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When Marsyas was “torn from the scabbard of his limbs”—dalla vagina delle membre sue, to use one of Dante’s most terrible, most Tacitean phrases —he had no more song, the Greeks said.[133.1] Apollo had been victor. The lyre had vanquished the reed. But perhaps the Greeks were mistaken. I hear in much modern Art the cry of Marsyas. It is bitter in Baudelaire, sweet and plaintive in Lamartine, mystic in Verlaine. It is in the deferred resolutions of Chopin’s music. It is in the discontent that haunts the recurrent faces of Burne-Jones’s women.[133.2] Even Matthew Arnold, whose song of Callicles[133.3] tells of “the triumph of the sweet persuasive lyre,” and the “famous final victory,” in such a clear note of lyrical beauty—even he, in the troubled undertone of doubt and distress that haunts his verse, has not a little of it.[133.4] Neither Goethe nor Wordsworth could heal him, though he followed each in turn, and when he seeks to mourn for “Thyrsis” or to sing of “the Scholar Gipsy,” [133.5] it is the reed that he has to take for the rendering of his strain. But whether or not the Phrygian Faun[133.6] was silent, I cannot be. Expression is as necessary to me as leaf and blossom are to the black branches of the trees that show themselves above the prison wall and are so restless[133a] in the wind. Between my art and the world there is now a wide gulf, but between Art and myself there is none. I hope at least that there is none.
希腊人说，当玛耳绪阿斯——用但丁的一句最令人心悸、最有塔西佗味的话来讲—— “四肢从皮囊里剥出来后”，便没了歌声。阿波罗胜了。里拉琴征服了芦笛。但希腊人也许错了。我在许多现代艺术中听到了玛耳绪阿斯的呼号。那呼号在波德莱尔的诗中是苦涩的，在拉马丁的诗中是甜美而忧伤的，在魏尔伦的诗中是神秘的。在肖邦乐曲那延迟的解决和弦中听得见。在伯恩－琼斯画作的妇女形象中，在不断重现的脸上那挥之不去的不满表情中看得见。即使是马修? 阿诺德，他笔下的卡利克斯的歌以如此明快的抒情之美诉说了“甜美动人的里拉琴凯旋得胜”，以及那“著名的最后胜利” ——即使是马修? 阿诺德，他诗句中萦绕不去的困惑和苦恼这一不安的底蕴，也传出了不少玛耳绪阿斯的呼号。歌德和华兹华斯都无法为他排遣，尽管他先后追随了这两人，而当他要哀悼“色希斯”或者歌唱“吉卜赛学者”时，拿起来演奏他的旋律的便只有芦笛了。但是，不管那位古国弗里吉亚的半人半羊之神沉默与否，我是沉默不了的。我需要表达，就像那几棵黑沉沉伸过监狱高墙、在风中摇曳不安[133a]的树需要叶子和花朵一样。 在我的艺术和世界之间，现在有着一道深深的鸿沟，但在艺术和我之间，却没有。至少是希望没有。
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