God sent a poet to reform His earth.--A. MARY F. ROBINSON.
"And meanwhile, what have you written?" asked Baldwin, tickling the
flies with his whip from off the horse's head, as they slowly ascended,
in the autumn afternoon, the hill of Montetramito, which with its ilex
and myrtle-grown black rocks, and its crumbling mounds, where the bright
green spruce pine clings to the washed-away scarlet sand, separates
the green and fertile plain of Lucca from the marshes of the Pisan
sea-shore. The two friends had met only an hour or so before at the foot
of the Apennine pass, and would part in not much more again. "And what
have you written?" repeated Baldwin.
"Nothing," answered the younger man, drearily, leaning back languidly in
the rickety little carriage. "Nothing, or rather too much; I don't know
which. Is trash too much or too little? Anyhow, there's none of it
remaining. I thrust all my manuscripts into my stove at Dresden, and the
chimney took fire in consequence. That's the tragic history of all my
poetical labours of the last two years." And Cyril, lying back in the
carriage with his arms folded beneath his head, smiled half-sadly, half
whimsically in the face of his friend.
But Baldwin did not laugh.
"Cyril," he answered, "do you remember on a birthday of yours--you were
a tiny boy, brought up like a girl, with curls and beautiful hands--one
of your sisters dared you to throw your presents into the garden well,
and you did it, before a number of admiring little girls: you felt
quite a hero or a little saint, didn't you? And then my little hero was
suddenly collared by a big boy fresh from school, who was his friend
Baldwin, and who pulled his ears soundly and told him to respect
people's presents a little more. Do you remember that? Well; I now see
that, with all your growing up, and writing, and philosophising, and
talking about duty and self-sacrifice, you are just the self-same
womanish and uncontrolled _poseur_, the same romantic braggadoccio that
you were at seven. I have no patience with you!" And Baldwin whisked the
whip angrily at the flies.
"Mere conceit: effeminate heroics again!" he went on. "Oh no, we must do
the very best! Be Shakespeare at least! Anything short of that would be
derogatory to our kingly nature! no idea of selecting the good (because
in whatever you do there must be talent), and trying to develop it; no
idea of doing the best with what gifts you have! For you are not going
to tell me that two years of your work was mere rubbish--contained
nothing of value. But, in point of fact, you don't care sufficiently for
your art to be satisfied to be the most you can; 'tis mere vanity with
you."
Cyril became very red, but did not interrupt.
"I am sorry you think so ill of me," he said sadly, "and I dare say I
have given you good cause. I dare say I am all the things you say--vain,
and womanish, and insolently dissatisfied with myself, and idiotically
heroic. But not in this case, I assure you. I will explain why I
thought it right to do that. You see I know myself very well now. I
know my dangers; I am not like you--I am easily swayed. Had those poems
remained in existence, had I taken them to England, I am sure I should
not have resisted the temptation of showing them to my old encouragers,
of publishing them probably; and then, after the success of my other
book, and all their grand prophecies, the critics would have had to
praise up this one too; and I should have been drifted back again into
being a poet. Now, as I wrote you several times--only, of course, you
thought it all humbug and affectation--such a poet as I could be I am
determined I will not be. It was an act of self-defence--defence of
whatever of good there may be in me."