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The Decay of Lying
Author: Oscar Wilde
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Notes
There is not as yet an authoritative edition of Wilde's works.
Sources
Select editions- The writings of Oscar Wilde (London; New York: A. R. Keller & Co. 1907) 15 vols.
- Robert Ross (ed), The First Collected Edition of the Works of Oscar Wilde (London: Methuen & Co. 1908). 15 vols. Reprinted Dawsons: Pall Mall 1969.
- Complete works of Oscar Wilde (Glasgow: HarperCollins, 1994).
Select bibliography- 'Notes for a bibliography of Oscar Wilde', Books and book-plates (A quarterly for collectors) 5, no. 3 (April 1905), 170-183.
- Karl E. Beckson, The Oscar Wilde encyclopedia (New York: AMS Press 1998). AMS Studies in the nineteenth century 18.
- Richard Ellmann (ed), The Artist as Critic: Critical Writings of Oscar Wilde (Chicago 1982).
- Richard Ellmann; John Espey, Oscar Wilde: two approaches: papers read at a Clark Library seminar, April 17, 1976 (Los Angeles: William Andrews Clark Memorial Library, University of California 1977).
- Richard Ellmann, Oscar Wilde at Oxford: a lecture delivered at the Library of Congress on March 1, 1983 (Washington, DC: Library of Congress 1984).
- Richard Ellmann, Oscar Wilde: a biography (London: Hamilton 1987).
- Juliet Gardiner, Oscar Wilde: a life in letters, writings and wit (Dublin: Gill & Macmillan 1995).
- Frank Harris, Oscar Wilde, including My memories of Oscar Wilde, by George Bernard Shaw and an introductory note by Lyle Blair (London: Robinson, 1992).
- Rupert Hart-Davis (ed), Selected letters of Oscar Wilde (Oxford: Oxford University Press 1979).
- Rupert Hart-Davis (ed), More letters of Oscar Wilde (London: Murray 1985).
- Vyvyan Beresford Holland, Oscar Wilde: a pictorial biography (London: Thames & Hudson 1960).
- H. Montgomery Hyde, Oscar Wilde: a biography (London: Methuen 1977).
- Andrew McDonnell, Oscar Wilde at Oxford: an annotated catalogue of Wilde manuscripts and related items at the Bodleian Library, Oxford, including many hitherto unpublished letters, photographs and illustrations (A. McDonnell 1996). Limited edition of 170 copies.
- Stuart Mason, Bibliography of Oscar Wilde (London: E. G. Richards 1907). Also pubd. New York 1908, London 1914 in 2 vols. Repr. of 1914 edition: New York: Haskell House 1972.
- E. H. Mikhail, Oscar Wilde: an annotated bibliography of criticism (London: Macmillan 1978). Also pubd. Totowa NJ: Rowman & Littlefield 1978.
- Thomas A. Mikolyzk, Oscar Wilde: an annotated bibliography (Westport CT: Greenwood Press 1993). Bibliographies and indexes in world literature, 38.
- Norman Page, An Oscar Wilde chronology (London: Macmillan 1991).
- Hesketh Pearson, A Life of Oscar Wilde (London 1946).
- Richard Pine, The thief of reason: Oscar Wilde and modern Ireland (Dublin: Gill & Macmillan 1996).
- Horst Schroeder, Additions and corrections to Richard Ellmann's Oscar Wilde (Braunschweig: H. Schroeder 1989)
The edition used in the digital edition.- Oscar Wilde The Decay of Lying in Intentions. , London, Methuen & Co. (1913) page 154
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Created: By Oscar Wilde
(1891)
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Corpus of Electronic Texts Edition: E800003-009
The Decay of Lying: Author: Oscar Wilde
p.i
THE DECAY OF LYING
AN OBSERVATION
p.ii
A DIALOGUE. Persons: Cyril and Vivian. Scene: the Library of a country house in Nottinghamshire.
p.1
THE DECAY OF LYING
CYRIL
[(coming in through the open window from
the terrace)]. My dear Vivian, don't coop yourself up all day in the
library. It is a perfectly lovely afternoon. The air is exquisite. There
is a mist upon the woods, like the purple bloom upon a plum. Let us go
and lie on the grass and smoke cigarettes and enjoy Nature.
VIVIAN
Enjoy Nature! I am glad to say that I
have entirely lost that faculty. People tell us that Art makes us love
Nature more than we loved her before; that it reveals her secrets to us;
and that after a careful study of Corot and Constable we see things in
her that had escaped our observation. My own experience is that the more
we study Art, the less we care for Nature. What Art really reveals to us
is Nature's lack of design, her curious crudities, her extraordinary
monotony, her absolutely unfinished condition. Nature has good
intentions, of course, but, as Aristotle once said, she cannot carry
them out. When I look at a landscape I cannot help seeing all its
defects. It is fortunate for us, however,
p.2
that Nature is so imperfect,
as otherwise we should have no art at all. Art is our spirited protest,
our gallant attempt to teach Nature her proper place. As for the
infinite variety of Nature, that is a pure myth. It is not to be found
in Nature herself. It resides in the imagination, or fancy, or
cultivated blindness of the man who looks at her.
CYRIL
Well, you need not look at the landscape.
You can lie on the grass and smoke and talk.
VIVIAN
But Nature is so uncomfortable. Grass is
hard and lumpy and damp, and full of dreadful black insects. Why, even
Morris's poorest workman could make you a more comfortable seat than the
whole of Nature can. Nature pales before the furniture of the street
which from Oxford has borrowed its name, as the poet you love so much
once vilely phrased it. I don't complain. If Nature had been
comfortable, mankind would never have invented architecture, and I
prefer houses to the open air. In a house we all feel of the proper
proportions. Everything is subordinated to us, fashioned for our use and
our pleasure. Egotism itself, which is so necessary to a proper sense of
human dignity, is entirely the result of indoor life. Out of doors one
becomes abstract and impersonal. One's individuality absolutely leaves
p.3
one. And then Nature is so indifferent, so unappreciative. Whenever I am
walking in the park here, I always feel that I am no more to her than
the cattle that browse on the slope, or the burdock that blooms in the
ditch. Nothing is more evident than that Nature hates Mind. Thinking is
the most unhealthy thing in the world, and people die of it just as they
die of any other disease. Fortunately, in England at any rate, thought
is not catching. Our splendid physique as a people is entirely due to
our national stupidity. I only hope we shall be able to keep this great
historic bulwark of our happiness for many years to come; but I am
afraid that we are beginning to be over-educated; at least everybody who
is incapable of learning has taken to teachingthat is really what our
enthusiasm for education has come to. In the meantime, you had better go
back to your wearisome uncomfortable Nature, and leave me to correct my
proofs.
CYRIL
Writing an article! That
is not very consistent after what you have just said.
VIVIAN
Who wants to be consistent? The dullard
and the doctrinaire, the tedious people who carry out their principles
to the bitter end of action, to the reductio ad absurdum of practice.
Not I. Like Emerson, I write over the door of my library the word
Whim. Besides, my
p.4
article is really a most salutary and valuable
warning. If it is attended to, there may be a new Renaissance of
Art.
CYRIL
What is the
subject?
VIVIAN
I intend to call it
The Decay of Lying: A Protest.
CYRIL
Lying! I should have thought that our
politicians kept up that habit.
VIVIAN
I assure you that they do not. They
never rise beyond the level of misrepresentation, and actually
condescend to prove, to discuss, to argue. How different from the temper
of the true liar, with his frank, fearless statements, his superb
irresponsibility, his healthy, natural disdain of proof of any kind!
After all, what is a fine lie? Simply that which is its own evidence. If
a man is sufficiently unimaginative to produce evidence in support of a
lie, he might just as well speak the truth at once. No, the politicians
won't do. Something may, perhaps, be urged on behalf of the Bar. The
mantle of the Sophist has fallen on its members. Their feigned ardours
and unreal rhetoric are delightful. They can make the worse appear the
better cause, as though they were fresh from Leontine schools, and have
been known to wrest from reluctant juries triumphant verdicts of
acquittal for their clients, even when those clients, as often happens,
were clearly and unmistakeably innocent. But they
p.5
are briefed by the prosaic, and are not ashamed to appeal to precedent. In spite of their
endeavours, the truth will out. Newspapers, even, have degenerated. They
may now be absolutely relied upon. One feels it as one wades through
their columns. It is always the unreadable that occurs. I am afraid that
there is not much to be said in favour of either the lawyer or the
journalist. Besides, what I am pleading for is Lying in art. Shall I
read you what I have written? It might do you a great deal of
good.
CYRIL
Certainly, if you give me
a cigarette. Thanks. By the way, what magazine do you intend it
for?
VIVIAN
For the Retrospective
Review. I think I told you that the elect had revived it.
CYRIL
Whom do you mean by the elect?
VIVIAN
Oh, The Tired Hedonists, of course. It
is a club to which I belong. We are supposed to wear faded roses in our
button-holes when we meet, and to have a sort of cult for Domitian. I am
afraid you are not eligible. You are too fond of simple pleasures.
CYRIL
I should be black-balled on the ground of animal spirits, I suppose?
VIVIAN
Probably. Besides, you are a little too
old. We don't admit anybody who is of the usual age.
p.6
CYRIL
Well, I should fancy you are all a good
deal bored with each other.
VIVIAN
We
are. This is one of the objects of the club. Now, if you promise not to
interrupt too often, I will read you my article.
CYRIL
You will find me all attention.
VIVIAN
[(reading in a very clear, musical
voice)]. THE DECAY OF LYING: A PROTEST[lt ].One of the chief causes that
can be assigned for the curiously commonplace character of most of the
literature of our age is undoubtedly the decay of Lying as an art, a
science, and a social pleasure. The ancient historians gave us
delightful fiction in the form of fact; the modern novelist presents us
with dull facts under the guise of fiction. The Blue-Book is rapidly
becoming his ideal both for method and manner. He has his tedious
document humain, his miserable little coin de la création, into which he
peers with his microscope. He is to be found at the Librairie Nationale,
or at the British Museum, shamelessly reading up his subject. He has not
even the courage of other people's ideas, but insists on going directly
to life for everything, and ultimately, between encyclopædias and
personal experience, he comes to the ground, having drawn his types from
the family circle or from the weekly washerwoman, and having acquired an
amount of useful information from
p.7
which never, even in his most meditative moments, can he thoroughly free himself.
The loss that results to literature in general from this false ideal of our time can
hardly be overestimated. People have a careless way of talking about a
born liar, just as they talk about a born poet. But in both cases
they are wrong. Lying and poetry are artsarts, as Plato saw, not
unconnected with each otherand they require the most careful study,
the most disinterested devotion. Indeed, they have their technique, just
as the more material arts of painting and sculpture have, their subtle
secrets of form and colour, their craft-mysteries, their deliberate
artistic methods. As one knows the poet by his fine music, so one can
recognise the liar by his rich rhythmic utterance, and in neither case
will the casual inspiration of the moment suffice. Here, as elsewhere,
practice must, precede perfection. But in modern days while the fashion
of writing poetry has become far too common, and should, if possible, be
discouraged, the fashion of lying has almost fallen into disrepute. Many
a young man starts in life with a natural gift for exaggeration which,
if nurtured in congenial and sympathetic surroundings, or by the
imitation of the best models, might grow into something really great and
wonderful. But, as a rule, he comes
p.8
to nothing. He either falls into careless habits of accuracy
CYRIL
My dear fellow!
VIVIAN
Please don't interrupt in the middle of
a sentence. He either falls into careless habits of accuracy, or takes
to frequenting the society of the aged and the well-informed. Both
things are equally fatal to his imagination, as indeed they would be
fatal to the imagination of anybody, and in a short time he develops a
morbid and unhealthy faculty of truth-telling, begins to verify all
statements made in his presence, has no hesitation in contradicting
people who are much younger than himself, and often ends by writing
novels which are so lifelike that no one can possibly believe in their
probability. This is no isolated instance that we are giving. It is
simply one example out of many; and if something cannot be done to
check, or at least to modify, our monstrous worship of facts, Art will
become sterile, and beauty will pass away from the land.
Even Mr. Robert Louis Stevenson, that delightful master of delicate and fanciful
prose, is tainted with this modern vice, for we know positively no other
name for it. There is such a thing as robbing a story of its reality by
trying to make it too true, and The Black Arrow is so inartistic as not
to contain a single anachronism
p.9
to boast of, while the transformation of Dr. Jekyll reads dangerously like an experiment out of the Lancet. As
for Mr. Rider Haggard, who really has, or had once, the makings of a
perfectly magnificent liar, he is now so afraid of being suspected of
genius that when he does tell us anything marvellous, he feels bound to
invent a personal reminiscence, and to put it into a footnote as a kind
of cowardly corroboration. Nor are our other novelists much better. Mr.
Henry James writes fiction as if it were a painful duty, and wastes upon
mean motives and imperceptible points of view his neat literary style, his felicitous phrases, his swift and caustic satire. Mr. Hall Caine, it is true, aims at the grandiose, but then he writes at the top of his
voice. He is so loud that one cannot hear what he says. Mr. James Payn
is an adept in the art of concealing what is not worth finding. He hunts
down the obvious with the enthusiasm of a short-sighted detective. As
one turns over the pages, the suspense of the author becomes almost
unbearable. The horses of Mr. William Black's phaeton do not soar
towards the sun. They merely frighten the sky at evening into violent
chromolithographic effects. On seeing them approach, the peasants take
refuge in dialect. Mrs. Oliphant prattles pleasantly about curates,
lawn-tennis parties, domesticity, and other wearisome
p.10
things. Mr. Marion
Crawford has immolated himself upon the altar of local colour. He is
like the lady in the French comedy who keeps talking about le beau ciel
d'Italie. Besides, he has fallen into the bad habit of uttering moral
platitudes. He is always telling us that to be good is to be good, and
that to be bad is to be wicked. At times he is almost edifying. Robert
Elsmere is of course a masterpiecea masterpiece of the genre ennuyeux, the one form of literature that the English people seems thoroughly to enjoy. A thoughtful young friend of ours once told us that it reminded him of the sort of conversation that goes on at a meat tea in the house of a serious Nonconformist family, and we can quite believe it. Indeed it is only in England that such a book could be produced. England is the home of lost ideas. As for that great and daily
increasing school of novelists for whom the sun always rises in the
East-End, the only thing that can be said about them is that they find
life crude, and leave it raw.
In France, though nothing so deliberately tedious as Robert Elsmere has been produced, things are not much better.
M. Guy de Maupassant, with his keen mordant irony and his hard vivid
style, strips life of the few poor rags that still cover her, and shows
us foul sore and festering wound. He writes lurid little tragedies
p.11
in which everybody is ridiculous; bitter comedies at which one cannot laugh
for very tears. M. Zola, true to the lofty principle that he lays down
in one of his pronunciamientos on literature, L'homme de genie n'a jamais d'esprit, is determined to show that, if he has not got genius, he can at least be dull. And how well he succeeds! He is not without power. Indeed at times, as in Germinal, there is something almost epic in his work. But his work is entirely wrong from beginning to end, and wrong not on the ground of morals, but on the ground of art. From any ethical standpoint it is just what it should be. The author is perfectly truthful, and describes things exactly as they happen. What more can any moralist desire? We have no sympathy at all with the moral indignation of our time against M. Zola. It is simply the indignation of Tartuffe on being exposed. But from the standpoint of art, what can be said in favour of the author of L'Assommoir, Nana and Pot-Bouille? Nothing. Mr. Ruskin once described the characters in George Eliot's novels as being like the sweepings of a Pentonville omnibus, but M. Zola's characters are much worse. They have their dreary vices, and their drearier virtues. The record of their lives is absolutely without interest. Who cares what happens to them? In literature we require
p.12
distinction, charm, beauty and imaginative power. We don't want to be harrowed and disgusted with an account of the doings of the lower orders. M. Daudet is better. He has wit, a light touch and an amusing style. But he has lately committed literary suicide. Nobody can possibly care for Delobelle with his Il faut lutter pour l'art, or for Valmajour with his eternal refrain about the nightingale, or for the poet in Jack with his mots
cruels, now that we have learned from Vingt ans de ma vie littéraire that these characters were taken directly from life. To us they seem to have suddenly lost all their vitality, all the few qualities they ever possessed. The only real people are the people who never existed, and if a novelist is base enough to go to life for his personages he should at least pretend that they are creations, and not boast of them as copies. The justification of a character in a novel is not that other persons are what they are, but that the author is what he is. Otherwise the
novel is not a work of art. As for M. Paul Bourget, the master of the
roman psychologique, he commits the error of imagining that the men and women of modern life are capable of being infinitely analysed for an innumerable series of chapters. In point of fact what is interesting about people in good societyand M. Bourget rarely moves
p.13
out of the Faubourg St. Germain, except to come to London,is the mask that each one of them wears, not the reality that lies behind the mask. It is a humiliating confession, but we are all of us made out of the same stuff. In Falstaff there is something of Hamlet, in Hamlet there is not a
little of Falstaff. The fat knight has his moods of melancholy, and the
young prince his moments of coarse humour. Where we differ from each
other is purely in accidentals: in dress, manner, tone of voice,
religious opinions, personal appearance, tricks of habit and the like.
The more one analyses people, the more all reasons for analysis
disappear. Sooner or later one comes to that dreadful universal thing
called human nature. Indeed, as any one who has ever worked among the
poor knows only too well, the brotherhood of man is no mere poet's
dream, it is a most depressing and humiliating reality; and if a writer
insists upon analysing the upper classes, he might just as well write of
match-girls and costermongers at once. However, my dear Cyril, I will not detain you any further just here. I quite admit that modern novels have many good points. All I insist on is that, as a class, they are quite unreadable.
CYRIL
That is
certainly a very grave qualification, but I must say that I think you
are rather unfair in some of your strictures. I like The
p.14
Deemster, and The Daughter of Heth, and Le Disciple, and Mr. Isaacs, and as for Robert
Elsmere, I am quite devoted to it. Not that I can look upon it as a
serious work. As a statement of the problems that confront the earnest
Christian it is ridiculous and antiquated. It is simply Arnold's
Literature and Dogma with the literature left out. It is as much behind the age as Paley's Evidences, or Colenso's method of Biblical exegesis. Nor could anything be less impressive than the unfortunate hero gravely heralding a dawn that rose long ago, and so completely missing its true significance that he proposes to carry on the business of the old firm under the new name. On the other hand, it contains several clever caricatures, and a heap of delightful quotations, and Green's philosophy very pleasantly sugars the somewhat bitter pill of the author's fiction. I also cannot help expressing my surprise that you have said nothing about the two novelists whom you are always reading, Balzac and George Meredith. Surely they are realists, both of them?
VIVIAN
Ah! Meredith! Who can define him? His
style is chaos illumined by flashes of lightning. As a writer he has
mastered everything except language: as a novelist he can do everything,
except tell a story: as an artist he is everything except articulate.
Somebody in
p.15
ShakespeareTouchstone, I thinktalks about a man who is
always breaking his shins over his own wit, and it seems to me that this
might serve as the basis for a criticism of Meredith's method. But
whatever he is, he is not a realist. Or rather I would say that he is a
child of realism who is not on speaking terms with his father. By
deliberate choice he has made himself a romanticist. He has refused to
bow the knee to Baal, and after all, even if the man's fine spirit did
not revolt against the noisy assertions of realism, his style would be
quite sufficient of itself to keep life at a respectful distance. By its
means he has planted round his garden a hedge full of thorns, and red
with wonderful roses. As for Balzac, he was a most remarkable
combination of the artistic temperament with the scientific spirit. The
latter he bequeathed to his disciples. The former was entirely his own.
The difference between such a book as M. Zola's L'Assommoir and Balzac's Illusions perdues is the difference between unimaginative realism and imaginative reality. All Balzac's characters; said Baudelaire, are gifted with the same ardour of life that animated himself. All his fictions are as deeply coloured as dreams. Each mind is a weapon loaded to the muzzle with will. The very scullions have genius. A steady course of Balzac reduces our living friends to shadows, and
p.16
our acquaintances to the shadows of shades. His characters have a kind of
fervent fiery-coloured existence. They dominate us, and defy scepticism.
One of the greatest tragedies of my life is the death of Lucien de
Rubempré. It is a grief from which I have never been able completely to rid myself. It haunts me in my moments of pleasure. I remember it when I
laugh. But Balzac is no more a realist than Holbein was. He created
life, he did not copy it. I admit, however, that he set far too high a
value on modernity of form, and that, consequently, there is no book of
his that, as an artistic masterpiece, can rank with Salammbô or Esmond, or The cloister and the hearth, or the Vicomte de Bragelonne.
CYRIL
Do you object to modernity of form,
then?
VIVIAN
Yes. It is a huge price to pay for a very poor result. Pure modernity of form is always somewhat vulgarising. It cannot help being so. The public imagine that, because they are interested in their immediate surroundings, Art should be interested in them also, and should take them as her subject-matter. But the mere fact that they are interested in these things makes them unsuitable subjects for Art. The only beautiful things, as somebody once said, are the things that do not concern us. As long as a thing is useful or necessary to us, or affects us in
p.17
any way, either for pain or for pleasure, or appeals strongly to our sympathies, or is a vital part of the environment in which we live, it is outside the proper sphere of art. To art's subject-matter we should be more or less indifferent. We should, at any rate, have no preferences, no prejudices, no partisan feeling of any kind. It is exactly because Hecuba is nothing to us that her sorrows are such an admirable motive for a tragedy. I do not know anything in the whole history of literature sadder than the artistic career of Charles Reade. He wrote one beautiful book, The Cloister and the Hearth, a book as much above Romola as Romola is above Daniel Deronda, and wasted the rest of his life in a foolish attempt to be modern, to draw public attention to the state of our convict prisons, and the management of our private lunatic asylums. Charles Dickens was depressing enough in all conscience when he tried to arouse our sympathy for the victims of the poor-law administration; but Charles Reade, an artist, a scholar, a man with a true sense of beauty, raging and roaring over the abuses of contemporary life like a common pamphleteer or a sensational journalist, is really a sight for the angels to weep over. Believe me, my dear Cyril, modernity of form and modernity of subject-matter are entirely and absolutely wrong. We have mistaken the common livery of the age for the vesture of the
p.18
Muses, and spend our days in the sordid streets and hideous suburbs of our vile cities when we should be out on the hillside with Apollo. Certainly we are a degraded race, and have sold our birthright for a mess of facts.
CYRIL
There is something in what you say, and
there is no doubt that whatever amusement we may find in reading a
purely model novel, we have rarely any artistic pleasure in re-reading
it. And this is perhaps the best rough test of what is literature and
what is not. If one cannot enjoy reading a book over and over again,
there is no use reading it at all. But what do you say about the return
to Life and Nature? This is the panacea that is always being recommended
to us.
VIVIAN
I will read you what I say on that subject. The passage comes later on in the article, but I may as well give it to you now:- The popular cry of our time is Let us return to Life and Nature; they will recreate Art for us, and send the red blood coursing through her veins; they will shoe her feet with swiftness and make her hand strong. But, alas! we are mistaken in our amiable and well-meaning efforts. Nature is always behind the age. And as for Life, she is the solvent that breaks up Art, the enemy that lays waste her house.
p.19
CYRIL
What do you mean by saying that Nature is always behind the age?
VIVIAN
Well, perhaps that is rather cryptic.
What I mean is this. If we take Nature to mean natural simple instinct
as opposed to self-conscious culture, the work produced under this
influence is always old-fashioned, antiquated, and out of date. One
touch of Nature may make the whole world kin, but two touches of Nature
will destroy any work of Art. If, on the other hand, we regard Nature as
the collection of phenomena external to man, people only discover in her
what they bring to her. She has no suggestions of her own. Wordsworth
went to the lakes, but he was never a lake poet. He found in stones the
sermons he had already hidden there. He went moralising about the
district, but his good work was produced when he returned, not to Nature
but to poetry. Poetry gave him Laodamia, and the fine sonnets, and the great Ode, such as it is. Nature gave him Martha Ray and Peter Bell, and the address to Mr. Wilkinson's spade.
CYRIL
I think that view might be questioned. I
am rather inclined to believe in the impulse from a vernal wood,
though of course the artistic value of such an impulse depends entirely
on the kind of temperament that receives it, so that the return to
Nature would come to mean simply the
p.20
advance to a great personality. You would agree with that, I fancy. However, proceed with your article.
VIVIAN
[(reading)]. Art begins with abstract decoration, with purely imaginative and pleasurable work dealing with what is unreal and non-existent. This is the first stage. Then Life becomes fascinated with this new wonder, and asks to be admitted into the charmed circle. Art takes life as part of her rough
material, recreates it, and refashions it in fresh forms, is absolutely
indifferent to fact, invents, imagines, dreams, and keeps between
herself and reality the impenetrable barrier of beautiful style, of
decorative or ideal treatment. The third stage is when Life gets the
upper hand, and drives Art out into the wilderness. That is the true
decadence, and it is from this that we are now suffering.
Take the case of the English drama. At first in the hands of the monks Dramatic Art was abstract, decorative and mythological. Then she enlisted Life in her service, and using some of life's external forms, she created an
entirely new race of beings, whose sorrows were more terrible than any
sorrow man has ever felt, whose joys were keener than lover's joys, who
had the rage of the Titans and the calm of the gods, who had monstrous
and marvellous sins, monstrous and marvellous virtues. To them she gave
a language
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different from that of actual use, a language full of resonant music and sweet rhythm, made stately by solemn cadence, or made delicate by fanciful rhyme, jewelled with wonderful words, and enriched with lofty diction. She clothed her children in strange raiment and gave them masks, and at her bidding the antique world rose from its marble tomb. A new Cæsar stalked through the streets of risen Rome, and with purple sail and flute-led oars another Cleopatra passed up the river to Antioch. Old myth and legend and dream took shape and substance. History was entirely re-written, and there was hardly one of the dramatists who did not recognise that the object of Art is not simple truth but complex beauty. In this they were perfectly right. Art itself is really a form of exaggeration; and selection, which is the very spirit of art, is nothing more than an intensified mode of over-emphasis.
But Life soon shattered the perfection of the form. Even in Shakespeare we can see the beginning of the end. It shows itself by the gradual breaking-up of the blank-verse in the later plays, by the predominance given to prose, and by the over-importance assigned to characterisation. The passages in Shakespeareand they are manywhere the language is uncouth, vulgar, exaggerated, fantastic, obscene even, are
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entirely due to Life calling for an echo of her own voice, and rejecting the intervention of beautiful style, through which alone should life be suffered to find expression. Shakespeare is not by any means a flawless artist. He is too fond of going directly to life, and borrowing life's natural utterance. He forgets that when Art surrenders her imaginative medium she surrenders everything. Goethe says, somewhere
In der Beschränkung zeigt sich erst der Meister,
It is in working within limits that the master reveals himself, and the limitation, the very condition of any art is style. However, we need not linger any longer over Shakespeare's realism. The Tempest is the most perfect of palinodes. All that we desired to point out was, that the magnificent work of the Elizabethan and Jacobean artists contained within itself the seeds of its own dissolution, and that, if it drew some of its strength from using life as rough material, it drew all its weakness from using life as an artistic method. As the inevitable result of this substitution of an imitative for a creative medium, this surrender of an imaginative form, we have the modern English melodrama. The characters in these plays talk on the stage exactly as they would talk off it; they have neither aspirations nor aspirates; they are taken directly from life
p.23
and reproduce its vulgarity down to the smallest detail; they present the
gait, manner, costume and accent of real people; they would pass
unnoticed in a third-class railway carriage. And yet how wearisome the
plays are! They do not succeed in producing even that impression of
reality at which they aim, and which is their only reason for existing.
As a method, realism is a complete failure.
What is true about the drama and the novel is no less true about those arts that we call the decorative arts. The whole history of these arts in Europe is the record of the struggle between Orientalism, with its frank rejection of imitation, its love of artistic convention, its dislike to the actual representation of any object in Nature, and our own imitative spirit.
Wherever the former has been paramount, as in Byzantium, Sicily and
Spain, by actual contact, or in the rest of Europe by the influence of
the Crusades, we have had beautiful and imaginative work in which the
visible things of life are transmuted into artistic conventions, and the
things that Life has not are invented and fashioned for her delight. But
wherever we have returned to Life and Nature, our work has always become
vulgar, common and uninteresting. Modern tapestry, with its aërial
effects, its elaborate perspective, its broad expanses of waste sky, its
faithful and
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laborious realism, has no beauty whatsoever. The pictorial
glass of Germany is absolutely detestable. We are beginning to weave
possible carpets in England, but only because we have returned to the
method and spirit of the East. Our rugs and carpets of twenty years ago,
with their solemn depressing truths, their inane worship of Nature,
their sordid reproductions of visible objects, have become, even to the
Philistine, a source of laughter. A cultured Mahomedan once remarked to
us, You Christians are so occupied in misinterpreting the fourth
commandment that you have never thought of making an artistic
application of the second. He was perfectly right, and the whole truth
of the matter is this: The proper school to learn art in is not Life but
Art.
And now let me read you a passage which seems to me to settle the
question very completely.
It was not always thus. We need not say anything about the poets, for they, with the unfortunate exception of Mr. Wordsworth, have been really faithful to their high mission, and are universally recognised as being absolutely unreliable. But in the works of Herodotus, who, in spite of the shallow and ungenerous attempts of modern sciolists to verify his history, may justly be called the Father of Lies; in the
p.25
published speeches of Cicero and the biographies of Suetonius; in Tacitus at his best; in Pliny's Natural History; in Hanno's Periplus; in all the early chronicles; in the Lives of the Saints; in Froissart and Sir Thomas Malory; in the travels of Marco Polo; in Olaus Magnus, and Aldrovandus, and Conrad Lycosthenes, with his magnificent Prodigiorum et Ostentorum Chronicon; in the autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini; in the memoirs of Casanova; in Defoe's History of the Plague; in Boswell's Life of Johnson; in Napoleon's despatches, and in the works of our own Carlyle, whose French Revolution is one of the most fascinating historical novels ever written, facts are either kept in their proper subordinate position, or else entirely excluded on the general ground of dulness. Now, everything is changed. Facts are not merely finding a footing-place in history, but they are usurping the domain of Fancy, and have invaded the kingdom of Romance. Their chilling touch is over everything. They are vulgarising mankind. The crude commercialism of America, its materialising spirit, its indifference to the poetical side of things, and its lack of imagination and of high unattainable ideals, are entirely due to that country having adopted for its national hero a man who, according to his own confession, was incapable of telling a lie, and it is not too much
p.26
to say that the story of George Washington and the cherry-tree has done more harm, and in a shorter space of time, than any other moral tale in the whole of
literature.
CYRIL
My dear boy!
VIVIAN
I assure you it is the case, and the amusing part of the whole thing is that the story of the cherry-tree is an absolute myth. However, you must not think that I am too despondent about the artistic future either of America or of our own country. Listen to this:- That some change will take place before this century has drawn to its close we have no doubt whatsoever. Bored by the tedious and improving conversation of those who have neither the wit to exaggerate nor the genius to romance, tired of the intelligent person whose reminiscences are always based upon memory, whose statements are invariably limited by probability, and who is at any time liable to be corroborated by the merest Philistine who happens to be present, Society sooner or later must return to its lost leader, the cultured and fascinating liar. Who he was who first, without ever having gone out to the rude chase, told the wandering cavemen at sunset how he had dragged the Megatherium from the purple darkness of its jasper cave, or slain the Mammoth in single
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combat and brought back its gilded tusks, we cannot tell, and not one of our modern anthropologists, for all their much-boasted science, has had the ordinary courage to tell us. Whatever was his name or race, he certainly was the true founder of social intercourse. For the aim of the liar is simply to charm, to delight, to give pleasure. He is the very basis of civilised society, and without him a dinner-party, even at the mansions of the great, is as dull as a lecture at the Royal Society, or a debate at the Incorporated Authors, or one of Mr. Burnand's farcical comedies.
Nor will he be welcomed by society alone. Art, breaking from the prison-house of realism, will run to greet him, and will kiss his false, beautiful lips, knowing that he alone is in possession of the great secret of all her manifestations, the secret that Truth is entirely and absolutely a matter of style; while Lifepoor, probable, uninteresting human lifetired of repeating herself for the benefit of Mr. Herbert Spencer, scientific historians, and the compilers of statistics in general, will follow meekly after him, and try to reproduce, in her own simple and untutored way, some of the marvels of which he talks.
No doubt there will always be critics who, like a certain writer in the Saturday Review, will gravely censure the teller of fairy tales for his
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defective knowledge of natural history, who will measure imaginative work by their own lack of any imaginative faculty, and will hold up their ink-stained hands in horror if some honest gentleman, who has never been farther than the yew-trees of his own garden, pens a fascinating book of travels like Sir John Mandeville, or, like great Raleigh, writes a whole history of the world, without knowing anything whatsoever about the past. To excuse themselves they will try and shelter under the shield of him who made
Prospero the magician, and gave him Caliban and Ariel as his servants,
who heard the Tritons blowing their horns round the coral reefs of the
Enchanted Isle, and the fairies singing to each other in a wood near
Athens, who led the phantom kings in dim procession across the misty
Scottish heath, and hid Hecate in a cave with the weird sisters. They
will call upon Shakespearethey always doand will quote that
hackneyed passage forgetting that this unfortunate aphorism about Art
holding the mirror up to Nature, is deliberately said by Hamlet in order
to convince the bystanders of his absolute insanity in all
art-matters.
CYRIL
Ahem! Another cigarette, please.
VIVIAN
My dear fellow, whatever you may say, it is merely a dramatic utterance, and no more represents Shakespeare's real views upon art than the speeches of Iago represent his real views upon
p.29
morals. But let me get to the end of the passage:
Art finds her own perfection within, and not outside of, herself. She is not to be judged by any external standard of resemblance. She is a veil, rather than a mirror. She has flowers that no forests know of, birds that no woodland possesses. She makes and unmakes many worlds, and can draw the moon from heaven with a scarlet thread. Hers are the forms more real than living man, and hers the great archetypes of which things that have existence are but unfinished copies. Nature has, in her eyes, no laws, no uniformity. She can work miracles at her will, and when she calls monsters from the deep they come. She can bid the almond-tree blossom in winter, and send the snow upon the ripe cornfield. At her word the frost lays its silver finger on the burning mouth of June, and the winged lions creep out from the
hollows of the Lydian hills. The dryads peer from the thicket as she
passes by, and the brown fauns smile strangely at her when she comes
near them. She has hawk-faced gods that worship her, and the centaurs
gallop at her side.
CYRIL
I like that. I can see it. Is that the end?
VIVIAN
No. There is one more passage, but
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it is purely practical. It simply suggests some methods by which we could
revive this lost art of Lying.
CYRIL
Well, before you read it to me, I should
like to ask you a question. What do you mean by saying that life, poor,
probable, uninteresting human life, will try to reproduce the marvels
of art? I can quite understand your objection to art being treated as a
mirror. You think it would reduce genius to the position of a cracked
looking-glass. But you don't mean to say that you seriously believe that
Life imitates Art, that Life in fact is the mirror, and Art the
reality?
VIVIAN
Certainly I do.
Paradox though it may seemand paradoxes are always dangerous thingsit is none the less true that Life imitates art far more than Art imitates life. We have all seen in our own day in England how a certain
curious and fascinating type of beauty, invented and emphasised by two
imaginative painters, has so influenced Life that whenever one goes to a
private view or to an artistic salon one sees, here the mystic eyes of
Rossetti's dream, the long ivory throat, the strange square-cut jaw, the
loosened shadowy hair that he so ardently loved, there the sweet
maidenhood of The Golden Stair, the blossom-like mouth and weary loveliness of
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the Laus Amoris, the passion-pale face of Andromeda, the
thin hands and lithe beauty of the Vivian in Merlin's Dream. And it has always been so. A great artist invents a type, and Life tries to
copy it, to reproduce it in a popular form, like an enterprising
publisher. Neither Holbein nor Vandyck found in England what they have
given us. They brought their types with them, and Life with her keen
imitative faculty set herself to supply the master with models. The
Greeks, with their quick artistic instinct, understood this, and set in
the bride's chamber the statue of Hermes or of Apollo, that she might
bear children as lovely as the works of art that she looked at in her
rapture or her pain. They knew that Life gains from art not merely
spirituality, depth of thought and feeling, soul-turmoil or soul-peace,
but that she can form herself on the very lines and colours of art, and
can reproduce the dignity of Pheidias as well as the grace of
Praxiteles. Hence came their objection to realism. They disliked it on
purely social grounds. They felt that it inevitably makes people ugly,
and they were perfectly right. We try to improve the conditions of the
race by means of good air, free sunlight, wholesome water, and hideous
bare buildings for the better housing of the lower orders. But these
things
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merely produce health, they do not produce beauty. For this, Art
is required, and the true disciples of the great artist are not his
studio-imitators, but those who become like his works of art, be they
plastic as in Greek days, or pictorial as in modern times; in a word,
Life is Art's best, Art's only pupil. As it is with the visible arts, so
it is with literature. The most obvious and the vulgarest form in which
this is shown is in the case of the silly boys who, after reading the
adventures of Jack Sheppard or Dick Turpin, pillage the stalls of
unfortunate apple-women, break into sweet-shops at night, and alarm old
gentlemen who are returning home from the city by leaping out on them in
suburban lanes, with black masks and unloaded revolvers. This
interesting phenomenon, which always occurs after the appearance of a
new edition of either of the books I have alluded to, is usually
attributed to the influence of literature on the imagination. But this
is a mistake. The imagination is essentially creative, and always seeks
for a new form. The boy-burglar is simply the inevitable result of
life's imitative instinct. He is Fact, occupied as Fact usually is, with
trying to reproduce Fiction, and what we see in him is repeated on an
extended scale throughout the whole of life. Schopenhauer has analysed
the
p.33
pessimism that characterises modern thought, but Hamlet invented it.
The world has become sad because a puppet was once melancholy. The
Nihilist, that strange martyr who has no faith, who goes to the stake
without enthusiasm, and dies for what he does not believe in, is a
purely literary product. He was invented by Tourgénieff, and completed by Dostoieffski. Robespierre came out of the pages of Rousseau as surely as the People's Palace rose out of the débris of a novel. Literature
always anticipates life. It does not copy it, but moulds it to its
purpose. The nineteenth century, as we know it, is largely an invention
of Balzac. Our Luciens de Rubempré, our Rastignacs, and De Marsays made their first appearance on the stage of the Comédie Humaine. We are merely carrying out, with footnotes and unnecessary additions, the whim or fancy or creative vision of a great novelist. I once asked a lady, who knew Thackeray intimately, whether he had had any model for Becky Sharp. She told me that Becky was an invention, but that the idea of the character had been partly suggested by a governess who lived in the
neighbourhood of Kensington Square, and was the companion of a very
selfish and rich old woman. I inquired what became of the governess, and
she replied that, oddly enough, some years after the
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appearance of Vanity Fair, she ran away with the nephew of the lady with whom she was living, and for a short time made a great splash in society, quite in Mrs. Rawdon Crawley's style, and entirely by Mrs. Rawdon Crawley's methods. Ultimately she came to grief, disappeared to the Continent, and used to be occasionally seen at Monte Carlo and other gambling places. The noble gentleman from whom the same great sentimentalist drew Colonel Newcome died, a few months after The Newcomer had reached a fourth edition, with the word Adsum on his lips. Shortly after Mr. Stevenson published his curious psychological story of transformation, a friend of mine, called Mr. Hyde, was in the north of London, and being anxious to get to a railway station, took what he thought would be a short cut, lost his way, and found himself in a network of mean, evil-looking streets. Feeling rather nervous he began to walk extremely fast, when suddenly out of an archway ran a child right between his legs. It fell on the pavement, he tripped over it, and trampled upon it. Being of
course very much frightened and a little hurt, it began to scream, and
in a few seconds the whole street was full of rough people who came
pouring out of the houses like ants. They surrounded him, and asked him
his name. He was just about to give it when he suddenly remembered
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the opening incident in Mr. Stevenson's story. He was so filled with horror
at having realised in his own person that terrible and well-written
scene, and at having done accidentally, though in fact, what the Mr.
Hyde of fiction had done with deliberate intent, that he ran away as
hard as he could go. He was, however, very closely followed, and finally
he took refuge in a surgery, the door of which happened to be open,
where he explained to a young assistant, who happened to be there,
exactly what had occurred. The humanitarian crowd were induced to go
away on his giving them a small sum of money, and as soon as the coast
was clear he left. As he passed out, the name on the brass door-plate of
the surgery caught his eye. It was Jekyll. At least it should have
been.
Here the imitation, as far as it went, was of course accidental.
In the following case the imitation was self-conscious. In the year
1879, just after I had left Oxford, I met at a reception at the house of
one of the Foreign Ministers a woman of very curious exotic beauty. We
became great friends, and were constantly together. And yet what
interested me most in her was not her beauty, but her character, her
entire vagueness of character. She seemed to have no personality at all,
but simply the possibility
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of many types. Sometimes she would give herself up entirely to art, turn her drawing-room into a studio, and spend two or three days a week at picture galleries or museums. Then she would take to attending race-meetings, wear the most horsey clothes, and talk about nothing but betting. She abandoned religion for mesmerism, mesmerism for politics, and politics for the melodramatic excitements of philanthropy. In fact, she was a kind of Proteus, and as much a failure in all her transformations as was that wondrous sea-god when Odysseus laid hold of him. One day a serial began in one of the French magazines. At that time I used to read serial stories, and I well remember the shock of surprise I felt when I came to the description of the heroine. She was so like my friend that I brought her the magazine, and she recognised herself in it immediately, and seemed fascinated by the
resemblance. I should tell you, by the way, that the story was
translated from some dead Russian writer, so that the author had not
taken his type from my friend. Well, to put the matter briefly, some
months afterwards I was in Venice, and finding the magazine in the
reading-room of the hotel, I took it up casually to see what had become
of the heroine. It was a most piteous tale, as the girl had ended by
running away with a man
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absolutely inferior to her, not merely in social station, but in character and intellect also. I wrote to my friend that evening about my views on John Bellini, and the admirable ices at Florian's, and the artistic value of gondolas, but added a postscript to the effect that her double in the story had behaved in a very silly manner. I don't know why I added that, but I remember I had a sort of dread over me that she might do the same thing. Before my letter had reached her, she had run away with a man who deserted her in six months. I saw her in 1884 in Paris, where she was living with her mother, and I asked her whether the story had had anything to do with her action. She told me that she had felt an absolutely irresistible impulse to follow the heroine step by step in her strange and fatal progress, and that it was with a feeling of real terror that she had looked forward to the
last few chapters of the story. When they appeared, it seemed to her
that she was compelled to reproduce them in life, and she did so. It was
a most clear example of this imitative instinct of which I was speaking,
and an extremely tragic one.
However, I do not wish to dwell any further upon individual instances. Personal experience is a most vicious and limited circle. All that I desire to point out is the general principle that
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Life imitates Art far more than Art imitates Life, and I feel sure that if you think seriously about it you will find that it is true. Life holds the mirror up to Art, and either reproduces some strange type imagined by painter or sculptor, or realises in fact what has been dreamed in fiction. Scientifically speaking, the basis of lifethe energy of life, as Aristotle would call itis simply the desire for expression, and Art is always presenting various forms through which this expression can be attained. Life seizes on them and uses them, even if they be to her own hurt. Young men have committed suicide because Rolla did so, have died by their own hand because by his own hand Werther died. Think of what we owe to the imitation of Christ, of what we owe to the imitation of Cæsar.
CYRIL
The theory is certainly a very curious
one, but to make it complete you must show that Nature, no less than
Life, is an imitation of Art. Are you prepared to prove that?
VIVIAN
My dear fellow, I am prepared to prove
anything.
CYRIL
Nature follows the landscape painter, then, and takes her effects from him?
VIVIAN
Certainly. Where, if not from the
Impressionists, do we get those wonderful brown fogs that come creeping
down our streets, blurring
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the gas-lamps and changing the houses into monstrous shadows? To whom, if not to them and their master, do we owe the lovely silver mists that brood over our river, and turn to faint forms of fading grace curved bridge and swaying barge? The extraordinary change that has taken place in the climate of London during the last ten years is entirely due to a particular school of Art. You smile. Consider the matter from a scientific or a metaphysical point of view, and you will find that I am right. For what is Nature? Nature is no great mother who has borne us. She is our creation. It is in our brain that she quickens to life. Things are because we see them, and what we see, and how we see it, depends on the Arts that have influenced us. To look at a
thing is very different from seeing a thing. One does not see anything
until one sees its beauty. Then, and then only, does it come into
existence. At present, people see fogs, not because there are fogs, but
because poets and painters have taught them the mysterious loveliness of
such effects. There may have been fogs for centuries in London. I dare
say there were. But no one saw them, and so we do not know anything
about them. They did not exist till Art had invented them. Now, it must
be admitted, fogs are carried to excess. They have become
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the mere mannerism of a clique, and the exaggerated realism of their method gives dull people bronchitis. Where the cultured catch an effect, the
uncultured catch cold. And so, let us be humane, and invite Art to turn
her wonderful eyes elsewhere. She has done so already, indeed. That
white quivering sunlight that one sees now in France, with its strange
blotches of mauve, and its restless violet shadows, is her latest fancy,
and, on the whole, Nature reproduces it quite admirably. Where she used
to give us Corots and Daubignys, she gives us now exquisite Monets and
entrancing Pissaros. Indeed there are moments, rare, it is true, but
still to be observed from time to time, when Nature becomes absolutely
modern. Of course she is not always to be relied upon. The fact is that
she is in this unfortunate position. Art creates an incomparable and
unique effect, and, having done so, passes on to other things. Nature,
upon the other hand, forgetting that imitation can be made the sincerest
form of insult, keeps on repeating this effect until we all become
absolutely wearied of it. Nobody of any real culture, for instance, ever
talks nowadays about the beauty of a sunset. Sunsets are quite
old-fashioned. They belong to the time when Turner was the last note in
art. To admire them is a distinct sign of provincialism of
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temperament. Upon the other hand they go on. Yesterday evening Mrs. Arundel insisted on my going to the window, and looking at the glorious sky, as she
called it. Of course I had to look at it. She is one of those absurdly
pretty Philistines to whom one can deny nothing. And what was it? It was
simply a very second-rate Turner, a Turner of a bad period, with all the
painter's worst faults exaggerated and over- emphasised. Of course, I am
quite ready to admit that Life very often commits the same error. She
produces her false Renés and her sham Vautrins, just as Nature gives us, on one day a doubtful Cuyp, and on another a more than questionable
Rousseau. Still, Nature irritates one more when she does things of that
kind. It seems so stupid, so obvious, so unnecessary. A false Vautrin
might be delightful. A doubtful Cuyp is unbearable. However, I don't
want to be too hard on Nature. I wish the Channel, especially at
Hastings, did not look quite so often like a Henry Moore, grey pearl
with yellow lights, but then, when Art is more varied, Nature will, no
doubt, be more varied also. That she imitates Art, I don't think even
her worst enemy would deny now. It is the one thing that keeps her in
touch with civilised man. But have I proved my theory to your
satisfaction?
CYRIL
You have proved it to my dissatisfaction,
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which is better. But even admitting this strange imitative instinct in Life and Nature, surely you would acknowledge that Art expresses the temper of its age, the spirit of its time, the moral and social conditions that surround it, and under whose influence it is produced.
VIVIAN
Certainly not! Art never expresses anything but itself. This is the principle of my new æsthetics; and it is this, more than that vital connection between form and substance, on which Mr. Pater dwells, that makes music the type of all the arts. Of course, nations and individuals, with that healthy natural vanity which is the secret of existence, are always under the impression that it is of them that the Muses are talking, always trying to find in the calm dignity of imaginative art some mirror of their own turbid passions, always forgetting that the singer of life is not Apollo but Marsyas. Remote from reality, and with her eyes turned away from the shadows of the cave, Art reveals her own perfection, and the wondering crowd that watches the opening of the marvellous, many-petalled rose fancies that it is its own history that is being told to it, its own spirit that is finding expression in a new form. But it is not so. The highest art rejects the burden of the human spirit, and gains more from
a new medium or a fresh material than she does from
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any enthusiasm for art, or from any lofty passion, or from any great awakening of the human consciousness. She develops purely on her own lines. She is not symbolic of any age. It is the ages that are her symbols.
Even those who hold that Art is representative of time and place and people cannot help admitting that the more imitative an art is, the less it represents to us the spirit of its age. The evil faces of the Roman emperors look out at us from the foul porphyry and spotted jasper in which the realistic artists of the day delighted to work, and we fancy that in those cruel lips and heavy sensual jaws we can find the secret of the ruin of the
Empire. But it was not so. The vices of Tiberius could not destroy that
supreme civilisation, any more than the virtues of the Antonines could
save it. It fell for other, for less interesting reasons. The sibyls and
prophets of the Sistine may indeed serve to interpret for some that new
birth of the emancipated spirit that we call the Renaissance; but what
do the drunken boors and bawling peasants of Dutch art tell us about the
great soul of Holland? The more abstract, the more ideal an art is, the
more it reveals to us the temper of its age. If we wish to understand a
nation by means of its art, let us look at its architecture or its
music.
p.44
CYRIL
I quite agree with you there. The spirit of an age may be best expressed in the abstract ideal arts, for the spirit itself is abstract and ideal. Upon the other hand, for the visible aspect of an age, for its look, as the phrase goes, we must of course go to the arts of imitation.
VIVIAN
I don't think so. After all, what the
imitative arts really give us are merely the various styles of
particular artists, or of certain schools of artists. Surely you don't
imagine that the people of the Middle Ages bore any resemblance at all
to the figures on mediæval stained glass, or in mediæval stone and wood carving, or on mediæval metal-work, or tapestries, or illuminated MSS. They were probably very ordinary-looking people, with nothing grotesque, or remarkable, or fantastic in their appearance. The Middle Ages, as we know them in art, are simply a definite form of style, and there is no reason at all why an artist with this style should not be
produced in the nineteenth century. No great artist ever sees things as
they really are. If he did, he would cease to be an artist. Take an
example from our own day. I know that you are fond of Japanese things.
Now, do you really imagine that the Japanese people, as they are
presented to us in art, have any existence? If you do, you have never
understood Japanese art
p.45
at all. The Japanese people are the deliberate self-conscious creation of certain individual artists. If you set a picture by Hokusai, or Hokkei, or any of the great native painters, beside a real Japanese gentleman or lady, you will see that there is not the slightest resemblance between them. The actual people who live in Japan are not unlike the general run of English people; that is to say, they are extremely commonplace, and have nothing curious or extraordinary about them. In fact the whole of Japan is a pure
invention. There is no such country, there are no such people. One of
our most charming painters went recently to the Land of the
Chrysanthemum in the foolish hope of seeing the Japanese. All he saw,
all he had the chance of painting, were a few lanterns and some fans. He
was quite unable to discover the inhabitants, as his delightful
exhibition at Messrs. Dowdeswell's Gallery showed only too well. He did
not know that the Japanese people are, as I have said, simply a mode of
style, an exquisite fancy of art. And so, if you desire to see a
Japanese effect, you will not behave like a tourist and go to Tokio. On
the contrary, you will stay at home and steep yourself in the work of
certain Japanese artists, and then, when you have absorbed the spirit of
their style, and caught their imaginative manner of vision, you
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will go some afternoon and sit in the Park or stroll down Piccadilly, and if you cannot see an absolutely Japanese effect there, you will not see it
anywhere. Or, to return again to the past, take as another instance the
ancient Greeks. Do you think that Greek art ever tells us what the Greek
people were like? Do you believe that the Athenian women were like the
stately dignified figures of the Parthenon frieze, or like those
marvellous goddesses who sat in the triangular pediments of the same
building? If you judge from the art, they certainly were so. But read an
authority, like Aristophanes, for instance. You will find that the
Athenian ladies laced tightly, wore high-heeled shoes, dyed their hair
yellow, painted and rouged their faces, and were exactly like any silly
fashionable or fallen creature of our own day. The fact is that we look
back on the ages entirely through the medium of art, and art, very
fortunately, has never once told us the truth.
CYRIL
But modern portraits by English painters,
what of them? Surely they are like the people they pretend to
represent?
VIVIAN
Quite so. They are so like them that a hundred years from now no one will believe in them. The only portraits in which one believes are portraits where there is very little of the sitter, and a very great deal of the artist.
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Holbein's drawings of the men and women of his time impress us with a sense of their absolute reality. But this is simply because Holbein compelled life to accept his conditions, to restrain itself within his limitations, to reproduce his type, and to appear as he wished it to appear. It is style that makes us believe in a thingnothing but style. Most of our modern portrait painters are doomed to absolute oblivion. They never paint what they see. They paint what the public sees, and the public never sees anything.
CYRIL
Well, after that I think I should like to
hear the end of your article.
VIVIAN
With pleasure. Whether it will do any
good I really cannot say. Ours is certainly the dullest and most prosaic
century possible. Why, even Sleep has played us false, and has closed up
the gates of ivory, and opened the gates of horn. The dreams of the
great middle classes of this country, as recorded in Mr. Myers's two
bulky volumes on the subject, and in the Transactions of the Psychical
Society, are the most depressing things that I have ever read. There is
not even a fine nightmare among them. They are commonplace, sordid and
tedious. As for the Church, I cannot conceive anything better for the
culture of a country than the presence in it of a body of men whose duty
it is to believe
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in the supernatural, to perform daily miracles, and to keep alive that mythopœic faculty which is so essential for the imagination. But in the English Church a man succeeds, not through his capacity for belief, but through his capacity for disbelief. Ours is the only Church where the sceptic stands at the altar, and where St. Thomas is regarded as the ideal apostle. Many a worthy clergyman, who passes his life in admirable works of kindly charity, lives and dies unnoticed and unknown; but it is sufficient for some shallow uneducated passman out of either University to get up in his pulpit and express his doubts about Noah's ark, or Balaam's ass, or Jonah and the whale, for half of London to flock to hear him, and to sit open-mouthed in rapt admiration at his superb intellect. The growth of common sense in the English Church is a thing very much to be regretted. It is really a degrading concession to a low form of realism. It is silly, too. It springs from an entire ignorance of psychology. Man can believe the impossible, but man can never believe the improbable. However, I must read the end of my article:
What we have to do, what at any rate it is our duty to do, is
to revive this old art of Lying. Much of course may be done, in the way
of educating the public, by amateurs in the domestic
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circle, at literary lunches, and at afternoon teas. But this is merely the light and graceful side of lying, such as was probably heard at Cretan
dinner-parties. There are many other forms. Lying for the sake of
gaining some immediate personal advantage, for instancelying with a
moral purpose, as it is usually calledthough of late it has been
rather looked down upon, was extremely popular with the antique world.
Athena laughs when Odysseus tells her his words of sly devising, as
Mr. William Morris phrases it, and the glory of mendacity illumines the
pale brow of the stainless hero of Euripidean tragedy, and sets among
the noble women of the past the young bride of one of Horace's most
exquisite odes. Later on, what at first had been merely a natural
instinct was elevated into a self-conscious science. Elaborate rules
were laid down for the guidance of mankind, and an important school of
literature grew up round the subject. Indeed, when one remembers the
excellent philosophical treatise of Sanchez on the whole question, one
cannot help regretting that no one has ever thought of publishing a
cheap and condensed edition of the works of that great casuist. A short
primer, When to Lie and How, if brought out in an attractive and not
too expensive a form, would no doubt command a large sale, and would
prove of real
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practical service to many earnest and deep-thinking people. Lying for the sake of the improvement of the young, which is the basis of home education, still lingers amongst us, and its advantages are so admirably set forth in the early books of Plato's Republic that it is unnecessary to dwell upon them here. It is a mode of lying for which all good mothers have peculiar capabilities, but it is capable of still further development, and has been sadly overlooked by the School Board. Lying for the sake of a monthly salary is of course well known in Fleet Street, and the profession of a political leader-writer is not without its advantages. But it is said to be a somewhat dull occupation, and it certainly does not lead to much beyond a kind of ostentatious obscurity. The only form of lying that is absolutely beyond reproach is lying for its own sake, and the highest development of this is, as we have already pointed out, Lying in Art. Just as those who do not love Plato more than Truth cannot pass beyond the threshold of the Academe, so those who do not love Beauty more than Truth never know the inmost shrine of Art. The solid stolid British intellect lies in the desert sands like the Sphinx in Flaubert's marvellous tale, and fantasy, La Chimère, dances round it, and calls to it with her false, flute-toned voice. It may not hear her now, but surely some day,
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when we are all bored to death with the commonplace character of modern fiction, it will hearken to her and try to borrow her wings.
And when that day dawns, or sunset reddens, how joyous we shall all be! Facts will be regarded as discreditable, Truth will be found mourning over her fetters, and Romance, with her temper of wonder, will return to the land. The very aspect of the world will change to our startled eyes. Out of the sea will rise Behemoth and Leviathan, and sail round the high-pooped
galleys, as they do on the delightful maps of those ages when books on
geography were actually readable. Dragons will wander about the waste
places, and the phœnix will soar from her nest of fire into the air. We shall lay our hands upon the basilisk, and see the jewel in the toad's
head. Champing his gilded oats, the Hippogriff will stand in our stalls,
and over our heads will float the Blue Bird singing of beautiful and
impossible things, of things that are lovely and that never happen, of
things that are not and that should be. But before this comes to pass we
must cultivate the lost art of Lying.
CYRIL
Then we must entirely cultivate it at
once. But in order to avoid making any error I want you to tell me
briefly the doctrines of the new æsthetics.
VIVIAN
Briefly, then, they are these. Art
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never expresses anything but itself. It has an independent life, just as
Thought has, and develops purely on its own lines. It is not necessarily
realistic in an age of realism, nor spiritual in an age of faith. So far
from being the creation of its time, it is usually in direct opposition
to it, and the only history that it preserves for us is the history of
its own progress. Sometimes it returns upon its footsteps, and revives
some antique form, as happened in the archaistic movement of late Greek
Art, and in the pre-Raphaelite movement of our own day. At other times
it entirely anticipates its age, and produces in one century work that
it takes another century to understand, to appreciate and to enjoy. In
no case does it reproduce its age. To pass from the art of a time to the
time itself is the great mistake that all historians commit.
The second doctrine is this. All bad art comes from returning to Life and Nature, and elevating them into ideals. Life and Nature may sometimes be used as part of Art's rough material, but before they are of any real service to art they must be translated into artistic conventions. The moment Art surrenders its imaginative medium it surrenders everything. As a method
Realism is a complete failure, and the two things that every artist
should avoid are modernity of
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form and modernity of subject-matter. To us, who live in the nineteenth century, any century is a suitable subject for art except our own. The only beautiful things are the things that do not concern us. It is, to have the pleasure of quoting myself, exactly because Hecuba is nothing to us that her sorrows are so suitable a motive for a tragedy. Besides, it is only the modern that ever becomes old-fashioned. M. Zola sits down to give us a picture of the Second Empire. Who cares for the Second Empire now? It is out of date. Life goes faster than Realism, but Romanticism is always in front of Life.
The third doctrine is that Life imitates Art far more than Art imitates Life. This results not merely from Life's imitative instinct, but from the fact that the self-conscious aim of Life is to find expression, and
that Art offers it certain beautiful forms through which it may realise
that energy. It is a theory that has never been put forward before, but
it is extremely fruitful, and throws an entirely new light upon the
history of Art.
It follows, as a corollary from this, that external Nature also imitates Art. The only effects that she can show us are effects that we have already seen through poetry, or in paintings. This is the secret of Nature's charm, as well as the explanation of Nature's weakness.
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The final revelation is that Lying, the telling of beautiful untrue things, is the proper aim of Art. But of this I think I have spoken at sufficient length. And now let us go out on the terrace, where droops the milk-white peacock like a ghost, while the evening star
washes the dusk with silver. At twilight nature becomes a wonderfully
suggestive effect, and is not without loveliness, though perhaps its
chief use is to illustrate quotations from the poets. Come! We have
talked long enough.