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A Man Surprised at His Originality

Among the many acute sayings of La Rochefoucauld, there is hardly one
more acute than this: "La plus grande ambition n'en a pas la moindre
apparence lorsqu'elle se rencontre dans une impossibilit├ę absolue
d'arriver o├╣ elle aspire." Some of us might do well to use this hint in
our treatment of acquaintances and friends from whom we are expecting
gratitude because we are so very kind in thinking of them, inviting
them, and even listening to what they say--considering how insignificant
they must feel themselves to be. We are often fallaciously confident in
supposing that our friend's state of mind is appropriate to our moderate
estimate of his importance: almost as if we imagined the humble mollusc
(so useful as an illustration) to have a sense of his own exceeding
softness and low place in the scale of being. Your mollusc, on the
contrary, is inwardly objecting to every other grade of solid rather
than to himself. Accustomed to observe what we think an unwarrantable
conceit exhibiting itself in ridiculous pretensions and forwardness to
play the lion's part, in obvious self-complacency and loud
peremptoriness, we are not on the alert to detect the egoistic claims of
a more exorbitant kind often hidden under an apparent neutrality or an
acquiescence in being put out of the question.

Thoughts of this kind occurred to me yesterday when I saw the name of
Lentulus in the obituary. The majority of his acquaintances, I imagine,
have always thought of him as a man justly unpretending and as nobody's
rival; but some of them have perhaps been struck with surprise at his
reserve in praising the works of his contemporaries, and have now and
then felt themselves in need of a key to his remarks on men of celebrity
in various departments. He was a man of fair position, deriving his
income from a business in which he did nothing, at leisure to frequent
clubs and at ease in giving dinners; well-looking, polite, and generally
acceptable in society as a part of what we may call its bread-crumb--the
neutral basis needful for the plums and spice. Why, then, did he speak
of the modern Maro or the modern Flaccus with a peculiarity in his tone
of assent to other people's praise which might almost have led you to
suppose that the eminent poet had borrowed money of him and showed an
indisposition to repay? He had no criticism to offer, no sign of
objection more specific than a slight cough, a scarcely perceptible
pause before assenting, and an air of self-control in his utterance--as
if certain considerations had determined him not to inform against the
so-called poet, who to his knowledge was a mere versifier. If you had
questioned him closely, he would perhaps have confessed that he did
think something better might be done in the way of Eclogues and
Georgics, or of Odes and Epodes, and that to his mind poetry was
something very different from what had hitherto been known under that
name.

For my own part, being of a superstitious nature, given readily to
imagine alarming causes, I immediately, on first getting these mystic
hints from Lentulus, concluded that he held a number of entirely
original poems, or at the very least a revolutionary treatise on
poetics, in that melancholy manuscript state to which works excelling
all that is ever printed are necessarily condemned; and I was long timid
in speaking of the poets when he was present. For what might not
Lentulus have done, or be profoundly aware of, that would make my
ignorant impressions ridiculous? One cannot well be sure of the negative
in such a case, except through certain positives that bear witness to
it; and those witnesses are not always to be got hold of. But time
wearing on, I perceived that the attitude of Lentulus towards the
philosophers was essentially the same as his attitude towards the poets;
nay, there was something so much more decided in his mode of closing his
mouth after brief speech on the former, there was such an air of rapt
consciousness in his private hints as to his conviction that all
thinking hitherto had been an elaborate mistake, and as to his own
power of conceiving a sound basis for a lasting superstructure, that I
began to believe less in the poetical stores, and to infer that the line
of Lentulus lay rather in the rational criticism of our beliefs and in
systematic construction. In this case I did not figure to myself the
existence of formidable manuscripts ready for the press; for great
thinkers are known to carry their theories growing within their minds
long before committing them to paper, and the ideas which made a new
passion for them when their locks were jet or auburn, remain perilously
unwritten, an inwardly developing condition of their successive selves,
until the locks are grey or scanty. I only meditated improvingly on the
way in which a man of exceptional faculties, and even carrying within
him some of that fierce refiner's fire which is to purge away the dross
of human error, may move about in society totally unrecognised, regarded
as a person whose opinion is superfluous, and only rising into a power
in emergencies of threatened black-balling. Imagine a Descartes or a
Locke being recognised for nothing more than a good fellow and a
perfect gentleman--what a painful view does such a picture suggest of
impenetrable dulness in the society around them!

I would at all times rather be reduced to a cheaper estimate of a
particular person, if by that means I can get a more cheerful view of my
fellow-men generally; and I confess that in a certain curiosity which
led me to cultivate Lentulus's acquaintance, my hope leaned to the
discovery that he was a less remarkable man than he had seemed to imply.
It would have been a grief to discover that he was bitter or malicious,
but by finding him to be neither a mighty poet, nor a revolutionary
poetical critic, nor an epoch-making philosopher, my admiration for the
poets and thinkers whom he rated so low would recover all its buoyancy,
and I should not be left to trust to that very suspicious sort of merit
which constitutes an exception in the history of mankind, and recommends
itself as the total abolitionist of all previous claims on our
confidence. You are not greatly surprised at the infirm logic of the
coachman who would persuade you to engage him by insisting that any
other would be sure to rob you in the matter of hay and corn, thus
demanding a difficult belief in him as the sole exception from the
frailties of his calling; but it is rather astonishing that the
wholesale decriers of mankind and its performances should be even more
unwary in their reasoning than the coachman, since each of them not
merely confides in your regarding himself as an exception, but overlooks
the almost certain fact that you are wondering whether he inwardly
excepts _you_. Now, conscious of entertaining some common opinions which
seemed to fall under the mildly intimated but sweeping ban of Lentulus,
my self-complacency was a little concerned.

Hence I deliberately attempted to draw out Lentulus in private dialogue,
for it is the reverse of injury to a man to offer him that hearing which
he seems to have found nowhere else. And for whatever purposes silence
may be equal to gold, it cannot be safely taken as an indication of
specific ideas. I sought to know why Lentulus was more than indifferent
to the poets, and what was that new poetry which he had either written
or, as to its principles, distinctly conceived. But I presently found
that he knew very little of any particular poet, and had a general
notion of poetry as the use of artificial language to express unreal
sentiments: he instanced "The Giaour," "Lalla Rookh," "The Pleasures of
Hope," and "Ruin seize thee, ruthless King;" adding, "and plenty more."
On my observing that he probably preferred a larger, simpler style, he
emphatically assented. "Have you not," said I, "written something of
that order?" "No; but I often compose as I go along. I see how things
might be written as fine as Ossian, only with true ideas. The world has
no notion what poetry will be."

It was impossible to disprove this, and I am always glad to believe that
the poverty of our imagination is no measure of the world's resources.
Our posterity will no doubt get fuel in ways that we are unable to
devise for them. But what this conversation persuaded me of was, that
the birth with which the mind of Lentulus was pregnant could not be
poetry, though I did not question that he composed as he went along, and
that the exercise was accompanied with a great sense of power. This is a
frequent experience in dreams, and much of our waking experience is but
a dream in the daylight. Nay, for what I saw, the compositions might be
fairly classed as Ossianic. But I was satisfied that Lentulus could not
disturb my grateful admiration for the poets of all ages by eclipsing
them, or by putting them under a new electric light of criticism.

Still, he had himself thrown the chief emphasis of his protest and his
consciousness of corrective illumination on the philosophic thinking of
our race; and his tone in assuring me that everything which had been
done in that way was wrong--that Plato, Robert Owen, and Dr Tuffle who
wrote in the 'Regulator,' were all equally mistaken--gave my
superstitious nature a thrill of anxiety. After what had passed about
the poets, it did not seem likely that Lentulus had all systems by
heart; but who could say he had not seized that thread which may
somewhere hang out loosely from the web of things and be the clue of
unravelment? We need not go far to learn that a prophet is not made by
erudition. Lentulus at least had not the bias of a school; and if it
turned out that he was in agreement with any celebrated thinker,
ancient or modern, the agreement would have the value of an undesigned
coincidence not due to forgotten reading. It was therefore with renewed
curiosity that I engaged him on this large subject--the universal
erroneousness of thinking up to the period when Lentulus began that
process. And here I found him more copious than on the theme of poetry.
He admitted that he did contemplate writing down his thoughts, but his
difficulty was their abundance. Apparently he was like the woodcutter
entering the thick forest and saying, "Where shall I begin?" The same
obstacle appeared in a minor degree to cling about his verbal
exposition, and accounted perhaps for his rather helter-skelter choice
of remarks bearing on the number of unaddressed letters sent to the
post-office; on what logic really is, as tending to support the buoyancy
of human mediums and mahogany tables; on the probability of all miracles
under all religions when explained by hidden laws, and my
unreasonableness in supposing that their profuse occurrence at half a
guinea an hour in recent times was anything more than a coincidence; on
the haphazard way in which marriages are determined--showing the
baselessness of social and moral schemes; and on his expectation that he
should offend the scientific world when he told them what he thought of
electricity as an agent.

No man's appearance could be graver or more gentleman-like than that of
Lentulus as we walked along the Mall while he delivered these
observations, understood by himself to have a regenerative bearing on
human society. His wristbands and black gloves, his hat and nicely
clipped hair, his laudable moderation in beard, and his evident
discrimination in choosing his tailor, all seemed to excuse the
prevalent estimate of him as a man untainted with heterodoxy, and likely
to be so unencumbered with opinions that he would always be useful as an
assenting and admiring listener. Men of science seeing him at their
lectures doubtless flattered themselves that he came to learn from them;
the philosophic ornaments of our time, expounding some of their luminous
ideas in the social circle, took the meditative gaze of Lentulus for one
of surprise not unmixed with a just reverence at such close reasoning
towards so novel a conclusion; and those who are called men of the
world considered him a good fellow who might be asked to vote for a
friend of their own and would have no troublesome notions to make him
unaccommodating. You perceive how very much they were all mistaken,
except in qualifying him as a good fellow.

This Lentulus certainly was, in the sense of being free from envy,
hatred, and malice; and such freedom was all the more remarkable an
indication of native benignity, because of his gaseous, illimitably
expansive conceit. Yes, conceit; for that his enormous and contentedly
ignorant confidence in his own rambling thoughts was usually clad in a
decent silence, is no reason why it should be less strictly called by
the name directly implying a complacent self-estimate unwarranted by
performance. Nay, the total privacy in which he enjoyed his
consciousness of inspiration was the very condition of its undisturbed
placid nourishment and gigantic growth. Your audibly arrogant man
exposes himself to tests: in attempting to make an impression on others
he may possibly (not always) be made to feel his own lack of
definiteness; and the demand for definiteness is to all of us a needful
check on vague depreciation of what others do, and vague ecstatic trust
in our own superior ability. But Lentulus was at once so unreceptive,
and so little gifted with the power of displaying his miscellaneous
deficiency of information, that there was really nothing to hinder his
astonishment at the spontaneous crop of ideas which his mind secretly
yielded. If it occurred to him that there were more meanings than one
for the word "motive," since it sometimes meant the end aimed at and
sometimes the feeling that prompted the aiming, and that the word
"cause" was also of changeable import, he was naturally struck with the
truth of his own perception, and was convinced that if this vein were
well followed out much might be made of it. Men were evidently in the
wrong about cause and effect, else why was society in the confused state
we behold? And as to motive, Lentulus felt that when he came to write
down his views he should look deeply into this kind of subject and show
up thereby the anomalies of our social institutions; meanwhile the
various aspects of "motive" and "cause" flitted about among the motley
crowd of ideas which he regarded as original, and pregnant with
reformative efficacy. For his unaffected goodwill made him regard all
his insight as only valuable because it tended towards reform.

The respectable man had got into his illusory maze of discoveries by
letting go that clue of conformity in his thinking which he had kept
fast hold of in his tailoring and manners. He regarded heterodoxy as a
power in itself, and took his inacquaintance with doctrines for a
creative dissidence. But his epitaph needs not to be a melancholy one.
His benevolent disposition was more effective for good than his silent
presumption for harm. He might have been mischievous but for the lack of
words: instead of being astonished at his inspirations in private, he
might have clad his addled originalities, disjointed commonplaces, blind
denials, and balloon-like conclusions, in that mighty sort of language
which would have made a new Koran for a knot of followers. I mean no
disrespect to the ancient Koran, but one would not desire the roc to lay
more eggs and give us a whole wing-flapping brood to soar and make
twilight.

Peace be with Lentulus, for he has left us in peace. Blessed is the man
who, having nothing to say, abstains from giving us wordy evidence of
the fact--from calling on us to look through a heap of millet-seed in
order to be sure that there is no pearl in it.


George Eliot