Delphi Complete Works of Oscar Wilde (Illustrated) (177 page)

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 aesthetic 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 mediaevalism, 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.