Confessions of a Young Man | Page 3

write of the love-life of Evelyn Innes, and the common
workaday tragedy of Esther Waters, with a tender and profound
sympathy far removed from the sentiments he felt obliged to profess
here. This book is a young man's attempt to be sincere. It is the story of
a soul struggling to be free from British morality. It is eloquent,
beautiful, and at times rather silly. It is a picture of an epoch.

The result of the attempt to introduce diabolism to the English mind is
well known. The Island somewhat violently repudiated and denounced
the whole proceedings, as might have been expected. The French
influence waned, and has now almost died out. But meanwhile another
rediscovery of human nature (to which the work of a later Frenchman,
Romain Rolland, has contributed its due effect) is slowly re-creating
English literature. Under a Russian leadership less romantic than that of
Gautier and less "frightful" than that of Baudelaire, with scientific
support from Freud and Jung, and with some extremely able British and
American lieutenants, the cause of unashamedness appears to be
winning its way in literature. The George Moore of these Confessions
stands to view as a reckless and courageous pioneer, a bad strategist but
a faithful soldier, in the foolhardy, disastrous and gallant Campaign of
the Nineties.
Floyd Dell
New York, May 26, 1917.

CONFESSIONS OF A YOUNG MAN
CHAPTER I
My soul, so far as I understand it, has very kindly taken colour and
form from the many various modes of life that self-will and an
impetuous temperament have forced me to indulge in. Therefore I may
say that I am free from original qualities, defects, tastes, etc. What I
have I acquire, or, to speak more exactly, chance bestowed, and still
bestows, upon me. I came into the world apparently with a nature like a
smooth sheet of wax, bearing no impress, but capable of receiving any;
of being moulded into all shapes. Nor am I exaggerating when I say I
think that I might equally have been a Pharaoh, an ostler, a pimp, an
archbishop, and that in the fulfilment of the duties of each a certain
measure of success would have been mine. I have felt the goad of many
impulses, I have hunted many a trail; when one scent failed another was
taken up, and pursued with the pertinacity of an instinct, rather than the

fervour of a reasoned conviction. Sometimes, it is true, there came
moments of weariness, of despondency, but they were not enduring: a
word spoken, a book read, or yielding to the attraction of environment,
I was soon off in another direction, forgetful of past failures. Intricate,
indeed, was the labyrinth of my desires; all lights were followed with
the same ardour, all cries were eagerly responded to: they came from
the right, they came from the left, from every side. But one cry was
more persistent, and as the years passed I learned to follow it with
increasing vigour, and my strayings grew fewer and the way wider.
I was eleven years old when I first heard and obeyed this cry, or, shall I
say, echo-augury?
Scene: A great family coach, drawn by two powerful country horses,
lumbers along a narrow Irish road. The ever recurrent signs--long
ranges of blue mountains, the streak of bog, the rotting cabin, the flock
of plover rising from the desolate water. Inside the coach there are two
children. They are smart, with new jackets and neckties; their faces are
pale with sleep, and the rolling of the coach makes them feel a little
sick. It is seven o'clock in the morning. Opposite the children are their
parents, and they are talking of a novel the world is reading. Did Lady
Audley murder her husband? Lady Audley! What a beautiful name; and
she, who is a slender, pale, fairy-like woman, killed her husband. Such
thoughts flash through the boy's mind; his imagination is stirred and
quickened, and he begs for an explanation. The coach lumbers along, it
arrives at its destination, and Lady Audley is forgotten in the delight of
tearing down fruit trees and killing a cat.
But when we returned home I took the first opportunity of stealing the
novel in question. I read it eagerly, passionately, vehemently. I read its
successor and its successor. I read until I came to a book called "The
Doctor's Wife"--a lady who loved Shelley and Byron. There was magic,
there was revelation in the name, and Shelley became my soul's
divinity. Why did I love Shelley? Why was I not attracted to Byron? I
cannot say. Shelley! Oh, that crystal name, and his poetry also
crystalline. I must see it, I must know him. Escaping from the
schoolroom, I ransacked the library, and at last my ardour was

rewarded.