But the case
is exceptional. Usually in all works of art that have been
conceived from within outwards, and generously nourished from
the author's mind, the moment in which he begins to execute
is one of extreme perplexity and strain. Artists of
indifferent energy and an imperfect devotion to their own
ideal make this ungrateful effort once for all; and, having
formed a style, adhere to it through life. But those of a
higher order cannot rest content with a process which, as
they continue to employ it, must infallibly degenerate
towards the academic and the cut-and-dried. Every fresh work
in which they embark is the signal for a fresh engagement of
the whole forces of their mind; and the changing views which
accompany the growth of their experience are marked by still
more sweeping alterations in the manner of their art. So
that criticism loves to dwell upon and distinguish the
varying periods of a Raphael, a Shakespeare, or a Beethoven.
It is, then, first of all, at this initial and decisive
moment when execution is begun, and thenceforth only in a
less degree, that the ideal and the real do indeed, like good
and evil angels, contend for the direction of the work.
Marble, paint, and language, the pen, the needle, and the
brush, all have their grossnesses, their ineffable
impotences, their hours, if I may so express myself, of
insubordination. It is the work and it is a great part of
the delight of any artist to contend with these unruly tools,
and now by brute energy, now by witty expedient, to drive and
coax them to effect his will.
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