the critic as artist-第11节

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　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。

ERNEST。　　Must　we　go；　then；　to　Art　for　everything？

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？

ERNEST。　　Stop　a　moment。　　It　seems　to　me　that　in　everything　that　you　have　said　there　is　something　radically　immoral。

GILBERT。　　All　art　is　immoral。

ERNEST。　　All　art？

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。

ERNEST。　　Contemplation？

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。

ERNEST。　　We　exist；　then；　to　do　nothing？

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　CITTE　DIVINA　is　colourless；　and　the　FRUITIO　DEI　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　Bohme；　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。

ERNEST。　　What　then　do　you　propose？

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。

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　t