Unquestionably some resemblance exists between the passion for fame, or whatever it may be called, that Barbellion and Marie Bashkirtseff had in common, although in the case of the latter its relation to a definite talent was more evident. But that in either of the two cases it partook in any great measure of the nature of what is generally understood as ambition—the ambition, for instance, of Napoleon, Wilhelm II, or Keats to whom Barbellion compares himself—is not proved by either of their self-revelations. There is a quality well known to psychologists that may be described as the passion to attract attention, which is a distinguishing attribute of the neurotic temperament. It sometimes acts as an urge to the expression of a talent in case the possessor of the temperament is also the possessor of a talent—which is by no means infrequent and which was undoubtedly true in the case of Marie Bashkirtseff. It, however, exists in innumerable other cases where the neurotic has been gifted by nature with no special talent or ability for expression of any kind. The mere reiteration, therefore, of a passion to focus the attention of the world upon himself, while it would invite questions as to his balance or the lack of it, affords no proof of mental qualities upon which the hope of achieving such distinction might reasonably be placed.
The next question which arises in relation to Barbellion's ambition or desire for distinction is: What were his intellectual possessions? And the first step in answering this question is the examination of his interests. By a man's admirations, as by his friends, you may know him. He identified himself, in a measure, with Keats; he had great admiration for Sir Thomas Browne; James Joyce was a writer after his own heart; and he admired Dostoievsky and Francis Thompson.
Barbellion's objective intellect stands out rather clearly in his record, particularly as the evidence is written more forcibly between the lines than in his statements. Deduction, induction, and analysis are rather high. In fact, he possessed wisdom, ingenuity, caution, and perception; that is, the elements of objective thought. He showed no great ability to estimate the nature and bearing of his surroundings or to devise ways of dealing with them so as to turn them to his advantage, but had it not been for illness he might have done so. As to the actual results of his intellectual efforts, naturalists say he made some important contributions to their science; and, although these were trifling, they were in the right direction. His working life really ended at twenty-five, an age at which the working life of most men of science has scarcely begun.
It is almost entirely upon his subjective thought, that is upon his estimate of himself, that the value of his record rests. Everyone in his progress through life and his intercourse with his fellows measures himself more or less deliberately against, and estimates his own capacity relatively to, theirs, not only with respect to wisdom, cleverness, or caution, but with respect to special accomplishments. Besides this relative estimate, he learns to form an absolute estimate of his intellectual powers. He knows what he can understand at once, what he has to study hard before he can understand, and what is wholly beyond his comprehension. Some people habitually underestimate their ability; others, the majority, overestimate it. It is very difficult to say, from the literary remains of Barbellion, whether he was of the latter class or not. He had literary taste, a prodigious appetite, and he displayed considerable capacity for assimilation. It is quite possible that, as the result of these, he might have revealed constructive imagination; but his life was very brief, it was riddled with illness, and he matured slowly.
Barbellion's estimate of himself may be fairly judged by the epitome of his whole life which he made in an entry of August 1, 1917, in connection with his retirement from the staff of the British Museum:
“I was the ablest junior on the staff and one of the ablest zoologists in the place, but my ability was always muffled by the inferior work given me to do. My last memoir was the best of its kind in treatment, method and technique—not the most important—that ever was issued from the institution. It was trivial because the work given me was always trivial, the idea being that as I had enjoyed no academic career I was unsuited to fill other posts then vacant—two requiring laboratory training—which were afterwards filled by men of less powers than my own. There was also poor equipment for work and I had to struggle for success against great odds. In time I should have revolutionised the study of Systematic Zoology, and the anonymous paper I wrote in conjunction with R. in the American Naturalist was a rare jeu d'esprit, and my most important scientific work. In the literary world I fared no better. I first published an article at fifteen, over my father's name. My next story was unexpectedly printed in the Academy at the age of nineteen. The American Forum published an article, but for years I received back rejected manuscript from every conceivable kind of publication from Punch to the Hibbert Journal. Recently, there has been evidence of a more benevolent attitude towards me on the part of London editors. A certain magnificent quarterly has published one or two of my essays.... I fear, however, the flood-tide has come too late.”
In regard to one of the essays, he noted that it called forth flattering comment in Public Opinion, but that it did not impress anybody else, even E., his wife, who did not read the critique, although she read twice a pleasant paragraph in the press noticing some drawings of a friend.
It was one of Barbellion's persecutory ideas that he was not appreciated at his full value.
“Ever since I came into the world I have felt an alien in this life, a refugee by reason of some prenatal extradiction. I always felt alien to my father and mother. I was different from them. I knew and was conscious of the detachment. I admired my father's courage and happiness of soul, but we were very far from one another. I loved my mother, but we had little in common.”
When his mother warned him that he was in danger of being friendless all his life because of his preference for acerbities to amenities he replied, “I don't want people to like me. I shan't like them. Theirs will be the greater loss.”