Ernest Maltravers — Volume 05

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Edward Bulwer Lytton Lytton

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The Project Gutenberg EBook Ernest Maltravers, by Bulwer-Lytton, Book 5 #72 in our series by Edward Bulwer-LyttonCopyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the copyright laws for your country beforedownloading or redistributing this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook.This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do notchange or edit the header without written permission.Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom ofthis file. Included is important information about your specific rights and restrictions in how the file may be used. Youcan also find out about how to make a donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved.**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts****EBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971*******These EBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers*****Title: Ernest Maltravers, Book 5Author: Edward Bulwer-LyttonRelease Date: March 2005 [EBook #7644] [Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] [This file was firstposted on March 11, 2004]Edition: 10Language: English*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ERNEST MALTRAVERS, LYTTON, V5 ***This eBook was produced by Dagny, dagnypg@yahoo.com and David Widger, widger@cecomet.netBOOK V.PARODY. My hero, turned author, lies mute in this section, You may pass by the place if you're ...

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Publié par

dodil

Publié le

08 décembre 2010

Nombre de lectures

Langue

English

Author: Edward Bulwer-LyttonRelease Date: March 2005 [EBook #7644] [Yes,we are more than one year ahead of schedule][This file was first posted on March 11, 2004]Edition: 10Language: English*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG***EBOOK ERNEST MALTRAVERS, LYTTON, V5 This eBook was produced by Dagny,dagnypg@yahoo.com and David Widger,widger@cecomet.netBOOK V.PARODY. My hero, turned author, lies mute in this section,

You may pass by the place if you're bored byreflection: But if honest enough to be fond of the Muse, Stay, and read where you're able, and sleepwhere you choose. THEOC. /Epig. in Hippon/.CHAPTER I. "My genius spreads her wing, And flies where Britain courts the western spring.***** Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, I see the lords of human kind pass by, Intent on high designs."-GOLDSMITH.I HAVE no respect for the Englishman who re-enters London after long residence abroad withouta pulse that beats quick and a heart that heaveshigh. The public buildings are few, and, for themost part, mean; the monuments of antiquity notcomparable to those which the pettiest town in Italycan boast of; the palaces are sad rubbish; thehouses of our peers and princes are shabby andshapeless heaps of brick. But what of all this? thespirit of London is in her thoroughfares—herpopulation! What wealth—what cleanliness—whatorder—what animation! How majestic, and yet howvivid, is the life that runs through her myriad veins!How, as the lamps blaze upon you at night, andstreet after street glides by your wheels, each so

regular in its symmetry, so equal in its civilization—how all speak of the CITY OF FREEMEN.Yes, Maltravers felt his heart swell within him asthe post-horses whirled on his dingy carriage—overWestminster Bridge—along Whitehall—throughRegent Street—towards one of the quiet andprivate-house-like hotels that are scattered roundthe neighbourhood of Grosvenor Square.Ernest's arrival had been expected. He had writtenfrom Paris to Cleveland to announce it; andCleveland had, in reply, informed him that he hadengaged apartments for him at Mivart's. Thesmiling waiters ushered him into a spacious andwell-aired room—the armchair was alreadywheeled by the fire—a score or so of lettersstrewed the table, together with two of the eveningpapers. And how eloquently of busy England dothose evening papers speak! A stranger mighthave felt that he wanted no friend to welcome him—the whole room smiled on him a welcome.Maltravers ordered his dinner and opened hisletters: they were of no importance; one from hissteward, one from his banker, another about thecounty races, a fourth from a man he had neverheard of, requesting the vote and powerful interestof Mr. Maltravers for the county of B———, shouldthe rumour of a dissolution be verified; theunknown candidate referred Mr. Maltravers to his"well-known public character." From these epistlesErnest turned impatiently, and perceived a littlethree-cornered note which had hitherto escaped

his attention. It was from Cleveland, intimating thathe was in town; that his health still precluded hisgoing out, but that he trusted to see his dearErnest as soon as he arrived.Maltravers was delighted at the prospect ofpassing his evening so agreeably; he soondespatched his dinner and his newspapers, andwalked in the brilliant lamplight of a clear frostyevening of early December in London, to hisfriend's house in Curzon Street: a small house,bachelor-like and unpretending; for Clevelandspent his moderate though easy fortune almostentirely at his country villa. The familiar face of theold valet greeted Ernest at the door, and he onlypaused to hear that his guardian was nearlyrecovered to his usual health, ere he was in thecheerful drawing-room, and—since Englishmen donot embrace—returning the cordial gripe of thekindly Cleveland."Well, my dear Ernest," said Cleveland, after theyhad gone through the preliminary round ofquestions and answers, "here you are at last:Heaven be praised; and how well you are looking—how much you are improved! It is an excellentperiod of the year for your /debut/ in London. Ishall have time to make you intimate with peoplebefore the whirl of 'the season' commences.""Why, I thought of going to Burleigh, my country-place. I have not seen it since I was a child.""No, no! you have had solitude enough at Como, if

I may trust to your letter; you must now mix withthe great London world; and you will enjoy Burleighthe more in the summer.""I fancy this great London world will give me verylittle pleasure; it may be pleasant enough to youngmen just let loose from college, but your crowdedball-rooms and monotonous clubs will bewearisome to one who has grown fastidious beforehis time. /J'ai vecu beaucoup dans peu d'annees. Ihave drawn in youth too much upon the capital ofexistence to be highly delighted with theostentatious parsimony with which our great meneconomise pleasure.""Don't judge before you have gone through thetrial," said Cleveland: "there is something in theopulent splendour, the thoroughly sustainedmagnificence, with which the leaders of Englishfashion conduct even the most insipidamusements, that is above contempt. Besides, youneed not necessarily live with the butterflies. Thereare plenty of bees that will be very happy to makeyour acquaintance. Add to this, my dear Ernest,the pleasure of being made of—of being ofimportance in your own country. For you areyoung, well-born, and sufficiently handsome to bean object of interest to mothers and to daughters;while your name, and property, and interest, willmake you courted by men who want to borrowyour money and obtain your influence in yourcounty. No, Maltravers, stay in London—amuseyourself your first year, and decide on youroccupation and career the next; but reconnoitre

before you give battle."Maltravers was not ill-pleased to follow his friend'sadvice, since by so doing he obtained his friend'sguidance and society. Moreover, he deemed itwise and rational to see, face to face, the eminentmen in England, with whom, if he fulfilled hispromise to De Montaigne, he was to run the raceof honourable rivalry. Accordingly, he consented toCleveland's propositions."And have you," said he, hesitating, as he loiteredby the door after the stroke of twelve had warnedhim to take his leave—"have you never heardanything of my—my—the unfortunate Alice Darvil?""Who?—Oh, that poor young woman; I remember!—not a syllable."Maltravers sighed deeply and departed.CHAPTER II."Je trouve que c'est une folie de vouloir etudier lemonde en simple spectateur. * * * Dans l'ecoledu monde, comme dans cette de l'amour, il fautcommencer par pratiquer cc qu'on veutapprendre."*—ROUSSEAU.* I find that it is a folly to wish to study the worldlike a simple spectator***In the school of the. world, as in that of love, it is necessary to begin by

practising what we wish to learn.ERNEST MALTRAVERS was now fairly launchedupon the wide ocean of London. Amongst his otherproperty was a house in Seamore Place—thatquiet, yet central street, which enjoys the airwithout the dust of the park. It had been hithertolet, and, the tenant now quitting very opportunely,Maltravers was delighted to secure so pleasant aresidence: for he was still romantic enough todesire to look out upon trees and verdure ratherthan brick houses. He indulged only in two otherluxuries: his love of music tempted him to anopera-box, and he had that English feeling whichprides itself in the possession of beautiful horses,—a feeling that enticed him into an extravaganceon this head that baffled the competition andexcited the envy of much richer men. But fourthousand a year goes a great way with a singleman who does not gamble, and is too philosophicalto make superfluities wants.The world doubled his income, magnified his oldcountry-seat into a superb chateau, anddiscovered that his elder brother, who was onlythree or four years older than himself, had nochildren. The world was very courteous to ErnestMaltravers.It was, as Cleveland said, just at that time of yearwhen people are at leisure to make newacquaintances. A few only of the most difficulthouses in town were open; and their doors werecheerfully expanded to the accomplished ward of

the popular Cleveland. Authors and statesmen,and orators, and philosophers—to all he waspresented;—all seemed pleased with him, andErnest became the fashion before he wasconscious of the distinction. But he had rightlyforeboded. He had commenced life too soon; hewas disappointed; he found some persons he couldadmire, some whom he could like, but none withwhom he could grow intimate, or for whom hecould feel an interest. Neither his heart nor hisimagination was touched; all appeared to him likeartificial machines; he was discontented with thingslike life, but in which something or other waswanting. He more than ever recalled the brilliantgraces of Valerie de Ventadour, which had throwna charm over the most frivolous circles; he evenmissed the perverse and fantastic vanity ofCastruccio. The mediocre poet seemed to him atleast less mediocre than the worldlings about him.Nay, even the selfish good spirits and dryshrewdness of Lumley Ferrers would have been anacceptable change to the dull polish andunrevealed egotism of jealous wits and partypoliticians. "If these are the flowers of the parterre,what must be the weeds?" said Maltravers tohimself, returning from a party at which he had methalf a score of the most orthodox lions.He began to feel the aching pain of satiety.But the winter glided away—the seasoncommenced, and Maltravers was whirled on withthe rest into the bubbling vortex.

CHAPTER III. And crowds commencing mere vexation," Retirement sent its invitation."—SHENSTONE.THE tench, no doubt, considers the pond in whichhe lives as the Great World. There is no place,however stagnant, which is not the great world tothe creatures that move about, in it. People whohave lived all their lives in a village still talk of theworld as if they had ever seen it! An old woman ina hovel does not put her nose out of her door on aSunday without thinking she is going amongst thepomps and vanities of the great world. /Ergo/, thegreat world is to all of us the little circle in which welive. But as fine people set the fashion, so thecircle of fine people is called the Great World /parexcellence/. Now this great world is not a bad thingwhen we thoroughly understand it; and the Londongreat world is at least as good as any other. Butthen we scarcely do understand that or anythingelse in our /beaux jours/,—which, if they aresometimes the most exquisite, are also often themost melancholy and the most wasted portion ofour life. Maltravers had not yet found out either/the set/ that pleased him or the species ofamusement that really amused. Therefore hedrifted on and about the vast whirlpool, makingplenty of friends—going to balls and dinners—andbored with both as men are who have no object insociety. Now the way society is enjoyed is to havea pursuit, a /metier/ of some kind, and then to go

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