374

p A study of the life of primitive peoples provides the best possible confirmation of the basic proposition of historical materialism, which says that people’s consciousness is determined by their being.  As confirmation of this here it should suffice to refer to the conclusion reached by Biicher in his excellent study Arbeit und Rhythmus. He says: "I have reached the conclusion that at the first stage of development work, music and poetry merged together, but that the basic element of this triad was work, whereas the other two were of only secondary importance.” According to Biicher, the origin of poetry is explained by work “(der Ursprung der Poesie ist in der Arbeit zu suchen”). And anyone who is familiar with the literature on this subject will not accuse Biicher of exaggeration.  [374•*  The objections that have been made to him by competent people concern not the essence, but only certain secondary aspects of his view. Essentially Biicher is right, without a doubt.

p But his conclusion concerns only the origin of poetry. What can be said about its further development"? What is the position with poetry and art in general at the higher stages of social development? Can one, and if so at what stages, detect the existence of a causal connection between being and consciousness, between a society’s technology and economy, on the one hand, and its art, on the other?

_p In this article we shall attempt to answer this question, basing ourselves on the history of French art in the eighteenth century.

p First of all, we must make the following reservation here.

_p From the sociological viewpoint French society of the eighteenth century is characterised first and foremost by the fact that it was a society divided into classes. This fact was bound to influence the development of art. Let us take the theatre, for example. On the mediaeval stage in France, as in the rest of Western Europe, an important place was occupied by the so-called farces.  Farces 375 542

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p Das franzoflfdje Drama

_p und die franzoflftftt Iflalerei im adjtztftntcn Jaftrbundert oorn Standpuntu der matcrialiftifdtjcn eefdjidjuauffaffung.^^1^^

_p Don A. JM«9a««*.

p Hue bem Suffifdjen con Dr. 9nny Amjmaif. I.

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p $>ie ©nrofinbe, n>eld)e Don fompetenten fieuten bagegen gemadjt nmtbcn, tteffen nid)t ba§ 9Befentli(f)e feinet 91nfic^t, fonbetn nut einige ncbenfdc^lit^e 5)etail«. 3m n>efentli<fc,en b,at Sttt^et ob,ut grociftl ted)t.

p Qebocb, bettifft feine ©(^lugfolgetung eben nut ben Utfptung bet Spoefie. 9Ba8 lie^e fi4 fibet it)ie fetnete Cntroicfluna. fagen? fflie «et> b,SU tS \ii) mil bet $oefie unb bet flunft fibetbaupt auf ben l)6b,ettn Stnftn bet gefeUfc^aftUcbcn @ntn>ittlung? ftann man bat 93otb,anbfnfrin einrt faufalen ^ufammenbangeS jroifdjen @ein unb Qerougtfein, inifi^en bet Zec^nit unb ftfoiiomif bet ©efetttc^aft eineifeiti unb iljm Stunft anbentfeitt beobaci)ten, unb auf nelc^en Cgntroittlungiftufen nflibe biel bet $aQ fern?

p ^^1^^ Siorlirgrnbt Strbtit tnutbc im Huguft 1605 otrfagt unb im folgtnbcn Konol in tinrt ERoStauti Wtuut »erllffnillid|t. lit ifl fin Skrfudi, *’« matmoli(H|d)f <Rd(obc ou| bit »(• (4i(l)tt bet {iterator unb Sunfl aniuntnbcn. CM Ptbt mir nidji ju, }u btunrilen, cb nit btr SStr|u<f| gtlang. Hbn id) barf btmtrlrn, bog nrum arbtilm guf btm (Btbiil bn Klrntur* gr!d)id)lt ratine Huffaffung oontommm bt(t$iigtn. So tommt $nr JJ. OacRi in ftinn (t&t intncffanlm Htbcit Obtc bo8 .Zrama in gtanfttidi Im ad)tjfbnim 3tl|rb,unbat*, bf^m S»c«6t com 2liarj 1907 batim ift, >u folgtnbrm Sdgluflt: »3f mrtit man in bet <Ik< (d)id)if bn UrfprDngt b« Xromot lonldjrritti, brfto mtbt bemrttt man, bat bie litnari|o)ni Sinfluflt nur tint (clunbarc fflodt (pitlm unb bo| fie fltl» lojialrn UrfaaVn unmgcottnct bltibtn, bit odgrmtintt unb midgtigtr finb.” (6. 78.) 3n leintr Unitrludgung birftr Urfadmi flimmt $trt Oaifft tbtnfaU bunfeaul mil mir (tbmin (wrglridjt baj gan|e btirte Xapitrf flbrt .Die fojialtn Urfo^tn bti Xramo*, (fin Btftn unb Irint Stbcutung”). <tr fogl bort jum iBtiftjitl: .Sknn bit (armgnie btr SacintWm Zragtbte but4brod)tn roirb, fo lirgl ba< baton, bog }u gltitfitr 3tit ba> @lri(bgemid|t jreildjtn btn xrl^icbtntn SloOtn bn O«> ftnfdjaft but(i)lrtod)tn nurbt.* (®. 78.) (Sltnau balldbt bottt id) 1906 grfagt. 34 boffe, ka| lutitttt Untttfucfjunjra auf btm Stbitt btr ®tfd)ii^tt bn bilbtnbtn Mnftt in glriaVr <9<ife taj bcftatigtn ntrbtn, ttaJ id) ttbtr bit antmidlung bn SRaltrri in Jrantrtid) gtfigt. 99.

p > 9i. joints fagt ton btr Drnamtnttt in ibrtr Urfonn, ba| .fit fid) nur tntnidtln lonnlr, inbrm fit H4 °uf bit gtmrblidK Hrbtit ftQ()lt”, unb bog SSIIfr, nt!d|>, nit bie IBtbba auf Stplon, nod; gar (tint gtn>nb[id)t Krbtit Itnnm, aud) {tint Ornamtntit lenneii (Urgtfd|id)tt btr bilbtnbtn Sunfi in (iuropa, ffiitn 1898, 6. SB). S>\<» ift eine golgtrunj, bio mil btr obtn jitierten golgerung SBdjtrl oBHig QbtrtlnfHmmt.

First page of the article "French Drama and French Painting of the Eighteenth Century....” in Die Neue Zeit, No. 16, 1911, p. 542

376 377 were composed for the people and acted in front of the people. They always served to express the people’s views, its aspirations and—which should be noted here in particular—its displeasure with the upper estates. But with the reign of Louis XIII farce began to decline; it was ranked among entertainments fitting only for lackeys and not for people of refined taste: "reprouves des gens sages”,  [377•*  as a French writer said in 1(525. Farce was replaced by tragedy.  But French tragedy has nothing in common with the views, aspirations and displeasure of the popular masses. It is a creation of the aristocracy and expresses the views, tastes and aspirations of the upper estate. We shall see shortly what a deep imprint this class origin left on the whole of its character; but first we should like to draw the reader’s attention to the fact that during the period of the emergence of tragedy in France the aristocracy of that country did not engage in any productive labour whatsoever and lived by consuming the produce which was created by the economic activity of the third estate (tiers etat). It is easy to see that this fact could not fail to influence the works of art that arose among the aristocracy and expressed its tastes. For example, we know that in some of their songs the New Zealanders sing the praises of batata-growing. We also know that their songs are frequently accompanied by dancing which is simply a reproduction of the body movements that are performed by the tiller in cultivating these plants. Here it is very clear how people’s productive activity influences their art, and equally clear that since the upper classes do not engage in productive labour the art that arises among them cannot bear any direct relation to the social process of production. But does this mean that in a society divided into classes the causal dependence of people’s consciousness on their being is diminished? No, not at all, because the division of society into classes is itself conditioned by the economic development of society. And if the art created by the upper classes bears no direct relation to the process of production, this is also explained in the final analysis by economic reasons. Thus, the materialist explanation of history is fully applicable in this case as well; but it goes without saying that in this case it is more difficult to detect the undoubted causal connection between being and consciousness, between the social relations that arise on the basis of “work” and art. Here between “work”, on the one hand, and art_r on the other, there are several intermediate stages, which have often attracted the exclusive attention of scholars, thereby making it difficult to understand the phenomena correctly.

p Having made this necessary reservation, we shall turn to our subject and shall begin by examining tragedy.

378

p “French tragedy,” says Taine in his Lectures on Art, "appears at the time when the well-ordered and noble monarchy of Louis XIV institutes the rule of proprieties, a refined aristocratic atmosphere, magnificent spectacles, court life, and it disappears at the moment when the nobility and court customs fall under the blows of the revolution."

_p This is perfectly right. But the historical process of the rise and particularly of the fall of French Classical tragedy was somewhat more complicated than it is portrayed by this famous art theoretician.

p Let us examine this type of literary work from the point of view of its form and content.

p From the point of view of form what should attract our attention first and foremost are the famous three unities which provoked so much dispute later, in the period of the struggle between the Romantics and Classicists famed forever in the annals of French literature. The theory of these unities was known in France as far back as the age of the Renaissance, but it did not become a literary law, an inviolable rule of good “taste” until the seventeenth century. "When Corneille wrote his Medée in 1629,"^^100^^ says Lanson, "he still knew nothing about the three unities."  [378•*  The theory of the three unities was propagated at the beginning of the 1630s by Mairet. In 1634 his tragedy Sophonisbe, the first to be written according to the “rules”, was put on. It started a polemic in which the opponents of the “rules” advanced against them arguments very reminiscent of those of the Romantics. The scholarly admirers of Greek and Roman literature (les erudits) rallied to the defence of the three unities, and won an overwhelming and conclusive victory. But to what did they owe this victory? Not to their “erudition”, of course, which carried little weight with the public, but to the growing demands of the upper class, for whom the naive scenic absurdities of the preceding age were becoming intolerable. "The unities were supported by an idea which was bound to appeal to well-bred people.” Lanson continues, "the idea of an accurate imitation of reality which is capable of producing a corresponding illusion. In their true meaning the unities represent a minimum of conventionality.... Thus, the triumph of the unities was in fact the victory of realism over the imagination."  [378•** 

_p Thus, what triumphed here was actually the refinement of aristocratic taste, which developed together with the consolidation of the "noble and benevolent monarchy”. Further improvements in theatre technique made accurate imitation of reality quite pos- 379 sible even without observation of the unities; but the idea of them was associated in the minds of the spectators with a number of other ideas that were dear and important to them, and therefore this theory acquired an independent value, as it were, that rested on the allegedly indisputable requirements of good taste. Subsequently the rule of the three unities was supported, as we shall see below, by other social causes, and therefore this theory was defended even by those who hated the aristocracy. The struggle against them became very difficult: it took a great deal of wit, persistence and almost revolutionary energy for the Romantics to depose them.

p Having touched upon theatre technique, we would mention the following.

p The aristocratic origin of French tragedy left its mark, inter alia, on the art of the actors. We all know, for example, that to this very day French dramatic acting is marked by a certain artificiality, even pomposity, that makes a somewhat unpleasant impression on the unaccustomed spectator. No one who has seen Sarah Bernhardt will disagree with this. This style of acting has been inherited by French dramatic actors from the time when Classical tragedy dominated the French stage. The aristocratic society of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries would have been greatly displeased if tragic actors had taken it into their heads to act their parts with the simplicity and naturalness with which, for example, Eleonora Duse captivates us. Simple and natural acting went against all the requirements of aristocratic aesthetics. "The French do not confine themselves to costume in order to impart the necessary nobility and dignity to actors and tragedy.” the Abbe Dubos says proudly. "We also want our actors to speak in a higher and more drawn out manner than that which is used in ordinary speech. It is a more difficult style (sic!) but it contains more dignity. The gestures should be in keeping with the tone, because our actors should exhibit greatness and sublimity in all that they do."^^101^^

p Why should the actors exhibit greatness and sublimity? Because tragedy was the offspring of the court aristocracy and its main characters wore kings, “heroes” and such “high-ranking” persons in general, who were, so to say, bound by their station to appear, if not to be, “great” and “sublime”. A dramatist whose works lacked the appropriate conventional dose of courtaristocratic “sublimity”, even if he were highly talented, could not expect applause from the audiences of that time.

p This can be seen best of all from the criticisms that were made of Shakespeare in France at that time, and even in England as well under the influence of France.

Hume believed that Shakespeare’s genius should not be exaggerated: disproportionate bodies often seem taller than they are

r

380 in fact; Shakespeare was good for his age, but he is not suitable for a refined audience. Pope expressed regret that Shakespeare wrote for the people, and not for high society. "Shakespeare would have written better,” he said, "if he had enjoyed the patronage of the sovereign and the support of the courtiers.” Voltaire himself who in his literary activity was a herald of the new age hostile to the "old regime”, and who endowed many of his tragedies with a “philosophical” content, paid great homage to the aesthetic concepts of aristocratic society. He regarded Shakespeare as a brilliant, but coarse savage.  His criticism of Hamlet is quite remarkable. "This play,” he says, "is full of anachronisms and absurdities; in it Ophelia is buried on the stage, and this is such a monstrous spectacle that the famous Garrick left out the scene in the cemetery.... This play abounds with vulgarisms. Thus, in the first scene the sentry says that he has not heard a mouse stirring. Can such absurdities be permitted? There can be no doubt that a soldier is capable of expressing himself thus in the barracks, but he should "not do so on the stage, before the elite of the nation, an elite which speaks a noble language and in the presence of which one should express oneself equally nobly. Just imagine, gentlemen, Louis XIV in his Hall of Mirrors, surrounded by his magnificent court, and imagine that a jester covered in rags pushes aside the throng of heroes, great men and beautiful women that form this court; he invites them to abandon Corneille, Racine and Moliere for a Punch who has flashes of talent, but is affected. What do you think? What reception would the jester be given?"^^102^^

p These words of Voltaire’s contain a reference not only to the aristocratic origin of French Classical tragedy, but also to the reasons for its decline.  [380•* 

p Refinement easily becomes affectation, and affectation excludes a serious and thoughtful treatment of the subject. And not only treatment. The range of choice of subjects was bound to become more narrow under the influence of the class prejudices of the aristocracy. The class concept of decorum clipped the wings of art. In this connection the demand which Marmontel makes of tragedy is extremely characteristic and instructive.

p “And a peaceful and well-mannered nation,” he says, "in which everyone considers himself obliged to adjust his ideas and feelings to the customs and habits of society, a nation in which the decencies are laws, such a nation can admit only those characters that are modified by respect for those around them, and only those vices that are modified by decorum."

381

p Class decorum becomes the criterion for judging artistic works. This is sufficient to bring about the decline of Classical tragedy. But it is not sufficient to explain the appearance on the French stage of a new type of dramatic work. Yet we see in the 1730s the emergence of a new literary genre—the so-called comedie larmoyante, tearful comedy, which for a while enjoyed great popularity. If consciousness is explained by being, if the so-called spiritual development of mankind is causally dependent on its economic development, the economy of the eighteenth century should also explain to us, inter alia, the appearance of tearful comedy. Can it do so?

p It not only can, but has already partly done so, true, without a serious method. As proof we would refer, for example, to Hettner who in his history of French literature regards tearful comedy as a result of the growth of the French bourgeoisie. But the growth of the bourgeoisie, as of any other class, can be explained only by the economic development of society. Thus, Hettner, without realising it or wanting to—for he is a great enemy of materialism, about which, incidentally, he has the most absurd idea—has recourse to the materialist explanation of history. And not Hettner alone. Brunetiere in his book Les epoques da theatre francais discovered the causal dependence, which we are seeking, far more successfully than Hettner.

p He says there: "Ever since the time of the collapse of Law’s bank,^^103^^ not to go further back, the aristocracy ... has been losing ground each day. It would seem to be hastening to do everything that a class can do to discredit itself ... but in particular it is ruining itself, whereas the bourgeoisie, the third estate, is growing rich, and, in acquiring more and more importance, is also acquiring an awareness of its rights. The existing inequality angers it now more than ever before. The abuses now seem to it more intolerable than ever before. As a poet later put it, in people’s hearts there arose hatred together with a thirst for justice.  [381•*  Is it possible thai, with such a means of propaganda and influence as the theatre at its disposal, the bourgeoisie would have neglected to make use of it? That it would not have taken seriously, would not have regarded from the tragic viewpoint the inequalities that merely amused the author of the comedies: Bourgeois gentilhomme and Georges Dandin? And above all was it possible that this already triumphant bourgeoisie could reconcile itself to the constant portrayal on the stage of emperors and kings and that, if one might put it like this, it would not use its savings to commission its own portrait?"

p Thus, tearful comedy was a portrait of the French bourgeoisie of the eighteenth century. This is perfectly true. It is no accident that 382 it is also called bourgeois drama.  But in Brunetiere this correct view is of an excessively general and consequently abstract nature. Let us try to develop it in somewhat more detail.

p Brunetiere says that the bourgeoisie could not reconcile itself to the constant portrayal on the stage of nothing but emperors and kings. This is highly likely after the explanations that he gives in the passage quoted by us, but so far it is only likely; it will become indisputable only when we become acquainted with the psychology of at least a few of the people who were taking an active part in the literary life of France at that time. They include, without a doubt, the talented Beaumarchais, the author of several tearful comedies. What did Beaumarchais think of the "constant portrayal on the stage of nothing but emperors and kings"?

p He revolted against it strongly and passionately. He ridiculed the literary custom by virtue of which the heroes of tragedy were kings and other persons of high rank, while comedy castigated people from the lower estate. "Portray people of the middle estate in misfortune! Fi done! They must always be ridiculed. Ridiculous citizens and an unhappy king; that is the only possible theatre; I shall take note of this."  [382•* 

p This caustic remark by one of the most eminent ideologists of the third estate would thus appear to confirm the above-quoted psychological observations of Brunetiere. But Beaumarchais not only wishes to portray people of the middle estate in " misfortune”. He also protests against the custom of selecting the heroes of the ancient world as characters for “serious” dramatic works. "What do events in Athens and Rome have to do with me, a peaceful subject of an eighteenth-century monarchic state? Can the death of a Peloponnesian tyrant or the sacrifice of a young princess in Aulis be of great interest to me? All this is of no concern to me, all this is of no importance to me."  [382•** 

p The selection of heroes from the ancient world was one of the extremely numerous manifestations of the interest in antiquity which was itself an ideological reflection of the struggle of the new, emergent social order against feudalism. From the age of the Renaissance this interest continued into the age of Louis XIV, which, as we know, was readily compared to the age of Augustus. But when the bourgeoisie began to be imbued with the spirit of opposition, when "hatred together with a thirst for justice" began to arise in its heart, the passion for ancient heroes, which had been fully shared earlier by its educated representatives, began to seem inappropriate to it, and the “events” of ancient history insufficiently instructive. The hero of bourgeois drama is the 383 “man of the middle estate" of that day, more or less idealised by the bourgeois ideologists of that day. This characteristic fact could not, of course, harm the “portrait”.

p Let us proceed further. Nivelle de la Chaussee is the genuine creator of bourgeois drama in France. What do we see in his numerous works? A revolt against this or that aspect of aristocratic psychology, a struggle against this or that prejudice or, if you like, vice of the nobility. What pleased his contemporaries most about these works was the moral preaching in them.  [383•*  And in this respect tearful comedy was true to its origins.

p We know that the ideologists of the French bourgeoisie who sought to give us a “portrait” of it in their dramatic works did not show any great originality. Bourgeois drama was not created by them but merely imported into France from England. In England this type of dramatic work arose at the end of the seventeenth century as a reaction against the terrible dissoluteness that prevailed at that time on the stage and reflected the moral decline of the English aristocracy in that period. The bourgeoisie, which was struggling against the aristocracy, wanted comedy to be "worthy of Christians" and began to preacli its own morality in it. The French literary innovators of the eighteenth century, whoin general borrowed extensively from English literature all that was in keeping with the position and feelings of the French bourgeois opposition, imported this aspect of English tearful comedy to France in its entirety. French bourgeois drama preaches the bourgeois family virtues just as well as English bourgeois drama. Herein lay one of the secrets of its success and the key to the at first glance totally puzzling fact that French bourgeois drama, which around the middle of the eighteenth century seemed to be a firmly established type of literary work, disappeared fairly quickly into the background, giving way to Classical tragedy which, one would have thought, should have given way to it.

p We shall see shortly the explanation for this strange fact, but first of all we should like to draw attention to the following.

p Diderot, who thanks to his nature of a passionate innovator could not fail to become interested in bourgeois drama and who, as we know, himself tried his hand at the new literary genre (let us recall his Le Fils naturel of 1757 and his Le Pere de famille of 1758). demanded that the stage should portray not characters, but positions, and social positions at that. It was objected that a man is not determined by his social position. "What,” he was asked, "is tlio judge in himself (le juge en soi)? What is the merchant in himself (le negociant en soi)?" But there was a profound misun- 384 derstanding here. Diderot was not talking about the merchant “en soi" or the judge "en soi”, but about the merchant of his day and particularly about the judge of his day. And that the judges of his day provided a great deal of instructive material for the most lively scenic portrayals can be seen clearly from the famous comedy Le Mariage de Figaro. Diderot’s demand was merely the literary reflection of the revolutionary aspirations of the French "middle estate" of that day.

p But it was precisely the revolutionary nature of these aspirations that prevented French bourgeois drama from triumphing once and for all over Classical tragedy.

p A child of the aristocracy, Classical tragedy reigned supreme and unquestioned on the French stage as long as the aristocracy reigned supreme and unquestioned ... within the limits assigned by the limited monarchy, which was itself the historical result of a long and bitter struggle between the classes in France. When the reign of the aristocracy began to be disputed, when the " people of the middle estate" became imbued with the spirit of opposition, the old literary concepts began to seem unsatisfactory to these people, and the old theatre insufficiently “instructive”. And it was then that alongside Classical tragedy, which was rapidly declining, bourgeois drama appeared. In bourgeois drama the French "man of the middle estate" contrasted his domestic virtues with the extreme depravity of the aristocracy. But the social contradiction which the France of that day had to solve could not be solved with the help of moral preaching. It was a question not of abolishing the aristocratic vices, but of getting rid of the aristocracy itself. Obviously this could not be done without a bitter struggle and equally obviously the paterfamilias (Le Pr.re de famille) for all the indisputable respectability of his bourgeois morality could not serve as an example of a tireless and intrepid fighter. The literary “portrait” of the bourgeoisie did not inspire heroism. But meanwhile the opponents of the old regime felt the need for heroism, recognised the need for the development of civic virtue in the third estate. Where were examples of this virtue to be found at that time? In the same place where examples of literary taste had been sought earlier: in the ancient world.

p And so the interest in ancient heroes appeared once more. Now the opponent of the aristocracy no longer said like Beaumarchais: "What do events in Athens and Rome have to do with me, a peaceful subject of an eighteenth-century monarchic state?" The “events” in Athens and Rome again began to arouse the liveliest interest in the public. But this interest in them now acquired a totally different nature.

p Whereas the young ideologists of the bourgeoisie were now interested in "the sacrifice of a young princess in Aulis" they were interested in it primarily as material to expose “superstition”; 385 whereas their attention might be attracted by "the death of a Pelopormesian tyrant”, it attracted them not so much by its psychological, as its political aspect. The passion now was not for the monarchic age of Augustus, but for the republican heroes of Plutarch. Plutarch became a bible for the young ideologists of the bourgeoisie, as one can see, for example, from the memoirs of Madame Roland. And this admiration for republican heroes again aroused interest in the whole of ancient life in general. Imitation of antiquity became the fashion and made a profound impression on the whole of French art at that time. We shall see below what a great mark it left on the history of French painting, but now we would note that it was this imitation that caused interest in bourgeois drama to diminish in consequence of the bourgeois ordinariness of its content and delayed the death of Classical tragedy for a long time.

p Historians of French literature have frequently wondered why the preparers and makers of the French Revolution remained conservatives in the sphere of literature. And why the reign of classicism did not end until some time after the collapse of the old regime. In fact, however, the literary conservatism of the innovators of that time was purely external. If tragedy had not changed in form, it had undergone a substantial change in respect of content.

p Let us take, for example, Saurin’s tragedy Spartacus which appeared in 1760. Its hero, Spartacus, longs for freedom. For the sake of his great idea he even renounces marriage to the girl he loves and throughout the whole play in his speeches he does not cease to talk of freedom and philanthropy. Such tragedies could not be written or applauded by literary conservatives. A completely new revolutionary content had been poured into the old literary bottles.

p Tragedies such as those of Saurin or Lemierre (see his Guillaume Tell) satisfy one of the most revolutionary demands of the literary innovator Diderot: they portray not characters, but social positions and particularly the revolutionary social aspirations of that time. And if this new wine was poured into old bottles, this is explained by the fact that these bottles had been bequeathed by the very same antiquity the universal admiration for which was one of the most significant and most characteristic symptoms of the new social mood. Alongside this new form of Classical tragedy, bourgeois drama, that moralite en action  [385•*  as Beaumarchais described it admiringly, seemed, as it was bound to seem, too insipid, too flat, too conservative in content.

p Bourgeois drama was brought to life by the spirit of opposition of the French bourgeoisie and was not fit to express its revolutionary aspirations. The literary “portrait” conveyed well the temporary, 386 transient features of the original; therefore people ceased to he interested in it when the original lost these features and when these features ceased to seem attractive. That is the point.

p Classical tragedy continued to exist right up to the time when the French bourgeoisie won its final victory over the supporters of the old regime and when the interest in ancient republican heroes ceased to be of social importance to it.  [386•*  And when this time came, bourgeois drama came to life again and, after undergoing certain changes which were in keeping with the characteristic features of the new social position but were not of a substantial nature, it became firmly established on the French stage.

p Even a person who refused to recognise the kinship of Romantic drama with eighteenth-century bourgeois drama would have to agree that the dramatic works of Alexandre Dumas fils, for example, are true bourgeois drama of the nineteenth century.

p The works of art and literary tastes of any given age express its social psychology, but in the psychology of a society divided into classes a great deal will seem incomprehensible and paradoxical to us if we continue to ignore the mutual relations of the classes and the mutual class struggle, as idealist historians do today, contrary to the finest behests of bourgeois historical science.

p Let us now leave the theatre and turn to another branch of French art, to painting.

p Under the influence of the social causes with which we are now familiar development here runs parallel to that which we have seen in the sphere of drama. This was noted by Hettncr, who rightly remarked that the tearful comedy of Diderot, for example, was nothing but genre-painting transferred to the stage.

p In the age of Louis XIV, i.e., at the time when the limited monarchy reached its height, French painting had much in common with Classical tragedy. In it, as in the latter, "le sublime" and "la dignite" reigned supreme. And, just like Classical tragedy, it drew its heroes from the strong of this world. Charles Le Brun, who at that time legislated artistic taste in painting, actually recognised one hero only: Louis XIV, whom he, however, attired in Classical dress.

p His famous Hatailles d’Alexandre, which can now be seen in the Louvre and which truly deserve the attention of visitors to this museum, were painted after the Flanders military campaign 387 of 1667 that covered the French monarchy with glory.  [387•*  They were devoted entirely to glorifying the "Sun King”. And they corresponded too closely to the mood of lliose who aspired to "the sublime”, to glory, to victories, for the public opinion of the ruling estate not to succumb to them totally. Le Brun. says A. Genevay, yielded, perhaps without realising it. to the need to speak loudly, to impress the eye, to make the brilliance of his broad artistic aims correspond to the sumptuousness that surrounded the King. The France of that day was summed up in the person of her king. Therefore in front of the portrayals of Alexander the spectators were applauding Louis XIV.  [387•** 

p The great impression which Le Brun’s painting made in its day is characterised by the admiring exclamation of Etienne Carneau: "Qne tu brilles, Le Brun. d’une lumiere pure!"  [387•*** 

p But everything moves, everything changes. He who has reached the summit, begins the descent. For the French limited monarchy the descent began, as we know, already during the lifetime of Louis XIV and then continued steadily right up to the revolution. The "Sun King" who used to say "I am the state" did concern himself with France’s greatness in his own way. But Louis XV, without renouncing the claims of absolutism in the slightest, thought only of his pleasure. Nor did the vast majority of the aristocratic retainers around him think of anything else. His age was an age of the insatiable pursuit of pleasure, an age of carefree fast living. But however base the amusements of the idle aristocrats sometimes were, the tastes of society of that day were nevertheless marked by an indisputable elegance, a beautiful refinement that made France "the legislator of fashion”. And these elegant, refined tastes found expression in the aesthetic concepts of the day.

p “When the age of Louis XIV was replaced by that of Louis XV, the ideal of art changed from the sublime to the pleasing. Refinement, elegance and subtlety of sensual enjoyment spread everywhere."  [387•****  And this ideal of art found its finest and most vivid expression in Boucher’s paintings.

p “Sensual enjoyment,” we read in the work just quoted by us, "is Boucher’s ideal, the soul of his paintings. The Venus of which he dreams and which he portrays is a purely sensual Venus."  [387•*****  This is perfectly true, and Boucher’s contemporaries understood it very well. In 1740 his friend Piron in one of his poems addresses Madame de Pompadour on behalf of the famous pointer:

388

p Je ne recherche, pour tout dire,
Qu elegance, graces, beaute,
Douceur, gentillesse et gaite;
En un mot, ce qui respire
Ou badinage, on uolupte,
Le tout sans trap de liberte,
Drape du voile que desire
La scrupuleu.se honnêteté.  [388•* ^^106^^

p This is an excellent description of Boucher, his muse was the elegant sensuality which ini’uses all his paintings. There are also quite a number of these paintings in the Louvre, and we would recommend anyone who wishes to get an idea of the distance that separates the aristocratic-monarchist France of Louis XV from the same France of Louis XIV to compare the paintings of Boucher with those of Le Brun. Such a comparison will be more instructive than whole tomes of abstract historical argument.

p Boucher’s painting enjoyed the same overwhelming success that LeBrun’s painting had in its time. Boucher’s influence was colossal. It was rightly said that young French painters of that day who went to Rome to complete their artistic education left France with his paintings before their eyes and returned home not with impressions from the great masters of the age of the Renaissance, but with memories of him. But Boucher’s sway and influence were short-lived. The liberation movement of the French bourgeoisie made progressive critics of the day adopt a negative attitude towards him.

p Already in 1753 Grimm criticised him strongly in his Correspondence litteraire. "Boucher n’est pas fort dans ie masculin,” he says (Boucher is no good at the male). And indeed le masculin is represented in Boucher’s pictures mainly by cupids, which, of course, did not bear the slightest relation to the liberatory aspirations of that time. Diderot in his Salons^^107^^ attacked Boucher even more strongly than Grimm.

p “With him degradation of taste, colour, composition, characters, imagination and drawing,” writes Diderot in 1765, "followed step by step on corruption of morals.” In Diderot’s opinion, Boucher had ceased to be an artist. "And it was then that he was made court painter!" Diderot is particularly hard on Boucher’s abovementioned cupids. The ardent Encyclopaedist somewhat unexpectedly announces that among the numerous throng of these cupids there is not a single boy who would be lit for real life, "for example, to learn his lessons, read, write or brake hemp”. This reproach, 389 which is somewhat reminiscent of the accusations which our D. I. Pisarev hurls at Eugene Onegin, makes many presentday French critics shrug their shoulders contemptuously. These gentlemen say that "braking hemp" does not become cupids at all, and they are right. But they cannot see that Diderot’s naive anger at the "licentious little satyrs" reflects the class hatred of the then industrious bourgeoisie for the vain pleasures of the idle aristocracy.

p Diderot is also displeased by what was undoubtedly Boucher’s strong point: his feminin (female). "At one time he liked portraying girls. What sort of girls were they? Elegant representatives of the demi-monde.” These elegant representatives of the demimonde were very beautiful in their way. But their beauty angered, not attracted, the ideologists of the third estate. It pleased only aristocrats and those people from the tiers etat who were influenced by tiie aristocrats and had acquired aristocratic tastes.

p “My and your painter.” says Diderot, addressing the reader, "is Greuze. Greuze was the first to think of making art moral.” This praise is as typical of Diderot’s mood—and that of the whole thinking bourgeoisie of lliat day—as the angry reproaches which he addresses to the detested Boucher.

p Greuze was indeed an extremely moral painter. If the bourgeois dramas of Nivelle de la Chaussee, Beaumarchais, Sedaine, etc., were des moralites en action,  [389•*  Greuze’s pictures may be called moralites sur la toile.  [389•**  His Paterfamilias occupies pride of place, the seat of honour, appearing in different but always moving poses, and shows the same estimable domestic virtues that gracehim in bourgeois drama. But although this patriarch is undoubtedly worthy of all respect, he does not show any political interest. He stands as a "reproach incarnate" before the dissolute and corrupt aristocracy and goes no further than a “reproach”. And this is not surprising, because the artist who created him also confines himself to a “reproach”. Greuze is no revolutionary by a long chalk. He is striving not to abolish the old regime, but merely to reform it morally. For him the French clergy is the guardian of religion and good morals; the French priests are the spiritual fathers of all citizens.  [389•***  But meanwhile the spirit of revolutionary discontent was already pervading French artists. In the fifties a student who refused to fast was expelled from the French Academy of Arts in Rome.

p In 1707 another student from the same academy, the architect Adrien Mouton, was subjected to the same punishment for the same 390 offence. Mouton was joined by the sculptor Claude Monnol, wlio was also expelled from Hie institution. Public opinion in Paris was firmly on the side of Moulon. who look a complaint about the director of the Rome academy to court, and the court ( Chatelet) found the latter guilty and sentenced him to pay Mouton a sum of 20,000 livres. The social atmosphere was becoming increasingly charged, and as the revolutionary mood seized the third estate, so interest in genre-painting, llial tearful comedy painted in oils, diminished. The change in the mood of the progressive people of that time led to a change in their aesthetic needs, as it had led to a change in their literary concepts, and genrepainting of the Greuze type, which not so long ago had aroused universal enthusiasm,  [390•*  was eclipsed by the revolutionary painting of David and his school.

p Later, when David was already a member of the Convention, he said in an address to this assembly: "A 11 forms of art did nothing but serve the tastes and whims of a handful of sybarites whose pockets were stuffed with gold, and the guilds (David is referring to the academies) persecuted brilliant people and in general all those who came to them with the pure ideas of morality and philosophy.” In David’s opinion, art should serve the people, the republic. But the selfsame David was a strong supporter of classicism. Moreover, his artistic activity revived the declining classicism and prolonged its rule for several decades. The example of David shows most clearly that French classicism of the late eighteenth century was conservative or. if you like, reactionary, because it strove to go back from the new imitators to ancient models—only in form.  Its content, however, was imbued with the most revolutionary spirit.

p One of David’s most characteristic and finest paintings in this respect was his Brutus.  The lictors are carrying the bodies of his children who have just been executed for taking part in monarchic intrigue; Brutus’ wife and daughter are weeping, but he is sitting, stern and unshakeable. and you can see that for this man the good of the republic really is the supreme law.  Brutus is a " paterfamilias’" too, but a paterfamilias who has become a citizen.  His virtue is the political virtue of the revolutionary. lie shows us how far bourgeois France has gone since the time when Diderot praised Greuze for the moral character of his painting.  [390•** 

p Brutus, which was exhibited in 1789 when the great revolutionary upheaval began, had a stupendous success. It brought to consciousness that which had become the most profound, most 391 pressing requirement of being, i.e., of the social life of France at that time. Ernest Chesneau rightly remarks in his book on the schools of French painting:

p “David accurately reflected the feeling of the nation, which, in applauding his pictures, was applauding its own portrayal. He painted the very heroes that the public took as its models; in admiring his pictures, it was strengthening its own admiration of these heroes. Hence the ease with which a radical change took place in art, similar to that which was taking place at the time in customs and the social system."^^108^^

p The reader would be highly mistaken if he thought that the radical change which David made in art extended only to the choice of subject matter. If this were so, we would not have the right to speak of a radical change. No, the mighty breath of the approaching revolution radically changed the artist’s attitude to his work. The artists of the new trend counterposed a stern simplicity to the affectation and sugariness of the old school—for example, in the pictures of Vanloo. Even the defects of these new artists are easily explained by the mood that prevailed among them. Thus, David was reproached for the fact that the figures in his paintings looked like statues. This reproach is unfortunately not unfounded. But David sought his models among the ancients, and for the modern age ancient art consists primarily of sculpture. In addition, David was criticised for the weakness of his imagination. This was also justified: David himself admitted that he was a predominantly rational person. But rationality was the most outstanding feature of all the representatives of the liberation movement at that time. And not only at that time—rationality finds broad scope for development and develops broadly in all civilised peoples that are going through a period of radical change, when the old social order is declining and the representatives of new social aspirations are subjecting it to criticism. Among the Greeks of Socrates’ day rationality was just as developed as among the French of the eighteenth century. It is no accident that the German Romantics attacked the rationality of Euripides. Rationality is the fruit of the struggle of the new against the old, and serves as its weapon. Rationality was characteristic of all the great Jacobins as well. It is quite wrong to regard it as the monopoly of the Hamlets.  [391•* 

p Once having understood the social causes which gave rise to David’s school, it is not difficult to explain its decline also. Here again we see that which we saw in literature.

p After the revolution, the French bourgeoisie, having achieved its aim, was no longer interested in ancient republican heroes, and 392 consequently saw classicism in an entirely different light. It began to regard it as something cold and full of convention. And this is what classicism in fact became. It lost its great revolutionary soul, which gave it such a strong appeal, and all that remained was its body—the sum total of the external devices of artistic creation, now quite unnecessary, strange, and awkward, and not in keeping with the new aspirations and tastes engendered by the new social relations. The portrayal of the ancient gods and heroes now became an occupation worthy only of old pedants, and quite naturally the younger generation of artists did not find anything attractive in this occupation. The dissatisfaction with classicism, the desire to embark on a new path can be seen in David’s own pupils, for example, in Gros. In vain did their teacher remind them of the old ideal, in vain did they condemn their new aspirations: the course of ideas was inexorably being changed by the course of things. But here too the Bourbons, who returned to Paris "in the wake of an army" delayed for a while the iinal disappearance of classicism. The Restoration slowed down and even threatened to halt completely the triumphant advance of the bourgeoisie. Therefore the bourgeoisie could not bring itself to part company with "the ghost of Lycurgus”. By partially reviving the old behests in politics, this ghost was supporting them in art. But Gericault was already painting his pictures. Romanticism was already knocking at the door.

p However, we have gone too far ahead here. We shall discuss how classicism declined some other time, but for the moment we should like to say in a few words how the revolutionary catastrophe itself affected the aesthetic concepts of people at that time.

p The struggle against the aristocracy, which had now reached its height, aroused hatred of all aristocratic tastes and traditions. In January 1790 the journal La Chronique de Paris^^109^^ wrote: "All our decencies, all our politeness, all our gallantry, all our mutual expressions of respect, devotion and obedience should be cut out of our language. All this is too reminiscent of the old regime.” Two years later the journal Les Annales patriotiques^^1^^™ said: "The devices and rules of politeness were invented during slavery, this is superstition which should be swept away by the wind of freedom and equality.” The same journal argued that we should remove our cap from our head only when we are hot or when we are addressing a meeting; in the same way we should abandon the habit of bowing because this habit also comes from the age of slavery. In addition, we should forget, exclude from our vocabulary, such phrases or expressions as: "I have the honour”, "you would do me the honour”, etc. At the end of a letter one should not write :"your most obedient servant”, "your most humble servant”. (Votre tres humble serviteur.) All such expressions have been inherited from the old regime and are unworthy of a free 393 man. One should write: "I remain your fellow citizen" or "your brother”, or "your comrade”, or, finally, "your equal" (Votre egal).

p Citizen Chalier dedicated and presented to the Convention a whole treatise on politeness, in which he condemned old aristocratic politeness most strongly and asserted that even excessive concern about the cleanliness of one’s dress was ridiculous because it was aristocratic. And smart clothes were a crime, they meant robbing the state (un vol fait a 1’etat). Chalier thought that everyone should use the familiar form of address: "By saying thou toone another, we are crowning the collapse of the old system of insolence and tyranny.” Chalier’s treatise evidently made an impression: on November 8, 1793, the Convention ordered that all officials should use the pronoun “thou” in their dealings with one another. A certain Le Bon, a convinced democrat and ardent revolutionary, was given an expensive costume by his mother. Not wishing to upset the old lady, he accepted the gift, but then began to be tormented by pangs of conscience. In this connection he wrote to his brother:

p “For ten nights now I have not slept at all because of this wretched costume. I, a philosopher, a friend of mankind, am dressed so richly, while thousands of my neighbours are dying of hunger and wearing pitiful rags! How shall I, dressed in my sumptuous costume, enter their modest dwellings? How shall 1 defend the poor man against exploitation by the rich man? How shall I rise up against the rich, if I myself am imitating their luxury and sumptuousness? These thoughts torment me constantly and give me no peace."^^111^^

p And this is by no means a unique phenomenon. At that time the question of dress became a matter of conscience, just as it was in Russia during the period of so-called nihilism. And for the same reasons. In January 1793 the journal Le Courrier de I’egalite^^112^^ said that it was shameful to possess two costumes when the soldiers who were defending the independence of Republican France on the frontiers were in rags. At the same time the famous Pere Duchene^^113^^ demanded that fashionable shops be turned into workshops; that carriage makers build only waggons for carters; that goldsmiths become metal-workers, and that cafes where idle people gathered be given to workers for their meetings.

p Given such a state of “customs”, it is perfectly understandable that art went to extremes in its rejection of all the old aesthetic traditions of the aristocratic period.

p The theatre, which, as we have seen, already in the period preceding the revolution served the third estate as a spiritual weapon in its struggle against the old regime, now ridiculed the clergy and nobility quite uninhibitedly. In 1790 the drama La Liberte canquise ou le Despotisms renverse was a great success. The audience chanted: "Aristocrats, you are defeated!" In their 394 turn the defeated aristocrats flocked to see tragedies that reminded them of the good old days: Cinna, Athalie, etc. In 1793 on the stage they danced the carmagnole and poked fun at kings and emigres. To quote an expression of Goncourt’s. from whom we have borrowed information about this period, the theatre s’est sans-culoltise. The actors ridiculed the pompous manners of actors of the old days and behaved extremely casually, climbing in through a window instead of entering through the door, etc. Goncourt says that on one occasion during a performance of the play Le Faux savant an actor climbed down the chimney on to tin^^1^^ stage, instead of coming through the door. "Se non e vero, 6 ben trovato."  [394•* 

p That the theatre was sans-culottise by the revolution is not in the least surprising, because it was to the "sansculottes” that the revolution gave power for a time. But it is important for us to note the fact that during the revolution, as in all the preceding periods, the theatre served as a faithful reflection of social life with its contradictions and the class struggle produced by these contradictions. Whereas in the good old days, when, according to the above-quoted expression of Marmonters, the decencies served as laws, the theatre expressed aristocratic views of human relations, now, under the rule of the “sansculoltes”, the ideal of M. J. Chenier, who said that the theatre should inspire citizens with revulsion for superstition, a hatred of tyranny and a love of freedom, was realised.

p The ideals of that time demanded from the citizen such devoted and constant work for the common good that aesthetic requirements could not occupy much space in the sum total of his spiritual needs. The citizen of this great age admired most of all the poetry of action, the beauty of the civic feat. And this circumstance occasionally imparted a rather peculiar character to the aesthetic judgments of French “patriots”. Goncourt says that one of the members of the jury elected to judge the works of art exhibited in the Salon in 1793, a certain Fleuriot, regretted the fact that the bas-reliefs entered for the competition did not express the great principles of the revolution sufficiently clearly. "And in general,” Fleuriot asked, "what sort of people are these gentlemen who engage in sculpture at a time when their brothers are shedding their blood for their country? To my mind, there should be no prizes!" Another member of the jury, Hassenfratz, said: "I shall speak frankly: in my opinion, an artist’s talent lies in his heart, not in his hand; that which can be mastered by the hand is comparatively unimportant.” To the objection raised by a certain Neveu that one must also take into account the skill of the hand (do not forget that they were discussing sculpture), Hassenfratz replied heatedly: 395 “Citizen Neveu. the skill of the hand is nothing; one should not base one’s judgments on the skill of the hand.” It was decided to award no prizes for the sculpture section. During discussion of the paintings the selfsame Hassenfratz argued heatedly that the best painters were those citizens who were lighting for freedom on the frontiers. In Hie heat of passion he even expressed the idea that the painter should make do simply with the aid of compasses and a ruler. At llie meeting of the architecture section a certain Dufourny maintained that all buildings should be simple, like the virtue of the citizen. There was no need for unnecessary decoration. Geometry should regenerate art.

p It goes without saying that here we are dealing with vast exaggeration; that here we have reached the limit beyond which rationality could not go even at that time of extreme conclusions from accepted premises, and it is not difficult to ridicule, as Goncourt does, all arguments of this kind. But anyone who decided on the basis of them that the revolutionary period was totally unfavourable for the development of art would be most mistaken. We repeat, the bitter battle that was being fought then not only "on the frontiers”, but also throughout the whole of France, left citizens little time for engaging quietly in art. But it certainly did not stifle the aesthetic requirements of the people; quite the reverse. The great social movement which gave the people a clear awareness of its own dignity provided a strong, unprecedented stimulus for the development of these requirements. In order to see this it is enough to visit the Musee Carnavalet in Paris. The collections of this interesting museum devoted to the period of the revolution prove beyond all doubt that in becoming "sansculottised " art did not die and did not cease to he art. but simply became infused with a completely new spirit. Just as the virtue (vertu) of the French “patriot” of that day was primarily political virtue, so his art was primarily political art. Do not fear, reader. This means that the citizen of that time, i.e.. obviously the citizen worthy of the name, was indifferent or almost indifferent to works of art which were not based on the political ideas that he cherished.  [395•*  And let it not be said that such art cannot fail lo be fruitless. This is wrong. The inimitable art of the ancient Greeks was to a very large extent political art of this kind. And is this the only example? French art of the "age of Louis XIV" also served certain political ideas, which did not. however, prevent it from flowering magnificently. And as for French art of the revolutionary period, the “sansculottes” set it on the path which the art of the upper classes had been unable to follow: it became a matter for the whole people.

396

p The numerous public holidays, processions and festivities of that time are the best and most convincing argument in favour of “sansculottic” aesthetics. Only not everyone gives this testimony the attention it deserves.

_p But owing to the historical circumstances of the day the art of the whole people did not have a firm social foundation. The savage Thermidor reaction^^114^^ quickly put an end to the rule of the “sansculottes” and, by opening up a new era in politics, also opened up a new age in art, an age which expressed the aspirations and tastes of the new upper class: the bourgeoisie which had come to power. We shall not discuss this new age here, because it deserves a detailed examination, and it is time for us to close.

_p What follows from that which has been said?

p Conclusions that confirm the following propositions.

p Firstly, to say that art, like literature, is a reflection of lifeis 1o express an idea which, although correct, is nevertheless still very vague. In order to understand the way in which art reflects life, one must understand the mechanism of the latter. In civilised peoples the class struggle constitutes one of the mainsprings in this mechanism. And only by examining this mainspring, only by taking the class struggle into account and studying the many and various stages of its development shall we be able to understand to any satisfactory extent the“spiritual” history of civilised society: "the course of its ideas" reflects the history of its classes and their struggle with one another.

p Secondly. Kant says that the enjoyment which determines judgment of taste is free from all interest and that judgment of beauty which is mixed with the slightest interest is very partial and is by no means pure judgment of taste.  [396•*  This is perfectly true in relation to the individual.  If I like a picture simply because I can sell it at a profit, my judgment will, of course, not be a pure judgment of taste. But it is different when we adopt theviewpoint of society.  A study of the art of primitive tribes has shown that the social man first regards objects and phenomena from a utilitarian point of view and only later regards some of them from the aesthetic point of view. This throws new lighton the history of art. Naturally, not every useful object seems beautiful to the social man; but there is no doubt that he will find beautiful only that which is useful to him. i.e., which is of importance in his struggle for existence against nature or against another social man. This does not mean that for the social man the utilitarian viewpoint coincides with the aesthetic. Certainly not! Use is recognised by the intellect; beauty by the ability to 397 contemplate.  The sphere of the former is calculation; the sphere of the latter is instinct.  Moreover—and this must be remembered—the sphere which belongs to the ability to contemplate is incomparably broader than the sphere of the intellect: in enjoying that which seems beautiful to him the social man is hardly ever aware of the use with the idea of which his idea of this object is connected.  [397•*  In the vast majority of cases this use could be revealed only by scientific analysis. The main distinguishing feature of aesthetic enjoyment is its spontaneity.  But the use does exist nevertheless; it lies at the basis of aesthetic enjoyment (let us recall that we are discussing not the individual, but the social man); if it were not present, the object would not seem beautiful.

p To this it may be objected that the colour of an object pleases a person irrespective of the importance which this object might have had or might have for him in his struggle for existence. Without dwelling in detail on this subject. I should remind the reader of a remark by Fechner.^^113^^ We like the colour red when we .see it. say, on the cheeks of a young and beautiful woman. But what impression would this colour make on us if we saw it not on the cheeks but on the nose of the same woman?

p Here we find a complete parallel with morality. By no means everything that is useful to the social man is moral. But only that which is useful for his life and for his development can acquire moral significance for him: morality is for man. not man for morality. In the same way one can say that beauty is for man, not man for beauty. And this is utilitarianism understood in its true, broadest sense, i.e., in the sense of that which is useful not for the individual, but for society: for the tribe, the clan, the class.

But precisely because we have in mind not the individual, but society (the tribe, the people, the class) we also have room for the Kantian view of this question: the judgment of taste undoubtedly presupposes the absence of all utilitarian considerations in the individual who expresses it. Here too there is a complete parallel with judgments expressed from the viewpoint of morality: if I declare an action to be moral only because it is useful to me, I have no moral instinct.