essays and lectures-第19节

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less　likely　to　forget　form　in　feeling　or　to　accept　the　passion　of

creation　as　any　substitute　for　the　beauty　of　the　created　thing。



The　artist　is　indeed　the　child　of　his　own　age；　but　the　present　will

not　be　to　him　a　whit　more　real　than　the　past；　for；　like　the

philosopher　of　the　Platonic　vision；　the　poet　is　the　spectator　of

all　time　and　of　all　existence。　　For　him　no　form　is　obsolete；　no

subject　out　of　date；　rather；　whatever　of　life　and　passion　the　world

has　known；　in　desert　of　Judaea　or　in　Arcadian　valley；　by　the　rivers

of　Troy　or　the　rivers　of　Damascus；　in　the　crowded　and　hideous

streets　of　a　modern　city　or　by　the　pleasant　ways　of　Camelot　…　all

lies　before　him　like　an　open　scroll；　all　is　still　instinct　with

beautiful　life。　　He　will　take　of　it　what　is　salutary　for　his　own

spirit；　no　more；　choosing　some　facts　and　rejecting　others　with　the

calm　artistic　control　of　one　who　is　in　possession　of　the　secret　of

beauty。



There　is　indeed　a　poetical　attitude　to　be　adopted　towards　all

things；　but　all　things　are　not　fit　subjects　for　poetry。　　Into　the

secure　and　sacred　house　of　Beauty　the　true　artist　will　admit

nothing　that　is　harsh　or　disturbing；　nothing　that　gives　pain；

nothing　that　is　debatable；　nothing　about　which　men　argue。　　He　can

steep　himself；　if　he　wishes；　in　the　discussion　of　all　the　social

problems　of　his　day；　poor…laws　and　local　taxation；　free　trade　and

bimetallic　currency；　and　the　like；　but　when　he　writes　on　these

subjects　it　will　be；　as　Milton　nobly　expressed　it；　with　his　left

hand；　in　prose　and　not　in　verse；　in　a　pamphlet　and　not　in　a　lyric。

This　exquisite　spirit　of　artistic　choice　was　not　in　Byron：

Wordsworth　had　it　not。　　In　the　work　of　both　these　men　there　is　much

that　we　have　to　reject；　much　that　does　not　give　us　that　sense　of

calm　and　perfect　repose　which　should　be　the　effect　of　all　fine；

imaginative　work。　　But　in　Keats　it　seemed　to　have　been　incarnate；

and　in　his　lovely　ODE　ON　A　GRECIAN　URN　it　found　its　most　secure　and

faultless　expression；　in　the　pageant　of　the　EARTHLY　PARADISE　and

the　knights　and　ladies　of　Burne…Jones　it　is　the　one　dominant　note。



It　is　to　no　avail　that　the　Muse　of　Poetry　be　called；　even　by　such　a

clarion　note　as　Whitman's；　to　migrate　from　Greece　and　Ionia　and　to

placard　REMOVED　and　TO　LET　on　the　rocks　of　the　snowy　Parnassus。

Calliope's　call　is　not　yet　closed；　nor　are　the　epics　of　Asia　ended；

the　Sphinx　is　not　yet　silent；　nor　the　fountain　of　Castaly　dry。　　For

art　is　very　life　itself　and　knows　nothing　of　death；　she　is　absolute

truth　and　takes　no　care　of　fact；　she　sees　（as　I　remember　Mr。

Swinburne　insisting　on　at　dinner）　that　Achilles　is　even　now　more

actual　and　real　than　Wellington；　not　merely　more　noble　and

interesting　as　a　type　and　figure　but　more　positive　and　real。



Literature　must　rest　always　on　a　principle；　and　temporal

considerations　are　no　principle　at　all。　　For　to　the　poet　all　times

and　places　are　one；　the　stuff　he　deals　with　is　eternal　and

eternally　the　same：　　no　theme　is　inept；　no　past　or　present

preferable。　　The　steam　whistle　will　not　affright　him　nor　the　flutes

of　Arcadia　weary　him：　　for　him　there　is　but　one　time；　the　artistic

moment；　but　one　law；　the　law　of　form；　but　one　land；　the　land　of

Beauty　…　a　land　removed　indeed　from　the　real　world　and　yet　more

sensuous　because　more　enduring；　calm；　yet　with　that　calm　which

dwells　in　the　faces　of　the　Greek　statues；　the　calm　which　comes　not

from　the　rejection　but　from　the　absorption　of　passion；　the　calm

which　despair　and　sorrow　cannot　disturb　but　intensify　only。　　And　so

it　comes　that　he　who　seems　to　stand　most　remote　from　his　age　is　he

who　mirrors　it　best；　because　he　has　stripped　life　of　what　is

accidental　and　transitory；　stripped　it　of　that　'mist　of　familiarity

which　makes　life　obscure　to　us。'



Those　strange；　wild…eyed　sibyls　fixed　eternally　in　the　whirlwind　of

ecstasy；　those　mighty…limbed　and　Titan　prophets；　labouring　with　the

secret　of　the　earth　and　the　burden　of　mystery；　that　guard　and

glorify　the　chapel　of　Pope　Sixtus　at　Rome　…　do　they　not　tell　us

more　of　the　real　spirit　of　the　Italian　Renaissance；　of　the　dream　of

Savonarola　and　of　the　sin　of　Borgia；　than　all　the　brawling　boors

and　cooking　women　of　Dutch　art　can　teach　us　of　the　real　spirit　of

the　history　of　Holland？



And　so　in　our　own　day；　also；　the　two　most　vital　tendencies　of　the

nineteenth　century　…　the　democratic　and　pantheistic　tendency　and

the　tendency　to　value　life　for　the　sake　of　art　…　found　their　most

complete　and　perfect　utterance　in　the　poetry　of　Shelley　and　Keats

who；　to　the　blind　eyes　of　their　own　time；　seemed　to　be　as　wanderers

in　the　wilderness；　preachers　of　vague　or　unreal　things。　　And　I

remember　once；　in　talking　to　Mr。　Burne…Jones　about　modern　science；

his　saying　to　me；　'the　more　materialistic　science　becomes；　the　more

angels　shall　I　paint：　　their　wings　are　my　protest　in　favour　of　the

immortality　of　the　soul。'



But　these　are　the　intellectual　speculations　that　underlie　art。

Where　in　the　arts　themselves　are　we　to　find　that　breadth　of　human

sympathy　which　is　the　condition　of　all　noble　work；　where　in　the

arts　are　we　to　look　for　what　Mazzini　would　call　the　social　ideas　as

opposed　to　the　merely　personal　ideas？　　By　virtue　of　what　claim　do　I

demand　for　the　artist　the　love　and　loyalty　of　the　men　and　women　of

the　world？　　I　think　I　can　answer　that。



Whatever　spiritual　message　an　artist　brings　to　his　aid　is　a　matter

for　his　own　soul。　　He　may　bring　judgment　like　Michael　Angelo　or

peace　like　Angelico；　he　may　come　with　mourning　like　the　great

Athenian　or　with　mirth　like　the　singer　of　Sicily；　nor　is　it　for　us

to　do　aught　but　accept　his　teaching；　knowing　that　we　cannot　smite

the　bitter　lips　of　Leopardi　into　laughter　or　burden　with　our

discontent　Goethe's　serene　calm。　　But　for　warrant　of　its　truth　such

message　must　have　the　flame　of　eloquence　in　the　lips　that　speak　it；

splendour　and　glory　in　the　vision　that　is　its　witness；　being

justified　by　one　thing　only　…　the　flawless　beauty　and　perfect　form

of　its　expression：　　this　indeed　being　the　social　idea；　being　the

meaning　of　joy　in　art。



Not　laughter　where　none　should　laugh；　nor　the　calling　of　peace

where　there　is　no　peace；　not　in　painting　the　subject　ever；　but　the

pictorial　charm　only；　the　wonder　of　its　colour；　the　satisfying

beauty　of　its　design。



You　have　most　of　you　seen；　probably；　that　great　masterpiece　of

Rubens　which　hangs　in　the　gallery　of　Brussels；　that　swift　and

wonderful　pageant　of　horse　and　rider　arrested　in　its　most　exquisite

and　fiery　moment　when　the　winds　are　caught　in　crimson　banner　and

the　air　lit　by　the　gleam　of　armour　and　the　flash　of　plume。　　Well；

that　is　joy　in　art；　though　that　golden　hillside　be　trodden　by　the

wounded　feet　of　Christ　and　it　is　for　the　death　of　the　Son　of　Man

that　that　gorgeous　cavalcade　is　passing。



But　this　restless　modern　intellectual　spirit　of　ours　is　not

receptive　enough　of　the　sensuous　element　of　art；　and　so　the　real

influence　of　the　arts　is　hidden　from　many　of　us：　　only　a　few；

escaping　from　the　tyranny　of　the　soul；　have　learned　the　secret　of

those　high　hours　when　thought　is　not。



And　this　indeed　is　the　reason　of　the　influence　which　Eastern　art　is

having　on　us　in　Europe；　and　of　the　fascination　of　all　Japanese

work。　　While　the　Western　world　has　been　laying　on　art　the

intolerable　burden　of　its　own　intellectual　doubts　and　the　spiritual

tragedy　of　its　own　sorrows；　the　East　has　always　kept　true　to　art's

primary　and　pictorial　conditions。



In　judging　of　a　beautiful　statue　the　aesthetic　faculty　is

absolutely　and　completely　gratified　by　the　splendid　curves　of　those

marble　lips　that　are　dumb　to　our　complaint；　the　noble　modelling　of

those　limbs　that　are　powerless　to　help　us。　　In　its　primary　aspect　a

painting　has　no　more　spiritual　message　or　meaning　than　an　exquisite

fragment　of　Venetian　glass　or　a　blue　tile　from　the　wall　of

Damascus：　　it　is　a　beautifully　coloured　surface；　nothing　more。　　The

channels　by　which　all　noble　imaginative　work　in　painting　should

touch；　and　do　touch　the　soul；　are　not　those　of　the　truths　of　life；

nor　metaphysical　truths。　　But　that　pictorial　charm　which　does　not

depend　on　any　literary　reminiscence　for　its　effect　on　the　one　hand；

nor　is　yet　a　mere　result　of　communicable　technical　skill　on　the

other；　comes　of　a　certain　inventive　and　creative　handling　of

colour。　　Nearly　always　in　Dutch　painting　and　often　in　the　works　of

Giorgione　or　Titian；　it　is　entirely　independent　of　anything

definitely　poetical　in　the　subject；　a　kind　of　form　and　choice　in

workmanship　which　is　itself　entirely　satisfying；　and　is　（as　the

Greeks　would　say）　an　end　in　itself。



And　so　in　poetry　too；　the　real　poetical　quality；　the　joy　of　poetry；

comes　never　from　the　subject　but　from　an　inventive　handling　of

rhythmical　language；　from　what　Keats　called　the　'sensuous　life　of

verse。'　　The　element　of　song　in　the　singing　accompanied　by　the

profound　joy　of　motion；　is　so　sweet　that；　while　the　incomplete