selected prose of oscar wilde-第6章

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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　majestic　prose　of　his；　so

fervid　and　so　fiery…coloured　in　its　noble　eloquence；　so　rich　in　its

elaborate　symphonic　music；　so　sure　and　certain；　at　its　best；　in

subtle　choice　of　word　and　epithet；　is　at　least　as　great　a　work　of

art　as　any　of　those　wonderful　sunsets　that　bleach　or　rot　on　their

corrupted　canvases　in　England's　Gallery；　greater　indeed；　one　is　apt

to　think　at　times；　not　merely　because　its　equal　beauty　is　more

enduring；　but　on　account　of　the　fuller　variety　of　its　appeal；　soul

speaking　to　soul　in　those　long…cadenced　lines；　not　through　form　and

colour　alone；　though　through　these；　indeed；　completely　and　without

loss；　but　with　intellectual　and　emotional　utterance；　with　lofty

passion　and　with　loftier　thought；　with　imaginative　insight；　and　with

poetic　aim；　greater；　I　always　think；　even　as　Literature　is　the

greater　art。　　Who；　again；　cares　whether　Mr。　Pater　has　put　into　the

portrait　of　Monna　Lisa　something　that　Lionardo　never　dreamed　of？

The　painter　may　have　been　merely　the　slave　of　an　archaic　smile；　as

some　have　fancied；　but　whenever　I　pass　into　the　cool　galleries　of

the　Palace　of　the　Louvre；　and　stand　before　that　strange　figure　'set

in　its　marble　chair　in　that　cirque　of　fantastic　rocks；　as　in　some

faint　light　under　sea；'　I　murmur　to　myself；　'She　is　older　than　the

rocks　among　which　she　sits；　like　the　vampire；　she　has　been　dead　many

times；　and　learned　the　secrets　of　the　grave；　and　has　been　a　diver　in

deep　seas；　and　keeps　their　fallen　day　about　her：　　and　trafficked　for

strange　webs　with　Eastern　merchants；　and；　as　Leda；　was　the　mother　of

Helen　of　Troy；　and；　as　St。　Anne；　the　mother　of　Mary；　and　all　this

has　been　to　her　but　as　the　sound　of　lyres　and　flutes；　and　lives　only

in　the　delicacy　with　which　it　has　moulded　the　changing　lineaments；

and　tinged　the　eyelids　and　the　hands。'　　And　I　say　to　my　friend；　'The

presence　that　thus　so　strangely　rose　beside　the　waters　is　expressive

of　what　in　the　ways　of　a　thousand　years　man　had　come　to　desire'；　and

he　answers　me；　'Hers　is　the　head　upon　which　all　〃the　ends　of　the

world　are　come；〃　and　the　eyelids　are　a　little　weary。'



And　so　the　picture　becomes　more　wonderful　to　us　than　it　really　is；

and　reveals　to　us　a　secret　of　which；　in　truth；　it　knows　nothing；　and

the　music　of　the　mystical　prose　is　as　sweet　in　our　ears　as　was　that

flute…player's　music　that　lent　to　the　lips　of　La　Gioconda　those

subtle　and　poisonous　curves。　　Do　you　ask　me　what　Lionardo　would　have

said　had　any　one　told　him　of　this　picture　that　'all　the　thoughts　and

experience　of　the　world　had　etched　and　moulded　therein　that　which

they　had　of　power　to　refine　and　make　expressive　the　outward　form；

the　animalism　of　Greece；　the　lust　of　Rome；　the　reverie　of　the　Middle

Age　with　its　spiritual　ambition　and　imaginative　loves；　the　return　of

the　Pagan　world；　the　sins　of　the　Borgias？'　　He　would　probably　have

answered　that　he　had　contemplated　none　of　these　things；　but　had

concerned　himself　simply　w