You, Tavy, are an artist: that is, you have
a purpose as absorbing and as unscrupulous as a woman's purpose....
The true artist will let his wife starve, his children go barefoot,
his mother drudge for his living at seventy, sooner than work
at anything but his art. To women he is half vivisector, half
vampire. He gets into intimate relations with them to study them,
to strip the mask of convention from them, to surprise their
inmost secrets, knowing that they have the power to rouse his
deepest creative energies, to rescue him from his cold reason,
to make him see visions and dream dreams, to inspire him, as
he calls it. He persuades women that they may do this for their
own purpose whilst he really means them to do it for his. He
steals the mother's milk and blackens it to make printers' ink
to scoff at her and glorify ideal women with. He pretends to
spare her the pangs of child-bearing so that he may have for
himself the tenderness of fostering that belong of right to her
children. Since marriage began, the great artist has been known
as a bad husband. But he is worse: he is a child-robber, a bloodsucker,
a hypocrite, and a cheat. Perish the race and wither a thousand
women if only the sacrifice of them enable him to act Hamlet
better, to paint a finer picture, to write a deeper poem, a greater
play, a profounder philosophy! For mark you, Tavy, the artist's
work is to shew us ourselves as we really are. Our minds are
nothing but this knowledge of ourselves; and he who adds a jot
to such knowledge creates new mind as surely as any woman creates
new men. In the rage of that creation he is as ruthless as the
woman, as dangerous to her as she to him, and as horribly fascinating.
Of all human struggles there is none so treacherous and remorseless
as the struggle between the artist man and the mother woman.
Which shall use up the other? that is the issue between them.
And it is all the deadlier because, in your romanticist cant,
they love one another.
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