III
But this great plan was never properly completed. The people had brought
up on great wagons the heavy tortoise roof and the huge necks of stone,
and all the thousand and one oddities that made up that unity,
the owls and the efts and the crocodiles and the kangaroos,
which hideous by themselves might have been magnificent if
reared in one definite proportion and dedicated to the sun.
For this was Gothic, this was romantic, this was Christian art;
this was the whole advance of Shakespeare upon Sophocles.
And that symbol which was to crown it all, the ape upside down,
was really Christian; for man is the ape upside down.
But the rich, who had grown riotous in the long peace, obstructed
the thing, and in some squabble a stone struck the priest on the head
and he lost his memory. He saw piled in front of him frogs and elephants,
monkeys and giraffes, toadstools and sharks, all the ugly things
of the universe which he had collected to do honour to God.
But he forgot why he had collected them. He could not remember
the design or the object. He piled them all wildly into one heap
fifty feet high; and when he had done it all the rich and influential
went into a passion of applause and cried, "This is real art!
This is Realism! This is things as they really are!"
That, I fancy, is the only true origin of Realism.
Realism is simply Romanticism that has lost its reason.
This is so not merely in the sense of insanity but of suicide.
It has lost its reason; that is its reason for existing.
The old Greeks summoned godlike things to worship their god.
The medieval Christians summoned all things to worship theirs,
dwarfs and pelicans, monkeys and madmen. The modern realists
summon all these million creatures to worship their god;
and then have no god for them to worship. Paganism was in art
a pure beauty; that was the dawn. Christianity was a beauty created
by controlling a million monsters of ugliness; and that in my belief
was the zenith and the noon. Modern art and science practically
mean having the million monsters and being unable to control them;
and I will venture to call that the disruption and the decay.
The finest lengths of the Elgin marbles consist splendid houses
going to the temple of a virgin. Christianity, with its gargoyles
and grotesques, really amounted to saying this: that a donkey could
go before all the horses of the world when it was really going
to the temple. Romance means a holy donkey going to the temple.
Realism means a lost donkey going nowhere.
The fragments of futile journalism or fleeting impression which
are here collected are very like the wrecks and riven blocks
that were piled in a heap round my imaginary priest of the sun.
They are very like that grey and gaping head of stone that I
found overgrown with the grass. Yet I will venture to make
even of these trivial fragments the high boast that I am
a medievalist and not a modern. That is, I really have a notion
of why I have collected all the nonsensical things there are.
I have not the patience nor perhaps the constructive intelligence
to state the connecting link between all these chaotic papers.
But it could be stated. This row of shapeless and ungainly monsters
which I now set before the reader does not consist of separate
idols cut out capriciously in lonely valleys or various islands.
These monsters are meant for the gargoyles of a definite cathedral.
I have to carve the gargoyles, because I can carve nothing else;
I leave to others the angels and the arches and the spires.
But I am very sure of the style of the architecture, and of the
consecration of the church.
