Confessions of a Young Man | Page 5

jolly it would be to
be a painter," I once said, quite involuntarily. "Why, would you like to
be a painter?" he asked abruptly. I laughed, not suspecting that I had

the slightest gift, as indeed was the case, but the idea remained in my
mind, and soon after I began to make sketches in the streets and
theatres. My attempts were not very successful, but they encouraged
me to tell my father that I would go to the military tutor no more, and
he allowed me to enter the Kensington Museum as an Art student.
There, of course, I learned nothing, and, from a merely Art point of
view, I had much better have continued my sketches in the streets; but
the museum was a beautiful and beneficent influence, and one that
applied marvellously well to the besetting danger of the moment; for in
the galleries I met young men who spoke of other things than betting
and steeplechase riding, who, I remember, it was clear to me then,
looked to a higher ideal than mine, breathed a purer atmosphere of
thought than I. And then the sweet, white peace of antiquity! The great,
calm gaze that is not sadness nor joy, but something that we know not
of, which is lost to the world for ever.
"But if you want to be a painter you must go to France--France is the
only school of Art." I must again call attention to the phenomenon of
echo-augury, that is to say, words heard in an unlooked-for quarter, that,
without an appeal to our reason, impel belief. France! The word rang in
my ears and gleamed in my eyes. France! All my senses sprang from
sleep like a crew when the man on the look-out cries, "Land ahead!"
Instantly I knew I should, that I must, go to France, that I would live
there, that I would become as a Frenchman. I knew not when nor how,
but I knew I should go to France....
Then my father died, and I suddenly found myself heir to considerable
property--some three or four thousands a year; and then I knew that I
was free to enjoy life as I pleased; no further trammels, no further need
of being a soldier, of being anything but myself; eighteen, with life and
France before me! But the spirit did not move me yet to leave home. I
would feel the pulse of life at home before I felt it abroad. I would hire
a studio. A studio--tapestries, smoke, models, conversations. But here it
is difficult not to convey a false impression. I fain would show my soul
in these pages, like a face in a pool of clear water; and although my
studio was in truth no more than an amusement, and a means of
effectually throwing over all restraint, I did not view it at all in this

light. My love of Art was very genuine and deep-rooted; the
tobacconist's betting-book was now as nothing, and a certain Botticelli
in the National Gallery held me in tether. And when I look back and
consider the past, I am forced to admit that I might have grown up in
less fortunate circumstances, for even the studio, with its
dissipations--and they were many--was not unserviceable; it developed
the natural man, who educates himself, who allows his mind to grow
and ripen under the sun and wind of modern life, in contra-distinction
to the University man, who is fed upon the dust of ages, and after a
formula which has been composed to suit the requirements of the
average human being.
Nor was my reading at this time so limited as might be expected from
the foregoing. The study of Shelley's poetry had led me to read pretty
nearly all the English lyric poets; Shelley's atheism had led me to read
Kant, Spinoza, Godwin, Darwin and Mill; and these, again, in their turn,
introduced me to many writers and various literature. I do not think that
at this time I cared much for novel reading. Scott seemed to me on a
par with Burke's speeches; that is to say, too impersonal for my very
personal taste. Dickens I knew by heart, and "Bleak House" I thought
his greatest achievement. Thackeray left no deep impression on my
mind; in no way did he hold my thoughts. He was not picturesque like
Dickens, and I was at that time curiously eager for some adequate
philosophy of life, and his social satire seemed very small beer indeed.
I was really young. I hungered after great truths: "Middle-march,"
"Adam Bede," "The Rise and Fall of Rationalism," "The History of
Civilisation," were momentous events in my life. But I loved life better
than books, and I cultivated with care the acquaintance of a neighbour
who