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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 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。The Decay of Lying







LIFE THE PLAGIARIST







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

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 

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