"
She paused against denial of the poem's silliness, affirmation of its
truth; but George, moody beneath Mr. Marrapit's eye, glinting behind
the window, had moved forward.
Margaret thrust the paper in her bosom, tucked in where heart might
warm against heart's child. Constantly during breakfast her mind
reverted to it, drummed its rare lines.
CHAPTER III.
Upon Modesty In Art: And Should Be Skipped.
Yet Margaret had called her poem silly. Here, then, was mock-modesty
by diffidence seeking praise. But this mock-modesty, which horribly
abounds to-day, is only natural product of that furious modesty which
has come to be expected in all the arts.
Modesty should have no place in true art. The author or the painter,
the poet or the composer should be impersonal to his work. That which
he creates is not his; it is a piece of the art to which he is
servant, and as such (and such alone) he should regard it. His in the
making and the moulding, thereafter it becomes the possession of the
great whole to which it belongs. If it adorns that whole he may freely
admire it; for he is impersonal to it.
Unquestionably (or unconsciously) we accept this principle in regard
to human life. The child belongs not to the mother who conceived it
but to the race of which it is an atom.
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