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THE CRITIC AS ARTIST … WITH SOME REMARKS UPON THE IMPORTANCE OF DOING NOTHING
A DIALOGUE。 Part I。 Persons： Gilbert and Ernest。 Scene： the library of a house in Piccadilly； overlooking the Green Park。
GILBERT （at the Piano）。 My dear Ernest； what are you laughing at？
ERNEST （looking up）。 At a capital story that I have just come across in this volume of Reminiscences that I have found on your table。
GILBERT。 What is the book？ Ah！ I see。 I have not read it yet。 Is it good？
ERNEST。 Well； while you have been playing； I have been turning over the pages with some amusement； though； as a rule； I dislike modern memoirs。 They are generally written by people who have either entirely lost their memories； or have never done anything worth remembering； which； however； is； no doubt； the true explanation of their popularity； as the English public always feels perfectly at its ease when a mediocrity is talking to it。
GILBERT。 Yes： the public is wonderfully tolerant。 It forgives everything except genius。 But I must confess that I like all memoirs。 I like them for their form； just as much as for their matter。 In literature mere egotism is delightful。 It is what fascinates us in the letters of personalities so different as Cicero and Balzac； Flaubert and Berlioz； Byron and Madame de Sevigne。 Whenever we come across it； and； strangely enough； it is rather rare； we cannot but welcome it； and do not easily forget it。 Humanity will always love Rousseau for having confessed his sins； not to a priest； but to the world； and the couchant nymphs that Cellini wrought in bronze for the castle of King Francis； the green and gold Perseus； even； that in the open Loggia at Florence shows the moon the dead terror that once turned life to stone； have not given it more pleasure than has that autobiography in which the supreme scoundrel of the Renaissance relates the story of his splendour and his shame。 The opinions； the character； the achievements of the man； matter very little。 He may be a sceptic like the gentle Sieur de Montaigne； or a saint like the bitter son of Monica； but when he tells us his own secrets he can always charm our ears to listening and our lips to silence。 The mode of thought that Cardinal Newman represented … if that can be called a mode of thought which seeks to solve intellectual problems by a denial of the supremacy of the intellect … may not； cannot； I think； survive。 But the world will never weary of watching that troubled soul in its progress from darkness to darkness。 The lonely church at Littlemore； where 'the breath of the morning is damp； and worshippers are few；' will always be dear to it； and whenever men see the yellow snapdragon blossoming on the wall of Trinity they will think of that gracious undergraduate who saw in the flower's sure recurrence a prophecy that he would abide for ever with the Benign Mother of his days … a prophecy that Faith； in her wisdom or her folly； suffered not to be fulfilled。 Yes； autobiography is irresistible。 Poor； silly； conceited Mr。 Secretary Pepys has chattered his way into the circle of the Immortals； and； conscious that indiscretion is the better part of valour； bustles about among them in that 'shaggy purple gown with gold buttons and looped lace' which he is so fond of describing to us； perfectly at his ease； and prattling； to his own and our infinite pleasure； of the Indian blue petticoat that he bought for his wife； of the 'good hog's hars… let；' and the 'pleasant French fricassee of veal' that he loved to eat； of his game of bowls with Will Joyce； and his 'gadding after beauties；' and his reciting of HAMLET on a Sunday； and his playing of the viol on week days； and other wicked or trivial things。 Even in actual life egotism is not without its attractions。 When people talk to us about others they are usually dull。 When they talk to us about themselves they are nearly always interesting； and if one could shut them up； when they become wearisome； as easily as one can shut up a book of which one has grown wearied； they would be perfect absolutely。
ERNEST。 There is much virtue in that If； as Touchstone would say。 But do you seriously propose that every man should become his own Boswell？ What would become of our industrious compilers of Lives and Recollections in that case？
GILBERT。 What has become of them？ They are the pest of the age； nothing more and nothing less。 Every great man nowadays has his disciples； and it is always Judas who writes the biography。
ERNEST。 My dear fellow！
GILBERT。 I am afraid it is true。 Formerly we used to canonise our heroes。 The modern method is to vulgarise them。 Cheap editions of great books may be delightful； but cheap editions of great men are absolutely detestable。
ERNEST。 May I ask； Gilbert； to whom you allude？
GILBERT。 Oh！ to all our second…rate LITTERATEURS。 We are overrun by a set of people who； when poet or painter passes away； arrive at the house along with the undertaker； and forget that their one duty is to behave as mutes。 But we won't talk about them。 They are the mere body…snatchers of literature。 The dust is given to one； and the ashes to another； and the soul is out of their reach。 And now； let me play Chopin to you； or Dvorek？ Shall I play you a fantasy by Dvorek？ He writes passionate； curiously…coloured things。
ERNEST。 No； I don't want music just at present。 It is far too indefinite。 Besides； I took the Baroness Bernstein down to dinner last night； and； though absolutely charming in every other respect； she insisted on discussing music as if it were actually written in the German language。 Now； whatever music sounds like I am glad to say that it does not sound in the smallest degree like German。 There are forms of patriotism that are really quite degrading。 No； Gilbert； don't play any more。 Turn round and talk to me。 Talk to me till the white…horned day comes into the room。 There is something in your voice that is wonderful。
GILBERT （rising from the piano）。 I am not in a mood for talking to…night。 I really am not。 How horrid of you to smile！ Where are the cigarettes？ Thanks。 How exquisite these single daffodils are！ They seem to be made of amber and cool ivory。 They are like Greek things of the best period。 What was the story in the confessions of the remorseful Academician that made you laugh？ Tell it to me。 After playing Chopin； I feel as if I had been weeping over sins that I had never committed； and mourning over tragedies that were not my own。 Music always seems to me to produce that effect。 It creates for one a past of which one has been ignorant； and fills one with a sense of sorrows that have been hidden from one's tears。 I can fancy a man who had led a perfectly commonplace life； hearing by chance some curious piece of music； and suddenly discovering that his soul； without his being conscious of it； had passed through terrible experiences； and known fearful joys； or wild romantic loves； or great renunciations。 And so tell me this story； Ernest。 I want to be amused。
ERNEST。 Oh！ I don't know that it is of any importance。 But I thought it a really admirable illustration of the true value of ordinary art…criticism。 It seems that a lady once gravely asked the remorseful Academician； as you call him； if his celebrated picture of 'A Spring…Day at Whiteley's；' or； 'Waiting for the Last Omnibus；' or some subject of that kind； was all painted by hand？
GILBERT。 And was it？
ERNEST。 You are quite incorrigible。 But； seriously speaking； what is the use of art…criticism？ Why cannot the artist be left alone； to create a new world if he wishes it； or； if not； to shadow forth the world which we already know； and of which； I fancy； we would each one of us be wearied if Art； with her fine spirit of choice and delicate instinct of selection； did not； as it were； purify it for us； and give to it a momentary perfection。 It seems to me that the imagination spreads； or should spread； a solitude around it； and works best in silence and in isolation。 Why should the artist be troubled by the shrill clamour of criticism？ Why should those who cannot create take upon themselves to estimate the value of creative work？ What can they know about it？ If a man's work is easy to understand； an explanation is unnecessary。 。 。 。
GILBERT。 And if his work is incomprehensible； an explanation is wicked。
ERNEST。 I did not say that。
GILBERT。 Ah！ but you should have。 Nowadays； we have so few mysteries left to us that we cannot afford to part with one of them。 The members of the Browning Society； like the theologians of the Broad Church Party； or the authors of Mr。 Walter Scott's Great Writers Series； seem to me to spend their time in trying to explain their divinity away。 Where one had hoped that Browning was a mystic they have sought to show that he was simply inarticulate。 Where one had fancied that he had something to conceal； they have proved that he had but little to reveal。 But I speak merely of his incoherent work。 Taken as a whole the man was great。 He did not belong to the Olympians； and had all the incompleteness of the Titan。 He did not survey； and it was but rarely that he could sing。 His work is marred by struggle； violence a