Part 11 (2/2)
I do what many dream of, all their lives.
He can reach out beyond himself no more. He has got the earth, lost the heaven. He makes no error, and has, therefore, no impa.s.sioned desire which, flaming through the faulty picture, makes it greater art than his faultless work. ”The soul is gone from me, that vext, suddenly-impa.s.sioned, upward-rus.h.i.+ng thing, with its play, insight, broken sorrows, sudden joys, pursuing, uncontented life. These men reach a heaven shut out from me, though they cannot draw like me. No praise or blame affects me. I know my handiwork is perfect. But there burns a truer light of G.o.d in them. Lucrezia, I am judged.”
Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, Or what's a heaven for? All is silver-grey Placid and perfect with my art:--the worse
”Here,” he says, ”is a piece of Rafael. The arm is out of drawing, and I could make it right. But the pa.s.sion, the soul of the thing is not in me. Had you, my love, but urged me upward, to glory and G.o.d, I might have been uncontent; I might have done it for you. No,” and again he sweeps round on himself, out of his excuses, ”perhaps not, 'incentives come from the soul's self'; and mine is gone. I've chosen the love of you, Lucrezia, earth's love, and I cannot pa.s.s beyond my faultless drawing into the strife to paint those divine imaginations the soul conceives.”
That is the meaning of Browning. The faultless, almost mechanical art, the art which might be born of an adulterous connection between science and art, is of little value to men. Not in the flawless painter is true art found, but in those who painted inadequately, yet whose pictures breathe
Infinite pa.s.sion and the pain Of finite hearts that yearn.
In this incessant strife to create new worlds, and in their creation, which, always ending in partial failure, forces fresh effort, lies, Browning might have said, the excuse for G.o.d having deliberately made us defective. Had we been made good, had we no strife with evil; had we the power to embody at once the beauty we are capable of seeing; could we have laid our hand on truth, and grasped her without the desperate struggle we have to win one fruit from her tree; had we had no strong crying and tears, no agony against wrong, against our own pa.s.sions and their work, against false views of things--we might have been angels; but we should not have had humanity and all its wild history, and all its work; we should not have had that which, for all I know, may be unique in the universe; no, nor any of the great results of the battle and its misery. Had it not been for the defectiveness, the sin and pain, we should have had nothing of the interest of the long evolution of science, law and government, of the charm of discovery, of pursuit, of the slow upbuilding of moral right, of the vast variety of philosophy.
Above all, we should have had none of the great art men love so well, no _Odyssey_, _Divine Comedy_ no _Hamlet_, no _Oedipus_, no Handel, no Beethoven, no painting or sculpture where the love and sorrow of the soul breathe in canvas, fresco, marble and bronze, no, nor any of the great and loving lives who suffered and overcame, from Christ to the poor woman who dies for love in a London lane. All these are made through the struggle and the sorrow. We should not have had, I repeat, humanity; and provided no soul perishes for ever but lives to find union with undying love, the game, with all its terrible sorrow, pays for the candle. We may find out, some day, that the existence and work of humanity, crucified as it has been, are of untold interest and use to the universe--which things the angels desire to look into. If Browning had listened to that view, he would, I think, have accepted it.
_Old Pictures in Florence_ touches another side of his theory.
In itself, it is one of Browning's half-humorous poems; a pleasantly-composed piece, glancing here and glancing there, as a man's mind does when leaning over a hill-villa's parapet on a sunny morning in Florence. I have elsewhere quoted its beginning. It is a fine example of his nature-poetry: it creates the scenery and atmosphere of the poem; and the four lines with which the fourth verse closes sketch what Browning thought to be one of his poetic gifts--
And mark through the winter afternoons.
By a gift G.o.d grants me now and then, In the mild decline of those suns like moons.
Who walked in Florence, besides her men.
This, then, is a poem of many moods, beginning with Giotto's Tower; then wondering why Giotto did not tell the poet who loved him so much that one of his pictures was lying hidden in a shop where some one else picked it up; then, thinking of all Giotto's followers, whose ghosts he imagines are wandering through Florence, sorrowing for the decay of their pictures.
”But at least they have escaped, and have their holiday in heaven, and do not care one straw for our praise or blame. They did their work, they and the great masters. We call them old Masters, but they were new in their time; their old Masters were the Greeks. They broke away from the Greeks and revolutionised art into a new life. In our turn we must break away from them.”
And now glides in the theory. ”When Greek art reached its perfection, the limbs which infer the soul, and enough of the soul to inform the limbs, were faultlessly represented. Men said the best had been done, and aspiration and growth in art ceased. Content with what had been done, men imitated, but did not create. But man cannot remain without change in a past perfection; for then he remains in a kind of death.
Even with failure, with faulty work, he desires to make new things, and in making, to be alive and feel his life. Therefore Giotto and the rest began to create a fresh aspect of humanity, which, however imperfect in form, would suggest an infinite perfection. The Greek perfection ties us down to earth, to a few forms, and the sooner, if it forbid us to go on, we reject its ideal as the only one, the better for art and for mankind.
'Tis a life-long toil till our lump be leaven-- The better! What's come to perfection perishes.
Things learned on earth, we shall practise in heaven: Works done least rapidly, Art most cherishes.
”The great Campanile is still unfinished;” so he shapes his thoughts into his scenery. Shall man be satisfied in art with the crystallised joy of Apollo, or the petrified grief of Niobe, when there are a million more expressions of joy and grief to render? In that way felt Giotto and his crew. ”We will paint the whole of man,” they cried, ”paint his new hopes and joys and pains, and never pause, because we shall never quite succeed. We will paint the soul in all its infinite variety--bring the invisible full into play. Of course we shall miss perfection--who can get side by side with infinitude?--but we shall grow out of the dead perfection of the past, and live and move, and have our being.
Let the visible go to the dogs--what matters?”
Thus art began again. Its spring-tide came, dim and dewy; and the world rejoiced.
And that is what has happened again and again in the history of art.
Browning has painted a universal truth. It was that which took place when Wordsworth, throwing away the traditions of a century and all the finished perfection, as men thought, of the Augustan age, determined to write of man as man, whatever the issue; to live with the infinite variety of human nature, and in its natural simplicities. What we shall see, he thought, may be faulty, common, unideal, imperfect. What we shall write will not have the conventional perfection of Pope and Gray, which all the cultivated world admires, and in which it rests content--growth and movement dead--but it will be true, natural, alive, running onwards to a far-off goal. And we who write--our loins are accinct, our lights burning, as men waiting for the revelation of the Bridegroom. Wordsworth brought back the soul to Poetry. She made her failures, but she was alive. Spring was blossoming around her with dews and living airs, and the infinite opened before her.
So, too, it was when Turner recreated landscape art. There was the perfect Claudesque landscape, with all its parts arranged, its colours chosen, the composition balanced, the tree here, the river there, the figures in the foreground, the accurate distribution and gradation of the ma.s.ses of light and shade. ”There,” the critics said, ”we have had perfection. Let us rest in that.” And all growth in landscape-art ceased. Then came Turner, who, when he had followed the old for a time and got its good, broke away from it, as if in laughter. ”What,” he felt, ”the infinite of nature is before me; inconceivable change and variety in earth, and sky, and sea--and shall I be tied down to one form of painting landscape, one arrangement of artistic properties? Let the old perfection go.” And we had our revolution in landscape art: nothing, perhaps, so faultless as Claude's composition, but life, love of nature, and an illimitable range; incessant change, movement, and aspiration which have never since allowed the landscape artist to think that he has attained.
On another side of the art of painting, Rossetti, Millais, Hunt arose; and they said, ”We will paint men as they actually were in the past, in the moments of their pa.s.sion, and with their emotions on their faces, and with the scenery around them as it was; and whatever background of nature there was behind them, it shall be painted direct from the very work of nature herself, and in her very colours. In doing this our range will become infinite. No doubt we shall fail. We cannot grasp the whole of nature and humanity, but we shall be _in_ their life: aspiring, alive, and winning more and more of truth.” And the world of art howled at them, as the world of criticism howled at Wordsworth. But a new life and joy began to move in painting. Its winter was over, its spring had begun, its summer was imagined. Their drawing was faulty; their colour was called crude; they seemed to know little or nothing of composition; but the Spirit of Life was in them, and their faults were worth more than the best successes of the school that followed Rafael; for their faults proved that pa.s.sion, aspiration and originality were again alive:
Give these, I exhort you, their guerdon and glory For daring so much, before they well did it.
If ever the artist should say to himself, ”What I desire has been attained: I can but imitate or follow it”; or if the people who care for any art should think, ”The best has been reached; let us be content to rest in that perfection”; the death of art has come.
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