"You will forgive any length to my preface," said Ernest in a preoccupied voice; "for I have a little story to tell you, and the story concerns my soul."
So saying, he drew his chair closer to the fire, and set his slippered feet upon the fender, and rested his arms upon his knee, and took a long breath. "There are two kinds of men who are qualified to discuss art," he went on. "One is the maker, and the other is the man who is not the maker. The maker is the artist, the other is the critic. Both are necessary. The artist, because he creates; the critic, because he interprets. We must have lovers and explainers of beauty as much as we must have its producers. But criticism sometimes forgets that its function is to elucidate; it becomes destructive, instead of constructive. It forgets that the proper aim of art is to create emotion, and substitutes instead an analysis of means."
"I do not think that anyone would deny the necessity of critics," observed Gilbert, smiling. "They are useful, at the least, in preventing the public from making mistakes. But one hears many complaints of the critic, and one perceives a tone of bitterness in the mouth of the artist when he speaks of him."
"The artist, as a rule, hates the critic," rejoined Ernest, shrugging his shoulders. "He considers him to be a parasite upon his work,—a man who lives upon the soul of another. He sees him, and naturally dislikes him. Yet I do not think that the artist is justified in his hatred. The critic is as necessary to him as the oar to the boat. Without criticism the artist drifts; he thinks himself a god; he becomes dangerous. The critic alone keeps him honest with himself. He is the conscience of art."
"And yet the critic is oftentimes unjust," said Gilbert. "He seems to have a special pleasure in finding faults."
"He has, perhaps, the same pleasure as a physician who sets his finger upon the unsound parts of a healthful body. The physician's pleasure is not aesthetic; it is scientific. He loves the infirmity because it gives him an opportunity of practising his art. So with the critic. He discovers the defects because he wishes to rectify them. But in his zeal he forgets that art is not a science. It is not diagnostic. It is creative. He analyser is not equal to the artist. The critic who can create is of course a poet himself; he is no mere critic, but another maker. He belongs to that small class of men who can both produce and understand production."
"You have said that there are two kinds of critics, Ernest," remarked Gilbert. "What are the distinctions which you make?"
"The first is the critic of art as life, who judges the work by its truth to nature. He is commonest among practical men, politicians, and moralists; he is the man of conscience. The second is the critic of art as art, who judges the work by its beauty and form. He is rarer, for he presupposes a sense of harmony and the love of style. The first asks whether the work teaches anything; the second asks whether the work pleases. The first is concerned with utilitarian ends, the second with artistic ends."
"And which of these do you prefer?" inquired Gilbert.
"I am an artist, and therefore I prefer the critic of art as art. He alone understands me. The other critic mistakes the artist for an educator, and blames him when he does not preach. But art does not preach; it creates. Its function is not to enforce morality, but to be the interpreter of life in terms of beauty. The moralist may remain upon his mountain-top, and shout down his precepts to the crowd. The artist must get among the people, and show them life in its perfection. He is the apostle of sensation rather than of doctrine."
"Yet is not there a danger," objected Gilbert, "that the artist will become self-indulgent?"
"There is that danger; and it is the critic's duty to prevent it. The critic's function is to supply a standard of taste. He must be stern as well as sympathetic. He must be the guardian of tradition. He must refuse to accept mere novelty for novelty's sake. He must insist that art shall be beautiful, and shall not sacrifice form to an idea. In a word, he must be the conservator of the temple of beauty."
"But if the critic assumes such authority, does he not become, like the priest, a usurper?"
"He may; and that is where he is most likely to fail. For his power, if it be absolute, will petrify and kill. The critic must be a friend and not a tyrant. He must advise and not command. He must be a guide, and not a legislator. Thus only can he serve art; thus only can he save the artist from himself."