the critic as artist-第5部分

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pplauding　its　brother　…　that　is　the　spectacle　which　the　artistic　activity　of　England　affords　us　from　time　to　time。　　And　yet；　I　feel　I　am　a　little　unfair　in　this　matter。　　As　a　rule；　the　critics　…　I　speak；　of　course；　of　the　higher　class；　of　those　in　fact　who　write　for　the　sixpenny　papers　…　are　far　more　cultured　than　the　people　whose　work　they　are　called　upon　to　review。　　This　is；　indeed；　only　what　one　would　expect；　for　criticism　demands　infinitely　more　cultivation　than　creation　does。

ERNEST。　　Really？

GILBERT。　　Certainly。　　Anybody　can　write　a　three…volumed　novel。　　It　merely　requires　a　complete　ignorance　of　both　life　and　literature。　The　difficulty　that　I　should　fancy　the　reviewer　feels　is　the　difficulty　of　sustaining　any　standard。　　Where　there　is　no　style　a　standard　must　be　impossible。　　The　poor　reviewers　are　apparently　reduced　to　be　the　reporters　of　the　police…court　of　literature；　the　chroniclers　of　the　doings　of　the　habitual　criminals　of　art。　　It　is　sometimes　said　of　them　that　they　do　not　read　all　through　the　works　they　are　called　upon　to　criticise。　　They　do　not。　　Or　at　least　they　should　not。　　If　they　did　so；　they　would　become　confirmed　misanthropes；　or　if　I　may　borrow　a　phrase　from　one　of　the　pretty　Newnham　graduates；　confirmed　womanthropes　for　the　rest　of　their　lives。　　Nor　is　it　necessary。　　To　know　the　vintage　and　quality　of　a　wine　one　need　not　drink　the　whole　cask。　　It　must　be　perfectly　easy　in　half　an　hour　to　say　whether　a　book　is　worth　anything　or　worth　nothing。　　Ten　minutes　are　really　sufficient；　if　one　has　the　instinct　for　form。　　Who　wants　to　wade　through　a　dull　volume？　　One　tastes　it；　and　that　is　quite　enough　…　more　than　enough；　I　should　imagine。　　I　am　aware　that　there　are　many　honest　workers　in　painting　as　well　as　in　literature　who　object　to　criticism　entirely。　　They　are　quite　right。　　Their　work　stands　in　no　intellectual　relation　to　their　age。　　It　brings　us　no　new　element　of　pleasure。　　It　suggests　no　fresh　departure　of　thought；　or　passion；　or　beauty。　　It　should　not　be　spoken　of。　　It　should　be　left　to　the　oblivion　that　it　deserves。

ERNEST。　　But；　my　dear　fellow　…　excuse　me　for　interrupting　you　…　you　seem　to　me　to　be　allowing　your　passion　for　criticism　to　lead　you　a　great　deal　too　far。　　For；　after　all；　even　you　must　admit　that　it　is　much　more　difficult　to　do　a　thing　than　to　talk　about　it。

GILBERT。　　More　difficult　to　do　a　thing　than　to　talk　about　it？　　Not　at　all。　　That　is　a　gross　popular　error。　　It　is　very　much　more　difficult　to　talk　about　a　thing　than　to　do　it。　　In　the　sphere　of　actual　life　that　is　of　course　obvious。　　Anybody　can　make　history。　Only　a　great　man　can　write　it。　　There　is　no　mode　of　action；　no　form　of　emotion；　that　we　do　not　share　with　the　lower　animals。　　It　is　only　by　language　that　we　rise　above　them；　or　above　each　other　…　by　language；　which　is　the　parent；　and　not　the　child；　of　thought。　Action；　indeed；　is　always　easy；　and　when　presented　to　us　in　its　most　aggravated；　because　most　continuous　form；　which　I　take　to　be　that　of　real　industry；　becomes　simply　the　refuge　of　people　who　have　nothing　whatsoever　to　do。　　No；　Ernest；　don't　talk　about　action。　　It　is　a　blind　thing　dependent　on　external　influences；　and　moved　by　an　impulse　of　whose　nature　it　is　unconscious。　　It　is　a　thing　incomplete　in　its　essence；　because　limited　by　accident；　and　ignorant　of　its　direction；　being　always　at　variance　with　its　aim。　Its　basis　is　the　lack　of　imagination。　　It　is　the　last　resource　of　those　who　know　not　how　to　dream。

ERNEST。　　Gilbert；　you　treat　the　world　as　if　it　were　a　crystal　ball。　You　hold　it　in　your　hand；　and　reverse　it　to　please　a　wilful　fancy。　You　do　nothing　but　re…write　history。

GILBERT。　　The　one　duty　we　owe　to　history　is　to　re…write　it。　　That　is　not　the　least　of　the　tasks　in　store　for　the　critical　spirit。　When　we　have　fully　discovered　the　scientific　laws　that　govern　life；　we　shall　realise　that　the　one　person　who　has　more　illusions　than　the　dreamer　is　the　man　of　action。　　He；　indeed；　knows　neither　the　origin　of　his　deeds　nor　their　results。　　From　the　field　in　which　he　thought　that　he　had　sown　thorns；　we　have　gathered　our　vintage；　and　the　fig…tree　that　he　planted　for　our　pleasure　is　as　barren　as　the　thistle；　and　more　bitter。　　It　is　because　Humanity　has　never　known　where　it　was　going　that　it　has　been　able　to　find　its　way。

ERNEST。　　You　think；　then；　that　in　the　sphere　of　action　a　conscious　aim　is　a　delusion？

GILBERT。　　It　is　worse　than　a　delusion。　　If　we　lived　long　enough　to　see　the　results　of　our　actions　it　may　be　that　those　who　call　themselves　good　would　be　sickened　with　a　dull　remorse；　and　those　whom　the　world　calls　evil　stirred　by　a　noble　joy。　　Each　little　thing　that　we　do　passes　into　the　great　machine　of　life　which　may　grind　our　virtues　to　powder　and　make　them　worthless；　or　transform　our　sins　into　elements　of　a　new　civilisation；　more　marvellous　and　more　splendid　than　any　that　has　gone　before。　　But　men　are　the　slaves　of　words。　　They　rage　against　Materialism；　as　they　call　it；　forgetting　that　there　has　been　no　material　improvement　that　has　not　spiritualised　the　world；　and　that　there　have　been　few；　if　any；　spiritual　awakenings　that　have　not　wasted　the　world's　faculties　in　barren　hopes；　and　fruitless　aspirations；　and　empty　or　trammelling　creeds。　　What　is　termed　Sin　is　an　essential　element　of　progress。　Without　it　the　world　would　stagnate；　or　grow　old；　or　become　colourless。　　By　its　curiosity　Sin　increases　the　experience　of　the　race。　　Through　its　intensified　assertion　of　individualism；　it　saves　us　from　monotony　of　type。　　In　its　rejection　of　the　current　notions　about　morality；　it　is　one　with　the　higher　ethics。　　And　as　for　the　virtues！　　What　are　the　virtues？　　Nature；　M。　Renan　tells　us；　cares　little　about　chastity；　and　it　may　be　that　it　is　to　the　shame　of　the　Magdalen；　and　not　to　their　own　purity；　that　the　Lucretias　of　modern　life　owe　their　freedom　from　stain。　　Charity；　as　even　those　of　whose　religion　it　makes　a　formal　part　have　been　compelled　to　acknowledge；　creates　a　multitude　of　evils。　　The　mere　existence　of　conscience；　that　faculty　of　which　people　prate　so　much　nowadays；　and　are　so　ignorantly　proud；　is　a　sign　of　our　imperfect　development。　　It　must　be　merged　in　instinct　before　we　become　fine。　　Self…denial　is　simply　a　method　by　which　man　arrests　his　progress；　and　self…sacrifice　a　survival　of　the　mutilation　of　the　savage；　part　of　that　old　worship　of　pain　which　is　so　terrible　a　factor　in　the　history　of　the　world；　and　which　even　now　makes　its　victims　day　by　day；　and　has　its　altars　in　the　land。　　Virtues！　　Who　knows　what　the　virtues　are？　　Not　you。　Not　I。　　Not　any　one。　　It　is　well　for　our　vanity　that　we　slay　the　criminal；　for　if　we　suffered　him　to　live　he　might　show　us　what　we　had　gained　by　his　crime。　　It　is　well　for　his　peace　that　the　saint　goes　to　his　martyrdom。　　He　is　spared　the　sight　of　the　horror　of　his　harvest。

ERNEST。　　Gilbert；　you　sound　too　harsh　a　note。　　Let　us　go　back　to　the　more　gracious　fields　of　literature。　　What　was　it　you　said？　That　it　was　more　difficult　to　talk　about　a　thing　than　to　do　it？

GILBERT　（after　a　pause）。　　Yes：　　I　believe　I　ventured　upon　that　simple　truth。　　Surely　you　see　now　that　I　am　right？　　When　man　acts　he　is　a　puppet。　　When　he　describes　he　is　a　poet。　　The　whole　secret　lies　in　that。　　It　was　easy　enough　on　the　sandy　plains　by　windy　Ilion　to　send　the　notched　arrow　from　the　painted　bow；　or　to　hurl　against　the　shield　of　hide　and　flamelike　brass　the　long　ash…handled　spear。　　It　was　easy　for　the　adulterous　queen　to　spread　the　Tyrian　carpets　for　her　lord；　and　then；　as　he　lay　couched　in　the　marble　bath；　to　throw　over　his　head　the　purple　net；　and　call　to　her　smooth…faced　lover　to　stab　through　the　meshes　at　the　heart　that　should　have　broken　at　Aulis。　　For　Antigone　even；　with　Death　waiting　for　her　as　her　bridegroom；　it　was　easy　to　pass　through　the　tainted　air　at　noon；　and　climb　the　hill；　and　strew　with　kindly　earth　the　wretched　naked　corse　that　had　no　tomb。　　But　what　of　those　who　wrote　about　these　things？　　What　of　those　who　gave　them　reality；　and　made　them　live　for　ever？　　Are　they　not　greater　than　the　men　and　women　they　sing　of？　　'Hector　that　sweet　knight　is　dead；'　and　Lucian　tells　us　how　in　the　dim　under…world　Menippus　saw　the　bleaching　skull　of　Helen；　and　marvelled　that　it　was　for　so　grim　a　favour　that　all　those　horned　ships　were　launched；　those　beautiful　mailed　men　laid　low；　those　towered　cities　brought　to　dust。　　Yet；　every　day　the　swanlike　daughter　of　Leda　comes　out　on　the　battlements；　and　looks　down　at　the　tide　of　war。　　The　greybeards　wonder　at　her　loveliness；　and　she　stands　by　the　side　of　the　king。　　In　his　chamber　of　stained　ivory　lies　her　leman。　　He　is　polishing　his　dainty　armour；　and　combing　the　scarlet　plume。　　With　squire　and　page；　her　husband　passes　from　tent　to　tent。　　She　can　see　his　bright　hair；　and　hears；　or　fancies　that　she　hears；　that　clear　cold　voice。　　In　the　courtyard　below；　the　son　of　Priam　is　buckling　on　his　brazen　cuirass。　　The　white　arms　of　Andromache　are　around　his　neck。　　He　sets　his　helmet　on　the　ground；　lest　their　babe　should　be　frightened。　　Behind　the　embroidered　curtains　of　his　pavilion　sits　Achilles；　in　perfumed　raiment；　while　in　harness　of　gilt　and　silver　the　friend　of　his　soul　arrays　himself　to　go　forth　to　the　fight。　　From　a　curiously　carven　chest　that　his　mother　Thetis　had　brought　to　his　ship…side；　the　Lord　of　the　Myrmidons　takes　out　that　mystic　chalice　that　the　lip　of　man　had　never　touched；　and　cleanses　it　with　brimstone；　and　with　fresh　water　cools　it；　and；　having　washed　his　hands；　fills　with　black　wine　its　burnished　hollow；　and　spills　the　thick　grape…blood　upon　the　ground　in　honour　of　Him　whom　at　Dodona　barefooted　prophets　worshipped；　and　prays　to　Him；　and　knows　not　that　he　prays　in　vain；　and　that　by　the　hands　of　two　knights　from　Troy；　Panthous'　son；　Euphorbus；　whose　love…locks　were　looped　with　gold；　and　the　Priamid；　the　lion…hearted；　Patroklus；　the　comrade　of　comrades；　must　meet　his　doom。　　Phantoms；　are　they？　　Heroes　of　mist　and　mountain？　　Shadows　in　a　song？　　No：　　they　are　real。　　Action！　　What　is　action？　　It　dies　at　the　moment　of　its　energy。　　It　is　a　base　concession　to　fact。　　The　world　is　made　by　the　singer　for　the　dreamer。

ERNEST。　　While　you　talk　it　seems　to　me　to　be　so。

GILBERT。　　It　is　so　in　truth。　　On　the　mouldering　citadel　of　Troy　lies　the　lizard　like　a　thing　of　green　bronze