THE DECAY OF LYING

A DIALOGUE. Persons: Cyril and Vivian. Scene: the Library of a

country house in Nottinghamshire.

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 Nature. 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 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 the imagination, or fancy,

or cultivated blindness of the man who looks at her.

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 lumpy

and damp, and full of dreadful black insects. Why, even Morris's

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 over-educated; at least everybody who is incapable

of learning has taken to teaching - that is really what our

enthusiasm for education has come to. In the meantime, you had

better go back to your wearisome uncomfortable Nature, and leave me

to correct my proofs.