A NOVEL WITH TWO HEROES.*
IT is generally a good omen when a novel is built, as it were, on a foundation of graver work. When we saw that the author of the story before us was also the writer of one of the best lives yet published of Beethoven, we knew it was with no mere maker of stories we had to do ; we do not say mere novelist, for that would imply a slight on work which may be as high as the painter's or musician's. But story-makers abound, and any guarantee for honest, thoughtful work is pleasant to the eye of the critic, accus- tomed to wish the mass of new tales could be consigned " to be read this day six mouths." Mr. Grraeme's story is above the average even of good novels. It is clever and amusing ; free from sensationalism, though full of interest, and of interest which touches many of the deeper chords of life. If it does not exactly bear the Hall-mark of genius, it is none the less secure of an audience on that account ; and besides, though this tale is not perhaps the offspring of the writer's special power, yet one touch of genius in any corner of the brain has a transmuting effect on the whole rough ore of the character, and we imagine our author is not without this ; but the hypercritical mind is very apt to forget that there are very able people who seek from a novel ainusement and repose, and dislike the intellectual effort imposed upon them by a George Eliot or a Victor Hugo.
Mr. Graeme's delineation of character is remarkably good. To choose an instance almost at random, we might mention the father of one of our "two heroes," a German enthusiast, who, to the great surprise of a money-getting, money-loving family, cared nothing that the savings of a generation passed to his brother and a mere pittance to himself, so that that pittance set him free from actual want, to realise his beau-ideal of existence in the ser- vice of his own department of science. We get a real insight into this man's nature in less than half-a-dozen paragraphs, —the man of whom Germany was destined to be proud, but who took it as quite natural that his days should be spent without external reward, in making the discoveries of which those reaped the benefit who "could speak of them to the world in brilliant and glowing language, or could turn them to practical ac- count." It is all so natural, that history,—the man whose one recreation was a love of art so intense that "the passion absorbed every spare kreutzer," yet who never would buy the pictures other people admired, and wanted him to admire, but would per- sist in stopping before some bit of painting overlooked by the majority, and say, " Ah ! there's Geist here ;' and forthwith that picture was visible to his mind's eye in some niche of his little salon at home." We do not wonder to hear that in after days that same little salon was found to contain the chefs dmuvres of artists who in later years found their niche in the Temple of Fame. Is Jacob Miiller quite the creation of Mr. Graeme's brain? We suspect he has known some very actual prototype. We are told of the old man's marriage (he was not very old in years, but old as artists use the term for most things or people worth loving). And the very features of the wife he chose are delineated for us in a touch, though we are not told if she were young, or beautiful, or clever. Then his disappointment is admirable when his son, the principal hero of the story, becomes not a scientific investigator, * A Novel with Two Ileroes. By Elliot Graeme. London: Charles Griffin & Co. 1872. but a musician. And we may observe here that it is with musi- cians and musical life generally Mr. Graeme is most essentially at home ; indeed, we should advise the reader, if he have no love for music in his soul, to lay the book down at once,—it will assuredly weary him, as the story nearly throughout follows the fortunes of Arnold Muller in the house of "Herr Capellmeister Bergmann, Director of the Conservatorium at Stiidtlein." The young student's introduction there is ex- ceedingly good, as he stands, half hopeful, half nervous, on the threshold of the new life upon which he has entered, and waits, for what appears to him an interminable time, in the good Director's study, getting all the surroundings of that remarkable room, and the scenery beyond it, unconsciously stamped in upon his memory, a sense of pleasure predominating at first, until,— " Gradually, there stole upon him one of the restless moods to which we are all subject at times. Physical exhaustion, and perhaps a little pique at the neglect of his new friends, no doubt contributed their quota to the spirit of dissatisfaction that now overpowered him, causing the scene before him to contract, to lose its charm, while he felt an irre- sistible longing to burst all bonds, to escape to the immeasurable regions beyond. He stood for awhile absorbed—forgetful alike of place and time—and drawing a deep breath, exclaimed : 'After all, this is not the world !' He had learned from his father the habit of speaking his thoughts aloud, addressing himself in lieu of better company.— ' Indeed, young man !' said a voice behind him, and pray, what may you consider the world?' Arnold started violently ; the thoughts in which he had just been indulging were certainly not those he would choose to reveal to a stranger. Turning, he perceived a little old gentleman in a gorgeous, oriental-looking dressing-down, his iron-grey hair covered by a velvet smoking-cap, between his fingers a cigar, at which he puffed away vigorously. The new-comer was spare and short ; as they stood together Arnold felt that he towered about a bead and shoulders above him, but notwitstanding, he blushed like a girl (mentally stigmatising himself as an 'idiot' for so doing) beneath the sharp, somewhat quizzical glances darted at him by a pair of keen, bright eyes from behind their entrenchment of shaggy brow. 'Well,' repeated the Director (for he it was, as Arnold well knew from a por- trait in his possession), evidently enjoying the young man's confusion, 'and so you don't intend this to be your world, eh.'" It is not part of our purpose to describe the Director, or his sister Martha, or the pretty, piquante heroine, whose sad history we wish our author could have been pleased, if not quite inconsistent with the truthfulness of his story, to brighten a little. "So things are in real life." Very possibly, only it is not exactly real life that we ask for in a novel ; but something very real, with a little "as it might have been" added on.
After all, the English rector is the gem of the book. The crust of his character so hard, but the ring of the metal itself, though harsh, so true. The history of his entering the Church is the oft- told tale over again :—
" After this nothing seemed to go well at the Place ; Lady Chesney quietly fretted herself into the grave, whither she was soon followed by her second son, a fine young fellow of twenty. who had been destined for the Church. The latter event decided the fat) of the youngest, Stephen, who was peremptorily recalled from the academy where he had been pursuing his military studies, and directed to take the place of his deceased brother. In vain he pleaded his strong desire to enter the Army, and his consciousness of his own inability to undertake the sacred duties of a minister of the Gospel. Sir Ralph remained inex- orable. Time out of mind, a Chesney had been Rector of Dmington ; the living was valuable, and in his own gift ; therefore, willing or un- willing, Stephen must proceed to the University and qualify himself for the post. The young man had not arrived at a very reflective age ; he disliked the ministry, but he disliked poverty infinitely more ; the fate of his elder sister, who had been held up to him as a female Absalom ever since he could remember, turned the scale, and Stephen Chesney acquiesced in his father's wish. He took Holy Orders, and became, instead of a thorough soldier, a disappointed parish priest, feared by all for his powerful, gloomy nature, but beloved by few."
As in all really strong natures, there are large grains of tender- ness and generosity in this man ; but such characters ill bear analyzing,—they speak for themselves in the various relations of life, and can scarcely be indicated by isolated descriptions. Here is one little scene, however, where the rector is brought into contact with the clever self-made lawyer, who is in himself a study, and his son, who is settled as a missionary clergyman among the sea-faring population of Tredhill. It is Sunday afternoon at the rectory. The rector welcomes father and son "in his most affable manner [by affable we understand cordiality tempered with a certain degree of condescension], and introduces the younger of the two to his daughter and Lady Charleswood as Mr. Edward Tooke," &c. At luncheon be asks the man he knows to be so popular to occupy his pulpit, and cannot even comprehend the thought which dictates the half-hesitating reply, " I, —I fear I am not in the vein to speak without preparation." The rector, who is above the weakness of " moods " or "veins," of course prevails, and the news spreading through the village, where he was beloved of all, the church is thronged. We must again quote Mr. Graeme's own words:— " The Rector saw it with unmixed satisfaction—the 'green-eyed monster ' had no part in him ; and besides, he explained Edward's popularity in a way very satisfactory to himself : 'It is only natural that he should be able to enlist the sympathy of that class—for he knows how to appeal to them—he is one of themselves—he is one of the people.'"
Then his parting salutation adds the final touch to this side of his character, when he finds that Alice can help the young missionary in his attempt to conquer the language and reach the hearts of the foreign sailors who are constantly crossing his path :—
" Do not be so long in coming to see us again, Mr. Edward,' said the Rector, urbanely ; he really had taken a great liking to Edward. (With all his talent, the young man knew his place so well.) 'Your father has been telling me of your efforts among the sailors. Alice here will be happy to chatter Italian with you by the hour together.'" The concentrated pride of generations of blue-blood lay sleeping all unconscious in that kindly-spoken sentence. We get another side of his nature in his treatment of his nephew, Tom Hawkes- worth, whom he trusts with the confidingness cf a generous, proud nature, tolerant of what seems only open-handed extravagance, and simply incapable of suspecting under-hand dealing in any member of his own family. By the way, Tom Hawkesworth is the blot on the literary merit of the book ; he is altogether over- drawn, he is an artistic blunder. The man's physical nature is so utterly at variance with his mental, the two would not have existed together. That kind of man may do things that are utterly bad, and that makes his life a curse and not a blessing, but he does not plot villany which may be weighted with murder.
Mr. Gracme's canvas is so crowded it is really difficult to select figures for illustration. When we have given the notice their prominence demands to some of the leading characters, and only some, for the most interesting heroine, "Male," we have ignored altogether, we find our heartiest admiration and our keenest dislike really reserved for the subordinate actors, who yet are very real in the by-play on which so much of the story turns, as it would turn in actual life. In Wallraf, for instance, we have one of Mr. Graeme's best characters,—the cynical musician, so fall of power, and yet so bitter, who so persistently misunderstands Arnold and and is misunderstood by him. We have a revelation of his real nature in two or three pages, of which it is impossible for us to give more than one. It is the Director who is speaking :—
" Now I come to my third point, and that affects more closely his relation to you. Wallraf is a disappointed man, not only in his fortune and his love, but also in himself.'—' In himself !' echoed Arnold, with astonishment; surely the position he has attained is sufficiently gratify- ing even to his pride ?'—' Not satisfied with being one of the greatest pianists that this ago or any other has produced, he will also be a composer. Nature, unfortunately, has been cruel, and denied him the gift he covets most.'—' But Wallraf composes,' said Arnold, astounded at the revelation of this undreamt-of feature in his adversary's character.'—' He composes ; true,—but how ? His works have no living value ; thera is no original thought in them,—no body ; they are like garments made solely of fringes,' said the Director, uncon- sciously applying to another use the simile employed long before by old Jeremy Taylor; 'they are mere brilliant technical displays for his own instrument. And no one feels their deficiency more than himself. Judge now, Arnold, whether this is not galling to a man like Wallraf ! Think of the delight you have in expressing your own ideas : would you exchange it for the greatest power in reproducing those of others ? Would you not feel that, if you wore debarred from working out your own thoughts, the sunshine had departed from your life?"
Now here is a point in which Mr. Graeme shows his superiority to the ordinary novel-writer ; he has laid his finger on the true sore in many a man's life,—his self-dissatisfaction (oftener than not masked under intense self-assertion). He is not the creature of circumstances which he looks to other eyes, and he knows he is not, but he has through want of some missing link never fully possessed his soul : so true it is that "he Who Suds himself, loses his misery."
And the restless assertion of power but half grasped makes (as in Wallraf's case) humility and dissatisfaction the last sentiments we are inclined to attribute to him. It is these things which often weight a man so much more heavily than the ordinary sorrows of life which he shares in common with his fellows, and for the very reason that the burden must be borne alone. It is not often a strong nature can bear even a loving band to touch its real failures. We think most readers will be slightly disappointed with the way in which the story ends. There is a sense of hurry and incompleteness, as if a man telling a narrative by the fireside were suddenly interrupted, and brought his tale to a harried close with, "Well, nobody did what they were expected to do, but it was just this," &c.,—a defect, Mr. Graeme may plead, we have to pardon every day in real life. We have not attempted to give a résumé of the tale itself, since to condense would be to spoil it, but we sincerely hope Mr. Graeme has others in reserve. ,
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