第7部分(第6/7 頁)

eard　disdainful　criticism　of　Scott；　on　the　ground　that　he　had　no　artistic　conscience；　that　he　scribbled　without　a　thought　of　style；　that　he　never　elaborated　his　scheme　before　beginning……as　Flaubert；　of　course　you　know；　invariably　did。　Why；　after　all；　has　one　not　heard　that　a　certain　William　Shakespeare　turned　out　his　so…called　works　of　art　with　something　like　criminal　carelessness？　Is　it　not　a　fact　that　a　bungler　named　Cervantes　was　so　little　in　earnest　about　his　Art　that；　having　in　one　chapter　described　the　stealing　of　Sancho's　donkey；　he　presently；　in　mere　forgetfulness；　shows　us　Sancho　riding　on　Dapple；　as　if　nothing　had　happened？　Does　not　one　Thackeray　shamelessly　avow　on　the　last　page　of　a　grossly　〃subjective〃　novel　that　he　had　killed　Lord　Farintosh's　mother　at　one　page　and　brought　her　to　life　again　at　another？　These　sinners　against　Art　are　none　the　less　among　the　world's　supreme　artists；　for　they　LIVED；　in　a　sense；　in　a　degree；　unintelligible　to　these　critics　of　theirs；　and　their　work　is　an　expression；　satisfying　and　abiding；　of　the　zest　of　life。

Some　one；　no　doubt；　hit　upon　this　definition　of　mine　long　ago。　It　doesn't　matter；　is　it　the　less　original　with　me？　Not　long　since　I　should　have　fretted　over　the　possibility；　for　my　living　depended　on　an　avoidance　of　even　seeming　plagiarism。　Now　I　am　at　one　with　Lord　Foppington；　and　much　disposed　to　take　pleasure　in　the　natural　sprouts　of　my　own　wit……without　troubling　whether　the　same　idea　has　occurred　to　others。　Suppose　me；　in　total　ignorance　of　Euclid；　to　have　discovered　even　the　simplest　of　his　geometrical　demonstrations；　shall　I　be　crestfallen　when　some　one　draws　attention　to　the　book？　These　natural　sprouts　are；　after　all；　the　best　products　of　our　life；　it　is　a　mere　accident　that　they　may　have　no　value　in　the　wo