selected prose of oscar wilde-第2节

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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