The Pilgrims of the Rhine
Page 26
CHAPTER V. ROTTERDAM.--THE CHARACTER OF THE DUTCH.--THEIR RESEMBLANCE TOTHE GERMANS.--A DISPUTE BETWEEN VANE AND TREVYLYAN, AFTER THE MANNER OFTHE ANCIENT NOVELISTS, AS TO WHICH IS PREFERABLE, THE LIFE OF ACTION ORTHE LIFE OF REPOSE.--TREVYLYAN'S CONTRAST BETWEEN LITERARY AMBITION ANDTHE AMBITION OF PUBLIC LIFE.
OUR travellers arrived at Rotterdam on a bright and sunny day. There isa cheerfulness about the operations of Commerce,--a life, a bustle,an action which always exhilarate the spirits at the first glance.Afterwards they fatigue us; we get too soon behind the scenes, and findthe base and troublous passions which move the puppets and conduct thedrama.
But Gertrude, in whom ill health had not destroyed the vividness ofimpression that belongs to the inexperienced, was delighted at thecheeriness of all around her. As she leaned lightly on Trevylyan's arm,he listened with a forgetful joy to her questions and exclamationsat the stir and liveliness of a city from which was to commence theirpilgrimage along the Rhine. And indeed the scene was rife with thespirit of that people at once so active and so patient, so daring onthe sea, so cautious on the land. Industry was visible everywhere; thevessels in the harbour, the crowded boat putting off to land, thethrong on the quay,--all looked bustling and spoke of commerce. The cityitself, on which the skies shone fairly through light and fleecy clouds,wore a cheerful aspect. The church of St. Lawrence rising above theclean, neat houses, and on one side trees thickly grouped, gaylycontrasted at once the waters and the city.
"I like this place," said Gertrude's father, quietly; "it has an air ofcomfort."
"And an absence of grandeur," said Trevylyan.
"A commercial people are one great middle-class in their habits andtrain of mind," replied Vane; "and grandeur belongs to the extremes,--animpoverished population and a wealthy despot."
They went to see the statue of Erasmus, and the house in which he wasborn. Vane had a certain admiration for Erasmus which his companions didnot share; he liked the quiet irony of the sage, and his knowledge ofthe world; and, besides, Vane was at that time of life when philosophersbecome objects of interest. At first they are teachers; secondly,friends; and it is only a few who arrive at the third stage, and findthem deceivers. The Dutch are a singular people. Their literatureis neglected, but it has some of the German vein in its strata,--thepatience, the learning, the homely delineation, and even some traces ofthe mixture of the humorous and the terrible which form that genius forthe grotesque so especially German--you find this in their legends andghost-stories. But in Holland activity destroys, in Germany indolencenourishes, romance.
They stayed a day or two at Rotterdam, and then proceeded up the Rhineto Gorcum. The banks were flat and tame, and nothing could be lessimpressive of its native majesty than this part of the course of thegreat river.
"I never felt before," whispered Gertrude, tenderly, "how much therewas of consolation in your presence; for here I am at last on theRhine,--the blue Rhine, and how disappointed I should be if you were notby my side!"
"But, my Gertrude, you must wait till we have passed Cologne, before the_glories_ of the Rhine burst upon you."
"It reverses life, my child," said the moralizing Vane; "and thestream flows through dulness at first, reserving its poetry for ourperseverance."
"I will not allow your doctrine," said Trevylyan, as the ambitiousardour of his native disposition stirred within him. "Life hasalways action; it is our own fault if it ever be dull: youth has itsenterprise, manhood its schemes; and even if infirmity creep upon age,the mind, the mind still triumphs over the mortal clay, and in the quiethermitage, among books, and from thoughts, keeps the great wheel withineverlastingly in motion. No, the better class of spirits have always anantidote to the insipidity of a common career, they have ever energy atwill--"
"And never happiness!" answered Vane, after a pause, as he gazed on theproud countenance of Trevylyan, with that kind of calm, half-pityinginterest which belonged to a character deeply imbued with the philosophyof a sad experience acting upon an unimpassioned heart. "And in truth,Trevylyan, it would please me if I could but teach you the folly ofpreferring the exercise of that energy of which you speak to the goldenluxuries of REST. What ambition can ever bring an adequate reward? Not,surely, the ambition of letters, the desire of intellectual renown!"
"True," said Trevylyan, quietly; "that dream I have long renounced;there is nothing palpable in literary fame,--it scarcely perhaps soothesthe vain, it assuredly chafes the proud. In my earlier years I attemptedsome works which gained what the world, perhaps rightly, deemed asufficient need of reputation; yet it was not sufficient to recompensemyself for the fresh hours I had consumed, for the sacrifices ofpleasure I had made. The subtle aims that had inspired me were notperceived; the thoughts that had seemed new and beautiful to me fellflat and lustreless on the soul of others. If I was approved, itwas often for what I condemned myself; and I found that the tritecommonplace and the false wit charmed, while the truth fatigued, andthe enthusiasm revolted. For men of that genius to which I make nopretension, who have dwelt apart in the obscurity of their own thoughts,gazing upon stars that shine not for the dull sleepers of the world, itmust be a keen sting to find the product of their labour confoundedwith a class, and to be mingled up in men's judgment with the faultsor merits of a tribe. Every great genius must deem himself originaland alone in his conceptions. It is not enough for him that theseconceptions should be approved as good, unless they are admitted asinventive, if they mix him with the herd he has shunned, not separatehim in fame as he has been separated in soul. Some Frenchman, the oracleof his circle, said of the poet of the 'Phedre,' 'Racine and the otherimitators of Corneille;' and Racine, in his wrath, nearly forsworetragedy forever. It is in vain to tell the author that the public is thejudge of his works. The author believes himself above the public, or hewould never have written; and," continued Trevylyan, with enthusiasm,"he _is_ above them; their fiat may crush his glory, but never hisself-esteem. He stands alone and haughty amidst the wrecks of the templehe imagined he had raised 'To THE FUTURE,' and retaliates neglect withscorn. But is this, the life of scorn, a pleasurable state of existence?Is it one to be cherished? Does even the moment of fame counterbalancethe years of mortification? And what is there in literary fame itselfpresent and palpable to its heir? His work is a pebble thrown intothe deep; the stir lasts for a moment, and the wave closes up, to besusceptible no more to the same impression. The circle may widen toother lands and other ages, but around _him_ it is weak and faint. Thetrifles of the day, the low politics, the base intrigues, occupy thetongue, and fill the thought of his contemporaries. He is less knownthan a mountebank, or a new dancer; his glory comes not home to him; itbrings no present, no perpetual reward, like the applauses that wait theactor, or the actor-like murmur of the senate; and this, which vexes,also lowers him; his noble nature begins to nourish the base vices ofjealousy, and the unwillingness to admire. Goldsmith is forgotten in thepresence of a puppet; he feels it, and is mean; he expresses it, andis ludicrous. It is well to say that great minds will not stoop tojealousy; in the greatest minds, it is most frequent.* Few authors areever so aware of the admiration they excite as to afford to be generous;and this melancholy truth revolts us with our own ambition. Shall we bedemigods in our closets at the price of sinking below mortality in theworld? No! it was from this deep sentiment of the unrealness of literaryfame, of dissatisfaction at the fruits it produced, of fear for themeanness it engendered, that I resigned betimes all love for its career;and if, by the restless desire that haunts men who think much to writeever, I should be urged hereafter to literature, I will sternly teachmyself to persevere in the indifference to its fame."
* See the long list of names furnished by Disraeli, in that most exquisite work, "The Literary Character," vol. ii. p. 75. Plato, Xenophon, Chaucer, Corneille, Voltaire, Dryden, the Caracci, Domenico Venetiano, murdered by his envious friend, and the gentle Castillo fainting away at the genius of Murillo.
"You say as I would say," answere
d Vane, with his tranquil smile; "andyour experience corroborates my theory. Ambition, then, is not the rootof happiness. Why more in action than in letters?"
"Because," said Trevylyan, "in action we commonly gain in our life allthe honour we deserve: the public judge of men better and more rapidlythan of books. And he who takes to himself in action a high and pureambition, associates it with so many objects, that, unlike literature,the failure of one is balanced by the success of the other. He, thecreator of deeds, not resembling the creator of books, stands not alone;he is eminently social; he has many comrades, and without their aidhe could not accomplish his designs. This divides and mitigates theimpatient jealousy against others. He works for a cause, and knows earlythat he cannot monopolize its whole glory; he shares what he is awareit is impossible to engross. Besides, action leaves him no time forbrooding over disappointment. The author has consumed his youth in awork,--it fails in glory. Can he write another work? Bid him call backanother youth! But in action, the labour of the mind is from day to day.A week replaces what a week has lost, and all the aspirant's fame is ofthe present. It is lipped by the Babel of the living world; he isever on the stage, and the spectators are ever ready to applaud. Thusperpetually in the service of others self ceases to be his world; he hasno leisure to brood over real or imaginary wrongs; the excitement whirlson the machine till it is worn out--"
"And kicked aside," said Vane, "with the broken lumber of men's othertools, in the chamber of their son's forgetfulness. Your man of actionlasts but for an hour; the man of letters lasts for ages."
"We live not for ages," answered Trevylyan; "our life is on earth, andnot in the grave."
"But even grant," continued Vane--"and I for one will concede thepoint--that posthumous fame is not worth the living agonies that obtainit, how are you better off in your poor and vulgar career of action?Would you assist the rulers?--servility! The people?--folly! If you takethe great philosophical view which the worshippers of the past rarelytake, but which, unknown to them, is their sole excuse,--namely, thatthe changes which _may_ benefit the future unsettle the present; andthat it is not the wisdom of practical legislation to risk the peaceof our contemporaries in the hope of obtaining happiness for theirposterity,--to what suspicions, to what charges are you exposed! You aredeemed the foe of all liberal opinion, and you read your curses in theeyes of a nation. But take the side of the people. What caprice, whatingratitude! You have professed so much in theory, that you can neveraccomplish sufficient in practice. Moderation becomes a crime; to beprudent is to be perfidious. New demagogues, without temperance, becausewithout principle, outstrip you in the moment of your greatest services.The public is the grave of a great man's deeds; it is never sated; itsmaw is eternally open; it perpetually craves for more. Where, in thehistory of the world, do you find the gratitude of a people? You findfervour, it is true, but not gratitude,--the fervour that exaggerates abenefit at one moment, but not the gratitude that remembers it the nextyear. Once disappoint them, and all your actions, all your sacrifices,are swept from their remembrance forever; they break the windows of thevery house they have given you, and melt down their medals into bullets.Who serves man, ruler or peasant, serves the ungrateful; and all theambitious are but types of a Wolsey or a De Witt."
"And what," said Trevylyan, "consoles a man in the ills that flesh isheir to, in that state of obscure repose, that serene inactivity towhich you would confine him? Is it not his conscience? Is it not hisself-acquittal, or his self-approval?"
"Doubtless," replied Vane.
"Be it so," answered the high-souled Trevylyan; "the same consolationawaits us in action as in repose. We sedulously pursue what we deem tobe true glory. We are maligned; but our soul acquits us. Could it domore in the scandal and the prejudice that assail us in private life?You are silent; but note how much deeper should be the comfort, how muchloftier the self-esteem; for if calumny attack us in a wilful obscurity,what have we done to refute the calumny? How have we served our species?Have we 'scorned delight and loved laborious days'? Have we made theutmost of the 'talent' confided to our care? Have we done thosegood deeds to our race upon which we can retire,--an 'Estate ofBeneficence,'--from the malice of the world, and feel that our deedsare our defenders? This is the consolation of virtuous actions; is it soof--even a virtuous--indolence?"
"You speak as a preacher," said Vane,--"I merely as a calculator; you ofvirtue in affliction, I of a life in ease."
"Well, then, if the consciousness of perpetual endeavour to advance ourrace be not alone happier than the life of ease, let us see what thisvaunted ease really is. Tell me, is it not another name for _ennui_?This state of quiescence, this objectless, dreamless torpor, thistransition _du lit a la table, de la table au lit_,--what more drearyand monotonous existence can you devise? Is it pleasure in thisinglorious existence to think that you are serving pleasure? Is itfreedom to be the slave to self? For I hold," continued Trevylyan,"that this jargon of 'consulting happiness,' this cant of living forourselves, is but a mean as well as a false philosophy. Why this eternalreference to self? Is self alone to be consulted? Is even our happiness,did it truly consist in repose, really the great end of life? I doubt ifwe cannot ascend higher. I doubt if we cannot say with a great moralist,'If virtue be not estimable in itself, we can see nothing estimable infollowing it for the sake of a bargain.' But, in fact, repose is thepoorest of all delusions; the very act of recurring to self brings aboutus all those ills of self from which, in the turmoil of the world, wecan escape. We become hypochondriacs. Our very health grows an objectof painful possession. We are so desirous to be well (for what isretirement without health?) that we are ever fancying ourselves ill;and, like the man in the 'Spectator,' we weigh ourselves daily, and livebut by grains and scruples. Retirement is happy only for the poet, forto him it is _not_ retirement. He secedes from one world but to gainanother, and he finds not _ennui_ in seclusion: why? Not becauseseclusion hath _repose_, but because it hath _occupation_. In one word,then, I say of action and of indolence, grant the same ills to both, andto action there is the readier escape or the nobler consolation."
Vane shrugged his shoulders. "Ah, my dear friend," said he, tapping hissnuff-box with benevolent superiority, "you are much younger than I am!"
But these conversations, which Trevylyan and Vane often heldtogether, dull as I fear this specimen must seem to the reader, had aninexpressible charm for Gertrude. She loved the lofty and generous veinof philosophy which Trevylyan embraced, and which, while it suited hisardent nature, contrasted a demeanour commonly hard and cold to allbut herself. And young and tender as she was, his ambition infused itsspirit into her fine imagination, and that passion for enterprise whichbelongs inseparably to romance. She loved to muse over his future lot,and in fancy to share its toils and to exult in its triumphs. Andif sometimes she asked herself whether a career of action might notestrange him from her, she had but to turn her gaze upon his watchfuleye,--and lo, he was by her side or at her feet!