A Strange Story — CompleteLytton, Edward Bulwer Lytton, Baron
Science
A Strange Story — Complete
Lytton, Edward Bulwer Lytton, Baron
English fiction -- 19th century
Never have I seen human face so radiant as that young man’s. There was
in the aspect an indescribable something that literally dazzled. As one
continued to gaze, it was with surprise; one was forced to acknowledge
that in the features themselves there was no faultless regularity; nor
was the young man’s stature imposing, about the middle height. But the
effect of the whole was not less transcendent. Large eyes, unspeakably
lustrous; a most harmonious colouring; an expression of contagious
animation and joyousness; and the form itself so critically fine, that
the welded strength of its sinews was best shown in the lightness and
grace of its movements.
He was resting one hand carelessly on the golden locks of a child that
had nestled itself against his knees, looking up to his face in that
silent loving wonder with which children regard something too strangely
beautiful for noisy admiration; he himself was conversing with the
host, an old gray-haired, gouty man, propped on his crutched stick, and
listening with a look of mournful envy. To the wealth of the old man all
the flowers in that garden owed their renewed delight in the summer
air and sun. Oh, that his wealth could renew to himself one hour of the
youth whose incarnation stood beside him, Lord, indeed, of Creation; its
splendour woven into his crown of beauty, its enjoyments subject to his
sceptre of hope and gladness.
I was startled by the hearty voice of the merchant’s son. “Ah, my dear
Fenwick, I was afraid you would not come,--you are late. There is
the new friend of whom I spoke to you last night; let me now make you
acquainted with him.” He drew my arm in his, and led me up to the
young man, where he stood under the arching flowers, and whom he then
introduced to me by the name of Margrave.
Nothing could be more frankly cordial than Mr. Margrave’s manner. In a
few minutes I found myself conversing with him familiarly, as if we
had been reared in the same home, and sported together in the same
playground. His vein of talk was peculiar, off-hand, careless, shifting
from topic to topic with a bright rapidity.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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