Lavengro

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"But, however that might be, I had, by writing the address, at last
discovered what had so long eluded my search--what I was able to do. I,
who had neither the nerve nor the command of speech necessary to
constitute the orator--who had not the power of patient research required
by those who would investigate the secrets of nature, had, nevertheless,
a ready pen and teeming imagination. This discovery decided my fate--from
that moment I became an author."

CHAPTER LXVI.

Trepidations--Subtle Principle--Perverse Imagination--Are they
Mine?--Another Book--How Hard!--Agricultural Dinner--Incomprehensible
Actions--Inmost Bosom--Give it Up--Chance Resemblance--Rascally
Newspaper.

"An author," said I, addressing my host; "is it possible that I am under
the roof of an author?"

"Yes," said my host, sighing, "my name is so and so, and I am the author
of so and so; it is more than probable that you have heard both of my
name and works. I will not detain you much longer with my history; the
night is advancing, and the storm appears to be upon the increase. My
life since the period of my becoming an author may be summed briefly as
an almost uninterrupted series of doubts, anxieties, and trepidations. I
see clearly that it is not good to love anything immoderately in this
world, but it has been my misfortune to love immoderately everything on
which I have set my heart. This is not good, I repeat--but where is the
remedy? The ancients were always in the habit of saying, 'Practise
moderation,' but the ancients appear to have considered only one portion
of the subject. It is very possible to practise moderation in some
things, in drink and the like--to restrain the appetites--but can a man
restrain the affections of his mind, and tell them, so far you shall go,
and no farther? Alas, no! for the mind is a subtle principle, and cannot
be confined. The winds may be imprisoned; Homer says that Odysseus
carried certain winds in his ship, confined in leathern bags, but Homer
never speaks of confining the affections. It were but right that those
who exhort us against inordinate affections, and setting our hearts too
much upon the world and its vanities, would tell us how to avoid doing
so.

"I need scarcely tell you, that no sooner did I become an author, than I
gave myself up immoderately to my vocation. It became my idol, and, as a
necessary consequence, it has proved a source of misery and disquietude
to me, instead of pleasure and blessing. I had trouble enough in writing
my first work, and I was not long in discovering that it was one thing to
write a stirring and spirited address to a set of county electors, and
another widely different to produce a work at all calculated to make an
impression upon the great world. I felt, however, that I was in my
proper sphere, and by dint of unwearied diligence and exertion I
succeeded in evolving from the depths of my agitated breast a work which,
though it did not exactly please me, I thought would serve to make an
experiment upon the public; so I laid it before the public, and the
reception which it met with was far beyond my wildest expectations. The
public were delighted with it, but what were my feelings? Anything,
alas! but those of delight. No sooner did the public express its
satisfaction at the result of my endeavours, than my perverse imagination
began to conceive a thousand chimerical doubts; forthwith I sat down to
analyse it; and my worst enemy, and all people have their enemies,
especially authors--my worst enemy could not have discovered or sought to
discover a tenth part of the faults which I, the author and creator of
the unfortunate production, found or sought to find in it. It has been
said that love makes us blind to the faults of the loved object--common
love does, perhaps--the love of a father to his child, or that of a lover
to his mistress, but not the inordinate love of an author to his works,
at least not the love which one like myself bears to his works: to be
brief, I discovered a thousand faults in my work, which neither public
nor critics discovered. However, I was beginning to get over this
misery, and to forgive my work all its imperfections, when--and I shake
when I mention it--the same kind of idea which perplexed me with regard
to the hawks and the gypsy pony rushed into my mind, and I forthwith
commenced touching the objects around me, in order to baffle the evil
chance, as you call it; it was neither more nor less than a doubt of the
legality of my claim to the thoughts, expressions, and situations
contained in the book; that is, to all that constituted the book. How
did I get them? How did they come into my mind? Did I invent them? Did
they originate with myself? Are they my own, or are they some other
body's? You see into what difficulty I had got; I won't trouble you by
relating all that I endured at that time, but will merely say that after
eating my own heart, as the Italians say, and touching every object that
came in my way for six months, I at length flung my book, I mean the copy
of it which I possessed, into the fire, and began another.

"But it was all in vain; I laboured at this other, finished it, and gave
it to the world; and no sooner had I done so, than the same thought was
busy in my brain, poisoning all the pleasure which I should otherwise
have derived from my work. How did I get all the matter which composed
it? Out of my own mind, unquestionably; but how did it come there--was
it the indigenous growth of the mind? And then I would sit down and
ponder over the various scenes and adventures in my book, endeavouring to
ascertain how I came originally to devise them, and by dint of reflecting
I remembered that to a single word in conversation, or some simple
accident in a street, or on a road, I was indebted for some of the
happiest portions of my work; they were but tiny seeds, it is true, which
in the soil of my imagination had subsequently become stately trees, but
I reflected that without them no stately trees would have been produced,
and that, consequently, only a part in the merit of these compositions
which charmed the world--for they did charm the world--was due to myself.
Thus, a dead fly was in my phial, poisoning all the pleasure which I
should otherwise have derived from the result of my brain sweat. 'How
hard!' I would exclaim, looking up to the sky, 'how hard! I am like
Virgil's sheep, bearing fleeces not for themselves.' But, not to tire
you, it fared with my second work as it did with my first; I flung it
aside, and in order to forget it I began a third, on which I am now
occupied; but the difficulty of writing it is immense, my extreme desire
to be original sadly cramping the powers of my mind; my fastidiousness
being so great that I invariably reject whatever ideas I do not think to
be legitimately my own. But there is one circumstance to which I cannot
help alluding here, as it serves to show what miseries this love of
originality must needs bring upon an author. I am constantly discovering
that, however original I may wish to be, I am continually producing the
same things which other people say or write. Whenever, after producing
something which gives me perfect satisfaction, and which has cost me
perhaps days and nights of brooding, I chance to take up a book for the
sake of a little relaxation, a book which I never saw before, I am sure
to find in it something more or less resembling some part of what I have
been just composing. You will easily conceive the distress which then
comes over me; 'tis then that I am almost tempted to execrate the chance
which, by discovering my latent powers, induced me to adopt a profession
of such anxiety and misery.

"For some time past I have given up reading almost entirely, owing to the
dread which I entertain of lighting upon something similar to what I
myself have written. I scarcely ever transgress without having almost
instant reason to repent. To-day, when I took up the newspaper, I saw in
a speech of the Duke of Rhododendron, at an agricultural dinner, the very
same ideas, and almost the same expressions which I had put into the
mouth of an imaginary personage of mine, on a widely different occasion;
you saw how I dashed the newspaper down--you saw how I touched the floor;
the touch was to baffle the evil chance, to prevent the critics detecting
any similarity between the speech of the Duke of Rhododendron at the
agricultural dinner, and the speech of my personage. My sensibility on
the subject of my writings is so great, that sometimes a chance word is
sufficient to unman me, I apply it to them in a superstitious sense; for
example, when you said some time ago that the dark hour was coming on, I
applied it to my works--it appeared to bode them evil fortune; you saw
how I touched, it was to baffle the evil chance; but I do not confine
myself to touching when the fear of the evil chance is upon me. To
baffle it I occasionally perform actions which must appear highly
incomprehensible; I have been known, when riding in company with other
people, to leave the direct road, and make a long circuit by a miry lane
to the place to which we were going. I have also been seen attempting to
ride across a morass, where I had no business whatever, and in which my
horse finally sank up to its saddle-girths, and was only extricated by
the help of a multitude of hands. I have, of course, frequently been
asked the reason of such conduct, to which I have invariably returned no
answer, for I scorn duplicity; whereupon people have looked mysteriously,
and sometimes put their fingers to their foreheads. 'And yet it can't
be,' I once heard an old gentleman say; 'don't we know what he is capable
of?' and the old man was right; I merely did these things to avoid the
evil chance, impelled by the strange feeling within me; and this evil
chance is invariably connected with my writings, the only things at
present which render life valuable to me. If I touch various objects,
and ride into miry places, it is to baffle any mischance befalling me as
an author, to prevent my books getting into disrepute; in nine cases out
of ten to prevent any expressions, thoughts, or situations in any work
which I am writing from resembling the thoughts, expressions, and
situations of other authors, for my great wish, as I told you before, is
to be original.

"I have now related my history, and have revealed to you the secrets of
my inmost bosom. I should certainly not have spoken so unreservedly as I
have done, had I not discovered in you a kindred spirit. I have long
wished for an opportunity of discoursing on the point which forms the
peculiar feature of my history with a being who could understand me; and
truly it was a lucky chance which brought you to these parts; you who
seem to be acquainted with all things strange and singular, and who are
as well acquainted with the subject of the magic touch as with all that
relates to the star Jupiter, or the mysterious tree at Upsal."

Such was the story which my host related to me in the library, amidst the
darkness, occasionally broken by flashes of lightning. Both of us
remained silent for some time after it was concluded.

"It is a singular story," said I, at last, "though I confess that I was
prepared for some part of it. Will you permit me to ask you a question?"

"Certainly," said my host.

"Did you never speak in public?" said I.

"Never."

"And when you made this speech of yours in the dining-room, commencing
with Mr. Speaker, no one was present?"

"None in the world, I double-locked the door; what do you mean?"

"An idea came into my head--dear me how the rain is pouring--but, with
respect to your present troubles and anxieties, would it not be wise,
seeing that authorship causes you so much trouble and anxiety, to give it
up altogether?"

"Were you an author yourself," replied my host, "you would not talk in
this manner; once an author, ever an author--besides, what could I do?
return to my former state of vegetation? no, much as I endure, I do not
wish that; besides, every now and then my reason tells me that these
troubles and anxieties of mine are utterly without foundation; that
whatever I write is the legitimate growth of my own mind, and that it is
the height of folly to afflict myself at any chance resemblance between
my own thoughts and those of other writers, such resemblance being
inevitable from the fact of our common human origin. In short--"

"I understand you," said I; "notwithstanding your troubles and anxieties
you find life very tolerable; has your originality ever been called in
question?"

"On the contrary, every one declares that originality constitutes the
most remarkable feature of my writings; the man has some faults, they
say, but want of originality is certainly not one of them. He is quite
different from others--a certain newspaper, it is true, the --- I think,
once insinuated that in a certain work of mine I had taken a hint or two
from the writings of a couple of authors which it mentioned; it happened,
however, that I had never even read one syllable of the writings of
either, and of one of them had never even heard the name; so much for the
discrimination of the -----By-the-bye, what a rascally newspaper that
is!"

"A very rascally newspaper," said I.

CHAPTER LXVII.

Disturbed Slumbers--The Bed-Post--Two Wizards--What can I Do?--Real
Library--The Rev. Mr. Platitude--Toleration to Dissenters--Paradox--Sword
of St. Peter--Enemy to Humbug--High Principles--False Concord--The
Damsel--What Religion?--Farther Conversation--That would never Do!--May
you Prosper.

During the greater part of that night my slumbers were disturbed by
strange dreams. Amongst other things, I fancied that I was my host; my
head appeared to be teeming with wild thoughts and imaginations, out of
which I was endeavouring to frame a book. And now the book was finished
and given to the world, and the world shouted; and all eyes were turned
upon me, and I shrunk from the eyes of the world. And, when I got into
retired places, I touched various objects in order to baffle the evil
chance. In short, during the whole night, I was acting over the story
which I had heard before I went to bed.

At about eight o'clock I awoke. The storm had long since passed away,
and the morning was bright and shining; my couch was so soft and
luxurious that I felt loth to quit it, so I lay some time, my eyes
wandering about the magnificent room to which fortune had conducted me in
so singular a manner; at last I heaved a sigh; I was thinking of my own
homeless condition, and imagining where I should find myself on the
following morning. Unwilling, however, to indulge in melancholy
thoughts, I sprang out of bed and proceeded to dress myself, and, whilst
dressing, I felt an irresistible inclination to touch the bed-post.

I finished dressing and left the room, feeling compelled, however, as I
left it, to touch the lintel of the door. Is it possible, thought I,
that from what I have lately heard the long-forgotten influence should
have possessed me again? but I will not give way to it; so I hurried down
stairs, resisting as I went a certain inclination which I occasionally
felt to touch the rail of the banister. I was presently upon the gravel
walk before the house: it was indeed a glorious morning. I stood for
some time observing the golden fish disporting in the waters of the pond,
and then strolled about amongst the noble trees of the park; the beauty
and freshness of the morning--for the air had been considerably cooled by
the late storm--soon enabled me to cast away the gloomy ideas which had
previously taken possession of my mind, and, after a stroll of about half
an hour, I returned towards the house in high spirits. It is true that
once I felt very much inclined to go and touch the leaves of a flowery
shrub which I saw at some distance, and had even moved two or three paces
towards it; but, bethinking myself, I manfully resisted the temptation.
"Begone!" I exclaimed, "ye sorceries, in which I formerly trusted--begone
for ever vagaries which I had almost forgotten; good luck is not to be
obtained, or bad averted, by magic touches; besides, two wizards in one
parish would be too much, in all conscience."

I returned to the house, and entered the library; breakfast was laid on
the table, and my friend was standing before the portrait which I have
already said hung above the mantel-piece; so intently was he occupied in
gazing at it that he did not hear me enter, nor was aware of my presence
till I advanced close to him and spoke, when he turned round and shook me
by the hand.

"What can possibly have induced you to hang that portrait up in your
library? it is a staring likeness, it is true, but it appears to me a
wretched daub."

"Daub as you call it," said my friend, smiling, "I would not part with it
for the best piece of Raphael. For many a happy thought I am indebted to
that picture--it is my principal source of inspiration; when my
imagination flags, as of course it occasionally does, I stare upon those
features, and forthwith strange ideas of fun and drollery begin to flow
into my mind; these I round, amplify, or combine into goodly creations,
and bring forth as I find an opportunity. It is true that I am
occasionally tormented by the thought that, by doing this, I am
committing plagiarism; though, in that case, all thoughts must be
plagiarisms, all that we think being the result of what we hear, see, or
feel. What can I do? I must derive my thoughts from some source or
other; and, after all, it is better to plagiarise from the features of my
landlord than from the works of Butler and Cervantes. My works, as you
are aware, are of a serio-comic character. My neighbours are of opinion
that I am a great reader, and so I am, but only of those features--my
real library is that picture."

"But how did you obtain it?" said I.

"Some years ago a travelling painter came into this neighbourhood, and my
jolly host, at the request of his wife, consented to sit for his
portrait; she highly admired the picture, but she soon died, and then my
fat friend, who is of an affectionate disposition, said he could not bear
the sight of it, as it put him in mind of his poor wife. I purchased it
of him for five pounds--I would not take five thousand for it; when you
called that picture a daub, you did not see all the poetry of it."

We sat down to breakfast; my entertainer appeared to be in much better
spirits than on the preceding day; I did not observe him touch once; ere
breakfast was over a servant entered--"The Reverend Mr. Platitude, sir,"
said he.

A shade of dissatisfaction came over the countenance of my host. "What
does the silly pestilent fellow mean by coming here?" said he, half to
himself; "let him come in," said he to the servant.

The servant went out, and in a moment reappeared, introducing the
Reverend Mr. Platitude. The Reverend Mr. Platitude, having what is
vulgarly called a game leg, came shambling into the room; he was about
thirty years of age, and about five feet three inches high; his face was
of the colour of pepper, and nearly as rugged as a nutmeg grater; his
hair was black; with his eyes he squinted, and grinned with his lips,
which were very much apart, disclosing two very irregular rows of teeth;
he was dressed in the true Levitical fashion, in a suit of spotless
black, and a neckerchief of spotless white.

The Reverend Mr. Platitude advanced winking and grinning to my
entertainer, who received him politely but with evident coldness; nothing
daunted, however, the Reverend Mr. Platitude took a seat by the table,
and, being asked to take a cup of coffee, winked, grinned, and consented.

In company I am occasionally subject to fits of what is generally called
absence; my mind takes flight and returns to former scenes, or presses
forward into the future. One of these fits of absence came over me at
this time--I looked at the Reverend Mr. Platitude for a moment, heard a
word or two that proceeded from his mouth, and saying to myself, "You are
no man for me," fell into a fit of musing--into the same train of thought
as in the morning, no very pleasant one--I was thinking of the future.

I continued in my reverie for some time, and probably should have
continued longer, had I not been suddenly aroused by the voice of Mr.
Platitude raised to a very high key. "Yes, my dear sir," said he, "it is
but too true; I have it on good authority--a gone church--a lost church--a
ruined church--a demolished church is the Church of England. Toleration
to Dissenters! oh, monstrous!"

"I suppose," said my host, "that the repeal of the Test Acts will be
merely a precursor of the emancipation of the Papists?"

"Of the Catholics," said the Reverend Mr. Platitude. "Ahem. There was a
time, as I believe you are aware, my dear sir, when I was as much opposed
to the emancipation of the Catholics as it was possible for any one to
be; but I was prejudiced, my dear sir, labouring under a cloud of most
unfortunate prejudice; but I thank my Maker I am so no longer. I have
travelled, as you are aware. It is only by travelling that one can rub
off prejudices; I think you will agree with me there. I am speaking to a
traveller. I left behind all my prejudices in Italy. The Catholics are
at least our fellow-Christians. I thank Heaven that I am no longer an
enemy to Catholic emancipation."

"And yet you would not tolerate Dissenters?"

"Dissenters, my dear sir; I hope you would not class such a set as the
Dissenters with Catholics?"

"Perhaps it would be unjust," said my host, "though to which of the two
parties is another thing; but permit me to ask you a question: Does it
not smack somewhat of paradox to talk of Catholics, whilst you admit
there are Dissenters? If there are Dissenters, how should there be
Catholics?"

"It is not my fault that there are Dissenters," said the Reverend Mr.
Platitude; "if I had my will I would neither admit there were any, nor
permit any to be."

"Of course you would admit there were such as long as they existed; but
how would you get rid of them?"

"I would have the Church exert its authority."

"What do you mean by exerting its authority?"

"I would not have the Church bear the sword in vain."

"What, the sword of St. Peter? You remember what the founder of the
religion which you profess said about the sword, 'He who striketh with
it--' I think those who have called themselves the Church have had
enough of the sword. Two can play with the sword, Mr. Platitude. The
Church of Rome tried the sword with the Lutherans: how did it fare with
the Church of Rome? The Church of England tried the sword, Mr.
Platitude, with the Puritans: how did it fare with Laud and Charles?"

"Oh, as for the Church of England," said Mr. Platitude, "I have little to
say. Thank God I left all my Church of England prejudices in Italy. Had
the Church of England known its true interests, it would long ago have
sought a reconciliation with its illustrious mother. If the Church of
England had not been in some degree a schismatic church, it would not
have fared so ill at the time of which you are speaking; the rest of the
Church would have come to its assistance. The Irish would have helped
it, so would the French, so would the Portuguese. Disunion has always
been the bane of the Church."

Once more I fell into a reverie. My mind now reverted to the past;
methought I was in a small comfortable room wainscoted with oak; I was
seated on one side of a fireplace, close by a table on which were wine
and fruit; on the other side of the fire sat a man in a plain suit of
brown, with the hair combed back from his somewhat high forehead; he had
a pipe in his mouth, which for some time he smoked gravely and placidly,
without saying a word; at length, after drawing at the pipe for some time
rather vigorously, he removed it from his mouth, and emitting an
accumulated cloud of smoke, he exclaimed in a slow and measured tone, "As
I was telling you just now, my good chap, I have always been an enemy to
humbug."

When I awoke from my reverie the Reverend Mr. Platitude was quitting the
apartment.

"Who is that person?" said I to my entertainer, as the door closed behind
him.

"Who is he?" said my host; "why, the Rev. Mr. Platitude."

"Does he reside in this neighbourhood?"

"He holds a living about three miles from here; his history, as far as I
am acquainted with it, is as follows. His father was a respectable
tanner in the neighbouring town, who, wishing to make his son a
gentleman, sent him to college. Having never been at college myself, I
cannot say whether he took the wisest course; I believe it is more easy
to unmake than to make a gentleman; I have known many gentlemanly youths
go to college, and return anything but what they went. Young Mr.
Platitude did not go to college a gentleman, but neither did he return
one; he went to college an ass, and returned a prig; to his original
folly was superadded a vast quantity of conceit. He told his father that
he had adopted high principles, and was determined to discountenance
everything low and mean; advised him to eschew trade, and to purchase him
a living. The old man retired from business, purchased his son a living,
and shortly after died, leaving him what remained of his fortune. The
first thing the Reverend Mr. Platitude did, after his father's decease,
was to send his mother and sister into Wales to live upon a small
annuity, assigning as a reason that he was averse to anything low, and
that they talked ungrammatically. Wishing to shine in the pulpit, he now
preached high sermons, as he called them, interspersed with scraps of
learning. His sermons did not, however, procure him much popularity; on
the contrary, his church soon became nearly deserted, the greater part of
his flock going over to certain dissenting preachers, who had shortly
before made their appearance in the neighbourhood. Mr. Platitude was
filled with wrath, and abused Dissenters in most unmeasured terms. Coming
in contact with some of the preachers at a public meeting, he was rash
enough to enter into argument with them. Poor Platitude! he had better
have been quiet, he appeared like a child, a very infant, in their grasp;
he attempted to take shelter under his college learning, but found, to
his dismay, that his opponents knew more Greek and Latin than himself.
These illiterate boors, as he supposed them, caught him at once in a
false concord, and Mr. Platitude had to slink home overwhelmed with
shame. To avenge himself he applied to the ecclesiastical court, but was
told that the Dissenters could not be put down by the present
ecclesiastical law. He found the Church of England, to use his own
expression, a poor, powerless, restricted Church. He now thought to
improve his consequence by marriage, and made up to a rich and beautiful
young lady in the neighbourhood; the damsel measured him from head to
foot with a pair of very sharp eyes, dropped a curtsey, and refused him.
Mr. Platitude, finding England a very stupid place, determined to travel;
he went to Italy; how he passed his time there he knows best, to other
people it is a matter of little importance. At the end of two years he
returned with a real or assumed contempt for everything English, and
especially for the Church to which he belongs, and out of which he is
supported. He forthwith gave out that he had left behind him all his
Church of England prejudices, and, as a proof thereof, spoke against
sacerdotal wedlock and the toleration of schismatics. In an evil hour
for myself he was introduced to me by a clergyman of my acquaintance, and
from that time I have been pestered, as I was this morning, at least once
a week. I seldom enter into any discussion with him, but fix my eyes on
the portrait over the mantel-piece, and endeavour to conjure up some
comic idea or situation, whilst he goes on talking tomfoolery by the hour
about Church authority, schismatics, and the unlawfulness of sacerdotal
wedlock; occasionally he brings with him a strange kind of being, whose
acquaintance he says he made in Italy. I believe he is some sharking
priest, who has come over to proselytize and plunder. This being has
some powers of conversation and some learning, but he carries the
countenance of an arch villain; Platitude is evidently his tool."