Chapter XLV: Part XIV: Tolstoy’s View of Art

The substance of the following article appeared in the _Contemporary Review_, August 1900, as a reply to critics who had misquoted, misrepresented, or misunderstood Tolstoy. Their attacks were too ephemeral for it to be necessary to reproduce the polemical part of the reply; but, as previously remarked, what is worth preserving is an explanation of Tolstoy’s position, which as it obtained his unqualified approval is conclusive on certain matters in dispute. In order to give the statement in the words Tolstoy endorsed I have retained some passages which have appeared in previous chapters of this book, and can only apologize to my readers for these repetitions.

Tolstoy had great difficulty in presenting his opinions (especially his religious and philosophic opinions) to the world. Several of his books were prohibited in Russia. Those printed in Geneva were carelessly edited, and (missing the attention Tolstoy usually gave to his proof-sheets) contained errors that tripped up his translators. Other works of his, permitted in Russia, were tampered with by the Censor, who struck out what Tolstoy wrote and inserted words he objected to, as, for instance, was the case in the Russian edition of _What is Art?_

But, for non-Russian readers, the heaviest blow to Tolstoy’s reputation as a clear and sane thinker was struck, not by the Censor, but by translators who failed to reproduce his thought. Versions of some of his most serious works appeared containing much absolute nonsense. They were issued at a time when readers, surprised that a novelist should undertake philosophic work, were wondering whether they ought to regard Tolstoy seriously in his new rôle; and they caused some to conclude that, as a philosopher, he need not be taken seriously.[130]

A man who spoke the truth as he saw it under constant risk of persecution, whose works were suppressed or mutilated at home and badly edited abroad, who was translated so that he was made to assert what he in fact denied, has a special claim to fair treatment at the hands of reviewers. But this claim was not always recognized.

His rank among the foremost writers of fiction was not questioned; but some of his philosophical works treating of human conduct, activities, institutions, and beliefs, had a different fate. When _What is Art?_ appeared, it had a mixed reception, though some leading critics saw its value and one of them hailed it as “the most important essay in pure criticism of recent years, and destined to become a classic.”

Tolstoy had in this book said much that was new, startling, and not quickly digestible; and he had expressed it so caustically, had been so severe on critics, specialists, professional artists, and art-schools, as well as on whole groups of people from spiritualists to scientists--including fifty or more well-known people then living, into the bargain--he had, in fact, hit out so freely and so hard that counter-attacks of considerable asperity were inevitable. In reply to such attacks the following pages were written.

No department of science, as Véron justly remarks, has been more generally abandoned to the dreams of the metaphysicians than esthetic philosophy. The task Tolstoy undertook was to clear up the “the frightful obscurity which reigns in this region of speculation.”

What is Art? Its manifestations are “bounded on one side by the practically useful and on the other by unsuccessful attempts at art.” But what working definition of art have we that would enable us to feel sure that this or that production of human activity is a work of art? The answer at first seems very simple to those “who talk without thinking.” They are accustomed to say that “Art is such activity as produces beauty.” But this only shifts the matter a step. We have now to ask for a working definition of beauty, and on careful examination we find that this has nowhere been given. Every attempt to define beauty _objectively_, as consisting “either in utility, or in adjustment to a purpose, or in symmetry, or in order, or in proportion, or in smoothness, or in harmony of the parts, or in unity amid variety, or in various combinations of these” (p. 161), has broken down utterly, and we have nothing left but a _subjective_ definition which amounts to this, that beauty is “that which pleases us” without evoking in us desire. In other words, “Beauty is simply a certain kind of disinterested pleasure received by us.” This definition seems clear enough, but unfortunately it is inexact, and can be widened to include the pleasure derived from drink, from food, from touching a delicate skin, and so forth, as is done by Guyau, Kralik, and other estheticians.

A yet more serious trouble is, that different things please different people. Instead of getting a solid basis for a science, we get landed in confusion arising from the fact that tastes differ. If we use the word _beauty_ in our definition of art, and if beauty means “that which pleases,” and if different things please different people--our definition is useless. One man will say a certain thing is a work of art because it pleases him, another will reply that it is not a work of art because he does not like it.

And this is precisely what has happened and is happening. Is Walt Whitman a great poet? Yes, says A, he is, because I like his poems and agree with them. No, says B, he is not, because I don’t like his poems and disagree with them.

Thus the science of esthetics has as yet failed to get even a start. It has not told us what art is, still less has it enabled us to judge of the quality of art. “So that the whole existing science of esthetics fails to do what we might expect from it, being a mental activity calling itself a science: namely, it does not define the qualities and laws of art, or of the beautiful (if that be the content of art), or the nature of taste (if taste decides the question of art and its merit), and then on the basis of such definitions acknowledge as art those productions which correspond to these laws, and reject those which do not come under them. But this science of esthetics consists in first acknowledging a certain set of productions to be art (because they please us), and then framing such a theory of art that all these productions which please a certain circle of people should fit into it” (p. 164).

Such being the case, reasonable men should be not merely ready but anxious to avoid the use of the word beauty in framing their definition of art, and should select words which mean the same thing to each of us who use them. Yet, strange to say, the estheticians, the specialists, and the “cultured crowd,” cling tenaciously and even fanatically to the use of a word they cannot define in a serviceable manner. They are as angry with anyone who protests against its use in a scientific definition, as the Scarboro’ roughs[131] are with a Quaker who says that men ought not to kill one another.

“As is always the case, the more cloudy and confused the conception conveyed by a word, with the more _aplomb_ and self-assurance do people use that word, pretending that what is understood by it is so simple and clear that it is not worth while even to discuss what it actually means. This is how matters of orthodox religion are usually dealt with, and this is how people now deal with the conception of beauty” (p. 137).

For his part, Tolstoy prefers to understand, and to let other people understand, what he means by the words he uses, and he has therefore framed a definition of art which avoids all obscurity.

“_Art is a human activity, consisting in this, that one man consciously, by means of certain external signs, hands on to others feelings he has lived through, and that other people are infected by these feelings and also experience them_” (p. 173).

Art is possible because we share one common human nature. One touch of nature makes the whole world kin. All who are capable of experiencing “that simple feeling familiar to the plainest man and even to a child, that sense of infection with another’s feeling--compelling us to joy in another’s gladness, to sorrow at another’s grief, and to mingle souls with another” (p. 273), possess the mental and emotional telegraph wires along which an artist’s influence may pass.

A common crowd may be swayed by an orator, but not by the ablest mathematical lecturer; for whereas _thoughts_ can only be transferred to minds sufficiently prepared to receive them, the _feelings_ that are the birthright of our common humanity are shared by all normal people. When an orator fails to sway his audience, we say the orator has failed, not the audience. But when a boy fails to understand the fifth proposition because he has not understood those that preceded it, we do not say that Euclid has failed but that the boy has not understood him. Science is a human activity transmitting thoughts from man to man: Art is a human activity transmitting feelings. They have some features in common. Clearness, simplicity, and compression, are desirable in both, and the same book or the same speech may contain both science and art. It is desirable to discriminate clearly between the one and the other, though both alike are “indispensable means of communication, without which mankind could not exist” (pp. 175 and 321).

Before passing from definitions to deductions based on them, reference should be made to the physiological evolutionary definition of Schiller, Darwin, and Herbert Spencer, which Tolstoy sums up thus: “Art is an activity arising even in the animal kingdom and ‘springing from sexual desire and the propensity to play’” (p. 169). This, though superior to the definitions which depend on the conception of beauty, is unsatisfactory because, “instead of speaking about the artistic activity itself, which is the real matter in hand, it treats of the _derivation_ of art” (p. 169).

Accepting Tolstoy’s definition of art, we at once see that art covers a much wider ground than we have been accustomed to suppose.

“We are accustomed to understand art to be only what we hear and see in theatres, concerts, and exhibitions; together with buildings, statues, poems, novels.... But all this is but the smallest part of the art by which we communicate with each other in life. All human life is filled with works of art of every kind--from cradle-song, jest, mimicry, the ornamentation of houses, dress, and utensils, up to church services, buildings, monuments, and triumphal processions. It is all artistic activity” (p. 174).

But we generally use the word in a special and restricted sense to mean, not all human activity that deliberately and with premeditation transmits feelings, “but only that part which we for some reason select from it, and to which we attach special importance” (pp. 174–175).

Before considering what kind of art deserves to be thus specially selected for our highest esteem, we must clearly distinguish between two different things: the _subject-matter_ of art and the _form_ of art apart from its subject-matter. This distinction is fundamentally important and, as soon as it is made, the vexed question of the relation of art to morality solves itself easily and inevitably.

Let us take art apart from its subject-matter first.

“There is one indubitable sign distinguishing real art from its counterfeit--namely, the infectiousness of art. If a man without exercising effort, and without altering his standpoint, on reading, hearing, or seeing, another man’s work experiences a mental condition which unites him with that man and with other people who also partake of that work, then the object evoking that condition is a work of art” (p. 274).

“And not only is infection a sure sign of art, but the degree of infectiousness is also the sole measure of excellence in art.”

“_The stronger the infection the better is the art_, as art, speaking now apart from its subject-matter--that is, not considering the quality of the feelings it transmits” (p. 275).

From this point of view, art has really nothing to do with morality. The feelings transmitted may be good or bad feelings, and may produce the best or the worst results on those who are influenced by them, yet in either case the man who transmits them is an artist.

“The feelings with which the artist infects others may be most various--very strong or very weak, very important or very insignificant, very bad or very good: feelings of love for native land, self-devotion and submission to fate or to God expressed in a drama, raptures of lovers described in a novel, feelings of voluptuousness expressed in a picture, courage expressed in a triumphal march, merriment evoked by a dance, humor evoked by a funny story, the feeling of quietness transmitted by an evening landscape or by a lullaby, or the feeling of admiration evoked by a beautiful arabesque--it is all art” (pp. 172–173).

If you have not lost the capacity--usually possessed by people leading a sane and natural life--to share the feelings expressed by others, you may try the quality of a production first of all by this internal test: Does it unite you in feeling with its author and with others who are exposed to its influence? Only if it does this, have _you_ any right to testify to its being a work of art.

If you are infected by the work, and are therefore sure that it is a work of art, the next question is whether it is a weak work of “exclusive” art, or a great work of “universal” art. It may influence you--who have, perhaps, been specially trained and accustomed to that kind of art, or who share the prepossessions of the artist and belong to his set, class, school, sect, or race,--but is it capable of influencing men of other classes, races, and ages? Here the primary internal test is supplemented by an external one. There are works of “universal” art (using the word, of course, in a comparative and not in an absolute sense). The _Iliad_, the _Odyssey_, the story of Joseph, the _Psalms_, the Gospel parables, the story of Sakya Muni, the hymns of the _Vedas_, the best folk-legends, fairy-tales, and folk-songs, are understood by all. If only they are adequately rendered, and are received not superstitiously but with an open mind, they are “quite comprehensible now to us, educated or uneducated, as they were comprehensible to the men of those times, long ago, who were even less educated than our labourers” (p. 226).

Even a strictly national art, such as Japanese decorative art, may be admirable and “universal.” “The _feeling_ (of admiration at, and delight in, the combination of lines and colours) which the artist has experienced, and with which he infects the spectator” (p. 295), may be so sincere that it acts on men of other races without demanding from them any laborious preparation before they can enjoy it.

When we find ourselves admiring “exclusive art,” we must beware of flattering ourselves with the supposition that great masses of people do not like what _we_ consider undoubtedly good--because _they_ are not sufficiently developed, while _we_ are very superior people. Perhaps we admire and enjoy these things, not because they are very good but merely because we have trained ourselves to admire them and have got into the habit of doing so. But “people may habituate themselves to anything, even to the very worst things. As people may habituate themselves to bad food, to spirits, tobacco, and opium, just in the same way they may habituate themselves to bad art--and that is exactly what is being done” (p. 224).

Nor should we let our self-sufficiency blind us to the obvious lesson of history: “we know that the majority of the productions of the art of the upper classes, such as various odes, poems, dramas, cantatas, pastorals, pictures, and so forth, which delighted people of the upper classes when they were produced, never were afterwards either understood or valued by the great masses of mankind, but have remained what they were at first, a mere pastime for the rich people of their time, for whom alone they ever were of any importance” (pp. 194–5).

“Art is a human activity,” and, consequently, does not exist for its own sake, but is valuable or objectionable in proportion to the benefit or the harm it brings to mankind. Its subject-matter consists of feelings which are contagious or infectious--that is, which can spread from man to man. Is it not supremely important _what_ feelings spread among us?

From this point of view the connection between morality and art is intimate and inevitable. It is a fact of human life from which we can no more escape than we can from gravitation.

Art unites men; and the better the feelings in which it unites them the better it will be for humanity.

But which are the best and highest feelings? How are we to discern or to define them? They have differed, and men’s definitions of them have differed, from age to age; but, as Tolstoy explains, each age has had its dominant view of life, which may be called its “religious perception.” Humanity progresses, and our view of life, our religious perception, is in many things different from that, say, of the ancient Greeks. In relation _not to the forms of art but to its subject-matter_ it would be a mistake to suppose “that the very best that can be done by the art of nations after nineteen hundred years of Christian teaching, is to choose as the ideal of their life the ideal that was held by a small, semi-savage, slave-holding people who lived two thousand years ago, who imitated the nude human body extremely well, and erected buildings pleasant to look at” (pp. 188–189).

And Tolstoy, having begun by giving us his definition of art, concludes by giving us a statement of the view of life he has accepted and which he believes is influencing us all whether we know it or not. It is, he says, Christ’s teaching in its real--and not in its customary and perverted--meaning.

“That meaning has not only become accessible to all men of our times, but the whole life of man to-day is permeated by the spirit of that teaching, and consciously or unconsciously is guided by it” (pp. 308–309).

“The religious perception of our time in its widest and most practical application is the consciousness that our well-being, both material and spiritual, individual and collective, temporal and eternal, lies in the growth of brotherhood among men--in their loving harmony with one another” (p. 281).

And whether we accept this view of life or some other, it is certain that the view we hold will influence our approval or disapproval of the various feelings transmitted by art.

Accepting Tolstoy’s standpoint, we should allow the highest honour to “positive feelings of love to God and one’s neighbour, and negative feelings of indignation and horror at the violation of love”; but the realm of subject-matter for good art includes much more than that.

“The artist of the future will understand that to compose a fairy-tale, a touching little song, a lullaby or an entertaining riddle, an amusing jest, or to draw a sketch in such a way that it will delight dozens of generations or millions of children and adults, is incomparably more important and more fruitful than to compose a novel or a symphony, or paint a picture, of the kind which will divert some members of the wealthy classes for a short time and then for ever be forgotten. The region of this art of the simple feelings accessible to all is enormous and it is as yet almost untouched” (p. 318).

The artist should know that this art of the simple feelings of common life, like the highest religious art, tends to unite us all and to exclude none, as in the example Tolstoy gives on p. 287 of the effect of music.

Thus, apart from subject-matter, the best art is that which best accomplishes its purpose of infecting others with the feelings the artist wishes to impart. And the best subject-matter is that which, directly or indirectly, tends to forward brotherly union among all men.

The good art of the future should be superior to our present art in “clearness, beauty, simplicity, and compression,” for one penalty of forgetting the primary aim of art is that we greatly lose that which is a natural accompaniment of art--the pleasure given by beauty. We are like men who, living to eat, eventually lose even the natural pleasure food affords to those who eat to live.

Such, in brief outline, are Tolstoy’s essential views of art. Even so bare and incomplete a recapitulation, stripped as it is of the convincing arguments, the brilliant examples, and the masterly support and elucidation which are crammed into the pages of his remarkable book may suffice to show that it is a work deserving careful consideration.

To the above, written soon after _What is Art?_ was first published, I should like now, in 1924, to add a few words.

The chief idea in _What is Art?_ besides its definition of art, is Tolstoy’s insistence on the need to discriminate between the _form_ and the _content_ of art. For its full assimilation this requires reflection, which--either because the philosophy of art does not interest them, or because they are satisfied with previously adopted opinions they do not wish to disturb--not all are willing to accord to it. But the test of a great philosophy, I once heard Tolstoy say, is that the idea it generalizes can be so simply stated that an intelligent boy of twelve approaching the subject free from prejudice can understand it in half-an-hour: and I think both Tolstoy’s definition, and his explanation of the need to consider the form of art as a matter distinct from our approval and disapproval of the feeling the artist transmits, will stand that crucial test. They can be put so simply that an unprejudiced boy of twelve can readily understand them.

One must however be on one’s guard against confusing the _subject_ treated of (a particular event: a murder, a seduction, a marriage--or an object, such as the sea, the sky, a house, a tiger, or a baby) with the _subject-matter of feeling_, which is the real content of a work of art. In Tolstoy’s definition it is a feeling or feelings, and their transitions, that when expressed by an artist, form the subject-matter of art. The events treated of--in a book, a play, a picture, or song--are merely material used in expressing that feeling, and must not themselves be thought of as the subject-matter. The affection of a child for its mother or its dog may be the subject-matter of a work of art, so may an appreciation of the effect of certain arrangements of colours and shapes, the mirth and jollity expressed and inspired by a dance-tune or by the movements of a dance, the feelings of awe produced by the representation of a terrible storm, or any other possible feelings or transitions of feeling: the rage of an excited crowd, the triumph of a victorious nation, the despair of a man ruined or betrayed, or feelings evoked by the play of light and shade, by the delicate bloom of a flower, or by the graceful tracery of a tree seen against a winter sky. When asking oneself whether a certain production is a work of art, one has to consider whether we feel something the artist has felt and caused us to share. If one feels that, it is evident that we have before us a work of art--our own feelings witness to the artist’s achievement. Sometimes however the pleasure this union of feeling with the artist--and perhaps with many spectators, auditors or readers--would naturally produce, is infringed by a consciousness that one disapproves of, or disagrees with, the feelings that for the moment have infected us.

For instance, many Irishmen are born orators, and oratory is an art. Suppose one went to two great public meetings, addressed by two really first-rate speakers. Each of these is moved by a genuine and passionate feeling. Each has the gift of arranging his matter admirably and expressing it forcibly and eloquently, and possesses an excellent voice. Each sways his audience to laughter and tears, and plays on their emotions as on an organ, compelling them to sympathize with his detestation for what he abhors and his enthusiasm for what he prizes. We may feel that we have heard great orations admirably delivered, but the feelings underlying these speeches have clashed with one another. One of the speakers was moved by ardent desire to maintain and intensify an age-long struggle, and repudiates with contumely any idea of union with a section of the population that he hates and despises. He was genuinely moved by the recollection of racial wrongs and sincerely devoted to leaders he regarded as heroes and martyrs; but animosity, hatred, and revenge, possessed his soul. The other orator was moved by a desire to bind up the nation’s wounds, to forgive and forget past wrongs, and to see a neighbouring people become a united and peaceful nation at harmony with itself and its neighbours. One might sympathize with either tendency, but it is impossible to sympathize equally with them both, or to close one’s eyes to the fact that the welfare of human beings will be influenced by whichever feeling prevails. Tolstoy explains that when we judge whether a certain production (such as one of these speeches) is a work of art, we must remember that our approval or disapproval of a man’s purpose or aspiration must have nothing whatever to do with our estimation of the excellence of the _form_ in which he presents his subject-matter. To that extent art “has nothing to do with morality.” The best and the worst emotions may alike be conveyed with great artistic power and be great works of art, and that is just why art, besides being vastly important, can also be very dangerous.

But when we have seen that a certain production is artistic, and have even perhaps ourselves been touched by it, the question arises whether the “content” (the subject-matter of feeling) dealt with is good, bad, or indifferent. The actions of men flow from their feelings. Their feelings are formed, nurtured, and swayed, by the art they enjoy and partake of, so that there was much reason for Fletcher of Saltoun to say, “Let me make a nation’s songs, and who will may make its laws.”

We live in a world in which sane human beings cannot but distinguish between what appears to them abominable and what appears to them admirable. When therefore we are moved by our artists we cannot be indifferent to the effect their works produce.

If art had nothing to do with the feelings of men it would be an empty and insignificant amusement; but all that influences man’s feelings affects his work, his conduct, and the society to which he belongs. Yet, obviously, to say that the morality of an artist’s aim decides the artistic merit of his work, and that, for instance, a novel must be a fine one because it advocates temperance principles, though people can only be got to read it if they are forced to do so, would show that the speaker had never thought about the matter, or that his artistic perceptions were atrophied.

But we are still not at the end of the matter. Who is to decide what is good and what is bad in the feeling which forms the subject-matter of art? Such judgment must vary from age to age, from land to land, and even from man to man; for while all sane human beings have their approvals and disapprovals, the outlook on life (or what Tolstoy calls “the religious perceptions”) guiding such approvals and disapprovals vary greatly.

It comes to this, that the subject-matter of feeling transmitted by artists to those who receive their art is of necessity appraised by us in accordance with our own outlook on life. Tolstoy rightly points out this inevitable contact of art with ethics, but his own ethical standards, his “religious perceptions” are not those generally accepted among us. A discussion of his ethics would be out of place here. Elsewhere I have ventured to join issue with him on some matters, while on others it seems to me that he made straight the pathway of the Lord.

Now obviously when--passing from the acknowledgment of various productions as works of art because their form is adequate and they achieve their purpose of infecting us with the feelings their creators had experienced--Tolstoy discusses, as a separate matter, whether certain feelings these artists transmitted are beneficial or otherwise, it is inevitable that those who differ from his ethical views should disagree with his conclusions. But this difference as to ethics should not hinder an appreciation of the importance of his understanding of art! He was a great artist, a first-class novelist, dramatist, and story-writer, besides being an amateur musician, keenly interested in painting, sculpture, and other forms of art, and he was also well acquainted with artists of all kinds and with the whole literature of art. Is it not worth our while to understand his message and grasp his meaning clearly before attempting to answer him?

As an example of criticism tending to confuse matters, I will instance this case: after making the broad distinction between the form of art and its subject-matter, Tolstoy passes on to the totally different question of what feelings commended themselves to him. He says he attaches no special importance to the examples he cites but offers them merely to elucidate his meaning. Among books expressing feelings of which he approved, he instances _Uncle Tom’s Cabin_, and immediately certain critics pounced upon this, and say that as Mrs. Beecher Stowe did not write as well as someone else whom they mentioned, Tolstoy’s example shows that he was incapable of judging about art! Such criticism shows a curious incapacity to understand what is being discussed. Similarly objections to pictures mentioned by Tolstoy as good in subject-matter--on the ground of alleged defects in form--miss the point of the discussion.

When a book deals frankly and plainly with an important subject it is strange that anyone, instead of seeking the gold in the mine, should prefer to search for obscurity, contradiction, over-emphasis, or any ill-advised examples that can be detected; and that some critics should go the length of asserting that the author meant the opposite of what he plainly says.

I do not see why anyone should object to, or disagree with, Tolstoy’s explanation of art and of its influence on life; nor with his assertion that when we pass from a consideration of the form of works of art to a consideration of the value of the feelings they convey, our appraisement of these latter is inevitably influenced by our outlook on life. But an important reservation must be made when we come to his assurance that “the religious perception of our time, in its widest and most practical application, is the consciousness that our well-being both material and spiritual, individual and collective, temporal and eternal, lies in the growth of brotherhood among all men, in their loving harmony with one another,” and that “all men of our times already admit that the highest well-being attainable by men is to be reached by their union with one another.”

If all men had such a religious perception, there would be a much greater consensus of opinion concerning the value of feelings transmitted by art. But it is just here, it seems to me, that the real clash of opinion and feeling comes in. There are among us many worshippers of Mars, Mammon, Venus and Bacchus (under whatever disguises), and though they may not publicly proclaim or explain their religious perceptions, it is impossible for them honestly to sympathize with what Tolstoy wishes them to approve of. During the last thirty years of his life Tolstoy disapproved of patriotism and of private property. Rudyard Kipling approves of both. Each of these men was an artist in words. The divergence of their estimates of what is good and what is bad did not prevent them from producing works of art; but neither of them could think that all the feelings with which the other infected his readers were desirable. Before considering the matter, people are sometimes apt to resent the idea that ethical standards vary from place to place or from time to time; or, on realizing that such is the fact, they try to think that it is possible for a sane man to cease to approve or disapprove of anything. It does not however need much experience to perceive that men cannot live in the chaos that results when they have no sort of chart or guide by which to steer their course through life. In other words whether a man is a materialist or a spiritualist, and whatever his aspirations may be, he always, more or less consciously and definitely, has what Tolstoy calls “a religious perception.”

In an interesting essay on _Religion and Morality_[132] (1894) Tolstoy classified existing “religious perceptions” in three groups: (1) Selfishness--the religion, for instance, of all the babies who desire as much milk and warmth for themselves as possible, and do not care what happens to the rest of the world; (2) Patriotism--the religion of all who make the welfare of their family, clan, group, or nation (or even, as in the case of the Positivists, the whole of humanity) the chief aim of their life; and (3) those who recognize some supreme Lord or Law, whose service transcends any calculable advantage accruing to themselves or to their group.

There is truth in that classification, but one need only admit it, to realize that appreciation of the feelings conveyed by art _must_ differ among us according to whether we adhere to the first, the second, or the third of those groups.

This divergence relating to feelings which are the subject-matter of art, should not extend to what Tolstoy says about the form of art, or its interrelation with the rest of life. Whatever God one worships can be greatly served by means of art.

In an admirable little article on _How to Read the Gospels_ (1896)[133] Tolstoy says:

“To understand Christ’s real teaching the chief thing is not
to interpret the Gospels, but to understand them as they are
written. And therefore, to the question how Christ’s teaching
should be understood, I reply: If you wish to understand
it read the Gospels. Read them, putting aside all foregone
conclusions; read them with the sole desire to understand what
is said there. But read them considerately, reasonably, and
with discernment, and not haphazard or mechanically, as though
all the words were of equal weight.

“_To understand any book one must choose out the parts that
are quite clear, dividing them from what is obscure or
confused. And from what is clear we must form our idea of the
drift and spirit of the whole work._ Then, on the basis of
what we have understood, we may proceed to make out what is
confused or not quite intelligible. That is how we read all
kinds of books.

“Therefore we must first of all separate what is quite simple
and intelligible from what is confused and unintelligible and
must afterwards read this clear and intelligible part several
times over, trying fully to assimilate it. Then, helped by the
comprehension of the general meaning, we can try to explain
to ourselves the drift of the parts which seemed involved and
obscure. That was how I read the Gospels, and the meaning of
Christ’s teaching became so clear to me that it was impossible
to have any doubts about it. And I advise everyone who wishes
to understand the true meaning of Christ’s teaching to follow
the same plan.”

This advice, showing how “all kinds of books” should be read, is particularly applicable to the reading of Tolstoy’s _What is Art?_ The views there expressed are those of a man born nearly a century ago, who differed widely from ourselves in race, nationality, up-bringing, circumstances, and class,--for he was a Russian nobleman of the old régime. That some of his feelings and ideas should differ from our own was inevitable, but the really remarkable thing is that so much of what he says makes us conscious of oneness with him. He was accustomed to express himself strongly, and assumed that those who read his works would wish to understand them and would not desire to twist his meaning. Those who deal with his work in the way he advised can certainly obtain a clear view of the subject, as he understood it. If what he has said is true, in whole or in part, it is desirable to grasp that truth and, even if he be in error, it is desirable to understand his meaning before attempting any refutation.

In _What is Art?_ Tolstoy says:

“I have accomplished to the best of my ability this work
which has occupied me for fifteen years, on a subject near to
me--that of art.... I began to write on art fifteen years ago
thinking that when once I undertook the task I should be able
to accomplish it without a break. It proved however that my
views on the matter were so far from clear that I could not
arrange them in a way that satisfied me. From that time I have
never ceased to think on the subject, and I have recommenced
writing on it six or seven times; but each time, after writing
a considerable part of it, I have found myself unable to bring
the work to a satisfactory conclusion, and have had to put it
aside.” (p. 321)

That was written in 1897, and the fifteen years mentioned bring us nearly back to the time when his _Confession_ was written, and the statement indicates that all the earlier essays in this book, while expressing some part of his thought, fail to elucidate the matter as he desired, and it is only in _What is Art?_ that we must look for the final conclusions that solved the matter to his satisfaction.