Pelham — Volume 03Lytton, Edward Bulwer Lytton, Baron
History
Pelham — Volume 03
Lytton, Edward Bulwer Lytton, Baron
Adventure stories; English fiction -- 19th century; Great Britain -- History -- 19th century -- Fiction
He was sitting by the fire in a listless, yet thoughtful attitude. His
muscular and rather handsome person, was indued in a dressing-gown of
rich brocade, thrown on with a slovenly nonchalance. His stockings were
about his heels, his hair was dishevelled, and the light streaming
through the half-drawn window-curtains, rested upon the grey flakes with
which its darker luxuriance was interspersed, and the cross light in
which he had the imprudence or misfortune to sit (odious cross light,
which even I already begin carefully to avoid), fully developed the deep
wrinkles which years and dissipation had planted round his eyes and
mouth. I was quite startled at the oldness and haggardness of his
appearance.
He rose gracefully enough when I was announced; and no sooner had the
waiter retired, than he came up to me, shook me warmly by the hand, and
said, "Let me thank you now for the attention you formerly shewed me,
when I was less able to express my acknowledgments. I shall be proud to
cultivate your intimacy."
I answered him in the same strain, and in the course of conversation,
made myself so entertaining, that he agreed to spend the remainder of the
day with me. We ordered our horses at three, and our dinner at seven, and
I left him till the former were ready, in order to allow him time for his
toilet.
During our ride we talked principally on general subjects, on the various
differences of France and England, on horses, on wines, on women, on
politics, on all things, except that which had created our acquaintance.
His remarks were those of a strong, ill-regulated mind, which had made
experience supply the place of the reasoning faculties; there was a
looseness in his sentiments, and a licentiousness in his opinions, which
startled even me (used as I had been to rakes of all schools); his
philosophy was of that species which thinks that the best maxim of wisdom
is--to despise. Of men he spoke with the bitterness of hatred; of women,
with the levity of contempt. France had taught him its debaucheries, but
not the elegance which refines them: if his sentiments were low, the
language in which they were clothed was meaner still: and that which
makes the morality of the upper classes, and which no criminal is
supposed to be hardy enough to reject; that religion which has no
scoffers, that code which has no impugners, that honour among gentlemen,
which constitutes the moving principle of the society in which they live,
he seemed to imagine, even in its most fundamental laws, was an authority
to which nothing but the inexperience of the young, and the credulity of
the romantic, could accede.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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