Loe raamatut: «The Thirteenth, Greatest of Centuries», lehekülg 38

HOW IT ALL STOPPED

To most people it seems impossible to understand how it is that, if artistic evolution proceeded to the perfection which it now seems clear that it actually attained in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, we are only just getting back to a proper state of public taste and a right degree of artistic skill in many of these same accomplishments at the present time. That thought has come to many others who, knowing and appreciating medieval progress in art and literature, have tried to work out the reasons for the gap that exists between medieval art and modern artistic endeavor. Some of these explanations, because they serve to make clear why art evolution stopped so abruptly and we are retracing our steps and taking models from the past rather than doing original work that is an advance, must be quoted here. Many people will find in them, I think, the reasons for their misunderstanding of the old times.

Gerhardt Hauptmann, who is very well known, even among English-speaking people, as one of the great living German dramatists, and whose "Sunken Bell" attracted considerable attention in both its German and English versions here in New York, in a recent criticism of a new German book, declared that the reason for the gap between modern and medieval art was the movement now coming to be known as the religious revolt in Germany in the sixteenth century. He said:

"I, as a Protestant, have often had to regret that we purchased our freedom of conscience, our individual liberty, at entirely too high a price. In order to make room for a small, mean little plant of personal life, we destroyed a whole garden of fancy and hewed down a virgin forest of aesthetic ideas. We went even so far in the insanity of our weakness as to throw out of the garden of our souls the fruitful soil that had been accumulating for thousands of years, or else we plowed it under sterile clay.

"We have to-day, then, an intellectual culture that is well protected by a hedge of our personality, but within this hedge we have only delicate dwarf trees and unworthy plants, the poorer progeny of great predecessors. We have telegraph lines, bridges and railroads, but there grow no churches and cathedrals, only sentry boxes and barracks. We need gardeners who will cause the present sterilizing process of the soil to stop, and will enrich the surface by working up into it the rich layers beneath. In my work-room there is ever before me the photograph of Sebaldus' Tomb (model Metropolitan Museum, New York). This rich German symbol rose from the invisible in the most luxuriant developmental period of German art. As a formal product of that art, it is very difficult to appreciate it as it deserves. It seems to me as one of the most wonderful bits of work in the whole field of artistic accomplishment. The soul of all the great medieval period encircles this silver coffin, wrapping it up into a noble unity, and enthrones on the very summit of death. Life as a growing child. Such a work could only have come to its perfection in the protected spaces of the old Mother Church."

Rev. Dr. Jessopp, in his book, already cited, "The Great Pillage," does not hesitate to state in unmistakable terms the reason why all the beauty and happiness went out of English country life some two centuries after the Thirteenth Century, and how it came about that the modern generations have had to begin over again from the beginning, and not where our Catholic forefathers of the medieval period left us, in what used to be the despised Middle Ages. He says:

"When I talk of the great pillage, I mean that horrible and outrageous looting of our churches other than conventual, and the robbing of the people of this country of property in land and movables, which property had actually been inherited by them as members of those organized religious communities known as parishes. It is necessary to emphasize the fact that in the general scramble of the Terror under Henry the Eighth, and of the Anarchy in the days of Edward the Sixth, there was only one class that was permitted to retain any large portion of its endowments. The monasteries were plundered even to their very pots and pans. Almshouses in which old men and women were fed and clothed were robbed to the last pound, the poor alms-folk being turned out into the cold at an hour's warning to beg their bread. Hospitals for the sick and needy, sometimes magnificently provided with nurses and chaplains, whose very raison d'etre was that they were to look after and care for those who were past caring for themselves—these were stripped of all their belongings, the inmates sent out to hobble into some convenient dry ditch to lie down and die in, or to crawl into some barn or hovel, there to be tended, not without fear of consequences, by some kindly man or woman who could not bear to see a suffering fellow creature drop down and die at their own doorposts.

"We talk with a great deal of indignation of the Tweed ring. The day will come when someone will write the story of two other rings—the ring of the miscreants who robbed the monasteries in the reign of Henry the Eighth was the first; but the ring of the robbers who robbed the poor and helpless in the reign of Edward the Sixth was ten times worse than the first.

"The Universities only just escaped the general confiscation; the friendly societies and benefit clubs and the gilds did not escape. The accumulated wealth of centuries, their houses and lands, their money, their vessels of silver and their vessels of gold, their ancient cups and goblets and salvers, even to their very chairs and tables, were all set down in inventories and catalogues, and all swept into the great robbers' hoard. Last, but not least, the immense treasures in the churches, the joy and boast of every man and woman and child in England, who day by day and week by week assembled to worship in the old houses of God which they and their fathers had built, and whose every vestment and chalice and candlestick and banner, organs and bells, and picture and image and altar and shrine they looked upon as their own and part of their birthright—all these were torn away by the rudest spoilers, carted off, they knew not whither, with jeers and scoffs and ribald shoutings, while none dared raise a hand or let his voice be heard above the whisper of a prayer of bitter grief and agony.

"One class was spared. The clergy of this Church of England of ours managed to retain some of their endowments; but if the boy king had lived another three years, there is good reason for believing that these too would have gone."

Graft prevailed, and the old order disappeared in a slough of selfishness.

COMFORT AND POVERTY

A number of friendly critics have insisted that of course the Thirteenth Century was far behind later times in the comfort of the people. Poverty is supposed to have been almost universal. Doubtless many of the people were then very poor. Personally, I doubt if there was as much poverty, that is, misery due to actual want of necessaries of life, as there is at the present time. Certainly it was not emphasized by having close to it, constantly rendering the pains of poverty poignant by contrast, the luxury of the modern time. They had not the large city, and people in the country do not suffer as much as people in the city. In recent years, investigations of poverty in England have been appalling in the statistics that they have presented. Mr. Robert Hunter, in his book Poverty, has furnished us with some details that make one feel that our generation should be the last to say that the Thirteenth Century was behind in progress, because so many of the people were so poor. Ruskin once said that the ideal of the great nation is one wherein there must be "as many as possible full-breathed, bright-eyed and happy-hearted human creatures." I am sure that, tried by this standard, the Thirteenth Century in Merrie England is ahead of any other generation and, above all, far in advance of our recent generations.

By contrast to what we know of the merrie English men and women of the Thirteenth Century, I would quote Mr. Hunter's paragraphs on the Poverty of the Modern English People. He says:

"A few years ago, England did not know the extent of her own poverty. Economists and writers gave opinions of all kinds. Some said conditions were 'bad,' others said such statements were misleading; and here they were, tilting at each other, backward and forward, in the most ponderous and serious way, until Mr. Booth, a business man, undertook to get at the facts. No one, even the most radical economist, would have dared to have estimated the poverty of London as extending to 30 per cent of the people (as it proved). The extent of poverty—the number of underfed, underclothed in insanitary houses—was greater than could reasonably have been estimated."

Some of the details of this investigation by Mr. Booth were so startling that some explanation had to be found. They could not deny, in the face of Mr. Booth's facts, but they set up the claim that the conditions in London were exceptional. Then Mr. Rountree made an investigation in York with precisely the same results. More than one in four of the population was in poverty. To quote Mr. Hunter once more:

"As has been said, it was not until Mr. Charles Booth published, in 1891, the results of his exhaustive inquiries that the actual conditions of poverty in London became known. About 1,000,000 people, or about thirty per cent of the entire population of London, were found to be unable to obtain the necessaries for a sound livelihood. They were in a state of poverty, living in conditions, if not of actual misery, at any rate bordering upon it. In many districts, considerably more than half of the population were either in distress or on the verge of distress. When these results were made public, the more conservative economists gave it as their opinion that the conditions in London were, of course, exceptional, and that it would be unsafe to make any generalizations for the whole of England on the basis of Mr. Booth's figures for London. About ten years later, Mr. B. S. Rountree, incited by the work of Mr. Booth, undertook a similar inquiry in his native town, York, a small provincial city, in most ways typical of the smaller towns of England. In a large volume in which the results are published, it is shown that the poverty in York was only slightly less extensive than that of London. In the summary, Mr. Rountree compares the conditions of London with those of York. His comments are as follows: 'The proportions arrived at for the total populations living in poverty in London and York respectively were as under:

London—30.7 per cent

York—27.84 per cent

The proportion of the population living in poverty in York may be regarded as practically the same as in London, especially when we remember that Mr. Booth's information was gathered in 1887-1892, a period of only average trade prosperity, whilst the York figures were collected in 1899, when trade was unusually prosperous.'"

He continues: "We have been accustomed to look upon the poverty in London as exceptional, but when the result of careful investigation shows that the proportion of poverty in London is practically equalled in what may be regarded as a typical provincial town, we are faced by the startling probability that from 25 to 30 per cent of the town populations of the United Kingdom are living in poverty."

Most of us will be inclined to think that Mr. Rountree must exaggerate, and what he calls poverty most of us would doubtless be inclined to think a modest competency a little below respectability. He fixed the standard of twenty-one shillings eight pence ($5.25) a week as a necessary one for a family of ordinary size. He says:

"A family living upon the scale allowed for in this estimate, must never spend a penny on railway fare or omnibus. They must never go into the country unless they walk. They must never purchase a half-penny newspaper or spend a penny to buy a ticket for a popular concert. They must write no letters to absent children, for they cannot afford to pay the postage. They must never contribute anything to their church or chapel, nor give any help to a neighbor which costs them money. They cannot save, nor can they join sick club or trade union, because they cannot pay the necessary subscription. The children must have no pocket money for dolls, marbles or sweets. The father must smoke no tobacco nor drink no beer. The mother must never buy any pretty clothes for herself or for her children, the character for the family wardrobe, as for the family diet, being governed by the regulation, 'Nothing must be bought but that which is absolutely necessary for the maintenance of physical health, and that which is bought must be of the plainest and most economical description.' Should a child fall ill, it must be attended by the family parish doctor; should it die, it must be buried by the parish. Finally, the wage-earner must never be absent from his work for a single day."

More than one in four of the population living below this scale!

Conditions are, if anything, worse on the Continent. In Germany, industry is at the best. Conditions in Berlin have been recently reported in the Daily Consular Reports by a U. S. Government official. Of the somewhat more than two millions of people who live in Berlin, 1,125,000 have an income. Nearly one-half of the incomes, however, are exempt from taxation because they do not amount to the minimum taxable income, though that is only $214—$4 per week. Of the 600,000 who have taxable incomes, nearly 550,000 have less than $700 a year; that is, get about $2 a day or less. Less than sixty thousand out of the total population get more than $2 a day. It is easy to say, but hard to understand, that this is a living wage, because things are cheaper in Germany. Meat is, however, nearly twice as dear; sugar is twice as dear; bread is dearer than it is in this country; coffee is dearer; and only rent is somewhat cheaper.

It is easy to talk about the spread of comfort among the people of our generation and the raising of the standard of living, but if one compares these wages with the price of things as they are now, it is hard to understand on just what basis of fact the claim for betterment in our time, meaning more general comfort and happiness, is made.

People always refuse to believe that conditions are as bad as they really are in these matters. Americans will at once have the feeling, on reading Mr. Hunter and Mr. Rountree's words and the account of the American Consul at Berlin, that this may be true for England and Germany, but that of course it is very different here in America. It is extremely doubtful whether it is very different here in America. In this matter, Mr. Hunter's opinion deserves weight. He has for years devoted himself to gathering information with regard to this subject. He seems to be sure that one in seven of our population is in poverty. Probably the number is higher than this. Here is his opinion:

"How many people in the country are in poverty? Is the number yearly growing larger? Are there each year more and more of the unskilled classes pursuing hopelessly the elusive phantom of self-support and independence? Are they, as in a dream, working faster, only the more swiftly to move backward? Are there each year more and more hungry children and more and more fathers whose utmost effort may not bring into the home as much energy in food as it takes out in industry? These are not fanciful questions, nor are they sentimental ones. I have not the slightest doubt that there are in the United States ten million persons in precisely these conditions of poverty, but I am largely guessing, and there may be as many as fifteen or twenty millions!"

Perhaps Mr. Hunter exaggerates. As a physician, I should be inclined to think not; but certainly his words and, above all, the English statistics will give any one pause who is sure, on general principles, that the great mass of the people are happier now or more comfortable, above all, in mind—the only real happiness—than they were in the Thirteenth Century. After due consideration of this kind, no one will insist on the comparative misery and suffering of the poor in old times. England had less than 3,000,000 in the Thirteenth Century, and probably there was never a time in her history when a greater majority of her people fulfilled Ruskin's and Morris' ideals of happy-hearted human beings. The two-handed worker got at least what the four-footed worker, in Carlyle's words, has always obtained, due food and lodging. England was not "a nation with sleek, well-fed English horses, and hungry, dissatisfied Englishmen."

COMFORT AND HAPPINESS

There is another side to the question of comparative happiness that may be stated in the words of William Morris, when he says, in "Hopes and Fears for Art," that a Greek or a Roman of the luxurious time (and of course a fortiori a medieval of the Thirteenth Century) would stare astonished could he be brought back again and shown the comforts of a well-to-do middle-class house. This expression is often re-echoed, and one is prone to wonder how many of those who use it realize that it is a quotation, and, above all, appreciate the fact that Morris made the statement in order to rebut it. His answer is in certain ways so complete that it deserves to be quoted.

"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.'"

COMFORT AND HEALTH

A comment on William Morris's significant paragraphs may be summed up in some reflections on the scornful expression of a friend who asked, how is it possible to talk of happiness at a time when there were no glass in windows and no heating apparatus except the open fireplace in the great hall of the larger houses, or in the kitchen of the dwelling houses. To this there is the ready answer that, in the modern time, we have gone so far to the opposite extreme as to work serious harm to health. When a city dweller develops tuberculosis, his physician now sends him out to the mountains, asks him to sleep with his window wide open, and requires him to spend just as much of his time as possible in the open air, even with the temperature below zero. In our hospitals, the fad for making patients comfortable by artificial heat is passing, and that of stimulating them by cold, fresh air is gaining ground. We know that, for all the fevers and all the respiratory diseases this brings about a notable reduction in the mortality. Surely, what is good for the ailing must be even better to keep them well from disease. Many a physician now arranges to sleep out of doors all winter. Certainly all the respiratory diseases are rendered much more fatal and modern liability to them greatly increased by our shut-up houses. The medieval people were less comfortable, from a sensual standpoint, but the healthy glow and reaction after cold probably made them enjoy life better than we do in our steam-heated houses. They secured bodily warmth by an active circulation of their blood. We secure it by the circulation of hot water or steam in our houses. Ours may be the better way, but the question is not yet absolutely decided. A physician friend points to the great reduction in the death-rate in modern times, and insists that this, of course, means definite progress. Even this is not quite so sure as is often thought. We are saving a great many lives that heretofore, in the course of nature, under conditions requiring a more vigorous life, passed out of existence early. It is doubtful, however, whether this is an advantage for the race, since our insane asylums, our hospitals for incurables and our homes of various kinds now have inmates in much greater proportion to the population than ever before in history. These are mainly individuals of lower resistive vitality, who would have been allowed to get out of existence early, save themselves and their friends from useless suffering, and whose presence in life does not add greatly if at all to the possibilities of human accomplishment. Our reduced death-rate is, because of comfort seeking, more than counterbalanced by a reduced birth-rate, so that no advantage is reaped for the race in the end. These reflections, of course, are only meant to suggest how important it is to view such questions from all sides before being sure that they represent definite progress for humanity. Progress is much more elusive than is ordinarily thought, and is never the simple, unmistakable movement of advance it is often thought.