essays and lectures-第16章

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eternally　the　same：　　no　theme　is　inept；　no　past　or　present

preferable。　　The　steam　whistle　will　not　affright　him　nor　the　flutes

of　Arcadia　weary　him：　　for　him　there　is　but　one　time；　the　artistic

moment；　but　one　law；　the　law　of　form；　but　one　land；　the　land　of

Beauty　…　a　land　removed　indeed　from　the　real　world　and　yet　more

sensuous　because　more　enduring；　calm；　yet　with　that　calm　which

dwells　in　the　faces　of　the　Greek　statues；　the　calm　which　comes　not

from　the　rejection　but　from　the　absorption　of　passion；　the　calm

which　despair　and　sorrow　cannot　disturb　but　intensify　only。　　And　so

it　comes　that　he　who　seems　to　stand　most　remote　from　his　age　is　he

who　mirrors　it　best；　because　he　has　stripped　life　of　what　is

accidental　and　transitory；　stripped　it　of　that　'mist　of　familiarity

which　makes　life　obscure　to　us。'



Those　strange；　wild…eyed　sibyls　fixed　eternally　in　the　whirlwind　of

ecstasy；　those　mighty…limbed　and　Titan　prophets；　labouring　with　the

secret　of　the　earth　and　the　burden　of　mystery；　that　guard　and

glorify　the　chapel　of　Pope　Sixtus　at　Rome　…　do　they　not　tell　us

more　of　the　real　spirit　of　the　Italian　Renaissance；　of　the　dream　of

Savonarola　and　of　the　sin　of　Borgia；　than　all　the　brawling　boors

and　cooking　women　of　Dutch　art　can　teach　us　of　the　real　spirit　of

the　history　of　Holland？



And　so　in　our　own　day；　also；　the　two　most　vital　tendencies　of　the

nineteenth　century　…　the　democratic　and　pantheistic　tendency　and

the　tendency　to　value　life　for　the　sake　of　art　…　found　their　most

complete　and　perfect　utterance　in　the　poetry　of　Shelley　and　Keats

who；　to　the　blind　eyes　of　their　own　time；　seemed　to　be　as　wanderers

in　the　wilderness；　preachers　of　vague　or　unreal　things。　　And　I

remember　once；　in　talking　to　Mr。　Burne…Jones　about　modern　science；

his　saying　to　me；　'the　more　materialistic　science　becomes；　the　more

angels　shall　I　paint：　　their　wings　are　my　protest　in　favour　of　the

immortality　of　the　soul。'



But　these　are　the　intellectual　speculations　that　underlie　art。

Where　in　the　arts　themselves　are　we　to　find　that　breadth　of　human

sympathy　which　is　the　condition　of　all　noble　work；　where　in　the

arts　are　we　to　look　for　what　Mazzini　would　call　the　social　ideas　as

opposed　to　the　merely　personal　ideas？　　By　virtue　of　what　claim　do　I

demand　for　the　artist　the　love　and　loyalty　of　the　men　and　women　of

the　world？　　I　think　I　can　answer　that。



Whatever　spiritual　message　an　artist　brings　to　his　aid　is　a　matter

for　his　own　soul。　　He　may　bring　judgment　like　Michael　Angelo　or

peace　like　Angelico；　he　may　come　with　mourning　like　the　great

Athenian　or　with　mirth　like　the　singer　of　Sicily；　nor　is　it　for　us

to　do　aught　but　accept　his　teaching；　knowing　that　we　cannot　smite

the　bitter　lips　of　Leopardi　into　laughter　or　burden　with　our

discontent　Goethe's　serene　calm。　　But　for　warrant　of　its　truth　such

message　must　have　the　flame　of　eloquence　in　the　lips　that　speak　it；

splendour　and　glory　in　the　vision　that　is　its　witness；　being

justified　by　one　thing　only　…　the　flawless　beauty　and　perfect　form

of　its　expression：　　this　indeed　being　the　social　idea；　being　the

meaning　of　joy　in　art。



Not　laughter　where　none　should　laugh；　nor　the　calling　of　peace

where　there　is　no　peace；　not　in　painting　the　subject　ever；　but　the

pictorial　charm　only；　the　wonder　of　its　colour；　the　satisfying

beauty　of　its　design。



You　have　most　of　you　seen；　probably；　that　great　masterpiece　of

Rubens　which　hangs　in　the　gallery　of　Brussels；　that　swift　and

wonderful　pageant　of　horse　and　rider　arrested　in　its　most　exquisite

and　fiery　moment　when　the　winds　are　caught　in　crimson　banner　and

the　air　lit　by　the　gleam　of　armour　and　the　flash　of　plume。　　Well；

that　is　joy　in　art；　though　that　golden　hillside　be　trodden　by　the

wounded　feet　of　Christ　and　it　is　for　the　death　of　the　Son　of　Man

that　that　gorgeous　cavalcade　is　passing。



But　this　restless　modern　intellectual　spirit　of　ours　is　not

receptive　enough　of　the　sensuous　element　of　art；　and　so　the　real

influence　of　the　arts　is　hidden　from　many　of　us：　　only　a　few；

escaping　from　the　tyranny　of　the　soul；　have　learned　the　secret　of

those　high　hours　when　thought　is　not。



And　this　indeed　is　the　reason　of　the　influence　which　Eastern　art　is

having　on　us　in　Europe；　and　of　the　fascination　of　all　Japanese

work。　　While　the　Western　world　has　been　laying　on　art　the

intolerable　burden　of　its　own　intellectual　doubts　and　the　spiritual

tragedy　of　its　own　sorrows；　the　East　has　always　kept　true　to　art's

primary　and　pictorial　conditions。



In　judging　of　a　beautiful　statue　the　aesthetic　faculty　is

absolutely　and　completely　gratified　by　the　splendid　curves　of　those

marble　lips　that　are　dumb　to　our　complaint；　the　noble　modelling　of

those　limbs　that　are　powerless　to　help　us。　　In　its　primary　aspect　a

painting　has　no　more　spiritual　message　or　meaning　than　an　exquisite

fragment　of　Venetian　glass　or　a　blue　tile　from　the　wall　of

Damascus：　　it　is　a　beautifully　coloured　surface；　nothing　more。　　The

channels　by　which　all　noble　imaginative　work　in　painting　should

touch；　and　do　touch　the　soul；　are　not　those　of　the　truths　of　life；

nor　metaphysical　truths。　　But　that　pictorial　charm　which　does　not

depend　on　any　literary　reminiscence　for　its　effect　on　the　one　hand；

nor　is　yet　a　mere　result　of　communicable　technical　skill　on　the

other；　comes　of　a　certain　inventive　and　creative　handling　of

colour。　　Nearly　always　in　Dutch　painting　and　often　in　the　works　of

Giorgione　or　Titian；　it　is　entirely　independent　of　anything

definitely　poetical　in　the　subject；　a　kind　of　form　and　choice　in

workmanship　which　is　itself　entirely　satisfying；　and　is　（as　the

Greeks　would　say）　an　end　in　itself。



And　so　in　poetry　too；　the　real　poetical　quality；　the　joy　of　poetry；

comes　never　from　the　subject　but　from　an　inventive　handling　of

rhythmical　language；　from　what　Keats　called　the　'sensuous　life　of

verse。'　　The　element　of　song　in　the　singing　accompanied　by　the

profound　joy　of　motion；　is　so　sweet　that；　while　the　incomplete

lives　of　ordinary　men　bring　no　healing　power　with　them；　the　thorn…

crown　of　the　poet　will　blossom　into　roses　for　our　pleasure；　for　our

delight　his　despair　will　gild　its　own　thorns；　and　his　pain；　like

Adonis；　be　beautiful　in　its　agony；　and　when　the　poet's　heart　breaks

it　will　break　in　music。



And　health　in　art　…　what　is　that？　　It　has　nothing　to　do　with　a　sane

criticism　of　life。　　There　is　more　health　in　Baudelaire　than　there

is　in　＇Kingsley＇。　　Health　is　the　artist's　recognition　of　the

limitations　of　the　form　in　which　he　works。　　It　is　the　honour　and

the　homage　which　he　gives　to　the　material　he　uses　…　whether　it　be

language　with　its　glories；　or　marble　or　pigment　with　their　glories

…　knowing　that　the　true　brotherhood　of　the　arts　consists　not　in

their　borrowing　one　another's　method；　but　in　their　producing；　each

of　them　by　its　own　individual　means；　each　of　them　by　keeping　its

objective　limits；　the　same　unique　artistic　delight。　　The　delight　is

like　that　given　to　us　by　music　…　for　music　is　the　art　in　which　form

and　matter　are　always　one；　the　art　whose　subject　cannot　be

separated　from　the　method　of　its　expression；　the　art　which　most

completely　realises　the　artistic　ideal；　and　is　the　condition　to

which　all　the　other　arts　are　constantly　aspiring。



And　criticism　…　what　place　is　that　to　have　in　our　culture？　　Well；　I

think　that　the　first　duty　of　an　art　critic　is　to　hold　his　tongue　at

all　times；　and　upon　all　subjects：　　C'EST　UN　GRAND　AVANTAGE　DE

N'AVOIR　RIEN　FAIT；　MAIS　IL　NE　FAUT　PAS　EN　ABUSER。



It　is　only　through　the　mystery　of　creation　that　one　can　gain　any

knowledge　of　the　quality　of　created　things。　　You　have　listened　to

PATIENCE　for　a　hundred　nights　and　you　have　heard　me　for　one　only。

It　will　make；　no　doubt；　that　satire　more　piquant　by　knowing

something　about　the　subject　of　it；　but　you　must　not　judge　of

aestheticism　by　the　satire　of　Mr。　Gilbert。　　As　little　should　you

judge　of　the　strength　and　splendour　of　sun　or　sea　by　the　dust　that

dances　in　the　beam；　or　the　bubble　that　breaks　on　the　wave；　as　take

your　critic　for　any　sane　test　of　art。　　For　the　artists；　like　the

Greek　gods；　are　revealed　only　to　one　another；　as　Emerson　says

somewhere；　their　real　value　and　place　time　only　can　show。　　In　this

respect　also　omnipotence　is　with　the　ages。　　The　true　critic

addresses　not　the　artist　ever　but　the　public　only。　　His　work　lies

with　them。　　Art　can　never　have　any　other　claim　but　her　own

perfection：　　it　is　for　the　critic　to　create　for　art　the　social　aim；

too；　by　teaching　the　people　the　spirit　in　which　they　are　to

approach　all　artistic　work；　the　love　they　are　to　give　it；　the

lesson　they　are　to　draw　from　it。



All　these　appeals　to　art　to　set　herself　more　in　harmony　with　modern

progress　and　civilisation；　and　to　make　herself　the　mouthpiece　for

the　voice　of　humanity；　these　appeals　to　art　'to　have　a　mission；'

are　appeals　which　should　be　made　to　the　public。　　The　art　which　has

fulfilled　the　conditions　of　beauty　has　fulfilled　all　conditions：

it　is　for　the　critic　to　teach　the　people　how　to　find　in　the　calm　of

such　art　the　highest　expression　of　their　own　most　stormy　passions。

'I　have　no　reverence；'　said　Keats；　'for　the　public；　nor　for

anything　in　existence　but　the　Eternal　Being；　the　memory　of　great

men　and　the　principle　of　Beauty。'



Such　then　is　the　principle　which　I　believe　to　be　guiding　and

underlying　our　English　Renaissance；　a　Renaissance　many…sided　and

wonderful；　productive　of　strong　ambitions　and　lofty　personalities；

yet　for　all　its　splendid　achievements　in　poetry　and　in　the

decorative　arts　and　in　painting；　for　all　the　increased　comeliness

and　grace　of　dress；　and　the　furniture　of　houses　and　the　like；　not

complete。　　For　there　can　be　no　great　sculpture　without　a　beautiful

national　life；　and　the　commercial　spirit　of　England　has　killed

that；　no　great　drama　without　a　noble　national　life；　and　the

commercial　spirit　of　England　has　killed　that　too。



It　is　not　that　the　flawless　serenity　of　marble　cannot　bear　the

burden　of　the　modern　intellectual　spirit；　or　become　instinct　with

the　fire　of　romantic　passion　…　the　tomb　of　Duke　Lorenzo　and　the

chapel　of　the　Medici　show　us　that　…　but　it　is　that；　as　Theophile

Gautier　used　to　say；　the　visible　world　is　dead；　LE　MONDE　VISIBLE　A

DISPARU。



Nor　is　it　again　that　the　novel　has　killed　the　play；　as　some　critics

would　persuade　us　…　the　romantic　movement　of　France　shows　us　that。

The　work　of　Balzac　and　of　Hugo　grew　up　side　by　side　together；　nay；

more；　were　complementary　to　each　other；　though　neither　of　them　saw

it。　　While　all　other　forms　of　poetry　may　flourish　in　an　ignoble

age；　the　splendid　individualism　of　the　lyrist；　fed　by　its　own

passion；　and　lit　by　its　own　power；　may　pass　as　a　pillar　of　fire　as

well　across　the　desert　as　across　places　that　are　pleasant。　　It　is

none　the　less　glorious　though　no　man　follow　it　…　nay；　by　the

greater　sublimity　of　its　loneliness　it　may　be　quickened　into

lof