ntment as a
poet, he would glide into some other calling, and his vanity and craving
for effect would find a rational and manly outlet. But in Italy, what
can a clever man do, if he is not a poet or a robber? If he love his
country, that crime is enough to unfit him for civil employment, and
his mind cannot stir a step in the bold channels of speculation without
falling foul of the Austrian or the Pope. No; the best I can hope for
Castruccio is, that he will end in an antiquary, and dispute about ruins
with the Romans. Better that than mediocre poetry."

Maltravers was silent and thoughtful. Strange to say, De Montaigne's
views did not discourage his own new and secret ardour for intellectual
triumphs; not because he felt that he was now able to achieve them, but
because he felt the iron of his own nature, and knew that a man who
has iron in his nature must ultimately hit upon some way of shaping the
metal into use.

The host and guest were now joined by Castruccio himself--silent and
gloomy as indeed he usually was, especially in the presence of De
Montaigne, with whom he felt his "self-love" wounded; for though he
longed to despise his hard brother-in-law, the young poet was compelled
to acknowledge that De Montaigne was not a man to be despised.

Maltravers dined with the De Montaignes, and spent the evening with
them. He could not but observe that Castruccio, who affected in his
verses the softest sentiments--who was, indeed, by original nature,
tender and gentle--had become so completely warped by that worst of all
mental vices--the eternally pondering on his own excellences, talents,
mortifications, and ill-usage, that he never contributed to the
gratification of those around him; he had none of the little arts of
social benevolence, none of the playful youth of disposition
which usually belongs to the good-hearted, and for which men of a
master-genius, however elevated their studies, however stern or reserved
to the vulgar world, are commonly noticeable amidst the friends they
love or in the home they adorn. Occupied with one dream, centred
in self, the young Italian was sullen and morose to all who did
not sympathise with his own morbid fancies. From the children--the
sister--the friend--the whole living earth, he fled to a poem on
Solitude, or stanzas upon Fame. Maltravers said to himself, "I will
never be an author--I will never sigh for renown--if I am to purchase
shadows at such a price!"

CHAPTER I