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may receive。The Critic as Artist
DANTE THE LIVING GUIDE
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
Caesar。 We tremble； and come forth to re…behold the stars。The
Critic as Artist
THE LIMITATIONS OF GENIUS
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
。 。 。 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。The Critic as Artist
WANTED A NEW BACKGROUND
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