VIVIAN.Probably.Besides,you are a little too old.We don't admit anybody who is of the usual age.
CYRIL.Well,I should fancy you are all a good deal bored with each other.
VIVIAN.We are.This is one of the objects of the club.Now,if you promise not to interrupt too often,I will read you my article.
CYRIL.You will find me all attention.
VIVIAN （reading in a very clear,musical voice）.THE DECAY OFLYING: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 modem novelist presents us with dull facts under the guise of fiction.The Blue-Book is rapidly becoming his ideal both for method and manner.He has his tedious DOCUMENT HUMAIN,his miserable little COIN DE LA 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 never,even in his most meditative moments,can he thoroughly free himself.
'The lose 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 arts -arts,as Pinto saw,not unconnected with each other -and they require the most careful study,the most disinterested devotion.Indeed,they have their technique,just as the more material arts of painting and sculpture have,their subtle secrets of form and colour,their craft-mysteries,their deliberate artistic methods.As one knows the poet by his fine music,so one can recognise the liar by his rich rhythmic utterance,and in neither case will the casual inspiration of the moment suffice.
Here,as elsewhere,practice must,precede perfection.But in modern days while the fashion of writing poetry has become far too common,and should,if possible,be discouraged,the fashion of lying has almost fallen into disrepute.Many a young man starts in life with a natural gift for exaggeration which,if nurtured in congenial and sympathetic surroundings,or by the imitation of the best models,might grow into something really great and wonderful.
But,as a rule,he comes to nothing.He either falls into careless habits of accuracy -'
CYRIL.My dear fellow!
VIVIAN.Please don't interrupt in the middle of a sentence.'He either falls into careless habits of accuracy,or takes to frequenting the society of the aged and the well-informed.Both things are equally fatal to his imagination,as indeed they would be fatal to the imagination of anybody,and in a short time he develops a morbid and unhealthy faculty of truth-telling,begins to verify all statements made in his presence,has no hesitation in contradicting people who are much younger than himself,and often ends by writing novels which are so lifelike that no one can possibly believe in their probability.This is no isolated instance that we are giving.It is simply one example out of many;and if something cannot be done to check,or at least to modify,our monstrous worship of facts,Art will become sterile,and beauty will pass away from the land.
'Even Mr.Robert Louis Stevenson,that delightful master of delicate and fanciful prose,is tainted with this modern vice,for we know positively no other name for it.There is such a thing as robbing a story of its reality by trying to make it too true,and THE BLACK ARROW is so inartistic as not to contain a single anachronism 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 bear what he says.Mr.James Payn is an adept in the art of concealing what is not worth finding.He hunts down the obvious with the enthusiasm of a short-sighted detective.
