So the pure and beautiful falsehood of it all
remains naked and innocent as a babe; transparent as truth itself;
limpid as afresh bubbling spring. But the ponderous and learned lie of
our moderns has to keep its true character draped and veiled. And if
there is discovered anywhere the least little peep-hole of deception,
the reader turns away with a prudish disgust, and the author is
discredited.
When we were young, we understood all sweet things; and we could detect
the sweets of a fairy story by an unerring science of our own. We never
cared for such useless things as knowledge. We only cared for truth.
And our unsophisticated little hearts knew well where the Crystal Palace
of Truth lay and how to reach it. But to-day we are expected to write
pages of facts, while the truth is simply this:
"There was a king."
I remember vividly that evening in Calcutta when the fairy story began.
The rain and the storm had been incessant. The whole of the city was
flooded. The water was knee-deep in our lane. I had a straining hope,
which was almost a certainty, that my tutor would be prevented from
coming that evening.
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