Читать книгу Urbanities - E. V. Lucas - Страница 5

OF ACCURACY

Table of Contents

OPENING recently one of the great frivolous illustrated weeklies: those papers in which, by reading from left to right, one identifies footlight favourites and peers’ second sons—opening one of these, I came upon a page of ladies of the chorus with whom by a singular chance (for I am not naturally much entangled by the stage) I have some slight acquaintance. For circumstances having conspired to lure me into one of the many avenues which lead to or branch from the Temple of Thespis, I had been much occupied too in the composition of what with excessive lenience Mr. Crummles calls “lyrics”. By this term, which to me has always meant something rather sacred, a joyful or passionate expression of emotion or ecstasy, associated with such names as Shakespeare and Herrick, Shelley and T. E. Brown, Campion and Lovelace, Mr. Crummles means any and every assemblage of words set to music and sung by young ladies to audiences. I never hear my own efforts in this line called lyrics without blushing; but “lyric” being the accepted phrase, just as “comedy,” that fine term, is the accepted phrase for all forms of dialogue intended to remove gravity, protest is foolish. Those who are so temerarious as to accept invitations to Rome must adopt Rome’s vocabulary. Looking then upon the page of my new friends in the frivolous weekly illustrated paper, I was shocked and horrified to discover that out of some eighteen there portrayed, only a small proportion were accurately named. The names were right, but they were associated with the wrong photographs, or, if you prefer it, the photographs were right, but they were associated with the wrong names.

See how many persons that careless sub-editor has disillusioned by his happy-go-lucky methods! For it is not only I, who do not really matter, but all those dainty-toed, festivous ladies wrongly named who have been rendered sceptical. Rightly named, they would have been plunged into delight, together with their relations, their friends, and their “boys”; but as it is, all these good people are now profoundly impressed by the untrustworthiness of the weekly illustrated press, and in grave doubt as to the bonâ fides of the daily illustrated press too. Imagine the feelings of the mother—or, if you will (for you are so desperately romantic), the fiancé—of Miss Trottie Demury when she (or he) sees under the picture the name of Miss Birdy Dupois. For Miss Demury is beautiful, whereas Miss Dupois——And then imagine the feelings of the mother or fiancé of Miss Dupois on finding that under her picture is the name of Miss Cussie Roe. For Miss Dupois is beautiful, whereas Miss Roe——And so it goes on. All these good people are, I say, not only hurt, disappointed, and surprised, but made permanently sceptical.

There is too much unbelief in the world for so many of us thus suddenly to augment the great army of doubt. But how can we help it? Speaking personally, this regrettable occurrence has undermined my confidence not only in that particular number of the paper but in every issue of it that I have ever seen. If on the only occasion when I have special knowledge I am thus deceived, how can I continue to believe in any other statement? All the thrills imparted to me by gazing in earlier numbers on the ivory smile of Miss Dymphna Dent may have been wasted. Those too numerous languorous half-lengths were probably not Mlle. Lala Ratmort at all. Nor am I perhaps acquainted with the lineaments, as I thought I was, of either Count De Spoons, the famous collector of old silver, or Mrs. Debosh-Tinker, the beautiful and popular new hostess. And those fine young fellows who used to figure week by week in the melancholy Roll of Honour—they may have often been misnamed too. So you see what it is to have one’s faith shattered.

Has any reader of these words, I wonder, ever found perfect accuracy in the newspaper account of any event of which he himself had inside knowledge? Something always is wrong; often, many things are wrong. Where, then, is accuracy to be found? Where is truth? As the modern Pilate might ask, Is there such a thing as truth absolute?

My experience of truth is that it is granular and not solid; a kind of dust or powder. Every one of us has some grains of it; but some have more than others, and some esteem the material more highly than others. When the Psalmist said “All men are liars,” he was understating the case; in his leisure he would have added, “And all men are truth-tellers”. It is almost impossible to keep truth out; no one can consistently suppress it. It crops up everywhere, even in the most unlikely places. Deliberate false witness can be full of it. I believe that every written sentence, every spoken sentence, is almost bound to contain a grain or so, even when the speaker or writer is trying hard to lie; and when the words are spoken in anger, the grains are apt to be numerous. Human nature is so complex and contradictory that practically everything that can be said of anyone has some truth in it. But when it comes to truth absolute and unqualified—not Diogenes with a searchlight could find that.

As one grows older one grows increasingly suspicious, not only of other people’s testimony, but of one’s own. Memory plays strange and stranger tricks; hearing is less exact; vision becomes defective. Once upon a time I would state a thing with emphasis, and stick to it. Now I state a thing with hesitancy, and when the question is put to me, “Are you sure about that?” I abandon the position instantly. “No,” I say, “I am not sure. I am no longer sure about anything in the world except that death some day is coming.”