Devereux — Complete by Baron Edward Bulwer Lytton Lytton (best interesting books to read txt) 📕

underwent a whisper. “By the Lord,” cried he, seemingly in a furious passion, “and thou hast not got the bill cashed yet, though I told thee twice to have it done last evening? Have I not my debts of honour to discharge, and did I not give the last guinea I had about me for a walking cane yesterday? Go down to the city immediately, sirrah, and bring me the change.”

The valet again whispered.

“Ah,” resumed Fielding, “ah—so far, you say, ‘tis true; ‘tis a great way, and perhaps the Count can’t wait till you return. Prithee (turning to me), prithee now, is it not vexatious,—no change about me, and my fool has not cashed a trifling bill I have, for a thousand or so, on Messrs. Child! and the cursed Salop puts not its trust even in princes; ‘tis its way; ‘Gad now, you have not a guinea about you?”

What could I say? My guinea joined Tarleton’s, in a visit to that bourne whence no such traveller e’er returned.

Mr. O’Carroll now vanished in earnest, the wine and the chocolate soon appeared. Mr. Fielding brightened up, recited his poetry, blessed his good fortune, promised to call on me in a day or two; and assured me, with a round oath, that the next time he had the honour of seeing me, he would treat me with another pint of Madeira, exactly of the same sort.

I remember well that it was the evening of the same day in which I had paid this visit to the redoubted Mr. Fielding, that, on returning from a drum at Lady Hasselton’s, I entered my anteroom with so silent a step, that I did not arouse even the keen senses of Monsieur Desmarais. He was seated by the fire, with his head supported by his hands, and intently poring over a huge folio. I had often observed that he possessed a literary turn, and all the hours in which he was unemployed by me he was wont to occupy with books. I felt now, as I stood still and contemplated his absorbed attention in the contents of the book before him, a strong curiosity to know the nature of his studies; and so little did my taste second the routine of trifles in which I had been lately engaged, that in looking upon the earnest features of the man on which the solitary light streamed calm and full; and impressed with the deep quiet and solitude of the chamber, together with the undisturbed sanctity of comfort presiding over the small, bright hearth, and contrasting what I saw with the brilliant scene—brilliant with gaudy, wearing, wearisome frivolities—which I had just quitted, a sensation of envy at the enjoyments of my dependant entered my breast, accompanied with a sentiment resembling humiliation at the nature of my own pursuits. I am generally thought a proud man; but I am never proud to my inferiors; nor can I imagine pride where there is no competition. I approached Desmarais, and said, in French,—

“How is this? why did you not, like your fellows, take advantage of my absence to pursue your own amusements? They must be dull indeed if they do not hold out to you more tempting inducements than that colossal offspring of the press.”

“Pardon me, Sir,” said Desmarais, very respectfully, and closing the book, “pardon me, I was not aware of your return. Will Monsieur doff his cloak?”

“No; shut the door, wheel round that chair, and favour me with a sight of your book.”

“Monsieur will be angry, I fear,” said the valet (obeying the first two orders, but hesitating about the third), “with my course of reading: I confess it is not very compatible with my station.”

“Ah, some long romance, the ‘Clelia,’ I suppose,—nay, bring it hither; that is to say, if it be movable by the strength of a single man.”

Thus urged, Desmarais modestly brought me the book. Judge of my surprise when I found it was a volume of Leibnitz, a philosopher then very much the rage,—because one might talk of him very safely, without having read him.* Despite of my surprise, I could not help smiling when my eye turned from the book to the student. It is impossible to conceive an appearance less like a philosopher’s than that of Jean Desmarais. His wig was of a nicety that would not have brooked the irregularity of a single hair; his dress was not preposterous, for I do not remember, among gentles or valets, a more really exquisite taste than that of Desmarais; but it evinced, in every particular, the arts of the toilet. A perpetual smile sat upon his lips,—sometimes it deepened into a sneer, but that was the only change it ever experienced; an irresistible air of self-conceit gave piquancy to his long, marked features, small glittering eye, and withered cheeks, on which a delicate and soft bloom excited suspicion of artificial embellishment. A very fit frame of body this for a valet; but I humbly opine a very unseemly one for a student of Leibnitz.

* Which is possibly the reason why there are so many disciples of Kant at the present moment.—ED.

“And what,” said I, after a short pause, “is your opinion of this philosopher? I understand that he has just written a work* above all praise and comprehension.”

* The “Theodicaea.”

“It is true, Monsieur, that it is above his own understanding. He knows not what sly conclusions may be drawn from his premises; but I beg Monsieur’s pardon, I shall be tedious and intrusive.”

“Not a whit! speak out, and at length. So you conceive that Leibnitz makes ropes which others will make into ladders?”

“Exactly so,” said Desmarais; “all his arguments go to swell the sails of the great philosophical truth,—‘Necessity!’ We are the things and toys of Fate, and its everlasting chain compels even the Power that creates as well as the things created.”

“Ha!” said I, who, though little versed at that time in these metaphysical subtleties, had heard St. John often speak of the strange doctrine to which Desmarais referred, “you are, then, a believer in the fatalism of Spinoza?”

“No, Monsieur,” said Desmarais, with a complacent smile, “my system is my own: it is composed of the thoughts of others; but my thoughts are the cords which bind the various sticks into a fagot.”

“Well,” said I, smiling at the man’s conceited air, “and what is your main dogma?”

“Our utter impotence.”

“Pleasing! Mean you that we have no free will?”

“None.”

“Why, then, you take away the very existence of vice and virtue; and, according to you, we sin or act well, not from our own accord, but because we are compelled and preordained to it.”

Desmarais’ smile withered into the grim sneer with which, as I have said, it was sometimes varied.

“Monsieur’s penetration is extreme; but shall I not prepare his nightly draught?”

“No; answer me at length; and tell me the difference between good and ill, if we are compelled by Necessity to either.”

Desmarais hemmed, and began. Despite of his caution, the coxcomb loved to hear himself talk, and he talked, therefore, to the following purpose: