A Strange Story — CompleteLytton, Edward Bulwer Lytton, Baron
Science
A Strange Story — Complete
Lytton, Edward Bulwer Lytton, Baron
English fiction -- 19th century
But the chief boast of the collection was in the varieties of the
Genus Simia,--baboons and apes, chimpanzees, with their human visage,
mockeries of man, from the dwarf monkeys perched on boughs lopped from
the mayor’s shrubberies, to the formidable ourangoutang, leaning on his
huge club.
Every one expressed to the mayor admiration, to each other antipathy,
for this unwonted and somewhat ghastly, though instructive, addition to
the revels of a ballroom.
Margrave, of course, was there, and seemingly quite at home, gliding
from group to group of gayly-dressed ladies, and brilliant with
a childish eagerness to play off the showman. Many of these grim
fellow-creatures he declared he had seen, played, or fought with. He
had something true or false to say about each. In his high spirits he
contrived to make the tiger move, and imitated the hiss of the terribly
anaconda. All that he did had its grace, its charm; and the buzz of
admiration and the flattering glances of ladies’ eyes followed him
wherever he moved.
However, there was a general feeling of relief when the mayor led the
way from the museum into the ballroom. In provincial parties guests
arrive pretty much within the same hour, and so few who had once paid
their respects to the apes and serpents, the hippopotamus and the tiger,
were disposed to repeat the visit, that long before eleven o’clock the
museum was as free from the intrusion of human life as the wilderness in
which its dead occupants had been born.
I had gone my round through the rooms, and, little disposed to be
social, had crept into the retreat of a window-niche, pleased to think
myself screened by its draperies,--not that I was melancholy, far from
it; for the letter I had received that morning from Lilian had raised my
whole being into a sovereignty of happiness high beyond the reach of
the young pleasure-hunters, whose voices and laughter blended with that
vulgar music.
To read her letter again I had stolen to my nook, and now, sure that
none saw me kiss it, I replaced it in my bosom. I looked through the
parted curtain; the room was comparatively empty; but there, through the
open folding-doors, I saw the gay crowd gathered round the dancers,
and there again, at right angles, a vista along the corridor afforded a
glimpse of the great elephant in the deserted museum.
Presently I heard, close beside me, my host’s voice.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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