w, neither stupid
nor tedious, with fair acquirements, and powers of judgment by no means
ordinary, _nota bene_, for what _others_ do. If I were a rascal, I
might by means of them, accomplish something, open a booth for
criticism, for instance, and sell myself as dearly as possible. But the
misfortune is that I have, or at least had, the ambition to accomplish
something myself, and what is worse, desired to possess all sorts of
talents. I have a most decided capacity for becoming a mediocre poet or
musician, and in political articles, which appear to mean something and
really say nothing, I have yet to find my superior. You will say there
are many such wights. Certainly. But not many who have in addition such
an honest, devout envy of the real men who can accomplish something
genuine, such a loathing of all botching, such disgust when they have
caught themselves at it. It was this that drove me away from you. I
could not endure to see you all, each in his own field of labor, busy
tilling and planting and at last reaping,--real grain, whether much or
little--and stand by with my cockle-weed. I felt like spitting in my
own face from chagrin at my mediocrity in everything that is worthy to
be called work, achievement, getting on in the world, while in talking
I was a very hero. Now, however, I have discovered _that that is my
destiny_. A sorry creature, created by Nature through some malicious
whim, and condemned always to stick halfway at everything. But I will
spoil her jest; I will at least do something completely and well, and
in one point, at all events, I will reach virtuosoship."

"I don't understand why this idea did not occur to you long ago,"
replied Edwin. "You were born for a critic, and as such can have as
much influence on the world and society, as if you were a poet."

"I should be a fool!" exclaimed the other, tossing his cigarette into
the courtyard, as he started up and clasped his hands behind his head.
"Attempt to improve the world, tell it plain truths in black and white,
which of course every one will apply to his worthy neighbor, try to
educate artists who fancy that thinking paralyses the imagination, or
tell truths to authors, who upon perusing them fail more signally to
comprehend themselves than when they penned their thoughts,--no, my
dear fellow, _vestigia terrent_. A certain Lessing tried all that a
hundred years ago, and broke his teeth on the hard wood. All these
philanthropic sacrifices ma