the critic as artist-第6章

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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；　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　C