selected prose of oscar wilde- 第4部分

City　men　enter　on　your　speculations；　and　take　the　chances　of　them。

Some　of　your　speculations　succeed；　some　fail。　　Mine　happen　to　have

failed；　yours　happen　to　have　succeeded。　　That　is　the　only

difference；　sir；　between　my　visitor　and　me。　　But；　sir；　I　will　tell

you　one　thing　in　which　I　have　succeeded　to　the　last。　　I　have　been

determined　through　life　to　hold　the　position　of　a　gentleman。　　I　have

always　done　so。　　I　do　so　still。　　It　is　the　custom　of　this　place　that

each　of　the　inmates　of　a　cell　shall　take　his　morning's　turn　of

sweeping　it　out。　　I　occupy　a　cell　with　a　bricklayer　and　a　sweep；　but

they　never　offer　me　the　broom！'　　When　a　friend　reproached　him　with

the　murder　of　Helen　Abercrombie　he　shrugged　his　shoulders　and　said；

'Yes；　it　was　a　dreadful　thing　to　do；　but　she　had　very　thick

ankles。'Pen；　Pencil　and　Poison







WAINEWRIGHT　AT　HOBART　TOWN







His　love　of　art；　however；　never　deserted　him。　　At　Hobart　Town　he

started　a　studio；　and　returned　to　sketching　and　portrait…painting；

and　his　conversation　and　manners　seem　not　to　have　lost　their　charm。

Nor　did　he　give　up　his　habit　of　poisoning；　and　there　are　two　cases

on　record　in　which　he　tried　to　make　away　with　people　who　had

offended　him。　　But　his　hand　seems　to　have　lost　its　cunning。　　Both　of

his　attempts　were　complete　failures；　and　in　1844；　being　thoroughly

dissatisfied　with　Tasmanian　society；　he　presented　a　memorial　to　the

governor　of　the　settlement；　Sir　John　Eardley　Wilmot；　praying　for　a

ticket…of…leave。　　In　it　he　speaks　of　himself　as　being　'tormented　by

ideas　struggling　for　outward　form　and　realisation；　barred　up　from

increase　of　knowledge；　and　deprived　of　the　exercise　of　profitable　or

even　of　decorous　speech。'　　His　request；　however；　was　refused；　and

the　associate　of　Coleridge　consoled　himself　by　making　those

marvellous　Paradis　Artificiels　whose　secret　is　only　known　to　the

eaters　of　opium。　　In　1852　he　died　of　apoplexy；　his　sole　living

companion　being　a　cat；　for　which　he　had　evinced　at　extraordinary

affection。



His　crimes　seem　to　have　had　an　important　effect　upon　his　art。　　They

gave　a　strong　personality　to　his　style；　a　quality　that　his　early

work　certainly　lacked。　　In　a　note　to　the　Life　of　Dickens；　Forster

mentions　that　in　1847　Lady　Blessington　received　from　her　brother；

Major　Power；　who　held　a　military　appointment　at　Hobart　Town；　an　oil

portrait　of　a　young　lady　from　his　clever　brush；　and　it　is　said　that

'he　had　contrived　to　put　the　expression　of　his　own　wickedness　into

the　portrait　of　a　nice；　kind…hearted　girl。'　　M。　Zola；　in　one　of　his

novels；　tells　us　of　a　young　man　who；　having　committed　a　murder；

takes　to　art；　and　paints　greenish　impressionist　portraits　of

perfectly　respectable　people；　all　of　which　bear　a　curious

resemblance　to　his　victim。　　The　development　of　Mr。　Wainewright's

style　seems　to　me　far　more　subtle　and　suggestive。　　One　can　fancy　an

intense　personality　being　created　out　of　sin。Pen；　Pencil　and

Poison







CARDINAL　NEWMAN　AND　THE　AUTOBIOGRAPHIERS







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　representedif　that　can　be

called　a　mode　of　thought　which　seeks　to　solve　intellectual　problems

by　a　denial　of　the　supremacy　of　the　intellectmay　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　daysa　prophecy　that　Faith；　in　her　wisdom　or

her　folly；　suffered　not　to　be　fulfilled。　　Yes；　autobiography　is

irresistible。The　Critic　as　Artist







ROBERT　BROWNING







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　and　effort；　and　he　passed　not　from

emotion　to　form；　but　from　thought　to　chaos。　　Still；　he　was　great。

He　has　been　called　a　thinker；　and　was　certainly　a　man　who　was　always

thinking；　and　always　thinking　aloud；　but　it　was　not　thought　that

fascinated　him；　but　rather　the　processes　by　which　thought　moves。　　It

was　the　machine　he　loved；　not　what　the　machine　makes。　　The　method　by

which　the　fool　arrives　at　his　folly　was　as　dear　to　him　as　the

ultimate　wisdom　of　the　wise。　　So　much；　indeed；　did　the　subtle

mechanism　of　mind　fascinate　him　that　he　despised　language；　or　looked

upon　it　as　an　incomplete　instrument　of　expression。　　Rhyme；　that

exquisite　echo　which　in　the　Muse's　hollow　hill　creates　and　answers

its　own　voice；　rhyme；　which　in　the　hands　of　the　real　artist　becomes

not　merely　a　material　element　of　metrical　beauty；　but　a　spiritual

element　of　thought　and　passion　also；　waking　a　new　mood；　it　may　be；

or　stirring　a　fresh　train　of　ideas；　or　opening　by　mere　sweetness　and

suggestion　of　sound　some　golden　door　at　which　the　Imagination　itself

had　knocked　in　vain；　rhyme；　which　can　turn　man's　utterance　to　the

speech　of　gods；　rhyme；　the　one　chord　we　have　added　to　the　Greek

lyre；　became　in　Robert　Browning's　hands　a　grotesque；　misshapen

thing；　which　at　times　made　him　masquerade　in　poetry　as　a　low

comedian；　and　ride　Pegasus　too　often　with　his　tongue　in　his　cheek。

There　are　moments　when　he　wounds　us　by　monstrous　music。　　Nay；　if　he

can　only　get　his　music　by　breaking　the　strings　of　his　lute；　he

breaks　them；　and　they　snap　in　discord；　and　no　Athenian　tettix；

making　melody　from　tremulous　wings；　lights　on　the　ivory　horn　to　make

the　movement　perfect；　or　the　interval　less　harsh。　　Yet；　he　was

great：　　and　though　he　turned　language　into　ignoble　clay；　he　made

from　it　men　and　women　that　live。　　He　is　the　most　Shakespearian

creature　since　Shakespeare。　　If　Shakespeare　could　sing　with　myriad

lips；　Browning　could　stammer　through　a　thousand　mouths。　　Even　now；

as　I　am　speaking；　and　speaking　not　against　him　but　for　him；　there

glides　through　the　room　the　pageant　of　his　persons。　　There；　creeps

Fra　Lippo　Lippi　with　his　cheeks　still　burning　from　some　girl's　hot

kiss。　　There；　stands　dread　Saul　with　the　lordly　male…sapphires

gleaming　in　his　turban。　　Mildred　Tresham　is　there；　and　the　Spanish

monk；　yellow　with　hatred；　and　Blougram；　and　Ben　Ezra；　and　the　Bishop

of　St。　Praxed's。　　The　spawn　of　Setebos　gibbers　in　the　corner；　and

Sebald；　hearing　Pippa　pass　by；　looks　on　Ottima's　haggard　face；　and

loathes　her　and　his　own　sin；　and　himself。　　Pale　as　the　white　satin

of　his　doublet；　the　melancholy　king　watches　with　dreamy　treacherous

eyes　too　loyal　Strafford　pass　forth　to　his　doom；　and　Andrea　shudders

as　he　hears　the　cousins　whistle　in　the　garden；　and　bids　his　perfect

wife　go　down。　　Yes；　Browning　was　great。　　And　as　what　will　he　be

remembered？　　As　a　poet？　　Ah；　not　as　a　poet！　　He　will　be　remembered

as　a　writer　of　fiction；　as　the　most　supreme　writer　of　fiction；　it

may　be；　that　we　have　ever　had。　　His　sense　of　dramatic　situation　was

unrivalled；　and；　if　he　could　not　answer　his　own　problems；　he　could

at　least　put　problems　forth；　and　what　more　should　an　artist　do？

Considered　from　the　point　of　view　of　a　creator　of　character　he　ranks

next　to　him　who　made　Hamlet。　　Had　he　been　articulate；　he　might　have

sat　beside　him。　　The　only　man　who　can　touch　the　hem　of　his　garment

is　George　Meredith。　　Meredith　is　a　prose　Browning；　and　so　is

Browning。　He　used　poetry　as　a　medium　for　writing　in　prose。The

Critic　as　Artist







THE　TWO　SUPREME　AND　HIGHEST　ARTS







Life　and　Literature；　life　and　the　perfect　expression　of　life。　　The

principles　of　the　former；　as　laid　down　by　the　Greeks；　we　may　not

realise　in　an　age　so　marred　by　false　ideals　as　our　own。　　The

principles　of　the　latter；　as　they　laid　them　down；　are；　in　many

cases；　so　subtle　that　we　can　hardly　understand　them。　　Recognising

that　the　most　perfect　art　is　that　which　most　fully　mirrors　man　in

all　his　infinite　variety；　they　elaborated　the　criticism　of　language；

considered　in　the　light　of　the　mere　material　of　that　art；　to　a　point

to　which　we；　with　our　accentual　system　of　reasonable　or　emotional

emphasis；　can　barely　if　at　all　attain；　studying；　for　instance；　the

metrical　movements　of　a　prose　as　scientifically　as　a　modern　musician

studies　harmony　and　counterpoint；　and；　I　need　hardly　say；　with　much

keener　aesthetic　instinct。　　In　this　they　were　right；　as　they　were

right　in　all　things。　　Since　the　introduction　of　printing；　and　the

fatal　development　of　the　habit　of　reading　amongst　the　middle　and

lower　classes　of　this　country；　there　has　been　a　tendency　in

literature　to　appeal　more　and　more　to　the　eye；　and　less　and　less　to

the　ear　which　is　really　the　sense　which；　from　the　stan