the critic as artist-第2章

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bout　it？　　If　a　man's　work　is　easy　to　understand；　an　explanation　is　unnecessary。　。　。　。

GILBERT。　　And　if　his　work　is　incomprehensible；　an　explanation　is　wicked。

ERNEST。　　I　did　not　say　that。

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。

ERNEST。　　There　is　something　in　what　you　say；　but　there　is　not　everything　in　what　you　say。　　In　many　points　you　are　unjust。

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？

ERNEST。　　Simply　this：　　that　in　the　best　days　of　art　there　were　no　art…critics。

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。

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；　＇Greek　text　which　cannot　be　reproduced＇；　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　AGNUS　CASTUS；　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。

All　subtle　arts　belonged　to　him　also。　　He　held　the　gem　against　the　revolving　disk；　and　the　amet