Confessions of a Young Man | Page 4

I am free from original qualities, defects, tastes, etc. What is
mine I have acquired, 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 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
Doctors 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. The book--a small pocket edition in red boards, no doubt
long out of print--opened at the "Sensitive Plant." Was I disappointed?
I think I had expected to understand better; but I had no difficulty in

assuming that I was satisfied and delighted. And henceforth the little
volume never left my pocket, and I read the dazzling stanzas by the
shores of a pale green Irish lake, comprehending little, and loving a
great deal. Byron, too, was often with me, and these poets were the
ripening influence of years otherwise merely nervous and boisterous.
And my poets were taken to school, because it pleased me to read
"Queen Mab" and "Cain," amid the priests and ignorance of a hateful
Roman Catholic college. And there my poets saved me from
intellectual savagery; for I was incapable at that time of learning
anything. What determined and incorrigible idleness! I used to gaze
fondly on a book, holding my head between my hands, and allow my
thoughts to wander far into dreams and thin imaginings. Neither Latin,
nor Greek, nor French, nor History, nor English composition could I
learn, unless, indeed, my curiosity or personal interest was
excited,--then I made rapid strides in that branch of knowledge to
which my attention was directed. A mind hitherto dark seemed
suddenly to grow clear, and it remained clear and bright enough so long
as passion was in me; but as it died, so the mind clouded, and recoiled
to its original obtuseness. Couldn't and wouldn't were in my case
curiously involved; nor have I in this respect ever been able to correct
my natural temperament. I