the critic as artist-第6部分

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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。　　The　owl　has　built　her　nest　in　the　palace　of　Priam。　　Over　the　empty　plain　wander　shepherd　and　goatherd　with　their　flocks；　and　where；　on　the　wine…　surfaced；　oily　sea；　＇Greek　text　which　cannot　be　reproduced＇；　as　Homer　calls　it；　copper…prowed　and　streaked　with　vermilion；　the　great　galleys　of　the　Danaoi　came　in　their　gleaming　crescent；　the　lonely　tunny…fisher　sits　in　his　little　boat　and　watches　the　bobbing　corks　of　his　net。　　Yet；　every　morning　the　doors　of　the　city　are　thrown　open；　and　on　foot；　or　in　horse…drawn　chariot；　the　warriors　go　forth　to　battle；　and　mock　their　enemies　from　behind　their　iron　masks。　　All　day　long　the　fight　rages；　and　when　night　comes　the　torches　gleam　by　the　tents；　and　the　cresset　burns　in　the　hall。　Those　who　live　in　marble　or　on　painted　panel；　know　of　life　but　a　single　exquisite　instant；　eternal　indeed　in　its　beauty；　but　limited　to　one　note　of　passion　or　one　mood　of　calm。　　Those　whom　the　poet　makes　live　have　their　myriad　emotions　of　joy　and　terror；　of　courage　and　despair；　of　pleasure　and　of　suffering。　　The　seasons　come　and　go　in　glad　or　saddening　pageant；　and　with　winged　or　leaden　feet　the　years　pass　by　before　them。　　They　have　their　youth　and　their　manhood；　they　are　children；　and　they　grow　old。　　It　is　always　dawn　for　St。　Helena；　as　Veronese　saw　her　at　the　window。　　Through　the　still　morning　air　the　angels　bring　her　the　symbol　of　God's　pain。　The　cool　breezes　of　the　morning　lift　the　gilt　threads　from　her　brow。　　On　that　little　hill　by　the　city　of　Florence；　where　the　lovers　of　Giorgione　are　lying；　it　is　always　the　solstice　of　noon；　of　noon　made　so　languorous　by　summer　suns　that　hardly　can　the　slim　naked　girl　dip　into　the　marble　tank　the　round　bubble　of　clear　glass；　and　the　long　fingers　of　the　lute…player　rest　idly　upon　the　chords。　　It　is　twilight　always　for　the　dancing　nymphs　whom　Corot　set　free　among　the　silver　poplars　of　France。　　In　eternal　twilight　they　move；　those　frail　diaphanous　figures；　whose　tremulous　white　feet　seem　not　to　touch　the　dew…drenched　grass　they　tread　on。　　But　those　who　walk　in　epos；　drama；　or　romance；　see　through　the　labouring　months　the　young　moons　wax　and　wane；　and　watch　the　night　from　evening　unto　morning　star；　and　from　sunrise　unto　sunsetting　can　note　the　shifting　day　with　all　its　gold　and　shadow。　　For　them；　as　for　us；　the　flowers　bloom　and　wither；　and　the　Earth；　that　Green…　tressed　Goddess　as　Coleridge　calls　her；　alters　her　raiment　for　their　pleasure。　　The　statue　is　concentrated　to　one　moment　of　perfection。　　The　image　stained　upon　the　canvas　possesses　no　spiritual　element　of　growth　or　change。　　If　they　know　nothing　of　death；　it　is　because　they　know　little　of　life；　for　the　secrets　of　life　and　death　belong　to　those；　and　those　only；　whom　the　sequence　of　time　affects；　and　who　possess　not　merely　the　present　but　the　future；　and　can　rise　or　fall　from　a　past　of　glory　or　of　shame。　Movement；　that　problem　of　the　visible　arts；　can　be　truly　realised　by　Literature　alone。　　It　is　Literature　that　shows　us　the　body　in　its　swiftness　and　the　soul　in　its　unrest。

ERNEST。　　Yes；　I　see　now　what　you　mean。　　But；　surely；　the　higher　you　place　the　creative　artist；　the　lower　must　the　critic　rank。

GILBERT。　　Why　so？

ERNEST。　　Because　the　best　that　he　can　give　us　will　be　but　an　echo　of　rich　music；　a　dim　shadow　of　clear…outlined　form。　　It　may；　indeed；　be　that　life　is　chaos；　as　you　tell　me　that　it　is；　that　its　martyrdoms　are　mean　and　its　heroisms　ignoble；　and　that　it　is　the　function　of　Literature　to　create；　from　the　rough　material　of　actual　existence；　a　new　world　that　will　be　more　marvellous；　more　enduring；　and　more　true　than　the　world　that　common　eyes　look　upon；　and　through　which　common　natures　seek　to　realise　their　perfection。　　But　surely；　if　this　new　world　has　been　made　by　the　spirit　and　touch　of　a　great　artist；　it　will　be　a　thing　so　complete　and　perfect　that　there　will　be　nothing　left　for　the　critic　to　do。　　I　quite　understand　now；　and　indeed　admit　most　readily；　that　it　is　far　more　difficult　to　talk　about　a　thing　than　to　do　it。　　But　it　seems　to　me　that　this　sound　and　sensible　maxim；　which　is　really　extremely　soothing　to　one's　feelings；　and　should　be　adopted　as　its　motto　by　every　Academy　of　Literature　all　over　the　world；　applies　only　to　the　relations　that　exist　between　Art　and　Life；　and　not　to　any　relations　that　there　may　be　between　Art　and　Criticism。

GILBERT。　　But；　surely；　Criticism　is　itself　an　art。　　And　just　as　artistic　creation　implies　the　working　of　the　critical　faculty；　and；　indeed；　without　it　cannot　be　said　to　exist　at　all；　so　Criticism　is　really　creative　in　the　highest　sense　of　the　word。　　Criticism　is；　in　fact；　both　creative　and　independent。

ERNEST。　　Independent？

GILBERT。　　Yes；　independent。　　Criticism　is　no　more　to　be　judged　by　any　low　standard　of　imitation　or　resemblance　than　is　the　work　of　poet　or　sculptor。　　The　critic　occupies　the　same　relation　to　the　work　of　art　that　he　criticises　as　the　artist　does　to　the　visible　world　of　form　and　colour；　or　the　unseen　world　of　passion　and　of　thought。　　He　does　not　even　require　for　the　perfection　of　his　art　the　finest　materials。　　Anything　will　serve　his　purpose。　　And　just　as　out　of　the　sordid　and　sentimental　amours　of　the　silly　wife　of　a　small　country　doctor　in　the　squalid　village　of　Yonville…l'Abbaye；　near　Rouen；　Gustave　Flaubert　was　able　to　create　a　classic；　and　make　a　masterpiece　of　style；　so；　from　subjects　of　little　or　of　no　importance；　such　as　the　pictures　in　this　year's　Royal　Academy；　or　in　any　year's　Royal　Academy　for　that　matter；　Mr。　Lewis　Morris's　poems；　M。　Ohnet's　novels；　or　the　plays　of　Mr。　Henry　Arthur　Jones；　the　true　critic　can；　if　it　be　his　pleasure　so　to　direct　or　waste　his　faculty　of　contemplation；　produce　work　that　will　be　flawless　in　beauty　and　instinct　with　intellectual　subtlety。　　Why　not？　　Dulness　is　always　an　irresistible　temptation　for　brilliancy；　and　stupidity　is　the　permanent　BESTIA　TRIONFANS　that　calls　wisdom　from　its　cave。　To　an　artist　so　creative　as　the　critic；　what　does　subject…matter　signify？　　No　more　and　no　less　than　it　does　to　the　novelist　and　the　painter。　　Like　them；　he　can　find　his　motives　everywhere。　　Treatment　is　the　test。　　There　is　nothing　that　has　not　in　it　suggestion　or　challenge。

ERNEST。　　But　is　Criticism　really　a　creative　art？

GILBERT。　　Why　should　it　not　be？　　It　works　with　materials；　and　puts　them　into　a　form　that　is　at　once　new　and　delightful。　　What　more　can　one　say　of　poetry？　　Indeed；　I　would　call　criticism　a　creation　within　a　creation。　　For　just　as　the　great　artists；　from　Homer　and　AEschylus；　down　to　Shakespeare　and　Keats；　did　not　go　directly　to　life　for　their　subject…matter；　but　sought　for　it　in　myth；　and　legend；　and　ancient　tale；　so　the　critic　deals　with　materials　that　others　have；　as　it　were；　purified　for　him；　and　to　which　imaginative　form　and　colour　have　been　already　added。　　Nay；　more；　I　would　say　that　the　highest　Criticism；　being　the　purest　form　of　personal　impression；　is　in　its　way　more　creative　than　creation；　as　it　has　least　reference　to　any　standard　external　to　itself；　and　is；　in　fact；　its　own　reason　for　existing；　and；　as　the　Greeks　would　put　it；　in　itself；　and　to　itself；　an　end。　　Certainly；　it　is　never　trammelled　by　any　shackles　of　verisimilitude。　　No　ignoble　considerations　of　probability；　that　cowardly　concession　to　the　tedious　repetitions　of　domestic　or　public　life；　affect　it　ever。　One　may　appeal　from　fiction　unto　fact。　　But　from　the　soul　there　is　no　appeal。

ERNEST。　　From　the　soul？

GILBERT。　　Yes；　from　the　soul。　　That　is　what　the　highest　criticism　really　is；　the　record　of　one's　own　soul。　　It　is　more　fascinating　than　history；　as　it　is　concerned　simply　with　oneself。　　It　is　more　delightful　than　philosophy；　as　its　subject　is　concrete　and　not　abstract；　real　and　not　vague。　　It　is　the　only　civilised　form　of　autobiography；　as　it　deals　not　with　the　events；　but　with　the　thoughts　of　one's　life；　not　with　life's　physical　accidents　of　deed　or　circumstance；　but　with　the　spiritual　moods　and　imaginative　passions　of　the　mind。　　I　am　always　amused　by　the　silly　vanity　of　those　writers　and　artists　of　our　day　who　seem　to　imagine　that　the　primary　function　of　the　critic　is　to　chatter　about　their　second…　rate　work。　　The　best　that　one　can　say　of　most　modern　creative　art　is　that　it　is　just　a　little　less　vulgar　than　reality；　and　so　the　critic；　with　his　fine　sense　of　distinction　and　sure　instinct　of　delicate　refinement；　will　prefer　to　look　into　the　silver　mirror　or　through　the　woven　veil；　and　will　turn　his　eyes　away　from　the　chaos　and　clamour　of　actual　existence；　though　the　mirror　be　tarnished　and　the　veil　be　torn。　　His　sole　aim　is　to　chronicle　his　own　impressions。　　It　is　for　him　that　pictures　are　painted；　books　written；　and　marble　hewn　into　form。

ERNEST。　　I　seem　to　have　heard　another　theory　of　Criticism。

GILBERT。　　Yes：　　it　has　been　said　by　one　whose　gracious　memory　we　all　revere；　and　the　music　of　whose　pipe　once　lured　Proserpina　from　her　Sicilian　fields；　and　made　those　white　feet　stir；　and　not　in　vain；　the　Cumnor　cowslips；　that　the　proper　aim　of　Criticism　is　to　see　the　object　as　in　itself　it　really　is。　　But　this　is　a　very　serious　error；　and　takes　no　cognisance　of　Criticism's　most　perfect　form；　which　is　in　its　essence　purely　subjective；　and　seeks　to　reveal　its　own　secret　and　not　the　secret　of　another。　　For　the　highest　Criticism　deals　with　art　not　as　expressive　but　as　impressive　purely。


ERNEST。　　But　is　that　really　so？

GILBERT。　　Of　course　it　is。　　Who　cares　whether　Mr。　Ruskin's　views　on　Turner　are　sound　or　not？　　What　does　it　matter？　　That　mighty　and　majestic　prose　of　his；　so　fervid　and　so　fiery…coloured　in　its　noble　eloquence；　so　rich　in　its　elaborate　symphonic　music；　so　sure　and　certain；　at　its　best；　in　subtle　choice　of　word　and　epithet；　is　at　least　as　great　a　work　of　art　as　any　of　those　wonderful　sunsets　that　bleach　or　rot　on　their　corrupted　canvases　in　England's　Gallery；　greater　indeed；　one　is　apt　to　think　at　times；　not　merely　because　its　equal　beauty　is　more　enduring；　but　on　account　of　the　fuller　variety　of　its　appeal；　soul　speaking　to　soul　in　those　long…cadenced　lines；　not　through　form　and　colour　alone；　though　through　these；　indeed；　completely　and　without　loss；　bu