General Bounce; Or, The Lady and the LocustsWhyte-Melville, G. J. (George John)
General
General Bounce; Or, The Lady and the Locusts
Whyte-Melville, G. J. (George John)
England -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction
_Triumph_, indeed!--was that poor pale face one of _triumph_? Were
those deep eyes, hollowing day by day; that sad brow, on which care
seemed visibly to rest, as a cloud rests upon the hill, and softens
even while it darkens--were these the outward signs of satisfied
affection and _triumphant_ love? Blanche, Blanche, you think yourself
very unhappy; but little do you know the struggle going on in the
bosom of that faithful friend with whom you are now so unjustly at
variance. Little do you guess that she has torn the one only image,
the fulfilment of the ideal of a lifetime, from her heart, and vowed
to worship it no more; and prayed that the very thought which made the
sunshine of her existence might pass away; and all for you. So it is
in life: we make a sacrifice which costs us nothing; we give that
which perhaps we are all well satisfied to get rid of; and the world
says, “How noble! how generous! how disinterested!” or we yield up the
one dear hope that has cheered us all our journey; we consent to
travel the rest of the way in darkness and dreariness and listless
despair, and the world thinks us only stupid and disagreeable; those
who look below the surface perhaps suggest that we are bilious; and
the one for whom we have made all this ruin, for whose well-being and
security we are stretched helpless, exhausted, bleeding by the way,
thanks us blandly at the most, and takes it much as a matter of
course, and passes by, very likely, on the other side.
But “fight who will and die who may,” the outward world goes on much
the same notwithstanding. The clock goes round, and dinner-time
arrives; and whatever may be the sorrow brooded over and locked up in
the inner life, we dress for dinner when the time comes, and look in
the glass and dry our eyes, and have a glass of sherry after our soup;
and the tyrant Custom, and the motley jester Society, bid us sit
between them; and this woos from us a vapid smile, and that lays his
iron hand upon our brow and dares us to stir; and we are all the
better for the hypocrisy and the restraint.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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