My friend, the late General Skobeleff, once asked me, “How do you understand the movement of the Socialists and the Anarchists?” He owned that he himself did not understand at all what they aimed at. “What do they want? What are they striving to attain?”

“First of all,” I answered, “those people object to wars between nations; again, their appreciation of art is very limited, the art of painting not excluded. Thus, if they ever come into power, you, with your strategic combinations, and I, with my pictures, will both be shelved immediately. Do you understand this?”

“Yes, I understand this,” rejoined Skobeleff, “and from this time forth I am determined to fight them.”

There is no mistaking the fact that, as I have said before, society is seriously threatened at the hands of a large mass of people counting hundreds of millions. Those are the people, who, for generations, during entire centuries, have been on the brink of starvation, poorly clad, living in filthy and unhealthy quarters; paupers, and such people as have scarcely any property, or no property at all. Well, who is to blame for their poverty—are not they themselves to be blamed for it?

No, it would be unjust to lay all the blame at their door; it is more likely that society at large is more to blame for their condition than they are themselves.

Is there any way out of the situation?

Certainly there is. Christ, our Great Teacher, has long ago pointed out the way in which the rich and the powerful could remedy the situation without bringing things to a revolutionary pass, without any upheaval of the existing social order, if they would only seriously take care of the miserable; that certainly would have ensured them the undisturbed enjoyment of the bulk of their fortune. But there is little hope of a peaceful solution of the question now; it is certain that the well-to-do classes will still prefer to remain Christians in name only; they will still hope that palliative measures will be sufficient to remedy the situation; or else, believing the danger to be distant, they will not be disposed to give up much; while the paupers—though formerly they were ready for a compromise—may be soon found unwilling to take the pittance offered them.

What do they want, then?

Nothing less than the equalization of riches in the society to come. They claim the material as well as moral equalization of all rights, trades, all capacities and talents; as we have already said, they strive to undermine all the foundations of the existing state of society, and, in inaugurating a new order of things, they claim to be able to open a real era of liberty, equality, and fraternity, instead of the shadows of those lofty things, as existing now.

I do not mean to go into the discussion of the matter; I would not pretend to point out how much justice or injustice, how much soundness or unsoundness, there is in these claims; I state only the fact that there is a deep gulf between the former cries for bread and the sharply formulated claims of the present. It is evident that the appetite of the masses has grown within the past centuries, and the bill which they intend to present for payment will not be a small one.

Who will be required to pay this bill?

Society, most certainly.

Will it be done willingly?

Evidently not.

Consequently there will be complications, quarrels, civil wars.

Certainly there will be serious complications; they are already casting their shadows before them in the shape of disturbances of a socialistic character that are originating here and there. In America, most likely, those disturbances are lesser and less pointed; but in Europe, in France and Belgium, for instance, such disorders assume a very threatening aspect.

Who is likely to be victorious in this struggle?

Unless Napoleon I. was wrong in his assertion that victory will always remain with the gros bataillons, the “regulators” will win. Their numbers will be very great; whoever knows human nature will understand that all such as have not much to lose will, at the decisive moment, join the claims of those who have nothing to lose.

It is generally supposed that the danger is not so imminent yet; but, as far as I was able to judge, the imminence of the danger varies in different countries. France, for instance—that long-suffering country which is for ever experimenting on herself, whether it be in social or scientific questions, or in politics—is the nearest to a crisis; then follow Belgium and other countries.

It is very possible that even the present generation will witness a serious upheaval. As to the coming generations, there is no doubt that they will assist at a thorough reconstruction of the social structure in all countries.

The claims of socialists, and, particularly, the anarchists, as well as the disorders incited by them, generally produce a great sensation in society. But no sooner are the disorders suppressed, than society relapses again into its usual unconcern, and no one gives a thought to the fact that the frequency of these painful symptoms, recurring with so much persistency, is in itself a sign of disease.

Far-seeing people begin to realize that palliative measures are no longer of use; that a change of governments and of rulers will no longer avail; and that nothing is left but to await developments contingent on the attitude of the opposed parties—the energetic determination of the well-to-do classes, not to yield, and that of the proletariat, to keep their courage and persevere.

The only consolation remaining to the rich consists in the fact that the “regulators” have not had time as yet to organize their forces for a successful struggle with society. This is true to a certain extent. But, though they do it slowly, the “regulators” are steadily perfecting their organization; on the other hand, can we say that society is well enough organized not to stand in dread of attacks?

Who are the recognized and official defenders of society?

The Army and the Church.

A soldier, there is no doubt, is a good support, he represents a solid defence; the only trouble about him is that the soldier himself begins to get weary of his ungrateful part. It is likely that for many years to come the soldier will shoot with a light heart at such as are called his “enemies”; but the time is not far distant when he will refuse to shoot at his own people.

Who is a good soldier? Only one to whom you can point out his father, his mother, or his brother in the crowd, saying, “Those are enemies of society, kill them”—and who will obey.

I may remark here, in passing, that it occurred to me to refer to this idea in a conversation I had with the well-known French writer and thinker, Alexandre Dumas, fils, and with what success? Conceding the justice of the apprehension, he had no other comforting suggestion to offer than to say, “Oh, yes, the soldier will shoot yet!”

The other defender of society, the priest, has been less ill-used than the soldier, and consequently he is not so tired of his task; but, on the hand, people begin to tire of him, less heed is paid to his words, and there arises a doubt as to the truth of all that he preaches.

There was a time when it was possible to tell the people that there is but one sun in the heavens, as there is but one God-appointed king in the country. As stars of the first, second, third, and fourth magnitude are grouping themselves around the sun, so the powerful, the rich, the poor, and the miserable, surround the king on earth. And, as it all appeared plausible, people used to believe that such arrangements were as they ought to be. All was accepted, all went on smoothly: none of such things can be advanced now-a-days, however; no one will be ready to believe in them.

Clearly, things assume a serious aspect. Suppose the day comes when the priests entirely lose their hold on the people, when the soldiers turn their guns’ muzzles down—where will society look for bulwarks then? Is it possible that it has no more reliable defence?

Certainly, it has such a defence, and it is nothing else than talent, and its representatives, in science, literature, and art in all its ramifications.

Art must and will defend society. Its influence is less apparent and palpable, but it is very great; it might even be said that its influence over the minds, the hearts, and the actions of people is enormous, unsurpassed, unrivalled. Art must and will defend society with all the more care and earnestness, because its devotees know that the “regulators” are not disposed to give them the honourable, respectable position they occupy now—for, according to them, a good pair of boots is more useful than a good picture, a novel, or a statue. Those people declare that talent is luxury, that talent is aristocratic, and that, consequently, talent has to be brought down from its pedestal to the common level—a principle to which we shall never submit.

Let us not deceive ourselves; there will arise new talents, which will gradually adapt themselves to new conditions, if such will prevail, and their works may perhaps gain from it; but we shall not agree to the principle of general demolition and reconstruction, when this has no other foundation but the well-known thesis—“Let us destroy everything and clear the ground; as to the reconstruction—about that we shall see later on.” We shall defend and advocate the improvement of the existing order by means of peaceful and gradual measures.

It goes without saying that we demand that society, on its side, should help us to fulfil our task; that it should trust us, give us all the freedom necessary for the development and exertion of talent.

There is the rub!

Well-fed, self-satisfied society quails at every change, at all blame, derision, and comment; it distrusts the foremost, daring representatives of science, literature, and art. Society strives jealously to retain the right not only to point out the road for talent, but even to regulate the measure, the degree of its development, and its manifestation.

In this society of ours anything that is common and conventional is shielded by all kinds of rights and privileges, while anything that is new and original is bound to awaken animosity and censure, has to go through a severe struggle under the pressure of wide-spread cant and hypocrisy.

Try to create anything ingenious in any of the regions of science and literature, try to present in graphic or plastic form the most original, striking conception, but only forget or refuse to surround it with the conventional layer of triviality and vulgarity so dear to the heart of society, you will be “done for,” you will not even obtain a hearing, you will be called a charlatan, if nothing worse than that.

Why is that so? Was it society that has shown the way to all great discoveries? No; it has always delayed them, has always put brakes on them.

Has society, in its collective form, ever evoked any of the great manifestations of art or literature? No; society was always eager to worry, to persecute men of talent, though it erects monuments to them after their death.

How did society come to display such arrogance and presumption? It was tempted that way only by the unchristian conviction that “the aim justifies the means.”

Can there be anything more exasperating than the conversation we hear sometimes—

“Have you been to the Salon?”

“No; we did not happen to go there this year, but last year we were there more than once.”

There is irony here as well as truth, for in the majority of cases, you will find in the Salon the same number of pictures nearly of the same quality, treating on nearly the same subjects, and, most assuredly, painted nearly in the same style.

“Have you seen the new play of Sardou?”

“Just imagine, could not possibly get to see it yet, had to go to the country; but then to-morrow we go to the ComÉdie FranÇaise to see that new thing of Dumas’. They say both plays are very much alike in conception, as well as in plot.” And this is perfectly true; they are doubtlessly more or less alike.

Whose fault is this, then, if not the authors’?

Ask the playwrights, whether they would dare to represent the action in such a way as it has been suggested to them by real life, with its logical conclusion, made unavoidable by the march of events, omitting, for once, the long-established, hackneyed, conventional termination?

“No,” the authors would tell you, “such a thing is not to be thought of,” and they will be in the right. Society, weighed down by cant, will not go to see such a play, however interesting it may be; so the author has to humour the public if he does not want to bring ruin on his manager and on himself.

The same is the case with artists, sculptors, even composers. How many favourites of the Muses have been driven into early graves by the animosity of the public against all new construction of poetical as well as musical ideas?

On one side we hear complaints of the dulness, the monotony, even the triviality, prevailing in art; people clamour for something inspired, something original; on the other hand, the same public arbitrarily chastises you for all that fails to come within the range of established, conventional ideas!

It is high time, it seems to me, to understand the necessity of treating art with tolerance and confidence, if we want it to fraternize with society, to become as one with it, to serve it faithfully and well in the present troubled times when the poet and the artist are soldiers at their posts.

“But, you representative of art,” I might be asked, “what are the tidings that you are so eager to announce to us—what are your discoveries that would be so entirely new to society?”

Well, what we should say would, perhaps, not be news, yet certainly the idea of it has not yet penetrated the consciousness of the people. Armed with the rich, varied resources of art we should tell people some truths.

“Give up,” we shall say to them, “give up enjoying yourselves amidst the illusions of the idealism which lulls your senses, of the idealism of high-sounding words and phrases. Look around you through the eye of sensible realism, and you will acquire the certitude of your mistake. You are not the Christians you assume yourselves to be. You are not representatives of Christian societies, of Christian countries.”

Those who kill their kind by the hundred thousand are not Christians.

Those who are always moved, in private as well as in public life, by the principle of “eye for eye, and tooth for tooth,” are not Christians.

Those who spend many hours of their lives in churches, yet who give nothing, or next to nothing, to the poor, are not Christians.

What have you done with the decree of the Saviour concerning Christian humility, and to help such as are in real need?

What is the stand taken now, let us ask, by those two great branches of the administration of Christ’s Church, that call themselves the Roman Catholic and the Orthodox Churches, which have separated, thanks to their inability to agree as to whether the Holy Ghost proceeded from the Father and the Son or from the Father alone? Is it possible that they have not come yet to an understanding, and, blinded by mutual hatred, are neglecting the loftiness of their mission on earth?

What is the stand taken by those new Churches originated of late, comparatively speaking, on the plea of a more realistic understanding of the connection of life with its Originator? Is it possible that, having concluded the fight with their great adversary, those Churches have also drifted into a sweet nap over the existing order of things, and have also renounced taking a hand in any further reforms?

Well, if it be so, let men of talent shake the strong and the powerful out of the somnolence into which they have fallen; a difficult task it will be, but a noble one. And if we are refused a hearing, or attempts are made to muzzle us, why, it will be the worse for society. Rouse itself it must; but it will be too late—the “Vandals will have burned Rome” once again. We may be assured that no churches, no bankers’ offices will then be spared.

“If any man have ears to hear, let him hear.”