Interest in the Arts

Many people pursue a regular and uninterrupted course of idleness in the evenings because they think that there is no alternative to idleness but the study of literature; and they do not happen to have a taste for literature. This is a great mistake.

Many people spend every evening doing nothing because they think the only alternative is studying literature. But they have no taste for literature. This is a great mistake.

Of course it is impossible, or at any rate very difficult, properly to study anything whatever without the aid of printed books. But if you desire to understand the deeper depths of bridge or of boat-sailing you would not be deterred by your lack of interest in literature from reading the best books on bridge or boat-sailing. We must, therefore, distinguish between literature, and books treating of subjects not literary. I shall come to literature in due course.

Of course, it is impossible, or at least very difficult, to study anything properly without printed books. But suppose you wanted a deeper understanding of bridge or sailing. Even if you had no interest in literature, you would still read the best books on those subjects. We must therefore distinguish between literature and books about subjects unrelated to literature. I will come to literature in due course.

Let me now remark to those who have never read Meredith, and who are capable of being unmoved by a discussion as to whether Mr. Stephen Phillips is or is not a true poet, that they are perfectly within their rights. It is not a crime not to love literature. It is not a sign of imbecility. The mandarins of literature will order out to instant execution the unfortunate individual who does not comprehend, say, the influence of Wordsworth on Tennyson. But that is only their impudence. Where would they be, I wonder, if requested to explain the influences that went to make Tschaikowsky's "Pathetic Symphony"?

Let me say something to those who have never read Meredith. Perhaps a debate about whether Mr. Stephen Phillips is a true poet leaves you unmoved. You are perfectly entitled to feel that way. It is not a crime not to love literature. It is not a sign of stupidity. The literary mandarins would order the immediate execution of anyone who does not understand, for example, Wordsworth's influence on Tennyson. But that is just their arrogance. How would they fare, I wonder, if asked to explain the influences behind Tschaikowsky's "Pathetic Symphony"?

There are enormous fields of knowledge quite outside literature which will yield magnificent results to cultivators. For example (since I have just mentioned the most popular piece of high-class music in England to-day), I am reminded that the Promenade Concerts begin in August. You go to them. You smoke your cigar or cigarette (and I regret to say that you strike your matches during the soft bars of the "Lohengrin" overture), and you enjoy the music. But you say you cannot play the piano or the fiddle, or even the banjo; that you know nothing of music.

There are vast fields of knowledge outside literature that richly reward those who explore them. I have just mentioned the most popular piece of classical music in England today. That reminds me that the Promenade Concerts begin in August. You go to them and smoke your cigar or cigarette. I regret to say that you strike your matches during the quiet passages of the "Lohengrin" overture. And you enjoy the music. But you say you cannot play the piano, the violin, or even the banjo. You say you know nothing about music.

What does that matter? That you have a genuine taste for music is proved by the fact that, in order to fill his hall with you and your peers, the conductor is obliged to provide programmes from which bad music is almost entirely excluded (a change from the old Covent Garden days!).

What does that matter? You clearly have a genuine taste for music. To fill the hall with you and people like you, the conductor must offer programs with almost no bad music. (What a change from the old Covent Garden days!)

Now surely your inability to perform "The Maiden's Prayer" on a piano need not prevent you from making yourself familiar with the construction of the orchestra to which you listen a couple of nights a week during a couple of months! As things are, you probably think of the orchestra as a heterogeneous mass of instruments producing a confused agreeable mass of sound. You do not listen for details because you have never trained your ears to listen to details.

Surely, not being able to play "The Maiden's Prayer" on the piano need not stop you from learning how an orchestra is put together! After all, you listen to one a couple of nights a week for a couple of months. As things stand, you probably think of the orchestra as a jumble of instruments producing a confused but pleasant jumble of sound. You don't listen for details because you have never trained your ears to hear them.

If you were asked to name the instruments which play the great theme at the beginning of the C minor symphony you could not name them for your life's sake. Yet you admire the C minor symphony. It has thrilled you. It will thrill you again. You have even talked about it, in an expansive mood, to that lady—you know whom I mean. And all you can positively state about the C minor symphony is that Beethoven composed it and that it is a "jolly fine thing."

If asked which instruments play the great theme at the beginning of the C minor symphony, you couldn't name them to save your life. Yet you admire the C minor symphony. It has thrilled you. It will thrill you again. You've even talked about it enthusiastically to that lady. You know whom I mean. And all you can say for certain about the C minor symphony is that Beethoven composed it and that it is a "jolly fine thing."

Now, if you have read, say, Mr. Krehbiel's "How to Listen to Music" (which can be got at any bookseller's for less than the price of a stall at the Alhambra, and which contains photographs of all the orchestral instruments and plans of the arrangement of orchestras) you would next go to a promenade concert with an astonishing intensification of interest in it. Instead of a confused mass, the orchestra would appear to you as what it is—a marvellously balanced organism whose various groups of members each have a different and an indispensable function. You would spy out the instruments, and listen for their respective sounds. You would know the gulf that separates a French horn from an English horn, and you would perceive why a player of the hautboy gets higher wages than a fiddler, though the fiddle is the more difficult instrument. You would live at a promenade concert, whereas previously you had merely existed there in a state of beatific coma, like a baby gazing at a bright object.

Now, suppose you have read Mr. Krehbiel's "How to Listen to Music." You can buy it at any bookstore for less than the price of a stall at the Alhambra. It contains photographs of all the orchestral instruments and diagrams of how orchestras are arranged. The next time you went to a promenade concert, you would find it astonishingly more interesting. Instead of a confused mass, the orchestra would appear as it really is: a wonderfully balanced organism. Each group of members has a different and indispensable function. You would pick out the instruments and listen for their individual sounds. You would know the vast difference between a French horn and an English horn. You would also understand why an oboe player earns more than a violinist, though the violin is harder to play. You would live at a promenade concert. Before, you had merely existed there in a state of blissful stupor, like a baby gazing at a bright object.

The foundations of a genuine, systematic knowledge of music might be laid. You might specialise your inquiries either on a particular form of music (such as the symphony), or on the works of a particular composer. At the end of a year of forty-eight weeks of three brief evenings each, combined with a study of programmes and attendances at concerts chosen out of your increasing knowledge, you would really know something about music, even though you were as far off as ever from jangling "The Maiden's Prayer" on the piano.

You could lay the foundations for a genuine, systematic knowledge of music. You might focus your studies on a particular form of music (such as the symphony) or a particular composer's works. You could study for three short evenings a week for forty-eight weeks. You could also study concert programs and attend concerts chosen using your growing knowledge. At the end of that year, you would really know something about music. This would be true even if you were still no closer to banging out "The Maiden's Prayer" on the piano.

"But I hate music!" you say. My dear sir, I respect you.

"But I hate music!" you say. My dear sir, I respect you.

What applies to music applies to the other arts. I might mention Mr. Clermont Witt's "How to Look at Pictures," or Mr. Russell Sturgis's "How to Judge Architecture," as beginnings (merely beginnings) of systematic vitalising knowledge in other arts, the materials for whose study abound in London.

What applies to music applies to the other arts. I might mention Mr. Clermont Witt's "How to Look at Pictures" and Mr. Russell Sturgis's "How to Judge Architecture." These books offer a starting point for gaining systematic, enriching knowledge of other arts. They are merely a starting point. London has plenty of materials for studying these arts.

"I hate all the arts!" you say. My dear sir, I respect you more and more.

"I hate all the arts!" you say. My dear sir, I respect you more and more.

I will deal with your case next, before coming to literature.

I’ll address your situation next, before moving on to literature.