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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