a miscellany of men-第17部分

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Thus　Giotto　or　Fra　Angelieo　would　have　at　once　admitted　theologically　that　God　was　too　good　to　be　painted；　but　they　would　always　try　to　paint　Him。　　And　they　felt　（very　rightly）　that　representing　Him　as　a　rather　quaint　old　man　with　a　gold　crown　and　a　white　beard；　like　a　king　of　the　elves；　was　less　profane　than　resisting　the　sacred　impulse　to　express　Him　in　some　way。　　That　is　why　the　Christian　world　is　full　of　gaudy　pictures　and　twisted　statues　which　seem；　to　many　refined　persons；　more　blasphemous　than　the　secret　volumes　of　an　atheist。　　The　trend　of　good　is　always　towards　Incarnation。　　But；　on　the　other　hand；　those　refined　thinkers　who　worship　the　Devil；　whether　in　the　swamps　of　Jamaica　or　the　salons　of　Paris；　always　insist　upon　the　shapelessness；　the　wordlessness；　the　unutterable　character　of　the　abomination。　　They　call　him　〃horror　of　emptiness；〃　as　did　the　black　witch　in　Stevenson's　Dynamiter；　they　worship　him　as　the　unspeakable　name；　as　the　unbearable　silence。　　They　think　of　him　as　the　void　in　the　heart　of　the　whirlwind；　the　cloud　on　the　brain　of　the　maniac；　the　toppling　turrets　of　vertigo　or　the　endless　corridors　of　nightmare。　　It　was　the　Christians　who　gave　the　Devil　a　grotesque　and　energetic　outline；　with　sharp　horns　and　spiked　tail。　　It　was　the　saints　who　drew　Satan　as　comic　and　even　lively。　　The　Satanists　never　drew　him　at　all。

And　as　it　is　with　moral　good　and　evil；　so　it　is　also　with　mental　clarity　and　mental　confusion。　There　is　one　very　valid　test　by　which　we　may　separate　genuine；　if　perverse　and　unbalanced；　originality　and　revolt　from　mere　impudent　innovation　and　bluff。　　The　man　who　really　thinks　he　has　an　idea　will　always　try　to　explain　that　idea。　　The　charlatan　who　has　no　idea　will　always　confine　himself　to　explaining　that　it　is　much　too　subtle　to　be　explained。　　The　first　idea　may　really　be　very　outree　or　specialist；　it　may　really　be　very　difficult　to　express　to　ordinary　people。　　But　because　the　man　is　trying　to　express　it；　it　is　most　probable　that　there　is　something　in　it；　after　all。　　The　honest　man　is　he　who　is　always　trying　to　utter　the　unutterable；　to　describe　the　indescribable；　but　the　quack　lives　not　by　plunging　into　mystery；　but　by　refusing　to　come　out　of　it。

Perhaps　this　distinction　is　most　comically　plain　in　the　case　of　the　thing　called　Art；　and　the　people　called　Art　Critics。　　It　is　obvious　that　an　attractive　landscape　or　a　living　face　can　only　half　express　the　holy　cunning　that　has　made　them　what　they　are。　　It　is　equally　obvious　that　a　landscape　painter　expresses　only　half　of　the　landscape；　a　portrait　painter　only　half　of　the　person；　they　are　lucky　if　they　express　so　much。　And　again　it　is　yet　more　obvious　that　any　literary　description　of　the　pictures　can　only　express　half　of　them；　and　that　the　less　important　half。　Still；　it　does　express　something；　the　thread　is　not　broken　that　connects　God　With　Nature；　or　Nature　with　men；　or　men　with　critics。　　The　〃Mona　Lisa〃　was　in　some　respects　（not　all；　I　fancy）　what　God　meant　her　to　be。　Leonardo's　picture　was；　in　some　respects；　like　the　lady。　　And　Walter　Pater's　rich　description　was；　in　some　respects；　like　the　picture。　　Thus　we　come　to　the　consoling　reflection　that　even　literature；　in　the　last　resort；　can　express　something　other　than　its　own　unhappy　self。

Now　the　modern　critic　is　a　humbug；　because　he　professes　to　be　entirely　inarticulate。　　Speech　is　his　whole　business；　and　he　boasts　of　being　speechless。　　Before　Botticelli　he　is　mute。　　But　if　there　is　any　good　in　Botticelli　（there　is　much　good；　and　much　evil　too）　it　is　emphatically　the　critic's　business　to　explain　it：　to　translate　it　from　terms　of　painting　into　terms　of　diction。　　Of　course；　the　rendering　will　be　inadequatebut　so　is　Botticelli。　　It　is　a　fact　he　would　be　the　first　to　admit。　　But　anything　which　has　been　intelligently　received　can　at　least　be　intelligently　suggested。　　Pater　does　suggest　an　intelligent　cause　for　the　cadaverous　colour　of　Botticelli's　〃Venus　Rising　from　the　Sea。〃　Ruskin　does　suggest　an　intelligent　motive　for　Turner　destroying　forests　and　falsifying　landscapes。　These　two　great　critics　were　far　too　fastidious　for　my　taste；　they　urged　to　excess　the　idea　that　a　sense　of　art　was　a　sort　of　secret；　to　be　patiently　taught　and　slowly　learnt。　　Still；　they　thought　it　could　be　taught：　they　thought　it　could　be　learnt。　　They　constrained　themselves；　with　considerable　creative　fatigue；　to　find　the　exact　adjectives　which　might　parallel　in　English　prose　what　has　been　clone　in　Italian　painting。　　The　same　is　true　of　Whistler　and　R。　　A。　　M。　Stevenson　and　many　others　in　the　exposition　of　Velasquez。　　They　had　something　to　say　about　the　pictures；　they　knew　it　was　unworthy　of　the　pictures；　but　they　said　it。

Now　the　eulogists　of　the　latest　artistic　insanities　（Cubism　and　Post…　Impressionism　and　Mr。　Picasso）　are　eulogists　and　nothing　else。　　They　are　not　critics；　least　of　all　creative　critics。　　They　do　not　attempt　to　translate　beauty　into　language；　they　merely　tell　you　that　it　is　untranslatablethat　is；　unutterable；　indefinable；　indescribable；　impalpable；　ineffable；　and　all　the　rest　of　it。　　The　cloud　is　their　banner；　they　cry　to　chaos　and　old　night。　　They　circulate　a　piece　of　paper　on　which　Mr。　Picasso　has　had　the　misfortune　to　upset　the　ink　and　tried　to　dry　it　with　his　boots；　and　they　seek　to　terrify　democracy　by　the　good　old　anti…democratic　muddlements：　that　〃the　public〃　does　not　understand　these　things；　that　〃the　likes　of　us〃　cannot　dare　to　question　the　dark　decisions　of　our　lords。

I　venture　to　suggest　that　we　resist　all　this　rubbish　by　the　very　simple　test　mentioned　above。　　If　there　were　anything　intelligent　in　such　art；　something　of　it　at　least　could　be　made　intelligible　in　literature。　　Man　is　made　with　one　head；　not　with　two　or　three。　　No　criticism　of　Rembrandt　is　as　good　as　Rembrandt；　but　it　can　be　so　written　as　to　make　a　man　go　back　and　look　at　his　pictures。　　If　there　is　a　curious　and　fantastic　art；　it　is　the　business　of　the　art　critics　to　create　a　curious　and　fantastic　literary　expression　for　it；　inferior　to　it；　doubtless；　but　still　akin　to　it。　　If　they　cannot　do　this；　as　they　cannot；　if　there　is　nothing　in　their　eulogies；　as　there　is　nothing　except　eulogythen　they　are　quacks　or　the　high…priests　of　the　unutterable。　　If　the　art　critics　can　say　nothing　about　the　artists　except　that　they　are　good　it　is　because　the　artists　are　bad。　They　can　explain　nothing　because　they　have　found　nothing；　and　they　have　found　nothing　because　there　is　nothing　to　be　found。



THE　RED　REACTIONARY


The　one　case　for　Revolution　is　that　it　is　the　only　quite　clean　and　complete　road　to　anythingeven　to　restoration。　　Revolution　alone　can　be　not　merely　a　revolt　of　the　living；　but　also　a　resurrection　of　the　dead。

A　friend　of　mine　（one；　in　fact；　who　writes　prominently　on　this　paper）　was　once　walking　down　the　street　in　a　town　of　Western　France；　situated　in　that　area　that　used　to　be　called　La　Vendee；　which　in　that　great　creative　crisis　about　1790　formed　a　separate　and　mystical　soul　of　its　own；　and　made　a　revolution　against　a　revolution。　　As　my　friend　went　down　this　street　he　whistled　an　old　French　air　which　he　had　found；　like　Mr。　Gandish；　〃in　his　researches　into　'istry；〃　and　which　had　somehow　taken　his　fancy；　the　song　to　which　those　last　sincere　loyalists　went　into　battle。　I　think　the　words　ran　：…

　　Monsieur　de　Charette。　　　Dit　au　gens　d'ici。　　　Le　roi　va　remettre。　　　Le　fleur　de　lys。

My　friend　was　（and　is）　a　Radical；　but　he　was　（and　is）　an　Englishman；　and　it　never　occurred　to　him　that　there　could　be　any　harm　in　singing　archaic　lyrics　out　of　remote　centuries；　that　one　had　to　be　a　Catholic　to　enjoy　the　〃Dies　Irae；〃　or　a　Protestant　to　remember　〃Lillibullero。〃　　Yet　he　was　stopped　and　gravely　warned　that　things　so　politically　provocative　might　get　him　at　least　into　temporary　trouble。

A　little　time　after　I　was　helping　King　George　V　to　get　crowned；　by　walking　round　a　local　bonfire　and　listening　to　a　local　band。　　Just　as　a　bonfire　cannot　be　too　big；　so　（by　my　theory　of　music）　a　band　cannot　be　too　loud；　and　this　band　was　so　loud；　emphatic；　and　obvious；　that　I　actually　recognised　one　or　two　of　the　tunes。　　And　I　noticed　that　quite　a　formidable　proportion　of　them　were　Jacobite　tunes；　that　is；　tunes　that　had　been　primarily　meant　to　keep　George　V　out　of　his　throne　for　ever。　Some　of　the　real　airs　of　the　old　Scottish　rebellion　were　played；　such　as　〃Charlie　is　My　Darling；〃　or　〃What's　a'　the　steer；　kimmer？〃　　songs　that　men　had　sung　while　marching　to　destroy　and　drive　out　the　monarchy　under　which　we　live。　　They　were　songs　in　which　the　very　kinsmen　of　the　present　King　were　swept　aside　as　usurpers。　　They　were　songs　in　which　the　actual　words　〃King　George〃　occurred　as　a　curse　and　a　derision。　　Yet　they　were　played　to　celebrate　his　very　Coronation；　played　as　promptly　and　innocently　as　if　they　had　been　〃Grandfather's　Clock〃　or　〃Rule　Britannia〃　or　〃The　Honeysuckle　and　the　Bee。〃

That　contrast　is　the　measure；　not　only　between　two　nations；　but　between　two　modes　of　historical　construction　and　development。　　For　there　is　not　really　very　much　difference；　as　European　history　goes；　in　the　time　that　has　elapsed　between　us　and　the　Jacobite　and　between　us　and　the　Jacobin。　When　George　III　was　crowned　the　gauntlet　of　the　King's　Champion　was　picked　up　by　a　partisan　of　the　Stuarts。　　When　George　III　was　still　on　the　throne　the　Bourbons　were　driven　out　of　France　as　the　Stuarts　had　been　driven　out　of　England。　　Yet　the　French　are　just　sufficiently　aware　that　the　Bourbons　might　possibly　return　that　they　will　take　a　little　trouble　to　discourage　it；　whereas　we　are　so　certain　that　the　Stuarts　will　never　return　that　we　actually　play　their　most　passionate　tunes　as　a　compliment　to　their　rivals。　And　we　do　not　even　do　it　tauntingly。　　I　examined　the　faces　of　all　the　bandsmen；　and　I　am　sure　they　were　devoid　of　irony：　indeed；　it　is　difficult　to　blow　a　wind　instrument　ironically。　　We　do　it　quite　unconsciously；　because　we　have　a　huge　fundamental　dogma；　which　the　French　have　not。　　We　really　believe　that　the　past　is　past。　　It　is　a　very　doubtful　point。

Now　the　great　gift　of　a　revolution　（as　in　France）　is　that　it　makes　men　free　in　the　past　as　well　as　free　in　the　future。　　Those　who　have　cleared　away　everything　could；　if　they　liked；　put　back　everything。　　But　we　who　have　preserved　everythingw