The Sorrows of Satan: or, The Strange Experience of One Geoffrey Tempest, Millionaire: A Romance
John Stuart Mill · en
monotony and emptiness of what fashionable folks call 'amusement,'
and presently falling ill of a nervous fever, I was sent down to
the seaside for a few weeks' change of air with a young cousin of
mine, a girl I rather liked because she was so different to myself.
Her name was Eva Maitland--she was but sixteen and extremely
delicate--poor little soul! she died two months before my marriage.
She and I, and a maid to attend us, went down to Cromer,--and one
day, sitting on the cliffs together, she asked me timidly if I knew
an author named Mavis Clare? I told her no,--whereupon she handed me
a book called 'The Wings of Psyche.'
"Do read it!" she said earnestly--"It will make you feel so happy!"
I laughed. The idea of a modern author writing anything to make one
feel happy, seemed to me quite ludicrous, the aim of most of them
being to awaken a disgust of life, and a hatred of one's
fellow-creatures. However, to please Eva, I read the 'Wings of
Psyche,'--and if it did not make me actually happy, it moved me to a
great wonder and deep reverence for the woman-writer of such a book.
I found out all about her,--that she was young, good-looking, of a
noble character and unblemished reputation, and that her only
enemies were the press-critics. This last point was so much in her
favour with me that I at once bought everything she had ever
written, and her works became, as it were, my haven of rest. Her
theories of life are strange, poetic, ideal and beautiful;--though I
have not been able to accept them or work them out in my own case, I
have always felt soothed and comforted for a while in the very act
of wishing they were true. And the woman is like her
books,--strange, poetic, ideal and beautiful,--how odd it is to
think that she is within ten minutes walk of me now!--I could send
for her if I liked, and tell her all,--but she would prevent me
carrying out my resolve. She would cling to me woman-like and kiss
me, and hold my hands and say 'No, Sibyl, no! You are not
yourself,--you must come to me and rest!' An odd fancy has seized
me, ... I will open my window and call her very gently,--she might
be in the garden coming here to see me,--and if she hears and
answers, who knows!--why, perhaps my ideas may change, and fate
itself may take a different course!
* * * * *