selected prose of oscar wilde-第5节

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！



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。The

Critic　as　Artist







THE　TWO　SUPREME　AND　HIGHEST　ARTS







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。The　Critic　as

Artist







THE　SECRETS　OF　IMMORTALITY







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；　＇Greek　text　which　cannot

be　reproduced＇；　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。…

…The　Critic　as　Artist







THE　CRITIC　AND　HIS　MATERIAL







Who　cares　whether　Mr。　Ruskin's　views　on　Turner　are　sound　or　not？

What　does　it　matter？　　That　mighty　and