the critic as artist-第7部分

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ndeed；　completely　and　without　loss；　but　with　intellectual　and　emotional　utterance；　with　lofty　passion　and　with　loftier　thought；　with　imaginative　insight；　and　with　poetic　aim；　greater；　I　always　think；　even　as　Literature　is　the　greater　art。　　Who；　again；　cares　whether　Mr。　Pater　has　put　into　the　portrait　of　Monna　Lisa　something　that　Lionardo　never　dreamed　of？　　The　painter　may　have　been　merely　the　slave　of　an　archaic　smile；　as　some　have　fancied；　but　whenever　I　pass　into　the　cool　galleries　of　the　Palace　of　the　Louvre；　and　stand　before　that　strange　figure　'set　in　its　marble　chair　in　that　cirque　of　fantastic　rocks；　as　in　some　faint　light　under　sea；'　I　murmur　to　myself；　'She　is　older　than　the　rocks　among　which　she　sits；　like　the　vampire；　she　has　been　dead　many　times；　and　learned　the　secrets　of　the　grave；　and　has　been　a　diver　in　deep　seas；　and　keeps　their　fallen　day　about　her：　　and　trafficked　for　strange　webs　with　Eastern　merchants；　and；　as　Leda；　was　the　mother　of　Helen　of　Troy；　and；　as　St。　Anne；　the　mother　of　Mary；　and　all　this　has　been　to　her　but　as　the　sound　of　lyres　and　flutes；　and　lives　only　in　the　delicacy　with　which　it　has　moulded　the　changing　lineaments；　and　tinged　the　eyelids　and　the　hands。'　　And　I　say　to　my　friend；　'The　presence　that　thus　so　strangely　rose　beside　the　waters　is　expressive　of　what　in　the　ways　of　a　thousand　years　man　had　come　to　desire'；　and　he　answers　me；　'Hers　is　the　head　upon　which　all　〃the　ends　of　the　world　are　come；〃　and　the　eyelids　are　a　little　weary。'

And　so　the　picture　becomes　more　wonderful　to　us　than　it　really　is；　and　reveals　to　us　a　secret　of　which；　in　truth；　it　knows　nothing；　and　the　music　of　the　mystical　prose　is　as　sweet　in　our　ears　as　was　that　flute…player's　music　that　lent　to　the　lips　of　La　Gioconda　those　subtle　and　poisonous　curves。　　Do　you　ask　me　what　Lionardo　would　have　said　had　any　one　told　him　of　this　picture　that　'all　the　thoughts　and　experience　of　the　world　had　etched　and　moulded　therein　that　which　they　had　of　power　to　refine　and　make　expressive　the　outward　form；　the　animalism　of　Greece；　the　lust　of　Rome；　the　reverie　of　the　Middle　Age　with　its　spiritual　ambition　and　imaginative　loves；　the　return　of　the　Pagan　world；　the　sins　of　the　Borgias？'　　He　would　probably　have　answered　that　he　had　contemplated　none　of　these　things；　but　had　concerned　himself　simply　with　certain　arrangements　of　lines　and　masses；　and　with　new　and　curious　colour…　harmonies　of　blue　and　green。　　And　it　is　for　this　very　reason　that　the　criticism　which　I　have　quoted　is　criticism　of　the　highest　kind。　It　treats　the　work　of　art　simply　as　a　starting…point　for　a　new　creation。　　It　does　not　confine　itself　…　let　us　at　least　suppose　so　for　the　moment　…　to　discovering　the　real　intention　of　the　artist　and　accepting　that　as　final。　　And　in　this　it　is　right；　for　the　meaning　of　any　beautiful　created　thing　is；　at　least；　as　much　in　the　soul　of　him　who　looks　at　it；　as　it　was　in　his　soul　who　wrought　it。　Nay；　it　is　rather　the　beholder　who　lends　to　the　beautiful　thing　its　myriad　meanings；　and　makes　it　marvellous　for　us；　and　sets　it　in　some　new　relation　to　the　age；　so　that　it　becomes　a　vital　portion　of　our　lives；　and　a　symbol　of　what　we　pray　for；　or　perhaps　of　what；　having　prayed　for；　we　fear　that　we　may　receive。　　The　longer　I　study；　Ernest；　the　more　clearly　I　see　that　the　beauty　of　the　visible　arts　is；　as　the　beauty　of　music；　impressive　primarily；　and　that　it　may　be　marred；　and　indeed　often　is　so；　by　any　excess　of　intellectual　intention　on　the　part　of　the　artist。　　For　when　the　work　is　finished　it　has；　as　it　were；　an　independent　life　of　its　own；　and　may　deliver　a　message　far　other　than　that　which　was　put　into　its　lips　to　say。　　Sometimes；　when　I　listen　to　the　overture　to　TANNHAUSER；　I　seem　indeed　to　see　that　comely　knight　treading　delicately　on　the　flower…strewn　grass；　and　to　hear　the　voice　of　Venus　calling　to　him　from　the　caverned　hill。　　But　at　other　times　it　speaks　to　me　of　a　thousand　different　things；　of　myself；　it　may　be；　and　my　own　life；　or　of　the　lives　of　others　whom　one　has　loved　and　grown　weary　of　loving；　or　of　the　passions　that　man　has　known；　or　of　the　passions　that　man　has　not　known；　and　so　has　sought　for。　　To…　night　it　may　fill　one　with　that　＇Greek　text　which　cannot　be　reproduced＇；　that　AMOUR　DE　L'IMPOSSIBLE；　which　falls　like　a　madness　on　many　who　think　they　live　securely　and　out　of　reach　of　harm；　so　that　they　sicken　suddenly　with　the　poison　of　unlimited　desire；　and；　in　the　infinite　pursuit　of　what　they　may　not　obtain；　grow　faint　and　swoon　or　stumble。　　To…morrow；　like　the　music　of　which　Aristotle　and　Plato　tell　us；　the　noble　Dorian　music　of　the　Greek；　it　may　perform　the　office　of　a　physician；　and　give　us　an　anodyne　against　pain；　and　heal　the　spirit　that　is　wounded；　and　'bring　the　soul　into　harmony　with　all　right　things。'　　And　what　is　true　about　music　is　true　about　all　the　arts。　　Beauty　has　as　many　meanings　as　man　has　moods。　Beauty　is　the　symbol　of　symbols。　　Beauty　reveals　everything；　because　it　expresses　nothing。　　When　it　shows　us　itself；　it　shows　us　the　whole　fiery…coloured　world。

ERNEST。　　But　is　such　work　as　you　have　talked　about　really　criticism？

GILBERT。　　It　is　the　highest　Criticism；　for　it　criticises　not　merely　the　individual　work　of　art；　but　Beauty　itself；　and　fills　with　wonder　a　form　which　the　artist　may　have　left　void；　or　not　understood；　or　understood　incompletely。

ERNEST。　　The　highest　Criticism；　then；　is　more　creative　than　creation；　and　the　primary　aim　of　the　critic　is　to　see　the　object　as　in　itself　it　really　is　not；　that　is　your　theory；　I　believe？

GILBERT。　　Yes；　that　is　my　theory。　　To　the　critic　the　work　of　art　is　simply　a　suggestion　for　a　new　work　of　his　own；　that　need　not　necessarily　bear　any　obvious　resemblance　to　the　thing　it　criticises。　　The　one　characteristic　of　a　beautiful　form　is　that　one　can　put　into　it　whatever　one　wishes；　and　see　in　it　whatever　one　chooses　to　see；　and　the　Beauty；　that　gives　to　creation　its　universal　and　aesthetic　element；　makes　the　critic　a　creator　in　his　turn；　and　whispers　of　a　thousand　different　things　which　were　not　present　in　the　mind　of　him　who　carved　the　statue　or　painted　the　panel　or　graved　the　gem。

It　is　sometimes　said　by　those　who　understand　neither　the　nature　of　the　highest　Criticism　nor　the　charm　of　the　highest　Art；　that　the　pictures　that　the　critic　loves　most　to　write　about　are　those　that　belong　to　the　anecdotage　of　painting；　and　that　deal　with　scenes　taken　out　of　literature　or　history。　　But　this　is　not　so。　　Indeed；　pictures　of　this　kind　are　far　too　intelligible。　　As　a　class；　they　rank　with　illustrations；　and；　even　considered　from　this　point　of　view　are　failures；　as　they　do　not　stir　the　imagination；　but　set　definite　bounds　to　it。　　For　the　domain　of　the　painter　is；　as　I　suggested　before；　widely　different　from　that　of　the　poet。　　To　the　latter　belongs　life　in　its　full　and　absolute　entirety；　not　merely　the　beauty　that　men　look　at；　but　the　beauty　that　men　listen　to　also；　not　merely　the　momentary　grace　of　form　or　the　transient　gladness　of　colour；　but　the　whole　sphere　of　feeling；　the　perfect　cycle　of　thought。　　The　painter　is　so　far　limited　that　it　is　only　through　the　mask　of　the　body　that　he　can　show　us　the　mystery　of　the　soul；　only　through　conventional　images　that　he　can　handle　ideas；　only　through　its　physical　equivalents　that　he　can　deal　with　psychology。　　And　how　inadequately　does　he　do　it　then；　asking　us　to　accept　the　torn　turban　of　the　Moor　for　the　noble　rage　of　Othello；　or　a　dotard　in　a　storm　for　the　wild　madness　of　Lear！　　Yet　it　seems　as　if　nothing　could　stop　him。　　Most　of　our　elderly　English　painters　spend　their　wicked　and　wasted　lives　in　poaching　upon　the　domain　of　the　poets；　marring　their　motives　by　clumsy　treatment；　and　striving　to　render；　by　visible　form　or　colour；　the　marvel　of　what　is　invisible；　the　splendour　of　what　is　not　seen。　　Their　pictures　are；　as　a　natural　consequence；　insufferably　tedious。　　They　have　degraded　the　invisible　arts　into　the　obvious　arts；　and　the　one　thing　not　worth　looking　at　is　the　obvious。　　I　do　not　say　that　poet　and　painter　may　not　treat　of　the　same　subject。　　They　have　always　done　so　and　will　always　do　so。　　But　while　the　poet　can　be　pictorial　or　not；　as　he　chooses；　the　painter　must　be　pictorial　always。　　For　a　painter　is　limited；　not　to　what　he　sees　in　nature；　but　to　what　upon　canvas　may　be　seen。

And　so；　my　dear　Ernest；　pictures　of　this　kind　will　not　really　fascinate　the　critic。　　He　will　turn　from　them　to　such　works　as　make　him　brood　and　dream　and　fancy；　to　works　that　possess　the　subtle　quality　of　suggestion；　and　seem　to　tell　one　that　even　from　them　there　is　an　escape　into　a　wider　world。　　It　is　sometimes　said　that　the　tragedy　of　an　artist's　life　is　that　he　cannot　realise　his　ideal。　　But　the　true　tragedy　that　dogs　the　steps　of　most　artists　is　that　they　realise　their　ideal　too　absolutely。　　For；　when　the　ideal　is　realised；　it　is　robbed　of　its　wonder　and　its　mystery；　and　becomes　simply　a　new　starting…point　for　an　ideal　that　is　other　than　itself。　　This　is　the　reason　why　music　is　the　perfect　type　of　art。　Music　can　never　reveal　its　ultimate　secret。　　This；　also；　is　the　explanation　of　the　value　of　limitations　in　art。　　The　sculptor　gladly　surrenders　imitative　colour；　and　the　painter　the　actual　dimensions　of　form；　because　by　such　renunciations　they　are　able　to　avoid　too　definite　a　presentation　of　the　Real；　which　would　be　mere　imitation；　and　too　definite　a　realisation　of　the　Ideal；　which　would　be　too　purely　intellectual。　　It　is　through　its　very　incompleteness　that　art　becomes　complete　in　beauty；　and　so　addresses　itself；　not　to　the　faculty　of　recognition　nor　to　the　faculty　of　reason；　but　to　the　aesthetic　sense　alone；　which；　while　accepting　both　reason　and　recognition　as　stages　of　apprehension；　subordinates　them　both　to　a　pure　synthetic　impression　of　the　work　of　art　as　a　whole；　and；　taking　whatever　alien　emotional　elements　the　work　may　possess；　uses　their　very　complexity　as　a　means　by　which　a　richer　unity　may　be　added　to　the　ultimate　impression　itself。　　You　see；　then；　how　it　is　that　the　aesthetic　critic　rejects　these　obvious　modes　of　art　that　have　but　one　message　to　deliver；　and　having　delivered　it　become　dumb　and　sterile；　and　seeks　rather　for　such　modes　as　suggest　reverie　and　mood；　and　by　their　imaginative　beauty　make　all　interpretations　true；　and　no　interpretation　final