But I found the worthy old Doctor's advice easier to inculcate than to practise. Clarian did not need my sympathy, had excitement and encouragement enough in his own hopes, and, in fact, like the Boatswain in "The Tempest," only required to be let alone. Still, he paid us a visit now and then, and gave us to understand that he denied himself our society, did not thrust it aside as something useless and disagreeable. When he came, he would talk freely, and give us but too plain evidence of the change and confusion that were taking place in him. Mac never spared him at these times, and on one occasion, only a fortnight previous to the exhibition of the picture, fairly drove the boy into a passion.
"Well, Mr. Whitewash," said he, as Clarian came in, "how are you at this present writing? You look as if you had been dieting on Gamboge and Flake White. Take care, young man, or you'll put us students to the cost of a tombstone with a Latin epitaph for you, yet,—beginning, Interfecit se.—How comes on the Art? You've given the go-by to Ego and Non-Ego, I suppose, and have resolved to achieve the very [Greek: kudos] upon a ten-foot whitewashed wall, eh? Soit,—but what results? Can you say yet, as Correggio did when he saw the St. Cecilia of Raphael, 'Anch' io son pittore'? or do you intend to limit your ambition, à la Dick Tinto, to the effecting of two liquidations in one by the restoration of tavern-signs?"
"Please do not taunt me, Mac, for I am cast down, almost. I have the grandest conception, but the life-touch escapes me. It is in vain I seek it: we cannot do a thing properly, unless we feel it; passion will not be simulated. What we know, and can do well, must all be repeated from our own experience, says St. Simon,—and I agree with him."
"St. Simon be—hanged!" quoth Mac. "So, it seems, the Metaphysic is not abandoned. St. Simon, forsooth!—why, his doctrine was, that, to comprehend the nature of crime, one had first to commit crime himself. Pah! according to that, he who would most thoroughly learn the philosophy of our carnal lusts must exchange natures with the goat. Pray, why do not you solicit Herr Urian to give you a hircine metamorphosis, Clarian?"
"Nay, Mac, can it be thus put off with a jest and a sneer, after all? What do you think of these words I came across last night?"—and opening his note-book, Clarian read as follows: "For of old it hath been clearly proven, action without passion is nought save idle folly. Passio Christi hominis redemptio. For as sin came into the world by suffering, so also the gift of knowledge, which man would have confessedly lacked, had he not purchased it pretio mortis,—even whereat, meseemeth, 'tis not a commodity too high-priced. And as Philo Judæus hath well observed, (as that arch heretic doth but seldom, wherefore let us ascribe to him the full credit,) 'Materia parens est (etiam ipsa mater) peccali,' so, to attain to anything really spiritual, we have even to be born again of this our parent, by the reëntrance of whose womb, in pain and darkness, we come back to the true and the living, and have provision given us wherewith we shall conquer worlds. For, to fix the pure thought and to identify it with the true and holy, we must first divide it from the base clogs of matter; and how can we effect this disjunction, save, as it hath ever been done, by passion,—not simulate nor taken at second hand, cold,'bis coctum quasi,' but rather presently and in our very selves reiterate? So Naaman dipt in Jordan,—a task unto him, a sin in the eyes of his gods, and painful exceedingly to his pride-gorged humor, that would only have Abana and Pharpar,—yet only so was his skin made whole again, and soft like an infant's. So also did David the king come into tasting of the bliss of a true repentance by the terrible gateways of shameful adultery and blood-thirst."
"Oh, I agree with your author perfectly," said Mac, with inimitable gravity, while I gazed at Clarian, wondering what would come next. "All the greatest gifts man possesses have had evil sponsors or unrighteous baptism. Even Prometheus filched his fire from heaven, or t'other place. Doing evil for the sake of a prospective good is an immemorial custom, and well precedented. Revenue-farming, the parc-aux-cerfs, and Du Barry only went down before La Terreur, Robespierre, and Les Journées de Septembre."
"But seriously, Mac, is it not admissible, now and then, to employ questionable means, ordinary ones failing?"
"Certainly. You may even sin, provided you believe in your cause. Faith is the one save-all and cure-all. You smile? I can give you good authority,—none other than Martin Luther, who, in one of his disputations, says emphatically, 'Si in fide posset fieri adulterium, peccatum non esset'; and he wrote still more plainly upon this point in one of his letters to Melancthon, saying, 'Ab hoc nos non avellet peccatum, etiamsi millies millies uno die fornicamur aut occidamus.' [Footnote: Vie de Luther, par AUDIN, Paris, 1839. An accurate book, but scathingly bitter.] So follow your bent, younker, and they cannot say you are without 'precedent right reverend.'"
Clarian sprang to his feet, his pale face all ablaze with indignation. "You have no right to say such things to me, Sir," he cried, "for you know well enough"—
"I know well enough that you are a crack-brained jackanapes, with your damned fantastics!" bellowed Mac, angry in his turn. "What do you mean,—you, who are a perfect little saint in your life,—what do you mean by thrusting all these foul heresies at me, as if you were a veritable citizen of Sodom, or a rejuvenized Faust, who have just replenished your stock of 'experiences,' as you call them, by seducing Margaret and stabbing her brother? Burn your books, if that filth is all they teach you,—and mend your manners, if you expect to be tolerated in respectable company. Good-bye!" cried he, as Clarian rushed white-heated from the room.