the critic as artist-第9部分

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s　us　with　shadows；　like　a　puppet…　master。　　We　ask　it　for　pleasure。　　It　gives　it　to　us；　with　bitterness　and　disappointment　in　its　train。　　We　come　across　some　noble　grief　that　we　think　will　lend　the　purple　dignity　of　tragedy　to　our　days；　but　it　passes　away　from　us；　and　things　less　noble　take　its　place；　and　on　some　grey　windy　dawn；　or　odorous　eve　of　silence　and　of　silver；　we　find　ourselves　looking　with　callous　wonder；　or　dull　heart　of　stone；　at　the　tress　of　gold…flecked　hair　that　we　had　once　so　wildly　worshipped　and　so　madly　kissed。

ERNEST。　　Life　then　is　a　failure？

GILBERT。　　From　the　artistic　point　of　view；　certainly。　　And　the　chief　thing　that　makes　life　a　failure　from　this　artistic　point　of　view　is　the　thing　that　lends　to　life　its　sordid　security；　the　fact　that　one　can　never　repeat　exactly　the　same　emotion。　　How　different　it　is　in　the　world　of　Art！　　On　a　shelf　of　the　bookcase　behind　you　stands　the　DIVINE　COMEDY；　and　I　know　that；　if　I　open　it　at　a　certain　place；　I　shall　be　filled　with　a　fierce　hatred　of　some　one　who　has　never　wronged　me；　or　stirred　by　a　great　love　for　some　one　whom　I　shall　never　see。　　There　is　no　mood　or　passion　that　Art　cannot　give　us；　and　those　of　us　who　have　discovered　her　secret　can　settle　beforehand　what　our　experiences　are　going　to　be。　　We　can　choose　our　day　and　select　our　hour。　　We　can　say　to　ourselves；　'To…　morrow；　at　dawn；　we　shall　walk　with　grave　Virgil　through　the　valley　of　the　shadow　of　death；'　and　lo！　the　dawn　finds　us　in　the　obscure　wood；　and　the　Mantuan　stands　by　our　side。　　We　pass　through　the　gate　of　the　legend　fatal　to　hope；　and　with　pity　or　with　joy　behold　the　horror　of　another　world。　　The　hypocrites　go　by；　with　their　painted　faces　and　their　cowls　of　gilded　lead。　　Out　of　the　ceaseless　winds　that　drive　them；　the　carnal　look　at　us；　and　we　watch　the　heretic　rending　his　flesh；　and　the　glutton　lashed　by　the　rain。　　We　break　the　withered　branches　from　the　tree　in　the　grove　of　the　Harpies；　and　each　dull…hued　poisonous　twig　bleeds　with　red　blood　before　us；　and　cries　aloud　with　bitter　cries。　　Out　of　a　horn　of　fire　Odysseus　speaks　to　us；　and　when　from　his　sepulchre　of　flame　the　great　Ghibelline　rises；　the　pride　that　triumphs　over　the　torture　of　that　bed　becomes　ours　for　a　moment。　　Through　the　dim　purple　air　fly　those　who　have　stained　the　world　with　the　beauty　of　their　sin；　and　in　the　pit　of　loathsome　disease；　dropsy…stricken　and　swollen　of　body　into　the　semblance　of　a　monstrous　lute；　lies　Adamo　di　Brescia；　the　coiner　of　false　coin。　　He　bids　us　listen　to　his　misery；　we　stop；　and　with　dry　and　gaping　lips　he　tells　us　how　he　dreams　day　and　night　of　the　brooks　of　clear　water　that　in　cool　dewy　channels　gush　down　the　green　Casentine　hills。　　Sinon；　the　false　Greek　of　Troy；　mocks　at　him。　　He　smites　him　in　the　face；　and　they　wrangle。　We　are　fascinated　by　their　shame；　and　loiter；　till　Virgil　chides　us　and　leads　us　away　to　that　city　turreted　by　giants　where　great　Nimrod　blows　his　horn。　　Terrible　things　are　in　store　for　us；　and　we　go　to　meet　them　in　Dante's　raiment　and　with　Dante's　heart。　　We　traverse　the　marshes　of　the　Styx；　and　Argenti　swims　to　the　boat　through　the　slimy　waves。　　He　calls　to　us；　and　we　reject　him。　　When　we　hear　the　voice　of　his　agony　we　are　glad；　and　Virgil　praises　us　for　the　bitterness　of　our　scorn。　　We　tread　upon　the　cold　crystal　of　Cocytus；　in　which　traitors　stick　like　straws　in　glass。　　Our　foot　strikes　against　the　head　of　Bocca。　　He　will　not　tell　us　his　name；　and　we　tear　the　hair　in　handfuls　from　the　screaming　skull。　Alberigo　prays　us　to　break　the　ice　upon　his　face　that　he　may　weep　a　little。　　We　pledge　our　word　to　him；　and　when　he　has　uttered　his　dolorous　tale　we　deny　the　word　that　we　have　spoken；　and　pass　from　him；　such　cruelty　being　courtesy　indeed；　for　who　more　base　than　he　who　has　mercy　for　the　condemned　of　God？　　In　the　jaws　of　Lucifer　we　see　the　man　who　sold　Christ；　and　in　the　jaws　of　Lucifer　the　men　who　slew　Caesar。　　We　tremble；　and　come　forth　to　re…behold　the　stars。

In　the　land　of　Purgation　the　air　is　freer；　and　the　holy　mountain　rises　into　the　pure　light　of　day。　　There　is　peace　for　us；　and　for　those　who　for　a　season　abide　in　it　there　is　some　peace　also；　though；　pale　from　the　poison　of　the　Maremma；　Madonna　Pia　passes　before　us；　and　Ismene；　with　the　sorrow　of　earth　still　lingering　about　her；　is　there。　　Soul　after　soul　makes　us　share　in　some　repentance　or　some　joy。　　He　whom　the　mourning　of　his　widow　taught　to　drink　the　sweet　wormwood　of　pain；　tells　us　of　Nella　praying　in　her　lonely　bed；　and　we　learn　from　the　mouth　of　Buonconte　how　a　single　tear　may　save　a　dying　sinner　from　the　fiend。　　Sordello；　that　noble　and　disdainful　Lombard；　eyes　us　from　afar　like　a　couchant　lion。　　When　he　learns　that　Virgil　is　one　of　Mantua's　citizens；　he　falls　upon　his　neck；　and　when　he　learns　that　he　is　the　singer　of　Rome　he　falls　before　his　feet。　　In　that　valley　whose　grass　and　flowers　are　fairer　than　cleft　emerald　and　Indian　wood；　and　brighter　than　scarlet　and　silver；　they　are　singing　who　in　the　world　were　kings；　but　the　lips　of　Rudolph　of　Hapsburg　do　not　move　to　the　music　of　the　others；　and　Philip　of　France　beats　his　breast　and　Henry　of　England　sits　alone。　　On　and　on　we　go；　climbing　the　marvellous　stair；　and　the　stars　become　larger　than　their　wont；　and　the　song　of　the　kings　grows　faint；　and　at　length　we　reach　the　seven　trees　of　gold　and　the　garden　of　the　Earthly　Paradise。　　In　a　griffin…drawn　chariot　appears　one　whose　brows　are　bound　with　olive；　who　is　veiled　in　white；　and　mantled　in　green；　and　robed　in　a　vesture　that　is　coloured　like　live　fire。　　The　ancient　flame　wakes　within　us。　　Our　blood　quickens　through　terrible　pulses。　　We　recognise　her。　　It　is　Beatrice；　the　woman　we　have　worshipped。　　The　ice　congealed　about　our　heart　melts。　　Wild　tears　of　anguish　break　from　us；　and　we　bow　our　forehead　to　the　ground；　for　we　know　that　we　have　sinned。　　When　we　have　done　penance；　and　are　purified；　and　have　drunk　of　the　fountain　of　Lethe　and　bathed　in　the　fountain　of　Eunoe；　the　mistress　of　our　soul　raises　us　to　the　Paradise　of　Heaven。　　Out　of　that　eternal　pearl；　the　moon；　the　face　of　Piccarda　Donati　leans　to　us。　Her　beauty　troubles　us　for　a　moment；　and　when；　like　a　thing　that　falls　through　water；　she　passes　away；　we　gaze　after　her　with　wistful　eyes。　　The　sweet　planet　of　Venus　is　full　of　lovers。　Cunizza；　the　sister　of　Ezzelin；　the　lady　of　Sordello's　heart；　is　there；　and　Folco；　the　passionate　singer　of　Provence；　who　in　sorrow　for　Azalais　forsook　the　world；　and　the　Canaanitish　harlot　whose　soul　was　the　first　that　Christ　redeemed。　　Joachim　of　Flora　stands　in　the　sun；　and；　in　the　sun；　Aquinas　recounts　the　story　of　St。　Francis　and　Bonaventure　the　story　of　St。　Dominic。　　Through　the　burning　rubies　of　Mars；　Cacciaguida　approaches。　　He　tells　us　of　the　arrow　that　is　shot　from　the　bow　of　exile；　and　how　salt　tastes　the　bread　of　another；　and　how　steep　are　the　stairs　in　the　house　of　a　stranger。　　In　Saturn　the　soul　sings　not；　and　even　she　who　guides　us　dare　not　smile。　　On　a　ladder　of　gold　the　flames　rise　and　fall。　　At　last；　we　see　the　pageant　of　the　Mystical　Rose。　　Beatrice　fixes　her　eyes　upon　the　face　of　God　to　turn　them　not　again。　　The　beatific　vision　is　granted　to　us；　we　know　the　Love　that　moves　the　sun　and　all　the　stars。

Yes；　we　can　put　the　earth　back　six　hundred　courses　and　make　ourselves　one　with　the　great　Florentine；　kneel　at　the　same　altar　with　him；　and　share　his　rapture　and　his　scorn。　　And　if　we　grow　tired　of　an　antique　time；　and　desire　to　realise　our　own　age　in　all　its　weariness　and　sin；　are　there　not　books　that　can　make　us　live　more　in　one　single　hour　than　life　can　make　us　live　in　a　score　of　shameful　years？　　Close　to　your　hand　lies　a　little　volume；　bound　in　some　Nile…green　skin　that　has　been　powdered　with　gilded　nenuphars　and　smoothed　with　hard　ivory。　　It　is　the　book　that　Gautier　loved；　it　is　Baudelaire's　masterpiece。　　Open　it　at　that　sad　madrigal　that　begins


Que　m'importe　que　tu　sois　sage？　Sois　belle！　et　sois　triste！


and　you　will　find　yourself　worshipping　sorrow　as　you　have　never　worshipped　joy。　　Pass　on　to　the　poem　on　the　man　who　tortures　himself；　let　its　subtle　music　steal　into　your　brain　and　colour　your　thoughts；　and　you　will　become　for　a　moment　what　he　was　who　wrote　it；　nay；　not　for　a　moment　only；　but　for　many　barren　moonlit　nights　and　sunless　sterile　days　will　a　despair　that　is　not　your　own　make　its　dwelling　within　you；　and　the　misery　of　another　gnaw　your　heart　away。　　Read　the　whole　book；　suffer　it　to　tell　even　one　of　its　secrets　to　your　soul；　and　your　soul　will　grow　eager　to　know　more；　and　will　feed　upon　poisonous　honey；　and　seek　to　repent　of　strange　crimes　of　which　it　is　guiltless；　and　to　make　atonement　for　terrible　pleasures　that　it　has　never　known。　　And　then；　when　you　are　tired　of　these　flowers　of　evil；　turn　to　the　flowers　that　grow　in　the　garden　of　Perdita；　and　in　their　dew…drenched　chalices　cool　your　fevered　brow；　and　let　their　loveliness　heal　and　restore　your　soul；　or　wake　from　his　forgotten　tomb　the　sweet　Syrian；　Meleager；　and　bid　the　lover　of　Heliodore　make　you　music；　for　he　too　has　flowers　in　his　song；　red　pomegranate　blossoms；　and　irises　that　smell　of　myrrh；　ringed　daffodils　and　dark　blue　hyacinths；　and　marjoram　and　crinkled　ox…eyes。　　Dear　to　him　was　the　perfume　of　the　bean…field　at　evening；　and　dear　to　him　the　odorous　eared…spikenard　that　grew　on　the　Syrian　hills；　and　the　fresh　green　thyme；　the　wine…cup's　charm。　　The　feet　of　his　love　as　she　walked　in　the　garden　were　like　lilies　set　upon　lilies。　　Softer　than　sleep…laden　poppy　petals　were　her　lips；　softer　than　violets　and　as　scented。　　The　flame…like　crocus　sprang　from　the　grass　to　look　at　her。　　For　her　the　slim　narcissus　stored　the　cool　rain；　and　for　her　the　anemones　forgot　the　Sicilian　winds　that　wooed　them。　　And　neither　crocus；　nor　anemone；　nor　narcissus　was　as　fair　as　she　was。

It　is　a　strange　thing；　this　transference　of　emotion。　　We　sicken　with　the　same　maladies　as　the　poets；　and　the　singer　lends　us　his　pain。　　Dead　lips　have　their　message　for　us；　and　hearts　that　have　fallen　to　dust　can　communicate　their　joy。　　We　run　to　kiss　the　bleeding　mouth　of　Fantine；　and　we　follow　Manon　Lescaut　over　the　whole　world。　　Ours　is　the　love…madness　of　the　Tyrian；　and　the　terror　of　Orestes　is　ours　also。　　There　is　no　passion　that　we　cannot　feel；　no　pleasure　that　we　may　not　gratify