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 Cæsar.
We tremble, and come forth to re-behold the stars. The
Critic as Artist.