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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 o