the critic as artist-第18部分

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you。　　You　have　spoken　against　Criticism　as　being　a　sterile　thing。　　The　nineteenth　century　is　a　turning　point　in　history；　simply　on　account　of　the　work　of　two　men；　Darwin　and　Renan；　the　one　the　critic　of　the　Book　of　Nature；　the　other　the　critic　of　the　books　of　God。　　Not　to　recognise　this　is　to　miss　the　meaning　of　one　of　the　most　important　eras　in　the　progress　of　the　world。　　Creation　is　always　behind　the　age。　　It　is　Criticism　that　leads　us。　　The　Critical　Spirit　and　the　World…Spirit　are　one。

ERNEST。　　And　he　who　is　in　possession　of　this　spirit；　or　whom　this　spirit　possesses；　will；　I　suppose；　do　nothing？

GILBERT。　　Like　the　Persephone　of　whom　Landor　tells　us；　the　sweet　pensive　Persephone　around　whose　white　feet　the　asphodel　and　amaranth　are　blooming；　he　will　sit　contented　'in　that　deep；　motionless　quiet　which　mortals　pity；　and　which　the　gods　enjoy。'　　He　will　look　out　upon　the　world　and　know　its　secret。　　By　contact　with　divine　things　he　will　become　divine。　　His　will　be　the　perfect　life；　and　his　only。

ERNEST。　　You　have　told　me　many　strange　things　to…night；　Gilbert。　You　have　told　me　that　it　is　more　difficult　to　talk　about　a　thing　than　to　do　it；　and　that　to　do　nothing　at　all　is　the　most　difficult　thing　in　the　world；　you　have　told　me　that　all　Art　is　immoral；　and　all　thought　dangerous；　that　criticism　is　more　creative　than　creation；　and　that　the　highest　criticism　is　that　which　reveals　in　the　work　of　Art　what　the　artist　had　not　put　there；　that　it　is　exactly　because　a　man　cannot　do　a　thing　that　he　is　the　proper　judge　of　it；　and　that　the　true　critic　is　unfair；　insincere；　and　not　rational。　　My　friend；　you　are　a　dreamer。

GILBERT。　　Yes：　　I　am　a　dreamer。　　For　a　dreamer　is　one　who　can　only　find　his　way　by　moonlight；　and　his　punishment　is　that　he　sees　the　dawn　before　the　rest　of　the　world。

ERNEST。　　His　punishment？

GILBERT。　　And　his　reward。　　But；　see；　it　is　dawn　already。　　Draw　back　the　curtains　and　open　the　windows　wide。　　How　cool　the　morning　air　is！　　Piccadilly　lies　at　our　feet　like　a　long　riband　of　silver。　　A　faint　purple　mist　hangs　over　the　Park；　and　the　shadows　of　the　white　houses　are　purple。　　It　is　too　late　to　sleep。　　Let　us　go　down　to　Covent　Garden　and　look　at　the　roses。　　Come！　　I　am　tired　of　thought。