It was one evening in the early summer that, revolving
anxious and doubtful thoughts, Ernest sauntered gloomily
along his terrace,
“And watched with
wistful eyes the setting sun.”
when he perceived a dusty travelling carriage whirled
along the road by the ha-ha, and a hand waved in recognition
from the open window. His guests had been so
rare, and his friends were so few, that Maltravers
could not conjecture who was his intended visitant.
His brother, he knew, was in London. Cleveland,
from whom he had that day heard, was at his villa.
Ferrers was enjoying himself in Vienna. Who
could it be? We may say of solitude what we please;
but, after two years of solitude, a visitor is a pleasurable
excitement. Maltravers retraced his steps, entered
his house, and was just in time to find himself almost
in the arms of De Montaigne.
“Quid
tam dextro pede concipis ut te,
Conatus non poeniteat, votique peracti?"*—JUV.
* What, under such happy auspices do you conceive
that you may not repent of your endeavour and accomplished
wish?
“YES,” said De Montaigne, “in my
way I also am fulfilling my destiny. I am a
member of the Chambre des Deputes, and on a
visit to England upon some commercial affairs.
I found myself in your neighbourhood, and, of course,
could not resist the temptation: so you must receive
me as your guest for some days.”
“I congratulate you cordially on your senatorial
honours. I have already heard of your rising
name.”
“I return the congratulations with equal warmth.
You are bringing my prophecies to pass. I have
read your works with increased pride at our friendship.”
Maltravers sighed slightly, and half turned away.
“The desire of distinction,” said he,
after a pause, “grows upon us till excitement
becomes disease. The child who is born with the
mariner’s instinct laughs with glee when his
paper bark skims the wave of a pool. By and by
nothing will content him but the ship and the ocean.—Like
the child is the author.”
“I am pleased with your simile,” said
De Montaigne, smiling. “Do not spoil it,
but go on with your argument.”
Maltravers continued: “Scarcely do we win
the applause of a moment, ere we summon the past and
conjecture the future. Our contemporaries no
longer suffice for competitors, our age for the Court
to pronounce on our claims: we call up the Dead
as our only true rivals—we appeal to Posterity
as our sole just tribunal. Is this vain in us?
Possibly. Yet such vanity humbles. ’Tis
then only we learn all the difference between Reputation
and Fame—between To-Day and Immortality!”
