perceptions, the vigilance of their apprehension, are enough? Now
Impressionists have told us things as to their impressions--as to the
effect of things upon the temperament of this man and upon the mood of
that--which should not be asserted except on the artistic point of
honour. The majority can tell ordinary truth, but should not trust
themselves for truth extraordinary. They can face the general judgement,
but they should hesitate to produce work that appeals to the last
judgement, which is the judgement within. There is too much reason to
divine that a certain number of those who aspire to differ from the
greatest of masters have no temperaments worth speaking of, no point of
view worth seizing, no vigilance worth awaiting, no mood worth waylaying.
And to be, _de parti pris_, an Impressionist without these! O
Velasquez! Nor is literature quite free from a like reproach in her own
things. An author, here and there, will make as though he had a word
worth hearing--nay, worth over-hearing--a word that seeks to withdraw
even while it is uttered; and yet what it seems to dissemble is all too
probably a platitude. But obviously, literature is not--as is the craft
and mystery of painting--so at the mercy of a half-imposture, so guarded
by unprovable honour. For the art of painting is reserved that shadowy
risk, that undefined salvation. If the artistic temperament--tedious
word!--with all its grotesque privileges, becomes yet more common than it
is, there will be yet less responsibility; for the point of honour is the
simple secret of the few.




THE COLOUR OF LIFE