The Ordeal of Richard Feverel: A History of a Father and SonMeredith, George
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The Ordeal of Richard Feverel: A History of a Father and Son
Meredith, George
Domestic fiction; England -- Fiction; Fathers and sons -- Fiction
The wise youth, then, had the world with him, but no friends. Nor
did he wish for those troublesome appendages of success. He caused
himself to be required by people who could serve him; feared by such
as could injure. Not that he went out of the way to secure his end,
or risked the expense of a plot. He did the work as easily as he ate
his daily bread. Adrian was an epicurean; one whom Epicurus would
have scourged out of his garden, certainly: an epicurean of our
modern notions. To satisfy his appetites without rashly staking his
character, was the wise youth's problem for life. He had no
intimates except Gibbon and Horace, and the society of these fine
aristocrats of literature helped him to accept humanity as it had
been, and was; a supreme ironic procession, with laughter of Gods in
the background. Why not laughter of mortals also? Adrian had his
laugh in his comfortable corner. He possessed peculiar attributes of
a heathen God. He was a disposer of men: he was polished, luxurious,
and happy--at their cost. He lived in eminent self-content, as one
lying on soft cloud, lapt in sunshine. Nor Jove, nor Apollo, cast
eye upon the maids of earth with cooler fire of selection, or
pursued them in the covert with more sacred impunity. And he enjoyed
his reputation for virtue as something additional. Stolen fruits are
said to be sweet; undeserved rewards are exquisite.
The best of it was, that Adrian made no pretences. He did not
solicit the favourable judgment of the world. Nature and he
attempted no other concealment than the ordinary mask men wear. And
yet the world would proclaim him moral, as well as wise, and the
pleasing converse every way of his disgraced cousin Austin.
In a word, Adrian Harley had mastered his philosophy at the early
age of one-and-twenty. Many would be glad to say the same at that
age twice-told: they carry in their breasts a burden with which
Adrian's was not loaded. Mrs. Doria was nearly right about his
heart. A singular mishap (at his birth, possibly, or before it) had
unseated that organ, and shaken it down to his stomach, where it was
a much lighter, nay, an inspiring weight, and encouraged him merrily
onward. Throned there it looked on little that did not arrive to
gratify it. Already that region was a trifle prominent in the person
of the wise youth, and carried, as it were, the flag of his
philosophical tenets in front of him. He was charming after dinner,
with men or with women: delightfully sarcastic: perhaps a little too
unscrupulous in his moral tone, but that his moral reputation belied
him, and it must be set down to generosity of disposition.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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