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the oblivion that it deserves。
ERNEST。 But； my dear fellow … excuse me for interrupting you … you seem to me to be allowing your passion for criticism to lead you a great deal too far。 For； after all； even you must admit that it is much more difficult to do a thing than to talk about it。
GILBERT。 More difficult to do a thing than to talk about it？ Not at all。 That is a gross popular error。 It is very much more difficult to talk about a thing than to do it。 In the sphere of actual life that is of course obvious。 Anybody can make history。 Only a great man can write it。 There is no mode of action； no form of emotion； that we do not share with the lower animals。 It is only by language that we rise above them； or above each other … by language； which is the parent； and not the child； of thought。 Action； indeed； is always easy； and when presented to us in its most aggravated； because most continuous form； which I take to be that of real industry； becomes simply the refuge of people who have nothing whatsoever to do。 No； Ernest； don't talk about action。 It is a blind thing dependent on external influences； and moved by an impulse of whose nature it is unconscious。 It is a thing incomplete in its essence； because limited by accident； and ignorant of its direction； being always at variance with its aim。 Its basis is the lack of imagination。 It is the last resource of those who know not how to dream。
ERNEST。 Gilbert； you treat the world as if it were a crystal ball。 You hold it in your hand； and reverse it to please a wilful fancy。 You do nothing but re…write history。
GILBERT。 The one duty we owe to history is to re…write it。 That is not the least of the tasks in store for the critical spirit。 When we have fully discovered the scientific laws that govern life； we shall realise that the one person who has more illusions than the dreamer is the man of action。 He； indeed； knows neither the origin of his deeds nor their results。 From the field in which he thought that he had sown thorns； we have gathered our vintage； and the fig…tree that he planted for our pleasure is as barren as the thistle； and more bitter。 It is because Humanity has never known where it was going that it has been able to find its way。
ERNEST。 You think； then； that in the sphere of action a conscious aim is a delusion？
GILBERT。 It is worse than a delusion。 If we lived long enough to see the results of our actions it may be that those who call themselves good would be sickened with a dull remorse； and those whom the world calls evil stirred by a noble joy。 Each little thing that we do passes into the great machine of life which may grind our virtues to powder and make them worthless； or transform our sins into elements of a new civilisation； more marvellous and more splendid than any that has gone before。 But men are the slaves of words。 They rage against Materialism； as they call it； forgetting that there has been no material improvement that has not spiritualised the world； and that there have been few； if any； spiritual awakenings that have not wasted the world's faculties in barren hopes； and fruitless aspirations； and empty or trammelling creeds。 What is termed Sin is an essential element of progress。 Without it the world would stagnate； or grow old； or become colourless。 By its curiosity Sin increases the experience of the race。 Through its intensified assertion of individualism； it saves us from monotony of type。 In its rejection of the current notions about morality； it is one with the higher ethics。 And as for the virtues！ What are the virtues？ Nature； M。 Renan tells us； cares little about chastity； and it may be that it is to the shame of the Magdalen； and not to their own purity； that the Lucretias of modern life owe their freedom from stain。 Charity； as even those of whose religion it makes a formal part have been compelled to acknowledge； creates a multitude of evils。 The mere existence of conscience； that faculty of which people prate so much nowadays； and are so ignorantly proud； is a sign of our imperfect development。 It must be merged in instinct before we become fine。 Self…denial is simply a method by which man arrests his progress； and self…sacrifice a survival of the mutilation of the savage； part of that old worship of pain which is so terrible a factor in the history of the world； and which even now makes its victims day by day； and has its altars in the land。 Virtues！ Who knows what the virtues are？ Not you。 Not I。 Not any one。 It is well for our vanity that we slay the criminal； for if we suffered him to live he might show us what we had gained by his crime。 It is well for his peace that the saint goes to his martyrdom。 He is spared the sight of the horror of his harvest。
ERNEST。 Gilbert； you sound too harsh a note。 Let us go back to the more gracious fields of literature。 What was it you said？ That it was more difficult to talk about a thing than to do it？
GILBERT （after a pause）。 Yes： I believe I ventured upon that simple truth。 Surely you see now that I am right？ When man acts he is a puppet。 When he describes he is a poet。 The whole secret lies in that。 It was easy enough on the sandy plains by windy Ilion to send the notched arrow from the painted bow； or to hurl against the shield of hide and flamelike brass the long ash…handled spear。 It was easy for the adulterous queen to spread the Tyrian carpets for her lord； and then； as he lay couched in the marble bath； to throw over his head the purple net； and call to her smooth…faced lover to stab through the meshes at the heart that should have broken at Aulis。 For Antigone even； with Death waiting for her as her bridegroom； it was easy to pass through the tainted air at noon； and climb the hill； and strew with kindly earth the wretched naked corse that had no tomb。 But what of those who wrote about these things？ What of those who gave them reality； and made them live for ever？ Are they not greater than the men and women they sing of？ 'Hector that sweet knight is dead；' and Lucian tells us how in the dim under…world Menippus saw the bleaching skull of Helen； and marvelled that it was for so grim a favour that all those horned ships were launched； those beautiful mailed men laid low； those towered cities brought to dust。 Yet； every day the swanlike daughter of Leda comes out on the battlements； and looks down at the tide of war。 The greybeards wonder at her loveliness； and she stands by the side of the king。 In his chamber of stained ivory lies her leman。 He is polishing his dainty armour； and combing the scarlet plume。 With squire and page； her husband passes from tent to tent。 She can see his bright hair； and hears； or fancies that she hears； that clear cold voice。 In the courtyard below； the son of Priam is buckling on his brazen cuirass。 The white arms of Andromache are around his neck。 He sets his helmet on the ground； lest their babe should be frightened。 Behind the embroidered curtains of his pavilion sits Achilles； in perfumed raiment； while in harness of gilt and silver the friend of his soul arrays himself to go forth to the fight。 From a curiously carven chest that his mother Thetis had brought to