From “Hopes and Fears for Art.”

WHEN you hear of the luxuries of the Ancients, you must remember that they were not like our luxuries, they were rather indulgence in pieces of extravagant folly than what we to-day call luxury,—which perhaps you would rather call comfort; well, I accept the word, and say that a Greek or a Roman of the luxurious time would stare astonished could he be brought back again and shown the comforts of a well-to-do middle-class house.

  But some, I know, think that the attainment of these very comforts is what makes the difference between civilization and uncivilization,—that they are the essence of civilization. Is it so indeed? Farewell my hope then!—I had thought that civilization meant the attainment of peace and order and freedom, of good-will between man and man, of the love of truth, and the hatred of injustice, and by consequence the attainment of the good life which these things breed, a life free from craven fear, but full of incident; that was what I thought it meant, not more stuffed chairs and more cushions, and more carpets and gas, and more dainty meat and drink—and therewithal more and sharper differences between class and class.

  If that be what it is, I for my part wish I were well out of it, and living in a tent in the Persian desert, or a turf hut on the Iceland hillside. But however it be, and I think my view is the true view, I tell you that art abhors that side of civilization; she cannot breath in the houses that lie under its stuffy slavery.

  Believe me if we want art to begin at home, as it must, we must clear our houses of troublesome superfluities that are forever in our way; conventional comforts that are no real comforts, and do but make work for servants and doctors. If you want a golden rule that will fit everybody, this is it: “Have nothing in your houses that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful.”

  And if we apply that rule strictly, we shall in the first place show the builders and such-like servants of the public what we really want. We shall create a demand for real art, as the phrase goes; and in the second place, we shall surely have more money to pay for decent houses.

  Perhaps it will not try your patience too much if I lay before you my idea of the fittings necessary to the sitting room of a healthy person; a room, I mean, which he would not have to cook in much, or sleep in generally, or in which he would not have to do any very litter-making manual work.

  First, a bookcase with a great many books in it; next a table that will keep steady when you write or work at it; then several chairs that you can move, and a bench that you can sit or lie upon; next a cupboard with drawers; next, unless either the bookcase or the cupboard be very beautiful with painting or carving, you will want pictures or engravings, such as you can afford, only not stop-gaps, but real works of art on the wall; or else the wall itself must be ornamented with some beautiful and restful pattern; we shall also want a vase or two to put flowers in, which latter you must have sometimes, especially if you live in a town. Then there will be the fireplace, of course, which in our climate is bound to be the chief object in the room.

  That is all we shall want, especially if the floor be good; if it be not, as, by the way, in a modern house it is pretty certain not to be, I admit that a small carpet which can be bundled out of the room in two minutes will be useful, and we must also take care that it is beautiful, or it will annoy us terribly.

  Now, unless we are musical, and need a piano (in which case, as far as beauty is concerned, we are in a bad way), that is quite all we want; and we can add very little to these necessaries without troubling ourselves, and hindering our work, our thought, and our rest.

  If these things were done at the least cost for which they could be done well and solidly, they ought not to cost much; and they are so few, that those that could afford to have them at all could afford to spend some trouble to get them fitting and beautiful; and all those who care about art ought to take trouble to do so, and to take care that there be no sham art amongst them, nothing that it has degraded a man to make or to sell. And I feel sure, that if all who care about art were to take this pains, it would make a great impression upon the public.

  This simplicity you may make as costly as you please or can, on the other hand; you may hang your walls with tapestry instead of whitewash or paper; or you may cover them with mosaic, or have them frescoed by a great painter; all this is not luxury, if it be done for beauty’s sake, and not for show; it does not break our golden rule: “Have nothing in your houses which you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful.”

  All art starts from this simplicity; and the higher the art rises, the greater the simplicity. I have been speaking of the fittings of a dwelling house,—a place in which we eat and drink, and pass familiar hours; but when you come to places which people want to make more specially beautiful because of the solemnity or dignity of their uses, they will be simpler still, and have little in them save the bare walls made as beautiful as they may be. St. Mark’s at Venice has very little furniture in it, much less than most Roman Catholic churches; its lovely and stately mother, St. Sophia of Constantinople, had less still, even when it was a Christian church; but we need not go either to Venice or Stamboul to take note of that; go into one of our own mighty Gothic naves (do any of you remember the first time you did so?) and note how the huge free space satisfies and elevates you, even now when window and wall are stripped of ornament; then think of the meaning of simplicity, and absence of encumbering gewgaws.

  Now, after all, for us who are learning art, it is not far to seek what is the surest way to further it; that which most breeds art is art; every piece of work that we do which is well done is so much help to the cause; every piece of pretense and half-heartedness is so much hurt to it; most of you who take to the practice of art can find out in no very long time whether you have any gifts for it or not: if you have not, throw the thing up, or you will have a wretched time of it yourselves, and will be damaging the cause by laborious pretense; but if you have gifts of any kind you are happy, indeed, beyond most men, for your pleasure is always with you, nor can you be intemperate in the enjoyment of it; and as you use it, it does not lessen, but grows; if you are by chance weary of it at night, you get up in the morning eager for it; or if perhaps in the morning it seems folly to you for awhile, yet presently, when your hand has been moving a little in its wonted way, fresh hope has sprung up beneath it and you are happy again. While others are getting through the day like plants thrust into the earth, which cannot turn this way or that but as the wind blows them, you know what you want, and your will is on the alert to find it, and you, whatever happens, whether it be joy or grief, are at least alive.