Yet with all his appreciation of the national winter, Sebastian was not altogether a Hollander.  His mother, of Spanish descent and Catholic, had given a richness of tone and form to the healthy freshness of the Dutch physiognomy, apt to preserve its youthfulness of aspect far beyond the period of life usual with other peoples.  This mixed expression charmed the eye of Isaac van Ostade, who had painted his portrait from a sketch taken at one of those skating parties, with his plume of squirrel’s tail and fur muff, in all the modest pleasantness of boyhood.  When he returned home lately from his studies at a place far inland, at the proposal of his tutor, to recover, as the tutor suggested, a certain loss of robustness, something more than that cheerful indifference of early youth had passed away.  The learned man, who held, as was alleged, the doctrines of a surprising new philosophy, reluctant to disturb too early the fine intelligence of the pupil entrusted to him, had found it, perhaps, a matter of honesty to send back to his parents one likely enough to catch from others any sort of theoretic light; for the letter he wrote dwelt much on the lad’s intellectual fearlessness.  “At present,” he had written, “he is influenced more by curiosity than by a care for truth, according to the character of the young.  Certainly, he differs strikingly from his equals in age, by his passion for a vigorous intellectual gymnastic, such as the supine character of their minds renders distasteful to most young men, but in which he shows a fearlessness that at times makes me fancy that his ultimate destination may be the military life; for indeed the rigidly logical tendency of his mind always leads him out upon the practical.  Don’t misunderstand me!  At present, he is strenuous only intellectually; and has given no definite sign of preference, as regards a vocation in life.  But he seems to me to be one practical in this sense, that his theorems will shape life for him, directly; that he will always seek, as a matter of course, the effective equivalent to — the line of being which shall be the proper continuation of — his line of thinking.  This intellectual rectitude, or candour, which to my mind has a kind of beauty in it, has reacted upon myself, I confess, with a searching quality.”  That “searching quality,” indeed, many others also, people far from being intellectual, had experienced — an agitation of mind in his neighbourhood, oddly at variance with the composure of the young man’s manner and surrounding, so jealously preserved.

In the crowd of spectators at the skating, whose eyes followed, so well-satisfied, the movements of Sebastian van Storck, were the mothers of marriageable daughters, who presently became the suitors of this rich and distinguished youth, introduced to them, as now grown to man’s estate, by his delighted parents.  Dutch aristocracy had put forth all its graces to become the winter morn:  and it was characteristic of the period that the artist tribe was there, on a grand footing, — in waiting, for the lights and shadows they liked best.  The artists were, in truth, an important body just then, as a natural consequence of the nation’s hard-won prosperity; helping it to a full consciousness of the genial yet delicate homeliness it loved, for which it had fought so bravely, and was ready at any moment to fight anew, against man or the sea.  Thomas de Keyser, who understood better than any one else the kind of quaint new Atticism which had found its way into the world over those waste salt marshes, wondering whether quite its finest type as he understood it could ever actually be seen there, saw it at last, in lively motion, in the person of Sebastian van Storck, and desired to paint his portrait.  A little to his surprise, the young man declined the offer; not graciously, as was thought.

Holland, just then, was reposing on its laurels after its long contest with Spain, in a short period of complete wellbeing, before troubles of another kind should set in.  That a darker time might return again, was clearly enough felt by Sebastian the elder — a time like that of William the Silent, with its insane civil animosities, which would demand similarly energetic personalities, and offer them similar opportunities.  And then, it was part of his honest geniality of character to admire those who “get on” in the world.  Himself had been, almost from boyhood, in contact with great affairs.  A member of the States-General which had taken so hardly the kingly airs of Frederick Henry, he had assisted at the Congress of Munster, and figures conspicuously in Terburgh’s picture of that assembly, which had finally established Holland as a first-rate power.  The heroism by which the national wellbeing had been achieved was still of recent memory — the air full of its reverberation, and great movement.  There was a tradition to be maintained; the sword by no means resting in its sheath.  The age was still fitted to evoke a generous ambition; and this son, from whose natural gifts there was so much to hope for, might play his part, at least as a diplomatist, if the present quiet continued.  Had not the learned man said that his natural disposition would lead him out always upon practice?

And in truth, the memory of that Silent hero had its fascination for the youth.  When, about this time, Peter de Keyser, Thomas’s brother, unveiled at last his tomb of wrought bronze and marble in the Nieuwe Kerk at Delft, the young Sebastian was one of a small company present, and relished much the cold and abstract simplicity of the monument, so conformable to the great, abstract, and unuttered force of the hero who slept beneath.

In complete contrast to all that is abstract or cold in art, the home of Sebastian, the family mansion of the Storcks — a house, the front of which still survives in one of those patient architectural pieces by Jan van der Heyde — was, in its minute and busy wellbeing, like an epitome of Holland itself with all the good-fortune of its “thriving genius” reflected, quite spontaneously, in the national taste.  The nation had learned to content itself with a religion which told little, or not at all, on the outsides of things.  But we may fancy that something of the religious spirit had gone, according to the law of the transmutation of forces, into the scrupulous care for cleanliness, into the grave, old-world, conservative beauty of Dutch houses, which meant that the life people maintained in them was normally affectionate and pure.

The most curious florists of Holland were ambitious to supply the Burgomaster van Storck with the choicest products of their skill for the garden spread below the windows on either side of the portico, and along the central avenue of hoary beeches which led to it.  Naturally this house, within a mile of the city of Haarlem, became a resort of the artists, then mixing freely in great society, giving and receiving hints as to the domestic picturesque.  Creatures of leisure — of leisure on both sides — they were the appropriate complement of Dutch prosperity, as it was understood just then.  Sebastian the elder could almost have wished his son to be one of them:  it was the next best thing to being an influential publicist or statesman.  The Dutch had just begun to see what a picture their country was — its canals, and boompjis, and endless, broadly-lighted meadows, and thousands of miles of quaint water-side:  and their painters, the first true masters of landscape for its own sake, were further informing them in the matter.  They were bringing proof, for all who cared to see, of the wealth of colour there was all around them in this, supposably, sad land.  Above all, they developed the old Low-country taste for interiors.  Those innumerable genre pieces — conversation, music, play — were in truth the equivalent of novel-reading for that day; its own actual life, in its own proper circumstances, reflected in various degrees of idealisation, with no diminution of the sense of reality (that is to say) but with more and more purged and perfected delightfulness of interest.  Themselves illustrating, as every student of their history knows, the good-fellowship of family life, it was the ideal of that life which these artists depicted; the ideal of home in a country where the preponderant interest of life, after all, could not well be out of doors.  Of the earth earthy — genuine red earth of the old Adam — it was an ideal very different from that which the sacred Italian painters had evoked from the life of Italy, yet, in its best types, was not without a kind of natural religiousness.  And in the achievement of a type of beauty so national and vernacular, the votaries of purely Dutch art might well feel that the Italianisers, like Berghem, Boll, and Jan Weenix went so far afield in vain.

The fine organisation and acute intelligence of Sebastian would have made him an effective connoisseur of the arts, as he showed by the justice of his remarks in those assemblies of the artists which his father so much loved.  But in truth the arts were a matter he could but just tolerate.  Why add, by a forced and artificial production, to the monotonous tide of competing, fleeting existence?  Only, finding so much fine art actually about him, he was compelled (so to speak) to adjust himself to it; to ascertain and accept that in it which should least collide with, or might even carry forward a little, his own characteristic tendencies.  Obviously somewhat jealous of his intellectual interests, he loved inanimate nature, it might have been thought, better than man.  He cared nothing, indeed, for the warm sandbanks of Wynants, nor for those eerie relics of the ancient Dutch woodland which survive in Hobbema and Ruysdael, still less for the highly-coloured sceneries of the academic band at Rome, in spite of the escape they provide one into clear breadth of atmosphere.  For though Sebastian van Storck refused to travel, he loved the distant — enjoyed the sense of things seen from a distance, carrying us, as on wide wings of space itself, far out of one’s actual surrounding.  His preference in the matter of art was, therefore, for those prospects a vol a’oiseau — of the caged bird on the wing at last — of which Rubens had the secret, and still more Philip de Koninck, four of whose choicest works occupied the four walls of his chamber; visionary escapes, north, south, east, and west, into a wide-open though, it must be confessed, a somewhat sullen land.  For the fourth of them he had exchanged with his mother a marvellously vivid Metsu, lately bequeathed to him, in which she herself was presented.  They were the sole ornaments he permitted himself.  From the midst of the busy and busy-looking house, crowded with the furniture and the pretty little toys of many generations, a long passage led the rare visitor up a winding staircase, and (again at the end of a long passage) he found himself as if shut off from the whole talkative Dutch world, and in the embrace of that wonderful quiet which is also possible in Holland at its height all around him.  It was here that Sebastian could yield himself, with the only sort of love he had ever felt, to the supremacy of his difficult thoughts. — A kind of empty place!  Here, you felt, all had been mentally put to rights by the working-out of a long equation, which had zero is equal to zero for its result.  Here one did, and perhaps felt, nothing; one only thought.  Of living creatures only birds came there freely, the sea-birds especially, to attract and detain which there were all sorts of ingenious contrivances about the windows, such as one may see in the cottage sceneries of Jan Steen and others.  There was something, doubtless, of his passion for distance in this welcoming of the creatures of the air.  An extreme simplicity in their manner of life was, indeed, characteristic of many a distinguished Hollander — William the Silent, Baruch de Spinosa, the brothers de Witt.  But the simplicity of Sebastian van Storck was something different from that, and certainly nothing democratic.  His mother thought him like one disembarrassing himself carefully, and little by little, of all impediments, habituating himself gradually to make shift with as little as possible, in preparation for a long journey.

The Burgomaster van Storck entertained a party of friends, consisting chiefly of his favourite artists, one summer evening.  The guests were seen arriving on foot in the fine weather, some of them accompanied by their wives and daughters, against the light of the low sun, falling red on the old trees of the avenue and the faces of those who advanced along it: — Willem van Aelst, expecting to find hints for a flower-portrait in the exotics which would decorate the banqueting-room; Gerard Dow, to feed his eye, amid all that glittering luxury, on the combat between candle-light and the last rays of the departing sun; Thomas de Keyser, to catch by stealth the likeness of Sebastian the younger.  Albert Cuyp was there, who, developing the latent gold in Rembrandt, had brought into his native Dordrecht a heavy wealth of sunshine, as exotic as those flowers or the eastern carpets on the Burgomaster’s tables, with Hooch, the indoor Cuyp, and Willem van de Velde, who painted those shore-pieces with gay ships of war, such as he loved, for his patron’s cabinet.  Thomas de Keyser came, in company with his brother Peter, his niece, and young Mr. Nicholas Stone from England, pupil of that brother Peter, who afterwards married the niece.  For the life of Dutch artists, too, was exemplary in matters of domestic relationship, its history telling many a cheering story of mutual faith in misfortune.  Hardly less exemplary was the comradeship which they displayed among themselves, obscuring their own best gifts sometimes, one in the mere accessories of another man’s work, so that they came together to-night with no fear of falling out, and spoiling the musical interludes of Madame van Storck in the large back parlour. A little way behind the other guests, three of them together, son, grandson, and the grandfather, moving slowly, came the Hondecoeters — Giles, Gybrecht, and Melchior.  They led the party before the house was entered, by fading light, to see the curious poultry of the Burgomaster go to roost; and it was almost night when the supper-room was reached at last.  The occasion was an important one to Sebastian, and to others through him.  For (was it the music of the duets? he asked himself next morning, with a certain distaste as he remembered it all, or the heady Spanish wines poured out so freely in those narrow but deep Venetian glasses?) on this evening he approached more nearly than he had ever yet done to Mademoiselle van Westrheene, as she sat there beside the clavecin looking very ruddy and fresh in her white satin, trimmed with glossy crimson swans-down.

So genially attempered, so warm, was life become, in the land of which Pliny had spoken as scarcely dry land at all.  And, in truth, the sea which Sebastian so much loved, and with so great a satisfaction and sense of wellbeing in every hint of its nearness, is never far distant in Holland.  Invading all places, stealing under one’s feet, insinuating itself everywhere along an endless network of canals (by no means such formal channels as we understand by the name, but picturesque rivers, with sedgy banks and haunted by innumerable birds) its incidents present themselves oddly even in one’s park or woodland walks; the ship in full sail appearing suddenly among the great trees or above the garden wall, where we had no suspicion of the presence of water.  In the very conditions of life in such a country there was a standing force of pathos.  The country itself shared the uncertainty of the individual human life; and there was pathos also in the constantly renewed, heavily-taxed labour, necessary to keep the native soil, fought for so unselfishly, there at all, with a warfare that must still be maintained when that other struggle with the Spaniard was over.  But though Sebastian liked to breathe, so nearly, the sea and its influences, those were considerations he scarcely entertained.  In his passion for Schwindsucht — we haven’t the word — he found it pleasant to think of the resistless element which left, one hardly a foot-space amidst the yielding sand; of the old beds of lost rivers, surviving now only as deeper channels in the sea; of the remains of a certain ancient town, which within men’s memory had lost its few remaining inhabitants, and, with its already empty tombs, dissolved and disappeared in the flood.

It happened, on occasion of an exceptionally low tide, that some remarkable relics were exposed to view on the coast of the island of Vleeland.  A countryman’s waggon overtaken by the tide, as he returned with merchandise from the shore! you might have supposed, but for a touch of grace in the construction of the thing — lightly wrought timber-work, united and adorned by a multitude of brass fastenings, like the work of children for their simplicity, while the rude, stiff chair, or throne, set upon it, seemed to distinguish it as a chariot of state.

To some antiquarians it told the story of the overwhelming of one of the chiefs of the old primeval people of Holland, amid all his gala array, in a great storm.  But it was another view which Sebastian preferred; that this object was sepulchral, namely, in its motive — the one surviving relic of a grand burial, in the ancient manner, of a king or hero, whose very tomb was wasted away. — Sunt metis metae!  There came with it the odd fancy that he himself would like to have been dead and gone as long ago, with a kind of envy of those whose deceasing was so long since over.

On more peaceful days he would ponder Pliny’s account of those primeval forefathers, but without Pliny’s contempt for them.  A cloyed Roman might despise their humble existence, fixed by necessity from age to age, and with no desire of change, as “the ocean poured in its flood twice a day, making it uncertain whether the country was a part of the continent or of the sea.”  But for his part Sebastian found something of poetry in all that, as he conceived what thoughts the old Hollander might have had at his fishing, with nets themselves woven of seaweed, waiting carefully for his drink on the heavy rains, and taking refuge, as the flood rose, on the sand-hills, in a little hut constructed but airily on tall stakes, conformable to the elevation of the highest tides, like a navigator, thought the learned writer, when the sea was risen, like a ship-wrecked mariner when it was retired.  For the fancy of Sebastian he lived with great breadths of calm light above and around him, influenced by, and, in a sense, living upon them, and surely might well complain, though to Pliny’s so infinite surprise, on being made a Roman citizen.

And certainly Sebastian van Storck did not felicitate his people on the luck which, in the words of another old writer, “hath disposed them to so thriving a genius.”  Their restless ingenuity in making and maintaining dry land where nature had willed the sea, was even more like the industry of animals than had been that life of their forefathers.  Away with that tetchy, feverish, unworthy agitation! with this and that, all too importunate, motive of interest!  And then, “My son!” said his father, “be stimulated to action!” he, too, thinking of that heroic industry which had triumphed over nature precisely where the contest had been most difficult.

There was still another very different sort of character to which Sebastian would let his thoughts stray, without check, for a time.  His mother, whom he much resembled outwardly, a Catholic from Brabant, had had saints in her family, and from time to time the mind of Sebastian had been occupied on the subject of monastic life, its quiet, its negation.  The portrait of a certain Carthusian prior, which, like the famous statue of Saint Bruno, the first Carthusian, in the church of Santa Maria degli Angeli at Rome, could it have spoken, would have said, — “Silence!” kept strange company with the painted visages of men of affairs.  A great theological strife was then raging in Holland.  Grave ministers of religion assembled sometimes, as in the painted scene by Rembrandt, in the Burgomaster’s house, and once, not however in their company, came a renowned young Jewish divine, Baruch de Spinosa, with whom, most unexpectedly, Sebastian found himself in sympathy, meeting the young Jew’s far-reaching thoughts half-way, to the confirmation of his own; and he did not know that his visitor, very ready with the pencil, had taken his likeness as they talked on the fly-leaf of his note-book.  Alive to that theological disturbance in the air all around him, he refused to be moved by it, as essentially a strife on small matters, anticipating a vagrant regret which may have visited many other minds since, the regret, namely, that the old, pensive, use-and-wont Catholicism, which had accompanied the nation’s earlier struggle for existence, and consoled it therein, had been taken from it.  And for himself, indeed, what impressed him in that old Catholicism was a kind of lull in it — a lulling power — like that of the monotonous organ-music, which Holland, Catholic or not, still so greatly loves.  But what he could not away with in the Catholic religion was its unfailing drift towards the concrete — the positive imageries of a faith, so richly beset with persons, things, historical incidents.

Rigidly logical in the method of his inferences, he attained the poetic quality only by the audacity with which he conceived the whole sublime extension of his premises.  The contrast was a strange one between the careful, the almost petty fineness of his personal surrounding — all the elegant conventionalities of life, in that rising Dutch family — and the mortal coldness of a temperament, the intellectual tendencies of which seemed to necessitate straightforward flight from all that was positive.  He seemed, if one may say so, in love with death; preferring winter to summer; finding only a tranquillising influence in the thought of the earth beneath our feet cooling down for ever from its old cosmic heat; watching pleasurably how their colours fled out of things, and the long sand-bank in the sea, which had been the rampart of a town, was washed down in its turn.  One of his acquaintance, a penurious young poet, who, having nothing in his pockets but the imaginative or otherwise barely potential gold of manuscript verses, would have grasped so eagerly, had they lain within his reach, at the elegant outsides of life, thought the fortunate Sebastian, possessed of every possible opportunity of that kind, yet bent only on dispensing with it, certainly a most puzzling and comfortless creature.  A few only, half discerning what was in his mind, would fain have shared his intellectual clearness, and found a kind of beauty in this youthful enthusiasm for an abstract theorem.  Extremes meeting, his cold and dispassionate detachment from all that is most attractive to ordinary minds came to have the impressiveness of a great passion.  And for the most part, people had loved him; feeling instinctively that somewhere there must be the justification of his difference from themselves.  It was like being in love:  or it was an intellectual malady, such as pleaded for forbearance, like bodily sickness, and gave at times a resigned and touching sweetness to what he did and said.  Only once, at a moment of the wild popular excitement which at that period was easy to provoke in Holland, there was a certain group of persons who would have shut him up as no well-wisher to, and perhaps a plotter against, the common-weal.  A single traitor might cut the dykes in an hour, in the interest of the English or the French.  Or, had he already committed some treasonable act, who was so anxious to expose no writing of his that he left his very letters unsigned, and there were little stratagems to get specimens of his fair manuscript?  For with all his breadth of mystic intention, he was persistent, as the hours crept on, to leave all the inevitable details of life at least in order, in equation.  And all his singularities appeared to be summed up in his refusal to take his place in the life-sized family group (très distingue et très soigne, remarks a modern critic of the work) painted about this time.  His mother expostulated with him on the matter: — she must needs feel, a little icily, the emptiness of hope, and something more than the due measure of cold in things for a woman of her age, in the presence of a son who desired but to fade out of the world like a breath — and she suggested filial duty.  “Good mother,” he answered, “there are duties toward the intellect also, which women can but rarely understand.”

The artists and their wives were come to supper again, with the Burgomaster van Storck.  Mademoiselle van Westrheene was also come, with her sister and mother.  The girl was by this time fallen in love with Sebastian; and she was one of the few who, in spite of his terrible coldness, really loved him for himself.  But though of good birth she was poor, while Sebastian could not but perceive that he had many suitors of his wealth.  In truth, Madame van Westrheene, her mother, did wish to marry this daughter into the great world, and plied many arts to that end, such as “daughterful” mothers use.  Her healthy freshness of mien and mind, her ruddy beauty, some showy presents that had passed, were of a piece with the ruddy colouring of the very house these people lived in; and for a moment the cheerful warmth that may be felt in life seemed to come very close to him, — to come forth, and enfold him.  Meantime the girl herself taking note of this, that on a former occasion of their meeting he had seemed likely to respond to her inclination, and that his father would readily consent to such a marriage, surprised him on the sudden with those coquetries and importunities, all those little arts of love, which often succeed with men.  Only, to Sebastian they seemed opposed to that absolute nature we suppose in love.  And while, in the eyes of all around him to-night, this courtship seemed to promise him, thus early in life, a kind of quiet happiness, he was coming to an estimate of the situation, with strict regard to that ideal of a calm, intellectual indifference, of which he was the sworn chevalier.  Set in the cold, hard light of that ideal, this girl, with the pronounced personal views of her mother, and in the very effectiveness of arts prompted by a real affection, bringing the warm life they prefigured so close to him, seemed vulgar!  And still he felt himself bound in honour; or judged from their manner that she and those about them thought him thus bound.  He did not reflect on the inconsistency of the feeling of honour (living, as it does essentially, upon the concrete and minute detail of social relationship) for one who, on principle, set so slight a value on anything whatever that is merely relative in its character.

The guests, lively and late, were almost pledging the betrothed in the rich wine.  Only Sebastian’s mother knew; and at that advanced hour, while the company were thus intently occupied, drew away the Burgomaster to confide to him the misgiving she felt, grown to a great height just then.  The young man had slipped from the assembly; but certainly not with Mademoiselle van Westrheene, who was suddenly withdrawn also.  And she never appeared again in the world.  Already, next day, with the rumour that Sebastian had left his home, it was known that the expected marriage would not take place.  The girl, indeed, alleged something in the way of a cause on her part; but seemed to fade away continually afterwards, and in the eyes of all who saw her was like one perishing of wounded pride.  But to make a clean breast of her poor girlish worldliness, before she became a beguine, she confessed to her mother the receipt of the letter — the cruel letter that had killed her.  And in effect, the first copy of this letter, written with a very deliberate fineness, rejecting her — accusing her, so natural, and simply loyal! of a vulgar coarseness of character — was found, oddly tacked on, as their last word, to the studious record of the abstract thoughts which had been the real business of Sebastian’s life, in the room whither his mother went to seek him next day, littered with the fragments of the one portrait of him in existence.

The neat and elaborate manuscript volume, of which this letter formed the final page (odd transition! by which a train of thought so abstract drew its conclusion in the sphere of action) afforded at length to the few who were interested in him a much-coveted insight into the curiosity of his existence; and I pause just here to indicate in outline the kind of reasoning through which, making the “Infinite” his beginning and his end, Sebastian had come to think all definite forms of being, the warm pressure of life, the cry of nature itself, no more than a troublesome irritation of the surface of the one absolute mind, a passing vexatious thought or uneasy dream there, at its height of petulant importunity in the eager, human creature.

The series began with Sebastian’s boyish enthusiasm for a strange, fine saying of Doctor Baruch de Spinosa, concerning the Divine Love: — That whoso loveth God truly must not expect to be loved by him in return.  In mere reaction against an actual surrounding of which every circumstance tended to make him a finished egotist, that bold assertion defined for him the ideal of an intellectual disinterestedness, of a domain of unimpassioned mind, with the desire to put one’s subjective side out of the way, and let pure reason speak.

And what pure reason affirmed in the first place, as the “beginning of wisdom,” was that the world is but a thought, or a series of thoughts:  that it exists, therefore, solely in mind.  It showed him, as he fixed the mental eye with more and more of self-absorption on the phenomena of his intellectual existence, a picture or vision of the universe as actually the product, so far as he really knew it, of his own lonely thinking power — of himself, there, thinking:  as being zero without him:  and as possessing a perfectly homogeneous unity in that fact.  “Things that have nothing in common with each other,” said the axiomatic reason, “cannot be understood or explained by means of each other.”  But to pure reason things discovered themselves as being, in their essence, thoughts: — all things, even the most opposite things, mere transmutations of a single power, the power of thought.  All was but conscious mind.  Therefore, all the more exclusively, he must minister to mind, to the intellectual power, submitting himself to the sole direction of that, whithersoever it might lead him.  Everything must be referred to, and, as it were, changed into the terms of that, if its essential value was to be ascertained.  “Joy,” he said, anticipating Spinosa — that, for the attainment of which men are ready to surrender all beside — “is but the name of a passion in which the mind passes to a greater perfection or power of thinking; as grief is the name of the passion in which it passes to a less.”

“There can be only one substance:  (corollary) it is the greatest of errors to think that the non-existent, the world of finite things seen and felt, really is:  (theorem):  for, whatever is, is but in that:  (practical corollary):  one’s wisdom, therefore, consists in hastening, so far as may be, the action of those forces which tend to the restoration of equilibrium, the calm surface of the absolute, untroubled mind, to tabula rasa, by the extinction in one’s self of all that is but correlative to the finite illusion — by the suppression of ourselves.”

In the loneliness which was gathering round him, and, oddly enough, as a somewhat surprising thing, he wondered whether there were, or had been, others possessed of like thoughts, ready to welcome any such as his veritable compatriots.  And in fact he became aware just then, in readings difficult indeed, but which from their all-absorbing interest seemed almost like an illicit pleasure, a sense of kinship with certain older minds.  The study of many an earlier adventurous theorist satisfied his curiosity as the record of daring physical adventure, for instance, might satisfy the curiosity of the healthy.  It was a tradition — a constant tradition — that daring thought of his; an echo, or haunting recurrent voice of the human soul itself, and as such sealed with natural truth, which certain minds would not fail to heed; discerning also, if they were really loyal to themselves, its practical conclusion. — The one alone is:  and all things beside are but its passing affections, which have no necessary or proper right to be.

As but such “accidents” or “affections,” indeed, there might have been found, within the circumference of that one infinite creative thinker, some scope for the joy and love of the creature.  There have been dispositions in which that abstract theorem has only induced a renewed value for the finite interests around and within us.  Centre of heat and light, truly nothing has seemed to lie beyond the touch of its perpetual summer.  It has allied itself to the poetical or artistic sympathy, which feels challenged to acquaint itself with and explore the various forms of finite existence all the more intimately, just because of that sense of one lively spirit circulating through all things — a tiny particle of the one soul, in the sunbeam, or the leaf.  Sebastian van Storck, on the contrary, was determined, perhaps by some inherited satiety or fatigue in his nature, to the opposite issue of the practical dilemma.  For him, that one abstract being was as the pallid Arctic sun, disclosing itself over the dead level of a glacial, a barren and absolutely lonely sea.  The lively purpose of life had been frozen out of it.  What he must admire, and love if he could, was “equilibrium,” the void, the tabula rasa, into which, through all those apparent energies of man and nature, that in truth are but forces of disintegration, the world was really settling.  And, himself a mere circumstance in a fatalistic series, to which the clay of the potter was no sufficient parallel, he could not expect to be “loved in return.”  At first, indeed, he had a kind of delight in his thoughts — in the eager pressure forward, to whatsoever conclusion, of a rigid intellectual gymnastic, which was like the making of Euclid.  Only, little by little, under the freezing influence of such propositions, the theoretic energy itself, and with it his old eagerness for truth, the care to track it from proposition to proposition, was chilled out of him.  In fact, the conclusion was there already, and might have been foreseen, in the premises.  By a singular perversity, it seemed to him that every one of those passing “affections” — he too, alas! at times — was for ever trying to be, to assert itself, to maintain its isolated and petty self, by a kind of practical lie in things; although through every incident of its hypothetic existence it had protested that its proper function was to die.  Surely! those transient affections marred the freedom, the truth, the beatific calm, of the absolute selfishness, which could not, if it would, pass beyond the circumference of itself; to which, at times, with a fantastic sense of wellbeing, he was capable of a sort of fanatical devotion.  And those, as he conceived, were his moments of genuine theoretic insight, in which, under the abstract “perpetual light,” he died to self; while the intellect, after all, had attained a freedom of its own through the vigorous act which assured him that, as nature was but a thought of his, so himself also was but the passing thought of God.

No! rather a puzzle only, an anomaly, upon that one, white, unruffled consciousness!  His first principle once recognised, all the rest, the whole array of propositions down to the heartless practical conclusion, must follow of themselves.  Detachment:  to hasten hence:  to fold up one’s whole self, as a vesture put aside:  to anticipate, by such individual force as he could find in him, the slow disintegration by which nature herself is levelling the eternal hills: — here would be the secret of peace, of such dignity and truth as there could be in a world which after all was essentially an illusion.  For Sebastian at least, the world and the individual alike had been divested of all effective purpose.  The most vivid of finite objects, the dramatic episodes of Dutch history, the brilliant personalities which had found their parts to play in them, that golden art, surrounding us with an ideal world, beyond which the real world is discernible indeed, but etherealised by the medium through which it comes to one:  all this, for most men so powerful a link to existence, only set him on the thought of escape — means of escape — into a formless and nameless infinite world, quite evenly grey.  The very emphasis of those objects, their importunity to the eye, the ear, the finite intelligence, was but the measure of their distance from what really is.  One’s personal presence, the presence, such as it is, of the most incisive things and persons around us, could only lessen by so much, that which really is.  To restore tabula rasa, then, by a continual effort at self-effacement!  Actually proud at times of his curious, well-reasoned nihilism, he could but regard what is called the business of life as no better than a trifling and wearisome delay.  Bent on making sacrifice of the rich existence possible for him, as he would readily have sacrificed that of other people, to the bare and formal logic of the answer to a query (never proposed at all to entirely healthy minds) regarding the remote conditions and tendencies of that existence, he did not reflect that if others had inquired as curiously as himself the world could never have come so far at all — that the fact of its having come so far was itself a weighty exception to his hypothesis.  His odd devotion, soaring or sinking into fanaticism, into a kind of religious mania, with what was really a vehement assertion of his individual will, he had formulated duty as the principle to hinder as little as possible what he called the restoration of equilibrium, the restoration of the primary consciousness to itself — its relief from that uneasy, tetchy, unworthy dream of a world, made so ill, or dreamt so weakly — to forget, to be forgotten.

And at length this dark fanaticism, losing the support of his pride in the mere novelty of a reasoning so hard and dry, turned round upon him, as our fanaticism will, in black melancholy.  The theoretic or imaginative desire to urge Time’s creeping footsteps, was felt now as the physical fatigue which leaves the book or the letter unfinished, or finishes eagerly out of hand, for mere finishing’s sake, unimportant business.

The journal, with that “cruel” letter to Mademoiselle van Westrheene coming as the last step in the rigid process of theoretic deduction, circulated among the curious; and people made their judgments upon it.  There were some who held that such opinions should be suppressed by law; that they were, or might become, dangerous to society.  Perhaps it was the confessor of his mother who thought of the matter most justly.  The aged man smiled, observing how, even for minds by no means superficial, the mere dress it wears alters the look of a familiar thought; with a happy sort of smile, as he added (reflecting that such truth as there was in Sebastian’s theory was duly covered by the propositions of his own creed, and quoting Sebastian’s favourite pagan wisdom from the lips of Saint Paul) “in Him, we live, and move, and have our being.”

Next day, as Sebastian escaped to the sea under the long, monotonous line of wind-mills, in comparative calm of mind — reaction of that pleasant morning from the madness of the night before — he was making light, or trying to make light, with some success, of his late distress.  He would fain have thought it a small matter, to be adequately set at rest for him by certain well-tested influences of external nature, in a long visit to the place he liked best:  a desolate house, amid the sands of the Helder, one of the old lodgings of his family, property now, rather, of the sea-birds, and almost surrounded by the encroaching tide, though there were still relics enough of hardy, sweet things about it, to form what was to Sebastian the most perfect garden in Holland.  Here he could make “equation” between himself and what was not himself, and set things in order, in preparation towards such deliberate and final change in his manner of living as circumstances so clearly necessitated.

As he stayed in this place, with one or two silent serving people, a sudden rising of the wind altered, as it might seem, in a few dark, tempestuous hours, the entire world around him.  The strong wind changed not again for fourteen days, and its effect was a permanent one; so that people might have fancied that an enemy had indeed cut the dykes somewhere — a pin-hole enough to wreck the ship of Holland, or at least this portion of it, which underwent an inundation of the sea the like of which had not occurred in that province for half a century.  Only, when the body of Sebastian was found, apparently not long after death, a child lay asleep, swaddled warmly in his heavy furs, in an upper room of the old tower, to which the tide was almost risen; though the building still stood firmly, and still with the means of life in plenty.  And it was in the saving of this child, with a great effort, as certain circumstances seemed to indicate, that Sebastian had lost his life.

His parents were come to seek him, believing him bent on self-destruction, and were almost glad to find him thus.  A learned physician, moreover, endeavoured to comfort his mother by remarking that in any case he must certainly have died ere many years were passed, slowly, perhaps painfully, of a disease then coming into the world; disease begotten by the fogs of that country — waters, he observed, not in their place, “above the firmament” — on people grown somewhat over-delicate in their nature by the effects of modern luxury.