"It cannot be too deeply impressed on the mind, that application
is the price to be paid for mental acquisitions, and that it is
as absurd to expect them without it as to hope for a harvest
where we have not sown the seed.
"In everything we do, we may be possibly laying a train of
consequences, the operation of which may terminate only with
our existence."
BAILEY: /Essays on the Formation and Publication of Opinions/.
TIME passed, and autumn was far advanced towards winter; still
Maltravers lingered at Como. He saw little of any other family than
that of the De Montaignes, and the greater part of his time was
necessarily spent alone. His occupation continued to be that of making
experiments of his own powers, and these gradually became bolder and
more comprehensive. He took care, however, not to show his "Diversions
of Como" to his new friends: he wanted no audience--he dreamt of no
Public; he desired merely to practise his own mind. He became aware, of
his own accord, as he proceeded, that a man can neither study with such
depth, nor compose with much art, unless he has some definite object
before him; in the first, some one branch of knowledge to master; in the
last, some one conception to work out. Maltravers fell back upon his
boyish passion for metaphysical speculation; but with what different
results did he now wrestle with the subtle schoolmen, now that he had
practically known mankind. How insensibly new lights broke in upon him,
as he threaded the labyrinth of cause and effect, by which we seek to
arrive at that curious and biform monster--our own nature. His mind
became saturated, as it were, with these profound studies and
meditations; and when at length he paused from them, he felt as if he
had not been living in solitude, but had gone through a process of
action in the busy world: so much juster, so much clearer, had become
his knowledge of himself and others. But though these researches
coloured, they did not limit his intellectual pursuits. Poetry and the
lighter letters became to him not merely a relaxation, but a critical
and thoughtful study. He delighted to penetrate into the causes that
have made the airy webs spun by men's fancies so permanent and powerful
in their influence over the hard, work-day world. And what a lovely
scene--what a sky--what an air wherein to commence the projects of that
ambition which seeks to establish an empire in the hearts and memories
of mankind! I believe it has a great effect on the future labours of a
writer,--the place where he first dreams that it is his destiny to
write!
From these pursuits Ernest was aroused by another letter from Cleveland.
His kind friend had been disappointed and vexed that Maltravers did not
follow his advice, and return to England. He had shown his displeasure
by not answering Ernest's letter of excuses; but lately he had been
seized with a dangerous illness which reduced him to the brink of the
grave; and with a heart softened by the exhaustion of the frame, he now
wrote in the first moments of convalescence to Maltravers, informing him
of his attack and danger, and once more urging him to return. The
thought that Cleveland--the dear, kind gentle guardian of his youth--had
been near unto death, that he might never more have hung upon that
fostering hand, nor replied to that paternal voice, smote Ernest with
terror and remorse. He resolved instantly to return to England, and
made his preparations accordingly.
He went to take leave of the De Montaignes. Teresa was trying to teach
her first-born to read; and seated by the open window of the villa, in
her neat, not precise, /dishabille/--with the little boy's delicate, yet
bold and healthy countenance looking up fearlessly at hers, while she
was endeavouring to initiate him--half gravely, half laughingly--into
the mysteries of monosyllables, the pretty boy and the fair young mother
made a delightful picture. De Montaigne was reading the Essays of his
celebrated namesake, in whom he boasted, I know not with what justice,
to claim an ancestor. From time to time he looked from the page to take
a glance at the progress of his heir, and keep up with the march of
intellect. But he did not interfere with the maternal lecture; he was
wise enough to know that there is a kind of sympathy between a child and
a mother, which is worth all the grave superiority of a father in making
learning palatable to young years. He was far too clever a man not to
despise all the systems of forcing infants under knowledge-frames, which
are the present fashion. He knew that philosophers never made a greater
mistake than in insisting so much upon beginning abstract education from
the cradle. It is quite enough to attend to an infant's temper, and
correct that cursed predilection for telling fibs which falsifies all
Dr. Reid's absurd theory about innate propensities to truth, and makes
the prevailing epidemic of the nursery. Above all, what advantage ever
compensates for hurting a child's health or breaking his spirit? Never
let him learn, more than you can help it, the crushing bitterness of
fear. A bold child who looks you in the face, speaks the truth, and
shames the devil; that is the stuff of which to make good and brave--ay,
and wise men!
Maltravers entered, unannounced, into this charming family party, and
stood unobserved for a few moments, by the open door. The little pupil
was the first to perceive him, and, forgetful of monosyllables, ran to
greet him; for Maltravers, though gentle rather than gay, was a
favourite with children, and his fair, calm, gracious countenance did
more for him with them than if, like Goldsmith's Burchell, his pockets
had been filled with gingerbread and apples. "Ah, fie on you, Mr.
Maltravers!" cried Teresa, rising; "you have blown away all the
characters I have been endeavouring this last hour to imprint upon
sand."
"Not so, Signora," said Maltravers, seating himself, and placing the
child on his knee; "my young friend will set to work again with a
greater gusto after this little break in upon his labours."
"You will stay with us all day, I hope?" said De Montaigne.
"Indeed," said Maltravers, "I am come to ask permission to do so, for
to-morrow I depart for England."
"Is it possible?" cried Teresa. "How sudden! How we shall miss you!
Oh! don't go. But perhaps you have bad news from England?"
"I have news that summon me hence," replied Maltravers; "my guardian and
second father has been dangerously ill. I am uneasy about him, and
reproach myself for having forgotten him so long in your seductive
society."
"I am really sorry to lose you," said De Montaigne, with greater warmth
in his tone than in his words. "I hope heartily we shall meet again
soon: you will come, perhaps, to Paris?"
"Probably," said Maltravers; "and you, perhaps, to England?"
"Ah, how I should like it!" exclaimed Teresa.
"No, you would not," said her husband; "you would not like England at
all; you would call it /triste/ beyond measure. It is one of those
countries of which a native should be proud, but which has no amusement
for a stranger, precisely because full of such serious and stirring
occupations to the citizens. The pleasantest countries for strangers
are the worst countries for natives (witness Italy), and /vice versa/."
Teresa shook her dark curls, and would not be convinced.
"And where is Castruccio?" asked Maltravers.
"In his boat on the lake," replied Teresa. "He will be inconsolable at
your departure: you are the only person he can understand, or who
understand him; the only person in Italy--I had almost said in the whole
world."
"Well, we shall meet at dinner," said Ernest; "meanwhile let me prevail
on you to accompany me to the /Pliniana/. I wish to say farewell to
that crystal spring."
Teresa, delighted at any excursion, readily consented.
"And I too, mamma," cried the child; "and my little sister?"
"Oh, certainly," said Maltravers, speaking for the parents.
So the party was soon ready, and they pushed off in the clear genial
noontide (for November in Italy is as early as September in the North)
across the sparkling and dimpled waters. The children prattled, and the
grown-up people talked on a thousand matters. It was a pleasant day,
that last day at Como! For the farewells of friendship have indeed
something of the melancholy, but not the anguish, of those of love.
Perhaps it would be better if we could get rid of love altogether. Life
would go on smoother and happier without it. Friendship is the wine of
existence, but love is the dram-drinking.
When they returned, they found Castruccio seated on the lawn. He did
not appear so much dejected at the prospect of Ernest's departure as
Teresa had anticipated; for Castruccio Cesarini was a very jealous man,
and he had lately been chagrined and discontented with seeing the
delight that the De Montaignes took in Ernest's society.
"Why is this?" he often asked himself; "why are they more pleased with
this stranger's society than mine? My ideas are as fresh, as original;
I have as much genius, yet even my dry brother-in-law allows /his/
talents, and predicts that/he/ will be an eminent man! while
/I/--No!--one is not a prophet in one's own country!"
Unhappy man! his mind bore all the rank weeds of the morbid poetical
character, and the weeds choked up the flowers that the soil, properly
cultivated, should alone bear. Yet that crisis in life awaited
Castruccio, in which a sensitive and poetical man is made or marred; the
crisis in which a sentiment is replaced by the passions--in which love
for some real object gathers the scattered rays of the heart into a
focus: out of that ordeal he might pass a purer and manlier being--so
Maltravers often hoped. Maltravers then little thought how closely
connected with his own fate was to be that passage in the history of the
Italian. Castruccio contrived to take Maltravers aside, and as he led
the Englishman through the wood that backed the mansion, he said, with
some embarrassment, "You go, I suppose, to London?"
"I shall pass through it--can I execute any commission for you?"
"Why, yes; my poems!--I think of publishing them in England: your
aristocracy cultivate the Italian letters; and, perhaps, I may be read
by the fair and noble--/that/ is the proper audience of poets. For the
vulgar herd--I disdain it!"
"My dear Castruccio, I will undertake to see your poems published in
London, if you wish it; but do not be sanguine. In England we read
little poetry, even in our own language, and we are shamefully
indifferent to foreign literature."
"Yes, foreign literature generally, and you are right; but my poems are
of another kind. They must command attention in a polished and
intelligent circle."
"Well! let the experiment be tried; you can let me have the poems when
we part."
"I thank you," said Castruccio, in a joyous tone, pressing his friend's
hand; and for the rest of that evening, he seemed an altered being; he
even caressed the children, and did not sneer at the grave conversation
of his brother-in-law.
When Maltravers rose to depart, Castruccio gave him the packet; and
then, utterly engrossed with his own imagined futurity of fame, vanished
from the room to indulge his reveries. He cared no longer for
Maltravers--he had put him to use--he could not be sorry for his
departure, for that departure was the Avatar of His appearance to a new
world.
A small dull rain was falling, though, at intervals, the stars broke
through the unsettled clouds, and Teresa did not therefore venture from
the house; she presented her smooth cheek to the young guest to salute,
pressed him by the hand, and bade him adieu with tears in her eyes.
"Ah!" said she, "when we meet again I hope you will be married--I shall
love your wife dearly. There is no happiness like marriage and home!"
and she looked with ingenuous tenderness at De Montaigne.
Maltravers sighed;--his thoughts flew back to Alice. Where now was that
lone and friendless girl, whose innocent love had once brightened a home
for /him/? He answered by a vague and mechanical commonplace, and
quitted the room with De Montaigne, who insisted on seeing him depart.
As they neared the lake, De Montaigne broke the silence.
"My dear Maltravers," he said, with a serious and thoughtful affection
in his voice, "we may not meet again for years. I have a warm interest
in your happiness and career--yes, /career/--I repeat the word. I do
not habitually seek to inspire young men with ambition. Enough for most
of them to be good and honourable citizens. But in your case it is
different. I see in you the earnest and meditative, not rash and
overweening youth, which is usually productive of a distinguished
manhood. Your mind is not yet settled, it is true; but it is fast
becoming clear and mellow from the first ferment of boyish dreams and
passions. You have everything in your favour,--competence, birth,
connections; and, above all, you are an Englishman! You have a mighty
stage, on which, it is true, you cannot establish a footing without
merit and without labour--so much the better; in which strong and
resolute rivals will urge you on to emulation, and then competition will
task your keenest powers. Think what a glorious fate it is, to have an
influence on the vast, but ever-growing mind of such a country,--to
feel, when you retire from the busy scene, that you have played an
unforgotten part--that you have been the medium, under God's great will,
of circulating new ideas throughout the world--of upholding the glorious
priesthood of the Honest and the Beautiful. This is the true ambition;
the desire of mere personal notoriety is vanity, not ambition. Do not
then be lukewarm or supine. The trait I have observed in you," added
the Frenchman, with a smile, "most prejudicial to your chances of
distinction is, that you are /too/ philosophical, too apt to /cui bono/
all the exertions that interfere with the indolence of cultivated
leisure. And you must not suppose, Maltravers, that an active career
will be a path of roses. At present you have no enemies; but the moment
you attempt distinction, you will be abused; calumniated, reviled. You
will be shocked at the wrath you excite, and sigh for your old
obscurity, and consider, as Franklin has it, that 'you have paid too
dear for your whistle.' But in return for individual enemies, what a
noble recompense to have made the Public itself your friend; perhaps
even Posterity your familiar! Besides," added De Montaigne, with almost
a religious solemnity in his voice, "there is a conscience of the head
as well as of the heart, and in old age we feel as much remorse if we
have wasted our natural talents as if we had perverted our natural
virtues. The profound and exultant satisfaction with which a man who
knows that he has not lived in vain--that he has entailed on the world
an heirloom of instruction or delight--looks back upon departed
struggles, is one of the happiest emotions of which the conscience can
be capable. What, indeed, are the petty faults we commit as
individuals, affecting but a narrow circle, ceasing with our own lives,
to the incalculable and everlasting good we may produce as public men by
one book or by one law? Depend upon it that the Almighty, who sums up
all the good and all the evil done by His creatures in a just balance,
will not judge the august benefactors of the world with the same
severity as those drones of society, who have no great services to show
in the eternal ledger, as a set-off to the indulgence of their small
vices. These things rightly considered, Maltravers, you will have every
inducement that can tempt a lofty mind and a pure ambition to awaken
from the voluptuous indolence of the literary Sybarite, and contend
worthily in the world's wide Altis for a great prize."
Maltravers never before felt so flattered--so stirred into high
resolves. The stately eloquence, the fervid encouragement of this man,
usually so cold and fastidious, roused him like the sound of a trumpet.
He stopped short, his breath heaved thick, his cheek flushed. "De
Montaigne," said he, "your words have cleared away a thousand doubts and
scruples--they have gone right to my heart. For the first time I
understand what fame is--what the object, and what the reward of labour!
Visions, hopes, aspirations I may have had before--for months a new
spirit has been fluttering within me. I have felt the wings breaking
from the shell, but all was confused, dim, uncertain. I doubted the
wisdom of effort, with life so short, and the pleasures of youth so
sweet. I now look no longer on life but as a part of the eternity to
which I /feel/ we were born; and I recognise the solemn truth that our
objects, to be worthy life, should be worthy of creatures in whom the
living principle never is extinct. Farewell! come joy or sorrow,
failure or success, I will struggle to deserve your friendship."
Maltravers sprang into his boat, and the shades of night soon snatched
him from the lingering gaze of De Montaigne.