selected prose of oscar wilde-第2章

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and　other　wearisome　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。The　Decay　of

Lying。







THE　QUALITY　OF　GEORGE　MEREDITH







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

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

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　Rubempre。　　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　Salammbo　or　Esmond；　or　The

Cloister　and　the　Hearth；　or　the　Vicomte　de　Bragelonne。The　Decay　of

Lying







LIFE　THE　FALLACIOUS　MODEL







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

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　Caesar　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　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。The　Decay　of　Lying







LIFE　THE　DISCIPLE







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　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　li