the critic as artist-第3章

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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。　　＇Greek　text　which　cannot　be　reproduced＇　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。

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。

ERNEST。　　But　what　is　the　difference　between　literature　and　journalism？

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。

ERNEST。　　Really？

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　Dvorek。　　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？

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？

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。

ERNEST。　　But　what　are　the　two　supreme　and　highest　arts？

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　les