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
"Do but mark one of you standing openly in the track of the
Serpent. What shall be done with her? I fear the world is wiser
than its judges! Turn from her, says the world. By day the sons
of the world do. It darkens, and they dance together downward.
Then comes there one of the world's elect who deems old counsel
devilish; indifference to the end of evil worse than its
pursuit. He comes to reclaim her. From deepest bane will he
bring her back to highest blessing. Is not that a bait already?
Poor fish! 'tis wondrous flattering. The Serpent has slimed her
so to secure him! With slow weary steps he draws her into
light: she clings to him; she is human; part of his work, and
he loves it. As they mount upward, he looks on her more, while
she, it may be, looks above. What has touched him? What has
passed out of her, and into him? The Serpent laughs below. At
the gateways of the Sun they fall together!"
This alliterative production was written without any sense of the
peril that makes prophecy.
It suited Sir Austin to write thus. It was a channel to his acrimony
moderated through his philosophy. The letter was a reply to a
vehement entreaty from Lady Blandish for him to come up to Richard
and forgive him thoroughly: Richard's name was not mentioned in it.
"He tries to be more than he is," thought the lady: and she began
insensibly to conceive him less than he was.
The baronet was conscious of a certain false gratification in his
son's apparent obedience to his wishes and complete submission; a
gratification he chose to accept as his due, without dissecting or
accounting for it. The intelligence reiterating that Richard waited,
and still waited; Richard's letters, and more his dumb abiding and
practical penitence; vindicated humanity sufficiently to stop the
course of virulent aphorisms. He could speak, we have seen, in
sorrow for this frail nature of ours, that he had once stood forth
to champion. "But how long will this last?" he demanded, with the
air of Hippias. He did not reflect how long it had lasted. Indeed,
his indigestion of wrath had made of him a moral Dyspepsy.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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