Part 37 (2/2)
”Good,” said Agnes. ”I will gladly expound my doctrine. The best exponent of so called fact which I can cite, is the daily press. The newspapers pretend to relate actual events; to tell us what really occurs. But let us look into the matter but a moment, and we discover that only on rare occasions is the reporter present when the thing happens, of which he is expected to write. Thus, he is obliged to depend upon others for his facts. Each person interrogated, gives him a version of the affair according with his own received impressions.
But occurrences impress different persons in very different ways. Thus Mr. Reporter, when he comes to his desk, finds that he must sift out his facts from a ma.s.s of error. He does so, and obtains an approximation of the truth. It would be erroneous enough if he were now to write what he has deduced; but if he is at all capable, as a caterer to the public taste, he is compelled to serve his goose with a fancy sauce. He must weave an amount of fiction into and around his facts, so that the article may have some flavor. And the flavor is sweet or sour, nice or nasty, in accordance with the known predilections of the subscribers. What wonder that one who truly seeks for the facts in the case, endeavoring to obtain them by reading several accounts, finally throws all the newspapers away in disgust!”
”Bravo, Miss Dudley! You have offered an excellent arraignment against the integrity of the press. But I am more curious than ever to hear you prove that fiction contains fact.”
”It must, or it is essentially inartistic. The writer who seeks to paint the world, the people, and the events of the world, as they really are, sets up in his mind, as a subject for copy, the sum of his observation of the world and the people in it. First, we will imagine that he weaves a plot. This is the fiction of his romance. If he writes out this story, adhering closely to his tale, calling the hero A, the heroine B, and the villain C, he deals in fiction only. But even here it would have no material attraction, unless it is conceded to be possible; it need not be probable. But if it is a possible sequence of events, at once we see that the basis is in fact. But when he goes further, and calls A, Arthur, B, Beatrice, and C, Clarence, at once they begin to acquire the characteristics of real people, or else puppets. If the latter, there is no value to the conception, while if the former, then in dealing with these creations of his mind, the writer must allot to each a personality, emotions, demeanor, and morality, which must be recognizable as human. He must in other words clothe his dummies with the semblance of reality, and for that he must turn to the facts of life, as he has observed them. Thus good fiction is really all fact. Q. E. D.”
”Your argument is certainly ingenious, and worthy of consideration. It is a new way to look upon fiction, and I am glad that you have reconciled me to the idea of reading novels, for I must confess that though, when reading _Ardath_, I felt guilty of neglecting more important studies, nevertheless I was very much entertained by the book, which contains many ideas well thought, and well presented. But to resume the argument, as to the facts of fiction, let me say this.
Is it not true that the predominant theme with novelists is love? And would you contend that love is the most important fact in the world?”
”Unquestionably it is the predominant fact, to use your own word. All the joy and misery, good and evil, is directly traceable to that one absorbing pa.s.sion.”
”You speak with feeling. Pardon my asking if it is a predominant emotion with yourself?”
”It is not,” answered the girl, quickly and frankly. ”Of course I understand you to mean by love, the feeling which exists between two persons of opposite s.e.x, who are unrelated by ties of consanguinity; or, where a relations.h.i.+p does exist, that sort of affection which is more than cousinly, and which leads to marriage. Such an emotion is entirely foreign to my nature, and therefore of course does not form a predominant characteristic of my being. But on this you cannot base an argument against what I claim, because I am an exception to the rule.
With the vast majority, love is undoubtedly the leading motive of existence.”
”Miss Dudley, if you find the study of mankind interesting in the form of novels, which you say record the impressions of the authors, then you must pardon my studying your character as you kindly reveal it to me. This must explain my further questioning. May I proceed?”
”Oh! I see! You wish to use me as the surgeon does the cadaver. You would dissect me, merely for the purposes of general study. It is hardly fair, but proceed.” She laughed gayly.
”You said,” continued Leon, ”that love, such as you have described, is foreign to your nature. Am I to understand that you could not form an attachment of that kind which leads to matrimony?”
”Well, all girls say that. But I believe I may say so, and be truthful. I doubt whether any man will ever inspire me with that love, without which I would consider marriage a sin. I do not say this idly, or upon the impulse of the moment. While I have never felt those heart-aches of which the novelists write, yet I have considered the subject deeply, in so far as it affects myself. So I say again, love is foreign to my nature.”
”It is very singular!” said Leon, and he spoke almost as though soliloquizing. ”I have the same feelings. I have always thought that no one would ever love me; but, latterly, I have come to consider the subject from the other stand-point, and now I believe as you do that I shall never love any woman. If I may go further, I would like to ask you why you have adopted this theory about yourself? I will agree to explain myself, if you will reply.”
”With pleasure! From childhood I have been thrown almost exclusively into the companions.h.i.+p of two exceptional men, my father, and Dr.
Medjora. I have the sincerest affection for them both. I say this, for without loving them I would probably never have been so influenced by them as I have been. While they are very unlike in their personalities, yet they have one characteristic in common: a deep longing for intellectual advancement. Growing up in such an environment, I have acquired the same predilection, so that now my one aim in life is knowledge. I do not see how love could aid me in this, while I do see how it might prove a great obstacle in my pathway.
Household cares, and with them the care of a man, are not conducive to the acquirement of learning. Now I will listen to you.”
”In a measure our cases are similar. I too have always deemed the search for knowledge the highest aim in life, but I did not extract that desire from my surroundings, for there was no inspiration about me. What I have learned, prior to my companions.h.i.+p with Dr. Medjora, was rather stolen sweets, that I obtained only in secret. The ideas about love, however, probably did emanate from my environment, for while I believe that my adopted mother loved me, I did not discover it until the day on which she died. Because no one loved me, I believed that no one ever would. But in my later a.n.a.lysis I have come to believe, that after starving from the lack of affection for so many years, I have finally lost the responsive feeling that gives birth to the emotion. I think that no one can attract me to that extent necessary to enkindle in my heart the emotion called love.”
He looked away in a wistful manner, and Agnes felt a slight pity for the lad who had never known the love of his parents.
”Does it sadden you to think that way?” she asked softly.
”You have detected that? Yes! It is very curious. Ordinarily I accept the idea calmly. But occasionally I seem to be two persons, and one, who recognizes the happiness possible from love, looks at the other with pitying sympathy, because he will never love. Then in a moment I am my single self again, but the momentary hallucination puzzles me.
It is as though I had been in the presence of a wraith, and the name of the spectre, dead to me, were Love itself. It is not a pleasant thought, and you must pardon my telling you. Ah! There comes the Judge!”
He bowed his adieux and went out into the hall to meet Judge Dudley.
Agnes took up her book and essayed to read again, but the spectre of love which he had described, danced like a little red demon with forked tail, up and down the pages, until she put the book aside and went up to her room, where she threw herself on her lounge and lost herself in thought.
When Leon reached his room, upon returning home, he was surprised to find his dog, Lossy, lying under his bed, growling ominously at Madame Medjora, who was poking at him with a broom handle. She was evidently disturbed at Leon's entrance, and turned upon him angrily.
”This dog of yours must not come in the house. I will not have it. I am mistress here, and dogs must be kept in the stable.”
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