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Who cares whether Mr。 Ruskin's views on Turner are sound or not？
What does it matter？ That mighty and majestic prose of his； so
fervid and so fiery…coloured in its noble eloquence； so rich in its
elaborate symphonic music； so sure and certain； at its best； in
subtle choice of word and epithet； is at least as great a work of
art as any of those wonderful sunsets that bleach or rot on their
corrupted canvases in England's Gallery； greater indeed； one is apt
to think at times； not merely because its equal beauty is more
enduring； but on account of the fuller variety of its appeal； soul
speaking to soul in those long…cadenced lines； not through form and
colour alone； though through these； indeed； completely and without
loss； but with intellectual and emotional utterance； with lofty
passion and with loftier thought； with imaginative insight； and with
poetic aim； greater； I always think； even as Literature is the
greater art。 Who； again； cares whether Mr。 Pater has put into the
portrait of Monna Lisa something that Lionardo never dreamed of？
The painter may have been merely the slave of an archaic smile； as
some have fancied； but whenever I pass into the cool galleries of
the Palace of the Louvre； and stand before that strange figure 'set
in its marble chair in that cirque of fantastic rocks； as in some
faint light under sea；' I murmur to myself； 'She is older than the
rocks among which she sits； like the vampire； she has been dead many
times； and learned the secrets of the grave； and has been a diver in
deep seas； and keeps their fallen day about her： and trafficked for
strange webs with Eastern merchants； and； as Leda； was the mother of
Helen of Troy； and； as St。 Anne； the mother of Mary； and all this
has been to her but as the sound of lyres and flutes； and lives only
in the delicacy with which it has moulded the changing lineaments；
and tinged the eyelids and the hands。' And I say to my friend； 'The
presence that thus so strangely rose beside the waters is expressive
of what in the ways of a thousand years man had come to desire'； and
he answers me； 'Hers is the head upon which all 〃the ends of the
world are come；〃 and the eyelids are a little weary。'
And so the picture becomes more wonderful to us than it really is；
and reveals to us a secret of which； in truth； it knows nothing； and
the music of the mystical prose is as sweet in our ears as was that
flute…player's music that lent to the lips of La Gioconda those
subtle and poisonous curves。 Do you ask me what Lionardo would have
said had any one told him of this picture that 'all the thoughts and
experience of the world had etched and moulded therein that which
they had of power to refine and make expressive the outward form；
the animalism of Greece； the lust of Rome； the reverie of the Middle
Age with its spiritual ambition and imaginative loves； the return of
the Pagan world； the sins of the Borgias？' He would probably have
answered that he had contemplated none of these things； but had
concerned himself simply with certain arrangements of lines and
masses； and with new and curious colour…harmonies of blue and green。
And it is for this very reason that the criticism which I have
quoted is criticism of the highest kind。 It treats the work of art
simply as a starting…point for a new creation。 It does not confine
itselflet us at least suppose so for the momentto discovering
the real intention of the artist and accepting that as final。 And
in this it is right； for the meaning of any beautiful created thing
is； at least； as much in the soul of him who looks at it； as it was
in his soul who wrought it。 Nay； it is rather the beholder who
lends to the beautiful thing its myriad meanings； and makes it
marvellous for us； and sets it in some new relation to the age； so
that it becomes a vital portion of our lives； and a symbol of what
we pray for； or perhaps of what； having prayed for； we fear that we
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