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