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diff --git a/old/ntntn10h.htm b/old/ntntn10h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d5b56f7 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/ntntn10h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,5528 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>Intentions</title> +</head> +<body> +<h2> +<a href="#startoftext">Intentions, by Oscar Wilde</a> +</h2> +<pre> +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Intentions, by Oscar Wilde +(#11 in our series by Oscar Wilde) + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: Intentions + +Author: Oscar Wilde + +Release Date: April, 1997 [EBook #887] +[This file was first posted on April 24, 1997] +[Most recently updated: May 11, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: US-ASCII +</pre> +<p><a name="startoftext"></a></p> +<p>Transcribed from the 1913 edition by David Price, +email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h1>INTENTIONS</h1> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<p>Contents</p> +<p>The Decay of Lying<br />Pen, Pencil, and Poison<br />The Critic as +Artist<br />The Truth of Masks</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>THE DECAY OF LYING: AN OBSERVATION</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>A DIALOGUE. Persons: Cyril and Vivian. Scene: the Library +of a country house in Nottinghamshire.</p> +<p>CYRIL (coming in through the open window from the terrace). +My dear Vivian, don’t coop yourself up all day in the library. +It is a perfectly lovely afternoon. The air is exquisite. +There is a mist upon the woods, like the purple bloom upon a plum. +Let us go and lie on the grass and smoke cigarettes and enjoy Nature.</p> +<p>VIVIAN. Enjoy Nature! I am glad to say that I have entirely +lost that faculty. People tell us that Art makes us love Nature +more than we loved her before; that it reveals her secrets to us; and +that after a careful study of Corot and Constable we see things in her +that had escaped our observation. My own experience is that the +more we study Art, the less we care for Nature. What Art really +reveals to us is Nature’s lack of design, her curious crudities, +her extraordinary monotony, her absolutely unfinished condition. +Nature has good intentions, of course, but, as Aristotle once said, +she cannot carry them out. When I look at a landscape I cannot +help seeing all its defects. It is fortunate for us, however, +that Nature is so imperfect, as otherwise we should have no art at all. +Art is our spirited protest, our gallant attempt to teach Nature her +proper place. As for the infinite variety of Nature, that is a +pure myth. It is not to be found in Nature herself. It resides +in the imagination, or fancy, or cultivated blindness of the man who +looks at her.</p> +<p>CYRIL. Well, you need not look at the landscape. You +can lie on the grass and smoke and talk.</p> +<p>VIVIAN. But Nature is so uncomfortable. Grass is hard +and lumpy and damp, and full of dreadful black insects. Why, even +Morris’s poorest workman could make you a more comfortable seat +than the whole of Nature can. Nature pales before the furniture +of ‘the street which from Oxford has borrowed its name,’ +as the poet you love so much once vilely phrased it. I don’t +complain. If Nature had been comfortable, mankind would never +have invented architecture, and I prefer houses to the open air. +In a house we all feel of the proper proportions. Everything is +subordinated to us, fashioned for our use and our pleasure. Egotism +itself, which is so necessary to a proper sense of human dignity, is +entirely the result of indoor life. Out of doors one becomes abstract +and impersonal. One’s individuality absolutely leaves one. +And then Nature is so indifferent, so unappreciative. Whenever +I am walking in the park here, I always feel that I am no more to her +than the cattle that browse on the slope, or the burdock that blooms +in the ditch. Nothing is more evident than that Nature hates Mind. +Thinking is the most unhealthy thing in the world, and people die of +it just as they die of any other disease. Fortunately, in England +at any rate, thought is not catching. Our splendid physique as +a people is entirely due to our national stupidity. I only hope +we shall be able to keep this great historic bulwark of our happiness +for many years to come; but I am afraid that we are beginning to be +over-educated; at least everybody who is incapable of learning has taken +to teaching—that is really what our enthusiasm for education has +come to. In the meantime, you had better go back to your wearisome +uncomfortable Nature, and leave me to correct my proofs.</p> +<p>CYRIL. Writing an article! That is not very consistent +after what you have just said.</p> +<p>VIVIAN. Who wants to be consistent? The dullard and the +doctrinaire, the tedious people who carry out their principles to the +bitter end of action, to the <i>reductio ad absurdum</i> of practice. +Not I. Like Emerson, I write over the door of my library the word +‘Whim.’ Besides, my article is really a most salutary +and valuable warning. If it is attended to, there may be a new +Renaissance of Art.</p> +<p>CYRIL. What is the subject?</p> +<p>VIVIAN. I intend to call it ‘The Decay of Lying: A Protest.’</p> +<p>CYRIL. Lying! I should have thought that our politicians +kept up that habit.</p> +<p>VIVIAN. I assure you that they do not. They never rise +beyond the level of misrepresentation, and actually condescend to prove, +to discuss, to argue. How different from the temper of the true +liar, with his frank, fearless statements, his superb irresponsibility, +his healthy, natural disdain of proof of any kind! After all, +what is a fine lie? Simply that which is its own evidence. +If a man is sufficiently unimaginative to produce evidence in support +of a lie, he might just as well speak the truth at once. No, the +politicians won’t do. Something may, perhaps, be urged on +behalf of the Bar. The mantle of the Sophist has fallen on its +members. Their feigned ardours and unreal rhetoric are delightful. +They can make the worse appear the better cause, as though they were +fresh from Leontine schools, and have been known to wrest from reluctant +juries triumphant verdicts of acquittal for their clients, even when +those clients, as often happens, were clearly and unmistakeably innocent. +But they are briefed by the prosaic, and are not ashamed to appeal to +precedent. In spite of their endeavours, the truth will out. +Newspapers, even, have degenerated. They may now be absolutely +relied upon. One feels it as one wades through their columns. +It is always the unreadable that occurs. I am afraid that there +is not much to be said in favour of either the lawyer or the journalist. +Besides, what I am pleading for is Lying in art. Shall I read +you what I have written? It might do you a great deal of good.</p> +<p>CYRIL. Certainly, if you give me a cigarette. Thanks. +By the way, what magazine do you intend it for?</p> +<p>VIVIAN. For the <i>Retrospective Review</i>. I think +I told you that the elect had revived it.</p> +<p>CYRIL. Whom do you mean by ‘the elect’?</p> +<p>VIVIAN. Oh, The Tired Hedonists, of course. It is a club +to which I belong. We are supposed to wear faded roses in our +button-holes when we meet, and to have a sort of cult for Domitian. +I am afraid you are not eligible. You are too fond of simple pleasures.</p> +<p>CYRIL. I should be black-balled on the ground of animal spirits, +I suppose?</p> +<p>VIVIAN. Probably. Besides, you are a little too old. +We don’t admit anybody who is of the usual age.</p> +<p>CYRIL. Well, I should fancy you are all a good deal bored with +each other.</p> +<p>VIVIAN. We are. This is one of the objects of the club. +Now, if you promise not to interrupt too often, I will read you my article.</p> +<p>CYRIL. You will find me all attention.</p> +<p>VIVIAN (reading in a very clear, musical voice). THE DECAY +OF LYING: A PROTEST.—One of the chief causes that can be assigned +for the curiously commonplace character of most of the literature of +our age is undoubtedly the decay of Lying as an art, a science, and +a social pleasure. The ancient historians gave us delightful fiction +in the form of fact; the modem novelist presents us with dull facts +under the guise of fiction. The Blue-Book is rapidly becoming +his ideal both for method and manner. He has his tedious <i>document +humain</i>, his miserable little <i>coin de la création</i>, +into which he peers with his microscope. He is to be found at +the Librairie Nationale, or at the British Museum, shamelessly reading +up his subject. He has not even the courage of other people’s +ideas, but insists on going directly to life for everything, and ultimately, +between encyclopaedias and personal experience, he comes to the ground, +having drawn his types from the family circle or from the weekly washerwoman, +and having acquired an amount of useful information from which never, +even in his most meditative moments, can he thoroughly free himself.</p> +<p>‘The lose that results to literature in general from this false +ideal of our time can hardly be overestimated. People have a careless +way of talking about a “born liar,” just as they talk about +a “born poet.” But in both cases they are wrong. +Lying and poetry are arts—arts, as Pinto saw, not unconnected +with each other—and they require the most careful study, the most +disinterested devotion. Indeed, they have their technique, just +as the more material arts of painting and sculpture have, their subtle +secrets of form and colour, their craft-mysteries, their deliberate +artistic methods. As one knows the poet by his fine music, so +one can recognise the liar by his rich rhythmic utterance, and in neither +case will the casual inspiration of the moment suffice. Here, +as elsewhere, practice must, precede perfection. But in modern +days while the fashion of writing poetry has become far too common, +and should, if possible, be discouraged, the fashion of lying has almost +fallen into disrepute. Many a young man starts in life with a +natural gift for exaggeration which, if nurtured in congenial and sympathetic +surroundings, or by the imitation of the best models, might grow into +something really great and wonderful. But, as a rule, he comes +to nothing. He either falls into careless habits of accuracy—’</p> +<p>CYRIL. My dear fellow!</p> +<p>VIVIAN. Please don’t interrupt in the middle of a sentence. +‘He either falls into careless habits of accuracy, or takes to +frequenting the society of the aged and the well-informed. Both +things are equally fatal to his imagination, as indeed they would be +fatal to the imagination of anybody, and in a short time he develops +a morbid and unhealthy faculty of truth-telling, begins to verify all +statements made in his presence, has no hesitation in contradicting +people who are much younger than himself, and often ends by writing +novels which are so lifelike that no one can possibly believe in their +probability. This is no isolated instance that we are giving. +It is simply one example out of many; and if something cannot be done +to check, or at least to modify, our monstrous worship of facts, Art +will become sterile, and beauty will pass away from the land.</p> +<p>‘Even Mr. Robert Louis Stevenson, that delightful master of +delicate and fanciful prose, is tainted with this modern vice, for we +know positively no other name for it. There is such a thing as +robbing a story of its reality by trying to make it too true, and <i>The +Black Arrow</i> is so inartistic as not to contain a single anachronism +to boast of, while the transformation of Dr. Jekyll reads dangerously +like an experiment out of the <i>Lancet</i>. As for Mr. Rider +Haggard, who really has, or had once, the makings of a perfectly magnificent +liar, he is now so afraid of being suspected of genius that when he +does tell us anything marvellous, he feels bound to invent a personal +reminiscence, and to put it into a footnote as a kind of cowardly corroboration. +Nor are our other novelists much better. Mr. Henry James writes +fiction as if it were a painful duty, and wastes upon mean motives and +imperceptible “points of view” his neat literary style, +his felicitous phrases, his swift and caustic satire. Mr. Hall +Caine, it is true, aims at the grandiose, but then he writes at the +top of his voice. He is so loud that one cannot bear what he says. +Mr. James Payn is an adept in the art of concealing what is not worth +finding. He hunts down the obvious with the enthusiasm of a short-sighted +detective. As one turns over the pages, the suspense of the author +becomes almost unbearable. The horses of Mr. William Black’s +phaeton do not soar towards the sun. They merely frighten the +sky at evening into violent chromolithographic effects. On seeing +them approach, the peasants take refuge in dialect. Mrs. Oliphant +prattles pleasantly about curates, lawn-tennis parties, domesticity, +and other wearisome things. Mr. Marion Crawford has immolated +himself upon the altar of local colour. He is like the lady in +the French comedy who keeps talking about “le beau ciel d’Italie.” +Besides, he has fallen into the bad habit of uttering moral platitudes. +He is always telling us that to be good is to be good, and that to be +bad is to be wicked. At times he is almost edifying. <i>Robert +Elsmere</i> is of course a masterpiece—a masterpiece of the “genre +ennuyeux,” the one form of literature that the English people +seems thoroughly to enjoy. A thoughtful young friend of ours once +told us that it reminded him of the sort of conversation that goes on +at a meat tea in the house of a serious Nonconformist family, and we +can quite believe it. Indeed it is only in England that such a +book could be produced. England is the home of lost ideas. +As for that great and daily increasing school of novelists for whom +the sun always rises in the East-End, the only thing that can be said +about them is that they find life crude, and leave it raw.</p> +<p>‘In France, though nothing so deliberately tedious as <i>Robert +Elsmere</i> has been produced, things are not much better. M. +Guy de Maupassant, with his keen mordant irony and his hard vivid style, +strips life of the few poor rags that still cover her, and shows us +foul sore and festering wound. He writes lurid little tragedies +in which everybody is ridiculous; bitter comedies at which one cannot +laugh for very tears. M. Zola, true to the lofty principle that +he lays down in one of his pronunciamientos on literature, “L’homme +de génie n’a jamais d’esprit,” is determined +to show that, if he has not got genius, he can at least be dull. +And how well he succeeds! He is not without power. Indeed +at times, as in <i>Germinal</i>, there is something almost epic in his +work. But his work is entirely wrong from beginning to end, and +wrong not on the ground of morals, but on the ground of art. From +any ethical standpoint it is just what it should be. The author +is perfectly truthful, and describes things exactly as they happen. +What more can any moralist desire? We have no sympathy at all +with the moral indignation of our time against M. Zola. It is +simply the indignation of Tartuffe on being exposed. But from +the standpoint of art, what can be said in favour of the author of <i>L’Assommoir</i>, +<i>Nana</i> and <i>Pot-Bouille</i>? Nothing. Mr. Ruskin +once described the characters in George Eliot’s novels as being +like the sweepings of a Pentonville omnibus, but M. Zola’s characters +are much worse. They have their dreary vices, and their drearier +virtues. The record of their lives is absolutely without interest. +Who cares what happens to them? In literature we require distinction, +charm, beauty and imaginative power. We don’t want to be +harrowed and disgusted with an account of the doings of the lower orders. +M. Daudet is better. He has wit, a light touch and an amusing +style. But he has lately committed literary suicide. Nobody +can possibly care for Delobelle with his “Il faut lutter pour +l’art,” or for Valmajour with his eternal refrain about +the nightingale, or for the poet in <i>Jack</i> with his “mots +cruels,” now that we have learned from <i>Vingt Ans de ma Vie +littéraire</i> that these characters were taken directly from +life. To us they seem to have suddenly lost all their vitality, +all the few qualities they ever possessed. The only real people +are the people who never existed, and if a novelist is base enough to +go to life for his personages he should at least pretend that they are +creations, and not boast of them as copies. The justification +of a character in a novel is not that other persons are what they are, +but that the author is what he is. Otherwise the novel is not +a work of art. As for M. Paul Bourget, the master of the <i>roman</i> +<i>psychologique</i>, he commits the error of imagining that the men +and women of modern life are capable of being infinitely analysed for +an innumerable series of chapters. In point of fact what is interesting +about people in good society—and M. Bourget rarely moves out of +the Faubourg St. Germain, except to come to London,—is the mask +that each one of them wears, not the reality that lies behind the mask. +It is a humiliating confession, but we are all of us made out of the +same stuff. In Falstaff there is something of Hamlet, in Hamlet +there is not a little of Falstaff. The fat knight has his moods +of melancholy, and the young prince his moments of coarse humour. +Where we differ from each other is purely in accidentals: in dress, +manner, tone of voice, religious opinions, personal appearance, tricks +of habit and the like. The more one analyses people, the more +all reasons for analysis disappear. Sooner or later one comes +to that dreadful universal thing called human nature. Indeed, +as any one who has ever worked among the poor knows only too well, the +brotherhood of man is no mere poet’s dream, it is a most depressing +and humiliating reality; and if a writer insists upon analysing the +upper classes, he might just as well write of match-girls and costermongers +at once.’ However, my dear Cyril, I will not detain you +any further just here. I quite admit that modern novels have many +good points. All I insist on is that, as a class, they are quite +unreadable.</p> +<p>CYRIL. That is certainly a very grave qualification, but I +must say that I think you are rather unfair in some of your strictures. +I like <i>The Deemster</i>, and <i>The Daughter of Heth</i>, and <i>Le +Disciple</i>, and <i>Mr. Isaacs</i>, and as for <i>Robert</i> <i>Elsmere</i>, +I am quite devoted to it. Not that I can look upon it as a serious +work. As a statement of the problems that confront the earnest +Christian it is ridiculous and antiquated. It is simply Arnold’s +<i>Literature and Dogma</i> with the literature left out. It is +as much behind the age as Paley’s <i>Evidences</i>, or Colenso’s +method of Biblical exegesis. Nor could anything be less impressive +than the unfortunate hero gravely heralding a dawn that rose long ago, +and so completely missing its true significance that he proposes to +carry on the business of the old firm under the new name. On the +other hand, it contains several clever caricatures, and a heap of delightful +quotations, and Green’s philosophy very pleasantly sugars the +somewhat bitter pill of the author’s fiction. I also cannot +help expressing my surprise that you have said nothing about the two +novelists whom you are always reading, Balzac and George Meredith. +Surely they are realists, both of them?</p> +<p>VIVIAN. Ah! Meredith! Who can define him? +His style is chaos illumined by flashes of lightning. As a writer +he has mastered everything except language: as a novelist he can do +everything, except tell a story: as an artist he is everything except +articulate. Somebody in Shakespeare—Touchstone, I think—talks +about a man who is always breaking his shins over his own wit, and it +seems to me that this might serve as the basis for a criticism of Meredith’s +method. But whatever he is, he is not a realist. Or rather +I would say that he is a child of realism who is not on speaking terms +with his father. By deliberate choice he has made himself a romanticist. +He has refused to bow the knee to Baal, and after all, even if the man’s +fine spirit did not revolt against the noisy assertions of realism, +his style would be quite sufficient of itself to keep life at a respectful +distance. By its means he has planted round his garden a hedge +full of thorns, and red with wonderful roses. As for Balzac, he +was a most remarkable combination of the artistic temperament with the +scientific spirit. The latter he bequeathed to his disciples. +The former was entirely his own. The difference between such a +book as M. Zola’s <i>L’Assommoir</i> and Balzac’s +<i>Illusions Perdues</i> is the difference between unimaginative realism +and imaginative reality. ‘All Balzac’s characters;’ +said Baudelaire, ‘are gifted with the same ardour of life that +animated himself. All his fictions are as deeply coloured as dreams. +Each mind is a weapon loaded to the muzzle with will. The very +scullions have genius.’ A steady course of Balzac reduces +our living friends to shadows, and our acquaintances to the shadows +of shades. His characters have a kind of fervent fiery-coloured +existence. They dominate us, and defy scepticism. One of +the greatest tragedies of my life is the death of Lucien de Rubempré. +It is a grief from which I have never been able completely to rid myself. +It haunts me in my moments of pleasure. I remember it when I laugh. +But Balzac is no more a realist than Holbein was. He created life, +he did not copy it. I admit, however, that he set far too high +a value on modernity of form, and that, consequently, there is no book +of his that, as an artistic masterpiece, can rank with <i>Salammbô</i> +or <i>Esmond</i>, or <i>The Cloister and the Hearth</i>, or the <i>Vicomte +de Bragelonne.</i></p> +<p>CYRIL. Do you object to modernity of form, then?</p> +<p>VIVIAN. Yes. It is a huge price to pay for a very poor +result. Pure modernity of form is always somewhat vulgarising. +It cannot help being so. The public imagine that, because they +are interested in their immediate surroundings, Art should be interested +in them also, and should take them as her subject-matter. But +the mere fact that they are interested in these things makes them unsuitable +subjects for Art. The only beautiful things, as somebody once +said, are the things that do not concern us. As long as a thing +is useful or necessary to us, or affects us in any way, either for pain +or for pleasure, or appeals strongly to our sympathies, or is a vital +part of the environment in which we live, it is outside the proper sphere +of art. To art’s subject-matter we should be more or less +indifferent. We should, at any rate, have no preferences, no prejudices, +no partisan feeling of any kind. It is exactly because Hecuba +is nothing to us that her sorrows are such an admirable motive for a +tragedy. I do not know anything in the whole history of literature +sadder than the artistic career of Charles Reade. He wrote one +beautiful book, <i>The Cloister</i> <i>and the Hearth</i>, a book as +much above <i>Romola</i> as <i>Romola</i> is above <i>Daniel Deronda</i>, +and wasted the rest of his life in a foolish attempt to be modern, to +draw public attention to the state of our convict prisons, and the management +of our private lunatic asylums. Charles Dickens was depressing +enough in all conscience when he tried to arouse our sympathy for the +victims of the poor-law administration; but Charles Reade, an artist, +a scholar, a man with a true sense of beauty, raging and roaring over +the abuses of contemporary life like a common pamphleteer or a sensational +journalist, is really a sight for the angels to weep over. Believe +me, my dear Cyril, modernity of form and modernity of subject-matter +are entirely and absolutely wrong. We have mistaken the common +livery of the age for the vesture of the Muses, and spend our days in +the sordid streets and hideous suburbs of our vile cities when we should +be out on the hillside with Apollo. Certainly we are a degraded +race, and have sold our birthright for a mess of facts.</p> +<p>CYRIL. There is something in what you say, and there is no +doubt that whatever amusement we may find in reading a purely model +novel, we have rarely any artistic pleasure in re-reading it. +And this is perhaps the best rough test of what is literature and what +is not. If one cannot enjoy reading a book over and over again, +there is no use reading it at all. But what do you say about the +return to Life and Nature? This is the panacea that is always +being recommended to us.</p> +<p>VIVIAN. I will read you what I say on that subject. The +passage comes later on in the article, but I may as well give it to +you now:-</p> +<p>‘The popular cry of our time is “Let us return to Life +and Nature; they will recreate Art for us, and send the red blood coursing +through her veins; they will shoe her feet with swiftness and make her +hand strong.” But, alas! we are mistaken in our amiable +and well-meaning efforts. Nature is always behind the age. +And as for Life, she is the solvent that breaks up Art, the enemy that +lays waste her house.’</p> +<p>CYRIL. What do you mean by saying that Nature is always behind +the age?</p> +<p>VIVIAN. Well, perhaps that is rather cryptic. What I +mean is this. If we take Nature to mean natural simple instinct +as opposed to self-conscious culture, the work produced under this influence +is always old-fashioned, antiquated, and out of date. One touch +of Nature may make the whole world kin, but two touches of Nature will +destroy any work of Art. If, on the other hand, we regard Nature +as the collection of phenomena external to man, people only discover +in her what they bring to her. She has no suggestions of her own. +Wordsworth went to the lakes, but he was never a lake poet. He +found in stones the sermons he had already hidden there. He went +moralising about the district, but his good work was produced when he +returned, not to Nature but to poetry. Poetry gave him ‘Laodamia,’ +and the fine sonnets, and the great Ode, such as it is. Nature +gave him ‘Martha Ray’ and ‘Peter Bell,’ and +the address to Mr. Wilkinson’s spade.</p> +<p>CYRIL. I think that view might be questioned. I am rather +inclined to believe in ‘the impulse from a vernal wood,’ +though of course the artistic value of such an impulse depends entirely +on the kind of temperament that receives it, so that the return to Nature +would come to mean simply the advance to a great personality. +You would agree with that, I fancy. However, proceed with your +article.</p> +<p>VIVIAN <i>(reading</i>). ‘Art begins with abstract decoration, +with purely imaginative and pleasurable work dealing with what is unreal +and non-existent. This is the first stage. Then Life becomes +fascinated with this new wonder, and asks to be admitted into the charmed +circle. Art takes life as part of her rough material, recreates +it, and refashions it in fresh forms, is absolutely indifferent to fact, +invents, imagines, dreams, and keeps between herself and reality the +impenetrable barrier of beautiful style, of decorative or ideal treatment. +The third stage is when Life gets the upper hand, and drives Art out +into the wilderness. That is the true decadence, and it is from +this that we are now suffering.</p> +<p>‘Take the case of the English drama. At first in the +hands of the monks Dramatic Art was abstract, decorative and mythological. +Then she enlisted Life in her service, and using some of life’s +external forms, she created an entirely new race of beings, whose sorrows +were more terrible than any sorrow man has ever felt, whose joys were +keener than lover’s joys, who had the rage of the Titans and the +calm of the gods, who had monstrous and marvellous sins, monstrous and +marvellous virtues. To them she gave a language different from +that of actual use, a language full of resonant music and sweet rhythm, +made stately by solemn cadence, or made delicate by fanciful rhyme, +jewelled with wonderful words, and enriched with lofty diction. +She clothed her children in strange raiment and gave them masks, and +at her bidding the antique world rose from its marble tomb. A +new Caesar stalked through the streets of risen Rome, and with purple +sail and flute-led oars another Cleopatra passed up the river to Antioch. +Old myth and legend and dream took shape and substance. History +was entirely re-written, and there was hardly one of the dramatists +who did not recognise that the object of Art is not simple truth but +complex beauty. In this they were perfectly right. Art itself +is really a form of exaggeration; and selection, which is the very spirit +of art, is nothing more than an intensified mode of over-emphasis.</p> +<p>‘But Life soon shattered the perfection of the form. +Even in Shakespeare we can see the beginning of the end. It shows +itself by the gradual breaking-up of the blank-verse in the later plays, +by the predominance given to prose, and by the over-importance assigned +to characterisation. The passages in Shakespeare—and they +are many—where the language is uncouth, vulgar, exaggerated, fantastic, +obscene even, are entirely due to Life calling for an echo of her own +voice, and rejecting the intervention of beautiful style, through which +alone should life be suffered to find expression. Shakespeare +is not by any means a flawless artist. He is too fond of going +directly to life, and borrowing life’s natural utterance. +He forgets that when Art surrenders her imaginative medium she surrenders +everything. Goethe says, somewhere -</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>In der Beschränkung zeigt Fsich erst der Meister,</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“It is in working within limits that the master reveals himself,” +and the limitation, the very condition of any art is style. However, +we need not linger any longer over Shakespeare’s realism. +<i>The Tempest</i> is the most perfect of palinodes. All that +we desired to point out was, that the magnificent work of the Elizabethan +and Jacobean artists contained within itself the seeds of its own dissolution, +and that, if it drew some of its strength from using life as rough material, +it drew all its weakness from using life as an artistic method. +As the inevitable result of this substitution of an imitative for a +creative medium, this surrender of an imaginative form, we have the +modern English melodrama. The characters in these plays talk on +the stage exactly as they would talk off it; they have neither aspirations +nor aspirates; they are taken directly from life and reproduce its vulgarity +down to the smallest detail; they present the gait, manner, costume +and accent of real people; they would pass unnoticed in a third-class +railway carriage. And yet how wearisome the plays are! They +do not succeed in producing even that impression of reality at which +they aim, and which is their only reason for existing. As a method, +realism is a complete failure.</p> +<p>‘What is true about the drama and the novel is no less true +about those arts that we call the decorative arts. The whole history +of these arts in Europe is the record of the struggle between Orientalism, +with its frank rejection of imitation, its love of artistic convention, +its dislike to the actual representation of any object in Nature, and +our own imitative spirit. Wherever the former has been paramount, +as in Byzantium, Sicily and Spain, by actual contact, or in the rest +of Europe by the influence of the Crusades, we have had beautiful and +imaginative work in which the visible things of life are transmuted +into artistic conventions, and the things that Life has not are invented +and fashioned for her delight. But wherever we have returned to +Life and Nature, our work has always become vulgar, common and uninteresting. +Modern tapestry, with its aërial effects, its elaborate perspective, +its broad expanses of waste sky, its faithful and laborious realism, +has no beauty whatsoever. The pictorial glass of Germany is absolutely +detestable. We are beginning to weave possible carpets in England, +but only because we have returned to the method and spirit of the East. +Our rugs and carpets of twenty years ago, with their solemn depressing +truths, their inane worship of Nature, their sordid reproductions of +visible objects, have become, even to the Philistine, a source of laughter. +A cultured Mahomedan once remarked to us, “You Christians are +so occupied in misinterpreting the fourth commandment that you have +never thought of making an artistic application of the second.” +He was perfectly right, and the whole truth of the matter is this: The +proper school to learn art in is not Life but Art.’</p> +<p>And now let me read you a passage which seems to me to settle the +question very completely.</p> +<p>‘It was not always thus. We need not say anything about +the poets, for they, with the unfortunate exception of Mr. Wordsworth, +have been really faithful to their high mission, and are universally +recognised as being absolutely unreliable. But in the works of +Herodotus, who, in spite of the shallow and ungenerous attempts of modem +sciolists to verify his history, may justly be called the “Father +of Lies”; in the published speeches of Cicero and the biographies +of Suetonius; in Tacitus at his best; in Pliny’s <i>Natural History</i>; +in Hanno’s <i>Periplus</i>; in all the early chronicles; in the +Lives of the Saints; in Froissart and Sir Thomas Malory; in the travels +of Marco Polo; in Olaus Magnus, and Aldrovandus, and Conrad Lycosthenes, +with his magnificent <i>Prodigiorum et Ostentorum Chronicon</i>; in +the autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini; in the memoirs of Casanova; +in Defoe’s <i>History of the Plague</i>; in Boswell’s <i>Life +of Johnson</i>; in Napoleon’s despatches, and in the works of +our own Carlyle, whose <i>French Revolution</i> is one of the most fascinating +historical novels ever written, facts are either kept in their proper +subordinate position, or else entirely excluded on the general ground +of dulness. Now, everything is changed. Facts are not merely +finding a footing-place in history, but they are usurping the domain +of Fancy, and have invaded the kingdom of Romance. Their chilling +touch is over everything. They are vulgarising mankind. +The crude commercialism of America, its materialising spirit, its indifference +to the poetical side of things, and its lack of imagination and of high +unattainable ideals, are entirely due to that country having adopted +for its national hero a man who, according to his own confession, was +incapable of telling a lie, and it is not too much to say that the story +of George Washington and the cherry-tree has done more harm, and in +a shorter space of time, than any other moral tale in the whole of literature.’</p> +<p>CYRIL. My dear boy!</p> +<p>VIVIAN. I assure you it is the case, and the amusing part of +the whole thing is that the story of the cherry-tree is an absolute +myth. However, you must not think that I am too despondent about +the artistic future either of America or of our own country. Listen +to this:-</p> +<p>‘That some change will take place before this century has drawn +to its close we have no doubt whatsoever. Bored by the tedious +and improving conversation of those who have neither the wit to exaggerate +nor the genius to romance, tired of the intelligent person whose reminiscences +are always based upon memory, whose statements are invariably limited +by probability, and who is at any time liable to be corroborated by +the merest Philistine who happens to be present, Society sooner or later +must return to its lost leader, the cultured and fascinating liar. +Who he was who first, without ever having gone out to the rude chase, +told the wandering cavemen at sunset how he had dragged the Megatherium +from the purple darkness of its jasper cave, or slain the Mammoth in +single combat and brought back its gilded tusks, we cannot tell, and +not one of our modern anthropologists, for all their much-boasted science, +has had the ordinary courage to tell us. Whatever was his name +or race, he certainly was the true founder of social intercourse. +For the aim of the liar is simply to charm, to delight, to give pleasure. +He is the very basis of civilised society, and without him a dinner-party, +even at the mansions of the great, is as dull as a lecture at the Royal +Society, or a debate at the Incorporated Authors, or one of Mr. Burnand’s +farcical comedies.</p> +<p>‘Nor will he be welcomed by society alone. Art, breaking +from the prison-house of realism, will run to greet him, and will kiss +his false, beautiful lips, knowing that he alone is in possession of +the great secret of all her manifestations, the secret that Truth is +entirely and absolutely a matter of style; while Life—poor, probable, +uninteresting human life—tired of repeating herself for the benefit +of Mr. Herbert Spencer, scientific historians, and the compilers of +statistics in general, will follow meekly after him, and try to reproduce, +in her own simple and untutored way, some of the marvels of which he +talks.</p> +<p>‘No doubt there will always be critics who, like a certain +writer in the <i>Saturday Review</i>, will gravely censure the teller +of fairy tales for his defective knowledge of natural history, who will +measure imaginative work by their own lack of any imaginative faculty, +and will hold up their ink-stained hands in horror if some honest gentleman, +who has never been farther than the yew-trees of his own garden, pens +a fascinating book of travels like Sir John Mandeville, or, like great +Raleigh, writes a whole history of the world, without knowing anything +whatsoever about the past. To excuse themselves they will try +and shelter under the shield of him who made Prospero the magician, +and gave him Caliban and Ariel as his servants, who heard the Tritons +blowing their horns round the coral reefs of the Enchanted Isle, and +the fairies singing to each other in a wood near Athens, who led the +phantom kings in dim procession across the misty Scottish heath, and +hid Hecate in a cave with the weird sisters. They will call upon +Shakespeare—they always do—and will quote that hackneyed +passage forgetting that this unfortunate aphorism about Art holding +the mirror up to Nature, is deliberately said by Hamlet in order to +convince the bystanders of his absolute insanity in all art-matters.’</p> +<p>CYRIL. Ahem! Another cigarette, please.</p> +<p>VIVIAN. My dear fellow, whatever you may say, it is merely +a dramatic utterance, and no more represents Shakespeare’s real +views upon art than the speeches of Iago represent his real views upon +morals. But let me get to the end of the passage:</p> +<p>‘Art finds her own perfection within, and not outside of, herself. +She is not to be judged by any external standard of resemblance. +She is a veil, rather than a mirror. She has flowers that no forests +know of, birds that no woodland possesses. She makes and unmakes +many worlds, and can draw the moon from heaven with a scarlet thread. +Hers are the “forms more real than living man,” and hers +the great archetypes of which things that have existence are but unfinished +copies. Nature has, in her eyes, no laws, no uniformity. +She can work miracles at her will, and when she calls monsters from +the deep they come. She can bid the almond-tree blossom in winter, +and send the snow upon the ripe cornfield. At her word the frost +lays its silver finger on the burning mouth of June, and the winged +lions creep out from the hollows of the Lydian hills. The dryads +peer from the thicket as she passes by, and the brown fauns smile strangely +at her when she comes near them. She has hawk-faced gods that +worship her, and the centaurs gallop at her side.’</p> +<p>CYRIL. I like that. I can see it. Is that the end?</p> +<p>VIVIAN. No. There is one more passage, but it is purely +practical. It simply suggests some methods by which we could revive +this lost art of Lying.</p> +<p>CYRIL. Well, before you read it to me, I should like to ask +you a question. What do you mean by saying that life, ‘poor, +probable, uninteresting human life,’ will try to reproduce the +marvels of art? I can quite understand your objection to art being +treated as a mirror. You think it would reduce genius to the position +of a cracked looking-glass. But you don’t mean to say that +you seriously believe that Life imitates Art, that Life in fact is the +mirror, and Art the reality?</p> +<p>VIVIAN. Certainly I do. Paradox though it may seem—and +paradoxes are always dangerous things—it is none the less true +that Life imitates art far more than Art imitates life. We have +all seen in our own day in England how a certain curious and fascinating +type of beauty, invented and emphasised by two imaginative painters, +has so influenced Life that whenever one goes to a private view or to +an artistic salon one sees, here the mystic eyes of Rossetti’s +dream, the long ivory throat, the strange square-cut jaw, the loosened +shadowy hair that he so ardently loved, there the sweet maidenhood of +‘The Golden Stair,’ the blossom-like mouth and weary loveliness +of the ‘Laus Amoris,’ the passion-pale face of Andromeda, +the thin hands and lithe beauty of the Vivian in ‘Merlin’s +Dream.’ And it has always been so. A great artist +invents a type, and Life tries to copy it, to reproduce it in a popular +form, like an enterprising publisher. Neither Holbein nor Vandyck +found in England what they have given us. They brought their types +with them, and Life with her keen imitative faculty set herself to supply +the master with models. The Greeks, with their quick artistic +instinct, understood this, and set in the bride’s chamber the +statue of Hermes or of Apollo, that she might bear children as lovely +as the works of art that she looked at in her rapture or her pain. +They knew that Life gains from art not merely spirituality, depth of +thought and feeling, soul-turmoil or soul-peace, but that she can form +herself on the very lines and colours of art, and can reproduce the +dignity of Pheidias as well as the grace of Praxiteles. Hence +came their objection to realism. They disliked it on purely social +grounds. They felt that it inevitably makes people ugly, and they +were perfectly right. We try to improve the conditions of the +race by means of good air, free sunlight, wholesome water, and hideous +bare buildings for the better housing of the lower orders. But +these things merely produce health, they do not produce beauty. +For this, Art is required, and the true disciples of the great artist +are not his studio-imitators, but those who become like his works of +art, be they plastic as in Greek days, or pictorial as in modern times; +in a word, Life is Art’s best, Art’s only pupil.</p> +<p>As it is with the visible arts, so it is with literature. The +most obvious and the vulgarest form in which this is shown is in the +case of the silly boys who, after reading the adventures of Jack Sheppard +or Dick Turpin, pillage the stalls of unfortunate apple-women, break +into sweet-shops at night, and alarm old gentlemen who are returning +home from the city by leaping out on them in suburban lanes, with black +masks and unloaded revolvers. This interesting phenomenon, which +always occurs after the appearance of a new edition of either of the +books I have alluded to, is usually attributed to the influence of literature +on the imagination. But this is a mistake. The imagination +is essentially creative, and always seeks for a new form. The +boy-burglar is simply the inevitable result of life’s imitative +instinct. He is Fact, occupied as Fact usually is, with trying +to reproduce Fiction, and what we see in him is repeated on an extended +scale throughout the whole of life. Schopenhauer has analysed +the pessimism that characterises modern thought, but Hamlet invented +it. The world has become sad because a puppet was once melancholy. +The Nihilist, that strange martyr who has no faith, who goes to the +stake without enthusiasm, and dies for what he does not believe in, +is a purely literary product. He was invented by Tourgénieff, +and completed by Dostoieffski. Robespierre came out of the pages +of Rousseau as surely as the People’s Palace rose out of the <i>débris</i> +of a novel. Literature always anticipates life. It does +not copy it, but moulds it to its purpose. The nineteenth century, +as we know it, is largely an invention of Balzac. Our Luciens +de Rubempré, our Rastignacs, and De Marsays made their first +appearance on the stage of the <i>Comédie Humaine</i>. +We are merely carrying out, with footnotes and unnecessary additions, +the whim or fancy or creative vision of a great novelist. I once +asked a lady, who knew Thackeray intimately, whether he had had any +model for Becky Sharp. She told me that Becky was an invention, +but that the idea of the character had been partly suggested by a governess +who lived in the neighbourhood of Kensington Square, and was the companion +of a very selfish and rich old woman. I inquired what became of +the governess, and she replied that, oddly enough, some years after +the appearance of <i>Vanity Fair</i>, she ran away with the nephew of +the lady with whom she was living, and for a short time made a great +splash in society, quite in Mrs. Rawdon Crawley’s style, and entirely +by Mrs. Rawdon Crawley’s methods. Ultimately she came to +grief, disappeared to the Continent, and used to be occasionally seen +at Monte Carlo and other gambling places. The noble gentleman +from whom the same great sentimentalist drew Colonel Newcome died, a +few months after <i>The Newcomer</i> had reached a fourth edition, with +the word ‘Adsum’ on his lips. Shortly after Mr. Stevenson +published his curious psychological story of transformation, a friend +of mine, called Mr. Hyde, was in the north of London, and being anxious +to get to a railway station, took what he thought would be a short cut, +lost his way, and found himself in a network of mean, evil-looking streets. +Feeling rather nervous he began to walk extremely fast, when suddenly +out of an archway ran a child right between his legs. It fell +on the pavement, he tripped over it, and trampled upon it. Being +of course very much frightened and a little hurt, it began to scream, +and in a few seconds the whole street was full of rough people who came +pouring out of the houses like ants. They surrounded him, and +asked him his name. He was just about to give it when he suddenly +remembered the opening incident in Mr. Stevenson’s story. +He was so filled with horror at having realised in his own person that +terrible and well-written scene, and at having done accidentally, though +in fact, what the Mr. Hyde of fiction had done with deliberate intent, +that he ran away as hard as he could go. He was, however, very +closely followed, and finally he took refuge in a surgery, the door +of which happened to be open, where he explained to a young assistant, +who happened to be there, exactly what had occurred. The humanitarian +crowd were induced to go away on his giving them a small sum of money, +and as soon as the coast was clear he left. As he passed out, +the name on the brass door-plate of the surgery caught his eye. +It was ‘Jekyll.’ At least it should have been.</p> +<p>Here the imitation, as far as it went, was of course accidental. +In the following case the imitation was self-conscious. In the +year 1879, just after I had left Oxford, I met at a reception at the +house of one of the Foreign Ministers a woman of very curious exotic +beauty. We became great friends, and were constantly together. +And yet what interested me most in her was not her beauty, but her character, +her entire vagueness of character. She seemed to have no personality +at all, but simply the possibility of many types. Sometimes she +would give herself up entirely to art, turn her drawing-room into a +studio, and spend two or three days a week at picture galleries or museums. +Then she would take to attending race-meetings, wear the most horsey +clothes, and talk about nothing but betting. She abandoned religion +for mesmerism, mesmerism for politics, and politics for the melodramatic +excitements of philanthropy. In fact, she was a kind of Proteus, +and as much a failure in all her transformations as was that wondrous +sea-god when Odysseus laid hold of him. One day a serial began +in one of the French magazines. At that time I used to read serial +stories, and I well remember the shock of surprise I felt when I came +to the description of the heroine. She was so like my friend that +I brought her the magazine, and she recognised herself in it immediately, +and seemed fascinated by the resemblance. I should tell you, by +the way, that the story was translated from some dead Russian writer, +so that the author had not taken his type from my friend. Well, +to put the matter briefly, some months afterwards I was in Venice, and +finding the magazine in the reading-room of the hotel, I took it up +casually to see what had become of the heroine. It was a most +piteous tale, as the girl had ended by running away with a man absolutely +inferior to her, not merely in social station, but in character and +intellect also. I wrote to my friend that evening about my views +on John Bellini, and the admirable ices at Florian’s, and the +artistic value of gondolas, but added a postscript to the effect that +her double in the story had behaved in a very silly manner. I +don’t know why I added that, but I remember I had a sort of dread +over me that she might do the same thing. Before my letter had +reached her, she had run away with a man who deserted her in six months. +I saw her in 1884 in Paris, where she was living with her mother, and +I asked her whether the story had had anything to do with her action. +She told me that she had felt an absolutely irresistible impulse to +follow the heroine step by step in her strange and fatal progress, and +that it was with a feeling of real terror that she had looked forward +to the last few chapters of the story. When they appeared, it +seemed to her that she was compelled to reproduce them in life, and +she did so. It was a most clear example of this imitative instinct +of which I was speaking, and an extremely tragic one.</p> +<p>However, I do not wish to dwell any further upon individual instances. +Personal experience is a most vicious and limited circle. All +that I desire to point out is the general principle that Life imitates +Art far more than Art imitates Life, and I feel sure that if you think +seriously about it you will find that it is true. Life holds the +mirror up to Art, and either reproduces some strange type imagined by +painter or sculptor, or realises in fact what has been dreamed in fiction. +Scientifically speaking, the basis of life—the energy of life, +as Aristotle would call it—is simply the desire for expression, +and Art is always presenting various forms through which this expression +can be attained. Life seizes on them and uses them, even if they +be to her own hurt. Young men have committed suicide because Rolla +did so, have died by their own hand because by his own hand Werther +died. Think of what we owe to the imitation of Christ, of what +we owe to the imitation of Caesar.</p> +<p>CYRIL. The theory is certainly a very curious one, but to make +it complete you must show that Nature, no less than Life, is an imitation +of Art. Are you prepared to prove that?</p> +<p>VIVIAN. My dear fellow, I am prepared to prove anything.</p> +<p>CYRIL. Nature follows the landscape painter, then, and takes +her effects from him?</p> +<p>VIVIAN. Certainly. Where, if not from the Impressionists, +do we get those wonderful brown fogs that come creeping down our streets, +blurring the gas-lamps and changing the houses into monstrous shadows? +To whom, if not to them and their master, do we owe the lovely silver +mists that brood over our river, and turn to faint forms of fading grace +curved bridge and swaying barge? The extraordinary change that +has taken place in the climate of London during the last ten years is +entirely due to a particular school of Art. You smile. Consider +the matter from a scientific or a metaphysical point of view, and you +will find that I am right. For what is Nature? Nature is +no great mother who has borne us. She is our creation. It +is in our brain that she quickens to life. Things are because +we see them, and what we see, and how we see it, depends on the Arts +that have influenced us. To look at a thing is very different +from seeing a thing. One does not see anything until one sees +its beauty. Then, and then only, does it come into existence. +At present, people see fogs, not because there are fogs, but because +poets and painters have taught them the mysterious loveliness of such +effects. There may have been fogs for centuries in London. +I dare say there were. But no one saw them, and so we do not know +anything about them. They did not exist till Art had invented +them. Now, it must be admitted, fogs are carried to excess. +They have become the mere mannerism of a clique, and the exaggerated +realism of their method gives dull people bronchitis. Where the +cultured catch an effect, the uncultured catch cold. And so, let +us be humane, and invite Art to turn her wonderful eyes elsewhere. +She has done so already, indeed. That white quivering sunlight +that one sees now in France, with its strange blotches of mauve, and +its restless violet shadows, is her latest fancy, and, on the whole, +Nature reproduces it quite admirably. Where she used to give us +Corots and Daubignys, she gives us now exquisite Monets and entrancing +Pissaros. Indeed there are moments, rare, it is true, but still +to be observed from time to time, when Nature becomes absolutely modern. +Of course she is not always to be relied upon. The fact is that +she is in this unfortunate position. Art creates an incomparable +and unique effect, and, having done so, passes on to other things. +Nature, upon the other hand, forgetting that imitation can be made the +sincerest form of insult, keeps on repeating this effect until we all +become absolutely wearied of it. Nobody of any real culture, for +instance, ever talks nowadays about the beauty of a sunset. Sunsets +are quite old-fashioned. They belong to the time when Turner was +the last note in art. To admire them is a distinct sign of provincialism +of temperament. Upon the other hand they go on. Yesterday +evening Mrs. Arundel insisted on my going to the window, and looking +at the glorious sky, as she called it. Of course I had to look +at it. She is one of those absurdly pretty Philistines to whom +one can deny nothing. And what was it? It was simply a very +second-rate Turner, a Turner of a bad period, with all the painter’s +worst faults exaggerated and over-emphasised. Of course, I am +quite ready to admit that Life very often commits the same error. +She produces her false Renés and her sham Vautrins, just as Nature +gives us, on one day a doubtful Cuyp, and on another a more than questionable +Rousseau. Still, Nature irritates one more when she does things +of that kind. It seems so stupid, so obvious, so unnecessary. +A false Vautrin might be delightful. A doubtful Cuyp is unbearable. +However, I don’t want to be too hard on Nature. I wish the +Channel, especially at Hastings, did not look quite so often like a +Henry Moore, grey pearl with yellow lights, but then, when Art is more +varied, Nature will, no doubt, be more varied also. That she imitates +Art, I don’t think even her worst enemy would deny now. +It is the one thing that keeps her in touch with civilised man. +But have I proved my theory to your satisfaction?</p> +<p>CYRIL. You have proved it to my dissatisfaction, which is better. +But even admitting this strange imitative instinct in Life and Nature, +surely you would acknowledge that Art expresses the temper of its age, +the spirit of its time, the moral and social conditions that surround +it, and under whose influence it is produced.</p> +<p>VIVIAN. Certainly not! Art never expresses anything but +itself. This is the principle of my new aesthetics; and it is +this, more than that vital connection between form and substance, on +which Mr. Pater dwells, that makes music the type of all the arts. +Of course, nations and individuals, with that healthy natural vanity +which is the secret of existence, are always under the impression that +it is of them that the Muses are talking, always trying to find in the +calm dignity of imaginative art some mirror of their own turbid passions, +always forgetting that the singer of life is not Apollo but Marsyas. +Remote from reality, and with her eyes turned away from the shadows +of the cave, Art reveals her own perfection, and the wondering crowd +that watches the opening of the marvellous, many-petalled rose fancies +that it is its own history that is being told to it, its own spirit +that is finding expression in a new form. But it is not so. +The highest art rejects the burden of the human spirit, and gains more +from a new medium or a fresh material than she does from any enthusiasm +for art, or from any lofty passion, or from any great awakening of the +human consciousness. She develops purely on her own lines. +She is not symbolic of any age. It is the ages that are her symbols.</p> +<p>Even those who hold that Art is representative of time and place +and people cannot help admitting that the more imitative an art is, +the less it represents to us the spirit of its age. The evil faces +of the Roman emperors look out at us from the foul porphyry and spotted +jasper in which the realistic artists of the day delighted to work, +and we fancy that in those cruel lips and heavy sensual jaws we can +find the secret of the ruin of the Empire. But it was not so. +The vices of Tiberius could not destroy that supreme civilisation, any +more than the virtues of the Antonines could save it. It fell +for other, for less interesting reasons. The sibyls and prophets +of the Sistine may indeed serve to interpret for some that new birth +of the emancipated spirit that we call the Renaissance; but what do +the drunken boors and bawling peasants of Dutch art tell us about the +great soul of Holland? The more abstract, the more ideal an art +is, the more it reveals to us the temper of its age. If we wish +to understand a nation by means of its art, let us look at its architecture +or its music.</p> +<p>CYRIL. I quite agree with you there. The spirit of an +age may be best expressed in the abstract ideal arts, for the spirit +itself is abstract and ideal. Upon the other hand, for the visible +aspect of an age, for its look, as the phrase goes, we must of course +go to the arts of imitation.</p> +<p>VIVIAN. I don’t think so. After all, what the imitative +arts really give us are merely the various styles of particular artists, +or of certain schools of artists. Surely you don’t imagine +that the people of the Middle Ages bore any resemblance at all to the +figures on mediaeval stained glass, or in mediaeval stone and wood carving, +or on mediaeval metal-work, or tapestries, or illuminated MSS. +They were probably very ordinary-looking people, with nothing grotesque, +or remarkable, or fantastic in their appearance. The Middle Ages, +as we know them in art, are simply a definite form of style, and there +is no reason at all why an artist with this style should not be produced +in the nineteenth century. No great artist ever sees things as +they really are. If he did, he would cease to be an artist. +Take an example from our own day. I know that you are fond of +Japanese things. Now, do you really imagine that the Japanese +people, as they are presented to us in art, have any existence? +If you do, you have never understood Japanese art at all. The +Japanese people are the deliberate self-conscious creation of certain +individual artists. If you set a picture by Hokusai, or Hokkei, +or any of the great native painters, beside a real Japanese gentleman +or lady, you will see that there is not the slightest resemblance between +them. The actual people who live in Japan are not unlike the general +run of English people; that is to say, they are extremely commonplace, +and have nothing curious or extraordinary about them. In fact +the whole of Japan is a pure invention. There is no such country, +there are no such people. One of our most charming painters went +recently to the Land of the Chrysanthemum in the foolish hope of seeing +the Japanese. All he saw, all he had the chance of painting, were +a few lanterns and some fans. He was quite unable to discover +the inhabitants, as his delightful exhibition at Messrs. Dowdeswell’s +Gallery showed only too well. He did not know that the Japanese +people are, as I have said, simply a mode of style, an exquisite fancy +of art. And so, if you desire to see a Japanese effect, you will +not behave like a tourist and go to Tokio. On the contrary, you +will stay at home and steep yourself in the work of certain Japanese +artists, and then, when you have absorbed the spirit of their style, +and caught their imaginative manner of vision, you will go some afternoon +and sit in the Park or stroll down Piccadilly, and if you cannot see +an absolutely Japanese effect there, you will not see it anywhere. +Or, to return again to the past, take as another instance the ancient +Greeks. Do you think that Greek art ever tells us what the Greek +people were like? Do you believe that the Athenian women were +like the stately dignified figures of the Parthenon frieze, or like +those marvellous goddesses who sat in the triangular pediments of the +same building? If you judge from the art, they certainly were +so. But read an authority, like Aristophanes, for instance. +You will find that the Athenian ladies laced tightly, wore high-heeled +shoes, dyed their hair yellow, painted and rouged their faces, and were +exactly like any silly fashionable or fallen creature of our own day. +The fact is that we look back on the ages entirely through the medium +of art, and art, very fortunately, has never once told us the truth.</p> +<p>CYRIL. But modern portraits by English painters, what of them? +Surely they are like the people they pretend to represent?</p> +<p>VIVIAN. Quite so. They are so like them that a hundred +years from now no one will believe in them. The only portraits +in which one believes are portraits where there is very little of the +sitter, and a very great deal of the artist. Holbein’s drawings +of the men and women of his time impress us with a sense of their absolute +reality. But this is simply because Holbein compelled life to +accept his conditions, to restrain itself within his limitations, to +reproduce his type, and to appear as he wished it to appear. It +is style that makes us believe in a thing—nothing but style. +Most of our modern portrait painters are doomed to absolute oblivion. +They never paint what they see. They paint what the public sees, +and the public never sees anything.</p> +<p>CYRIL. Well, after that I think I should like to hear the end +of your article.</p> +<p>VIVIAN. With pleasure. Whether it will do any good I +really cannot say. Ours is certainly the dullest and most prosaic +century possible. Why, even Sleep has played us false, and has +closed up the gates of ivory, and opened the gates of horn. The +dreams of the great middle classes of this country, as recorded in Mr. +Myers’s two bulky volumes on the subject, and in the Transactions +of the Psychical Society, are the most depressing things that I have +ever read. There is not even a fine nightmare among them. +They are commonplace, sordid and tedious. As for the Church, I +cannot conceive anything better for the culture of a country than the +presence in it of a body of men whose duty it is to believe in the supernatural, +to perform daily miracles, and to keep alive that mythopoeic faculty +which is so essential for the imagination. But in the English +Church a man succeeds, not through his capacity for belief, but through +his capacity for disbelief. Ours is the only Church where the +sceptic stands at the altar, and where St. Thomas is regarded as the +ideal apostle. Many a worthy clergyman, who passes his life in +admirable works of kindly charity, lives and dies unnoticed and unknown; +but it is sufficient for some shallow uneducated passman out of either +University to get up in his pulpit and express his doubts about Noah’s +ark, or Balaam’s ass, or Jonah and the whale, for half of London +to flock to hear him, and to sit open-mouthed in rapt admiration at +his superb intellect. The growth of common sense in the English +Church is a thing very much to be regretted. It is really a degrading +concession to a low form of realism. It is silly, too. It +springs from an entire ignorance of psychology. Man can believe +the impossible, but man can never believe the improbable. However, +I must read the end of my article:-</p> +<p>‘What we have to do, what at any rate it is our duty to do, +is to revive this old art of Lying. Much of course may be done, +in the way of educating the public, by amateurs in the domestic circle, +at literary lunches, and at afternoon teas. But this is merely +the light and graceful side of lying, such as was probably heard at +Cretan dinner-parties. There are many other forms. Lying +for the sake of gaining some immediate personal advantage, for instance—lying +with a moral purpose, as it is usually called—though of late it +has been rather looked down upon, was extremely popular with the antique +world. Athena laughs when Odysseus tells her “his words +of sly devising,” as Mr. William Morris phrases it, and the glory +of mendacity illumines the pale brow of the stainless hero of Euripidean +tragedy, and sets among the noble women of the past the young bride +of one of Horace’s most exquisite odes. Later on, what at +first had been merely a natural instinct was elevated into a self-conscious +science. Elaborate rules were laid down for the guidance of mankind, +and an important school of literature grew up round the subject. +Indeed, when one remembers the excellent philosophical treatise of Sanchez +on the whole question, one cannot help regretting that no one has ever +thought of publishing a cheap and condensed edition of the works of +that great casuist. A short primer, “When to Lie and How,” +if brought out in an attractive and not too expensive a form, would +no doubt command a large sale, and would prove of real practical service +to many earnest and deep-thinking people. Lying for the sake of +the improvement of the young, which is the basis of home education, +still lingers amongst us, and its advantages are so admirably set forth +in the early books of Plato’s <i>Republic</i> that it is unnecessary +to dwell upon them here. It is a mode of lying for which all good +mothers have peculiar capabilities, but it is capable of still further +development, and has been sadly overlooked by the School Board. +Lying for the sake of a monthly salary is of course well known in Fleet +Street, and the profession of a political leader-writer is not without +its advantages. But it is said to be a somewhat dull occupation, +and it certainly does not lead to much beyond a kind of ostentatious +obscurity. The only form of lying that is absolutely beyond reproach +is lying for its own sake, and the highest development of this is, as +we have already pointed out, Lying in Art. Just as those who do +not love Plato more than Truth cannot pass beyond the threshold of the +Academe, so those who do not love Beauty more than Truth never know +the inmost shrine of Art. The solid stolid British intellect lies +in the desert sands like the Sphinx in Flaubert’s marvellous tale, +and fantasy, <i>La Chimère</i>, dances round it, and calls to +it with her false, flute-toned voice. It may not hear her now, +but surely some day, when we are all bored to death with the commonplace +character of modern fiction, it will hearken to her and try to borrow +her wings.</p> +<p>‘And when that day dawns, or sunset reddens, how joyous we +shall all be! Facts will be regarded as discreditable, Truth will +be found mourning over her fetters, and Romance, with her temper of +wonder, will return to the land. The very aspect of the world +will change to our startled eyes. Out of the sea will rise Behemoth +and Leviathan, and sail round the high-pooped galleys, as they do on +the delightful maps of those ages when books on geography were actually +readable. Dragons will wander about the waste places, and the +phoenix will soar from her nest of fire into the air. We shall +lay our hands upon the basilisk, and see the jewel in the toad’s +head. Champing his gilded oats, the Hippogriff will stand in our +stalls, and over our heads will float the Blue Bird singing of beautiful +and impossible things, of things that are lovely and that never happen, +of things that are not and that should be. But before this comes +to pass we must cultivate the lost art of Lying.’</p> +<p>CYRIL. Then we must entirely cultivate it at once. But +in order to avoid making any error I want you to tell me briefly the +doctrines of the new aesthetics.</p> +<p>VIVIAN. Briefly, then, they are these. Art never expresses +anything but itself. It has an independent life, just as Thought +has, and develops purely on its own lines. It is not necessarily +realistic in an age of realism, nor spiritual in an age of faith. +So far from being the creation of its time, it is usually in direct +opposition to it, and the only history that it preserves for us is the +history of its own progress. Sometimes it returns upon its footsteps, +and revives some antique form, as happened in the archaistic movement +of late Greek Art, and in the pre-Raphaelite movement of our own day. +At other times it entirely anticipates its age, and produces in one +century work that it takes another century to understand, to appreciate +and to enjoy. In no case does it reproduce its age. To pass +from the art of a time to the time itself is the great mistake that +all historians commit.</p> +<p>The second doctrine is this. All bad art comes from returning +to Life and Nature, and elevating them into ideals. Life and Nature +may sometimes be used as part of Art’s rough material, but before +they are of any real service to art they must be translated into artistic +conventions. The moment Art surrenders its imaginative medium +it surrenders everything. As a method Realism is a complete failure, +and the two things that every artist should avoid are modernity of form +and modernity of subject-matter. To us, who live in the nineteenth +century, any century is a suitable subject for art except our own. +The only beautiful things are the things that do not concern us. +It is, to have the pleasure of quoting myself, exactly because Hecuba +is nothing to us that her sorrows are so suitable a motive for a tragedy. +Besides, it is only the modern that ever becomes old-fashioned. +M. Zola sits down to give us a picture of the Second Empire. Who +cares for the Second Empire now? It is out of date. Life +goes faster than Realism, but Romanticism is always in front of Life.</p> +<p>The third doctrine is that Life imitates Art far more than Art imitates +Life. This results not merely from Life’s imitative instinct, +but from the fact that the self-conscious aim of Life is to find expression, +and that Art offers it certain beautiful forms through which it may +realise that energy. It is a theory that has never been put forward +before, but it is extremely fruitful, and throws an entirely new light +upon the history of Art.</p> +<p>It follows, as a corollary from this, that external Nature also imitates +Art. The only effects that she can show us are effects that we +have already seen through poetry, or in paintings. This is the +secret of Nature’s charm, as well as the explanation of Nature’s +weakness.</p> +<p>The final revelation is that Lying, the telling of beautiful untrue +things, is the proper aim of Art. But of this I think I have spoken +at sufficient length. And now let us go out on the terrace, where +‘droops the milk-white peacock like a ghost,’ while the +evening star ‘washes the dusk with silver.’ At twilight +nature becomes a wonderfully suggestive effect, and is not without loveliness, +though perhaps its chief use is to illustrate quotations from the poets. +Come! We have talked long enough.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>PEN, PENCIL AND POISON—A STUDY IN GREEN</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>It has constantly been made a subject of reproach against artists +and men of letters that they are lacking in wholeness and completeness +of nature. As a rule this must necessarily be so. That very +concentration of vision and intensity of purpose which is the characteristic +of the artistic temperament is in itself a mode of limitation. +To those who are preoccupied with the beauty of form nothing else seems +of much importance. Yet there are many exceptions to this rule. +Rubens served as ambassador, and Goethe as state councillor, and Milton +as Latin secretary to Cromwell. Sophocles held civic office in +his own city; the humourists, essayists, and novelists of modern America +seem to desire nothing better than to become the diplomatic representatives +of their country; and Charles Lamb’s friend, Thomas Griffiths +Wainewright, the subject of this brief memoir, though of an extremely +artistic temperament, followed many masters other than art, being not +merely a poet and a painter, an art-critic, an antiquarian, and a writer +of prose, an amateur of beautiful things, and a dilettante of things +delightful, but also a forger of no mean or ordinary capabilities, and +as a subtle and secret poisoner almost without rival in this or any +age.</p> +<p>This remarkable man, so powerful with ‘pen, pencil and poison,’ +as a great poet of our own day has finely said of him, was born at Chiswick, +in 1794. His father was the son of a distinguished solicitor of +Gray’s Inn and Hatton Garden. His mother was the daughter +of the celebrated Dr. Griffiths, the editor and founder of the <i>Monthly +Review</i>, the partner in another literary speculation of Thomas Davis, +that famous bookseller of whom Johnson said that he was not a bookseller, +but ‘a gentleman who dealt in books,’ the friend of Goldsmith +and Wedgwood, and one of the most well-known men of his day. Mrs. +Wainewright died, in giving him birth, at the early age of twenty-one, +and an obituary notice in the <i>Gentleman’s Magazine</i> tells +us of her ‘amiable disposition and numerous accomplishments,’ +and adds somewhat quaintly that ‘she is supposed to have understood +the writings of Mr. Locke as well as perhaps any person of either sex +now living.’ His father did not long survive his young wife, +and the little child seems to have been brought up by his grandfather, +and, on the death of the latter in 1803, by his uncle George Edward +Griffiths, whom he subsequently poisoned. His boyhood was passed +at Linden House, Turnham Green, one of those many fine Georgian mansions +that have unfortunately disappeared before the inroads of the suburban +builder, and to its lovely gardens and well-timbered park he owed that +simple and impassioned love of nature which never left him all through +his life, and which made him so peculiarly susceptible to the spiritual +influences of Wordsworth’s poetry. He went to school at +Charles Burney’s academy at Hammersmith. Mr. Burney was +the son of the historian of music, and the near kinsman of the artistic +lad who was destined to turn out his most remarkable pupil. He +seems to have been a man of a good deal of culture, and in after years +Mr. Wainewright often spoke of him with much affection as a philosopher, +an archaeologist, and an admirable teacher who, while he valued the +intellectual side of education, did not forget the importance of early +moral training. It was under Mr. Burney that he first developed +his talent as an artist, and Mr. Hazlitt tells us that a drawing-book +which he used at school is still extant, and displays great talent and +natural feeling. Indeed, painting was the first art that fascinated +him. It was not till much later that he sought to find expression +by pen or poison.</p> +<p>Before this, however, he seems to have been carried away by boyish +dreams of the romance and chivalry of a soldier’s life, and to +have become a young guardsman. But the reckless dissipated life +of his companions failed to satisfy the refined artistic temperament +of one who was made for other things. In a short time he wearied +of the service. ‘Art,’ he tells us, in words that +still move many by their ardent sincerity and strange fervour, ‘Art +touched her renegade; by her pure and high influence the noisome mists +were purged; my feelings, parched, hot, and tarnished, were renovated +with cool, fresh bloom, simple, beautiful to the simple-hearted.’ +But Art was not the only cause of the change. ‘The writings +of Wordsworth,’ he goes on to say, ‘did much towards calming +the confusing whirl necessarily incident to sudden mutations. +I wept over them tears of happiness and gratitude.’ He accordingly +left the army, with its rough barrack-life and coarse mess-room tittle-tattle, +and returned to Linden House, full of this new-born enthusiasm for culture. +A severe illness, in which, to use his own words, he was ‘broken +like a vessel of clay,’ prostrated him for a time. His delicately +strung organisation, however indifferent it might have been to inflicting +pain on others, was itself most keenly sensitive to pain. He shrank +from suffering as a thing that mars and maims human life, and seems +to have wandered through that terrible valley of melancholia from which +so many great, perhaps greater, spirits have never emerged. But +he was young—only twenty-five years of age—and he soon passed +out of the ‘dead black waters,’ as he called them, into +the larger air of humanistic culture. As he was recovering from +the illness that had led him almost to the gates of death, he conceived +the idea of taking up literature as an art. ‘I said with +John Woodvil,’ he cries, ‘it were a life of gods to dwell +in such an element,’ to see and hear and write brave things:-</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>‘These high and gusty relishes of life<br />Have no allayings +of mortality.’</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>It is impossible not to feel that in this passage we have the utterance +of a man who had a true passion for letters. ‘To see and +hear and write brave things,’ this was his aim.</p> +<p>Scott, the editor of the <i>London Magazine</i>, struck by the young +man’s genius, or under the influence of the strange fascination +that he exercised on every one who knew him, invited him to write a +series of articles on artistic subjects, and under a series of fanciful +pseudonym he began to contribute to the literature of his day. +<i>Janus Weathercock</i>, <i>Egomet Bonmot</i>, and <i>Van Vinkvooms</i>, +were some of the grotesque masks under which he choose to hide his seriousness +or to reveal his levity. A mask tells us more than a face. +These disguises intensified his personality. In an incredibly +short time he seems to have made his mark. Charles Lamb speaks +of ‘kind, light-hearted Wainewright,’ whose prose is ‘capital.’ +We hear of him entertaining Macready, John Forster, Maginn, Talfourd, +Sir Wentworth Dilke, the poet John Clare, and others, at <i>a petit-dîner</i>. +Like Disraeli, he determined to startle the town as a dandy, and his +beautiful rings, his antique cameo breast-pin, and his pale lemon-coloured +kid gloves, were well known, and indeed were regarded by Hazlitt as +being the signs of a new manner in literature: while his rich curly +hair, fine eyes, and exquisite white hands gave him the dangerous and +delightful distinction of being different from others. There was +something in him of Balzac’s Lucien de Rubempré. +At times he reminds us of Julien Sorel. De Quincey saw him once. +It was at a dinner at Charles Lamb’s. ‘Amongst the +company, all literary men, sat a murderer,’ he tells us, and he +goes on to describe how on that day he had been ill, and had hated the +face of man and woman, and yet found himself looking with intellectual +interest across the table at the young writer beneath whose affectations +of manner there seemed to him to lie so much unaffected sensibility, +and speculates on ‘what sudden growth of another interest’ +would have changed his mood, had he known of what terrible sin the guest +to whom Lamb paid so much attention was even then guilty.</p> +<p>His life-work falls naturally under the three heads suggested by +Mr. Swinburne, and it may be partly admitted that, if we set aside his +achievements in the sphere of poison, what he has actually left to us +hardly justifies his reputation.</p> +<p>But then it is only the Philistine who seeks to estimate a personality +by the vulgar test of production. This young dandy sought to be +somebody, rather than to do something. He recognised that Life +itself is in art, and has its modes of style no less than the arts that +seek to express it. Nor is his work without interest. We +hear of William Blake stopping in the Royal Academy before one of his +pictures and pronouncing it to be ‘very fine.’ His +essays are prefiguring of much that has since been realised. He +seems to have anticipated some of those accidents of modern culture +that are regarded by many as true essentials. He writes about +La Gioconda, and early French poets and the Italian Renaissance. +He loves Greek gems, and Persian carpets, and Elizabethan translations +of <i>Cupid and Psyche</i>, and the <i>Hypnerotomachia</i>, and book-binding +and early editions, and wide-margined proofs. He is keenly sensitive +to the value of beautiful surroundings, and never wearies of describing +to us the rooms in which he lived, or would have liked to live. +He had that curious love of green, which in individuals is always the +sign of a subtle artistic temperament, and in nations is said to denote +a laxity, if not a decadence of morals. Like Baudelaire he was +extremely fond of cats, and with Gautier, he was fascinated by that +‘sweet marble monster’ of both sexes that we can still see +at Florence and in the Louvre.</p> +<p>There is of course much in his descriptions, and his suggestions +for decoration, that shows that he did not entirely free himself from +the false taste of his time. But it is clear that he was one of +the first to recognise what is, indeed, the very keynote of aesthetic +eclecticism, I mean the true harmony of all really beautiful things +irrespective of age or place, of school or manner. He saw that +in decorating a room, which is to be, not a room for show, but a room +to live in, we should never aim at any archaeological reconstruction +of the past, nor burden ourselves with any fanciful necessity for historical +accuracy. In this artistic perception he was perfectly right. +All beautiful things belong to the same age.</p> +<p>And so, in his own library, as he describes it, we find the delicate +fictile vase of the Greek, with its exquisitely painted figures and +the faint ΚΑΛΟΣ finely traced upon +its side, and behind it hangs an engraving of the ‘Delphic Sibyl’ +of Michael Angelo, or of the ‘Pastoral’ of Giorgione. +Here is a bit of Florentine majolica, and here a rude lamp from some +old Roman tomb. On the table lies a book of Hours, ‘cased in a +cover of solid silver gilt, wrought with quaint devices and studded +with small brilliants and rubies,’ and close by it ‘squats +a little ugly monster, a Lar, perhaps, dug up in the sunny fields of +corn-bearing Sicily.’ Some dark antique bronzes contrast +with the pale gleam of two noble <i>Christi Crucifixi</i>, one carved +in ivory, the other moulded in wax.’ He has his trays of +Tassie’s gems, his tiny Louis-Quatorze <i>bonbonnière</i> +with a miniature by Petitot, his highly prized ‘brown-biscuit +teapots, filagree-worked,’ his citron morocco letter-case, and +his ‘pomona-green’ chair.</p> +<p>One can fancy him lying there in the midst of his books and casts +and engravings, a true virtuoso, a subtle connoisseur, turning over +his fine collection of Mare Antonios, and his Turner’s ‘Liber +Studiorum,’ of which he was a warm admirer, or examining with +a magnifier some of his antique gems and cameos, ‘the head of +Alexander on an onyx of two strata,’ or ‘that superb <i>altissimo +relievo</i> on cornelian, Jupiter AEgiochus.’ He was always +a great amateur of engravings, and gives some very useful suggestions +as to the best means of forming a collection. Indeed, while fully +appreciating modern art, he never lost sight of the importance of reproductions +of the great masterpieces of the past, and all that he says about the +value of plaster casts is quite admirable.</p> +<p>As an art-critic he concerned himself primarily with the complex +impressions produced by a work of art, and certainly the first step +in aesthetic criticism is to realise one’s own impressions. +He cared nothing for abstract discussions on the nature of the Beautiful, +and the historical method, which has since yielded such rich fruit, +did not belong to his day, but he never lost sight of the great truth +that Art’s first appeal is neither to the intellect nor to the +emotions, but purely to the artistic temperament, and he more than once +points out that this temperament, this ‘taste,’ as he calls +it, being unconsciously guided and made perfect by frequent contact +with the best work, becomes in the end a form of right judgment. +Of course there are fashions in art just as there are fashions in dress, +and perhaps none of us can ever quite free ourselves from the influence +of custom and the influence of novelty. He certainly could not, +and he frankly acknowledges how difficult it is to form any fair estimate +of contemporary work. But, on the whole, his taste was good and +sound. He admired Turner and Constable at a time when they were +not so much thought of as they are now, and saw that for the highest +landscape art we require more than ‘mere industry and accurate +transcription.’ Of Crome’s ‘Heath Scene near +Norwich’ he remarks that it shows ‘how much a subtle observation +of the elements, in their wild moods, does for a most uninteresting +flat,’ and of the popular type of landscape of his day he says +that it is ‘simply an enumeration of hill and dale, stumps of +trees, shrubs, water, meadows, cottages and houses; little more than +topography, a kind of pictorial map-work; in which rainbows, showers, +mists, haloes, large beams shooting through rifted clouds, storms, starlight, +all the most valued materials of the real painter, are not.’ +He had a thorough dislike of what is obvious or commonplace in art, +and while he was charmed to entertain Wilkie at dinner, he cared as +little for Sir David’s pictures as he did for Mr. Crabbe’s +poems. With the imitative and realistic tendencies of his day +he had no sympathy and he tells us frankly that his great admiration +for Fuseli was largely due to the fact that the little Swiss did not +consider it necessary that an artist should paint only what he sees. +The qualities that he sought for in a picture were composition, beauty +and dignity of line, richness of colour, and imaginative power. +Upon the other hand, he was not a doctrinaire. ‘I hold that +no work of art can be tried otherwise than by laws deduced from itself: +whether or not it be consistent with itself is the question.’ +This is one of his excellent aphorisms. And in criticising painters +so different as Landseer and Martin, Stothard and Etty, he shows that, +to use a phrase now classical, he is trying ‘to see the object +as in itself it really is.’</p> +<p>However, as I pointed out before, he never feels quite at his ease +in his criticisms of contemporary work. ‘The present,’ +he says, ‘is about as agreeable a confusion to me as Ariosto on +the first perusal. . . . Modern things dazzle me. I must look +at them through Time’s telescope. Elia complains that to +him the merit of a MS. poem is uncertain; “print,” as he +excellently says, “settles it.” Fifty years’ +toning does the same thing to a picture.’ He is happier +when he is writing about Watteau and Lancret, about Rubens and Giorgione, +about Rembrandt, Corregio, and Michael Angelo; happiest of all when +he is writing about Greek things. What is Gothic touched him very +little, but classical art and the art of the Renaissance were always +dear to him. He saw what our English school could gain from a +study of Greek models, and never wearies of pointing out to the young +student the artistic possibilities that lie dormant in Hellenic marbles +and Hellenic methods of work. In his judgments on the great Italian +Masters, says De Quincey, ‘there seemed a tone of sincerity and +of native sensibility, as in one who spoke for himself, and was not +merely a copier from books.’ The highest praise that we +can give to him is that he tried to revive style as a conscious tradition. +But he saw that no amount of art lectures or art congresses, or ‘plans +for advancing the fine arts,’ will ever produce this result. +The people, he says very wisely, and in the true spirit of Toynbee Hall, +must always have ‘the best models constantly before their eyes.’</p> +<p>As is to be expected from one who was a painter, he is often extremely +technical in his art criticisms. Of Tintoret’s ‘St. +George delivering the Egyptian Princess from the Dragon,’ he remarks:-</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>The robe of Sabra, warmly glazed with Prussian blue, is relieved +from the pale greenish background by a vermilion scarf; and the full +hues of both are beautifully echoed, as it were, in a lower key by the +purple-lake coloured stuffs and bluish iron armour of the saint, besides +an ample balance to the vivid azure drapery on the foreground in the +indigo shades of the wild wood surrounding the castle.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>And elsewhere he talks learnedly of ‘a delicate Schiavone, +various as a tulip-bed, with rich broken tints,’ of ‘a glowing +portrait, remarkable for <i>morbidezza</i>, by the scarce Moroni,’ +and of another picture being ‘pulpy in the carnations.’</p> +<p>But, as a rule, he deals with his impressions of the work as an artistic +whole, and tries to translate those impressions into words, to give, +as it were, the literary equivalent for the imaginative and mental effect. +He was one of the first to develop what has been called the art-literature +of the nineteenth century, that form of literature which has found in +Mr. Ruskin and Mr. Browning, its two most perfect exponents. His +description of Lancret’s <i>Repas Italien</i>, in which ‘a +dark-haired girl, “amorous of mischief,” lies on the daisy-powdered +grass,’ is in some respects very charming. Here is his account +of ‘The Crucifixion,’ by Rembrandt. It is extremely +characteristic of his style:-</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Darkness—sooty, portentous darkness—shrouds the whole +scene: only above the accursed wood, as if through a horrid rift in +the murky ceiling, a rainy deluge—‘sleety-flaw, discoloured +water’—streams down amain, spreading a grisly spectral light, +even more horrible than that palpable night. Already the Earth +pants thick and fast! the darkened Cross trembles! the winds are dropt—the +air is stagnant—a muttering rumble growls underneath their feet, +and some of that miserable crowd begin to fly down the hill. The +horses snuff the coming terror, and become unmanageable through fear. +The moment rapidly approaches when, nearly torn asunder by His own weight, +fainting with loss of blood, which now runs in narrower rivulets from +His slit veins, His temples and breast drowned in sweat, and His black +tongue parched with the fiery death-fever, Jesus cries, ‘I thirst.’ +The deadly vinegar is elevated to Him.</p> +<p>His head sinks, and the sacred corpse ‘swings senseless of +the cross.’ A sheet of vermilion flame shoots sheer through +the air and vanishes; the rocks of Carmel and Lebanon cleave asunder; +the sea rolls on high from the sands its black weltering waves. +Earth yawns, and the graves give up their dwellers. The dead and +the living are mingled together in unnatural conjunction and hurry through +the holy city. New prodigies await them there. The veil +of the temple—the unpierceable veil—is rent asunder from +top to bottom, and that dreaded recess containing the Hebrew mysteries—the +fatal ark with the tables and seven-branched candelabrum—is disclosed +by the light of unearthly flames to the God-deserted multitude.</p> +<p>Rembrandt never painted this sketch, and he was quite right. +It would have lost nearly all its charms in losing that perplexing veil +of indistinctness which affords such ample range wherein the doubting +imagination may speculate. At present it is like a thing in another +world. A dark gulf is betwixt us. It is not tangible by +the body. We can only approach it in the spirit.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>In this passage, written, the author tells us, ‘in awe and +reverence,’ there is much that is terrible, and very much that +is quite horrible, but it is not without a certain crude form of power, +or, at any rate, a certain crude violence of words, a quality which +this age should highly appreciate, as it is its chief defect. +It is pleasanter, however, to pass to this description of Giulio Romano’s +‘Cephalus and Procris’:-</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>We should read Moschus’s lament for Bion, the sweet shepherd, +before looking at this picture, or study the picture as a preparation +for the lament. We have nearly the same images in both. +For either victim the high groves and forest dells murmur; the flowers +exhale sad perfume from their buds; the nightingale mourns on the craggy +lands, and the swallow in the long-winding vales; ‘the satyrs, +too, and fauns dark-veiled groan,’ and the fountain nymphs within +the wood melt into tearful waters. The sheep and goats leave their +pasture; and oreads, ‘who love to scale the most inaccessible +tops of all uprightest rocks,’ hurry down from the song of their +wind-courting pines; while the dryads bend from the branches of the +meeting trees, and the rivers moan for white Procris, ‘with many-sobbing +streams,’</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Filling the far-seen ocean with a voice.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>The golden bees are silent on the thymy Hymettus; and the knelling +horn of Aurora’s love no more shall scatter away the cold twilight +on the top of Hymettus. The foreground of our subject is a grassy +sunburnt bank, broken into swells and hollows like waves (a sort of +land-breakers), rendered more uneven by many foot-tripping roots and +stumps of trees stocked untimely by the axe, which are again throwing +out light-green shoots. This bank rises rather suddenly on the +right to a clustering grove, penetrable to no star, at the entrance +of which sits the stunned Thessalian king, holding between his knees +that ivory-bright body which was, but an instant agone, parting the +rough boughs with her smooth forehead, and treading alike on thorns +and flowers with jealousy-stung foot—now helpless, heavy, void +of all motion, save when the breeze lifts her thick hair in mockery.</p> +<p>From between the closely-neighboured boles astonished nymphs press +forward with loud cries -</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>And deerskin-vested satyrs, crowned with ivy twists, advance;<br />And +put strange pity in their horned countenance.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Laelaps lies beneath, and shows by his panting the rapid pace of +death. On the other side of the group, Virtuous Love with ‘vans +dejected’ holds forth the arrow to an approaching troop of sylvan +people, fauns, rams, goats, satyrs, and satyr-mothers, pressing their +children tighter with their fearful hands, who hurry along from the +left in a sunken path between the foreground and a rocky wall, on whose +lowest ridge a brook-guardian pours from her urn her grief-telling waters. +Above and more remote than the Ephidryad, another female, rending her +locks, appears among the vine-festooned pillars of an unshorn grove. +The centre of the picture is filled by shady meadows, sinking down to +a river-mouth; beyond is ‘the vast strength of the ocean stream,’ +from whose floor the extinguisher of stars, rosy Aurora, drives furiously +up her brine-washed steeds to behold the death-pangs of her rival.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Were this description carefully re-written, it would be quite admirable. +The conception of making a prose poem out of paint is excellent. +Much of the best modern literature springs from the same aim. +In a very ugly and sensible age, the arts borrow, not from life, but +from each other.</p> +<p>His sympathies, too, were wonderfully varied. In everything +connected with the stage, for instance, he was always extremely interested, +and strongly upheld the necessity for archaeological accuracy in costume +and scene-painting. ‘In art,’ he says in one of his +essays, ‘whatever is worth doing at all is worth doing well’; +and he points out that once we allow the intrusion of anachronisms, +it becomes difficult to say where the line is to be drawn. In +literature, again, like Lord Beaconsfield on a famous occasion, he was +‘on the side of the angels.’ He was one of the first +to admire Keats and Shelley—‘the tremulously-sensitive and +poetical Shelley,’ as he calls him. His admiration for Wordsworth +was sincere and profound. He thoroughly appreciated William Blake. +One of the best copies of the ‘Songs of Innocence and Experience’ +that is now in existence was wrought specially for him. He loved +Alain Chartier, and Ronsard, and the Elizabethan dramatists, and Chaucer +and Chapman, and Petrarch. And to him all the arts were one. +‘Our critics,’ he remarks with much wisdom, ‘seem +hardly aware of the identity of the primal seeds of poetry and painting, +nor that any true advancement in the serious study of one art co-generates +a proportionate perfection in the other’; and he says elsewhere +that if a man who does not admire Michael Angelo talks of his love for +Milton, he is deceiving either himself or his listeners. To his +fellow-contributors in the <i>London Magazine</i> he was always most +generous, and praises Barry Cornwall, Allan Cunningham, Hazlitt, Elton, +and Leigh Hunt without anything of the malice of a friend. Some +of his sketches of Charles Lamb are admirable in their way, and, with +the art of the true comedian, borrow their style from their subject:-</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>What can I say of thee more than all know? that thou hadst the gaiety +of a boy with the knowledge of a man: as gentle a heart as ever sent +tears to the eyes.</p> +<p>How wittily would he mistake your meaning, and put in a conceit most +seasonably out of season. His talk without affectation was compressed, +like his beloved Elizabethans, even unto obscurity. Like grains +of fine gold, his sentences would beat out into whole sheets. +He had small mercy on spurious fame, and a caustic observation on the +<i>fashion for men of genius</i> was a standing dish. Sir Thomas +Browne was a ‘bosom cronie’ of his; so was Burton, and old +Fuller. In his amorous vein he dallied with that peerless Duchess +of many-folio odour; and with the heyday comedies of Beaumont and Fletcher +he induced light dreams. He would deliver critical touches on +these, like one inspired, but it was good to let him choose his own +game; if another began even on the acknowledged pets he was liable to +interrupt, or rather append, in a mode difficult to define whether as +misapprehensive or mischievous. One night at C-’s, the above +dramatic partners were the temporary subject of chat. Mr. X. commended +the passion and haughty style of a tragedy (I don’t know which +of them), but was instantly taken up by Elia, who told him ‘<i>That</i> +was nothing; the lyrics were the high things—the lyrics!’</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>One side of his literary career deserves especial notice. Modern +journalism may be said to owe almost as much to him as to any man of +the early part of this century. He was the pioneer of Asiatic +prose, and delighted in pictorial epithets and pompous exaggerations. +To have a style so gorgeous that it conceals the subject is one of the +highest achievements of an important and much admired school of Fleet +Street leader-writers, and this school <i>Janus</i> <i>Weathercock</i> +may be said to have invented. He also saw that it was quite easy +by continued reiteration to make the public interested in his own personality, +and in his purely journalistic articles this extraordinary young man +tells the world what he had for dinner, where he gets his clothes, what +wines he likes, and in what state of health he is, just as if he were +writing weekly notes for some popular newspaper of our own time. +This being the least valuable side of his work, is the one that has +had the most obvious influence. A publicist, nowadays, is a man +who bores the community with the details of the illegalities of his +private life.</p> +<p>Like most artificial people, he had a great love of nature. +‘I hold three things in high estimation,’ he says somewhere: +‘to sit lazily on an eminence that commands a rich prospect; to +be shadowed by thick trees while the sun shines around me; and to enjoy +solitude with the consciousness of neighbourhood. The country +gives them all to me.’ He writes about his wandering over +fragrant furze and heath repeating Collins’s ‘Ode to Evening,’ +just to catch the fine quality of the moment; about smothering his face +‘in a watery bed of cowslips, wet with May dews’; and about +the pleasure of seeing the sweet-breathed kine ‘pass slowly homeward +through the twilight,’ and hearing ‘the distant clank of +the sheep-bell.’ One phrase of his, ‘the polyanthus +glowed in its cold bed of earth, like a solitary picture of Giorgione +on a dark oaken panel,’ is curiously characteristic of his temperament, +and this passage is rather pretty in its way:-</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>The short tender grass was covered with marguerites—‘such +that men called <i>daisies</i> in our town’—thick as stars +on a summer’s night. The harsh caw of the busy rooks came +pleasantly mellowed from a high dusky grove of elms at some distance +off, and at intervals was heard the voice of a boy scaring away the +birds from the newly-sown seeds. The blue depths were the colour +of the darkest ultramarine; not a cloud streaked the calm aether; only +round the horizon’s edge streamed a light, warm film of misty +vapour, against which the near village with its ancient stone church +showed sharply out with blinding whiteness. I thought of Wordsworth’s +‘Lines written in March.’</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>However, we must not forget that the cultivated young man who penned +these lines, and who was so susceptible to Wordsworthian influences, +was also, as I said at the beginning of this memoir, one of the most +subtle and secret poisoners of this or any age. How he first became +fascinated by this strange sin he does not tell us, and the diary in +which he carefully noted the results of his terrible experiments and +the methods that he adopted, has unfortunately been lost to us. +Even in later days, too, he was always reticent on the matter, and preferred +to speak about ‘The Excursion,’ and the ‘Poems founded +on the Affections.’ There is no doubt, however, that the +poison that he used was strychnine. In one of the beautiful rings +of which he was so proud, and which served to show off the fine modelling +of his delicate ivory hands, he used to carry crystals of the Indian +<i>nux vomica</i>, a poison, one of his biographers tells us, ‘nearly +tasteless, difficult of discovery, and capable of almost infinite dilution.’ +His murders, says De Quincey, were more than were ever made known judicially. +This is no doubt so, and some of them are worthy of mention. His +first victim was his uncle, Mr. Thomas Griffiths. He poisoned +him in 1829 to gain possession of Linden House, a place to which he +had always been very much attached. In the August of the next +year he poisoned Mrs. Abercrombie, his wife’s mother, and in the +following December he poisoned the lovely Helen Abercrombie, his sister-in-law. +Why he murdered Mrs. Abercrombie is not ascertained. It may have +been for a caprice, or to quicken some hideous sense of power that was +in him, or because she suspected something, or for no reason. +But the murder of Helen Abercrombie was carried out by himself and his +wife for the sake of a sum of about £18,000, for which they had +insured her life in various offices. The circumstances were as +follows. On the 12th of December, he and his wife and child came +up to London from Linden House, and took lodgings at No. 12 Conduit +Street, Regent Street. With them were the two sisters, Helen and +Madeleine Abercrombie. On the evening of the 14th they all went +to the play, and at supper that night Helen sickened. The next +day she was extremely ill, and Dr. Locock, of Hanover Square, was called +in to attend her. She lived till Monday, the 20th, when, after +the doctor’s morning visit, Mr. and Mrs. Wainewright brought her +some poisoned jelly, and then went out for a walk. When they returned +Helen Abercrombie was dead. She was about twenty years of age, +a tall graceful girl with fair hair. A very charming red-chalk +drawing of her by her brother-in-law is still in existence, and shows +how much his style as an artist was influenced by Sir Thomas Lawrence, +a painter for whose work he had always entertained a great admiration. +De Quincey says that Mrs. Wainewright was not really privy to the murder. +Let us hope that she was not. Sin should be solitary, and have +no accomplices.</p> +<p>The insurance companies, suspecting the real facts of the case, declined +to pay the policy on the technical ground of misrepresentation and want +of interest, and, with curious courage, the poisoner entered an action +in the Court of Chancery against the Imperial, it being agreed that +one decision should govern all the cases. The trial, however, +did not come on for five years, when, after one disagreement, a verdict +was ultimately given in the companies’ favour. The judge +on the occasion was Lord Abinger. <i>Egomet Bonmot</i> was represented +by Mr. Erle and Sir William Follet, and the Attorney-General and Sir +Frederick Pollock appeared for the other side. The plaintiff, +unfortunately, was unable to be present at either of the trials. +The refusal of the companies to give him the £18,000 had placed +him in a position of most painful pecuniary embarrassment. Indeed, +a few months after the murder of Helen Abercrombie, he had been actually +arrested for debt in the streets of London while he was serenading the +pretty daughter of one of his friends. This difficulty was got +over at the time, but shortly afterwards he thought it better to go +abroad till he could come to some practical arrangement with his creditors. +He accordingly went to Boulogne on a visit to the father of the young +lady in question, and while he was there induced him to insure his life +with the Pelican Company for £3000. As soon as the necessary +formalities had been gone through and the policy executed, he dropped +some crystals of strychnine into his coffee as they sat together one +evening after dinner. He himself did not gain any monetary advantage +by doing this. His aim was simply to revenge himself on the first +office that had refused to pay him the price of his sin. His friend +died the next day in his presence, and he left Boulogne at once for +a sketching tour through the most picturesque parts of Brittany, and +was for some time the guest of an old French gentleman, who had a beautiful +country house at St. Omer. From this he moved to Paris, where +he remained for several years, living in luxury, some say, while others +talk of his ‘skulking with poison in his pocket, and being dreaded +by all who knew him.’ In 1837 he returned to England privately. +Some strange mad fascination brought him back. He followed a woman +whom he loved.</p> +<p>It was the month of June, and he was staying at one of the hotels +in Covent Garden. His sitting-room was on the ground floor, and +he prudently kept the blinds down for fear of being seen. Thirteen +years before, when he was making his fine collection of majolica and +Marc Antonios, he had forged the names of his trustees to a power of +attorney, which enabled him to get possession of some of the money which +he had inherited from his mother, and had brought into marriage settlement. +He knew that this forgery had been discovered, and that by returning +to England he was imperilling his life. Yet he returned. +Should one wonder? It was said that the woman was very beautiful. +Besides, she did not love him.</p> +<p>It was by a mere accident that he was discovered. A noise in +the street attracted his attention, and, in his artistic interest in +modern life, he pushed aside the blind for a moment. Some one +outside called out, ‘That’s Wainewright, the Bank-forger.’ +It was Forrester, the Bow Street runner.</p> +<p>On the 5th of July he was brought up at the Old Bailey. The +following report of the proceedings appeared in the <i>Times</i>:-</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Before Mr. Justice Vaughan and Mr. Baron Alderson, Thomas Griffiths +Wainewright, aged forty-two, a man of gentlemanly appearance, wearing +mustachios, was indicted for forging and uttering a certain power of +attorney for £2259, with intent to defraud the Governor and Company +of the Bank of England.</p> +<p>There were five indictments against the prisoner, to all of which +he pleaded not guilty, when he was arraigned before Mr. Serjeant Arabin +in the course of the morning. On being brought before the judges, +however, he begged to be allowed to withdraw the former plea, and then +pleaded guilty to two of the indictments which were not of a capital +nature.</p> +<p>The counsel for the Bank having explained that there were three other +indictments, but that the Bank did not desire to shed blood, the plea +of guilty on the two minor charges was recorded, and the prisoner at +the close of the session sentenced by the Recorder to transportation +for life.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>He was taken back to Newgate, preparatory to his removal to the colonies. +In a fanciful passage in one of his early essays he had fancied himself +‘lying in Horsemonger Gaol under sentence of death’ for +having been unable to resist the temptation of stealing some Marc Antonios +from the British Museum in order to complete his collection. The +sentence now passed on him was to a man of his culture a form of death. +He complained bitterly of it to his friends, and pointed out, with a +good deal of reason, some people may fancy, that the money was practically +his own, having come to him from his mother, and that the forgery, such +as it was, had been committed thirteen years before, which, to use his +own phrase, was at least a <i>circonstance attenuante</i>. The +permanence of personality is a very subtle metaphysical problem, and +certainly the English law solves the question in an extremely rough-and-ready +manner. There is, however, something dramatic in the fact that +this heavy punishment was inflicted on him for what, if we remember +his fatal influence on the prose of modern journalism, was certainly +not the worst of all his sins.</p> +<p>While he was in gaol, Dickens, Macready, and Hablot Browne came across +him by chance. They had been going over the prisons of London, +searching for artistic effects, and in Newgate they suddenly caught +sight of Wainewright. He met them with a defiant stare, Forster +tells us, but Macready was ‘horrified to recognise a man familiarly +known to him in former years, and at whose table he had dined.’</p> +<p>Others had more curiosity, and his cell was for some time a kind +of fashionable lounge. Many men of letters went down to visit +their old literary comrade. But he was no longer the kind light-hearted +Janus whom Charles Lamb admired. He seems to have grown quite +cynical.</p> +<p>To the agent of an insurance company who was visiting him one afternoon, +and thought he would improve the occasion by pointing out that, after +all, crime was a bad speculation, he replied: ‘Sir, you City men +enter on your speculations, and take the chances of them. Some +of your speculations succeed, some fail. Mine happen to have failed, +yours happen to have succeeded. That is the only difference, sir, +between my visitor and me. But, sir, I will tell you one thing +in which I have succeeded to the last. I have been determined +through life to hold the position of a gentleman. I have always +done so. I do so still. It is the custom of this place that +each of the inmates of a cell shall take his morning’s turn of +sweeping it out. I occupy a cell with a bricklayer and a sweep, +but they never offer me the broom!’ When a friend reproached +him with the murder of Helen Abercrombie he shrugged his shoulders and +said, ‘Yes; it was a dreadful thing to do, but she had very thick +ankles.’</p> +<p>From Newgate he was brought to the hulks at Portsmouth, and sent +from there in the <i>Susan</i> to Van Diemen’s Land along with +three hundred other convicts. The voyage seems to have been most +distasteful to him, and in a letter written to a friend he spoke bitterly +about the ignominy of ‘the companion of poets and artists’ +being compelled to associate with ‘country bumpkins.’ +The phrase that he applies to his companions need not surprise us. +Crime in England is rarely the result of sin. It is nearly always +the result of starvation. There was probably no one on board in +whom he would have found a sympathetic listener, or even a psychologically +interesting nature.</p> +<p>His love of art, however, never deserted him. At Hobart Town +he started a studio, and returned to sketching and portrait-painting, +and his conversation and manners seem not to have lost their charm. +Nor did he give up his habit of poisoning, and there are two cases on +record in which he tried to make away with people who had offended him. +But his hand seems to have lost its cunning. Both of his attempts +were complete failures, and in 1844, being thoroughly dissatisfied with +Tasmanian society, he presented a memorial to the governor of the settlement, +Sir John Eardley Wilmot, praying for a ticket-of-leave. In it +he speaks of himself as being ‘tormented by ideas struggling for +outward form and realisation, barred up from increase of knowledge, +and deprived of the exercise of profitable or even of decorous speech.’ +His request, however, was refused, and the associate of Coleridge consoled +himself by making those marvellous <i>Paradis Artificiels</i> whose +secret is only known to the eaters of opium. In 1852 he died of +apoplexy, his sole living companion being a cat, for which he had evinced +at extraordinary affection.</p> +<p>His crimes seem to have had an important effect upon his art. +They gave a strong personality to his style, a quality that his early +work certainly lacked. In a note to the <i>Life of</i> <i>Dickens</i>, +Forster mentions that in 1847 Lady Blessington received from her brother, +Major Power, who held a military appointment at Hobart Town, an oil +portrait of a young lady from his clever brush; and it is said that +‘he had contrived to put the expression of his own wickedness +into the portrait of a nice, kind-hearted girl.’ M. Zola, +in one of his novels, tells us of a young man who, having committed +a murder, takes to art, and paints greenish impressionist portraits +of perfectly respectable people, all of which bear a curious resemblance +to his victim. The development of Mr. Wainewright’s style +seems to me far more subtle and suggestive. One can fancy an intense +personality being created out of sin.</p> +<p>This strange and fascinating figure that for a few years dazzled +literary London, and made so brilliant a <i>début</i> in life +and letters, is undoubtedly a most interesting study. Mr. W. Carew +Hazlitt, his latest biographer, to whom I am indebted for many of the +facts contained in this memoir, and whose little book is, indeed, quite +invaluable in its way, is of opinion that his love of art and nature +was a mere pretence and assumption, and others have denied to him all +literary power. This seems to me a shallow, or at least a mistaken, +view. The fact of a man being a poisoner is nothing against his +prose. The domestic virtues are not the true basis of art, though +they may serve as an excellent advertisement for second-rate artists. +It is possible that De Quincey exaggerated his critical powers, and +I cannot help saying again that there is much in his published works +that is too familiar, too common, too journalistic, in the bad sense +of that bad word. Here and there he is distinctly vulgar in expression, +and he is always lacking in the self-restraint of the true artist. +But for some of his faults we must blame the time in which he lived, +and, after all, prose that Charles Lamb thought ‘capital’ +has no small historic interest. That he had a sincere love of +art and nature seems to me quite certain. There is no essential +incongruity between crime and culture. We cannot re-write the +whole of history for the purpose of gratifying our moral sense of what +should be.</p> +<p>Of course, he is far too close to our own time for us to be able +to form any purely artistic judgment about him. It is impossible +not to feel a strong prejudice against a man who might have poisoned +Lord Tennyson, or Mr. Gladstone, or the Master of Balliol. But +had the man worn a costume and spoken a language different from our +own, had he lived in imperial Rome, or at the time of the Italian Renaissance, +or in Spain in the seventeenth century, or in any land or any century +but this century and this land, we would be quite able to arrive at +a perfectly unprejudiced estimate of his position and value. I +know that there are many historians, or at least writers on historical +subjects, who still think it necessary to apply moral judgments to history, +and who distribute their praise or blame with the solemn complacency +of a successful schoolmaster. This, however, is a foolish habit, +and merely shows that the moral instinct can be brought to such a pitch +of perfection that it will make its appearance wherever it is not required. +Nobody with the true historical sense ever dreams of blaming Nero, or +scolding Tiberius, or censuring Caesar Borgia. These personages +have become like the puppets of a play. They may fill us with +terror, or horror, or wonder, but they do not harm us. They are +not in immediate relation to us. We have nothing to fear from +them. They have passed into the sphere of art and science, and +neither art nor science knows anything of moral approval or disapproval. +And so it may be some day with Charles Lamb’s friend. At +present I feel that he is just a little too modern to be treated in +that fine spirit of disinterested curiosity to which we owe so many +charming studies of the great criminals of the Italian Renaissance from +the pens of Mr. John Addington Symonds, Miss A. Mary F. Robinson, Miss +Vernon Lee, and other distinguished writers. However, Art has +not forgotten him. He is the hero of Dickens’s <i>Hunted +Down</i>, the Varney of Bulwer’s <i>Lucretia</i>; and it is gratifying +to note that fiction has paid some homage to one who was so powerful +with ‘pen, pencil and poison.’ To be suggestive for +fiction is to be of more importance than a fact.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>THE CRITIC AS ARTIST: WITH SOME REMARKS UPON THE IMPORTANCE OF DOING +NOTHING</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>A DIALOGUE. Part I. Persons: Gilbert and Ernest. +Scene: the library of a house in Piccadilly, overlooking the Green Park.</p> +<p>GILBERT (at the Piano). My dear Ernest, what are you laughing +at?</p> +<p>ERNEST (looking up). At a capital story that I have just come +across in this volume of Reminiscences that I have found on your table.</p> +<p>GILBERT. What is the book? Ah! I see. I have not +read it yet. Is it good?</p> +<p>ERNEST. Well, while you have been playing, I have been turning +over the pages with some amusement, though, as a rule, I dislike modern +memoirs. They are generally written by people who have either +entirely lost their memories, or have never done anything worth remembering; +which, however, is, no doubt, the true explanation of their popularity, +as the English public always feels perfectly at its ease when a mediocrity +is talking to it.</p> +<p>GILBERT. Yes: the public is wonderfully tolerant. It +forgives everything except genius. But I must confess that I like +all memoirs. I like them for their form, just as much as for their +matter. In literature mere egotism is delightful. It is +what fascinates us in the letters of personalities so different as Cicero +and Balzac, Flaubert and Berlioz, Byron and Madame de Sévigné. +Whenever we come across it, and, strangely enough, it is rather rare, +we cannot but welcome it, and do not easily forget it. Humanity +will always love Rousseau for having confessed his sins, not to a priest, +but to the world, and the couchant nymphs that Cellini wrought in bronze +for the castle of King Francis, the green and gold Perseus, even, that +in the open Loggia at Florence shows the moon the dead terror that once +turned life to stone, have not given it more pleasure than has that +autobiography in which the supreme scoundrel of the Renaissance relates +the story of his splendour and his shame. The opinions, the character, +the achievements of the man, matter very little. He may be a sceptic +like the gentle Sieur de Montaigne, or a saint like the bitter son of +Monica, but when he tells us his own secrets he can always charm our +ears to listening and our lips to silence. The mode of thought +that Cardinal Newman represented—if that can be called a mode +of thought which seeks to solve intellectual problems by a denial of +the supremacy of the intellect—may not, cannot, I think, survive. +But the world will never weary of watching that troubled soul in its +progress from darkness to darkness. The lonely church at Littlemore, +where ‘the breath of the morning is damp, and worshippers are +few,’ will always be dear to it, and whenever men see the yellow +snapdragon blossoming on the wall of Trinity they will think of that +gracious undergraduate who saw in the flower’s sure recurrence +a prophecy that he would abide for ever with the Benign Mother of his +days—a prophecy that Faith, in her wisdom or her folly, suffered +not to be fulfilled. Yes; autobiography is irresistible. +Poor, silly, conceited Mr. Secretary Pepys has chattered his way into +the circle of the Immortals, and, conscious that indiscretion is the +better part of valour, bustles about among them in that ‘shaggy +purple gown with gold buttons and looped lace’ which he is so +fond of describing to us, perfectly at his ease, and prattling, to his +own and our infinite pleasure, of the Indian blue petticoat that he +bought for his wife, of the ‘good hog’s hars-let,’ +and the ‘pleasant French fricassee of veal’ that he loved +to eat, of his game of bowls with Will Joyce, and his ‘gadding +after beauties,’ and his reciting of <i>Hamlet</i> on a Sunday, +and his playing of the viol on week days, and other wicked or trivial +things. Even in actual life egotism is not without its attractions. +When people talk to us about others they are usually dull. When +they talk to us about themselves they are nearly always interesting, +and if one could shut them up, when they become wearisome, as easily +as one can shut up a book of which one has grown wearied, they would +be perfect absolutely.</p> +<p>ERNEST. There is much virtue in that If, as Touchstone would +say. But do you seriously propose that every man should become +his own Boswell? What would become of our industrious compilers +of Lives and Recollections in that case?</p> +<p>GILBERT. What has become of them? They are the pest of +the age, nothing more and nothing less. Every great man nowadays +has his disciples, and it is always Judas who writes the biography.</p> +<p>ERNEST. My dear fellow!</p> +<p>GILBERT. I am afraid it is true. Formerly we used to +canonise our heroes. The modern method is to vulgarise them. +Cheap editions of great books may be delightful, but cheap editions +of great men are absolutely detestable.</p> +<p>ERNEST. May I ask, Gilbert, to whom you allude?</p> +<p>GILBERT. Oh! to all our second-rate <i>littérateurs</i>. +We are overrun by a set of people who, when poet or painter passes away, +arrive at the house along with the undertaker, and forget that their +one duty is to behave as mutes. But we won’t talk about +them. They are the mere body-snatchers of literature. The +dust is given to one, and the ashes to another, and the soul is out +of their reach. And now, let me play Chopin to you, or Dvorák? +Shall I play you a fantasy by Dvorák? He writes passionate, +curiously-coloured things.</p> +<p>ERNEST. No; I don’t want music just at present. +It is far too indefinite. Besides, I took the Baroness Bernstein +down to dinner last night, and, though absolutely charming in every +other respect, she insisted on discussing music as if it were actually +written in the German language. Now, whatever music sounds like +I am glad to say that it does not sound in the smallest degree like +German. There are forms of patriotism that are really quite degrading. +No; Gilbert, don’t play any more. Turn round and talk to +me. Talk to me till the white-horned day comes into the room. +There is something in your voice that is wonderful.</p> +<p>GILBERT (rising from the piano). I am not in a mood for talking +to-night. I really am not. How horrid of you to smile! +Where are the cigarettes? Thanks. How exquisite these single +daffodils are! They seem to be made of amber and cool ivory. +They are like Greek things of the best period. What was the story +in the confessions of the remorseful Academician that made you laugh? +Tell it to me. After playing Chopin, I feel as if I had been weeping +over sins that I had never committed, and mourning over tragedies that +were not my own. Music always seems to me to produce that effect. +It creates for one a past of which one has been ignorant, and fills +one with a sense of sorrows that have been hidden from one’s tears. +I can fancy a man who had led a perfectly commonplace life, hearing +by chance some curious piece of music, and suddenly discovering that +his soul, without his being conscious of it, had passed through terrible +experiences, and known fearful joys, or wild romantic loves, or great +renunciations. And so tell me this story, Ernest. I want +to be amused.</p> +<p>ERNEST. Oh! I don’t know that it is of any importance. +But I thought it a really admirable illustration of the true value of +ordinary art-criticism. It seems that a lady once gravely asked +the remorseful Academician, as you call him, if his celebrated picture +of ‘A Spring-Day at Whiteley’s,’ or, ‘Waiting +for the Last Omnibus,’ or some subject of that kind, was all painted +by hand?</p> +<p>GILBERT. And was it?</p> +<p>ERNEST. You are quite incorrigible. But, seriously speaking, +what is the use of art-criticism? Why cannot the artist be left +alone, to create a new world if he wishes it, or, if not, to shadow +forth the world which we already know, and of which, I fancy, we would +each one of us be wearied if Art, with her fine spirit of choice and +delicate instinct of selection, did not, as it were, purify it for us, +and give to it a momentary perfection. It seems to me that the +imagination spreads, or should spread, a solitude around it, and works +best in silence and in isolation. Why should the artist be troubled +by the shrill clamour of criticism? Why should those who cannot +create take upon themselves to estimate the value of creative work? +What can they know about it? If a man’s work is easy to +understand, an explanation is unnecessary. . . .</p> +<p>GILBERT. And if his work is incomprehensible, an explanation +is wicked.</p> +<p>ERNEST. I did not say that.</p> +<p>GILBERT. Ah! but you should have. Nowadays, we have so +few mysteries left to us that we cannot afford to part with one of them. +The members of the Browning Society, like the theologians of the Broad +Church Party, or the authors of Mr. Walter Scott’s Great Writers +Series, seem to me to spend their time in trying to explain their divinity +away. Where one had hoped that Browning was a mystic they have +sought to show that he was simply inarticulate. Where one had +fancied that he had something to conceal, they have proved that he had +but little to reveal. But I speak merely of his incoherent work. +Taken as a whole the man was great. He did not belong to the Olympians, +and had all the incompleteness of the Titan. He did not survey, +and it was but rarely that he could sing. His work is marred by +struggle, violence and effort, and he passed not from emotion to form, +but from thought to chaos. Still, he was great. He has been +called a thinker, and was certainly a man who was always thinking, and +always thinking aloud; but it was not thought that fascinated him, but +rather the processes by which thought moves. It was the machine +he loved, not what the machine makes. The method by which the +fool arrives at his folly was as dear to him as the ultimate wisdom +of the wise. So much, indeed, did the subtle mechanism of mind +fascinate him that he despised language, or looked upon it as an incomplete +instrument of expression. Rhyme, that exquisite echo which in +the Muse’s hollow hill creates and answers its own voice; rhyme, +which in the hands of the real artist becomes not merely a material +element of metrical beauty, but a spiritual element of thought and passion +also, waking a new mood, it may be, or stirring a fresh train of ideas, +or opening by mere sweetness and suggestion of sound some golden door +at which the Imagination itself had knocked in vain; rhyme, which can +turn man’s utterance to the speech of gods; rhyme, the one chord +we have added to the Greek lyre, became in Robert Browning’s hands +a grotesque, misshapen thing, which at times made him masquerade in +poetry as a low comedian, and ride Pegasus too often with his tongue +in his cheek. There are moments when he wounds us by monstrous +music. Nay, if he can only get his music by breaking the strings +of his lute, he breaks them, and they snap in discord, and no Athenian +tettix, making melody from tremulous wings, lights on the ivory horn +to make the movement perfect, or the interval less harsh. Yet, +he was great: and though he turned language into ignoble clay, he made +from it men and women that live. He is the most Shakespearian +creature since Shakespeare. If Shakespeare could sing with myriad +lips, Browning could stammer through a thousand mouths. Even now, +as I am speaking, and speaking not against him but for him, there glides +through the room the pageant of his persons. There, creeps Fra +Lippo Lippi with his cheeks still burning from some girl’s hot +kiss. There, stands dread Saul with the lordly male-sapphires +gleaming in his turban. Mildred Tresham is there, and the Spanish +monk, yellow with hatred, and Blougram, and Ben Ezra, and the Bishop +of St. Praxed’s. The spawn of Setebos gibbers in the corner, +and Sebald, hearing Pippa pass by, looks on Ottima’s haggard face, +and loathes her and his own sin, and himself. Pale as the white +satin of his doublet, the melancholy king watches with dreamy treacherous +eyes too loyal Strafford pass forth to his doom, and Andrea shudders +as he hears the cousins whistle in the garden, and bids his perfect +wife go down. Yes, Browning was great. And as what will +he be remembered? As a poet? Ah, not as a poet! He +will be remembered as a writer of fiction, as the most supreme writer +of fiction, it may be, that we have ever had. His sense of dramatic +situation was unrivalled, and, if he could not answer his own problems, +he could at least put problems forth, and what more should an artist +do? Considered from the point of view of a creator of character +he ranks next to him who made Hamlet. Had he been articulate, +he might have sat beside him. The only man who can touch the hem +of his garment is George Meredith. Meredith is a prose Browning, +and so is Browning. He used poetry as a medium for writing in prose.</p> +<p>ERNEST. There is something in what you say, but there is not +everything in what you say. In many points you are unjust.</p> +<p>GILBERT. It is difficult not to be unjust to what one loves. +But let us return to the particular point at issue. What was it +that you said?</p> +<p>ERNEST. Simply this: that in the best days of art there were +no art-critics.</p> +<p>GILBERT. I seem to have heard that observation before, Ernest. +It has all the vitality of error and all the tediousness of an old friend.</p> +<p>ERNEST. It is true. Yes: there is no use your tossing +your head in that petulant manner. It is quite true. In +the best days of art there were no art-critics. The sculptor hewed +from the marble block the great white-limbed Hermes that slept within +it. The waxers and gilders of images gave tone and texture to +the statue, and the world, when it saw it, worshipped and was dumb. +He poured the glowing bronze into the mould of sand, and the river of +red metal cooled into noble curves and took the impress of the body +of a god. With enamel or polished jewels he gave sight to the +sightless eyes. The hyacinth-like curls grew crisp beneath his +graver. And when, in some dim frescoed fane, or pillared sunlit +portico, the child of Leto stood upon his pedestal, those who passed +by, δια λαμπροτατου +βαινοντες αβρως +αιθερος, became conscious +of a new influence that had come across their lives, and dreamily, or +with a sense of strange and quickening joy, went to their homes or daily +labour, or wandered, it may be, through the city gates to that nymph-haunted +meadow where young Phaedrus bathed his feet, and, lying there on the +soft grass, beneath the tall wind—whispering planes and flowering +<i>agnus castus</i>, began to think of the wonder of beauty, and grew +silent with unaccustomed awe. In those days the artist was free. +From the river valley he took the fine clay in his fingers, and with +a little tool of wood or bone, fashioned it into forms so exquisite +that the people gave them to the dead as their playthings, and we find +them still in the dusty tombs on the yellow hillside by Tanagra, with +the faint gold and the fading crimson still lingering about hair and +lips and raiment. On a wall of fresh plaster, stained with bright +sandyx or mixed with milk and saffron, he pictured one who trod with +tired feet the purple white-starred fields of asphodel, one ‘in +whose eyelids lay the whole of the Trojan War,’ Polyxena, the +daughter of Priam; or figured Odysseus, the wise and cunning, bound +by tight cords to the mast-step, that he might listen without hurt to +the singing of the Sirens, or wandering by the clear river of Acheron, +where the ghosts of fishes flitted over the pebbly bed; or showed the +Persian in trews and mitre flying before the Greek at Marathon, or the +galleys clashing their beaks of brass in the little Salaminian bay. +He drew with silver-point and charcoal upon parchment and prepared cedar. +Upon ivory and rose-coloured terracotta he painted with wax, making +the wax fluid with juice of olives, and with heated irons making it +firm. Panel and marble and linen canvas became wonderful as his +brush swept across them; and life seeing her own image, was still, and +dared not speak. All life, indeed, was his, from the merchants +seated in the market-place to the cloaked shepherd lying on the hill; +from the nymph hidden in the laurels and the faun that pipes at noon, +to the king whom, in long green-curtained litter, slaves bore upon oil-bright +shoulders, and fanned with peacock fans. Men and women, with pleasure +or sorrow in their faces, passed before him. He watched them, +and their secret became his. Through form and colour he re-created +a world.</p> +<p>All subtle arts belonged to him also. He held the gem against +the revolving disk, and the amethyst became the purple couch for Adonis, +and across the veined sardonyx sped Artemis with her hounds. He +beat out the gold into roses, and strung them together for necklace +or armlet. He beat out the gold into wreaths for the conqueror’s +helmet, or into palmates for the Tyrian robe, or into masks for the +royal dead. On the back of the silver mirror he graved Thetis +borne by her Nereids, or love-sick Phaedra with her nurse, or Persephone, +weary of memory, putting poppies in her hair. The potter sat in +his shed, and, flower-like from the silent wheel, the vase rose up beneath +his hands. He decorated the base and stem and ears with pattern +of dainty olive-leaf, or foliated acanthus, or curved and crested wave. +Then in black or red he painted lads wrestling, or in the race: knights +in full armour, with strange heraldic shields and curious visors, leaning +from shell-shaped chariot over rearing steeds: the gods seated at the +feast or working their miracles: the heroes in their victory or in their +pain. Sometimes he would etch in thin vermilion lines upon a ground +of white the languid bridegroom and his bride, with Eros hovering round +them—an Eros like one of Donatello’s angels, a little laughing +thing with gilded or with azure wings. On the curved side he would +write the name of his friend. ΚΑΛΟΣ +ΑΛΚΙΒΙΑΔΗΣ or +ΚΑΛΟΣ ΧΑΡΜΙΔΗΣ +tells us the story of his days. Again, on the rim of the wide +flat cup he would draw the stag browsing, or the lion at rest, as his +fancy willed it. From the tiny perfume-bottle laughed Aphrodite +at her toilet, and, with bare-limbed Maenads in his train, Dionysus +danced round the wine-jar on naked must-stained feet, while, satyr-like, +the old Silenus sprawled upon the bloated skins, or shook that magic +spear which was tipped with a fretted fir-cone, and wreathed with dark +ivy. And no one came to trouble the artist at his work. +No irresponsible chatter disturbed him. He was not worried by +opinions. By the Ilyssus, says Arnold somewhere, there was no +Higginbotham. By the Ilyssus, my dear Gilbert, there were no silly +art congresses bringing provincialism to the provinces and teaching +the mediocrity how to mouth. By the Ilyssus there were no tedious +magazines about art, in which the industrious prattle of what they do +not understand. On the reed-grown banks of that little stream +strutted no ridiculous journalism monopolising the seat of judgment +when it should be apologising in the dock. The Greeks had no art-critics.</p> +<p>GILBERT. Ernest, you are quite delightful, but your views are +terribly unsound. I am afraid that you have been listening to +the conversation of some one older than yourself. That is always +a dangerous thing to do, and if you allow it to degenerate into a habit +you will find it absolutely fatal to any intellectual development. +As for modern journalism, it is not my business to defend it. +It justifies its own existence by the great Darwinian principle of the +survival of the vulgarest. I have merely to do with literature.</p> +<p>ERNEST. But what is the difference between literature and journalism?</p> +<p>GILBERT. Oh! journalism is unreadable, and literature is not +read. That is all. But with regard to your statement that +the Greeks had no art-critics, I assure you that is quite absurd. +It would be more just to say that the Greeks were a nation of art-critics.</p> +<p>ERNEST. Really?</p> +<p>GILBERT. Yes, a nation of art-critics. But I don’t +wish to destroy the delightfully unreal picture that you have drawn +of the relation of the Hellenic artist to the intellectual spirit of +his age. To give an accurate description of what has never occurred +is not merely the proper occupation of the historian, but the inalienable +privilege of any man of parts and culture. Still less do I desire +to talk learnedly. Learned conversation is either the affectation +of the ignorant or the profession of the mentally unemployed. +And, as for what is called improving conversation, that is merely the +foolish method by which the still more foolish philanthropist feebly +tries to disarm the just rancour of the criminal classes. No: +let me play to you some mad scarlet thing by Dvorák. The +pallid figures on the tapestry are smiling at us, and the heavy eyelids +of my bronze Narcissus are folded in sleep. Don’t let us +discuss anything solemnly. I am but too conscious of the fact +that we are born in an age when only the dull are treated seriously, +and I live in terror of not being misunderstood. Don’t degrade +me into the position of giving you useful information. Education +is an admirable thing, but it is well to remember from time to time +that nothing that is worth knowing can be taught. Through the +parted curtains of the window I see the moon like a clipped piece of +silver. Like gilded bees the stars cluster round her. The +sky is a hard hollow sapphire. Let us go out into the night. +Thought is wonderful, but adventure is more wonderful still. Who +knows but we may meet Prince Florizel of Bohemia, and hear the fair +Cuban tell us that she is not what she seems?</p> +<p>ERNEST. You are horribly wilful. I insist on your discussing +this matter with me. You have said that the Greeks were a nation +of art-critics. What art-criticism have they left us?</p> +<p>GILBERT. My dear Ernest, even if not a single fragment of art-criticism +had come down to us from Hellenic or Hellenistic days, it would be none +the less true that the Greeks were a nation of art-critics, and that +they invented the criticism of art just as they invented the criticism +of everything else. For, after all, what is our primary debt to +the Greeks? Simply the critical spirit. And, this spirit, +which they exercised on questions of religion and science, of ethics +and metaphysics, of politics and education, they exercised on questions +of art also, and, indeed, of the two supreme and highest arts, they +have left us the most flawless system of criticism that the world has +ever seen.</p> +<p>ERNEST. But what are the two supreme and highest arts?</p> +<p>GILBERT. Life and Literature, life and the perfect expression +of life. The principles of the former, as laid down by the Greeks, +we may not realise in an age so marred by false ideals as our own. +The principles of the latter, as they laid them down, are, in many cases, +so subtle that we can hardly understand them. Recognising that +the most perfect art is that which most fully mirrors man in all his +infinite variety, they elaborated the criticism of language, considered +in the light of the mere material of that art, to a point to which we, +with our accentual system of reasonable or emotional emphasis, can barely +if at all attain; studying, for instance, the metrical movements of +a prose as scientifically as a modern musician studies harmony and counterpoint, +and, I need hardly say, with much keener aesthetic instinct. In +this they were right, as they were right in all things. Since +the introduction of printing, and the fatal development of the habit +of reading amongst the middle and lower classes of this country, there +has been a tendency in literature to appeal more and more to the eye, +and less and less to the ear which is really the sense which, from the +standpoint of pure art, it should seek to please, and by whose canons +of pleasure it should abide always. Even the work of Mr. Pater, +who is, on the whole, the most perfect master of English prose now creating +amongst us, is often far more like a piece of mosaic than a passage +in music, and seems, here and there, to lack the true rhythmical life +of words and the fine freedom and richness of effect that such rhythmical +life produces. We, in fact, have made writing a definite mode +of composition, and have treated it as a form of elaborate design. +The Greeks, upon the other hand, regarded writing simply as a method +of chronicling. Their test was always the spoken word in its musical +and metrical relations. The voice was the medium, and the ear +the critic. I have sometimes thought that the story of Homer’s +blindness might be really an artistic myth, created in critical days, +and serving to remind us, not merely that the great poet is always a +seer, seeing less with the eyes of the body than he does with the eyes +of the soul, but that he is a true singer also, building his song out +of music, repeating each line over and over again to himself till he +has caught the secret of its melody, chaunting in darkness the words +that are winged with light. Certainly, whether this be so or not, +it was to his blindness, as an occasion, if not as a cause, that England’s +great poet owed much of the majestic movement and sonorous splendour +of his later verse. When Milton could no longer write he began +to sing. Who would match the measures of <i>Comus</i> with the +measures of <i>Samson Agonistes</i>, or of <i>Paradise Lost</i> or <i>Regained</i>? +When Milton became blind he composed, as every one should compose, with +the voice purely, and so the pipe or reed of earlier days became that +mighty many-stopped organ whose rich reverberant music has all the stateliness +of Homeric verse, if it seeks not to have its swiftness, and is the +one imperishable inheritance of English literature sweeping through +all the ages, because above them, and abiding with us ever, being immortal +in its form. Yes: writing has done much harm to writers. +We must return to the voice. That must be our test, and perhaps +then we shall be able to appreciate some of the subtleties of Greek +art-criticism.</p> +<p>As it now is, we cannot do so. Sometimes, when I have written +a piece of prose that I have been modest enough to consider absolutely +free from fault, a dreadful thought comes over me that I may have been +guilty of the immoral effeminacy of using trochaic and tribrachic movements, +a crime for which a learned critic of the Augustan age censures with +most just severity the brilliant if somewhat paradoxical Hegesias. +I grow cold when I think of it, and wonder to myself if the admirable +ethical effect of the prose of that charming writer, who once in a spirit +of reckless generosity towards the uncultivated portion of our community +proclaimed the monstrous doctrine that conduct is three-fourths of life, +will not some day be entirely annihilated by the discovery that the +paeons have been wrongly placed.</p> +<p>ERNEST. Ah! now you are flippant.</p> +<p>GILBERT. Who would not be flippant when he is gravely told +that the Greeks had no art-critics? I can understand it being +said that the constructive genius of the Greeks lost itself in criticism, +but not that the race to whom we owe the critical spirit did not criticise. +You will not ask me to give you a survey of Greek art criticism from +Plato to Plotinus. The night is too lovely for that, and the moon, +if she heard us, would put more ashes on her face than are there already. +But think merely of one perfect little work of aesthetic criticism, +Aristotle’s <i>Treatise on Poetry</i>. It is not perfect +in form, for it is badly written, consisting perhaps of notes dotted +down for an art lecture, or of isolated fragments destined for some +larger book, but in temper and treatment it is perfect, absolutely. +The ethical effect of art, its importance to culture, and its place +in the formation of character, had been done once for all by Plato; +but here we have art treated, not from the moral, but from the purely +aesthetic point of view. Plato had, of course, dealt with many +definitely artistic subjects, such as the importance of unity in a work +of art, the necessity for tone and harmony, the aesthetic value of appearances, +the relation of the visible arts to the external world, and the relation +of fiction to fact. He first perhaps stirred in the soul of man +that desire that we have not yet satisfied, the desire to know the connection +between Beauty and Truth, and the place of Beauty in the moral and intellectual +order of the Kosmos. The problems of idealism and realism, as +he sets them forth, may seem to many to be somewhat barren of result +in the metaphysical sphere of abstract being in which he places them, +but transfer them to the sphere of art, and you will find that they +are still vital and full of meaning. It may be that it is as a +critic of Beauty that Plato is destined to live, and that by altering +the name of the sphere of his speculation we shall find a new philosophy. +But Aristotle, like Goethe, deals with art primarily in its concrete +manifestations, taking Tragedy, for instance, and investigating the +material it uses, which is language, its subject-matter, which is life, +the method by which it works, which is action, the conditions under +which it reveals itself, which are those of theatric presentation, its +logical structure, which is plot, and its final aesthetic appeal, which +is to the sense of beauty realised through the passions of pity and +awe. That purification and spiritualising of the nature which +he calls καθαρσις is, +as Goethe saw, essentially aesthetic, and is not moral, as Lessing fancied. +Concerning himself primarily with the impression that the work of art +produces, Aristotle sets himself to analyse that impression, to investigate +its source, to see how it is engendered. As a physiologist and +psychologist, he knows that the health of a function resides in energy. +To have a capacity for a passion and not to realise it, is to make oneself +incomplete and limited. The mimic spectacle of life that Tragedy +affords cleanses the bosom of much ‘perilous stuff,’ and +by presenting high and worthy objects for the exercise of the emotions +purifies and spiritualises the man; nay, not merely does it spiritualise +him, but it initiates him also into noble feelings of which he might +else have known nothing, the word καθαρσις +having, it has sometimes seemed to me, a definite allusion to the rite +of initiation, if indeed that be not, as I am occasionally tempted to +fancy, its true and only meaning here. This is of course a mere +outline of the book. But you see what a perfect piece of aesthetic +criticism it is. Who indeed but a Greek could have analysed art +so well? After reading it, one does not wonder any longer that +Alexandria devoted itself so largely to art-criticism, and that we find +the artistic temperaments of the day investigating every question of +style and manner, discussing the great Academic schools of painting, +for instance, such as the school of Sicyon, that sought to preserve +the dignified traditions of the antique mode, or the realistic and impressionist +schools, that aimed at reproducing actual life, or the elements of ideality +in portraiture, or the artistic value of the epic form in an age so +modern as theirs, or the proper subject-matter for the artist. +Indeed, I fear that the inartistic temperaments of the day busied themselves +also in matters of literature and art, for the accusations of plagiarism +were endless, and such accusations proceed either from the thin colourless +lips of impotence, or from the grotesque mouths of those who, possessing +nothing of their own, fancy that they can gain a reputation for wealth +by crying out that they have been robbed. And I assure you, my +dear Ernest, that the Greeks chattered about painters quite as much +as people do nowadays, and had their private views, and shilling exhibitions, +and Arts and Crafts guilds, and Pre-Raphaelite movements, and movements +towards realism, and lectured about art, and wrote essays on art, and +produced their art-historians, and their archaeologists, and all the +rest of it. Why, even the theatrical managers of travelling companies +brought their dramatic critics with them when they went on tour, and +paid them very handsome salaries for writing laudatory notices. +Whatever, in fact, is modern in our life we owe to the Greeks. +Whatever is an anachronism is due to mediaevalism. It is the Greeks +who have given us the whole system of art-criticism, and how fine their +critical instinct was, may be seen from the fact that the material they +criticised with most care was, as I have already said, language. +For the material that painter or sculptor uses is meagre in comparison +with that of words. Words have not merely music as sweet as that +of viol and lute, colour as rich and vivid as any that makes lovely +for us the canvas of the Venetian or the Spaniard, and plastic form +no less sure and certain than that which reveals itself in marble or +in bronze, but thought and passion and spirituality are theirs also, +are theirs indeed alone. If the Greeks had criticised nothing +but language, they would still have been the great art-critics of the +world. To know the principles of the highest art is to know the +principles of all the arts.</p> +<p>But I see that the moon is hiding behind a sulphur-coloured cloud. +Out of a tawny mane of drift she gleams like a lion’s eye. +She is afraid that I will talk to you of Lucian and Longinus, of Quinctilian +and Dionysius, of Pliny and Fronto and Pausanias, of all those who in +the antique world wrote or lectured upon art matters. She need +not be afraid. I am tired of my expedition into the dim, dull +abyss of facts. There is nothing left for me now but the divine +μονοχρονος ηδονη +of another cigarette. Cigarettes have at least the charm of leaving +one unsatisfied.</p> +<p>ERNEST. Try one of mine. They are rather good. +I get them direct from Cairo. The only use of our <i>attachés</i> +is that they supply their friends with excellent tobacco. And +as the moon has hidden herself, let us talk a little longer. I +am quite ready to admit that I was wrong in what I said about the Greeks. +They were, as you have pointed out, a nation of art-critics. I +acknowledge it, and I feel a little sorry for them. For the creative +faculty is higher than the critical. There is really no comparison +between them.</p> +<p>GILBERT. The antithesis between them is entirely arbitrary. +Without the critical faculty, there is no artistic creation at all, +worthy of the name. You spoke a little while ago of that fine +spirit of choice and delicate instinct of selection by which the artist +realises life for us, and gives to it a momentary perfection. +Well, that spirit of choice, that subtle tact of omission, is really +the critical faculty in one of its most characteristic moods, and no +one who does not possess this critical faculty can create anything at +all in art. Arnold’s definition of literature as a criticism +of life was not very felicitous in form, but it showed how keenly he +recognised the importance of the critical element in all creative work.</p> +<p>ERNEST. I should have said that great artists work unconsciously, +that they were ‘wiser than they knew,’ as, I think, Emerson +remarks somewhere.</p> +<p>GILBERT. It is really not so, Ernest. All fine imaginative +work is self-conscious and deliberate. No poet sings because he +must sing. At least, no great poet does. A great poet sings +because he chooses to sing. It is so now, and it has always been +so. We are sometimes apt to think that the voices that sounded +at the dawn of poetry were simpler, fresher, and more natural than ours, +and that the world which the early poets looked at, and through which +they walked, had a kind of poetical quality of its own, and almost without +changing could pass into song. The snow lies thick now upon Olympus, +and its steep scarped sides are bleak and barren, but once, we fancy, +the white feet of the Muses brushed the dew from the anemones in the +morning, and at evening came Apollo to sing to the shepherds in the +vale. But in this we are merely lending to other ages what we +desire, or think we desire, for our own. Our historical sense +is at fault. Every century that produces poetry is, so far, an +artificial century, and the work that seems to us to be the most natural +and simple product of its time is always the result of the most self-conscious +effort. Believe me, Ernest, there is no fine art without self-consciousness, +and self-consciousness and the critical spirit are one.</p> +<p>ERNEST. I see what you mean, and there is much in it. +But surely you would admit that the great poems of the early world, +the primitive, anonymous collective poems, were the result of the imagination +of races, rather than of the imagination of individuals?</p> +<p>GILBERT. Not when they became poetry. Not when they received +a beautiful form. For there is no art where there is no style, +and no style where there is no unity, and unity is of the individual. +No doubt Homer had old ballads and stories to deal with, as Shakespeare +had chronicles and plays and novels from which to work, but they were +merely his rough material. He took them, and shaped them into +song. They become his, because he made them lovely. They +were built out of music,</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>And so not built at all,<br />And therefore built for ever.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>The longer one studies life and literature, the more strongly one +feels that behind everything that is wonderful stands the individual, +and that it is not the moment that makes the man, but the man who creates +the age. Indeed, I am inclined to think that each myth and legend +that seems to us to spring out of the wonder, or terror, or fancy of +tribe and nation, was in its origin the invention of one single mind. +The curiously limited number of the myths seems to me to point to this +conclusion. But we must not go off into questions of comparative +mythology. We must keep to criticism. And what I want to +point out is this. An age that has no criticism is either an age +in which art is immobile, hieratic, and confined to the reproduction +of formal types, or an age that possesses no art at all. There +have been critical ages that have not been creative, in the ordinary +sense of the word, ages in which the spirit of man has sought to set +in order the treasures of his treasure-house, to separate the gold from +the silver, and the silver from the lead, to count over the jewels, +and to give names to the pearls. But there has never been a creative +age that has not been critical also. For it is the critical faculty +that invents fresh forms. The tendency of creation is to repeat +itself. It is to the critical instinct that we owe each new school +that springs up, each new mould that art finds ready to its hand. +There is really not a single form that art now uses that does not come +to us from the critical spirit of Alexandria, where these forms were +either stereotyped or invented or made perfect. I say Alexandria, +not merely because it was there that the Greek spirit became most self-conscious, +and indeed ultimately expired in scepticism and theology, but because +it was to that city, and not to Athens, that Rome turned for her models, +and it was through the survival, such as it was, of the Latin language +that culture lived at all. When, at the Renaissance, Greek literature +dawned upon Europe, the soil had been in some measure prepared for it. +But, to get rid of the details of history, which are always wearisome +and usually inaccurate, let us say generally, that the forms of art +have been due to the Greek critical spirit. To it we owe the epic, +the lyric, the entire drama in every one of its developments, including +burlesque, the idyll, the romantic novel, the novel of adventure, the +essay, the dialogue, the oration, the lecture, for which perhaps we +should not forgive them, and the epigram, in all the wide meaning of +that word. In fact, we owe it everything, except the sonnet, to +which, however, some curious parallels of thought-movement may be traced +in the Anthology, American journalism, to which no parallel can be found +anywhere, and the ballad in sham Scotch dialect, which one of our most +industrious writers has recently proposed should be made the basis for +a final and unanimous effort on the part of our second-rate poets to +make themselves really romantic. Each new school, as it appears, +cries out against criticism, but it is to the critical faculty in man +that it owes its origin. The mere creative instinct does not innovate, +but reproduces.</p> +<p>ERNEST. You have been talking of criticism as an essential +part of the creative spirit, and I now fully accept your theory. +But what of criticism outside creation? I have a foolish habit +of reading periodicals, and it seems to me that most modern criticism +is perfectly valueless.</p> +<p>GILBERT. So is most modern creative work also. Mediocrity +weighing mediocrity in the balance, and incompetence applauding its +brother—that is the spectacle which the artistic activity of England +affords us from time to time. And yet, I feel I am a little unfair +in this matter. As a rule, the critics—I speak, of course, +of the higher class, of those in fact who write for the sixpenny papers—are +far more cultured than the people whose work they are called upon to +review. This is, indeed, only what one would expect, for criticism +demands infinitely more cultivation than creation does.</p> +<p>ERNEST. Really?</p> +<p>GILBERT. Certainly. Anybody can write a three-volumed +novel. It merely requires a complete ignorance of both life and +literature. The difficulty that I should fancy the reviewer feels +is the difficulty of sustaining any standard. Where there is no +style a standard must be impossible. The poor reviewers are apparently +reduced to be the reporters of the police-court of literature, the chroniclers +of the doings of the habitual criminals of art. It is sometimes +said of them that they do not read all through the works they are called +upon to criticise. They do not. Or at least they should +not. If they did so, they would become confirmed misanthropes, +or if I may borrow a phrase from one of the pretty Newnham graduates, +confirmed womanthropes for the rest of their lives. Nor is it +necessary. To know the vintage and quality of a wine one need +not drink the whole cask. It must be perfectly easy in half an +hour to say whether a book is worth anything or worth nothing. +Ten minutes are really sufficient, if one has the instinct for form. +Who wants to wade through a dull volume? One tastes it, and that +is quite enough—more than enough, I should imagine. I am +aware that there are many honest workers in painting as well as in literature +who object to criticism entirely. They are quite right. +Their work stands in no intellectual relation to their age. It +brings us no new element of pleasure. It suggests no fresh departure +of thought, or passion, or beauty. It should not be spoken of. +It should be left to the oblivion that it deserves.</p> +<p>ERNEST. But, my dear fellow—excuse me for interrupting +you—you seem to me to be allowing your passion for criticism to +lead you a great deal too far. For, after all, even you must admit +that it is much more difficult to do a thing than to talk about it.</p> +<p>GILBERT. More difficult to do a thing than to talk about it? +Not at all. That is a gross popular error. It is very much +more difficult to talk about a thing than to do it. In the sphere +of actual life that is of course obvious. Anybody can make history. +Only a great man can write it. There is no mode of action, no +form of emotion, that we do not share with the lower animals. +It is only by language that we rise above them, or above each other—by +language, which is the parent, and not the child, of thought. +Action, indeed, is always easy, and when presented to us in its most +aggravated, because most continuous form, which I take to be that of +real industry, becomes simply the refuge of people who have nothing +whatsoever to do. No, Ernest, don’t talk about action. +It is a blind thing dependent on external influences, and moved by an +impulse of whose nature it is unconscious. It is a thing incomplete +in its essence, because limited by accident, and ignorant of its direction, +being always at variance with its aim. Its basis is the lack of +imagination. It is the last resource of those who know not how +to dream.</p> +<p>ERNEST. Gilbert, you treat the world as if it were a crystal +ball. You hold it in your hand, and reverse it to please a wilful +fancy. You do nothing but re-write history.</p> +<p>GILBERT. The one duty we owe to history is to re-write it. +That is not the least of the tasks in store for the critical spirit. +When we have fully discovered the scientific laws that govern life, +we shall realise that the one person who has more illusions than the +dreamer is the man of action. He, indeed, knows neither the origin +of his deeds nor their results. From the field in which he thought +that he had sown thorns, we have gathered our vintage, and the fig-tree +that he planted for our pleasure is as barren as the thistle, and more +bitter. It is because Humanity has never known where it was going +that it has been able to find its way.</p> +<p>ERNEST. You think, then, that in the sphere of action a conscious +aim is a delusion?</p> +<p>GILBERT. It is worse than a delusion. If we lived long +enough to see the results of our actions it may be that those who call +themselves good would be sickened with a dull remorse, and those whom +the world calls evil stirred by a noble joy. Each little thing +that we do passes into the great machine of life which may grind our +virtues to powder and make them worthless, or transform our sins into +elements of a new civilisation, more marvellous and more splendid than +any that has gone before. But men are the slaves of words. +They rage against Materialism, as they call it, forgetting that there +has been no material improvement that has not spiritualised the world, +and that there have been few, if any, spiritual awakenings that have +not wasted the world’s faculties in barren hopes, and fruitless +aspirations, and empty or trammelling creeds. What is termed Sin +is an essential element of progress. Without it the world would +stagnate, or grow old, or become colourless. By its curiosity +Sin increases the experience of the race. Through its intensified +assertion of individualism, it saves us from monotony of type. +In its rejection of the current notions about morality, it is one with +the higher ethics. And as for the virtues! What are the +virtues? Nature, M. Renan tells us, cares little about chastity, +and it may be that it is to the shame of the Magdalen, and not to their +own purity, that the Lucretias of modern life owe their freedom from +stain. Charity, as even those of whose religion it makes a formal +part have been compelled to acknowledge, creates a multitude of evils. +The mere existence of conscience, that faculty of which people prate +so much nowadays, and are so ignorantly proud, is a sign of our imperfect +development. It must be merged in instinct before we become fine. +Self-denial is simply a method by which man arrests his progress, and +self-sacrifice a survival of the mutilation of the savage, part of that +old worship of pain which is so terrible a factor in the history of +the world, and which even now makes its victims day by day, and has +its altars in the land. Virtues! Who knows what the virtues +are? Not you. Not I. Not any one. It is well +for our vanity that we slay the criminal, for if we suffered him to +live he might show us what we had gained by his crime. It is well +for his peace that the saint goes to his martyrdom. He is spared +the sight of the horror of his harvest.</p> +<p>ERNEST. Gilbert, you sound too harsh a note. Let us go +back to the more gracious fields of literature. What was it you +said? That it was more difficult to talk about a thing than to +do it?</p> +<p>GILBERT (after a pause). Yes: I believe I ventured upon that +simple truth. Surely you see now that I am right? When man +acts he is a puppet. When he describes he is a poet. The +whole secret lies in that. It was easy enough on the sandy plains +by windy Ilion to send the notched arrow from the painted bow, or to +hurl against the shield of hide and flamelike brass the long ash-handled +spear. It was easy for the adulterous queen to spread the Tyrian +carpets for her lord, and then, as he lay couched in the marble bath, +to throw over his head the purple net, and call to her smooth-faced +lover to stab through the meshes at the heart that should have broken +at Aulis. For Antigone even, with Death waiting for her as her +bridegroom, it was easy to pass through the tainted air at noon, and +climb the hill, and strew with kindly earth the wretched naked corse +that had no tomb. But what of those who wrote about these things? +What of those who gave them reality, and made them live for ever? +Are they not greater than the men and women they sing of? ‘Hector +that sweet knight is dead,’ and Lucian tells us how in the dim +under-world 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.</p> +<p>ERNEST. While you talk it seems to me to be so.</p> +<p>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, οινοψ ποντος, +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.</p> +<p>ERNEST. Yes; I see now what you mean. But, surely, the +higher you place the creative artist, the lower must the critic rank.</p> +<p>GILBERT. Why so?</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>ERNEST. Independent?</p> +<p>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 <i>Bestia Trionfans</i> +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.</p> +<p>ERNEST. But is Criticism really a creative art?</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>ERNEST. From the soul?</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>ERNEST. I seem to have heard another theory of Criticism.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>ERNEST. But is that really so?</p> +<p>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.’</p> +<p>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 <i>Tannhäuser</i>, 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 ΕΡΩΣ +ΤΩΝ ΑΔΥΝΑΤΩΝ, +that <i>Amour de l’Impossible</i>, 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.</p> +<p>ERNEST. But is such work as you have talked about really criticism?</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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?</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>It is sometimes said by those who understand neither the nature of +the highest Criticism nor the charm of the highest Art, that the pictures +that the critic loves most to write about are those that belong to the +anecdotage of painting, and that deal with scenes taken out of literature +or history. But this is not so. Indeed, pictures of this +kind are far too intelligible. As a class, they rank with illustrations, +and, even considered from this point of view are failures, as they do +not stir the imagination, but set definite bounds to it. For the +domain of the painter is, as I suggested before, widely different from +that of the poet. To the latter belongs life in its full and absolute +entirety; not merely the beauty that men look at, but the beauty that +men listen to also; not merely the momentary grace of form or the transient +gladness of colour, but the whole sphere of feeling, the perfect cycle +of thought. The painter is so far limited that it is only through +the mask of the body that he can show us the mystery of the soul; only +through conventional images that he can handle ideas; only through its +physical equivalents that he can deal with psychology. And how +inadequately does he do it then, asking us to accept the torn turban +of the Moor for the noble rage of Othello, or a dotard in a storm for +the wild madness of Lear! Yet it seems as if nothing could stop +him. Most of our elderly English painters spend their wicked and +wasted lives in poaching upon the domain of the poets, marring their +motives by clumsy treatment, and striving to render, by visible form +or colour, the marvel of what is invisible, the splendour of what is +not seen. Their pictures are, as a natural consequence, insufferably +tedious. They have degraded the invisible arts into the obvious +arts, and the one thing not worth looking at is the obvious. I +do not say that poet and painter may not treat of the same subject. +They have always done so and will always do so. But while the +poet can be pictorial or not, as he chooses, the painter must be pictorial +always. For a painter is limited, not to what he sees in nature, +but to what upon canvas may be seen.</p> +<p>And so, my dear Ernest, pictures of this kind will not really fascinate +the critic. He will turn from them to such works as make him brood +and dream and fancy, to works that possess the subtle quality of suggestion, +and seem to tell one that even from them there is an escape into a wider +world. It is sometimes said that the tragedy of an artist’s +life is that he cannot realise his ideal. But the true tragedy +that dogs the steps of most artists is that they realise their ideal +too absolutely. For, when the ideal is realised, it is robbed +of its wonder and its mystery, and becomes simply a new starting-point +for an ideal that is other than itself. This is the reason why +music is the perfect type of art. Music can never reveal its ultimate +secret. This, also, is the explanation of the value of limitations +in art. The sculptor gladly surrenders imitative colour, and the +painter the actual dimensions of form, because by such renunciations +they are able to avoid too definite a presentation of the Real, which +would be mere imitation, and too definite a realisation of the Ideal, +which would be too purely intellectual. It is through its very +incompleteness that art becomes complete in beauty, and so addresses +itself, not to the faculty of recognition nor to the faculty of reason, +but to the aesthetic sense alone, which, while accepting both reason +and recognition as stages of apprehension, subordinates them both to +a pure synthetic impression of the work of art as a whole, and, taking +whatever alien emotional elements the work may possess, uses their very +complexity as a means by which a richer unity may be added to the ultimate +impression itself. You see, then, how it is that the aesthetic +critic rejects these obvious modes of art that have but one message +to deliver, and having delivered it become dumb and sterile, and seeks +rather for such modes as suggest reverie and mood, and by their imaginative +beauty make all interpretations true, and no interpretation final. +Some resemblance, no doubt, the creative work of the critic will have +to the work that has stirred him to creation, but it will be such resemblance +as exists, not between Nature and the mirror that the painter of landscape +or figure may be supposed to hold up to her, but between Nature and +the work of the decorative artist. Just as on the flowerless carpets +of Persia, tulip and rose blossom indeed and are lovely to look on, +though they are not reproduced in visible shape or line; just as the +pearl and purple of the sea-shell is echoed in the church of St. Mark +at Venice; just as the vaulted ceiling of the wondrous chapel at Ravenna +is made gorgeous by the gold and green and sapphire of the peacock’s +tail, though the birds of Juno fly not across it; so the critic reproduces +the work that he criticises in a mode that is never imitative, and part +of whose charm may really consist in the rejection of resemblance, and +shows us in this way not merely the meaning but also the mystery of +Beauty, and, by transforming each art into literature, solves once for +all the problem of Art’s unity.</p> +<p>But I see it is time for supper. After we have discussed some +Chambertin and a few ortolans, we will pass on to the question of the +critic considered in the light of the interpreter.</p> +<p>ERNEST. Ah! you admit, then, that the critic may occasionally +be allowed to see the object as in itself it really is.</p> +<p>GILBERT. I am not quite sure. Perhaps I may admit it +after supper. There is a subtle influence in supper.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>THE CRITIC AS ARTIST—WITH SOME REMARKS UPON THE IMPORTANCE +OF DISCUSSING EVERYTHING</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>A DIALOGUE: Part II. Persons: the same. Scene: the same.</p> +<p>ERNEST. The ortolans were delightful, and the Chambertin perfect, +and now let us return to the point at issue.</p> +<p>GILBERT. Ah! don’t let us do that. Conversation +should touch everything, but should concentrate itself on nothing. +Let us talk about <i>Moral Indignation</i>, <i>its Cause and Cure</i>, +a subject on which I think of writing: or about <i>The Survival of Thersites</i>, +as shown by the English comic papers; or about any topic that may turn +up.</p> +<p>ERNEST. No; I want to discuss the critic and criticism. +You have told me that the highest criticism deals with art, not as expressive, +but as impressive purely, and is consequently both creative and independent, +is in fact an art by itself, occupying the same relation to creative +work that creative work does to the visible world of form and colour, +or the unseen world of passion and of thought. Well, now, tell +me, will not the critic be sometimes a real interpreter?</p> +<p>GILBERT. Yes; the critic will be an interpreter, if he chooses. +He can pass from his synthetic impression of the work of art as a whole, +to an analysis or exposition of the work itself, and in this lower sphere, +as I hold it to be, there are many delightful things to be said and +done. Yet his object will not always be to explain the work of +art. He may seek rather to deepen its mystery, to raise round +it, and round its maker, that mist of wonder which is dear to both gods +and worshippers alike. Ordinary people are ‘terribly at +ease in Zion.’ They propose to walk arm in arm with the +poets, and have a glib ignorant way of saying, ‘Why should we +read what is written about Shakespeare and Milton? We can read +the plays and the poems. That is enough.’ But an appreciation +of Milton is, as the late Rector of Lincoln remarked once, the reward +of consummate scholarship. And he who desires to understand Shakespeare +truly must understand the relations in which Shakespeare stood to the +Renaissance and the Reformation, to the age of Elizabeth and the age +of James; he must be familiar with the history of the struggle for supremacy +between the old classical forms and the new spirit of romance, between +the school of Sidney, and Daniel, and Johnson, and the school of Marlowe +and Marlowe’s greater son; he must know the materials that were +at Shakespeare’s disposal, and the method in which he used them, +and the conditions of theatric presentation in the sixteenth and seventeenth +century, their limitations and their opportunities for freedom, and +the literary criticism of Shakespeare’s day, its aims and modes +and canons; he must study the English language in its progress, and +blank or rhymed verse in its various developments; he must study the +Greek drama, and the connection between the art of the creator of the +Agamemnon and the art of the creator of Macbeth; in a word, he must +be able to bind Elizabethan London to the Athens of Pericles, and to +learn Shakespeare’s true position in the history of European drama +and the drama of the world. The critic will certainly be an interpreter, +but he will not treat Art as a riddling Sphinx, whose shallow secret +may be guessed and revealed by one whose feet are wounded and who knows +not his name. Rather, he will look upon Art as a goddess whose +mystery it is his province to intensify, and whose majesty his privilege +to make more marvellous in the eyes of men.</p> +<p>And here, Ernest, this strange thing happens. The critic will +indeed be an interpreter, but he will not be an interpreter in the sense +of one who simply repeats in another form a message that has been put +into his lips to say. For, just as it is only by contact with +the art of foreign nations that the art of a country gains that individual +and separate life that we call nationality, so, by curious inversion, +it is only by intensifying his own personality that the critic can interpret +the personality and work of others, and the more strongly this personality +enters into the interpretation the more real the interpretation becomes, +the more satisfying, the more convincing, and the more true.</p> +<p>ERNEST. I would have said that personality would have been +a disturbing element.</p> +<p>GILBERT. No; it is an element of revelation. If you wish +to understand others you must intensify your own individualism.</p> +<p>ERNEST. What, then, is the result?</p> +<p>GILBERT. I will tell you, and perhaps I can tell you best by +definite example. It seems to me that, while the literary critic +stands of course first, as having the wider range, and larger vision, +and nobler material, each of the arts has a critic, as it were, assigned +to it. The actor is a critic of the drama. He shows the +poet’s work under new conditions, and by a method special to himself. +He takes the written word, and action, gesture and voice become the +media of revelation. The singer or the player on lute and viol +is the critic of music. The etcher of a picture robs the painting +of its fair colours, but shows us by the use of a new material its true +colour-quality, its tones and values, and the relations of its masses, +and so is, in his way, a critic of it, for the critic is he who exhibits +to us a work of art in a form different from that of the work itself, +and the employment of a new material is a critical as well as a creative +element. Sculpture, too, has its critic, who may be either the +carver of a gem, as he was in Greek days, or some painter like Mantegna, +who sought to reproduce on canvas the beauty of plastic line and the +symphonic dignity of processional bas-relief. And in the case +of all these creative critics of art it is evident that personality +is an absolute essential for any real interpretation. When Rubinstein +plays to us the <i>Sonata Appassionata</i> of Beethoven, he gives us +not merely Beethoven, but also himself, and so gives us Beethoven absolutely—Beethoven +re-interpreted through a rich artistic nature, and made vivid and wonderful +to us by a new and intense personality. When a great actor plays +Shakespeare we have the same experience. His own individuality +becomes a vital part of the interpretation. People sometimes say +that actors give us their own Hamlets, and not Shakespeare’s; +and this fallacy—for it is a fallacy—is, I regret to say, +repeated by that charming and graceful writer who has lately deserted +the turmoil of literature for the peace of the House of Commons, I mean +the author of <i>Obiter Dicta</i>. In point of fact, there is +no such thing as Shakespeare’s Hamlet. If Hamlet has something +of the definiteness of a work of art, he has also all the obscurity +that belongs to life. There are as many Hamlets as there are melancholies.</p> +<p>ERNEST. As many Hamlets as there are melancholies?</p> +<p>GILBERT. Yes: and as art springs from personality, so it is +only to personality that it can be revealed, and from the meeting of +the two comes right interpretative criticism.</p> +<p>ERNEST. The critic, then, considered as the interpreter, will +give no less than he receives, and lend as much as he borrows?</p> +<p>GILBERT. He will be always showing us the work of art in some +new relation to our age. He will always be reminding us that great +works of art are living things—are, in fact, the only things that +live. So much, indeed, will he feel this, that I am certain that, +as civilisation progresses and we become more highly organised, the +elect spirits of each age, the critical and cultured spirits, will grow +less and less interested in actual life, and <i>will seek to</i> <i>gain +their impressions almost entirely from what</i> <i>Art has touched</i>. +For life is terribly deficient in form. Its catastrophes happen +in the wrong way and to the wrong people. There is a grotesque +horror about its comedies, and its tragedies seem to culminate in farce. +One is always wounded when one approaches it. Things last either +too long, or not long enough.</p> +<p>ERNEST. Poor life! Poor human life! Are you not +even touched by the tears that the Roman poet tells us are part of its +essence.</p> +<p>GILBERT. Too quickly touched by them, I fear. For when +one looks back upon the life that was so vivid in its emotional intensity, +and filled with such fervent moments of ecstasy or of joy, it all seems +to be a dream and an illusion. What are the unreal things, but +the passions that once burned one like fire? What are the incredible +things, but the things that one has faithfully believed? What +are the improbable things? The things that one has done oneself. +No, Ernest; life cheats us with shadows, like a puppet-master. +We ask it for pleasure. It gives it to us, with bitterness and +disappointment in its train. We come across some noble grief that +we think will lend the purple dignity of tragedy to our days, but it +passes away from us, and things less noble take its place, and on some +grey windy dawn, or odorous eve of silence and of silver, we find ourselves +looking with callous wonder, or dull heart of stone, at the tress of +gold-flecked hair that we had once so wildly worshipped and so madly +kissed.</p> +<p>ERNEST. Life then is a failure?</p> +<p>GILBERT. From the artistic point of view, certainly. +And the chief thing that makes life a failure from this artistic point +of view is the thing that lends to life its sordid security, the fact +that one can never repeat exactly the same emotion. How different +it is in the world of Art! On a shelf of the bookcase behind you +stands the <i>Divine Comedy</i>, and I know that, if I open it at a +certain place, I shall be filled with a fierce hatred of some one who +has never wronged me, or stirred by a great love for some one whom I +shall never see. There is no mood or passion that Art cannot give +us, and those of us who have discovered her secret can settle beforehand +what our experiences are going to be. We can choose our day and +select our hour. We can say to ourselves, ‘To-morrow, at +dawn, we shall walk with grave Virgil through the valley of the shadow +of death,’ and lo! the dawn finds us in the obscure wood, and +the Mantuan stands by our side. We pass through the gate of the +legend fatal to hope, and with pity or with joy behold the horror of +another world. The hypocrites go by, with their painted faces +and their cowls of gilded lead. Out of the ceaseless winds that +drive them, the carnal look at us, and we watch the heretic rending +his flesh, and the glutton lashed by the rain. We break the withered +branches from the tree in the grove of the Harpies, and each dull-hued +poisonous twig bleeds with red blood before us, and cries aloud with +bitter cries. Out of a horn of fire Odysseus speaks to us, and +when from his sepulchre of flame the great Ghibelline rises, the pride +that triumphs over the torture of that bed becomes ours for a moment. +Through the dim purple air fly those who have stained the world with +the beauty of their sin, and in the pit of loathsome disease, dropsy-stricken +and swollen of body into the semblance of a monstrous lute, lies Adamo +di Brescia, the coiner of false coin. He bids us listen to his +misery; we stop, and with dry and gaping lips he tells us how he dreams +day and night of the brooks of clear water that in cool dewy channels +gush down the green Casentine hills. Sinon, the false Greek of +Troy, mocks at him. He smites him in the face, and they wrangle. +We are fascinated by their shame, and loiter, till Virgil chides us +and leads us away to that city turreted by giants where great Nimrod +blows his horn. Terrible things are in store for us, and we go +to meet them in Dante’s raiment and with Dante’s heart. +We traverse the marshes of the Styx, and Argenti swims to the boat through +the slimy waves. He calls to us, and we reject him. When +we hear the voice of his agony we are glad, and Virgil praises us for +the bitterness of our scorn. We tread upon the cold crystal of +Cocytus, in which traitors stick like straws in glass. Our foot +strikes against the head of Bocca. He will not tell us his name, +and we tear the hair in handfuls from the screaming skull. Alberigo +prays us to break the ice upon his face that he may weep a little. +We pledge our word to him, and when he has uttered his dolorous tale +we deny the word that we have spoken, and pass from him; such cruelty +being courtesy indeed, for who more base than he who has mercy for the +condemned of God? In the jaws of Lucifer we see the man who sold +Christ, and in the jaws of Lucifer the men who slew Caesar. We +tremble, and come forth to re-behold the stars.</p> +<p>In the land of Purgation the air is freer, and the holy mountain +rises into the pure light of day. There is peace for us, and for +those who for a season abide in it there is some peace also, though, +pale from the poison of the Maremma, Madonna Pia passes before us, and +Ismene, with the sorrow of earth still lingering about her, is there. +Soul after soul makes us share in some repentance or some joy. +He whom the mourning of his widow taught to drink the sweet wormwood +of pain, tells us of Nella praying in her lonely bed, and we learn from +the mouth of Buonconte how a single tear may save a dying sinner from +the fiend. Sordello, that noble and disdainful Lombard, eyes us +from afar like a couchant lion. When he learns that Virgil is +one of Mantua’s citizens, he falls upon his neck, and when he +learns that he is the singer of Rome he falls before his feet. +In that valley whose grass and flowers are fairer than cleft emerald +and Indian wood, and brighter than scarlet and silver, they are singing +who in the world were kings; but the lips of Rudolph of Hapsburg do +not move to the music of the others, and Philip of France beats his +breast and Henry of England sits alone. On and on we go, climbing +the marvellous stair, and the stars become larger than their wont, and +the song of the kings grows faint, and at length we reach the seven +trees of gold and the garden of the Earthly Paradise. In a griffin-drawn +chariot appears one whose brows are bound with olive, who is veiled +in white, and mantled in green, and robed in a vesture that is coloured +like live fire. The ancient flame wakes within us. Our blood +quickens through terrible pulses. We recognise her. It is +Beatrice, the woman we have worshipped. The ice congealed about +our heart melts. Wild tears of anguish break from us, and we bow +our forehead to the ground, for we know that we have sinned. When +we have done penance, and are purified, and have drunk of the fountain +of Lethe and bathed in the fountain of Eunoe, the mistress of our soul +raises us to the Paradise of Heaven. Out of that eternal pearl, +the moon, the face of Piccarda Donati leans to us. Her beauty +troubles us for a moment, and when, like a thing that falls through +water, she passes away, we gaze after her with wistful eyes. The +sweet planet of Venus is full of lovers. Cunizza, the sister of +Ezzelin, the lady of Sordello’s heart, is there, and Folco, the +passionate singer of Provence, who in sorrow for Azalais forsook the +world, and the Canaanitish harlot whose soul was the first that Christ +redeemed. Joachim of Flora stands in the sun, and, in the sun, +Aquinas recounts the story of St. Francis and Bonaventure the story +of St. Dominic. Through the burning rubies of Mars, Cacciaguida +approaches. He tells us of the arrow that is shot from the bow +of exile, and how salt tastes the bread of another, and how steep are +the stairs in the house of a stranger. In Saturn the soul sings +not, and even she who guides us dare not smile. On a ladder of +gold the flames rise and fall. At last, we see the pageant of +the Mystical Rose. Beatrice fixes her eyes upon the face of God +to turn them not again. The beatific vision is granted to us; +we know the Love that moves the sun and all the stars.</p> +<p>Yes, we can put the earth back six hundred courses and make ourselves +one with the great Florentine, kneel at the same altar with him, and +share his rapture and his scorn. And if we grow tired of an antique +time, and desire to realise our own age in all its weariness and sin, +are there not books that can make us live more in one single hour than +life can make us live in a score of shameful years? Close to your +hand lies a little volume, bound in some Nile-green skin that has been +powdered with gilded nenuphars and smoothed with hard ivory. It +is the book that Gautier loved, it is Baudelaire’s masterpiece. +Open it at that sad madrigal that begins</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Que m’importe que tu sois sage?<br />Sois belle! et sois triste!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>and you will find yourself worshipping sorrow as you have never worshipped +joy. Pass on to the poem on the man who tortures himself, let +its subtle music steal into your brain and colour your thoughts, and +you will become for a moment what he was who wrote it; nay, not for +a moment only, but for many barren moonlit nights and sunless sterile +days will a despair that is not your own make its dwelling within you, +and the misery of another gnaw your heart away. Read the whole +book, suffer it to tell even one of its secrets to your soul, and your +soul will grow eager to know more, and will feed upon poisonous honey, +and seek to repent of strange crimes of which it is guiltless, and to +make atonement for terrible pleasures that it has never known. +And then, when you are tired of these flowers of evil, turn to the flowers +that grow in the garden of Perdita, and in their dew-drenched chalices +cool your fevered brow, and let their loveliness heal and restore your +soul; or wake from his forgotten tomb the sweet Syrian, Meleager, and +bid the lover of Heliodore make you music, for he too has flowers in +his song, red pomegranate blossoms, and irises that smell of myrrh, +ringed daffodils and dark blue hyacinths, and marjoram and crinkled +ox-eyes. Dear to him was the perfume of the bean-field at evening, +and dear to him the odorous eared-spikenard that grew on the Syrian +hills, and the fresh green thyme, the wine-cup’s charm. +The feet of his love as she walked in the garden were like lilies set +upon lilies. Softer than sleep-laden poppy petals were her lips, +softer than violets and as scented. The flame-like crocus sprang +from the grass to look at her. For her the slim narcissus stored +the cool rain; and for her the anemones forgot the Sicilian winds that +wooed them. And neither crocus, nor anemone, nor narcissus was +as fair as she was.</p> +<p>It is a strange thing, this transference of emotion. We sicken +with the same maladies as the poets, and the singer lends us his pain. +Dead lips have their message for us, and hearts that have fallen to +dust can communicate their joy. We run to kiss the bleeding mouth +of Fantine, and we follow Manon Lescaut over the whole world. +Ours is the love-madness of the Tyrian, and the terror of Orestes is +ours also. There is no passion that we cannot feel, no pleasure +that we may not gratify, and we can choose the time of our initiation +and the time of our freedom also. Life! Life! Don’t +let us go to life for our fulfilment or our experience. It is +a thing narrowed by circumstances, incoherent in its utterance, and +without that fine correspondence of form and spirit which is the only +thing that can satisfy the artistic and critical temperament. +It makes us pay too high a price for its wares, and we purchase the +meanest of its secrets at a cost that is monstrous and infinite.</p> +<p>ERNEST. Must we go, then, to Art for everything?</p> +<p>GILBERT. For everything. Because Art does not hurt us. +The tears that we shed at a play are a type of the exquisite sterile +emotions that it is the function of Art to awaken. We weep, but +we are not wounded. We grieve, but our grief is not bitter. +In the actual life of man, sorrow, as Spinoza says somewhere, is a passage +to a lesser perfection. But the sorrow with which Art fills us +both purifies and initiates, if I may quote once more from the great +art critic of the Greeks. It is through Art, and through Art only, +that we can realise our perfection; through Art, and through Art only, +that we can shield ourselves from the sordid perils of actual existence. +This results not merely from the fact that nothing that one can imagine +is worth doing, and that one can imagine everything, but from the subtle +law that emotional forces, like the forces of the physical sphere, are +limited in extent and energy. One can feel so much, and no more. +And how can it matter with what pleasure life tries to tempt one, or +with what pain it seeks to maim and mar one’s soul, if in the +spectacle of the lives of those who have never existed one has found +the true secret of joy, and wept away one’s tears over their deaths +who, like Cordelia and the daughter of Brabantio, can never die?</p> +<p>ERNEST. Stop a moment. It seems to me that in everything +that you have said there is something radically immoral.</p> +<p>GILBERT. All art is immoral.</p> +<p>ERNEST. All art?</p> +<p>GILBERT. Yes. For emotion for the sake of emotion is +the aim of art, and emotion for the sake of action is the aim of life, +and of that practical organisation of life that we call society. +Society, which is the beginning and basis of morals, exists simply for +the concentration of human energy, and in order to ensure its own continuance +and healthy stability it demands, and no doubt rightly demands, of each +of its citizens that he should contribute some form of productive labour +to the common weal, and toil and travail that the day’s work may +be done. Society often forgives the criminal; it never forgives +the dreamer. The beautiful sterile emotions that art excites in +us are hateful in its eyes, and so completely are people dominated by +the tyranny of this dreadful social ideal that they are always coming +shamelessly up to one at Private Views and other places that are open +to the general public, and saying in a loud stentorian voice, ‘What +are you doing?’ whereas ‘What are you thinking?’ is +the only question that any single civilised being should ever be allowed +to whisper to another. They mean well, no doubt, these honest +beaming folk. Perhaps that is the reason why they are so excessively +tedious. But some one should teach them that while, in the opinion +of society, Contemplation is the gravest sin of which any citizen can +be guilty, in the opinion of the highest culture it is the proper occupation +of man.</p> +<p>ERNEST. Contemplation?</p> +<p>GILBERT. Contemplation. I said to you some time ago that +it was far more difficult to talk about a thing than to do it. +Let me say to you now that to do nothing at all is the most difficult +thing in the world, the most difficult and the most intellectual. +To Plato, with his passion for wisdom, this was the noblest form of +energy. To Aristotle, with his passion for knowledge, this was +the noblest form of energy also. It was to this that the passion +for holiness led the saint and the mystic of mediaeval days.</p> +<p>ERNEST. We exist, then, to do nothing?</p> +<p>GILBERT. It is to do nothing that the elect exist. Action +is limited and relative. Unlimited and absolute is the vision +of him who sits at ease and watches, who walks in loneliness and dreams. +But we who are born at the close of this wonderful age are at once too +cultured and too critical, too intellectually subtle and too curious +of exquisite pleasures, to accept any speculations about life in exchange +for life itself. To us the <i>città divina</i> is colourless, +and the <i>fruitio Dei</i> without meaning. Metaphysics do not +satisfy our temperaments, and religious ecstasy is out of date. +The world through which the Academic philosopher becomes ‘the +spectator of all time and of all existence’ is not really an ideal +world, but simply a world of abstract ideas. When we enter it, +we starve amidst the chill mathematics of thought. The courts +of the city of God are not open to us now. Its gates are guarded +by Ignorance, and to pass them we have to surrender all that in our +nature is most divine. It is enough that our fathers believed. +They have exhausted the faith-faculty of the species. Their legacy +to us is the scepticism of which they were afraid. Had they put +it into words, it might not live within us as thought. No, Ernest, +no. We cannot go back to the saint. There is far more to +be learned from the sinner. We cannot go back to the philosopher, +and the mystic leads us astray. Who, as Mr. Pater suggests somewhere, +would exchange the curve of a single rose-leaf for that formless intangible +Being which Plato rates so high? What to us is the Illumination +of Philo, the Abyss of Eckhart, the Vision of Böhme, the monstrous +Heaven itself that was revealed to Swedenborg’s blinded eyes? +Such things are less than the yellow trumpet of one daffodil of the +field, far less than the meanest of the visible arts, for, just as Nature +is matter struggling into mind, so Art is mind expressing itself under +the conditions of matter, and thus, even in the lowliest of her manifestations, +she speaks to both sense and soul alike. To the aesthetic temperament +the vague is always repellent. The Greeks were a nation of artists, +because they were spared the sense of the infinite. Like Aristotle, +like Goethe after he had read Kant, we desire the concrete, and nothing +but the concrete can satisfy us.</p> +<p>ERNEST. What then do you propose?</p> +<p>GILBERT. It seems to me that with the development of the critical +spirit we shall be able to realise, not merely our own lives, but the +collective life of the race, and so to make ourselves absolutely modern, +in the true meaning of the word modernity. For he to whom the +present is the only thing that is present, knows nothing of the age +in which he lives. To realise the nineteenth century, one must +realise every century that has preceded it and that has contributed +to its making. To know anything about oneself one must know all +about others. There must be no mood with which one cannot sympathise, +no dead mode of life that one cannot make alive. Is this impossible? +I think not. By revealing to us the absolute mechanism of all +action, and so freeing us from the self-imposed and trammelling burden +of moral responsibility, the scientific principle of Heredity has become, +as it were, the warrant for the contemplative life. It has shown +us that we are never less free than when we try to act. It has +hemmed us round with the nets of the hunter, and written upon the wall +the prophecy of our doom. We may not watch it, for it is within +us. We may not see it, save in a mirror that mirrors the soul. +It is Nemesis without her mask. It is the last of the Fates, and +the most terrible. It is the only one of the Gods whose real name +we know.</p> +<p>And yet, while in the sphere of practical and external life it has +robbed energy of its freedom and activity of its choice, in the subjective +sphere, where the soul is at work, it comes to us, this terrible shadow, +with many gifts in its hands, gifts of strange temperaments and subtle +susceptibilities, gifts of wild ardours and chill moods of indifference, +complex multiform gifts of thoughts that are at variance with each other, +and passions that war against themselves. And so, it is not our +own life that we live, but the lives of the dead, and the soul that +dwells within us is no single spiritual entity, making us personal and +individual, created for our service, and entering into us for our joy. +It is something that has dwelt in fearful places, and in ancient sepulchres +has made its abode. It is sick with many maladies, and has memories +of curious sins. It is wiser than we are, and its wisdom is bitter. +It fills us with impossible desires, and makes us follow what we know +we cannot gain. One thing, however, Ernest, it can do for us. +It can lead us away from surroundings whose beauty is dimmed to us by +the mist of familiarity, or whose ignoble ugliness and sordid claims +are marring the perfection of our development. It can help us +to leave the age in which we were born, and to pass into other ages, +and find ourselves not exiled from their air. It can teach us +how to escape from our experience, and to realise the experiences of +those who are greater than we are. The pain of Leopardi crying +out against life becomes our pain. Theocritus blows on his pipe, +and we laugh with the lips of nymph and shepherd. In the wolfskin +of Pierre Vidal we flee before the hounds, and in the armour of Lancelot +we ride from the bower of the Queen. We have whispered the secret +of our love beneath the cowl of Abelard, and in the stained raiment +of Villon have put our shame into song. We can see the dawn through +Shelley’s eyes, and when we wander with Endymion the Moon grows +amorous of our youth. Ours is the anguish of Atys, and ours the +weak rage and noble sorrows of the Dane. Do you think that it +is the imagination that enables us to live these countless lives? +Yes: it is the imagination; and the imagination is the result of heredity. +It is simply concentrated race-experience.</p> +<p>ERNEST. But where in this is the function of the critical spirit?</p> +<p>GILBERT. The culture that this transmission of racial experiences +makes possible can be made perfect by the critical spirit alone, and +indeed may be said to be one with it. For who is the true critic +but he who bears within himself the dreams, and ideas, and feelings +of myriad generations, and to whom no form of thought is alien, no emotional +impulse obscure? And who the true man of culture, if not he who +by fine scholarship and fastidious rejection has made instinct self-conscious +and intelligent, and can separate the work that has distinction from +the work that has it not, and so by contact and comparison makes himself +master of the secrets of style and school, and understands their meanings, +and listens to their voices, and develops that spirit of disinterested +curiosity which is the real root, as it is the real flower, of the intellectual +life, and thus attains to intellectual clarity, and, having learned +‘the best that is known and thought in the world,’ lives—it +is not fanciful to say so—with those who are the Immortals.</p> +<p>Yes, Ernest: the contemplative life, the life that has for its aim +not <i>doing</i> but <i>being</i>, and not <i>being</i> merely, but +<i>becoming</i>—that is what the critical spirit can give us. +The gods live thus: either brooding over their own perfection, as Aristotle +tells us, or, as Epicurus fancied, watching with the calm eyes of the +spectator the tragicomedy of the world that they have made. We, +too, might live like them, and set ourselves to witness with appropriate +emotions the varied scenes that man and nature afford. We might +make ourselves spiritual by detaching ourselves from action, and become +perfect by the rejection of energy. It has often seemed to me +that Browning felt something of this. Shakespeare hurls Hamlet +into active life, and makes him realise his mission by effort. +Browning might have given us a Hamlet who would have realised his mission +by thought. Incident and event were to him unreal or unmeaning. +He made the soul the protagonist of life’s tragedy, and looked +on action as the one undramatic element of a play. To us, at any +rate, the ΒΙΟΣ ΘΕΩΡΗΤΙΚΟΣ +is the true ideal. From the high tower of Thought we can look +out at the world. Calm, and self-centred, and complete, the aesthetic +critic contemplates life, and no arrow drawn at a venture can pierce +between the joints of his harness. He at least is safe. +He has discovered how to live.</p> +<p>Is such a mode of life immoral? Yes: all the arts are immoral, +except those baser forms of sensual or didactic art that seek to excite +to action of evil or of good. For action of every kind belongs +to the sphere of ethics. The aim of art is simply to create a +mood. Is such a mode of life unpractical? Ah! it is not +so easy to be unpractical as the ignorant Philistine imagines. +It were well for England if it were so. There is no country in +the world so much in need of unpractical people as this country of ours. +With us, Thought is degraded by its constant association with practice. +Who that moves in the stress and turmoil of actual existence, noisy +politician, or brawling social reformer, or poor narrow-minded priest +blinded by the sufferings of that unimportant section of the community +among whom he has cast his lot, can seriously claim to be able to form +a disinterested intellectual judgment about any one thing? Each +of the professions means a prejudice. The necessity for a career +forces every one to take sides. We live in the age of the overworked, +and the under-educated; the age in which people are so industrious that +they become absolutely stupid. And, harsh though it may sound, +I cannot help saying that such people deserve their doom. The +sure way of knowing nothing about life is to try to make oneself useful.</p> +<p>ERNEST. A charming doctrine, Gilbert.</p> +<p>GILBERT. I am not sure about that, but it has at least the +minor merit of being true. That the desire to do good to others +produces a plentiful crop of prigs is the least of the evils of which +it is the cause. The prig is a very interesting psychological +study, and though of all poses a moral pose is the most offensive, still +to have a pose at all is something. It is a formal recognition +of the importance of treating life from a definite and reasoned standpoint. +That Humanitarian Sympathy wars against Nature, by securing the survival +of the failure, may make the man of science loathe its facile virtues. +The political economist may cry out against it for putting the improvident +on the same level as the provident, and so robbing life of the strongest, +because most sordid, incentive to industry. But, in the eyes of +the thinker, the real harm that emotional sympathy does is that it limits +knowledge, and so prevents us from solving any single social problem. +We are trying at present to stave off the coming crisis, the coming +revolution as my friends the Fabianists call it, by means of doles and +alms. Well, when the revolution or crisis arrives, we shall be +powerless, because we shall know nothing. And so, Ernest, let +us not be deceived. England will never be civilised till she has +added Utopia to her dominions. There is more than one of her colonies +that she might with advantage surrender for so fair a land. What +we want are unpractical people who see beyond the moment, and think +beyond the day. Those who try to lead the people can only do so +by following the mob. It is through the voice of one crying in +the wilderness that the ways of the gods must be prepared.</p> +<p>But perhaps you think that in beholding for the mere joy of beholding, +and contemplating for the sake of contemplation, there is something +that is egotistic. If you think so, do not say so. It takes +a thoroughly selfish age, like our own, to deify self-sacrifice. +It takes a thoroughly grasping age, such as that in which we live, to +set above the fine intellectual virtues, those shallow and emotional +virtues that are an immediate practical benefit to itself. They +miss their aim, too, these philanthropists and sentimentalists of our +day, who are always chattering to one about one’s duty to one’s +neighbour. For the development of the race depends on the development +of the individual, and where self-culture has ceased to be the ideal, +the intellectual standard is instantly lowered, and, often, ultimately +lost. If you meet at dinner a man who has spent his life in educating +himself—a rare type in our time, I admit, but still one occasionally +to be met with—you rise from table richer, and conscious that +a high ideal has for a moment touched and sanctified your days. +But oh! my dear Ernest, to sit next to a man who has spent his life +in trying to educate others! What a dreadful experience that is! +How appalling is that ignorance which is the inevitable result of the +fatal habit of imparting opinions! How limited in range the creature’s +mind proves to be! How it wearies us, and must weary himself, +with its endless repetitions and sickly reiteration! How lacking +it is in any element of intellectual growth! In what a vicious +circle it always moves!</p> +<p>ERNEST. You speak with strange feeling, Gilbert. Have +you had this dreadful experience, as you call it, lately?</p> +<p> GILBERT. Few of us escape it. People say that the schoolmaster +is abroad. I wish to goodness he were. But the type of which, +after all, he is only one, and certainly the least important, of the +representatives, seems to me to be really dominating our lives; and +just as the philanthropist is the nuisance of the ethical sphere, so +the nuisance of the intellectual sphere is the man who is so occupied +in trying to educate others, that he has never had any time to educate +himself. No, Ernest, self-culture is the true ideal of man. +Goethe saw it, and the immediate debt that we owe to Goethe is greater +than the debt we owe to any man since Greek days. The Greeks saw +it, and have left us, as their legacy to modern thought, the conception +of the contemplative life as well as the critical method by which alone +can that life be truly realised. It was the one thing that made +the Renaissance great, and gave us Humanism. It is the one thing +that could make our own age great also; for the real weakness of England +lies, not in incomplete armaments or unfortified coasts, not in the +poverty that creeps through sunless lanes, or the drunkenness that brawls +in loathsome courts, but simply in the fact that her ideals are emotional +and not intellectual.</p> +<p>I do not deny that the intellectual ideal is difficult of attainment, +still less that it is, and perhaps will be for years to come, unpopular +with the crowd. It is so easy for people to have sympathy with +suffering. It is so difficult for them to have sympathy with thought. +Indeed, so little do ordinary people understand what thought really +is, that they seem to imagine that, when they have said that a theory +is dangerous, they have pronounced its condemnation, whereas it is only +such theories that have any true intellectual value. An idea that +is not dangerous is unworthy of being called an idea at all.</p> +<p>ERNEST. Gilbert, you bewilder me. You have told me that +all art is, in its essence, immoral. Are you going to tell me +now that all thought is, in its essence, dangerous?</p> +<p>GILBERT. Yes, in the practical sphere it is so. The security +of society lies in custom and unconscious instinct, and the basis of +the stability of society, as a healthy organism, is the complete absence +of any intelligence amongst its members. The great majority of +people being fully aware of this, rank themselves naturally on the side +of that splendid system that elevates them to the dignity of machines, +and rage so wildly against the intrusion of the intellectual faculty +into any question that concerns life, that one is tempted to define +man as a rational animal who always loses his temper when he is called +upon to act in accordance with the dictates of reason. But let +us turn from the practical sphere, and say no more about the wicked +philanthropists, who, indeed, may well be left to the mercy of the almond-eyed +sage of the Yellow River Chuang Tsu the wise, who has proved that such +well-meaning and offensive busybodies have destroyed the simple and +spontaneous virtue that there is in man. They are a wearisome +topic, and I am anxious to get back to the sphere in which criticism +is free.</p> +<p>ERNEST. The sphere of the intellect?</p> +<p>GILBERT. Yes. You remember that I spoke of the critic +as being in his own way as creative as the artist, whose work, indeed, +may be merely of value in so far as it gives to the critic a suggestion +for some new mood of thought and feeling which he can realise with equal, +or perhaps greater, distinction of form, and, through the use of a fresh +medium of expression, make differently beautiful and more perfect. +Well, you seemed to be a little sceptical about the theory. But +perhaps I wronged you?</p> +<p>ERNEST. I am not really sceptical about it, but I must admit +that I feel very strongly that such work as you describe the critic +producing—and creative such work must undoubtedly be admitted +to be—is, of necessity, purely subjective, whereas the greatest +work is objective always, objective and impersonal.</p> +<p>GILBERT. The difference between objective and subjective work +is one of external form merely. It is accidental, not essential. +All artistic creation is absolutely subjective. The very landscape +that Corot looked at was, as he said himself, but a mood of his own +mind; and those great figures of Greek or English drama that seem to +us to possess an actual existence of their own, apart from the poets +who shaped and fashioned them, are, in their ultimate analysis, simply +the poets themselves, not as they thought they were, but as they thought +they were not; and by such thinking came in strange manner, though but +for a moment, really so to be. For out of ourselves we can never +pass, nor can there be in creation what in the creator was not. +Nay, I would say that the more objective a creation appears to be, the +more subjective it really is. Shakespeare might have met Rosencrantz +and Guildenstern in the white streets of London, or seen the serving-men +of rival houses bite their thumbs at each other in the open square; +but Hamlet came out of his soul, and Romeo out of his passion. +They were elements of his nature to which he gave visible form, impulses +that stirred so strongly within him that he had, as it were perforce, +to suffer them to realise their energy, not on the lower plane of actual +life, where they would have been trammelled and constrained and so made +imperfect, but on that imaginative plane of art where Love can indeed +find in Death its rich fulfilment, where one can stab the eavesdropper +behind the arras, and wrestle in a new-made grave, and make a guilty +king drink his own hurt, and see one’s father’s spirit, +beneath the glimpses of the moon, stalking in complete steel from misty +wall to wall. Action being limited would have left Shakespeare +unsatisfied and unexpressed; and, just as it is because he did nothing +that he has been able to achieve everything, so it is because he never +speaks to us of himself in his plays that his plays reveal him to us +absolutely, and show us his true nature and temperament far more completely +than do those strange and exquisite sonnets, even, in which he bares +to crystal eyes the secret closet of his heart. Yes, the objective +form is the most subjective in matter. Man is least himself when +he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell +you the truth.</p> +<p>ERNEST. The critic, then, being limited to the subjective form, +will necessarily be less able fully to express himself than the artist, +who has always at his disposal the forms that are impersonal and objective.</p> +<p>GILBERT. Not necessarily, and certainly not at all if he recognises +that each mode of criticism is, in its highest development, simply a +mood, and that we are never more true to ourselves than when we are +inconsistent. The aesthetic critic, constant only to the principle +of beauty in all things, will ever be looking for fresh impressions, +winning from the various schools the secret of their charm, bowing, +it may be, before foreign altars, or smiling, if it be his fancy, at +strange new gods. What other people call one’s past has, +no doubt, everything to do with them, but has absolutely nothing to +do with oneself. The man who regards his past is a man who deserves +to have no future to look forward to. When one has found expression +for a mood, one has done with it. You laugh; but believe me it +is so. Yesterday it was Realism that charmed one. One gained +from it that <i>nouveau frisson</i> which it was its aim to produce. +One analysed it, explained it, and wearied of it. At sunset came +the <i>Luministe</i> in painting, and the <i>Symboliste</i> in poetry, +and the spirit of mediaevalism, that spirit which belongs not to time +but to temperament, woke suddenly in wounded Russia, and stirred us +for a moment by the terrible fascination of pain. To-day the cry +is for Romance, and already the leaves are tremulous in the valley, +and on the purple hill-tops walks Beauty with slim gilded feet. +The old modes of creation linger, of course. The artists reproduce +either themselves or each other, with wearisome iteration. But +Criticism is always moving on, and the critic is always developing.</p> +<p>Nor, again, is the critic really limited to the subjective form of +expression. The method of the drama is his, as well as the method +of the epos. He may use dialogue, as he did who set Milton talking +to Marvel on the nature of comedy and tragedy, and made Sidney and Lord +Brooke discourse on letters beneath the Penshurst oaks; or adopt narration, +as Mr. Pater is fond of doing, each of whose Imaginary Portraits—is +not that the title of the book?—presents to us, under the fanciful +guise of fiction, some fine and exquisite piece of criticism, one on +the painter Watteau, another on the philosophy of Spinoza, a third on +the Pagan elements of the early Renaissance, and the last, and in some +respects the most suggestive, on the source of that Aufklärung, +that enlightening which dawned on Germany in the last century, and to +which our own culture owes so great a debt. Dialogue, certainly, +that wonderful literary form which, from Plato to Lucian, and from Lucian +to Giordano Bruno, and from Bruno to that grand old Pagan in whom Carlyle +took such delight, the creative critics of the world have always employed, +can never lose for the thinker its attraction as a mode of expression. +By its means he can both reveal and conceal himself, and give form to +every fancy, and reality to every mood. By its means he can exhibit +the object from each point of view, and show it to us in the round, +as a sculptor shows us things, gaining in this manner all the richness +and reality of effect that comes from those side issues that are suddenly +suggested by the central idea in its progress, and really illumine the +idea more completely, or from those felicitous after-thoughts that give +a fuller completeness to the central scheme, and yet convey something +of the delicate charm of chance.</p> +<p>ERNEST. By its means, too, he can invent an imaginary antagonist, +and convert him when he chooses by some absurdly sophistical argument.</p> +<p>GILBERT. Ah! it is so easy to convert others. It is so +difficult to convert oneself. To arrive at what one really believes, +one must speak through lips different from one’s own. To +know the truth one must imagine myriads of falsehoods. For what +is Truth? In matters of religion, it is simply the opinion that +has survived. In matters of science, it is the ultimate sensation. +In matters of art, it is one’s last mood. And you see now, +Ernest, that the critic has at his disposal as many objective forms +of expression as the artist has. Ruskin put his criticism into +imaginative prose, and is superb in his changes and contradictions; +and Browning put his into blank verse and made painter and poet yield +us their secret; and M. Renan uses dialogue, and Mr. Pater fiction, +and Rossetti translated into sonnet-music the colour of Giorgione and +the design of Ingres, and his own design and colour also, feeling, with +the instinct of one who had many modes of utterance; that the ultimate +art is literature, and the finest and fullest medium that of words.</p> +<p>ERNEST. Well, now that you have settled that the critic has +at his disposal all objective forms, I wish you would tell me what are +the qualities that should characterise the true critic.</p> +<p>GILBERT. What would you say they were?</p> +<p>ERNEST. Well, I should say that a critic should above all things +be fair.</p> +<p>GILBERT. Ah! not fair. A critic cannot be fair in the +ordinary sense of the word. It is only about things that do not +interest one that one can give a really unbiassed opinion, which is +no doubt the reason why an unbiassed opinion is always absolutely valueless. +The man who sees both sides of a question, is a man who sees absolutely +nothing at all. Art is a passion, and, in matters of art, Thought +is inevitably coloured by emotion, and so is fluid rather than fixed, +and, depending upon fine moods and exquisite moments, cannot be narrowed +into the rigidity of a scientific formula or a theological dogma. +It is to the soul that Art speaks, and the soul may be made the prisoner +of the mind as well as of the body. One should, of course, have +no prejudices; but, as a great Frenchman remarked a hundred years ago, +it is one’s business in such matters to have preferences, and +when one has preferences one ceases to be fair. It is only an +auctioneer who can equally and impartially admire all schools of Art. +No; fairness is not one of the qualities of the true critic. It +is not even a condition of criticism. Each form of Art with which +we come in contact dominates us for the moment to the exclusion of every +other form. We must surrender ourselves absolutely to the work +in question, whatever it may be, if we wish to gain its secret. +For the time, we must think of nothing else, can think of nothing else, +indeed.</p> +<p>ERNEST. The true critic will be rational, at any rate, will +he not?</p> +<p>GILBERT. Rational? There are two ways of disliking art, +Ernest. One is to dislike it. The other, to like it rationally. +For Art, as Plato saw, and not without regret, creates in listener and +spectator a form of divine madness. It does not spring from inspiration, +but it makes others inspired. Reason is not the faculty to which +it appeals. If one loves Art at all, one must love it beyond all +other things in the world, and against such love, the reason, if one +listened to it, would cry out. There is nothing sane about the +worship of beauty. It is too splendid to be sane. Those +of whose lives it forms the dominant note will always seem to the world +to be pure visionaries.</p> +<p>ERNEST. Well, at least, the critic will be sincere.</p> +<p>GILBERT. A little sincerity is a dangerous thing, and a great +deal of it is absolutely fatal. The true critic will, indeed, +always be sincere in his devotion to the principle of beauty, but he +will seek for beauty in every age and in each school, and will never +suffer himself to be limited to any settled custom of thought or stereotyped +mode of looking at things. He will realise himself in many forms, +and by a thousand different ways, and will ever be curious of new sensations +and fresh points of view. Through constant change, and through +constant change alone, he will find his true unity. He will not +consent to be the slave of his own opinions. For what is mind +but motion in the intellectual sphere? The essence of thought, +as the essence of life, is growth. You must not be frightened +by word, Ernest. What people call insincerity is simply a method +by which we can multiply our personalities.</p> +<p>ERNEST. I am afraid I have not been fortunate in my suggestions.</p> +<p>GILBERT. Of the three qualifications you mentioned, two, sincerity +and fairness, were, if not actually moral, at least on the borderland +of morals, and the first condition of criticism is that the critic should +be able to recognise that the sphere of Art and the sphere of Ethics +are absolutely distinct and separate. When they are confused, +Chaos has come again. They are too often confused in England now, +and though our modern Puritans cannot destroy a beautiful thing, yet, +by means of their extraordinary prurience, they can almost taint beauty +for a moment. It is chiefly, I regret to say, through journalism +that such people find expression. I regret it because there is +much to be said in favour of modern journalism. By giving us the +opinions of the uneducated, it keeps us in touch with the ignorance +of the community. By carefully chronicling the current events +of contemporary life, it shows us of what very little importance such +events really are. By invariably discussing the unnecessary it +makes us understand what things are requisite for culture, and what +are not. But it should not allow poor Tartuffe to write articles +upon modern art. When it does this it stultifies itself. +And yet Tartuffe’s articles and Chadband’s notes do this +good, at least. They serve to show how extremely limited is the +area over which ethics, and ethical considerations, can claim to exercise +influence. Science is out of the reach of morals, for her eyes +are fixed upon eternal truths. Art is out of the reach of morals, +for her eyes are fixed upon things beautiful and immortal and ever-changing. +To morals belong the lower and less intellectual spheres. However, +let these mouthing Puritans pass; they have their comic side. +Who can help laughing when an ordinary journalist seriously proposes +to limit the subject-matter at the disposal of the artist? Some +limitation might well, and will soon, I hope, be placed upon some of +our newspapers and newspaper writers. For they give us the bald, +sordid, disgusting facts of life. They chronicle, with degrading +avidity, the sins of the second-rate, and with the conscientiousness +of the illiterate give us accurate and prosaic details of the doings +of people of absolutely no interest whatsoever. But the artist, +who accepts the facts of life, and yet transforms them into shapes of +beauty, and makes them vehicles of pity or of awe, and shows their colour-element, +and their wonder, and their true ethical import also, and builds out +of them a world more real than reality itself, and of loftier and more +noble import—who shall set limits to him? Not the apostles +of that new Journalism which is but the old vulgarity ‘writ large.’ +Not the apostles of that new Puritanism, which is but the whine of the +hypocrite, and is both writ and spoken badly. The mere suggestion +is ridiculous. Let us leave these wicked people, and proceed to +the discussion of the artistic qualifications necessary for the true +critic.</p> +<p>ERNEST. And what are they? Tell me yourself.</p> +<p>GILBERT. Temperament is the primary requisite for the critic—a +temperament exquisitely susceptible to beauty, and to the various impressions +that beauty gives us. Under what conditions, and by what means, +this temperament is engendered in race or individual, we will not discuss +at present. It is sufficient to note that it exists, and that +there is in us a beauty-sense, separate from the other senses and above +them, separate from the reason and of nobler import, separate from the +soul and of equal value—a sense that leads some to create, and +others, the finer spirits as I think, to contemplate merely. But +to be purified and made perfect, this sense requires some form of exquisite +environment. Without this it starves, or is dulled. You +remember that lovely passage in which Plato describes how a young Greek +should be educated, and with what insistence he dwells upon the importance +of surroundings, telling us how the lad is to be brought up in the midst +of fair sights and sounds, so that the beauty of material things may +prepare his soul for the reception of the beauty that is spiritual. +Insensibly, and without knowing the reason why, he is to develop that +real love of beauty which, as Plato is never weary of reminding us, +is the true aim of education. By slow degrees there is to be engendered +in him such a temperament as will lead him naturally and simply to choose +the good in preference to the bad, and, rejecting what is vulgar and +discordant, to follow by fine instinctive taste all that possesses grace +and charm and loveliness. Ultimately, in its due course, this +taste is to become critical and self-conscious, but at first it is to +exist purely as a cultivated instinct, and ‘he who has received +this true culture of the inner man will with clear and certain vision +perceive the omissions and faults in art or nature, and with a taste +that cannot err, while he praises, and finds his pleasure in what is +good, and receives it into his soul, and so becomes good and noble, +he will rightly blame and hate the bad, now in the days of his youth, +even before he is able to know the reason why’: and so, when, +later on, the critical and self-conscious spirit develops in him, he +‘will recognise and salute it as a friend with whom his education +has made him long familiar.’ I need hardly say, Ernest, +how far we in England have fallen short of this ideal, and I can imagine +the smile that would illuminate the glossy face of the Philistine if +one ventured to suggest to him that the true aim of education was the +love of beauty, and that the methods by which education should work +were the development of temperament, the cultivation of taste, and the +creation of the critical spirit.</p> +<p>Yet, even for us, there is left some loveliness of environment, and +the dulness of tutors and professors matters very little when one can +loiter in the grey cloisters at Magdalen, and listen to some flute-like +voice singing in Waynfleete’s chapel, or lie in the green meadow, +among the strange snake-spotted fritillaries, and watch the sunburnt +noon smite to a finer gold the tower’s gilded vanes, or wander +up the Christ Church staircase beneath the vaulted ceiling’s shadowy +fans, or pass through the sculptured gateway of Laud’s building +in the College of St. John. Nor is it merely at Oxford, or Cambridge, +that the sense of beauty can be formed and trained and perfected. +All over England there is a Renaissance of the decorative Arts. +Ugliness has had its day. Even in the houses of the rich there +is taste, and the houses of those who are not rich have been made gracious +and comely and sweet to live in. Caliban, poor noisy Caliban, +thinks that when he has ceased to make mows at a thing, the thing ceases +to exist. But if he mocks no longer, it is because he has been +met with mockery, swifter and keener than his own, and for a moment +has been bitterly schooled into that silence which should seal for ever +his uncouth distorted lips. What has been done up to now, has +been chiefly in the clearing of the way. It is always more difficult +to destroy than it is to create, and when what one has to destroy is +vulgarity and stupidity, the task of destruction needs not merely courage +but also contempt. Yet it seems to me to have been, in a measure, +done. We have got rid of what was bad. We have now to make +what is beautiful. And though the mission of the aesthetic movement +is to lure people to contemplate, not to lead them to create, yet, as +the creative instinct is strong in the Celt, and it is the Celt who +leads in art, there is no reason why in future years this strange Renaissance +should not become almost as mighty in its way as was that new birth +of Art that woke many centuries ago in the cities of Italy.</p> +<p>Certainly, for the cultivation of temperament, we must turn to the +decorative arts: to the arts that touch us, not to the arts that teach +us. Modern pictures are, no doubt, delightful to look at. +At least, some of them are. But they are quite impossible to live +with; they are too clever, too assertive, too intellectual. Their +meaning is too obvious, and their method too clearly defined. +One exhausts what they have to say in a very short time, and then they +become as tedious as one’s relations. I am very fond of +the work of many of the Impressionist painters of Paris and London. +Subtlety and distinction have not yet left the school. Some of +their arrangements and harmonies serve to remind one of the unapproachable +beauty of Gautier’s immortal <i>Symphonie en Blanc Majeur</i>, +that flawless masterpiece of colour and music which may have suggested +the type as well as the titles of many of their best pictures. +For a class that welcomes the incompetent with sympathetic eagerness, +and that confuses the bizarre with the beautiful, and vulgarity with +truth, they are extremely accomplished. They can do etchings that +have the brilliancy of epigrams, pastels that are as fascinating as +paradoxes, and as for their portraits, whatever the commonplace may +say against them, no one can deny that they possess that unique and +wonderful charm which belongs to works of pure fiction. But even +the Impressionists, earnest and industrious as they are, will not do. +I like them. Their white keynote, with its variations in lilac, +was an era in colour. Though the moment does not make the man, +the moment certainly makes the Impressionist, and for the moment in +art, and the ‘moment’s monument,’ as Rossetti phrased +it, what may not be said? They are suggestive also. If they +have not opened the eyes of the blind, they have at least given great +encouragement to the short-sighted, and while their leaders may have +all the inexperience of old age, their young men are far too wise to +be ever sensible. Yet they will insist on treating painting as +if it were a mode of autobiography invented for the use of the illiterate, +and are always prating to us on their coarse gritty canvases of their +unnecessary selves and their unnecessary opinions, and spoiling by a +vulgar over-emphasis that fine contempt of nature which is the best +and only modest thing about them. One tires, at the end, of the +work of individuals whose individuality is always noisy, and generally +uninteresting. There is far more to be said in favour of that +newer school at Paris, the <i>Archaicistes</i>, as they call themselves, +who, refusing to leave the artist entirely at the mercy of the weather, +do not find the ideal of art in mere atmospheric effect, but seek rather +for the imaginative beauty of design and the loveliness of fair colour, +and rejecting the tedious realism of those who merely paint what they +see, try to see something worth seeing, and to see it not merely with +actual and physical vision, but with that nobler vision of the soul +which is as far wider in spiritual scope as it is far more splendid +in artistic purpose. They, at any rate, work under those decorative +conditions that each art requires for its perfection, and have sufficient +aesthetic instinct to regret those sordid and stupid limitations of +absolute modernity of form which have proved the ruin of so many of +the Impressionists. Still, the art that is frankly decorative +is the art to live with. It is, of all our visible arts, the one +art that creates in us both mood and temperament. Mere colour, +unspoiled by meaning, and unallied with definite form, can speak to +the soul in a thousand different ways. The harmony that resides +in the delicate proportions of lines and masses becomes mirrored in +the mind. The repetitions of pattern give us rest. The marvels +of design stir the imagination. In the mere loveliness of the +materials employed there are latent elements of culture. Nor is +this all. By its deliberate rejection of Nature as the ideal of +beauty, as well as of the imitative method of the ordinary painter, +decorative art not merely prepares the soul for the reception of true +imaginative work, but develops in it that sense of form which is the +basis of creative no less than of critical achievement. For the +real artist is he who proceeds, not from feeling to form, but from form +to thought and passion. He does not first conceive an idea, and +then say to himself, ‘I will put my idea into a complex metre +of fourteen lines,’ but, realising the beauty of the sonnet-scheme, +he conceives certain modes of music and methods of rhyme, and the mere +form suggests what is to fill it and make it intellectually and emotionally +complete. From time to time the world cries out against some charming +artistic poet, because, to use its hackneyed and silly phrase, he has +‘nothing to say.’ But if he had something to say, +he would probably say it, and the result would be tedious. It +is just because he has no new message, that he can do beautiful work. +He gains his inspiration from form, and from form purely, as an artist +should. A real passion would ruin him. Whatever actually +occurs is spoiled for art. All bad poetry springs from genuine +feeling. To be natural is to be obvious, and to be obvious is +to be inartistic.</p> +<p>ERNEST. I wonder do you really believe what you say?</p> +<p>GILBERT. Why should you wonder? It is not merely in art +that the body is the soul. In every sphere of life Form is the +beginning of things. The rhythmic harmonious gestures of dancing +convey, Plato tells us, both rhythm and harmony into the mind. +Forms are the food of faith, cried Newman in one of those great moments +of sincerity that make us admire and know the man. He was right, +though he may not have known how terribly right he was. The Creeds +are believed, not because they are rational, but because they are repeated. +Yes: Form is everything. It is the secret of life. Find +expression for a sorrow, and it will become dear to you. Find +expression for a joy, and you intensify its ecstasy. Do you wish +to love? Use Love’s Litany, and the words will create the +yearning from which the world fancies that they spring. Have you +a grief that corrodes your heart? Steep yourself in the Language +of grief, learn its utterance from Prince Hamlet and Queen Constance, +and you will find that mere expression is a mode of consolation, and +that Form, which is the birth of passion, is also the death of pain. +And so, to return to the sphere of Art, it is Form that creates not +merely the critical temperament, but also the aesthetic instinct, that +unerring instinct that reveals to one all things under their conditions +of beauty. Start with the worship of form, and there is no secret +in art that will not be revealed to you, and remember that in criticism, +as in creation, temperament is everything, and that it is, not by the +time of their production, but by the temperaments to which they appeal, +that the schools of art should be historically grouped.</p> +<p>ERNEST. Your theory of education is delightful. But what +influence will your critic, brought up in these exquisite surroundings, +possess? Do you really think that any artist is ever affected +by criticism?</p> +<p>GILBERT. The influence of the critic will be the mere fact +of his own existence. He will represent the flawless type. +In him the culture of the century will see itself realised. You +must not ask of him to have any aim other than the perfecting of himself. +The demand of the intellect, as has been well said, is simply to feel +itself alive. The critic may, indeed, desire to exercise influence; +but, if so, he will concern himself not with the individual, but with +the age, which he will seek to wake into consciousness, and to make +responsive, creating in it new desires and appetites, and lending it +his larger vision and his nobler moods. The actual art of to-day +will occupy him less than the art of to-morrow, far less than the art +of yesterday, and as for this or that person at present toiling away, +what do the industrious matter? They do their best, no doubt, +and consequently we get the worst from them. It is always with +the best intentions that the worst work is done. And besides, +my dear Ernest, when a man reaches the age of forty, or becomes a Royal +Academician, or is elected a member of the Athenaeum Club, or is recognised +as a popular novelist, whose books are in great demand at suburban railway +stations, one may have the amusement of exposing him, but one cannot +have the pleasure of reforming him. And this is, I dare say, very +fortunate for him; for I have no doubt that reformation is a much more +painful process than punishment, is indeed punishment in its most aggravated +and moral form—a fact which accounts for our entire failure as +a community to reclaim that interesting phenomenon who is called the +confirmed criminal.</p> +<p>ERNEST. But may it not be that the poet is the best judge of +poetry, and the painter of painting? Each art must appeal primarily +to the artist who works in it. His judgment will surely be the +most valuable?</p> +<p>GILBERT. The appeal of all art is simply to the artistic temperament. +Art does not address herself to the specialist. Her claim is that +she is universal, and that in all her manifestations she is one. +Indeed, so far from its being true that the artist is the best judge +of art, a really great artist can never judge of other people’s +work at all, and can hardly, in fact, judge of his own. That very +concentration of vision that makes a man an artist, limits by its sheer +intensity his faculty of fine appreciation. The energy of creation +hurries him blindly on to his own goal. The wheels of his chariot +raise the dust as a cloud around him. The gods are hidden from +each other. They can recognise their worshippers. That is +all.</p> +<p>ERNEST. You say that a great artist cannot recognise the beauty +of work different from his own.</p> +<p>GILBERT. It is impossible for him to do so. Wordsworth +saw in <i>Endymion</i> merely a pretty piece of Paganism, and Shelley, +with his dislike of actuality, was deaf to Wordsworth’s message, +being repelled by its form, and Byron, that great passionate human incomplete +creature, could appreciate neither the poet of the cloud nor the poet +of the lake, and the wonder of Keats was hidden from him. The +realism of Euripides was hateful to Sophokles. Those droppings +of warm tears had no music for him. Milton, with his sense of +the grand style, could not understand the method of Shakespeare, any +more than could Sir Joshua the method of Gainsborough. Bad artists +always admire each other’s work. They call it being large-minded +and free from prejudice. But a truly great artist cannot conceive +of life being shown, or beauty fashioned, under any conditions other +than those that he has selected. Creation employs all its critical +faculty within its own sphere. It may not use it in the sphere +that belongs to others. It is exactly because a man cannot do +a thing that he is the proper judge of it.</p> +<p>ERNEST. Do you really mean that?</p> +<p>GILBERT. Yes, for creation limits, while contemplation widens, +the vision.</p> +<p>ERNEST. But what about technique? Surely each art has +its separate technique?</p> +<p>GILBERT. Certainly: each art has its grammar and its materials. +There is no mystery about either, and the incompetent can always be +correct. But, while the laws upon which Art rests may be fixed +and certain, to find their true realisation they must be touched by +the imagination into such beauty that they will seem an exception, each +one of them. Technique is really personality. That is the +reason why the artist cannot teach it, why the pupil cannot learn it, +and why the aesthetic critic can understand it. To the great poet, +there is only one method of music—his own. To the great +painter, there is only one manner of painting—that which he himself +employs. The aesthetic critic, and the aesthetic critic alone, +can appreciate all forms and modes. It is to him that Art makes +her appeal.</p> +<p>ERNEST. Well, I think I have put all my questions to you. +And now I must admit -</p> +<p>GILBERT. Ah! don’t say that you agree with me. +When people agree with me I always feel that I must be wrong.</p> +<p>ERNEST. In that case I certainly won’t tell you whether +I agree with you or not. But I will put another question. +You have explained to me that criticism is a creative art. What +future has it?</p> +<p>GILBERT. It is to criticism that the future belongs. +The subject-matter at the disposal of creation becomes every day more +limited in extent and variety. Providence and Mr. Walter Besant +have exhausted the obvious. If creation is to last at all, it +can only do so on the condition of becoming far more critical than it +is at present. The old roads and dusty highways have been traversed +too often. Their charm has been worn away by plodding feet, and +they have lost that element of novelty or surprise which is so essential +for romance. He who would stir us now by fiction must either give +us an entirely new background, or reveal to us the soul of man in its +innermost workings. The first is for the moment being done for +us by Mr. Rudyard Kipling. As one turns over the pages of his +<i>Plain Tales from the Hills</i>, one feels as if one were seated under +a palm-tree reading life by superb flashes of vulgarity. The bright +colours of the bazaars dazzle one’s eyes. The jaded, second-rate +Anglo-Indians are in exquisite incongruity with their surroundings. +The mere lack of style in the story-teller gives an odd journalistic +realism to what he tells us. From the point of view of literature +Mr. Kipling is a genius who drops his aspirates. From the point +of view of life, he is a reporter who knows vulgarity better than any +one has ever known it. Dickens knew its clothes and its comedy. +Mr. Kipling knows its essence and its seriousness. He is our first +authority on the second-rate, and has seen marvellous things through +keyholes, and his backgrounds are real works of art. As for the +second condition, we have had Browning, and Meredith is with us. +But there is still much to be done in the sphere of introspection. +People sometimes say that fiction is getting too morbid. As far +as psychology is concerned, it has never been morbid enough. We +have merely touched the surface of the soul, that is all. In one +single ivory cell of the brain there are stored away things more marvellous +and more terrible than even they have dreamed of, who, like the author +of <i>Le Rouge et le Noir</i>, have sought to track the soul into its +most secret places, and to make life confess its dearest sins. +Still, there is a limit even to the number of untried backgrounds, and +it is possible that a further development of the habit of introspection +may prove fatal to that creative faculty to which it seeks to supply +fresh material. I myself am inclined to think that creation is +doomed. It springs from too primitive, too natural an impulse. +However this may be, it is certain that the subject-matter at the disposal +of creation is always diminishing, while the subject-matter of criticism +increases daily. There are always new attitudes for the mind, +and new points of view. The duty of imposing form upon chaos does +not grow less as the world advances. There was never a time when +Criticism was more needed than it is now. It is only by its means +that Humanity can become conscious of the point at which it has arrived.</p> +<p>Hours ago, Ernest, you asked me the use of Criticism. You might +just as well have asked me the use of thought. It is Criticism, +as Arnold points out, that creates the intellectual atmosphere of the +age. It is Criticism, as I hope to point out myself some day, +that makes the mind a fine instrument. We, in our educational +system, have burdened the memory with a load of unconnected facts, and +laboriously striven to impart our laboriously-acquired knowledge. +We teach people how to remember, we never teach them how to grow. +It has never occurred to us to try and develop in the mind a more subtle +quality of apprehension and discernment. The Greeks did this, +and when we come in contact with the Greek critical intellect, we cannot +but be conscious that, while our subject-matter is in every respect +larger and more varied than theirs, theirs is the only method by which +this subject-matter can be interpreted. England has done one thing; +it has invented and established Public Opinion, which is an attempt +to organise the ignorance of the community, and to elevate it to the +dignity of physical force. But Wisdom has always been hidden from +it. Considered as an instrument of thought, the English mind is +coarse and undeveloped. The only thing that can purify it is the +growth of the critical instinct.</p> +<p>It is Criticism, again, that, by concentration, makes culture possible. +It takes the cumbersome mass of creative work, and distils it into a +finer essence. Who that desires to retain any sense of form could +struggle through the monstrous multitudinous books that the world has +produced, books in which thought stammers or ignorance brawls? +The thread that is to guide us across the wearisome labyrinth is in +the hands of Criticism. Nay more, where there is no record, and +history is either lost, or was never written, Criticism can re-create +the past for us from the very smallest fragment of language or art, +just as surely as the man of science can from some tiny bone, or the +mere impress of a foot upon a rock, re-create for us the winged dragon +or Titan lizard that once made the earth shake beneath its tread, can +call Behemoth out of his cave, and make Leviathan swim once more across +the startled sea. Prehistoric history belongs to the philological +and archaeological critic. It is to him that the origins of things +are revealed. The self-conscious deposits of an age are nearly +always misleading. Through philological criticism alone we know +more of the centuries of which no actual record has been preserved, +than we do of the centuries that have left us their scrolls. It +can do for us what can be done neither by physics nor metaphysics. +It can give us the exact science of mind in the process of becoming. +It can do for us what History cannot do. It can tell us what man +thought before he learned how to write. You have asked me about +the influence of Criticism. I think I have answered that question +already; but there is this also to be said. It is Criticism that +makes us cosmopolitan. The Manchester school tried to make men +realise the brotherhood of humanity, by pointing out the commercial +advantages of peace. It sought to degrade the wonderful world +into a common market-place for the buyer and the seller. It addressed +itself to the lowest instincts, and it failed. War followed upon +war, and the tradesman’s creed did not prevent France and Germany +from clashing together in blood-stained battle. There are others +of our own day who seek to appeal to mere emotional sympathies, or to +the shallow dogmas of some vague system of abstract ethics. They +have their Peace Societies, so dear to the sentimentalists, and their +proposals for unarmed International Arbitration, so popular among those +who have never read history. But mere emotional sympathy will +not do. It is too variable, and too closely connected with the +passions; and a board of arbitrators who, for the general welfare of +the race, are to be deprived of the power of putting their decisions +into execution, will not be of much avail. There is only one thing +worse than Injustice, and that is Justice without her sword in her hand. +When Right is not Might, it is Evil.</p> +<p>No: the emotions will not make us cosmopolitan, any more than the +greed for gain could do so. It is only by the cultivation of the +habit of intellectual criticism that we shall be able to rise superior +to race-prejudices. Goethe—you will not misunderstand what +I say—was a German of the Germans. He loved his country—no +man more so. Its people were dear to him; and he led them. +Yet, when the iron hoof of Napoleon trampled upon vineyard and cornfield, +his lips were silent. ‘How can one write songs of hatred +without hating?’ he said to Eckermann, ‘and how could I, +to whom culture and barbarism are alone of importance, hate a nation +which is among the most cultivated of the earth and to which I owe so +great a part of my own cultivation?’ This note, sounded +in the modern world by Goethe first, will become, I think, the starting +point for the cosmopolitanism of the future. Criticism will annihilate +race-prejudices, by insisting upon the unity of the human mind in the +variety of its forms. If we are tempted to make war upon another +nation, we shall remember that we are seeking to destroy an element +of our own culture, and possibly its most important element. As +long as war is regarded as wicked, it will always have its fascination. +When it is looked upon as vulgar, it will cease to be popular. +The change will of course be slow, and people will not be conscious +of it. They will not say ‘We will not war against France +because her prose is perfect,’ but because the prose of France +is perfect, they will not hate the land. Intellectual criticism +will bind Europe together in bonds far closer than those that can be +forged by shopman or sentimentalist. It will give us the peace +that springs from understanding.</p> +<p>Nor is this all. It is Criticism that, recognising no position +as final, and refusing to bind itself by the shallow shibboleths of +any sect or school, creates that serene philosophic temper which loves +truth for its own sake, and loves it not the less because it knows it +to be unattainable. How little we have of this temper in England, +and how much we need it! The English mind is always in a rage. +The intellect of the race is wasted in the sordid and stupid quarrels +of second-rate politicians or third-rate theologians. It was reserved +for a man of science to show us the supreme example of that ‘sweet +reasonableness’ of which Arnold spoke so wisely, and, alas! to +so little effect. The author of the <i>Origin of Species</i> had, +at any rate, the philosophic temper. If one contemplates the ordinary +pulpits and platforms of England, one can but feel the contempt of Julian, +or the indifference of Montaigne. We are dominated by the fanatic, +whose worst vice is his sincerity. Anything approaching to the +free play of the mind is practically unknown amongst us. People +cry out against the sinner, yet it is not the sinful, but the stupid, +who are our shame. There is no sin except stupidity.</p> +<p>ERNEST. Ah! what an antinomian you are!</p> +<p>GILBERT. The artistic critic, like the mystic, is an antinomian +always. To be good, according to the vulgar standard of goodness, +is obviously quite easy. It merely requires a certain amount of +sordid terror, a certain lack of imaginative thought, and a certain +low passion for middle-class respectability. Aesthetics are higher +than ethics. They belong to a more spiritual sphere. To +discern the beauty of a thing is the finest point to which we can arrive. +Even a colour-sense is more important, in the development of the individual, +than a sense of right and wrong. Aesthetics, in fact, are to Ethics +in the sphere of conscious civilisation, what, in the sphere of the +external world, sexual is to natural selection. Ethics, like natural +selection, make existence possible. Aesthetics, like sexual selection, +make life lovely and wonderful, fill it with new forms, and give it +progress, and variety and change. And when we reach the true culture +that is our aim, we attain to that perfection of which the saints have +dreamed, the perfection of those to whom sin is impossible, not because +they make the renunciations of the ascetic, but because they can do +everything they wish without hurt to the soul, and can wish for nothing +that can do the soul harm, the soul being an entity so divine that it +is able to transform into elements of a richer experience, or a finer +susceptibility, or a newer mode of thought, acts or passions that with +the common would be commonplace, or with the uneducated ignoble, or +with the shameful vile. Is this dangerous? Yes; it is dangerous—all +ideas, as I told you, are so. But the night wearies, and the light +flickers in the lamp. One more thing I cannot help saying to you. +You have spoken against Criticism as being a sterile thing. The +nineteenth century is a turning point in history, simply on account +of the work of two men, Darwin and Renan, the one the critic of the +Book of Nature, the other the critic of the books of God. Not +to recognise this is to miss the meaning of one of the most important +eras in the progress of the world. Creation is always behind the +age. It is Criticism that leads us. The Critical Spirit +and the World-Spirit are one.</p> +<p>ERNEST. And he who is in possession of this spirit, or whom +this spirit possesses, will, I suppose, do nothing?</p> +<p>GILBERT. Like the Persephone of whom Landor tells us, the sweet +pensive Persephone around whose white feet the asphodel and amaranth +are blooming, he will sit contented ‘in that deep, motionless +quiet which mortals pity, and which the gods enjoy.’ He +will look out upon the world and know its secret. By contact with +divine things he will become divine. His will be the perfect life, +and his only.</p> +<p>ERNEST. You have told me many strange things to-night, Gilbert. +You have told me that it is more difficult to talk about a thing than +to do it, and that to do nothing at all is the most difficult thing +in the world; you have told me that all Art is immoral, and all thought +dangerous; that criticism is more creative than creation, and that the +highest criticism is that which reveals in the work of Art what the +artist had not put there; that it is exactly because a man cannot do +a thing that he is the proper judge of it; and that the true critic +is unfair, insincere, and not rational. My friend, you are a dreamer.</p> +<p>GILBERT. Yes: I am a dreamer. For a dreamer is one who +can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees +the dawn before the rest of the world.</p> +<p>ERNEST. His punishment?</p> +<p>GILBERT. And his reward. But, see, it is dawn already. +Draw back the curtains and open the windows wide. How cool the +morning air is! Piccadilly lies at our feet like a long riband +of silver. A faint purple mist hangs over the Park, and the shadows +of the white houses are purple. It is too late to sleep. +Let us go down to Covent Garden and look at the roses. Come! +I am tired of thought.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>THE TRUTH OF MASKS—A NOTE ON ILLUSION</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>In many of the somewhat violent attacks that have recently been made +on that splendour of mounting which now characterises our Shakespearian +revivals in England, it seems to have been tacitly assumed by the critics +that Shakespeare himself was more or less indifferent to the costumes +of his actors, and that, could he see Mrs. Langtry’s production +of <i>Antony and</i> <i>Cleopatra</i>, he would probably say that the +play, and the play only, is the thing, and that everything else is leather +and prunella. While, as regards any historical accuracy in dress, +Lord Lytton, in an article in the <i>Nineteenth Century</i>, has laid +it down as a dogma of art that archaeology is entirely out of place +in the presentation of any of Shakespeare’s plays, and the attempt +to introduce it one of the stupidest pedantries of an age of prigs.</p> +<p>Lord Lytton’s position I shall examine later on; but, as regards +the theory that Shakespeare did not busy himself much about the costume-wardrobe +of his theatre, anybody who cares to study Shakespeare’s method +will see that there is absolutely no dramatist of the French, English, +or Athenian stage who relies so much for his illusionist effects on +the dress of his actors as Shakespeare does himself.</p> +<p>Knowing how the artistic temperament is always fascinated by beauty +of costume, he constantly introduces into his plays masques and dances, +purely for the sake of the pleasure which they give the eye; and we +have still his stage-directions for the three great processions in <i>Henry +the Eighth</i>, directions which are characterised by the most extraordinary +elaborateness of detail down to the collars of S.S. and the pearls in +Anne Boleyn’s hair. Indeed it would be quite easy for a +modern manager to reproduce these pageants absolutely as Shakespeare +had them designed; and so accurate were they that one of the court officials +of the time, writing an account of the last performance of the play +at the Globe Theatre to a friend, actually complains of their realistic +character, notably of the production on the stage of the Knights of +the Garter in the robes and insignia of the order as being calculated +to bring ridicule on the real ceremonies; much in the same spirit in +which the French Government, some time ago, prohibited that delightful +actor, M. Christian, from appearing in uniform, on the plea that it +was prejudicial to the glory of the army that a colonel should be caricatured. +And elsewhere the gorgeousness of apparel which distinguished the English +stage under Shakespeare’s influence was attacked by the contemporary +critics, not as a rule, however, on the grounds of the democratic tendencies +of realism, but usually on those moral grounds which are always the +last refuge of people who have no sense of beauty.</p> +<p>The point, however, which I wish to emphasise is, not that Shakespeare +appreciated the value of lovely costumes in adding picturesqueness to +poetry, but that he saw how important costume is as a means of producing +certain dramatic effects. Many of his plays, such as <i>Measure +for</i> <i>Measure</i>, <i>Twelfth Night</i>, <i>The Two Gentleman of</i> +<i>Verona</i>, <i>All’s Well that Ends Well</i>, <i>Cymbeline</i>, +and others, depend for their illusion on the character of the various +dresses worn by the hero or the heroine; the delightful scene in <i>Henry +the Sixth</i>, on the modern miracles of healing by faith, loses all +its point unless Gloster is in black and scarlet; and the <i>dénoûment</i> +of the <i>Merry Wives</i> <i>of Windsor</i> hinges on the colour of +Anne Page’s gown. As for the uses Shakespeare makes of disguises +the instances are almost numberless. Posthumus hides his passion +under a peasant’s garb, and Edgar his pride beneath an idiot’s +rags; Portia wears the apparel of a lawyer, and Rosalind is attired +in ‘all points as a man’; the cloak-bag of Pisanio changes +Imogen to the Youth Fidele; Jessica flees from her father’s house +in boy’s dress, and Julia ties up her yellow hair in fantastic +love-knots, and dons hose and doublet; Henry the Eighth woos his lady +as a shepherd, and Romeo his as a pilgrim; Prince Hal and Poins appear +first as footpads in buckram suits, and then in white aprons and leather +jerkins as the waiters in a tavern: and as for Falstaff, does he not +come on as a highwayman, as an old woman, as Herne the Hunter, and as +the clothes going to the laundry?</p> +<p>Nor are the examples of the employment of costume as a mode of intensifying +dramatic situation less numerous. After slaughter of Duncan, Macbeth +appears in his night-gown as if aroused from sleep; Timon ends in rags +the play he had begun in splendour; Richard flatters the London citizens +in a suit of mean and shabby armour, and, as soon as he has stepped +in blood to the throne, marches through the streets in crown and George +and Garter; the climax of <i>The Tempest</i> is reached when Prospero, +throwing off his enchanter’s robes, sends Ariel for his hat and +rapier, and reveals himself as the great Italian Duke; the very Ghost +in <i>Hamlet</i> changes his mystical apparel to produce different effects; +and as for Juliet, a modern playwright would probably have laid her +out in her shroud, and made the scene a scene of horror merely, but +Shakespeare arrays her in rich and gorgeous raiment, whose loveliness +makes the vault ‘a feasting presence full of light,’ turns +the tomb into a bridal chamber, and gives the cue and motive for Romeo’s +speech of the triumph of Beauty over Death.</p> +<p>Even small details of dress, such as the colour of a major-domo’s +stockings, the pattern on a wife’s handkerchief, the sleeve of +a young soldier, and a fashionable woman’s bonnets, become in +Shakespeare’s hands points of actual dramatic importance, and +by some of them the action of the play in question is conditioned absolutely. +Many other dramatists have availed themselves of costume as a method +of expressing directly to the audience the character of a person on +his entrance, though hardly so brilliantly as Shakespeare has done in +the case of the dandy Parolles, whose dress, by the way, only an archaeologist +can understand; the fun of a master and servant exchanging coats in +presence of the audience, of shipwrecked sailors squabbling over the +division of a lot of fine clothes, and of a tinker dressed up like a +duke while he is in his cups, may be regarded as part of that great +career which costume has always played in comedy from the time of Aristophanes +down to Mr. Gilbert; but nobody from the mere details of apparel and +adornment has ever drawn such irony of contrast, such immediate and +tragic effect, such pity and such pathos, as Shakespeare himself. +Armed cap-à-pie, the dead King stalks on the battlements of Elsinore +because all is not right with Denmark; Shylock’s Jewish gaberdine +is part of the stigma under which that wounded and embittered nature +writhes; Arthur begging for his life can think of no better plea than +the handkerchief he had given Hubert -</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Have you the heart? when your head did but ache,<br />I knit my handkerchief +about your brows,<br />(The best I had, a princess wrought it me)<br />And +I did never ask it you again;</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>and Orlando’s blood-stained napkin strikes the first sombre +note in that exquisite woodland idyll, and shows us the depth of feeling +that underlies Rosalind’s fanciful wit and wilful jesting.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Last night ’twas on my arm; I kissed it;<br />I hope it be +not gone to tell my lord<br />That I kiss aught but he,</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>says Imogen, jesting on the loss of the bracelet which was already +on its way to Rome to rob her of her husband’s faith; the little +Prince passing to the Tower plays with the dagger in his uncle’s +girdle; Duncan sends a ring to Lady Macbeth on the night of his own +murder, and the ring of Portia turns the tragedy of the merchant into +a wife’s comedy. The great rebel York dies with a paper +crown on his head; Hamlet’s black suit is a kind of colour-motive +in the piece, like the mourning of the Chimène in the <i>Cid</i>; +and the climax of Antony’s speech is the production of Caesar’s +cloak:-</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>I remember<br />The first time ever Caesar put it on.<br />’Twas +on a summer’s evening, in his tent,<br />The day he overcame the +Nervii:-<br />Look, in this place ran Cassius’ dagger through:<br />See +what a rent the envious Casca made:<br />Through this the well-beloved +Brutus stabbed. . . .<br />Kind souls, what, weep you when you but behold<br />Our +Caesar’s vesture wounded?</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>The flowers which Ophelia carries with her in her madness are as +pathetic as the violets that blossom on a grave; the effect of Lear’s +wandering on the heath is intensified beyond words by his fantastic +attire; and when Cloten, stung by the taunt of that simile which his +sister draws from her husband’s raiment, arrays himself in that +husband’s very garb to work upon her the deed of shame, we feel +that there is nothing in the whole of modern French realism, nothing +even in <i>Thérèse Raquin</i>, that masterpiece of horror, +which for terrible and tragic significance can compare with this strange +scene in <i>Cymbeline.</i></p> +<p>In the actual dialogue also some of the most vivid passages are those +suggested by costume. Rosalind’s</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Dost thou think, though I am caparisoned like a man, I have a doublet +and hose in my disposition?</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Constance’s</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Grief fills the place of my absent child,<br />Stuffs out his vacant +garments with his form;</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>and the quick sharp cry of Elizabeth -</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Ah! cut my lace asunder! -</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>are only a few of the many examples one might quote. One of +the finest effects I have ever seen on the stage was Salvini, in the +last act of <i>Lear</i>, tearing the plume from Kent’s cap and +applying it to Cordelia’s lips when he came to the line,</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>This feather stirs; she lives!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Mr. Booth, whose Lear had many noble qualities of passion, plucked, +I remember, some fur from his archaeologically-incorrect ermine for +the same business; but Salvini’s was the finer effect of the two, +as well as the truer. And those who saw Mr. Irving in the last +act of <i>Richard the Third</i> have not, I am sure, forgotten how much +the agony and terror of his dream was intensified, by contrast, through +the calm and quiet that preceded it, and the delivery of such lines +as</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>What, is my beaver easier than it was?<br />And all my armour laid +into my tent?<br />Look that my staves be sound and not too heavy -</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>lines which had a double meaning for the audience, remembering the +last words which Richard’s mother called after him as he was marching +to Bosworth:-</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Therefore take with thee my most grievous curse,<br />Which in the +day of battle tire thee more<br />Than all the complete armour that +thou wear’st.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>As regards the resources which Shakespeare had at his disposal, it +is to be remarked that, while he more than once complains of the smallness +of the stage on which he has to produce big historical plays, and of +the want of scenery which obliges him to cut out many effective open-air +incidents, he always writes as a dramatist who had at his disposal a +most elaborate theatrical wardrobe, and who could rely on the actors +taking pains about their make-up. Even now it is difficult to +produce such a play as the <i>Comedy of Errors</i>; and to the picturesque +accident of Miss Ellen Terry’s brother resembling herself we owe +the opportunity of seeing <i>Twelfth Night</i> adequately performed. +Indeed, to put any play of Shakespeare’s on the stage, absolutely +as he himself wished it to be done, requires the services of a good +property-man, a clever wig-maker, a costumier with a sense of colour +and a knowledge of textures, a master of the methods of making-up, a +fencing-master, a dancing-master, and an artist to direct personally +the whole production. For he is most careful to tell us the dress +and appearance of each character. ‘Racine abhorre la réalité,’ +says Auguste Vacquerie somewhere; ‘il ne daigne pas s’occuper +de son costume. Si l’on s’en rapportait aux indications +du poète, Agamemnon serait vêtu d’un sceptre et Achille +d’une épée.’ But with Shakespeare it +is very different. He gives us directions about the costumes of +Perdita, Florizel, Autolycus, the Witches in <i>Macbeth</i>, and the +apothecary in <i>Romeo and Juliet</i>, several elaborate descriptions +of his fat knight, and a detailed account of the extraordinary garb +in which Petruchio is to be married. Rosalind, he tells us, is +tall, and is to carry a spear and a little dagger; Celia is smaller, +and is to paint her face brown so as to look sunburnt. The children +who play at fairies in Windsor Forest are to be dressed in white and +green—a compliment, by the way, to Queen Elizabeth, whose favourite +colours they were—and in white, with green garlands and gilded +vizors, the angels are to come to Katherine in Kimbolton. Bottom +is in homespun, Lysander is distinguished from Oberon by his wearing +an Athenian dress, and Launce has holes in his boots. The Duchess +of Gloucester stands in a white sheet with her husband in mourning beside +her. The motley of the Fool, the scarlet of the Cardinal, and +the French lilies broidered on the English coats, are all made occasion +for jest or taunt in the dialogue. We know the patterns on the +Dauphin’s armour and the Pucelle’s sword, the crest on Warwick’s +helmet and the colour of Bardolph’s nose. Portia has golden +hair, Phoebe is black-haired, Orlando has chestnut curls, and Sir Andrew +Aguecheek’s hair hangs like flax on a distaff, and won’t +curl at all. Some of the characters are stout, some lean, some +straight, some hunchbacked, some fair, some dark, and some are to blacken +their faces. Lear has a white beard, Hamlet’s father a grizzled, +and Benedick is to shave his in the course of the play. Indeed, +on the subject of stage beards Shakespeare is quite elaborate; tells +us of the many different colours in use, and gives a hint to actors +always to see that their own are properly tied on. There is a +dance of reapers in rye-straw hats, and of rustics in hairy coats like +satyrs; a masque of Amazons, a masque of Russians, and a classical masque; +several immortal scenes over a weaver in an ass’s head, a riot +over the colour of a coat which it takes the Lord Mayor of London to +quell, and a scene between an infuriated husband and his wife’s +milliner about the slashing of a sleeve.</p> +<p>As for the metaphors Shakespeare draws from dress, and the aphorisms +he makes on it, his hits at the costume of his age, particularly at +the ridiculous size of the ladies’ bonnets, and the many descriptions +of the <i>mundus muliebris</i>, from the long of Autolycus in the <i>Winter’s +Tale</i> down to the account of the Duchess of Milan’s gown in +<i>Much Ado About Nothing</i>, they are far too numerous to quote; though +it may be worth while to remind people that the whole of the Philosophy +of Clothes is to be found in Lear’s scene with Edgar—a passage +which has the advantage of brevity and style over the grotesque wisdom +and somewhat mouthing metaphysics of <i>Sartor Resartus</i>. But +I think that from what I have already said it is quite clear that Shakespeare +was very much interested in costume. I do not mean in that shallow +sense by which it has been concluded from his knowledge of deeds and +daffodils that he was the Blackstone and Paxton of the Elizabethan age; +but that he saw that costume could be made at once impressive of a certain +effect on the audience and expressive of certain types of character, +and is one of the essential factors of the means which a true illusionist +has at his disposal. Indeed to him the deformed figure of Richard +was of as much value as Juliet’s loveliness; he sets the serge +of the radical beside the silks of the lord, and sees the stage effects +to be got from each: he has as much delight in Caliban as he has in +Ariel, in rags as he has in cloth of gold, and recognises the artistic +beauty of ugliness.</p> +<p>The difficulty Ducis felt about translating <i>Othello</i> in consequence +of the importance given to such a vulgar thing as a handkerchief, and +his attempt to soften its grossness by making the Moor reiterate ‘Le +bandeau! le bandeau!’ may be taken as an example of the difference +between <i>la tragédie philosophique</i> and the drama of real +life; and the introduction for the first time of the word <i>mouchoir</i> +at the Théâtre Français was an era in that romantic-realistic +movement of which Hugo is the father and M. Zola the <i>enfant terrible</i>, +just as the classicism of the earlier part of the century was emphasised +by Talma’s refusal to play Greek heroes any longer in a powdered +periwig—one of the many instances, by the way, of that desire +for archaeological accuracy in dress which has distinguished the great +actors of our age.</p> +<p>In criticising the importance given to money in <i>La Comédie +Humaine</i>, Théophile Gautier says that Balzac may claim to +have invented a new hero in fiction, <i>le héros métallique</i>. +Of Shakespeare it may be said he was the first to see the dramatic value +of doublets, and that a climax may depend on a crinoline.</p> +<p>The burning of the Globe Theatre—an event due, by the way, +to the results of the passion for illusion that distinguished Shakespeare’s +stage-management—has unfortunately robbed us of many important +documents; but in the inventory, still in existence, of the costume-wardrobe +of a London theatre in Shakespeare’s time, there are mentioned +particular costumes for cardinals, shepherds, kings, clowns, friars, +and fools; green coats for Robin Hood’s men, and a green gown +for Maid Marian; a white and gold doublet for Henry the Fifth, and a +robe for Longshanks; besides surplices, copes, damask gowns, gowns of +cloth of gold and of cloth of silver, taffeta gowns, calico gowns, velvet +coats, satin coats, frieze coats, jerkins of yellow leather and of black +leather, red suits, grey suits, French Pierrot suits, a robe ‘for +to goo invisibell,’ which seems inexpensive at £3, 10s., +and four incomparable fardingales—all of which show a desire to +give every character an appropriate dress. There are also entries +of Spanish, Moorish and Danish costumes, of helmets, lances, painted +shields, imperial crowns, and papal tiaras, as well as of costumes for +Turkish Janissaries, Roman Senators, and all the gods and goddesses +of Olympus, which evidence a good deal of archaeological research on +the part of the manager of the theatre. It is true that there +is a mention of a bodice for Eve, but probably the <i>donnée</i> +of the play was after the Fall.</p> +<p>Indeed, anybody who cares to examine the age of Shakespeare will +see that archaeology was one of its special characteristics. After +that revival of the classical forms of architecture which was one of +the notes of the Renaissance, and the printing at Venice and elsewhere +of the masterpieces of Greek and Latin literature, had come naturally +an interest in the ornamentation and costume of the antique world. +Nor was it for the learning that they could acquire, but rather for +the loveliness that they might create, that the artists studied these +things. The curious objects that were being constantly brought +to light by excavations were not left to moulder in a museum, for the +contemplation of a callous curator, and the <i>ennui</i> of a policeman +bored by the absence of crime. They were used as motives for the +production of a new art, which was to be not beautiful merely, but also +strange.</p> +<p>Infessura tells us that in 1485 some workmen digging on the Appian +Way came across an old Roman sarcophagus inscribed with the name ‘Julia, +daughter of Claudius.’ On opening the coffer they found +within its marble womb the body of a beautiful girl of about fifteen +years of age, preserved by the embalmer’s skill from corruption +and the decay of time. Her eyes were half open, her hair rippled +round her in crisp curling gold, and from her lips and cheek the bloom +of maidenhood had not yet departed. Borne back to the Capitol, +she became at once the centre of a new cult, and from all parts of the +city crowded pilgrims to worship at the wonderful shrine, till the Pope, +fearing lest those who had found the secret of beauty in a Pagan tomb +might forget what secrets Judaea’s rough and rock-hewn sepulchre +contained, had the body conveyed away by night, and in secret buried. +Legend though it may be, yet the story is none the less valuable as +showing us the attitude of the Renaissance towards the antique world. +Archaeology to them was not a mere science for the antiquarian; it was +a means by which they could touch the dry dust of antiquity into the +very breath and beauty of life, and fill with the new wine of romanticism +forms that else had been old and outworn. From the pulpit of Niccola +Pisano down to Mantegna’s ‘Triumph of Caesar,’ and +the service Cellini designed for King Francis, the influence of this +spirit can be traced; nor was it confined merely to the immobile arts—the +arts of arrested movement—but its influence was to be seen also +in the great Graeco-Roman masques which were the constant amusement +of the gay courts of the time, and in the public pomps and processions +with which the citizens of big commercial towns were wont to greet the +princes that chanced to visit them; pageants, by the way, which were +considered so important that large prints were made of them and published—a +fact which is a proof of the general interest at the time in matters +of such kind.</p> +<p>And this use of archaeology in shows, so far from being a bit of +priggish pedantry, is in every way legitimate and beautiful. For +the stage is not merely the meeting-place of all the arts, but is also +the return of art to life. Sometimes in an archaeological novel +the use of strange and obsolete terms seems to hide the reality beneath +the learning, and I dare say that many of the readers of <i>Notre Dame +de Paris</i> have been much puzzled over the meaning of such expressions +as <i>la casaque à mahoitres</i>, <i>les voulgiers</i>, <i>le</i> +<i>gallimard taché d’encre</i>, <i>les craaquiniers</i>, +and the like; but with the stage how different it is! The ancient +world wakes from its sleep, and history moves as a pageant before our +eyes, without obliging us to have recourse to a dictionary or an encyclopaedia +for the perfection of our enjoyment. Indeed, there is not the +slightest necessity that the public should know the authorities for +the mounting of any piece. From such materials, for instance, +as the disk of Theodosius, materials with which the majority of people +are probably not very familiar, Mr. E. W. Godwin, one of the most artistic +spirits of this century in England, created the marvellous loveliness +of the first act of <i>Claudian</i>, and showed us the life of Byzantium +in the fourth century, not by a dreary lecture and a set of grimy casts, +not by a novel which requires a glossary to explain it, but by the visible +presentation before us of all the glory of that great town. And +while the costumes were true to the smallest points of colour and design, +yet the details were not assigned that abnormal importance which they +must necessarily be given in a piecemeal lecture, but were subordinated +to the rules of lofty composition and the unity of artistic effect. +Mr. Symonds, speaking of that great picture of Mantegna’s, now +in Hampton Court, says that the artist has converted an antiquarian +motive into a theme for melodies of line. The same could have +been said with equal justice of Mr. Godwin’s scene. Only +the foolish called it pedantry, only those who would neither look nor +listen spoke of the passion of the play being killed by its paint. +It was in reality a scene not merely perfect in its picturesqueness, +but absolutely dramatic also, getting rid of any necessity for tedious +descriptions, and showing us, by the colour and character of Claudian’s +dress, and the dress of his attendants, the whole nature and life of +the man, from what school of philosophy he affected, down to what horses +he backed on the turf.</p> +<p>And indeed archaeology is only really delightful when transfused +into some form of art. I have no desire to underrate the services +of laborious scholars, but I feel that the use Keats made of Lemprière’s +Dictionary is of far more value to us than Professor Max Müller’s +treatment of the same mythology as a disease of language. Better +<i>Endymion</i> than any theory, however sound, or, as in the present +instance, unsound, of an epidemic among adjectives! And who does +not feel that the chief glory of Piranesi’s book on Vases is that +it gave Keats the suggestion for his ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn’? +Art, and art only, can make archaeology beautiful; and the theatric +art can use it most directly and most vividly, for it can combine in +one exquisite presentation the illusion of actual life with the wonder +of the unreal world. But the sixteenth century was not merely +the age of Vitruvius; it was the age of Vecellio also. Every nation +seems suddenly to have become interested in the dress of its neighbours. +Europe began to investigate its own clothes, and the amount of books +published on national costumes is quite extraordinary. At the +beginning of the century the <i>Nuremberg Chronicle</i>, with its two +thousand illustrations, reached its fifth edition, and before the century +was over seventeen editions were published of Munster’s <i>Cosmography</i>. +Besides these two books there were also the works of Michael Colyns, +of Hans Weigel, of Amman, and of Vecellio himself, all of them well +illustrated, some of the drawings in Vecellio being probably from the +hand of Titian.</p> +<p>Nor was it merely from books and treatises that they acquired their +knowledge. The development of the habit of foreign travel, the +increased commercial intercourse between countries, and the frequency +of diplomatic missions, gave every nation many opportunities of studying +the various forms of contemporary dress. After the departure from +England, for instance, of the ambassadors from the Czar, the Sultan +and the Prince of Morocco, Henry the Eighth and his friends gave several +masques in the strange attire of their visitors. Later on London +saw, perhaps too often, the sombre splendour of the Spanish Court, and +to Elizabeth came envoys from all lands, whose dress, Shakespeare tells +us, had an important influence on English costume.</p> +<p>And the interest was not confined merely to classical dress, or the +dress of foreign nations; there was also a good deal of research, amongst +theatrical people especially, into the ancient costume of England itself: +and when Shakespeare, in the prologue to one of his plays, expresses +his regret at being unable to produce helmets of the period, he is speaking +as an Elizabethan manager and not merely as an Elizabethan poet. +At Cambridge, for instance, during his day, a play of <i>Richard The +Third</i> was performed, in which the actors were attired in real dresses +of the time, procured from the great collection of historical costume +in the Tower, which was always open to the inspection of managers, and +sometimes placed at their disposal. And I cannot help thinking +that this performance must have been far more artistic, as regards costume, +than Garrick’s mounting of Shakespeare’s own play on the +subject, in which he himself appeared in a nondescript fancy dress, +and everybody else in the costume of the time of George the Third, Richmond +especially being much admired in the uniform of a young guardsman.</p> +<p>For what is the use to the stage of that archaeology which has so +strangely terrified the critics, but that it, and it alone, can give +us the architecture and apparel suitable to the time in which the action +of the play passes? It enables us to see a Greek dressed like +a Greek, and an Italian like an Italian; to enjoy the arcades of Venice +and the balconies of Verona; and, if the play deals with any of the +great eras in our country’s history, to contemplate the age in +its proper attire, and the king in his habit as he lived. And +I wonder, by the way, what Lord Lytton would have said some time ago, +at the Princess’s Theatre, had the curtain risen on his father’s +Brutus reclining in a Queen Anne chair, attired in a flowing wig and +a flowered dressing-gown, a costume which in the last century was considered +peculiarly appropriate to an antique Roman! For in those halcyon +days of the drama no archaeology troubled the stage, or distressed the +critics, and our inartistic grandfathers sat peaceably in a stifling +atmosphere of anachronisms, and beheld with the calm complacency of +the age of prose an Iachimo in powder and patches, a Lear in lace ruffles, +and a Lady Macbeth in a large crinoline. I can understand archaeology +being attacked on the ground of its excessive realism, but to attack +it as pedantic seems to be very much beside the mark. However, +to attack it for any reason is foolish; one might just as well speak +disrespectfully of the equator. For archaeology, being a science, +is neither good nor bad, but a fact simply. Its value depends +entirely on how it is used, and only an artist can use it. We +look to the archaeologist for the materials, to the artist for the method.</p> +<p>In designing the scenery and costumes for any of Shakespeare’s +plays, the first thing the artist has to settle is the best date for +the drama. This should be determined by the general spirit of +the play, more than by any actual historical references which may occur +in it. Most <i>Hamlets</i> I have seen were placed far too early. +<i>Hamlet</i> is essentially a scholar of the Revival of Learning; and +if the allusion to the recent invasion of England by the Danes puts +it back to the ninth century, the use of foils brings it down much later. +Once, however, that the date has been fixed, then the archaeologist +is to supply us with the facts which the artist is to convert into effects.</p> +<p>It has been said that the anachronisms in the plays themselves show +us that Shakespeare was indifferent to historical accuracy, and a great +deal of capital has been made out of Hector’s indiscreet quotation +from Aristotle. Upon the other hand, the anachronisms are really +few in number, and not very important, and, had Shakespeare’s +attention been drawn to them by a brother artist, he would probably +have corrected them. For, though they can hardly be called blemishes, +they are certainly not the great beauties of his work; or, at least, +if they are, their anachronistic charm cannot be emphasised unless the +play is accurately mounted according to its proper date. In looking +at Shakespeare’s plays as a whole, however, what is really remarkable +is their extraordinary fidelity as regards his personages and his plots. +Many of his <i>dramatis personae</i> are people who had actually existed, +and some of them might have been seen in real life by a portion of his +audience. Indeed the most violent attack that was made on Shakespeare +in his time was for his supposed caricature of Lord Cobham. As +for his plots, Shakespeare constantly draws them either from authentic +history, or from the old ballads and traditions which served as history +to the Elizabethan public, and which even now no scientific historian +would dismiss as absolutely untrue. And not merely did he select +fact instead of fancy as the basis of much of his imaginative work, +but he always gives to each play the general character, the social atmosphere +in a word, of the age in question. Stupidity he recognises as +being one of the permanent characteristics of all European civilisations; +so he sees no difference between a London mob of his own day and a Roman +mob of pagan days, between a silly watchman in Messina and a silly Justice +of the Peace in Windsor. But when he deals with higher characters, +with those exceptions of each age which are so fine that they become +its types, he gives them absolutely the stamp and seal of their time. +Virgilia is one of those Roman wives on whose tomb was written ‘Domi +mansit, lanam fecit,’ as surely as Juliet is the romantic girl +of the Renaissance. He is even true to the characteristics of +race. Hamlet has all the imagination and irresolution of the Northern +nations, and the Princess Katharine is as entirely French as the heroine +of <i>Divorçons</i>. Harry the Fifth is a pure Englishman, +and Othello a true Moor.</p> +<p>Again when Shakespeare treats of the history of England from the +fourteenth to the sixteenth centuries, it is wonderful how careful he +is to have his facts perfectly right—indeed he follows Holinshed +with curious fidelity. The incessant wars between France and England +are described with extraordinary accuracy down to the names of the besieged +towns, the ports of landing and embarkation, the sites and dates of +the battles, the titles of the commanders on each side, and the lists +of the killed and wounded. And as regards the Civil Wars of the +Roses we have many elaborate genealogies of the seven sons of Edward +the Third; the claims of the rival Houses of York and Lancaster to the +throne are discussed at length; and if the English aristocracy will +not read Shakespeare as a poet, they should certainly read him as a +sort of early Peerage. There is hardly a single title in the Upper +House, with the exception of course of the uninteresting titles assumed +by the law lords, which does not appear in Shakespeare along with many +details of family history, creditable and discreditable. Indeed +if it be really necessary that the School Board children should know +all about the Wars of the Roses, they could learn their lessons just +as well out of Shakespeare as out of shilling primers, and learn them, +I need not say, far more pleasurably. Even in Shakespeare’s +own day this use of his plays was recognised. ‘The historical +plays teach history to those who cannot read it in the chronicles,’ +says Heywood in a tract about the stage, and yet I am sure that sixteenth-century +chronicles were much more delightful reading than nineteenth-century +primers are.</p> +<p>Of course the aesthetic value of Shakespeare’s plays does not, +in the slightest degree, depend on their facts, but on their Truth, +and Truth is independent of facts always, inventing or selecting them +at pleasure. But still Shakespeare’s use of facts is a most +interesting part of his method of work, and shows us his attitude towards +the stage, and his relations to the great art of illusion. Indeed +he would have been very much surprised at any one classing his plays +with ‘fairy tales,’ as Lord Lytton does; for one of his +aims was to create for England a national historical drama, which should +deal with incidents with which the public was well acquainted, and with +heroes that lived in the memory of a people. Patriotism, I need +hardly say, is not a necessary quality of art; but it means, for the +artist, the substitution of a universal for an individual feeling, and +for the public the presentation of a work of art in a most attractive +and popular form. It is worth noticing that Shakespeare’s +first and last successes were both historical plays.</p> +<p>It may be asked, what has this to do with Shakespeare’s attitude +towards costume? I answer that a dramatist who laid such stress +on historical accuracy of fact would have welcomed historical accuracy +of costume as a most important adjunct to his illusionist method. +And I have no hesitation in saying that he did so. The reference +to helmets of the period in the prologue to <i>Henry the Fifth</i> may +be considered fanciful, though Shakespeare must have often seen</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>The very casque<br />That did affright the air at Agincourt,</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>where it still hangs in the dusky gloom of Westminster Abbey, along +with the saddle of that ‘imp of fame,’ and the dinted shield +with its torn blue velvet lining and its tarnished lilies of gold; but +the use of military tabards in <i>Henry</i> <i>the Sixth</i> is a bit +of pure archaeology, as they were not worn in the sixteenth century; +and the King’s own tabard, I may mention, was still suspended +over his tomb in St. George’s Chapel, Windsor, in Shakespeare’s +day. For, up to the time of the unfortunate triumph of the Philistines +in 1645, the chapels and cathedrals of England were the great national +museums of archaeology, and in them were kept the armour and attire +of the heroes of English history. A good deal was of course preserved +in the Tower, and even in Elizabeth’s day tourists were brought +there to see such curious relics of the past as Charles Brandon’s +huge lance, which is still, I believe, the admiration of our country +visitors; but the cathedrals and churches were, as a rule, selected +as the most suitable shrines for the reception of the historic antiquities. +Canterbury can still show us the helm of the Black Prince, Westminster +the robes of our kings, and in old St. Paul’s the very banner +that had waved on Bosworth field was hung up by Richmond himself.</p> +<p>In fact, everywhere that Shakespeare turned in London, he saw the +apparel and appurtenances of past ages, and it is impossible to doubt +that he made use of his opportunities. The employment of lance +and shield, for instance, in actual warfare, which is so frequent in +his plays, is drawn from archaeology, and not from the military accoutrements +of his day; and his general use of armour in battle was not a characteristic +of his age, a time when it was rapidly disappearing before firearms. +Again, the crest on Warwick’s helmet, of which such a point is +made in <i>Henry the Sixth</i>, is absolutely correct in a fifteenth-century +play when crests were generally worn, but would not have been so in +a play of Shakespeare’s own time, when feathers and plumes had +taken their place—a fashion which, as he tells us in <i>Henry +the Eighth</i>, was borrowed from France. For the historical plays, +then, we may be sure that archaeology was employed, and as for the others +I feel certain that it was the case also. The appearance of Jupiter +on his eagle, thunderbolt in hand, of Juno with her peacocks, and of +Iris with her many-coloured bow; the Amazon masque and the masque of +the Five Worthies, may all be regarded as archaeological; and the vision +which Posthumus sees in prison of Sicilius Leonatus—‘an +old man, attired like a warrior, leading an ancient matron’—is +clearly so. Of the ‘Athenian dress’ by which Lysander +is distinguished from Oberon I have already spoken; but one of the most +marked instances is in the case of the dress of Coriolanus, for which +Shakespeare goes directly to Plutarch. That historian, in his +Life of the great Roman, tells us of the oak-wreath with which Caius +Marcius was crowned, and of the curious kind of dress in which, according +to ancient fashion, he had to canvass his electors; and on both of these +points he enters into long disquisitions, investigating the origin and +meaning of the old customs. Shakespeare, in the spirit of the +true artist, accepts the facts of the antiquarian and converts them +into dramatic and picturesque effects: indeed the gown of humility, +the ‘woolvish gown,’ as Shakespeare calls it, is the central +note of the play. There are other cases I might quote, but this +one is quite sufficient for my purpose; and it is evident from it at +any rate that, in mounting a play in the accurate costume of the time, +according to the best authorities, we are carrying out Shakespeare’s +own wishes and method.</p> +<p>Even if it were not so, there is no more reason that we should continue +any imperfections which may be supposed to have characterised Shakespeare’s +stage mounting than that we should have Juliet played by a young man, +or give up the advantage of changeable scenery. A great work of +dramatic art should not merely be made expressive of modern passion +by means of the actor, but should be presented to us in the form most +suitable to the modern spirit. Racine produced his Roman plays +in Louis Quatorze dress on a stage crowded with spectators; but we require +different conditions for the enjoyment of his art. Perfect accuracy +of detail, for the sake of perfect illusion, is necessary for us. +What we have to see is that the details are not allowed to usurp the +principal place. They must be subordinate always to the general +motive of the play. But subordination in art does not mean disregard +of truth; it means conversion of fact into effect, and assigning to +each detail its proper relative value</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>‘Les petits détails d’histoire et de vie domestique +(says Hugo) doivent être scrupuleusement étudiés +et reproduits par le poète, mais uniquement comme des moyens +d’accroître la réalité de l’ensemble, +et de faire pénétrer jusque dans les coins les plus obscurs +de l’oeuvre cette vie générale et puissante au milieu +de laquelle les personnages sont plus vrais, et les catastrophes, par +conséqueut, plus poignantes. Tout doit être subordonné +à ce but. L’Homme sur le premier plan, le reste au +fond.’</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>This passage is interesting as coming from the first great French +dramatist who employed archaeology on the stage, and whose plays, though +absolutely correct in detail, are known to all for their passion, not +for their pedantry—for their life, not for their learning. +It is true that he has made certain concessions in the case of the employment +of curious or strange expressions. Ruy Blas talks of M, de Priego +as ‘sujet du roi’ instead of ‘noble du roi,’ +and Angelo Malipieri speaks of ‘la croix rouge’ instead +of ‘la croix de gueules.’ But they are concessions +made to the public, or rather to a section of it. ‘J’en +offre ici toute mes excuses aux spectateurs intelligents,’ he +says in a note to one of the plays; ‘espérons qu’un +jour un seigneur vénitien pourra dire tout bonnement sans péril +son blason sur le théâtre. C’est un progrès +qui viendra.’ And, though the description of the crest is +not couched in accurate language, still the crest itself was accurately +right. It may, of course, be said that the public do not notice +these things; upon the other hand, it should be remembered that Art +has no other aim but her own perfection, and proceeds simply by her +own laws, and that the play which Hamlet describes as being caviare +to the general is a play he highly praises. Besides, in England, +at any rate, the public have undergone a transformation; there is far +more appreciation of beauty now than there was a few years ago; and +though they may not be familiar with the authorities and archaeological +data for what is shown to them, still they enjoy whatever loveliness +they look at. And this is the important thing. Better to +take pleasure in a rose than to put its root under a microscope. +Archaeological accuracy is merely a condition of illusionist stage effect; +it is not its quality. And Lord Lytton’s proposal that the +dresses should merely be beautiful without being accurate is founded +on a misapprehension of the nature of costume, and of its value on the +stage. This value is twofold, picturesque and dramatic; the former +depends on the colour of the dress, the latter on its design and character. +But so interwoven are the two that, whenever in our own day historical +accuracy has been disregarded, and the various dresses in a play taken +from different ages, the result has been that the stage has been turned +into that chaos of costume, that caricature of the centuries, the Fancy +Dress Ball, to the entire ruin of all dramatic and picturesque effect. +For the dresses of one age do not artistically harmonise with the dresses +of another: and, as far as dramatic value goes, to confuse the costumes +is to confuse the play. Costume is a growth, an evolution, and +a most important, perhaps the most important, sign of the manners, customs +and mode of life of each century. The Puritan dislike of colour, +adornment and grace in apparel was part of the great revolt of the middle +classes against Beauty in the seventeenth century. A historian +who disregarded it would give us a most inaccurate picture of the time, +and a dramatist who did not avail himself of it would miss a most vital +element in producing an illusionist effect. The effeminacy of +dress that characterised the reign of Richard the Second was a constant +theme of contemporary authors. Shakespeare, writing two hundred +years after, makes the king’s fondness for gay apparel and foreign +fashions a point in the play, from John of Gaunt’s reproaches +down to Richard’s own speech in the third act on his deposition +from the throne. And that Shakespeare examined Richard’s +tomb in Westminster Abbey seems to me certain from York’s speech:-</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>See, see, King Richard doth himself appear<br />As doth the blushing +discontented sun<br />From out the fiery portal of the east,<br />When +he perceives the envious clouds are bent<br />To dim his glory.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>For we can still discern on the King’s robe his favourite badge—the +sun issuing from a cloud. In fact, in every age the social conditions +are so exemplified in costume, that to produce a sixteenth-century play +in fourteenth-century attire, or <i>vice versa</i>, would make the performance +seem unreal because untrue. And, valuable as beauty of effect +on the stage is, the highest beauty is not merely comparable with absolute +accuracy of detail, but really dependent on it. To invent, an +entirely new costume is almost impossible except in burlesque or extravaganza, +and as for combining the dress of different centuries into one, the +experiment would be dangerous, and Shakespeare’s opinion of the +artistic value of such a medley may be gathered from his incessant satire +of the Elizabethan dandies for imagining that they were well dressed +because they got their doublets in Italy, their hats in Germany, and +their hose in France. And it should be noted that the most lovely +scenes that have been produced on our stage have been those that have +been characterised by perfect accuracy, such as Mr. and Mrs. Bancroft’s +eighteenth-century revivals at the Haymarket, Mr. Irying’s superb +production of <i>Much Ado About Nothing</i>, and Mr, Barrett’s +<i>Claudian</i>. Besides, and this is perhaps the most complete +answer to Lord Lytton’s theory, it must be remembered that neither +in costume nor in dialogue is beauty the dramatist’s primary aim +at all. The true dramatist aims first at what is characteristic, +and no more desires that all his personages should be beautifully attired +than he desires that they should all have beautiful natures or speak +beautiful English. The true dramatist, in fact, shows us life +under the conditions of art, not art in the form of life. The +Greek dress was the loveliest dress the world has ever seen, and the +English dress of the last century one of the most monstrous; yet we +cannot costume a play by Sheridan as we would costume a play by Sophokles. +For, as Polonius says in his excellent lecture, a lecture to which I +am glad to have the opportunity of expressing my obligations, one of +the first qualities of apparel is its expressiveness. And the +affected style of dress in the last century was the natural characteristic +of a society of affected manners and affected conversation—a characteristic +which the realistic dramatist will highly value down to the smallest +detail of accuracy, and the materials for which he can get only from +archaeology.</p> +<p>But it is not enough that a dress should be accurate; it must be +also appropriate to the stature and appearance of the actor, and to +his supposed condition, as well as to his necessary action in the play. +In Mr. Hare’s production <i>of As You Like It</i> at the St. James’s +Theatre, for instance, the whole point of Orlando’s complaint +that he is brought up like a peasant, and not like a gentleman, was +spoiled by the gorgeousness of his dress, and the splendid apparel worn +by the banished Duke and his friends was quite out of place. Mr. +Lewis Wingfield’s explanation that the sumptuary laws of the period +necessitated their doing so, is, I am afraid, hardly sufficient. +Outlaws, lurking in a forest and living by the chase, are not very likely +to care much about ordinances of dress. They were probably attired +like Robin Hood’s men, to whom, indeed, they are compared in the +course of the play. And that their dress was not that of wealthy +noblemen may be seen by Orlando’s words when he breaks in upon +them. He mistakes them for robbers, and is amazed to find that +they answer him in courteous and gentle terms. Lady Archibald +Campbell’s production, under Mr. E. W. Godwin’s direction, +of the same play in Coombe Wood was, as regards mounting, far more artistic. +At least it seemed so to me. The Duke and his companions were +dressed in serge tunics, leathern jerkins, high boots and gauntlets, +and wore bycocket hats and hoods. And as they were playing in +a real forest, they found, I am sure, their dresses extremely convenient. +To every character in the play was given a perfectly appropriate attire, +and the brown and green of their costumes harmonised exquisitely with +the ferns through which they wandered, the trees beneath which they +lay, and the lovely English landscape that surrounded the Pastoral Players. +The perfect naturalness of the scene was due to the absolute accuracy +and appropriateness of everything that was worn. Nor could archaeology +have been put to a severer test, or come out of it more triumphantly. +The whole production showed once for all that, unless a dress is archaeologically +correct, and artistically appropriate, it always looks unreal, unnatural, +and theatrical in the sense of artificial.</p> +<p>Nor, again, is it enough that there should be accurate and appropriate +costumes of beautiful colours; there must be also beauty of colour on +the stage as a whole, and as long as the background is painted by one +artist, and the foreground figures independently designed by another, +there is the danger of a want of harmony in the scene as a picture. +For each scene the colour-scheme should be settled as absolutely as +for the decoration of a room, and the textures which it is proposed +to use should be mixed and re-mixed in every possible combination, and +what is discordant removed. Then, as regards the particular kinds +of colours, the stage is often too glaring, partly through the excessive +use of hot, violent reds, and partly through the costumes looking too +new. Shabbiness, which in modern life is merely the tendency of +the lower orders towards tone, is not without its artistic value, and +modern colours are often much improved by being a little faded. +Blue also is too frequently used: it is not merely a dangerous colour +to wear by gaslight, but it is really difficult in England to get a +thoroughly good blue. The fine Chinese blue, which we all so much +admire, takes two years to dye, and the English public will not wait +so long for a colour. Peacock blue, of course, has been employed +on the stage, notably at the Lyceum, with great advantage; but all attempts +at a good light blue, or good dark blue, which I have seen have been +failures. The value of black is hardly appreciated; it was used +effectively by Mr. Irving in <i>Hamlet</i> as the central note of a +composition, but as a tone-giving neutral its importance is not recognised. +And this is curious, considering the general colour of the dress of +a century in which, as Baudelaire says, ‘Nous célébrons +tous quelque enterrement.’ The archaeologist of the future +will probably point to this age as the time when the beauty of black +was understood; but I hardly think that, as regards stage-mounting or +house decoration, it really is. Its decorative value is, of course, +the same as that of white or gold; it can separate and harmonise colours. +In modern plays the black frock-coat of the hero becomes important in +itself, and should be given a suitable background. But it rarely +is. Indeed the only good background for a play in modern dress +which I have ever seen was the dark grey and cream-white scene of the +first act of the <i>Princesse Georges</i> in Mrs. Langtry’s production. +As a rule, the hero is smothered in <i>bric-à-brac</i> and palm-trees, +lost in the gilded abyss of Louis Quatorze furniture, or reduced to +a mere midge in the midst of marqueterie; whereas the background should +always be kept as a background, and colour subordinated to effect. +This, of course, can only be done when there is one single mind directing +the whole production. The facts of art are diverse, but the essence +of artistic effect is unity. Monarchy, Anarchy, and Republicanism +may contend for the government of nations; but a theatre should be in +the power of a cultured despot. There may be division of labour, +but there must be no division of mind. Whoever understands the +costume of an age understands of necessity its architecture and its +surroundings also, and it is easy to see from the chairs of a century +whether it was a century of crinolines or not. In fact, in art +there is no specialism, and a really artistic production should bear +the impress of one master, and one master only, who not merely should +design and arrange everything, but should have complete control over +the way in which each dress is to be worn.</p> +<p>Mademoiselle Mars, in the first production of <i>Hernani</i>, absolutely +refused to call her lover ‘<i>Mon Lion</i>!’ unless she +was allowed to wear a little fashionable <i>toque</i> then much in vogue +on the Boulevards; and many young ladies on our own stage insist to +the present day on wearing stiff starched petticoats under Greek dresses, +to the entire ruin of all delicacy of line and fold; but these wicked +things should not be allowed. And there should be far more dress +rehearsals than there are now. Actors such as Mr. Forbes-Robertson, +Mr. Conway, Mr. George Alexander, and others, not to mention older artists, +can move with ease and elegance in the attire of any century; but there +are not a few who seem dreadfully embarrassed about their hands if they +have no side pockets, and who always wear their dresses as if they were +costumes. Costumes, of course, they are to the designer; but dresses +they should be to those that wear them. And it is time that a +stop should be put to the idea, very prevalent on the stage, that the +Greeks and Romans always went about bareheaded in the open air—a +mistake the Elizabethan managers did not fall into, for they gave hoods +as well as gowns to their Roman senators.</p> +<p>More dress rehearsals would also be of value in explaining to the +actors that there is a form of gesture and movement that is not merely +appropriate to each style of dress, but really conditioned by it. +The extravagant use of the arms in the eighteenth century, for instance, +was the necessary result of the large hoop, and the solemn dignity of +Burleigh owed as much to his ruff as to his reason. Besides until +an actor is at home in his dress, he is not at home in his part.</p> +<p>Of the value of beautiful costume in creating an artistic temperament +in the audience, and producing that joy in beauty for beauty’s +sake without which the great masterpieces of art can never be understood, +I will not here speak; though it is worth while to notice how Shakespeare +appreciated that side of the question in the production of his tragedies, +acting them always by artificial light, and in a theatre hung with black; +but what I have tried to point out is that archaeology is not a pedantic +method, but a method of artistic illusion, and that costume is a means +of displaying character without description, and of producing dramatic +situations and dramatic effects. And I think it is a pity that +so many critics should have set themselves to attack one of the most +important movements on the modern stage before that movement has at +all reached its proper perfection. That it will do so, however, +I feel as certain as that we shall require from our dramatic critics +in the future higher qualification than that they can remember Macready +or have seen Benjamin Webster; we shall require of them, indeed, that +they cultivate a sense of beauty. <i>Pour être plus difficile</i>, +<i>la tâche n’en est que plus glorieuse</i>. And if +they will not encourage, at least they must not oppose, a movement of +which Shakespeare of all dramatists would have most approved, for it +has the illusion of truth for its method, and the illusion of beauty +for its result. Not that I agree with everything that I have said +in this essay. There is much with which I entirely disagree. +The essay simply represents an artistic standpoint, and in aesthetic +criticism attitude is everything. For in art there is no such +thing as a universal truth. A Truth in art is that whose contradictory +is also true. And just as it is only in art-criticism, and through +it, that we can apprehend the Platonic theory of ideas, so it is only +in art-criticism, and through it, that we can realise Hegel’s +system of contraries. The truths of metaphysics are the truths +of masks.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<p>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, INTENTIONS ***</p> +<pre> + +******This file should be named ntntn10h.htm or ntntn10h.zip****** +Corrected EDITIONS of our EBooks get a new NUMBER, ntntn11h.htm +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, ntntn10ah.htm + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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