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the critic as artist-第7章

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 Menippus saw the bleaching skull of Helen; and marvelled that it was for so grim a favour that all those horned ships were launched; those beautiful mailed men laid low; those towered cities brought to dust。  Yet; every day the swanlike daughter of Leda comes out on the battlements; and looks down at the tide of war。  The greybeards wonder at her loveliness; and she stands by the side of the king。  In his chamber of stained ivory lies her leman。  He is polishing his dainty armour; and combing the scarlet plume。  With squire and page; her husband passes from tent to tent。  She can see his bright hair; and hears; or fancies that she hears; that clear cold voice。  In the courtyard below; the son of Priam is buckling on his brazen cuirass。  The white arms of Andromache are around his neck。  He sets his helmet on the ground; lest their babe should be frightened。  Behind the embroidered curtains of his pavilion sits Achilles; in perfumed raiment; while in harness of gilt and silver the friend of his soul arrays himself to go forth to the fight。  From a curiously carven chest that his mother Thetis had brought to his ship…side; the Lord of the Myrmidons takes out that mystic chalice that the lip of man had never touched; and cleanses it with brimstone; and with fresh water cools it; and; having washed his hands; fills with black wine its burnished hollow; and spills the thick grape…blood upon the ground in honour of Him whom at Dodona barefooted prophets worshipped; and prays to Him; and knows not that he prays in vain; and that by the hands of two knights from Troy; Panthous' son; Euphorbus; whose love…locks were looped with gold; and the Priamid; the lion…hearted; Patroklus; the comrade of comrades; must meet his doom。  Phantoms; are they?  Heroes of mist and mountain?  Shadows in a song?  No:  they are real。  Action!  What is action?  It dies at the moment of its energy。  It is a base concession to fact。  The world is made by the singer for the dreamer。

ERNEST。  While you talk it seems to me to be so。

GILBERT。  It is so in truth。  On the mouldering citadel of Troy lies the lizard like a thing of green bronze。  The owl has built her nest in the palace of Priam。  Over the empty plain wander shepherd and goatherd with their flocks; and where; on the wine… surfaced; oily sea; 'Greek text which cannot be reproduced'; as Homer calls it; copper…prowed and streaked with vermilion; the great galleys of the Danaoi came in their gleaming crescent; the lonely tunny…fisher sits in his little boat and watches the bobbing corks of his net。  Yet; every morning the doors of the city are thrown open; and on foot; or in horse…drawn chariot; the warriors go forth to battle; and mock their enemies from behind their iron masks。  All day long the fight rages; and when night comes the torches gleam by the tents; and the cresset burns in the hall。 Those who live in marble or on painted panel; know of life but a single exquisite instant; eternal indeed in its beauty; but limited to one note of passion or one mood of calm。  Those whom the poet makes live have their myriad emotions of joy and terror; of courage and despair; of pleasure and of suffering。  The seasons come and go in glad or saddening pageant; and with winged or leaden feet the years pass by before them。  They have their youth and their manhood; they are children; and they grow old。  It is always dawn for St。 Helena; as Veronese saw her at the window。  Through the still morning air the angels bring her the symbol of God's pain。 The cool breezes of the morning lift the gilt threads from her brow。  On that little hill by the city of Florence; where the lovers of Giorgione are lying; it is always the solstice of noon; of noon made so languorous by summer suns that hardly can the slim naked girl dip into the marble tank the round bubble of clear glass; and the long fingers of the lute…player rest idly upon the chords。  It is twilight always for the dancing nymphs whom Corot set free among the silver poplars of France。  In eternal twilight they move; those frail diaphanous figures; whose tremulous white feet seem not to touch the dew…drenched grass they tread on。  But those who walk in epos; drama; or romance; see through the labouring months the young moons wax and wane; and watch the night from evening unto morning star; and from sunrise unto sunsetting can note the shifting day with all its gold and shadow。  For them; as for us; the flowers bloom and wither; and the Earth; that Green… tressed Goddess as Coleridge calls her; alters her raiment for their pleasure。  The statue is concentrated to one moment of perfection。  The image stained upon the canvas possesses no spiritual element of growth or change。  If they know nothing of death; it is because they know little of life; for the secrets of life and death belong to those; and those only; whom the sequence of time affects; and who possess not merely the present but the future; and can rise or fall from a past of glory or of shame。 Movement; that problem of the visible arts; can be truly realised by Literature alone。  It is Literature that shows us the body in its swiftness and the soul in its unrest。

ERNEST。  Yes; I see now what you mean。  But; surely; the higher you place the creative artist; the lower must the critic rank。

GILBERT。  Why so?

ERNEST。  Because the best that he can give us will be but an echo of rich music; a dim shadow of clear…outlined form。  It may; indeed; be that life is chaos; as you tell me that it is; that its martyrdoms are mean and its heroisms ignoble; and that it is the function of Literature to create; from the rough material of actual existence; a new world that will be more marvellous; more enduring; and more true than the world that common eyes look upon; and through which common natures seek to realise their perfection。  But surely; if this new world has been made by the spirit and touch of a great artist; it will be a thing so complete and perfect that there will be nothing left for the critic to do。  I quite understand now; and indeed admit most readily; that it is far more difficult to talk about a thing than to do it。  But it seems to me that this sound and sensible maxim; which is really extremely soothing to one's feelings; and should be adopted as its motto by every Academy of Literature all over the world; applies only to the relations that exist between Art and Life; and not to any relations that there may be between Art and Criticism。

GILBERT。  But; surely; Criticism is itself an art。  And just as artistic creation implies the working of the critical faculty; and; indeed; without it cannot be said to exist at all; so Criticism is really creative in the highest sense of the word。  Criticism is; in fact; both creative and independent。

ERNEST。  Independent?

GILBERT。  Yes; independent。  Criticism is no more to be judged by any low standard of imitation or resemblance than is the work of poet or sculptor。  The critic occupies the same relation to the work of art that he criticises as the artist does to the visible world of form and colour; or the unseen world of passion and of thought。  He 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。  
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