selected prose of oscar wilde-第4节

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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。The　Decay　of

Lying







THOMAS　GRIFFITHS　WAINEWRIGHT







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　circonstance　attenuante。　　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。



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。'



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。



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。'Pen；　Pencil　and　Poison







WAINEWRIGHT　AT　HOBART　TOWN







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　Paradis　Artificiels　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。



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　Life　of　Dickens；　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。Pen；　Pencil　and

Poison







CARDINAL　NEWMAN　AND　THE　AUTOBIOGRAPHIERS







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　Sevigne。　　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　representedif　that　can　be

called　a　mode　of　thought　which　seeks　to　solve　intellectual　problems

by　a　denial　of　the　supremacy　of　the　intellectmay　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　daysa　prophecy　that　Faith；　in　her　wisdom　or

her　folly；　suffered　not　to　be　fulfilled。　　Yes；　autobiography　is

irresistible。The　Critic　as　Artist







ROBERT　BROWNING







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　metric