human face that
changes most, is growing to a point; the countenance is sinking into
mysterious depressions, the outlines are thickening; leaden tones
predominate in the complexion, giving tokens of weariness, although
the fatigues of this young man are not apparent; perhaps some bitter
solitude has aged him, or the abuse of his gift of comprehension.
He scrutinizes the thought of every one, yet without definite aim or
system. The pickaxe of his criticism demolishes, it never constructs.
Thus his lassitude is that of a mechanic, not of an architect. The eyes,
of a pale blue, once brilliant, are clouded now by some hidden pain,
or dulled by gloomy sadness. Excesses have laid dark tints above
the eyelids; the temples have lost their freshness. The chin, of
incomparable distinction, is getting doubled, but without dignity. His
voice, never sonorous, is weakening; without being either hoarse or
extinct, it touches the confines of hoarseness and extinction. The
impassibility of that fine head, the fixity of that glance, cover
irresolution and weakness, which the keenly intelligent and sarcastic
smile belies. The weakness lies wholly in action, not in thought; there
are traces of an encyclopedic comprehension on that brow, and in the
habitual movement of a face that is childlike and splendid both. The man
is tall, slightly bent already, like all those who bear the weight of
a world of thought. Such long, tall bodies are never remarkable for
continuous effort or creative activity. Charlemagne, Belisarious, and
Constantine are noted exceptions to this rule.

Certainly Claude Vignon presents a variety of mysteries to be solved. In
the first place, he is very simple and very wily. Though he falls into
excesses with the readiness of a courtesan, his powers of thought remain
untouched. Yet his intellect, which is competent to criticise art,
science, literature, and politics, is incompetent to guide his external
life. Claude contemplates himself within the domain of his intellectual
kingdom, and abandons his outer man with Diogenic indifference.
Satisfied to penetrate all, to comprehend all by thought, he despises
materialities; and yet, if it becomes a question of creating, doubt
assails him; he sees obstacles, he is not inspired by beauties, and
while he is debating means, he sits with his arms pendant, accomplishing
nothing. He is the Turk of the intellect made somnolent by meditation.
Criticism is his opium; his harem of books t