Persons: the same. Scene: the same.

Ernest.  The ortolans were delightful, and the Chambertin perfect, and now let us return to the point at issue.

Gilbert.  Ah! don’t let us do that.  Conversation should touch everything, but should concentrate itself on nothing.  Let us talk about Moral Indignation, its Cause and Cure, a subject on which I think of writing: or about The Survival of Thersites, as shown by the English comic papers; or about any topic that may turn up.

Ernest.  No; I want to discuss the critic and criticism.  You have told me that the highest criticism deals with art, not as expressive, but as impressive purely, and is consequently both creative and independent, is in fact an art by itself, occupying the same relation to creative work that creative work does to the visible world of form and colour, or the unseen world of passion and of thought.  Well, now, tell me, will not the critic be sometimes a real interpreter?

Gilbert.  Yes; the critic will be an interpreter, if he chooses.  He can pass from his synthetic impression of the work of art as a whole, to an analysis or exposition of the work itself, and in this lower sphere, as I hold it to be, there are many delightful things to be said and done.  Yet his object will not always be to explain the work of art.  He may seek rather to deepen its mystery, to raise round it, and round its maker, that mist of wonder which is dear to both gods and worshippers alike.  Ordinary people are ‘terribly at ease in Zion.’  They propose to walk arm in arm with the poets, and have a glib ignorant way of saying, ‘Why should we read what is written about Shakespeare and Milton?  We can read the plays and the poems.  That is enough.’  But an appreciation of Milton is, as the late Rector of Lincoln remarked once, the reward of consummate scholarship.  And he who desires to understand Shakespeare truly must understand the relations in which Shakespeare stood to the Renaissance and the Reformation, to the age of Elizabeth and the age of James; he must be familiar with the history of the struggle for supremacy between the old classical forms and the new spirit of romance, between the school of Sidney, and Daniel, and Johnson, and the school of Marlowe and Marlowe’s greater son; he must know the materials that were at Shakespeare’s disposal, and the method in which he used them, and the conditions of theatric presentation in the sixteenth and seventeenth century, their limitations and their opportunities for freedom, and the literary criticism of Shakespeare’s day, its aims and modes and canons; he must study the English language in its progress, and blank or rhymed verse in its various developments; he must study the Greek drama, and the connection between the art of the creator of the Agamemnon and the art of the creator of Macbeth; in a word, he must be able to bind Elizabethan London to the Athens of Pericles, and to learn Shakespeare’s true position in the history of European drama and the drama of the world.  The critic will certainly be an interpreter, but he will not treat Art as a riddling Sphinx, whose shallow secret may be guessed and revealed by one whose feet are wounded and who knows not his name.  Rather, he will look upon Art as a goddess whose mystery it is his province to intensify, and whose majesty his privilege to make more marvellous in the eyes of men.

And here, Ernest, this strange thing happens.  The critic will indeed be an interpreter, but he will not be an interpreter in the sense of one who simply repeats in another form a message that has been put into his lips to say.  For, just as it is only by contact with the art of foreign nations that the art of a country gains that individual and separate life that we call nationality, so, by curious inversion, it is only by intensifying his own personality that the critic can interpret the personality and work of others, and the more strongly this personality enters into the interpretation the more real the interpretation becomes, the more satisfying, the more convincing, and the more true.

Ernest.  I would have said that personality would have been a disturbing element.

Gilbert.  No; it is an element of revelation.  If you wish to understand others you must intensify your own individualism.

Ernest.  What, then, is the result?

Gilbert.  I will tell you, and perhaps I can tell you best by definite example.  It seems to me that, while the literary critic stands of course first, as having the wider range, and larger vision, and nobler material, each of the arts has a critic, as it were, assigned to it.  The actor is a critic of the drama.  He shows the poet’s work under new conditions, and by a method special to himself.  He takes the written word, and action, gesture and voice become the media of revelation.  The singer or the player on lute and viol is the critic of music.  The etcher of a picture robs the painting of its fair colours, but shows us by the use of a new material its true colour-quality, its tones and values, and the relations of its masses, and so is, in his way, a critic of it, for the critic is he who exhibits to us a work of art in a form different from that of the work itself, and the employment of a new material is a critical as well as a creative element.  Sculpture, too, has its critic, who may be either the carver of a gem, as he was in Greek days, or some painter like Mantegna, who sought to reproduce on canvas the beauty of plastic line and the symphonic dignity of processional bas-relief.  And in the case of all these creative critics of art it is evident that personality is an absolute essential for any real interpretation.  When Rubinstein plays to us the Sonata Appassionata of Beethoven, he gives us not merely Beethoven, but also himself, and so gives us Beethoven absolutely—Beethoven re-interpreted through a rich artistic nature, and made vivid and wonderful to us by a new and intense personality.  When a great actor plays Shakespeare we have the same experience.  His own individuality becomes a vital part of the interpretation.  People sometimes say that actors give us their own Hamlets, and not Shakespeare’s; and this fallacy—for it is a fallacy—is, I regret to say, repeated by that charming and graceful writer who has lately deserted the turmoil of literature for the peace of the House of Commons, I mean the author of Obiter Dicta.  In point of fact, there is no such thing as Shakespeare’s Hamlet.  If Hamlet has something of the definiteness of a work of art, he has also all the obscurity that belongs to life.  There are as many Hamlets as there are melancholies.

Ernest.  As many Hamlets as there are melancholies?

Gilbert.  Yes: and as art springs from personality, so it is only to personality that it can be revealed, and from the meeting of the two comes right interpretative criticism.

Ernest.  The critic, then, considered as the interpreter, will give no less than he receives, and lend as much as he borrows?

Gilbert.  He will be always showing us the work of art in some new relation to our age.  He will always be reminding us that great works of art are living things—are, in fact, the only things that live.  So much, indeed, will he feel this, that I am certain that, as civilisation progresses and we become more highly organised, the elect spirits of each age, the critical and cultured spirits, will grow less and less interested in actual life, and will seek to gain their impressions almost entirely from what Art has touched.  For life is terribly deficient in form.  Its catastrophes happen in the wrong way and to the wrong people.  There is a grotesque horror about its comedies, and its tragedies seem to culminate in farce.  One is always wounded when one approaches it.  Things last either too long, or not long enough.

Ernest.  Poor life!  Poor human life!  Are you not even touched by the tears that the Roman poet tells us are part of its essence.

Gilbert.  Too quickly touched by them, I fear.  For when one looks back upon the life that was so vivid in its emotional intensity, and filled with such fervent moments of ecstasy or of joy, it all seems to be a dream and an illusion.  What are the unreal things, but the passions that once burned one like fire?  What are the incredible things, but the things that one has faithfully believed?  What are the improbable things?  The things that one has done oneself.  No, Ernest; life cheats us with shadows, like a puppet-master.  We ask it for pleasure.  It gives it to us, with bitterness and disappointment in its train.  We come across some noble grief that we think will lend the purple dignity of tragedy to our days, but it passes away from us, and things less noble take its place, and on some grey windy dawn, or odorous eve of silence and of silver, we find ourselves looking with callous wonder, or dull heart of stone, at the tress of gold-flecked hair that we had once so wildly worshipped and so madly kissed.

Ernest.  Life then is a failure?

Gilbert.  From the artistic point of view, certainly.  And the chief thing that makes life a failure from this artistic point of view is the thing that lends to life its sordid security, the fact that one can never repeat exactly the same emotion.  How different it is in the world of Art!  On a shelf of the bookcase behind you stands the Divine Comedy, and I know that, if I open it at a certain place, I shall be filled with a fierce hatred of some one who has never wronged me, or stirred by a great love for some one whom I shall never see.  There is no mood or passion that Art cannot give us, and those of us who have discovered her secret can settle beforehand what our experiences are going to be.  We can choose our day and select our hour.  We can say to ourselves, ‘To-morrow, at dawn, we shall walk with grave Virgil through the valley of the shadow of death,’ and lo! the dawn finds us in the obscure wood, and the Mantuan stands by our side.  We pass through the gate of the legend fatal to hope, and with pity or with joy behold the horror of another world.  The hypocrites go by, with their painted faces and their cowls of gilded lead.  Out of the ceaseless winds that drive them, the carnal look at us, and we watch the heretic rending his flesh, and the glutton lashed by the rain.  We break the withered branches from the tree in the grove of the Harpies, and each dull-hued poisonous twig bleeds with red blood before us, and cries aloud with bitter cries.  Out of a horn of fire Odysseus speaks to us, and when from his sepulchre of flame the great Ghibelline rises, the pride that triumphs over the torture of that bed becomes ours for a moment.  Through the dim purple air fly those who have stained the world with the beauty of their sin, and in the pit of loathsome disease, dropsy-stricken and swollen of body into the semblance of a monstrous lute, lies Adamo di Brescia, the coiner of false coin.  He bids us listen to his misery; we stop, and with dry and gaping lips he tells us how he dreams day and night of the brooks of clear water that in cool dewy channels gush down the green Casentine hills.  Sinon, the false Greek of Troy, mocks at him.  He smites him in the face, and they wrangle.  We are fascinated by their shame, and loiter, till Virgil chides us and leads us away to that city turreted by giants where great Nimrod blows his horn.  Terrible things are in store for us, and we go to meet them in Dante’s raiment and with Dante’s heart.  We traverse the marshes of the Styx, and Argenti swims to the boat through the slimy waves.  He calls to us, and we reject him.  When we hear the voice of his agony we are glad, and Virgil praises us for the bitterness of our scorn.  We tread upon the cold crystal of Cocytus, in which traitors stick like straws in glass.  Our foot strikes against the head of Bocca.  He will not tell us his name, and we tear the hair in handfuls from the screaming skull.  Alberigo prays us to break the ice upon his face that he may weep a little.  We pledge our word to him, and when he has uttered his dolorous tale we deny the word that we have spoken, and pass from him; such cruelty being courtesy indeed, for who more base than he who has mercy for the condemned of God?  In the jaws of Lucifer we see the man who sold Christ, and in the jaws of Lucifer the men who slew Cæsar.  We tremble, and come forth to re-behold the stars.

In the land of Purgation the air is freer, and the holy mountain rises into the pure light of day.  There is peace for us, and for those who for a season abide in it there is some peace also, though, pale from the poison of the Maremma, Madonna Pia passes before us, and Ismene, with the sorrow of earth still lingering about her, is there.  Soul after soul makes us share in some repentance or some joy.  He whom the mourning of his widow taught to drink the sweet wormwood of pain, tells us of Nella praying in her lonely bed, and we learn from the mouth of Buonconte how a single tear may save a dying sinner from the fiend.  Sordello, that noble and disdainful Lombard, eyes us from afar like a couchant lion.  When he learns that Virgil is one of Mantua’s citizens, he falls upon his neck, and when he learns that he is the singer of Rome he falls before his feet.  In that valley whose grass and flowers are fairer than cleft emerald and Indian wood, and brighter than scarlet and silver, they are singing who in the world were kings; but the lips of Rudolph of Hapsburg do not move to the music of the others, and Philip of France beats his breast and Henry of England sits alone.  On and on we go, climbing the marvellous stair, and the stars become larger than their wont, and the song of the kings grows faint, and at length we reach the seven trees of gold and the garden of the Earthly Paradise.  In a griffin-drawn chariot appears one whose brows are bound with olive, who is veiled in white, and mantled in green, and robed in a vesture that is coloured like live fire.  The ancient flame wakes within us.  Our blood quickens through terrible pulses.  We recognise her.  It is Beatrice, the woman we have worshipped.  The ice congealed about our heart melts.  Wild tears of anguish break from us, and we bow our forehead to the ground, for we know that we have sinned.  When we have done penance, and are purified, and have drunk of the fountain of Lethe and bathed in the fountain of Eunoe, the mistress of our soul raises us to the Paradise of Heaven.  Out of that eternal pearl, the moon, the face of Piccarda Donati leans to us.  Her beauty troubles us for a moment, and when, like a thing that falls through water, she passes away, we gaze after her with wistful eyes.  The sweet planet of Venus is full of lovers.  Cunizza, the sister of Ezzelin, the lady of Sordello’s heart, is there, and Folco, the passionate singer of Provence, who in sorrow for Azalais forsook the world, and the Canaanitish harlot whose soul was the first that Christ redeemed.  Joachim of Flora stands in the sun, and, in the sun, Aquinas recounts the story of St. Francis and Bonaventure the story of St. Dominic.  Through the burning rubies of Mars, Cacciaguida approaches.  He tells us of the arrow that is shot from the bow of exile, and how salt tastes the bread of another, and how steep are the stairs in the house of a stranger.  In Saturn the soul sings not, and even she who guides us dare not smile.  On a ladder of gold the flames rise and fall.  At last, we see the pageant of the Mystical Rose.  Beatrice fixes her eyes upon the face of God to turn them not again.  The beatific vision is granted to us; we know the Love that moves the sun and all the stars.

Yes, we can put the earth back six hundred courses and make ourselves one with the great Florentine, kneel at the same altar with him, and share his rapture and his scorn.  And if we grow tired of an antique time, and desire to realise our own age in all its weariness and sin, are there not books that can make us live more in one single hour than life can make us live in a score of shameful years?  Close to your hand lies a little volume, bound in some Nile-green skin that has been powdered with gilded nenuphars and smoothed with hard ivory.  It is the book that Gautier loved, it is Baudelaire’s masterpiece.  Open it at that sad madrigal that begins

Que m’importe que tu sois sage? Sois belle! et sois triste!

and you will find yourself worshipping sorrow as you have never worshipped joy.  Pass on to the poem on the man who tortures himself, let its subtle music steal into your brain and colour your thoughts, and you will become for a moment what he was who wrote it; nay, not for a moment only, but for many barren moonlit nights and sunless sterile days will a despair that is not your own make its dwelling within you, and the misery of another gnaw your heart away.  Read the whole book, suffer it to tell even one of its secrets to your soul, and your soul will grow eager to know more, and will feed upon poisonous honey, and seek to repent of strange crimes of which it is guiltless, and to make atonement for terrible pleasures that it has never known.  And then, when you are tired of these flowers of evil, turn to the flowers that grow in the garden of Perdita, and in their dew-drenched chalices cool your fevered brow, and let their loveliness heal and restore your soul; or wake from his forgotten tomb the sweet Syrian, Meleager, and bid the lover of Heliodore make you music, for he too has flowers in his song, red pomegranate blossoms, and irises that smell of myrrh, ringed daffodils and dark blue hyacinths, and marjoram and crinkled ox-eyes.  Dear to him was the perfume of the bean-field at evening, and dear to him the odorous eared-spikenard that grew on the Syrian hills, and the fresh green thyme, the wine-cup’s charm.  The feet of his love as she walked in the garden were like lilies set upon lilies.  Softer than sleep-laden poppy petals were her lips, softer than violets and as scented.  The flame-like crocus sprang from the grass to look at her.  For her the slim narcissus stored the cool rain; and for her the anemones forgot the Sicilian winds that wooed them.  And neither crocus, nor anemone, nor narcissus was as fair as she was.

It is a strange thing, this transference of emotion.  We sicken with the same maladies as the poets, and the singer lends us his pain.  Dead lips have their message for us, and hearts that have fallen to dust can communicate their joy.  We run to kiss the bleeding mouth of Fantine, and we follow Manon Lescaut over the whole world.  Ours is the love-madness of the Tyrian, and the terror of 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 mediæval 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 città 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 Böhme, 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 æsthetic 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 the experiences of those who are greater than we are.  The pain of Leopardi crying out against life becomes our pain.  Theocritus blows on his pipe, and we laugh with the lips of nymph and shepherd.  In the wolfskin of Pierre Vidal we flee before the hounds, and in the armour of Lancelot we ride from the bower of the Queen.  We have whispered the secret of our love beneath the cowl of Abelard, and in the stained raiment of Villon have put our shame into song.  We can see the dawn through Shelley’s eyes, and when we wander with Endymion the Moon grows amorous of our youth.  Ours is the anguish of Atys, and ours the weak rage and noble sorrows of the Dane.  Do you think that it is the imagination that enables us to live these countless lives?  Yes: it is the imagination; and the imagination is the result of heredity.  It is simply concentrated race-experience.

Ernest.  But where in this is the function of the critical spirit?

Gilbert.  The culture that this transmission of racial experiences makes possible can be made perfect by the critical spirit alone, and indeed may be said to be one with it.  For who is the true critic but he who bears within himself the dreams, and ideas, and feelings of myriad generations, and to whom no form of thought is alien, no emotional impulse obscure?  And who the true man of culture, if not he who by fine scholarship and fastidious rejection has made instinct self-conscious and intelligent, and can separate the work that has distinction from the work that has it not, and so by contact and comparison makes himself master of the secrets of style and school, and understands their meanings, and listens to their voices, and develops that spirit of disinterested curiosity which is the real root, as it is the real flower, of the intellectual life, and thus attains to intellectual clarity, and, having learned ‘the best that is known and thought in the world,’ lives—it is not fanciful to say so—with those who are the Immortals.

Yes, Ernest: the contemplative life, the life that has for its aim not doing but being, and not being merely, but becoming—that is what the critical spirit can give us.  The gods live thus: either brooding over their own perfection, as Aristotle tells us, or, as Epicurus fancied, watching with the calm eyes of the spectator the tragicomedy of the world that they have made.  We, too, might live like them, and set ourselves to witness with appropriate emotions the varied scenes that man and nature afford.  We might make ourselves spiritual by detaching ourselves from action, and become perfect by the rejection of energy.  It has often seemed to me that Browning felt something of this.  Shakespeare hurls Hamlet into active life, and makes him realise his mission by effort.  Browning might have given us a Hamlet who would have realised his mission by thought.  Incident and event were to him unreal or unmeaning.  He made the soul the protagonist of life’s tragedy, and looked on action as the one undramatic element of a play.  To us, at any rate, the ΒΙΟΣ ΘΕΩΡΗΤΙΚΟΣ is the true ideal.  From the high tower of Thought we can look out at the world.  Calm, and self-centred, and complete, the æsthetic critic contemplates life, and no arrow drawn at a venture can pierce between the joints of his harness.  He at least is safe.  He has discovered how to live.

Is such a mode of life immoral?  Yes: all the arts are immoral, except those baser forms of sensual or didactic art that seek to excite to action of evil or of good.  For action of every kind belongs to the sphere of ethics.  The aim of art is simply to create a mood.  Is such a mode of life unpractical?  Ah! it is not so easy to be unpractical as the ignorant Philistine imagines.  It were well for England if it were so.  There is no country in the world so much in need of unpractical people as this country of ours.  With us, Thought is degraded by its constant association with practice.  Who that moves in the stress and turmoil of actual existence, noisy politician, or brawling social reformer, or poor narrow-minded priest blinded by the sufferings of that unimportant section of the community among whom he has cast his lot, can seriously claim to be able to form a disinterested intellectual judgment about any one thing?  Each of the professions means a prejudice.  The necessity for a career forces every one to take sides.  We live in the age of the overworked, and the under-educated; the age in which people are so industrious that they become absolutely stupid.  And, harsh though it may sound, I cannot help saying that such people deserve their doom.  The sure way of knowing nothing about life is to try to make oneself useful.

Ernest.  A charming doctrine, Gilbert.

Gilbert.  I am not sure about that, but it has at least the minor merit of being true.  That the desire to do good to others produces a plentiful crop of prigs is the least of the evils of which it is the cause.  The prig is a very interesting psychological study, and though of all poses a moral pose is the most offensive, still to have a pose at all is something.  It is a formal recognition of the importance of treating life from a definite and reasoned standpoint.  That Humanitarian Sympathy wars against Nature, by securing the survival of the failure, may make the man of science loathe its facile virtues.  The political economist may cry out against it for putting the improvident on the same level as the provident, and so robbing life of the strongest, because most sordid, incentive to industry.  But, in the eyes of the thinker, the real harm that emotional sympathy does is that it limits knowledge, and so prevents us from solving any single social problem.  We are trying at present to stave off the coming crisis, the coming revolution as my friends the Fabianists call it, by means of doles and alms.  Well, when the revolution or crisis arrives, we shall be powerless, because we shall know nothing.  And so, Ernest, let us not be deceived.  England will never be civilised till she has added Utopia to her dominions.  There is more than one of her colonies that she might with advantage surrender for so fair a land.  What we want are unpractical people who see beyond the moment, and think beyond the day.  Those who try to lead the people can only do so by following the mob.  It is through the voice of one crying in the wilderness that the ways of the gods must be prepared.

But perhaps you think that in beholding for the mere joy of beholding, and contemplating for the sake of contemplation, there is something that is egotistic.  If you think so, do not say so.  It takes a thoroughly selfish age, like our own, to deify self-sacrifice.  It takes a thoroughly grasping age, such as that in which we live, to set above the fine intellectual virtues, those shallow and emotional virtues that are an immediate practical benefit to itself.  They miss their aim, too, these philanthropists and sentimentalists of our day, who are always chattering to one about one’s duty to one’s neighbour.  For the development of the race depends on the development of the individual, and where self-culture has ceased to be the ideal, the intellectual standard is instantly lowered, and, often, ultimately lost.  If you meet at dinner a man who has spent his life in educating himself—a rare type in our time, I admit, but still one occasionally to be met with—you rise from table richer, and conscious that a high ideal has for a moment touched and sanctified your days.  But oh! my dear Ernest, to sit next to a man who has spent his life in trying to educate others!  What a dreadful experience that is!  How appalling is that ignorance which is the inevitable result of the fatal habit of imparting opinions!  How limited in range the creature’s mind proves to be!  How it wearies us, and must weary himself, with its endless repetitions and sickly reiteration!  How lacking it is in any element of intellectual growth!  In what a vicious circle it always moves!

Ernest.  You speak with strange feeling, Gilbert.  Have you had this dreadful experience, as you call it, lately?

Gilbert.  Few of us escape it. People say that the schoolmaster is abroad.  I wish to goodness he were.  But the type of which, after all, he is only one, and certainly the least important, of the representatives, seems to me to be really dominating our lives; and just as the philanthropist is the nuisance of the ethical sphere, so the nuisance of the intellectual sphere is the man who is so occupied in trying to educate others, that he has never had any time to educate himself.  No, Ernest, self-culture is the true ideal of man.  Goethe saw it, and the immediate debt that we owe to Goethe is greater than the debt we owe to any man since Greek days.  The Greeks saw it, and have left us, as their legacy to modern thought, the conception of the contemplative life as well as the critical method by which alone can that life be truly realised.  It was the one thing that made the Renaissance great, and gave us Humanism.  It is the one thing that could make our own age great also; for the real weakness of England lies, not in incomplete armaments or unfortified coasts, not in the poverty that creeps through sunless lanes, or the drunkenness that brawls in loathsome courts, but simply in the fact that her ideals are emotional and not intellectual.

I do not deny that the intellectual ideal is difficult of attainment, still less that it is, and perhaps will be for years to come, unpopular with the crowd.  It is so easy for people to have sympathy with suffering.  It is so difficult for them to have sympathy with thought.  Indeed, so little do ordinary people understand what thought really is, that they seem to imagine that, when they have said that a theory is dangerous, they have pronounced its condemnation, whereas it is only such theories that have any true intellectual value.  An idea that is not dangerous is unworthy of being called an idea at all.

Ernest.  Gilbert, you bewilder me.  You have told me that all art is, in its essence, immoral.  Are you going to tell me now that all thought is, in its essence, dangerous?

Gilbert.  Yes, in the practical sphere it is so.  The security of society lies in custom and unconscious instinct, and the basis of the stability of society, as a healthy organism, is the complete absence of any intelligence amongst its members.  The great majority of people being fully aware of this, rank themselves naturally on the side of that splendid system that elevates them to the dignity of machines, and rage so wildly against the intrusion of the intellectual faculty into any question that concerns life, that one is tempted to define man as a rational animal who always loses his temper when he is called upon to act in accordance with the dictates of reason.  But let us turn from the practical sphere, and say no more about the wicked philanthropists, who, indeed, may well be left to the mercy of the almond-eyed sage of the Yellow River Chuang Tsu the wise, who has proved that such well-meaning and offensive busybodies have destroyed the simple and spontaneous virtue that there is in man.  They are a wearisome topic, and I am anxious to get back to the sphere in which criticism is free.

Ernest.  The sphere of the intellect?

Gilbert.  Yes.  You remember that I spoke of the critic as being in his own way as creative as the artist, whose work, indeed, may be merely of value in so far as it gives to the critic a suggestion for some new mood of thought and feeling which he can realise with equal, or perhaps greater, distinction of form, and, through the use of a fresh medium of expression, make differently beautiful and more perfect.  Well, you seemed to be a little sceptical about the theory.  But perhaps I wronged you?

Ernest.  I am not really sceptical about it, but I must admit that I feel very strongly that such work as you describe the critic producing—and creative such work must undoubtedly be admitted to be—is, of necessity, purely subjective, whereas the greatest work is objective always, objective and impersonal.

Gilbert.  The difference between objective and subjective work is one of external form merely.  It is accidental, not essential.  All artistic creation is absolutely subjective.  The very landscape that Corot looked at was, as he said himself, but a mood of his own mind; and those great figures of Greek or English drama that seem to us to possess an actual existence of their own, apart from the poets who shaped and fashioned them, are, in their ultimate analysis, simply the poets themselves, not as they thought they were, but as they thought they were not; and by such thinking came in strange manner, though but for a moment, really so to be.  For out of ourselves we can never pass, nor can there be in creation what in the creator was not.  Nay, I would say that the more objective a creation appears to be, the more subjective it really is.  Shakespeare might have met Rosencrantz and Guildenstern in the white streets of London, or seen the serving-men of rival houses bite their thumbs at each other in the open square; but Hamlet came out of his soul, and Romeo out of his passion.  They were elements of his nature to which he gave visible form, impulses that stirred so strongly within him that he had, as it were perforce, to suffer them to realise their energy, not on the lower plane of actual life, where they would have been trammelled and constrained and so made imperfect, but on that imaginative plane of art where Love can indeed find in Death its rich fulfilment, where one can stab the eavesdropper behind the arras, and wrestle in a new-made grave, and make a guilty king drink his own hurt, and see one’s father’s spirit, beneath the glimpses of the moon, stalking in complete steel from misty wall to wall.  Action being limited would have left Shakespeare unsatisfied and unexpressed; and, just as it is because he did nothing that he has been able to achieve everything, so it is because he never speaks to us of himself in his plays that his plays reveal him to us absolutely, and show us his true nature and temperament far more completely than do those strange and exquisite sonnets, even, in which he bares to crystal eyes the secret closet of his heart.  Yes, the objective form is the most subjective in matter.  Man is least himself when he talks in his own person.  Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.

Ernest.  The critic, then, being limited to the subjective form, will necessarily be less able fully to express himself than the artist, who has always at his disposal the forms that are impersonal and objective.

Gilbert.  Not necessarily, and certainly not at all if he recognises that each mode of criticism is, in its highest development, simply a mood, and that we are never more true to ourselves than when we are inconsistent.  The æsthetic critic, constant only to the principle of beauty in all things, will ever be looking for fresh impressions, winning from the various schools the secret of their charm, bowing, it may be, before foreign altars, or smiling, if it be his fancy, at strange new gods.  What other people call one’s past has, no doubt, everything to do with them, but has absolutely nothing to do with oneself.  The man who regards his past is a man who deserves to have no future to look forward to.  When one has found expression for a mood, one has done with it.  You laugh; but believe me it is so.  Yesterday it was Realism that charmed one.  One gained from it that nouveau frisson which it was its aim to produce.  One analysed it, explained it, and wearied of it.  At sunset came the Luministe in painting, and the Symboliste in poetry, and the spirit of mediævalism, that spirit which belongs not to time but to temperament, woke suddenly in wounded Russia, and stirred us for a moment by the terrible fascination of pain.  To-day the cry is for Romance, and already the leaves are tremulous in the valley, and on the purple hill-tops walks Beauty with slim gilded feet.  The old modes of creation linger, of course.  The artists reproduce either themselves or each other, with wearisome iteration.  But Criticism is always moving on, and the critic is always developing.

Nor, again, is the critic really limited to the subjective form of expression.  The method of the drama is his, as well as the method of the epos.  He may use dialogue, as he did who set Milton talking to Marvel on the nature of comedy and tragedy, and made Sidney and Lord Brooke discourse on letters beneath the Penshurst oaks; or adopt narration, as Mr. Pater is fond of doing, each of whose Imaginary Portraits—is not that the title of the book?—presents to us, under the fanciful guise of fiction, some fine and exquisite piece of criticism, one on the painter Watteau, another on the philosophy of Spinoza, a third on the Pagan elements of the early Renaissance, and the last, and in some respects the most suggestive, on the source of that Aufklärung, that enlightening which dawned on Germany in the last century, and to which our own culture owes so great a debt.  Dialogue, certainly, that wonderful literary form which, from Plato to Lucian, and from Lucian to Giordano Bruno, and from Bruno to that grand old Pagan in whom Carlyle took such delight, the creative critics of the world have always employed, can never lose for the thinker its attraction as a mode of expression.  By its means he can both reveal and conceal himself, and give form to every fancy, and reality to every mood.  By its means he can exhibit the object from each point of view, and show it to us in the round, as a sculptor shows us things, gaining in this manner all the richness and reality of effect that comes from those side issues that are suddenly suggested by the central idea in its progress, and really illumine the idea more completely, or from those felicitous after-thoughts that give a fuller completeness to the central scheme, and yet convey something of the delicate charm of chance.

Ernest.  By its means, too, he can invent an imaginary antagonist, and convert him when he chooses by some absurdly sophistical argument.

Gilbert.  Ah! it is so easy to convert others.  It is so difficult to convert oneself.  To arrive at what one really believes, one must speak through lips different from one’s own.  To know the truth one must imagine myriads of falsehoods.  For what is Truth?  In matters of religion, it is simply the opinion that has survived.  In matters of science, it is the ultimate sensation.  In matters of art, it is one’s last mood.  And you see now, Ernest, that the critic has at his disposal as many objective forms of expression as the artist has.  Ruskin put his criticism into imaginative prose, and is superb in his changes and contradictions; and Browning put his into blank verse and made painter and poet yield us their secret; and M. Renan uses dialogue, and Mr. Pater fiction, and Rossetti translated into sonnet-music the colour of Giorgione and the design of Ingres, and his own design and colour also, feeling, with the instinct of one who had many modes of utterance; that the ultimate art is literature, and the finest and fullest medium that of words.

Ernest.  Well, now that you have settled that the critic has at his disposal all objective forms, I wish you would tell me what are the qualities that should characterise the true critic.

Gilbert.  What would you say they were?

Ernest.  Well, I should say that a critic should above all things be fair.

Gilbert.  Ah! not fair.  A critic cannot be fair in the ordinary sense of the word.  It is only about things that do not interest one that one can give a really unbiassed opinion, which is no doubt the reason why an unbiassed opinion is always absolutely valueless.  The man who sees both sides of a question, is a man who sees absolutely nothing at all.  Art is a passion, and, in matters of art, Thought is inevitably coloured by emotion, and so is fluid rather than fixed, and, depending upon fine moods and exquisite moments, cannot be narrowed into the rigidity of a scientific formula or a theological dogma.  It is to the soul that Art speaks, and the soul may be made the prisoner of the mind as well as of the body.  One should, of course, have no prejudices; but, as a great Frenchman remarked a hundred years ago, it is one’s business in such matters to have preferences, and when one has preferences one ceases to be fair.  It is only an auctioneer who can equally and impartially admire all schools of Art.  No; fairness is not one of the qualities of the true critic.  It is not even a condition of criticism.  Each form of Art with which we come in contact dominates us for the moment to the exclusion of every other form.  We must surrender ourselves absolutely to the work in question, whatever it may be, if we wish to gain its secret.  For the time, we must think of nothing else, can think of nothing else, indeed.

Ernest.  The true critic will be rational, at any rate, will he not?

Gilbert.  Rational?  There are two ways of disliking art, Ernest.  One is to dislike it.  The other, to like it rationally.  For Art, as Plato saw, and not without regret, creates in listener and spectator a form of divine madness.  It does not spring from inspiration, but it makes others inspired.  Reason is not the faculty to which it appeals.  If one loves Art at all, one must love it beyond all other things in the world, and against such love, the reason, if one listened to it, would cry out.  There is nothing sane about the worship of beauty.  It is too splendid to be sane.  Those of whose lives it forms the dominant note will always seem to the world to be pure visionaries.

Ernest.  Well, at least, the critic will be sincere.

Gilbert.  A little sincerity is a dangerous thing, and a great deal of it is absolutely fatal.  The true critic will, indeed, always be sincere in his devotion to the principle of beauty, but he will seek for beauty in every age and in each school, and will never suffer himself to be limited to any settled custom of thought or stereotyped mode of looking at things.  He will realise himself in many forms, and by a thousand different ways, and will ever be curious of new sensations and fresh points of view.  Through constant change, and through constant change alone, he will find his true unity.  He will not consent to be the slave of his own opinions.  For what is mind but motion in the intellectual sphere?  The essence of thought, as the essence of life, is growth.  You must not be frightened by word, Ernest.  What people call insincerity is simply a method by which we can multiply our personalities.

Ernest.  I am afraid I have not been fortunate in my suggestions.

Gilbert.  Of the three qualifications you mentioned, two, sincerity and fairness, were, if not actually moral, at least on the borderland of morals, and the first condition of criticism is that the critic should be able to recognise that the sphere of Art and the sphere of Ethics are absolutely distinct and separate.  When they are confused, Chaos has come again.  They are too often confused in England now, and though our modern Puritans cannot destroy a beautiful thing, yet, by means of their extraordinary prurience, they can almost taint beauty for a moment.  It is chiefly, I regret to say, through journalism that such people find expression.  I regret it because there is much to be said in favour of modern journalism.  By giving us the opinions of the uneducated, it keeps us in touch with the ignorance of the community.  By carefully chronicling the current events of contemporary life, it shows us of what very little importance such events really are.  By invariably discussing the unnecessary it makes us understand what things are requisite for culture, and what are not.  But it should not allow poor Tartuffe to write articles upon modern art.  When it does this it stultifies itself.  And yet Tartuffe’s articles and Chadband’s notes do this good, at least.  They serve to show how extremely limited is the area over which ethics, and ethical considerations, can claim to exercise influence.  Science is out of the reach of morals, for her eyes are fixed upon eternal truths.  Art is out of the reach of morals, for her eyes are fixed upon things beautiful and immortal and ever-changing.  To morals belong the lower and less intellectual spheres.  However, let these mouthing Puritans pass; they have their comic side.  Who can help laughing when an ordinary journalist seriously proposes to limit the subject-matter at the disposal of the artist?  Some limitation might well, and will soon, I hope, be placed upon some of our newspapers and newspaper writers.  For they give us the bald, sordid, disgusting facts of life.  They chronicle, with degrading avidity, the sins of the second-rate, and with the conscientiousness of the illiterate give us accurate and prosaic details of the doings of people of absolutely no interest whatsoever.  But the artist, who accepts the facts of life, and yet transforms them into shapes of beauty, and makes them vehicles of pity or of awe, and shows their colour-element, and their wonder, and their true ethical import also, and builds out of them a world more real than reality itself, and of loftier and more noble import—who shall set limits to him?  Not the apostles of that new Journalism which is but the old vulgarity ‘writ large.’  Not the apostles of that new Puritanism, which is but the whine of the hypocrite, and is both writ and spoken badly.  The mere suggestion is ridiculous.  Let us leave these wicked people, and proceed to the discussion of the artistic qualifications necessary for the true critic.

Ernest.  And what are they?  Tell me yourself.

Gilbert.  Temperament is the primary requisite for the critic—a temperament exquisitely susceptible to beauty, and to the various impressions that beauty gives us.  Under what conditions, and by what means, this temperament is engendered in race or individual, we will not discuss at present.  It is sufficient to note that it exists, and that there is in us a beauty-sense, separate from the other senses and above them, separate from the reason and of nobler import, separate from the soul and of equal value—a sense that leads some to create, and others, the finer spirits as I think, to contemplate merely.  But to be purified and made perfect, this sense requires some form of exquisite environment.  Without this it starves, or is dulled.  You remember that lovely passage in which Plato describes how a young Greek should be educated, and with what insistence he dwells upon the importance of surroundings, telling us how the lad is to be brought up in the midst of fair sights and sounds, so that the beauty of material things may prepare his soul for the reception of the beauty that is spiritual.  Insensibly, and without knowing the reason why, he is to develop that real love of beauty which, as Plato is never weary of reminding us, is the true aim of education.  By slow degrees there is to be engendered in him such a temperament as will lead him naturally and simply to choose the good in preference to the bad, and, rejecting what is vulgar and discordant, to follow by fine instinctive taste all that possesses grace and charm and loveliness.  Ultimately, in its due course, this taste is to become critical and self-conscious, but at first it is to exist purely as a cultivated instinct, and ‘he who has received this true culture of the inner man will with clear and certain vision perceive the omissions and faults in art or nature, and with a taste that cannot err, while he praises, and finds his pleasure in what is good, and receives it into his soul, and so becomes good and noble, he will rightly blame and hate the bad, now in the days of his youth, even before he is able to know the reason why’: and so, when, later on, the critical and self-conscious spirit develops in him, he ‘will recognise and salute it as a friend with whom his education has made him long familiar.’  I need hardly say, Ernest, how far we in England have fallen short of this ideal, and I can imagine the smile that would illuminate the glossy face of the Philistine if one ventured to suggest to him that the true aim of education was the love of beauty, and that the methods by which education should work were the development of temperament, the cultivation of taste, and the creation of the critical spirit.

Yet, even for us, there is left some loveliness of environment, and the dulness of tutors and professors matters very little when one can loiter in the grey cloisters at Magdalen, and listen to some flute-like voice singing in Waynfleete’s chapel, or lie in the green meadow, among the strange snake-spotted fritillaries, and watch the sunburnt noon smite to a finer gold the tower’s gilded vanes, or wander up the Christ Church staircase beneath the vaulted ceiling’s shadowy fans, or pass through the sculptured gateway of Laud’s building in the College of St. John.  Nor is it merely at Oxford, or Cambridge, that the sense of beauty can be formed and trained and perfected.  All over England there is a Renaissance of the decorative Arts.  Ugliness has had its day.  Even in the houses of the rich there is taste, and the houses of those who are not rich have been made gracious and comely and sweet to live in.  Caliban, poor noisy Caliban, thinks that when he has ceased to make mows at a thing, the thing ceases to exist.  But if he mocks no longer, it is because he has been met with mockery, swifter and keener than his own, and for a moment has been bitterly schooled into that silence which should seal for ever his uncouth distorted lips.  What has been done up to now, has been chiefly in the clearing of the way.  It is always more difficult to destroy than it is to create, and when what one has to destroy is vulgarity and stupidity, the task of destruction needs not merely courage but also contempt.  Yet it seems to me to have been, in a measure, done.  We have got rid of what was bad.  We have now to make what is beautiful.  And though the mission of the æsthetic movement is to lure people to contemplate, not to lead them to create, yet, as the creative instinct is strong in the Celt, and it is the Celt who leads in art, there is no reason why in future years this strange Renaissance should not become almost as mighty in its way as was that new birth of Art that woke many centuries ago in the cities of Italy.

Certainly, for the cultivation of temperament, we must turn to the decorative arts: to the arts that touch us, not to the arts that teach us.  Modern pictures are, no doubt, delightful to look at.  At least, some of them are.  But they are quite impossible to live with; they are too clever, too assertive, too intellectual.  Their meaning is too obvious, and their method too clearly defined.  One exhausts what they have to say in a very short time, and then they become as tedious as one’s relations.  I am very fond of the work of many of the Impressionist painters of Paris and London.  Subtlety and distinction have not yet left the school.  Some of their arrangements and harmonies serve to remind one of the unapproachable beauty of Gautier’s immortal Symphonie en Blanc Majeur, that flawless masterpiece of colour and music which may have suggested the type as well as the titles of many of their best pictures.  For a class that welcomes the incompetent with sympathetic eagerness, and that confuses the bizarre with the beautiful, and vulgarity with truth, they are extremely accomplished.  They can do etchings that have the brilliancy of epigrams, pastels that are as fascinating as paradoxes, and as for their portraits, whatever the commonplace may say against them, no one can deny that they possess that unique and wonderful charm which belongs to works of pure fiction.  But even the Impressionists, earnest and industrious as they are, will not do.  I like them.  Their white keynote, with its variations in lilac, was an era in colour.  Though the moment does not make the man, the moment certainly makes the Impressionist, and for the moment in art, and the ‘moment’s monument,’ as Rossetti phrased it, what may not be said?  They are suggestive also.  If they have not opened the eyes of the blind, they have at least given great encouragement to the short-sighted, and while their leaders may have all the inexperience of old age, their young men are far too wise to be ever sensible.  Yet they will insist on treating painting as if it were a mode of autobiography invented for the use of the illiterate, and are always prating to us on their coarse gritty canvases of their unnecessary selves and their unnecessary opinions, and spoiling by a vulgar over-emphasis that fine contempt of nature which is the best and only modest thing about them.  One tires, at the end, of the work of individuals whose individuality is always noisy, and generally uninteresting.  There is far more to be said in favour of that newer school at Paris, the Archaicistes, as they call themselves, who, refusing to leave the artist entirely at the mercy of the weather, do not find the ideal of art in mere atmospheric effect, but seek rather for the imaginative beauty of design and the loveliness of fair colour, and rejecting the tedious realism of those who merely paint what they see, try to see something worth seeing, and to see it not merely with actual and physical vision, but with that nobler vision of the soul which is as far wider in spiritual scope as it is far more splendid in artistic purpose.  They, at any rate, work under those decorative conditions that each art requires for its perfection, and have sufficient æsthetic instinct to regret those sordid and stupid limitations of absolute modernity of form which have proved the ruin of so many of the Impressionists.  Still, the art that is frankly decorative is the art to live with.  It is, of all our visible arts, the one art that creates in us both mood and temperament.  Mere colour, unspoiled by meaning, and unallied with definite form, can speak to the soul in a thousand different ways.  The harmony that resides in the delicate proportions of lines and masses becomes mirrored in the mind.  The repetitions of pattern give us rest.  The marvels of design stir the imagination.  In the mere loveliness of the materials employed there are latent elements of culture.  Nor is this all.  By its deliberate rejection of Nature as the ideal of beauty, as well as of the imitative method of the ordinary painter, decorative art not merely prepares the soul for the reception of true imaginative work, but develops in it that sense of form which is the basis of creative no less than of critical achievement.  For the real artist is he who proceeds, not from feeling to form, but from form to thought and passion.  He does not first conceive an idea, and then say to himself, ‘I will put my idea into a complex metre of fourteen lines,’ but, realising the beauty of the sonnet-scheme, he conceives certain modes of music and methods of rhyme, and the mere form suggests what is to fill it and make it intellectually and emotionally complete.  From time to time the world cries out against some charming artistic poet, because, to use its hackneyed and silly phrase, he has ‘nothing to say.’  But if he had something to say, he would probably say it, and the result would be tedious.  It is just because he has no new message, that he can do beautiful work.  He gains his inspiration from form, and from form purely, as an artist should.  A real passion would ruin him.  Whatever actually occurs is spoiled for art.  All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling.  To be natural is to be obvious, and to be obvious is to be inartistic.

Ernest.  I wonder do you really believe what you say?

Gilbert.  Why should you wonder?  It is not merely in art that the body is the soul.  In every sphere of life Form is the beginning of things.  The rhythmic harmonious gestures of dancing convey, Plato tells us, both rhythm and harmony into the mind.  Forms are the food of faith, cried Newman in one of those great moments of sincerity that make us admire and know the man.  He was right, though he may not have known how terribly right he was.  The Creeds are believed, not because they are rational, but because they are repeated.  Yes: Form is everything.  It is the secret of life.  Find expression for a sorrow, and it will become dear to you.  Find expression for a joy, and you intensify its ecstasy.  Do you wish to love?  Use Love’s Litany, and the words will create the yearning from which the world fancies that they spring.  Have you a grief that corrodes your heart?  Steep yourself in the Language of grief, learn its utterance from Prince Hamlet and Queen Constance, and you will find that mere expression is a mode of consolation, and that Form, which is the birth of passion, is also the death of pain.  And so, to return to the sphere of Art, it is Form that creates not merely the critical temperament, but also the æsthetic instinct, that unerring instinct that reveals to one all things under their conditions of beauty.  Start with the worship of form, and there is no secret in art that will not be revealed to you, and remember that in criticism, as in creation, temperament is everything, and that it is, not by the time of their production, but by the temperaments to which they appeal, that the schools of art should be historically grouped.

Ernest.  Your theory of education is delightful.  But what influence will your critic, brought up in these exquisite surroundings, possess?  Do you really think that any artist is ever affected by criticism?

Gilbert.  The influence of the critic will be the mere fact of his own existence.  He will represent the flawless type.  In him the culture of the century will see itself realised.  You must not ask of him to have any aim other than the perfecting of himself.  The demand of the intellect, as has been well said, is simply to feel itself alive.  The critic may, indeed, desire to exercise influence; but, if so, he will concern himself not with the individual, but with the age, which he will seek to wake into consciousness, and to make responsive, creating in it new desires and appetites, and lending it his larger vision and his nobler moods.  The actual art of to-day will occupy him less than the art of to-morrow, far less than the art of yesterday, and as for this or that person at present toiling away, what do the industrious matter?  They do their best, no doubt, and consequently we get the worst from them.  It is always with the best intentions that the worst work is done.  And besides, my dear Ernest, when a man reaches the age of forty, or becomes a Royal Academician, or is elected a member of the Athenæum Club, or is recognised as a popular novelist, whose books are in great demand at suburban railway stations, one may have the amusement of exposing him, but one cannot have the pleasure of reforming him.  And this is, I dare say, very fortunate for him; for I have no doubt that reformation is a much more painful process than punishment, is indeed punishment in its most aggravated and moral form—a fact which accounts for our entire failure as a community to reclaim that interesting phenomenon who is called the confirmed criminal.

Ernest.  But may it not be that the poet is the best judge of poetry, and the painter of painting?  Each art must appeal primarily to the artist who works in it.  His judgment will surely be the most valuable?

Gilbert.  The appeal of all art is simply to the artistic temperament.  Art does not address herself to the specialist.  Her claim is that she is universal, and that in all her manifestations she is one.  Indeed, so far from its being true that the artist is the best judge of art, a really great artist can never judge of other people’s work at all, and can hardly, in fact, judge of his own.  That very concentration of vision that makes a man an artist, limits by its sheer intensity his faculty of fine appreciation.  The energy of creation hurries him blindly on to his own goal.  The wheels of his chariot raise the dust as a cloud around him.  The gods are hidden from each other.  They can recognise their worshippers.  That is all.

Ernest.  You say that a great artist cannot recognise the beauty of work different from his own.

Gilbert.  It is impossible for him to do so.  Wordsworth saw in Endymion merely a pretty piece of Paganism, and Shelley, with his dislike of actuality, was deaf to Wordsworth’s message, being repelled by its form, and Byron, that great passionate human incomplete creature, could appreciate neither the poet of the cloud nor the poet of the lake, and the wonder of Keats was hidden from him.  The realism of Euripides was hateful to Sophokles.  Those droppings of warm tears had no music for him.  Milton, with his sense of the grand style, could not understand the method of Shakespeare, any more than could Sir Joshua the method of Gainsborough.  Bad artists always admire each other’s work.  They call it being large-minded and free from prejudice.  But a truly great artist cannot conceive of life being shown, or beauty fashioned, under any conditions other than those that he has selected.  Creation employs all its critical faculty within its own sphere.  It may not use it in the sphere that belongs to others.  It is exactly because a man cannot do a thing that he is the proper judge of it.

Ernest.  Do you really mean that?

Gilbert.  Yes, for creation limits, while contemplation widens, the vision.

Ernest.  But what about technique?  Surely each art has its separate technique?

Gilbert.  Certainly: each art has its grammar and its materials.  There is no mystery about either, and the incompetent can always be correct.  But, while the laws upon which Art rests may be fixed and certain, to find their true realisation they must be touched by the imagination into such beauty that they will seem an exception, each one of them.  Technique is really personality.  That is the reason why the artist cannot teach it, why the pupil cannot learn it, and why the æsthetic critic can understand it.  To the great poet, there is only one method of music—his own.  To the great painter, there is only one manner of painting—that which he himself employs.  The æsthetic critic, and the æsthetic critic alone, can appreciate all forms and modes.  It is to him that Art makes her appeal.

Ernest.  Well, I think I have put all my questions to you.  And now I must admit—

Gilbert.  Ah! don’t say that you agree with me.  When people agree with me I always feel that I must be wrong.

Ernest.  In that case I certainly won’t tell you whether I agree with you or not.  But I will put another question.  You have explained to me that criticism is a creative art.  What future has it?

Gilbert.  It is to criticism that the future belongs.  The subject-matter at the disposal of creation becomes every day more limited in extent and variety.  Providence and Mr. Walter Besant have exhausted the obvious.  If creation is to last at all, it can only do so on the condition of becoming far more critical than it is at present.  The old roads and dusty highways have been traversed too often.  Their charm has been worn away by plodding feet, and they have lost that element of novelty or surprise which is so essential for romance.  He who would stir us now by fiction must either give us an entirely new background, or reveal to us the soul of man in its innermost workings.  The first is for the moment being done for us by Mr. Rudyard Kipling.  As one turns over the pages of his Plain Tales from the Hills, one feels as if one were seated under a palm-tree reading life by superb flashes of vulgarity.  The bright colours of the bazaars dazzle one’s eyes.  The jaded, second-rate Anglo-Indians are in exquisite incongruity with their surroundings.  The mere lack of style in the story-teller gives an odd journalistic realism to what he tells us.  From the point of view of literature Mr. Kipling is a genius who drops his aspirates.  From the point of view of life, he is a reporter who knows vulgarity better than any one has ever known it.  Dickens knew its clothes and its comedy.  Mr. Kipling knows its essence and its seriousness.  He is our first authority on the second-rate, and has seen marvellous things through keyholes, and his backgrounds are real works of art.  As for the second condition, we have had Browning, and Meredith is with us.  But there is still much to be done in the sphere of introspection.  People sometimes say that fiction is getting too morbid.  As far as psychology is concerned, it has never been morbid enough.  We have merely touched the surface of the soul, that is all.  In one single ivory cell of the brain there are stored away things more marvellous and more terrible than even they have dreamed of, who, like the author of Le Rouge et le Noir, have sought to track the soul into its most secret places, and to make life confess its dearest sins.  Still, there is a limit even to the number of untried backgrounds, and it is possible that a further development of the habit of introspection may prove fatal to that creative faculty to which it seeks to supply fresh material.  I myself am inclined to think that creation is doomed.  It springs from too primitive, too natural an impulse.  However this may be, it is certain that the subject-matter at the disposal of creation is always diminishing, while the subject-matter of criticism increases daily.  There are always new attitudes for the mind, and new points of view.  The duty of imposing form upon chaos does not grow less as the world advances.  There was never a time when Criticism was more needed than it is now.  It is only by its means that Humanity can become conscious of the point at which it has arrived.

Hours ago, Ernest, you asked me the use of Criticism.  You might just as well have asked me the use of thought.  It is Criticism, as Arnold points out, that creates the intellectual atmosphere of the age.  It is Criticism, as I hope to point out myself some day, that makes the mind a fine instrument.  We, in our educational system, have burdened the memory with a load of unconnected facts, and laboriously striven to impart our laboriously-acquired knowledge.  We teach people how to remember, we never teach them how to grow.  It has never occurred to us to try and develop in the mind a more subtle quality of apprehension and discernment.  The Greeks did this, and when we come in contact with the Greek critical intellect, we cannot but be conscious that, while our subject-matter is in every respect larger and more varied than theirs, theirs is the only method by which this subject-matter can be interpreted.  England has done one thing; it has invented and established Public Opinion, which is an attempt to organise the ignorance of the community, and to elevate it to the dignity of physical force.  But Wisdom has always been hidden from it.  Considered as an instrument of thought, the English mind is coarse and undeveloped.  The only thing that can purify it is the growth of the critical instinct.

It is Criticism, again, that, by concentration, makes culture possible.  It takes the cumbersome mass of creative work, and distils it into a finer essence.  Who that desires to retain any sense of form could struggle through the monstrous multitudinous books that the world has produced, books in which thought stammers or ignorance brawls?  The thread that is to guide us across the wearisome labyrinth is in the hands of Criticism.  Nay more, where there is no record, and history is either lost, or was never written, Criticism can re-create the past for us from the very smallest fragment of language or art, just as surely as the man of science can from some tiny bone, or the mere impress of a foot upon a rock, re-create for us the winged dragon or Titan lizard that once made the earth shake beneath its tread, can call Behemoth out of his cave, and make Leviathan swim once more across the startled sea.  Prehistoric history belongs to the philological and archæological critic.  It is to him that the origins of things are revealed.  The self-conscious deposits of an age are nearly always misleading.  Through philological criticism alone we know more of the centuries of which no actual record has been preserved, than we do of the centuries that have left us their scrolls.  It can do for us what can be done neither by physics nor metaphysics.  It can give us the exact science of mind in the process of becoming.  It can do for us what History cannot do.  It can tell us what man thought before he learned how to write.  You have asked me about the influence of Criticism.  I think I have answered that question already; but there is this also to be said.  It is Criticism that makes us cosmopolitan.  The Manchester school tried to make men realise the brotherhood of humanity, by pointing out the commercial advantages of peace.  It sought to degrade the wonderful world into a common market-place for the buyer and the seller.  It addressed itself to the lowest instincts, and it failed.  War followed upon war, and the tradesman’s creed did not prevent France and Germany from clashing together in blood-stained battle.  There are others of our own day who seek to appeal to mere emotional sympathies, or to the shallow dogmas of some vague system of abstract ethics.  They have their Peace Societies, so dear to the sentimentalists, and their proposals for unarmed International Arbitration, so popular among those who have never read history.  But mere emotional sympathy will not do.  It is too variable, and too closely connected with the passions; and a board of arbitrators who, for the general welfare of the race, are to be deprived of the power of putting their decisions into execution, will not be of much avail.  There is only one thing worse than Injustice, and that is Justice without her sword in her hand.  When Right is not Might, it is Evil.

No: the emotions will not make us cosmopolitan, any more than the greed for gain could do so.  It is only by the cultivation of the habit of intellectual criticism that we shall be able to rise superior to race-prejudices.  Goethe—you will not misunderstand what I say—was a German of the Germans.  He loved his country—no man more so.  Its people were dear to him; and he led them.  Yet, when the iron hoof of Napoleon trampled upon vineyard and cornfield, his lips were silent.  ‘How can one write songs of hatred without hating?’ he said to Eckermann, ‘and how could I, to whom culture and barbarism are alone of importance, hate a nation which is among the most cultivated of the earth and to which I owe so great a part of my own cultivation?’  This note, sounded in the modern world by Goethe first, will become, I think, the starting point for the cosmopolitanism of the future.  Criticism will annihilate race-prejudices, by insisting upon the unity of the human mind in the variety of its forms.  If we are tempted to make war upon another nation, we shall remember that we are seeking to destroy an element of our own culture, and possibly its most important element.  As long as war is regarded as wicked, it will always have its fascination.  When it is looked upon as vulgar, it will cease to be popular.  The change will of course be slow, and people will not be conscious of it.  They will not say ‘We will not war against France because her prose is perfect,’ but because the prose of France is perfect, they will not hate the land.  Intellectual criticism will bind Europe together in bonds far closer than those that can be forged by shopman or sentimentalist.  It will give us the peace that springs from understanding.

Nor is this all.  It is Criticism that, recognising no position as final, and refusing to bind itself by the shallow shibboleths of any sect or school, creates that serene philosophic temper which loves truth for its own sake, and loves it not the less because it knows it to be unattainable.  How little we have of this temper in England, and how much we need it!  The English mind is always in a rage.  The intellect of the race is wasted in the sordid and stupid quarrels of second-rate politicians or third-rate theologians.  It was reserved for a man of science to show us the supreme example of that ‘sweet reasonableness’ of which Arnold spoke so wisely, and, alas! to so little effect.  The author of the Origin of Species had, at any rate, the philosophic temper.  If one contemplates the ordinary pulpits and platforms of England, one can but feel the contempt of Julian, or the indifference of Montaigne.  We are dominated by the fanatic, whose worst vice is his sincerity.  Anything approaching to the free play of the mind is practically unknown amongst us.  People cry out against the sinner, yet it is not the sinful, but the stupid, who are our shame.  There is no sin except stupidity.

Ernest.  Ah! what an antinomian you are!

Gilbert.  The artistic critic, like the mystic, is an antinomian always.  To be good, according to the vulgar standard of goodness, is obviously quite easy.  It merely requires a certain amount of sordid terror, a certain lack of imaginative thought, and a certain low passion for middle-class respectability.  Æsthetics are higher than ethics.  They belong to a more spiritual sphere.  To discern the beauty of a thing is the finest point to which we can arrive.  Even a colour-sense is more important, in the development of the individual, than a sense of right and wrong.  Æsthetics, in fact, are to Ethics in the sphere of conscious civilisation, what, in the sphere of the external world, sexual is to natural selection.  Ethics, like natural selection, make existence possible.  Æsthetics, like sexual selection, make life lovely and wonderful, fill it with new forms, and give it progress, and variety and change.  And when we reach the true culture that is our aim, we attain to that perfection of which the saints have dreamed, the perfection of those to whom sin is impossible, not because they make the renunciations of the ascetic, but because they can do everything they wish without hurt to the soul, and can wish for nothing that can do the soul harm, the soul being an entity so divine that it is able to transform into elements of a richer experience, or a finer susceptibility, or a newer mode of thought, acts or passions that with the common would be commonplace, or with the uneducated ignoble, or with the shameful vile.  Is this dangerous?  Yes; it is dangerous—all ideas, as I told you, are so.  But the night wearies, and the light flickers in the lamp.  One more thing I cannot help saying to you.  You have spoken against Criticism as being a sterile thing.  The nineteenth century is a turning point in history, simply on account of the work of two men, Darwin and Renan, the one the critic of the Book of Nature, the other the critic of the books of God.  Not to recognise this is to miss the meaning of one of the most important eras in the progress of the world.  Creation is always behind the age.  It is Criticism that leads us.  The Critical Spirit and the World-Spirit are one.

Ernest.  And he who is in possession of this spirit, or whom this spirit possesses, will, I suppose, do nothing?

Gilbert.  Like the Persephone of whom Landor tells us, the sweet pensive Persephone around whose white feet the asphodel and amaranth are blooming, he will sit contented ‘in that deep, motionless quiet which mortals pity, and which the gods enjoy.’  He will look out upon the world and know its secret.  By contact with divine things he will become divine.  His will be the perfect life, and his only.

Ernest.  You have told me many strange things to-night, Gilbert.  You have told me that it is more difficult to talk about a thing than to do it, and that to do nothing at all is the most difficult thing in the world; you have told me that all Art is immoral, and all thought dangerous; that criticism is more creative than creation, and that the highest criticism is that which reveals in the work of Art what the artist had not put there; that it is exactly because a man cannot do a thing that he is the proper judge of it; and that the true critic is unfair, insincere, and not rational.  My friend, you are a dreamer.

Gilbert.  Yes: I am a dreamer.  For a dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.

Ernest.  His punishment?

Gilbert.  And his reward.  But, see, it is dawn already.  Draw back the curtains and open the windows wide.  How cool the morning air is!  Piccadilly lies at our feet like a long riband of silver.  A faint purple mist hangs over the Park, and the shadows of the white houses are purple.  It is too late to sleep.  Let us go down to Covent Garden and look at the roses.  Come!  I am tired of thought.