of fulfilling its obligation, which is, to serve the people.

But in nothing is this false course of science so obviously
apparent, as in the vocation of art, which, from its very
significance, ought to be accessible to the people. Science may
fall back on its stupid excuse, that science acts for science, and
that when it turns out learned men it is laboring for the people;
but art, if it is art, should be accessible to all the people, and
in particular to those in whose name it is executed. And our
definition of art, in a striking manner, convicts those who busy
themselves with art, of their lack of desire, lack of knowledge, and
lack of power, to be useful to the people.

The painter, for the production of his great works, must have a
studio of at least such dimensions that a whole association of
carpenters (forty in number) or shoemakers, now sickening or
stifling in lairs, would be able to work in it. But this is not
all; he must have a model, costumes, travels. Millions are expended
on the encouragement of art, and the products of this art are both
incomprehensible and useless to the people. Musicians, in order to
express their grand ideas, must assemble two hundred men in white
neckties, or in costumes, and spend hundreds of thousands of rubles
for the equipment of an opera. And the products of this art cannot
evoke from the people--even if the latter could at any time enjoy
it--any thing except amazement and ennui.

Writers--authors--it appears, do not require surroundings, studios,
models, orchestras, and actors; but it then appears that the author
needs (not to mention comfort in his quarters) all the dainties of
life for the preparation of his great works, travels, palaces,