"Ah! Then you do remember some of the novel. That is a hopeful sign for novelists, I am sure. But, jesting aside, you have not defended your pet hobby, science, from the charge brought against her!"
"If you wish me to take you seriously, then of course I must do so. What you have read, is clever, but not necessarily true. It is good in its place, and as used by the author. It typifies the character of the man, from whose mouth the words escape. But, in doing this, it shows us that he is merely the disciple of a school which depends for its existence upon bombast rather than true knowledge; upon sophistical cloudiness of expression rather than upon logical arguments, based upon reason and fact."
"Ah! Now I have you back to your first statement, that science deals with facts. But is it not true, that by your logical arguments various and varying deductions are obtained by different students, all seeking these finalities, which you term facts? Then which of them all is the true fact, and which is mere speculation?"
"I am afraid, Miss Dudley, that you have asked me a question which I am scarcely qualified to answer. All I can say is, that so long as matters are in dispute, we can have no knowledge of what is the truth. In speaking of facts, I only alluded to those proven hypotheses, which have been finally accepted by all scientists. Those are the facts of which science boasts."
"Yes, many of them are accepted for a decade, and then cast aside as exploded errors. But come, I do not wish to argue too strongly against science. I love it too well. What I prefer to do, is to defend my other hobby, romance; that which you called fiction. I will give you a paradox. I claim that there is more fact in good fiction, and more real fiction in accepted fact, than is generally credited."
"I am afraid I do not comprehend what you mean," said Leon, very much puzzled. He was growing interested in this girl who talked so well.
"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 mass 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?"