End of the world -- Fiction; Epidemics -- Fiction; Science fiction; Twenty-first century -- Fiction
Thus I felt, when disappointment, weariness, and solitude drove me back
upon my heart, to gather thence the joy of which it had become barren.
My flagging spirits asked for something to speak to the affections; and
not finding it, I drooped. Thus, notwithstanding the thoughtless
delight that waited on its commencement, the impression I have of my
life at Vienna is melancholy. Goethe has said, that in youth we cannot
be happy unless we love. I did not love; but I was devoured by a
restless wish to be something to others. I became the victim of
ingratitude and cold coquetry—then I desponded, and imagined that my
discontent gave me a right to hate the world. I receded to solitude; I
had recourse to my books, and my desire again to enjoy the society of
Adrian became a burning thirst.
Emulation, that in its excess almost assumed the venomous properties of
envy, gave a sting to these feelings. At this period the name and
exploits of one of my countrymen filled the world with admiration.
Relations of what he had done, conjectures concerning his future
actions, were the never-failing topics of the hour. I was not angry on
my own account, but I felt as if the praises which this idol received
were leaves torn from laurels destined for Adrian. But I must enter
into some account of this darling of fame—this favourite of the
wonder-loving world.
Lord Raymond was the sole remnant of a noble but impoverished family.
From early youth he had considered his pedigree with complacency, and
bitterly lamented his want of wealth. His first wish was
aggrandisement; and the means that led towards this end were secondary
considerations. Haughty, yet trembling to every demonstration of
respect; ambitious, but too proud to shew his ambition; willing to
achieve honour, yet a votary of pleasure,— he entered upon life. He was
met on the threshold by some insult, real or imaginary; some repulse,
where he least expected it; some disappointment, hard for his pride to
bear. He writhed beneath an injury he was unable to revenge; and he
quitted England with a vow not to return, till the good time should
arrive, when she might feel the power of him she now despised.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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