Oscar Wilde.............................................................................................................................................1

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 Mature. 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, that Nature is so imperfect, as otherwise we

should have had 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

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 dumpy and damp, and full of dreadful black

insects. Why, even Morris' 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 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 overeducated; 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,

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 article is really a most salutary and valuable

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 responsibility, 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 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

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.

VIVIAN. Oh, The Tired Hedonists of course. It is a club to which I belong. We are supposed to wear faded

roses in our buttonholes when we meet, and to have a sort of cult for Domitian. I am afraid you are not

VIVIAN. Probably. Besides, you are little too old. We don't admit anybody who is of the usual age.

VIVIAN. We are. That is one of the objects of the club. Now, if you promise not to interrupt too often, I will

VIVIAN (reading i?' a very clear, musical voice). "THE DECAY OF LYING: A PROTEST.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 BlueBook is rapidly becoming his ideal both for method and manner. He has his tedious ' document

humain,' his miserable little 'coin de la creation,' 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

encyclopaedias 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 which

"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

craftmysteries, their deliberate artistic methods. As one knows the poet by his fine music, so one can

recognize 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 to nothing. He either falls into careless habits of accuracy

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 wellinformed. 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 truthtelling, 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 like life 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 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 shortsighted 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, lawntennis parties, domesticity, 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 a 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 seem to thoroughly 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

Noncomformist 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 EastEnd, the only thing that can be said about them is that they find life

"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 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 G nie 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, [Vane, and

PotBouille? 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 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 'II faut lutter pour l'art,' or for Valmajour with his eternal refrain about the nightingale, or

for the poet in Jack with his 'moss cruels,' now that we have learned from Vingt Ans de ma Vie litl raire 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 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 matchgirls 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 Deemster, and The Daughter of Heth, and Le Disciple, and Mr. Isaacs, and as for

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,

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 ShakespeareTouchstone, I think talks 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 wonderful 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 fierycoloured

existence. They dominate us, and defy scepticism. One of the greatest tragedies of my life is the death of

Lucien de Rubempr '. It is a grief from which I have never been able to completely 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 Salammb� or

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 subjectmatter. 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 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 subjectmatter 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

poorlaw 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

subjectmatter are entirely and absolutely wrong. We have mistaken the common livery of the age for the

vesture of the 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

CYRIL. There is something in what you say, and there is no doubt that whatever amusement we may find in

reading a purely modern novel, we have rarely any artistic pleasure in rereading 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

VIVIAN. I will read you what I say on that subject. The passage comes later on in the article, but I may as

"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 weIImeaning 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."

VIVIAN. Well, perhaps that is rather cryptic. What I mean is this. If we take Nature to mean natural simple

instinct as opposed to selfconscious culture, the work produced under this influence is always oldfashioned,

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 moralizing 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

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 advance to a great personality.

VIVIAN (reading). "Art begins with abstract deco ration 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. This is the true

"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 fluteled

oars another Cleopatra passed up the river to Antioch. Old myth and legend and dream took shape and

substance. History was entirely rewritten, and there was hardly one of the dramatists who did not recognize

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

"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 blankverse in the later plays, by the predominance given to

prose, and by the overimportance 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 Goethe says, somewhereIn der Beschr�nkung zeigt sich

'It is in working within limits that the master reveals himself,' and the limitation, the very condition for of any

art is style. However, we need not liege' any longer over Shakespeare's realism. The Tempest is the most

perfect of palinodes. All that 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 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

thirdclass 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

"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 aerial

effects, its elaborate perspective, its broad expanses of waste sky, its faithful and 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 c 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 Christian 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 recognized 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 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 Mallory; 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 Casanuova; 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 footingplace 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 to say that the story of George Washington and the cherrytree has done

more harm, and in a shorter space of time, than any other moral tale in the whole of literature."

VIVIAN. I assure you it is the case, and the amusing part of the whole thing is that the story of the cherrytree

is an absolute myth. However, you must not think that I am too despondent about the artistic future either of

"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

wondering cavemen at sunset how he had dragged the Megatherium from the purple darkness of its jasper

cave, or slain the Mammoth in single combat and brought back its gilded tusks, we cannot tell, and not one of

our modern anthropologists, for all their muchboasted 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 civilized 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

"Nor will he be welcomed by society alone. Art, breaking from the prisonhouse 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

"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 defective knowledge of natural history, who will measure imaginative work by

their own lack of any imaginative faculty, and will hold up their inkstained hands in horror if some honest

gentleman' who has never been farther than the yewtrees 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 end sheller 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 sister. They will call upon Shakespearethey always doand will quote that

hackneyed passage about Art holding the mirror up to Nature, forgetting that this unfortunate aphorism is

deliberately said by Hamlet in order to convince the bystanders of his absolute insanity in all artmatters."

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 morals. But let me

"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.

VIVIAN. No. There is one more passage, but it is purely practical. It simply suggests some methods by

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 Iookingglass. But you don't mean to say that you seriously believe that Life imitates Art, that Life

VIVIAN. Certainly I do. Paradox though it may seemand paradoxes are always dangerous things it 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 squarecut jaw, the loosened shadowy

hair that he so ardently loved, there the sweet maidenhood of The Golden Stair, the blossomlike mouth and

weary loveliness of the Laus Amoris, the passionpale face of Andromeda, the thin hands and lithe beauty of

the Vivien 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, soulturmoil or soulpeace, 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 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 applewomen, 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 fore 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 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 Tourg nieff, and completed by Dostoieffski. Robespierre came out of the pages of Rousseau as

surely as the People's Palace rose out debris 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 Rubempre, our Rastignacs, and De Marsays made their first appearance on the stage ofthe

Com die 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 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 gamblingplaces. The noble

gentleman from whom the same great sentimentalist drew Colonel Newcome died, a few months after The

Newcomes 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, evillooking 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 littIe 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 the opening incident in Mr. Stevenson's story. He was so filled with horror at having realized 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 was serving 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 quite clear he left. As he passed out, the name on the brass doorplate of the surgery caught his eye.

Here the imitation, as far as it went, was of course accidental. In the following case the imitation was

selfconscious. 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 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 of many types. Sometimes she

would give herself up entirely to art, turn her drawingroom into a studio, and spend two or three days a week

at picture galleries or museums. Then she would take to attending racemeetings, wear the most horsey

clothes, and talk about nothing but betting. She abandoned religion for mesmerism, mesmerism for politics,

and politics for thematic excitements of philanthropy. In fact, she was a kind of Proteus, and as much a

failure in all her transformations as was that wondrous seagod 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 recognized 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 readingroom 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

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 Florio'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

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 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 realizes in fact

what has been dreamed in fiction. Scientifically speaking, the basis of life the 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 Caesar.

CYRIL. The theory is certainly a very curious one, but to make it complete you must show that Nature, no

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 the gaslamps 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 this 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 Aght. 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 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 Pisaros. 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 temperament. Upon the other hand they

go on. Yesterday evening Mrs. Arundel insisted on my coming 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 secondrate Turner, a Turner of a bad period, with

all the painter's worst faults exaggerated and overemphasized. Of course, I am quite ready to admit that Life

very often commits the same error. She produces her false Ren s 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 civilized man.

CYRIL. You have proved it to my dissatisfaction, 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 a aesthetics;

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, manypetalled 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 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 civilization, 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 brawling 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.

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 arid ideal. Upon the other hand, for the visible aspect of an age, for its look, as the

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 mediaeval stained glass or in mediaeval stone and wood carving,

or on mediaeval metalwork, or tapestries, or illuminated MSS. They were probabIy very ordinarylooking

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 at all. The Japanese people are the deliberate

selfconscious 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 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 highheeled shoes, died 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

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. 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.

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 in the supernatural, to perform daily miracles, and

to keep alive that mythopoetic 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 openmouthed 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 circle, at literary lunches, and at

afternoon teas. But this is merely the light and graceful side of Iying, 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 instance lying with a moral purpose, as it is usually called though 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 selfconscious 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 practical service to many earnest and deepthinking 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 Iying 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 sal ary is of course well known in Fleet Street, and the profession of a political leaderwriter 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 Iying 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 [a Chimere, dances round it, and

calls to it with her false, flutetoned voice. It may not hear her now, but surely some day, when we are all

bored to death with the commonplace character of modern fiction, it will hearken to her and try to borrow her

"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 highpooped 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

phoenix 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

happened, of things that are not and that should be. But before this comes to pass we must cultivate the lost

CYRIL. Then we must certainly cultivate it at once. But in order to avoid making any error I want you to tell

VIVIAN. Briefly, then, they are these. Art 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 thearchaistic movement of late Greek Art, and in

the preRaphaelite 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

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 form and modernity of subjectmatter. 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

oldfashioned. 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 selfconscious aim of Life is to find expression, and that Art offers

it certain beautiful forms through which it may realize 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,

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 milkwhite

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