No doubt, in the philosophical sense, the aspiration of the dead artist
for perfect work and the honour it brings is a delusion, a sweet mockery
of the fancy. But then so is every other aspiration which soars above
the warm circle of the human affections, and if this delusion of the dead
artist was held worthy of respect during the artist’s life, it is worthy
of respect—nay, it is worthy of reverence—after he is dead. Now every
true artist when at work has before him an ideal which he would fain
reach, or at least approach, and if he does not himself know whether in
any given exercise he has reached that ideal or neared it, we may be
pretty sure that no one else does. Hence, whenever there is apparent in
the circumstances under which the MS. has been found the slightest
indication that the writer did not wish it to be given to the public, the
representative who ignores this indication sins against that reverence
for the dead which in all forms of civilization declares itself to be one
of the deepest instincts of man.
That the instinct we are speaking of is really one of the primal
instincts is the very first fact that archæology vouches for. Of many
lost races, such as the Aztecs and Toltecs, for instance, we have no
historical traces save those which are furnished by testimonials of their
reverence for the dead. But that this fine instinct is now dying out in
the Western world—that it will soon be eliminated from the human
constitution of races that are generally considered to be the most
advanced—is made manifest by the present attitude of England and America
towards their illustrious dead. In the literary arena of both countries,
indeed, so entire is the abrogation of this most beautiful of all
feelings—so recklessly and so shamefully are not only raw manuscripts,
but private letters, put up to auction for publication—that at last the
great writers of our time, confronted by this new terror, are wisely
beginning to take care of themselves and their friends by a holocaust of
every scrap of paper lying in their desks.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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