Allen took his papers from Claire’s hands and prepared to read them. M. Philipon made one more effort towards hardening his features to the rigidity of the unbending critic, while Claire became obviously the sympathetic admirer. I cannot conceive of any situation more awkward for a young man of eighteen than this — fortunately an unusual one — of reading his own verses aloud. When a man has achieved a reputation, when he is sure of receiving at the end murmurs of thanks and praise, to read a poem is part of the greatness. But in the inception, even before the very beginning, when one is still a timid, sensitive lad, conscious that the verses are essays, tentatives, at the best not too good, the ordeal is terrible.

     
In this case that dreadful feeling already alluded to, of chill disappointment and disgust with his own work, remained with him from the beginning to the end, and it made him read badly, so that he did not even do his work justice. He saw, too, that Claire was disappointed; he saw it because her eyes, which should have brightened had the verses pleased, and were telltale eyes, dropped, and she did not lift them again. There was no encouragement in her drooping head and downcast eyes. The critic’s upper lip was evidently stiffened to say cruel things.

     
As for the verses, what can one expect of eighteen? They

were skeletons, feeble imitations, weak in language, false in sentiment; they had every fault. They had, however, one virtue — they possessed that quality difficult to define, impossible to describe, which is called promise. If you go to the Grosvenor Gallery, for instance, or any other gallery? you will find plenty of feeble pictures by amateurs and beginners; among them, however, you will discover one or two which have promise.

     
Claire, who could see that the verses were stilted, weak and cold, but could not see the promise in them, was bitterly disappointed. Poor Allen! was this, the outcome of all his reading? Was it with this little bundle of feeble couplets that he hoped to achieve immortality? Not an original thought, not one novel expression, not one happy phrase from beginning to end. She could not lift her eyes. She would have cried with vexation had she dared.

     
When the poet finished his reading he stood pale, gloomy, almost despairing. For he was self-convicted; he felt now for the first time how really bad his verses were. The enthusiasm of his conception came not, as usual, to conceal the feebleness of his execution. He looked so miserable that Claire would have burst into tears, but for a most surprising thing.

     
Conceive her astonishment when, at this painful moment, her father sprang to his feet and seized Allen by both hands, crying, ‘Courage, my pupil! I congratulate you; you shall be a poet.’

     
It was not out of kinclness. Hector, the critic, saw the promise. Allen gasped.

     
‘You think so?’ he cried, with burning cheeks and glowing eyes. ‘Oh, you think ——’

     
‘I am sure,’ replied the new Boileau. I do not suppose that Allen will ever again experience a moment — it was only one moment — of such unalloyed, such unexpected rapture as this. He cannot; such happiness can only come — once — to a very young man. The earthly heaven recedes and disappears as one grows older. It was a momentary glimpse of paradise. But, the critic who opened the gates closed them again abruptly.

     
‘As for your verses,’ he said, with inconceivable cruelty, ‘they are detestable. So far as I can judge, being a Frenchman, and not an Englishman, they are detestable.’

     
Allen dropped the papers out of his hand, and turned as pale as a girl who is ‘going off,’ while the verses fluttered helplessly to the floor.

     
‘Allen!’ Claire sprang forward and caught his hand. ‘My father means — he does not mean ——’

     
‘I mean,’ said her father firmly, ‘that they are detestable. Now, Claire, my clear, play something that is soft and pleasant to take away the remembrance of those verses. So — so let me talk to this young poet if only to forget his rhymes.’

     
The young Apollo stood motionless, his verses lying down on the carpet. He would have shed tears had he been alone.

     
‘Courage!’ said his critic, ‘courage, my son! Did you never before hear of a poet writing utterly detestable verses at eighteen? That is nothing; they all do it. Put the rubbish away and look at it, if you like, in three years time. That is my first advice; read this rigmarole make-believe no more or you will fall in love with it, and then it will stop your growth. Do you not know that to love any below the best of women is fatal to a poet? And as your mistress so your verse. Would you take your Muse from an English institution — hein? — a school for young ladies? Think no more about the verses. Are you brave?’

     
Certainly, at this moment he did not look brave, but the exact opposite, for the shock of hearing his verses called detestable was too much for his nerves, and he was trembling, as only a lad of extremely nervous and sensitive temperament can tremble at that age when one is still a boy, but with some of the instincts of a man. All his hopes were lying in those verses, and they were detestable.

     
‘Come, Allen,’ said Hector kindly, ‘do not be cast down. Detestable as they are, they have the right ring, they have promise; they show that you will, some day, write good verses. Now, are you brave?’

     
‘I could be if I thought my work would not always be’ — here he choked — ‘detestable.’

     
‘It will not, believe me. Be prepared, however, to meet with the disappointment which belongs to the career of every poet, even the worst of evils — for a poet — neglect. Yet you must persevere. Success will seem farther off than ever, yet you must persevere. Give up, first, what men most care for — wealth.’

     
‘I do not desire money,’ said Allen grandly.

     
‘Then you will be more than a poet: you will be a philosopher. But sometimes money means — love, and to a poet love is a necessity.’

     
‘Love?’ Allen glanced involuntarily at Claire.

     
‘Yes, but women love men who succeed; they only pity those who fail. It is sometimes the fate of a poet to succeed only when he has one foot in the grave. You may be solitary, but you must work; you may be laughed at by your friends, but you must go on working. In time you will have your reward. Yes, a great reward. The prizes of the world are all for those who can go on working.’ Allen was silent. ‘For the present read — read daily, and practise daily. To write verse easily is the first thing. That you will learn by practice. I command you to write every day something. And now, if you please, I will tell you, in order to encourage you, the story of a
man who tried to be a poet and failed, because he left off trying.’

     
‘I would rather,’ said Allen, feebly smiling, ‘hear the story of the man who succeeded.’

     
‘You may read plenty of such stories in books. Listen, Claire, my child; if you can listen and make music at the same time, please to go on playing. If not, leave the piano and sit on your stool, and give your father both your hands.’

     
Claire sat at his feet and gave him her hands. She knew
that he was going to tell them something about himself.

     
‘The young man of whom I speak was a student — il faisoit son droit — he was studying law. In the same way began young Arouet and young Poquelin. It is not, my friend, that law produces poets, but that poets quickly abandon law. This young student, who never opened a law book, spent all his time in writing poetry. At the age when you were wandering in the woods, he wandered in the streets of Paris. It was nearly thirty years ago. He was a young man — there were then many such — who had learned the ideas of the Revolution, and saw that all was not finished, but, on the other hand, all was to begin again. You do not know yet what that means, but you will some day. This young man, while his fellow-students went to Auteuil and sang of lilacs and love, used to spend his time walking about the streets of Paris, and talking with the men who wear the blouse. It is through these men, you see, that revolutions are made. He wanted to find out what they think and what they want. If you talk to these men long enough they will tell you freely what they think. This young man began to write down the stories he heard in verse; he began to write songs for the people; he told them what they wanted, and how they were to work in order to get it — all in his songs. He would become — he — this young man — one of the Poets of Humanity. That was a noble ambition, was it not, Allen? Nothing less than a Poet of the People!’

     
‘Ah!’ cried Allen, kindling.

     
‘When his verses were finished he took them to a publisher. Do I say one publisher? He offered them to all the publishers. Not one would take them. But he had a brother engaged in commerce. This good brother, though a plain bourgeois who abhorred the Revolution and desired order above all things, in order that he might become rich, gave him the money to publish his poems. The book was printed, it appeared ——’

     
He was silent awhile.

     
‘Then?’ asked Allen.

     
‘Nothing more, my friend, nothing more. It appeared from the statement of the publisher that nobody at all bought a single copy, nobody noticed the book.’

     
‘Nobody at all? Oh, my poor father!’ cried Claire.

     
‘Nobody at all. The poet languished in absolute neglect. His very brother did not buy a copy. Yet I think that somebody must have read them, I do not know who. For, mark

this strange thing: it was in December of the year 1847 that these poems were published, and in February, 1848, the Revolution began. Yes, the Revolution. Now when it began, a coincidence happened. The people acted exactly as I in my verses had exhorted them to act. Yes; in those verses which nobody bought.’

     
‘Oh!’ said Allen.

     
‘Yes, there was the spontaneous rising; there were the barricades; there was the street-fighting. I felt as I stood among the ouvriers on the Boulevard des Italiens, that every man in the crowd must have read my verses. My children, that was a proud moment. I was the Poet of Freedom!’

     
‘And the books?’ asked Allen.

     
‘Behold another coincidence. The shop was pillaged; the people wanted materials for a barricade. They took the handiest, the books out of that publisher’s shop. Books, if you get enough of them, make excellent barricades. The Revolution, in fact, devoured the whole edition of the very book, to which — I do not say — I do not know — to which, perhaps, it owed birth.’

     
‘And not a single copy left?’ said Claire.

     
‘My daughter, there is not one. Nothing remains of that unknown volume, unless, indeed, the memory of the Revolution.’

     
Allen’s eyes glowed.

     
‘Oh!’ he cried; ‘to think that a poet could so move the world!’

     
‘And a poet of twenty-one!’ said Claire, gazing with pride upon her father. She knew that he had taken no ignoble part
in the great revolutionary outbreak, but she had never suspected
him of being its prime author.

     
‘Only three years older than myself,’ echoed Allen.

     
‘It may have been,’ said this Tyrtæus of Revolution, trying to suppress the external betrayal of pride, ‘that this young man only caught the ideas of the workmen and the students, and echoed them ——’

     
‘No,’ said Allen with decision — ‘no: the poet leads.’

     
‘Oh, yes,’ said Claire, ‘the people always wait for their poet.’

     
They both spoke as if they knew all about it, and as if they were quite familiar with the ways of the people. We, who know more of our brethren, may admit that if the people do always wait for their poet, they wait with great patience — as much patience as the mother of the people waits for that Ship to come home which is going to bring fortune and happiness. They wait, in fact, so patiently, that they do not even talk about the advent of the poet.

     
‘Yet,’ said Hector, glowing with the memory of this un-known achievement, and still endeavouring at modesty, ‘yet not one copy sold!’

     
‘Some of the books must have been lent,’ said Allen. ‘I have read of books being passed round secretly from hand to hand; and the printers may have printed for themselves copies of which they told you nothing.’

     
‘That may have been,’ said M. Philipon. ‘I had quite forgotten the printers. Why, they were red republicans to a
man. Yes, that must be the explanation. That makes all clear.’

     
‘I always knew, mon père,’ said Claire, kissing his hand, ‘that you were as clever as you are good, but I did not know that you were so glorious.’

     
Allen gazed upon him with admiration, amounting to worship.

     
‘Oh!’ he murmured, ‘we have been your pupils all these years and we never suspected. Why, Sir Charles is proud because he failed for a hundred thousand pounds, and ruined hundreds of families. And you, who are not proud, have ——’

     
He stopped abruptly, because it suddenly occurred to him that two or three parallels, all equally unlucky, might be followed out on these lines. As, for instance, that Sir Charles failed for a hundred thousand pounds, and the Revolution of 1845 failed for many hundred millions; or, that Sir Charles ruined families by the dozen, and the Revolution ruined families by the million, and so on; each one affording great matter of congratulation to the obscure and unknown but genuine author of the great movement.

     
‘My little poems,’ said Hector modestly, ‘merely had the luck to precede the second convulsion which shook thrones and made priests tremble — that is all.’

     
‘Your doing, your doing,’ repeated Allen.

     
‘My friend, I do not claim that honour. I only remark a simple coincidence. That is the story I wished to tell you. First, remark that in spite of the remarkable success of those verses I did not continue to write poetry. That was because from being an active director in modern history I had shortly to become a — a — what I am now. A mind, narrowed to so small a thing as the verb irregular, and to so contemptible a field as the intellect of Girl, cannot write poetry.’

     
‘Your country — the world — has lost you,’ said Allen.

     
‘Yet my story should encourage you. One may not sell one’s works, yet they may produce great, even wonderful results. Therefore, courage; and work. Put away that rubbish, and work. And it was a noble thought, was it not, to leave love and lilacs in the age when lilacs and love are most delightful, and to become the Poet of Humanity?’

     
The bright eyes of the man who should have been a great poet grew humid, and his musical voice trembled.

     
‘Of Humanity!’ Allen echoed, with glowing cheeks and brightened eyes.