What wonder, then, if men under all conditions avidly seize upon every occasion which enables them for a moment to escape from the tyranny of work? What wonder if this weak, wayward, susceptible Cecil, who had laboured cheerily under the impulsion of necessity, now forgot the sweet delights of his daily task, and relapsed into his old habits of dreaming idleness?
There was no longer any remarkable hurry. His daily existence did not depend upon the immediate accomplishment of his task. He could wait, he could mature his plans, he could work only when the inspiration came to him; there was no need to harass an unwilling; brain, he could bide his time. To any one who knew him, it would be easy to foresee that from the moment he was released from the immediate necessity of labour, his time would be frittered away in sterile efforts. It is only genius, which, goaded by an irresistible inward impulse to transmute into art all that it has felt, labours with courageous love, and sings because it cannot choose but sing. Talent of every kind needs an external stimulus, and Cecil was a man of talent, not a man of genius.
Blanche confirmed him in his opinions; partly, perhaps, out of sincere belief in him and in all he said, which made her think he could not be in error; partly, also, out of a little egotism of love which made her rejoice in every hour that he could snatch from labour to spend at her side. He was so loveable, that she would deserve pardon, even if her sex's ignorance of life had not concealed from her the enormity of her fault. There was something so caressing in his manner, that few people withstood it; and to her he was the perfection of tenderness, delicacy and amiability. Persons of his lively, susceptible organization, are usually fascinating in their manners—there is a laisser aller (which in him was tempered with perfect good breeding), a frankness, a gaiety, and a general consideration for the feelings and opinions of others, founded on a desire of universal approbation, which create more regard than great qualities in a less agreeable exterior. If he was charming to others, what was he to the wife he loved!
She wished to have him with her, and he was but too glad to gratify her wish. A little excursion to Richmond occupied one day; a visit to some Exhibition broke in upon another. There were always pleasant walks and satisfactory excuses. He was not idle, he said; his brain was working, his ideas were gradually becoming clearer; the details stood out more distinctly in his imagination; and 'Nero' would benefit by this delay.
The effect of alms is always enervating, however it may relieve a present want; and the contributions of Mrs. Vyner were a species of alms. This was the case with Cecil. His sense of independence—his healthy confidence in his own powers—becomes destroyed. Had Vyner made a distinct allowance to his daughter, it would have then formed a certain part of their income, and Cecil would have no more relaxed his efforts than he did when his own small but definite income was all he could rely on. But this uncertain charity—this indefinite alms-giving which Mrs. Vyner's first gift seemed to indicate, had the injurious effect of all unascertained indeterminate assistance: it made Cecil rely on it as on a fund.
In this mental analysis I am exhibiting motives in all their nudity, but the reader will not suppose that because I drag them into the light of day, they were as clear to Cecil, in whose breast they were enveloped in the sophisms and obscurities with which men hide from themselves their own infirmities.
As Cecil sat after breakfast smoking his cigars, and watching the graceful involutions of the clouds he puffed before him, he honestly believed that he was not wasting his time. Because he occasionally arrested his wandering thoughts, and fixed them on his plans for 'Nero,' or for his Comic Opera, he fancied he was maturing them. He mistook reveries for meditation. And because in those hours of pensive idleness he made but trifling progress in the elaboration of his plans, he imagined that elaboration must necessarily be slow, and demanded more time. Thus his very infirmity was alimented, and each day's error only made the original mistake more plausible.
Who has indulged in all the enchantment of the world of reverie, wherein materials are so plastic, and triumphs are so easy,—when man seems to be endowed with the god-like privilege of creation, and his thoughts take shape without an effort, passing from the creative mind into the created act, without the hard obstacle of a medium,—who is there, I say, that, having known such intellectual triumph, has not felt humbled and discouraged when, descending from the region of reverie and intention, to that of reality and execution, he has become aware of the immensity of labour, of hard resolute labour to be undergone before he can incarnate his ideas into works? The unwritten poems—the unpainted pictures—the unnoted melodies are, it is often said, transcendantly superior to those poems, pictures, and melodies which artists succeed in producing. Perhaps so; but the world justly takes no account of unaccomplished promises, of unfought victories. What it applauds is the actual victory won in earnest struggle with difficulty; the heroes it crowns are those who have enriched them with trophies, not those who might have done so.
But Cecil was content to dream of victory—to "dally with the faint surmise" of beauty—to plan, to hope, to dream—but not to act. He would stand before his easel, looking at his canvass, or playing listlessly with the colours on his palette, but never boldly using his pencil; and because "ideas" did not come to him in that irresolute mood, he threw the palette down, lighted a cigar, and declared himself unfit for work that day.
He then would seat himself at the piano to try if Euterpe were more propitious. His fingers running over the keys would naturally suggest to him some melody that he liked; it was played, of course, or a fragment of it—then another fragment; then he began to sing—his voice was good, and it pleased him to hear it. In this way another hour or so would pass, and he would then take up his hat and stroll out. Day after day was this miserable farce of "awaiting inspiration" played with the same success.