi.
31. Slavophiles – a trend of social thought in Russia which arose in the
forties and fifties of the 19th century. They advanced a “theory” that
Russia should follow its own, distinctive path of development based on the
communal system (which was supposedly peculiar to the Slav nations) and
Orthodox Christianity. The Slavophiles believed that Russian historical
development precluded any possibility of revolutionary upheavals,
strongly disapproved of the revolutionary movement and thought that the
tsarist autocracy should be preserved in Russia. [Note by editor.]
32. By the “work” of Peter Ostrovsky meant the reforms of Peter I,
designed to Europeanise Russia and end her backwardness. [Note by
editor.]
33. “It is not a play, it’s a lesson.” – Ed.
34. Moskovsky Telegraf (Moscow Telegraph) – a scientific and literary
journal published by N. A. Polevoi from 1825 to 1834. It came out in
favour of enlightenment and criticised the system of feudal serfdom in
Russia. [Note by editor.]
35. Memoirs of Ksenofont Polevoi, Suvorin Publishing House, St.
Petersburg, 1888, p. 445.
36. One must be content in sunshine and rain, in heat or cold: “Be of ruddy
countenance; I detest lean and pallid men. He who does not laugh deserves
to be impaled.” – Ed.
37. Form is beautiful, true, when there is thought beneath it! What is the
use of a beautiful forehead, if there is no brain behind it? – Ed.
38. See A. Cassagne’s excellent book, La théorie de l’art pour l’art en
France chez les derniers romantiques et les premiers réalistes, Paris, 1906,
pp. 96-105.
39. Article 2 of the Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen,
adopted by the French Constituent Assembly at its sittings of August 20-
26, 1789, reads: “Le but de toute association politique est la conservation
des droits naturels et imprescriptibles de l’homme. Ces droits sont: la
liberté, la propriété, la sûreté et la résistance a l’oppression.” (“The object
of every civic association is the protection of the natural and
imprescriptible rights of man. These rights are: liberty, property, security
and resistance to oppression.”) The concern for property testifies to the
bourgeois character of the revolution, while the recognition of the right to
“resist oppression” indicates that the revolution had only just taken place
but had not yet been completed, having met with strong resistance from the
lay and clerical aristocracy. In June 1848 the French bourgeoisie no longer
recognised the right of the citizen to resist oppression.
40. Belinsky expressed this opinion in his article “A View of Russian
Literature in 1847.” [Note by editor.]
41. Its exclusiveness, which cannot be denied, only signified that in the
16th century the people who prized art were hopelessly out of harmony
with their social environment. Then, too, this disharmony induced a
gravitation towards pure art, that is, towards art for art’s sake. Previously,
in the time of Giotto, say, there had been no such disharmony and no such
gravitation.
42. It is noteworthy that Perugino himself was suspected by his
contemporaries of being an atheist.
43. Mademoiselle de Maupin, Préface, p. 23.
44. Milo of Crotona – a famous Greek athlete (6th century B.C.). [Note by
editor.]
45. Les Poètes, MDCCCLXXXIX, p. 260. – Ed.
46. Quoted by Cassagne in his La théorie de l’art pour l’art chez les
derniers romantiques et les premiers réalistes, pp. 194-95.
47. “On peut, sans contradiction, aller successivement à son laboratoire et
à son oratoire” (“one can, without contradiction, go successively to one’s
laboratory and one’s chapel”), Grasset, professor of clinical
medicine at Montpellier, said ten years or so ago. This dictum is reiterated

with delight by such theorists as Jules Soury, author of Bréviaire de
l’histoire du matérialisme, a book written in the spirit of Lange’s well-
known work on the same theme. See the article “Oratoire et laboratoire,”
in Soury’s Campagnes nationalistes, Paris, 1902, pp. 233-66, 267. See
also, in the same book, the article “Science et Religion,” the chief idea of
which is expressed in the words of Du Bois-Reymond: ignoramus et
ignorabimus (we do not know and never will know).
48. In saying this, Huysmans was hinting at the novel of the Belgian author
Tabarant: Les virus d’amour.
49. See Jules Huret, Enquête sur l’évolution littéraire, conversation with
Huysmans, pp. 176-77.
50. See the article “Dr. Stockmann’s Son” in my collection From Defence
to Attack.
51. I am speaking of the time when Gautier had not yet worn out his
celebrated red waistcoat. Later – at the time of the Paris Commune, for
instance – he was already a conscious – and very bitter – enemy of the
emancipatory aspirations of the working class. It should be observed,
however, that Flaubert might likewise be called an ideological forerunner
of Knut Hamsun, and even, perhaps, with greater right. In one of his
notebooks we find the following significant lines: “Ce n’est pas contre
Dieu que Prométhée aujourd’hui, devrait se révolter, mais contre le Peuple,
dieu nouveau. Aux vieilles tyrannies sacerdotales, féodales et
monarchiques on a succédé une autre, plus subtile, inextricable, impérieuse
et qui, dans quelque temps, ne laissera pas un seul coin de la terre qui soit
libre.” (“It is not against God that Prometheus would have to revolt today,
but against the People, the new god. The old sacerdotal, feudal and
monarchical tyrannies have been succeeded by another, more subtle,
enigmatic and imperious, and one that soon will not leave a single free
corner on the earth.”) See the chapter, “Les carnets de Gustave Flaubert” in
Louis Bertrand’s Gustave Flaubert, Paris, 1912, p. 255.
This is just the sort of free-as-a-bird thinking that inspires Ivar Kareno. In a
letter to George Sand dated September 8, 1871, Flaubert says: “Je crois
que la foule, le troupeau sera toujours haïssable. Il n’y a d’important qu’un
petit groupe d’esprits toujours les mêmes et qui se repassent le flambeau.”
(“I believe that the crowd, the herd, will always be detestable. Nothing is
important but a small group of always the same minds who pass on, the
torch to one another.”) This letter also contains the lines I have already
quoted to the effect that universal suffrage is a disgrace to the human mind,
since because of it number dominates even over money!” (See
Flaubert, Correspondance, quatrième série (1869-1880), huitième mille,
Paris, 1910.) Ivar Kareno would probably recognise in these views his own
free-as-a-bird thoughts. But these views were not yet reflected in
Flaubert’s novels directly. The class struggle in modern society had to
advance much further before the ideologists of the ruling class felt the need
to give outright expression in literature to their hatred for the emancipatory
ambitions of the “people.” But those who eventually conceived this need
could no longer advocate the “absolute autonomy” of ideologies. On the
contrary, they demanded that ideologies should consciously serve as
intellectual weapons in the struggle against the proletariat. But of this later.
52. The feudal landlord in Saltykov-Shchedrin’s satirical tale, The Wild
Landlord, who wanted “to solve” the peasant problem by murdering off
the peasants. [Note by editor.]
53. See Karl Marx and Frederick Engels, Selected Works in three volumes,
Vol. 1, Moscow, 1969, p. 112. [Note by editor.]
54. “For such is our good pleasure.” – Ed.
55. He says so himself. See La barricade, Paris, 1910, Preface, p. xix.
56. Vasily Shibanov – hero of an historical ballad of the same name by
Count Alexei Tolstoy. [Note by editor.]
57. “Vocal tool” – instrumentum vocale, the name given to slaves in
Ancient Rome. [Note by editor.]
58. La barricade, Preface, p. xxiv.
59. Sous l’oeil des barbares, 1901 ed., p. 18.
60. Collected Verse, Preface, p. ii.
61. Collected Verse, Preface, p. iii.
62. Babayev – a character in Sergeyev-Tsensky’s play of the same name.
[Note by editor.]
63. According to Plekhanov’s opportunist conception, there were no
objective conditions for a socialist revolution in Russia since she had
embarked on the road of industrial development later than other countries
and a conflict between the productive forces and capitalist production
relations was not yet in sight. [Note by editor.]
64. We know, for instance, that the work of Helvetius, De l’homme, was
published in The Hague, in 1772, by a Prince Golitsyn.
65. The infatuation of Russian aristocrats for the French Encyclopaedists
had no practical consequences of any moment. It was however useful, in
the sense that it did clear certain aristocratic minds of some aristocratic
prejudices. On the other hand, the present infatuation of a section of our
intelligentsia for the philosophical views and aesthetic tastes of the

declining bourgeoisie is harmful, in the sense that it fills their “intellectual”
minds with bourgeois prejudices, for the independent production of which
our Russian soil has not yet been sufficiently prepared by the course of
social development. These prejudices even invade the minds of many
Russians who sympathise with the proletarian movement. The result is that
they are filled with an astonishing mixture of socialism and that
modernism which is bred by the decline of the bourgeoisie. This confusion
is even the cause of no little practical harm.
66. Dmitri Mereschkowsky, Zinaida Hippius, Dmitri Philosophoff, Der
Zar and die Revolution, Munich, K. Piper and Co., 1908, pp. 1-2.
67. Ibid., p. 5.
68. Ibid., p. 6.
69. In their German book, Merezhkovsky, Hippius and Filosofov do not at
all repudiate the name “decadents” as applied to themselves. They only
confine themselves to modestly informing Europe that the Russian
decadents have “attained the highest peaks of world culture” (“haben die
höchsten Gipfel der Weltkultur erreicht”). Op. cit., p. 151.
70. Her mystical anarchism will of course not frighten anyone. Anarchism,
generally, is only an extreme deduction from the basic premises of
bourgeois individualism. That is why we find so many bourgeois
ideologists in the period of decadence who are sympathetic to anarchism.
Maurice Barrès likewise sympathised with anarchism in that period of his
development when he affirmed that there is no reality save our ego. Now,
probably, he has no conscious sympathy for anarchism, for the ostensibly
stormy outbursts of his particular brand of individualism ceased long ago.
For him, the “authentic truths” which, he maintained, were “destroyed”
have now been restored, the process of restoration being that Barrès has
adopted the reactionary standpoint of the most vulgar nationalism. And
this is not surprising: it is but a step from extreme bourgeois individualism
to the most reactionary “truths.” This should be noted by Mrs. Hippius, as
well as by Messrs. Merezhkovsky and Filosofov.
71. As an example of a thinker who restricts the rights of reason in the
interest of religion, one might instance Kant: “Ich musste also
das Wissen aufheben; um zum Glauben Platz zu bekommen.” (“I must,
therefore, abolish knowledge, to make room for belief.”) Kritik der reinen
Vernunft, Preface to the second edition, p. 26, Leipzig, Philipp Reclam,
second and improved edition.
72. Many of the early impressionists were men of great talent. But it is
noteworthy that among these very talented men there were no first-rate
portrait painters. This is understandable, for in portrait painting light

cannot be the chief dramatis persona. Furthermore, the landscapes of the
distinguished impressionist masters are good for the very reason that they
affectively convey the capricious and diversified effects of light; but there
is very little “mood” in them. Feuerbach put it extremely well when he
said: “Die Evangelien der Sinne im Zusammenhang lesen, heisst denken.”
(“Reading the gospel of the senses coherently is thinking.”) Remembering
that by “senses,” or sensibility, Feuerbach meant everything that relates to
the realm of sensation, it may be said that the impressionists could not, and
would not, read the “gospel of the senses.” This was the principal
shortcoming of their school, and it very soon led to its degeneration. If the
landscapes of the early and outstanding impressionist masters are good,
very many of those of their very numerous followers resemble caricatures.
73. See Camille Mauclair’s “La crise de la laideur en peinture,” in his
interesting collection of articles, Trois crises de l’art actuel, Paris, 1906.
74. Let the other side be heard. – Ed.
75. Du cubisme, p. 30.
76. Du cubisme, p. 31.
77. See the book in question, especially pp. 43-44.
78. Ibid., p. 42.
79. The words in quotation marks and the verses in the same paragraph are
from Pushkin’s The Poet and the Crowd. [Note by editor.]
80. Die Kunst and die Revolution (R. Wagner, Gesammelte Schriften, Vol.
III, Leipzig, 1872, pp. 40-41.)
81. “Les carnets de Gustave Flaubert” (L. Bertrand, Gustave Flaubert, p.
260).
82. Ibid., p. 321.
83. Op. cit., pp. 314-20.
84. Op. cit., p. 321.
85. Karl Marx, The Poverty of Philosophy, Moscow, 1962, pp. 31-32.
86. See Karl Marx and Frederick Engels, Selected Works in three volumes,
Vol. 1, Moscow, 1969, p. 117. [Note by editor.]
87. Nous touchons ici au défaut de culture générale qui caractérise la
plupart des artistes jeunes. Une fréquentation assidue vous démontrera vite
qu’ils sont en général très ignorants... incapables ou indifférents devant les
antagonismes d’idées et les situations dramatiques actuelles, ils oeuvrent
péniblement a l’ecart de toute l’agitation intellectuelle et sociale, confinés

dans les conflits de technique, absorbés par l’apparence matérielle de la
peinture plus que par sa signification générale et son influence
intellectuelle.” (“We refer here to the general lack of culture that
characterises most young artists. Frequent contacts with them will soon
show you that they are in general very ignorant... being incapable of
understanding, or indifferent to, the conflicts of ideas and dramatic
situations of the present day, they work drudgingly secluded from all
intellectual and social movements, confining themselves to problems of
technique and absorbed more with the material appearance of painting than
with its general significance and intellectual influence.”) Holl, La jeune
peinture contemporaine, pp. 14-15, Paris, 1912.
88. Here I have the satisfaction of citing Flaubert. He wrote to George
Sand, “Je crois la forme et le fond... deux entités qui n’existent jamais
l’une sans l’autre.” (“I believe form and substance to be two entities which
never exist apart.”) Correspondance, quatrième serie, p. 225. He who
considers it possible to sacrifice form “for idea” ceases to be an artist, if he
ever was one.
89. “It is not the irresponsible whim of capricious taste that suggests the
desire to find unique aesthetic values that are not subject to the vaniy of
fashion or the imitation of the herd. The creative dream of a single
incorruptible beauty, the living image that will save the world and
enlighten and regenerate the erring and fallen, is nourished by the
ineradicable urge of the human spirit to penetrate the fundamental
mysteries of the Absolute.” (V. N. Speransky, The Social Role of
Philosophy, Introduction, p. xi, Part I, Shipovnik Publishing House, St.
Petersburg, 1913.) People who argue in this manner are compelled by logic
to recognise an absolute criterion of beauty. But people who argue thus are
pure-blooded idealists, and I, for my part, consider myself a no less pure-
blooded materialist. Not only do I not recognise the existence of a “single
incorruptible beauty”; I do not even know what the words “single
incorruptible beauty” can possibly mean. More, I am certain that the
idealists do not know either. All the talk about such beauty is “just words.”
90. Themistocles – a boy, son of the landowner Manilov in Gogol’s Dead
Souls. [Note by editor.]
91. I am afraid that this too may give rise to misunderstanding. By the
word “decay” I mean, comme de raison, a whole process, not an
isolated phenomenon. This process has not yet ended, just as the social
process of decay of the bourgeois order has not yet ended. It would
therefore be strange to think that present-day bourgeois ideologists are
definitely incapable of producing works of distinction. Such works, of
course, are possible even now. But the chances of any such appearing have
drastically diminished. Furthermore, even works of distinction now bear
the impress of the era of decadence. Take, for example, the Russian trio
mentioned above: if Mr. Filosofov is devoid of all talent in any field, Mrs.
Hippius possesses a certain artistic talent and Mr. Merezhkovsky is even a
very talented artist. But it is easy to see that his latest novel Alexander I,
for example, is irretrievably vitiated by religious mania, which, in its turn,
is characteristic of an era of decadence. In such eras even men of very
great talent do not produce what they might have produced under more
favourable social conditions. [
92. A play on lines from Krylov’s fable, The Ass and the Nightingale.
After hearing the nightingale sing, the ass commended her, but thought she
“yet greater praise would earn, if to the farmyard cock she went to learn.”
[Note by editor.]
93. Sovremenny Mir (Contemporary World) – a monthly journal published
in St. Petersburg from 1906 to 1918. [Note by editor.]
Name index
Alexander I (1777-1825) Russian Emperor (1801-25)
Alexinsky, Grigory Alexeyevich (b. 1879) Russian Social-
Democrat; during the period of reaction (1907-10), one of the
organisers of the anti-Party group Vperyod, subsequently a
reactionary
Aristogeiton (6th century B.C.) Athenian who was put to death for
conspiring against the tyrants Hipparchus and Hippias
Aristotle (384-322 B. C.) Great thinker of Ancient Greece
Augier, Emile (1820-1889) French playwright
Banville, Théodore de (1823-1891) French poet
Barbey d’Aurevilly, Jules (1808-1889) French writer,
representative of reactionary romanticism
Barrès, Auguste Maurice (1862-1923) French writer and publicist,
ideologist of Catholicism
Bassompierre, François de (1579-1646) French marshal and

diplomatist
Bastiat, Frédéric (1801-1850) French vulgar economist, preached
harmony of labour and capital
Baudelaire, Charles (1821-1862) French poet
Belinsky, Vissarion Grigoryevich (1811-1848) Russian
revolutionary democrat, literary critic and publicist
Benkendorf, Alexander Christophorovich, Count (1783-1844)
Chief of political police in Russia under Nicholas I
Bertrand, Louis Marie Emile (1866-1941) French writer and
literary critic
Bogdanov A. (Malinovsky, Alexander Alexandrovich) (1873-1928)
Russian philosopher, sociologist and economist; Social-Democrat;
in philosophy displayed revisionist views
Böhm von Bawerk, Eugen (1851-1914) Austrian vulgar economist
Bourget, Paul (1852-1935) French writer and literary critic
Brandes, Georg (1842-1927) Danish literary historian and
publicist
Cassagne, Albert (1869-1916) French literary critic and historian
Chernyshevsky, Nikolai Gavrilovich (1828-1889) Russian
revolutionary democrat, utopian socialist and materialist
philosopher
Cimabue, Giovanni (Cenni di Pepo) (1240-c. 1302) Italian artist
Curel, François de (1854-1928) French playwright
David, Jacques Louis (1748-1825) outstanding French artist
Delacroix, Eugène (1798-1863) French artist, representative of
romanticism
Dobrolyubov, Nikolai Alexandrovich (1836-1861) Russian
revolutionary democrat, literary critic and publicist
Du Bois, Reymond Emil (1818-1896) German physiologist;
agnostic
Duccio di Buoninsegna (c. 1255-1319) Italian painter, founder of

the Sienese school of painting
Dumas fils, Alexandre (1824-1895) French novelist and
playwright
Dupont, Pierre (1821-1870) French poet
Fedotov, Pavel Andreyevich (1815-1852) Russian painter
Feuerbach, Ludwig (1804-1872) German materialist philosopher
Filosofov, Dmitry Vladimirovich (1872-1940) Russian publicist
and critic; mystic
Flaubert, Gustave (1821-1880) French realist writer
Gautier, Théophile (1811-1872) French romantic novelist and poet
Giotto di Bondone (1266 [or 1276]-1337) Italian painter, father of
realism in Renaissance painting
Gleizes, Albert (1881-1953) French painter, outstanding
representative and theoretician of cubism
Gogol, Nikolai Vasilyevich (1809-1852) Russian writer
Golitsyn, Dmitry Alexeyevich, Count (1734-1803) Russian scholar,
writer and diplomatist; author of works on natural science,
philosophy and economics
Goncourt, Edmond (1822-1896) and Jules Alfred de (1830-1870)
French writers, representatives of naturalism
Grasset, Joseph (1849-1918) French professor of medicine and
philosopher
Hamsun, Knut (Pedersen) (1859-1952) Norwegian writer of
reactionary political views
Harmodius (6th century B. C.) Athenian who was executed for
conspiring against the tyrants Hipparchus and Hippias
Helvetius, Claude Adrien (1715-1771) French materialist
philosopher
Herzen, Alexander Ivanovich (1812-1870) Russian revolutionary
democrat, writer, materialist philosopher
Hippius, Zinaida Nikolayevna (1869-1945) Russian reactionary

poetess, representative of symbolism
Hugo, Victor (1802-1885) French novelist and poet, an
outstanding representative of romanticism
Huret, Jules (1864-1915) French journalist, published several
collections of quotations of noted personalities on literature, public
life, etc.
Huysmans, Joris Karl (1848-1907) French symbolist writer;
decadent
Ivanov, Alexander Andreyevich (1806-1858) Russian painter
Ivanov-Razumnik (Razumnik Vasilyevich Ivanov) (1878-1945)
Russian Narodnik, literary critic and sociologist
Kant, Immanuel (1724-1804) German philosopher, founder of
German classical idealism
Kramskoi, Ivan Nikolayevich (1837-1887) Russian painter and
public figure
Kukolnik, Nestor Vasilyevich (1809-1868) Russian reactionary
novelist and playwright
Lamartine, Alphonse de (1790-1869) French poet, historian and
politician
Lange, Friedrich Albert (1828-1875) German Neo-Kantian
philosopher, economist
Laprade, Pierre Martin Victor (1812-1883) French poet
Laurent-Pichat, Léon (1823-1886) French poet and publicist
Leconte de Lisle, Charles (1818-1894) French poet
Léger, Fernand (1881-1955) French painter
Leonardo da Vinci (1452-1519) Italian painter, scientist and
engineer, one of the greatest men of the Renaissance
Leroux, Pierre (1797-1871) French utopian socialist
Louis XIV (1638-1715) King of France (1643-1715)
Louis Philippe (1713-1850) King of France (1830-1848)
Lunacharsky, Anatoly Vasilyevich (1875-1933) Prominent Russian

Bolshevik; subsequently Soviet statesman and public figure,
publicist and literary critic; during the years of reaction (1907-10),
member of the anti-Party Vperyod group
Mackey, John Heinrich (1864-1933) German poet of Scottish
origin, anarchist
Marx, Karl (1818-1883)
Mauclair, Camille (1872-1945) French writer and art critic
Merezhkovsky, Dmitry Sergeyevich (1866-1941) Russian novelist
and poet, religious philosopher
Metzinger, Jean (b. 1883) French artist, representative of cubism
Musset, Alfred de (1810-1857) French romantic poet
Napoleon I Bonaparte (1769-1821) Emperor of France (1804-14
and 1815)
Napoleon III (1809-1873) Emperor of France (1852-70)
Narezhny, Vasily Trofimovich (1780-1825) Russian writer
Nekrasov, Nikolai Alexeyevich (1821-1878) Russian poet,
revolutionary democrat
Nero (37-68) Roman emperor (54-68)
Nicholas I (1796-1855) Emperor of Russia (1825-55)
Nietzsche, Friedrich Wilhelm (1844-1900) German reactionary
idealist philosopher
Ostrovsky, Alexander Nikolayevich (1823-1886) Russian
playwright
Paskevich, Ivan Fyodorovich (1782-1856) Russian general,
reactionary statesman
Perov, Vasily Grigoryevich (1833 [34]-1882) Russian painter and
graphic artist
Perugino (Pietro di Christophoro Vannucci) (c. 1445-1523) Italian
painter of the Renaissance
Peter I (1672-1725) Russian tsar (1682-1721) and Emperor of

Russia (1721-1725)
Pisarev, Dmitry Ivanovich (1840-1869) Russian literary critic and
publicist, revolutionary democrat
Plato (427-347 B.C.) Idealist philosopher of ancient Greece
Poe, Edgar Allan (1809-1849) American writer
Polevoi, Ksenofont Alexeyevich (1801-1867) Russian writer and
critic, brother of N.A. Polevoi
Polevoi, Nikolai Alexeyevich (1796-1846) Russian journalist,
writer and historian
Przybyszewski, Stanislaw (1868-1927) Polish writer, decadent and
mystic
Pushkin, Alexander Sergeyevich (1799-1837) Great Russian poet
Raphael, Sanzio (1483-1520) Great Italian painter
Razumovsky, Alexei Kirillovich (1748-1822) Minister of Education
under Alexander I
Renan, Joseph Ernest (1823-1892) French historian of religion,
idealist philosopher
Ricardo, David (1772-1823) English economist, an outstanding
representative of bourgeois classical political economy
Ruskin, John (1819-1900) English theoretician of art, critic and
publicist
Sand, George (pseudonym of Aurore Dudevant) (1804-1876)
French novelist
Sergeyev-Tsensky, Sergei Nikolayevich (1875-1958) Russian
Soviet writer
Shchedrin (Saltykov-Shchedrin), Mikhail Yevgrafovich (1826-
1889) Russian satirist
Shchogolev, Pavel Yeliseyevich (1877-1931) Russian Soviet
literary critic
Shirinsky-Shikhmatov, Platon Alexandrovich (1790-1853)

Minister of Education in Russia from 1850 to 1853
Sieyès, Abbé Emanuel Joseph (1748-1836) Leader in the French
bourgeois revolution of the end of the 18th century
Soury, Jules-Auguste (1842-1915) French philosopher, Neo-
Kantian
Speransky, Valentin Nikolayevich – historian of philosophy,
privat-dozent of St. Petersburg University
Stasov, Vladimir Vasilyevich (1824-1906) Russian musical and art
critic
Sudermann, Hermann (1857-1928) German playwright and
novelist
Tabarant, Adolf (b. 1863) Belgian writer
Tolstoy, Alexei Konstantinovich (1817-1875) Russian poet and
playwright
Turgenev, Ivan Sergeyevich (1818-1883) Russian writer
Uspensky, Gleb Ivanovich (1843-1902) Russian writer
Vigny, Alfred de (1797-1863) French romantic poet and novelist
Wagner, Richard (1813-1883) German composer
Zola, Emile (1840-1902) French writer
Zhukovsky, Vasily Andreyevich (1783-1852) Russian poet

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G. V.

Art and Social Life

Translated: from the Russian by A. Fineberg from the book: G. V.

Others emphatically reject this view. In their opinion, art is

The first of these two views was vividly reflected in our

“The idea of ‘art for art’s sake’ is as strange in our times as

serious of them,” poetry, is determined by the sum of

In the opinion of Chernyshevsky and his disciple, Dobrolyubov,

Thou poet by the heavens blessed,

Believe, men have not fallen wholly,

Be thou a citizen, serve art.

To them, to them thy loving heart

In these words the Citizen Nekrasov sets forth his own

The opposite view of the function of creative art had a powerful

Begone, ye pharisees! What cares

Upon your deeds I turn my back.

No, not for worldly agitation,

But for sweet song, for inspiration,

Which of these two directly opposite views of the function of art is

In undertaking to answer this question, it must first be observed

What are the most important social conditions in which

As we approach the answer to this question, it will not be difficult

What are the most important social conditions in which

The first of these two questions impels us once again to recall

Unhappy nation! Everywhere

But then his attitude of mind radically changed. In the days of

The reign of Nicholas I opened with the catastrophe of December

became more sordid and servile with the ascension of Nicholas to

According to the touching and very widespread legend, in 1826

Begone, ye pharisees! What cares

In other words, being in such a situation, it was quite natural that

You are a king, alone and free to go

Of love ashamed, of thought afraid,

It is hard to believe that this description refers, say, to the urban

If all this is true, then the following conclusion suggests itself:

It might be said, of course, that the example of Pushkin is not

Pushkin’s contemporaries, the French romanticists, were also, with

In a biographical note on Baudelaire, this same Gautier highly

How little the “idea of beauty” could associate in Gautier’s mind

“I would very gladly (très joyeusement) renounce my rights as a

That, surely, is the limit. Yet all the Parnassians (les

In an article Théophile Gautier wrote in 1857 on the revival by the

“The parterre before which Chatterton declaimed was filled with

Who were these contemptible “bourgeois"?

“They included,” Gautier says, “nearly everybody – bankers,

And here is further evidence. In a comment to one of his Odes

Recalling this, de Banville begs his reader not to be surprised that

These illustrations are fairly convincing evidence that the

greenish, almost cadaverous. This lent a man a fateful, Byronic

This being the attitude of the young romanticists to the

Begone, ye pharisees! What cares

The Parnassians, and the early French realists (the Goncourt

Many similar examples might be given. But it is quite

At the close of the 18th century, in the period immediately

by a feeling of sympathy with the new society which had matured

Now, I think, I can amplify my former conclusion and say:

How far this is true, is definitely shown by the following fact.

When the refreshing storm of the February Revolution of 1848

artist who believed staunchly that art must be absolutely