CHAPTER I

twanttoknowwhyitranIhadperfectconfidencethatthereweregoodreasonsforwhatwassoverybeautiful. Thereisnoneedtodwellonthispartofmylife.Ihavesaidenoughtoindicatethatmynaturewasofthesensitive,unpracticalorder,andthatitgrewupinanuncongenialmedium,whichcouldneverfosteritintohappy,healthydevelopment.WhenIwassixteenIwassenttoGenevatocompletemycourseofeducationandthechangewasaveryhappyonetome,forthefirstsightoftheAlps,withthesettingsunonthem,aswedescendedtheJura,seemedtomelikeanentranceintoheavenandthethreeyearsofmylifetherewerespentinaperpetualsenseofexaltation,asiffromadraughtofdeliciouswine,atthepresenceofNatureinallherawfulloveliness.Youwillthink,perhaps,thatImusthavebeenapoet,fromthisearlysensibilitytoNature.Butmylotwasnotsohappyasthat.Apoetpoursforthhissongandbelievesinthelisteningearandansweringsoul,towhichhissongwillbefloatedsoonerorlater.Butthepoet’ssensibilitywithouthisvoice—thepoet’ssensibilitythatfindsnoventbutinsilenttearsonthesunnybank,whenthenoondaylightsparklesonthewater,orinaninwardshudderatthesoundofharshhumantones,thesightofacoldhumaneye—thisdumbpassionbringswithitafatalsolitudeofsoulinthesocietyofone’sfellow-men.MyleastsolitarymomentswerethoseinwhichIpushedoffinmyboat,atevening,towardsthecentreofthelakeitseemedtomethatthesky,andtheglowingmountain-tops,andthewidebluewater,surroundedmewithacherishinglovesuchasnohumanfacehadshedonmesincemymother’slovehadvanishedoutofmylife.IusedtodoasJeanJacquesdid—liedowninmyboatandletitglidewhereitwould,whileIlookedupatthedepartingglowleavingonemountain-topaftertheother,asiftheprophet’schariotoffirewerepassingoverthemonitswaytothehomeoflight.Then,whenthewhitesummitswereallsadandcorpse-like,Ihadtopushhomeward,forIwasundercarefulsurveillance,andwasallowednolatewanderings.ThisdispositionofminewasnotfavourabletotheformationofintimatefriendshipsamongthenumerousyouthsofmyownagewhoarealwaystobefoundstudyingatGeneva.YetImadeonesuchfriendshipand,singularlyenough,itwaswithayouthwhoseintellectualtendenciesweretheveryreverseofmyown.IshallcallhimCharlesMeunierhisrealsurname—anEnglishone,forhewasofEnglishextraction—havingsincebecomecelebrated.Hewasanorphan,wholivedonamiserablepittancewhilehepursuedthemedicalstudiesforwhichhehadaspecialgenius.Strange!thatwithmyvaguemind,susceptibleandunobservant,hatinginquiryandgivenuptocontemplation,Ishouldhavebeendrawntowardsayouthwhosestrongestpassionwasscience.Butthebondwasnotanintellectualoneitcamefromasourcethatcanhappilyblendthestupidwiththebrilliant,thedreamywiththepractical:itcamefromcommunityoffeeling.Charleswaspoorandugly,deridedbyGenevesegamins,andnotacceptableindrawing-rooms.Isawthathewasisolated,asIwas,thoughfromadifferentcause,and,stimulatedbyasympatheticresentment,Imadetimidadvancestowardshim.ItisenoughtosaythattheresprangupasmuchcomradeshipbetweenusasourdifferenthabitswouldallowandinCharles’srareholidayswewentuptheSalèvetogether,ortooktheboattoVevay,whileIlisteneddreamilytothemonologuesinwhichheunfoldedhisboldconceptionsoffutureexperimentanddiscovery.Imingledthemconfusedlyinmythoughtwithglimpsesofbluewateranddelicatefloatingcloud,withthenotesofbirdsandthedistantglitteroftheglacier.Heknewquitewellthatmymindwashalfabsent,yethelikedtotalktomeinthiswayfordon’twetalkofourhopesandourprojectseventodogsandbirds,whentheyloveus?IhavementionedthisonefriendshipbecauseofitsconnexionwithastrangeandterriblescenewhichIshallhavetonarrateinmysubsequentlife. ThishappierlifeatGenevawasputanendtobyasevereillness,whichispartlyablanktome,partlyatimeofdimly-rememberedsuffering,withthepresenceofmyfatherbymybedfromtimetotime.Thencamethelanguidmonotonyofconvalescence,thedaysgraduallybreakingintovarietyanddistinctnessasmystrengthenabledmetotakelongerandlongerdrives.Ononeofthesemorevividlyremembereddays,myfathersaidtome,ashesatbesidemysofa— “Whenyouarequitewellenoughtotravel,Latimer,Ishalltakeyouhomewithme.Thejourneywillamuseyouanddoyougood,forIshallgothroughtheTyrolandAustria,andyouwillseemanynewplaces.Ourneighbours,theFilmores,arecomeAlfredwilljoinusatBasle,andweshallallgotogethertoVienna,andbackbyPrague”... Myfatherwascalledawaybeforehehadfinishedhissentence,andheleftmymindrestingonthewordPrague,withastrangesensethatanewandwondrousscenewasbreakinguponme:acityunderthebroadsunshine,thatseemedtomeasifitwerethesummersunshineofalong-pastcenturyarrestedinitscourse—unrefreshedforagesbydewsofnight,ortherushingrain-cloudscorchingthedusty,weary,time-eatengrandeurofapeopledoomedtoliveoninthestalerepetitionofmemories,likedeposedandsuperannuatedkingsintheirregalgold-inwoventatters.Thecitylookedsothirstythatthebroadriverseemedtomeasheetofmetalandtheblackenedstatues,asIpassedundertheirblankgaze,alongtheunendingbridge,withtheirancientgarmentsandtheirsaintlycrowns,seemedtometherealinhabitantsandownersofthisplace,whilethebusy,trivialmenandwomen,hurryingtoandfro,wereaswarmofephemeralvisitantsinfestingitforaday.Itissuchgrim,stonybeingsasthese,Ithought,whoarethefathersofancientfadedchildren,inthosetannedtime-fretteddwellingsthatcrowdthesteepbeforemewhopaytheircourtinthewornandcrumblingpompofthepalacewhichstretchesitsmonotonouslengthontheheightwhoworshipwearilyinthestiflingairofthechurches,urgedbynofearorhope,butcompelledbytheirdoomtobeeveroldandundying,toliveonintherigidityofhabit,astheyliveoninperpetualmidday,withoutthereposeofnightorthenewbirthofmorning. Astunningclangofmetalsuddenlythrilledthroughme,andIbecameconsciousoftheobjectsinmyroomagain:oneofthefire-ironshadfallenasPierreopenedthedoortobringmemydraught.Myheartwaspalpitatingviolently,andIbeggedPierretoleavemydraughtbesidemeIwouldtakeitpresently. AssoonasIwasaloneagain,IbegantoaskmyselfwhetherIhadbeensleeping.Wasthisadream—thiswonderfullydistinctvision—minuteinitsdistinctnessdowntoapatchofrainbowlightonthepavement,transmittedthroughacolouredlampintheshapeofastar—ofastrangecity,quiteunfamiliartomyimagination?IhadseennopictureofPrague:itlayinmymindasamerename,withvaguely-rememberedhistoricalassociations—ill-definedmemoriesofimperialgrandeurandreligiouswars. Nothingofthissorthadeveroccurredinmydreamingexperiencebefore,forIhadoftenbeenhumiliatedbecausemydreamswereonlysavedfrombeingutterlydisjointedandcommonplacebythefrequentterrorsofnightmare.ButIcouldnotbelievethatIhadbeenasleep,forIremembereddistinctlythegradualbreaking-inofthevisionuponme,likethenewimagesinadissolvingview,orthegrowingdistinctnessofthelandscapeasthesunliftsuptheveilofthemorningmist.AndwhileIwasconsciousofthisincipientvision,IwasalsoconsciousthatPierrecametotellmyfatherMr.Filmorewaswaitingforhim,andthatmyfatherhurriedoutoftheroom.No,itwasnotadreamwasit—thethoughtwasfulloftremulousexultation—wasitthepoet’snatureinme,hithertoonlyatroubledyearningsensibility,nowmanifestingitselfsuddenlyasspontaneouscreation?SurelyitwasinthiswaythatHomersawtheplainofTroy,thatDantesawtheabodesofthedeparted,thatMiltonsawtheearthwardflightoftheTempter.Wasitthatmyillnesshadwroughtsomehappychangeinmyorganization—givenafirmertensiontomynerves—carriedoffsomedullobstruction?Ihadoftenreadofsucheffects—inworksoffictionatleast.NayingenuinebiographiesIhadreadofthesubtilizingorexaltinginfluenceofsomediseasesonthementalpowers.DidnotNovalisfeelhisinspirationintensifiedundertheprogressofconsumption? Whenmymindhaddweltforsometimeonthisblissfulidea,itseemedtomethatImightperhapstestitbyanexertionofmywill.ThevisionhadbegunwhenmyfatherwasspeakingofourgoingtoPrague.IdidnotforamomentbelieveitwasreallyarepresentationofthatcityIbelieved—Ihopeditwasapicturethatmynewlyliberatedgeniushadpaintedinfieryhaste,withthecolourssnatchedfromlazymemory.SupposeIweretofixmymindonsomeotherplace—Venice,forexample,whichwasfarmorefamiliartomyimaginationthanPrague:perhapsthesamesortofresultwouldfollow.IconcentratedmythoughtsonVeniceIstimulatedmyimaginationwithpoeticmemories,andstrovetofeelmyselfpresentinVenice,asIhadfeltmyselfpresentinPrague.Butinvain.IwasonlycolouringtheCanalettoengravingsthathunginmyoldbedroomathomethepicturewasashiftingone,mymindwanderinguncertainlyinsearchofmorevividimagesIcouldseenoaccidentofformorshadowwithoutconsciouslabourafterthenecessaryconditions.Itwasallprosaiceffort,notraptpassivity,suchasIhadexperiencedhalfanhourbefore.IwasdiscouragedbutIrememberedthatinspirationwasfitful. ForseveraldaysIwasinastateofexcitedexpectation,watchingforarecurrenceofmynewgift.Isentmythoughtsrangingovermyworldofknowledge,inthehopethattheywouldfindsomeobjectwhichwouldsendareawakeningvibrationthroughmyslumbe