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    Alice, or the Mysteries — Book 06
    Alice, or the Mysteries — Book 06
    Alice, or the Mysteries — Book 06
    Ebook84 pages1 hour

    Alice, or the Mysteries — Book 06

    By Edward Bulwer Lytton

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 26, 2013
    Alice, or the Mysteries — Book 06
    Author

    Edward Bulwer Lytton

    Edward Bulwer-Lytton, engl. Romanschriftsteller und Politiker, ist bekannt geworden durch seine populären historischen/metaphysischen und unvergleichlichen Romane wie „Zanoni“, „Rienzi“, „Die letzten Tage von Pompeji“ und „Das kommende Geschlecht“. Ihm wird die Mitgliedschaft in der sagenumwobenen Gemeinschaft der Rosenkreuzer nachgesagt. 1852 wurde er zum Kolonialminister von Großbritannien ernannt.

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      Book preview

      Alice, or the Mysteries — Book 06 - Edward Bulwer Lytton

      Project Gutenberg EBook, Alice, or The Mysteries, by Lytton, Book VI #208 in our series by Edward Bulwer Lytton

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      **Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**

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      Title: Alice, or The Mysteries, Book VI

      Author: Edward Bulwer Lytton

      Release Date: January 2006 [EBook #9768] [Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on October 15, 2003]

      Edition: 10

      Language: English

      *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, ALICE, BY LYTTON, BOOK VI ***

      Produced by Dagny; and by David Widger

      Corrected and updated text and HTML PG Editions of the complete 11 volume set may be found at:

      http://www.gutenberg.org/files/9774/9774.txt

      http://www.gutenberg.org/files/9774/9774-h/9774-h.htm

      BOOK VI.

        I will bring fire to thee—I reek not of the place.

             —EURIPIDES: Andromache, 214.

      CHAPTER I.

        . . . THIS ancient city,

        How wanton sits she amidst Nature's smiles!

        . . . Various nations meet,

        As in the sea, yet not confined in space,

        But streaming freely through the spacious streets.—YOUNG.

        . . . His teeth he still did grind,

        And grimly gnash, threatening revenge in vain.—SPENSER.

      "PARIS is a delightful place,—that is allowed by all. It is delightful to the young, to the gay, to the idle; to the literary lion, who likes to be petted; to the wiser epicure, who indulges a more justifiable appetite. It is delightful to ladies, who wish to live at their ease, and buy beautiful caps; delightful to philanthropists, who wish for listeners to schemes of colonizing the moon; delightful to the haunters of balls and ballets, and little theatres and superb cafes, where men with beards of all sizes and shapes scowl at the English, and involve their intellects in the fascinating game of dominos. For these, and for many others, Paris is delightful. I say nothing against it. But, for my own part, I would rather live in a garret in London than in a palace in the Chaussee d'Antin.—'Chacun a son mauvais gout.'

      "I don't like the streets, in which I cannot walk but in the kennel; I don't like the shops, that contain nothing except what's at the window; I don't like the houses, like prisons which look upon a courtyard; I don't like the beaux jardins, which grow no plants save a Cupid in plaster; I don't like the wood fires, which demand as many petits soins as the women, and which warm no part of one but one's eyelids, I don't like the language, with its strong phrases about nothing, and vibrating like a pendulum between 'rapture' and 'desolation;' I don't like the accent, which one cannot get, without speaking through one's nose; I don't like the eternal fuss and jabber about books without nature, and revolutions without fruit; I have no sympathy with tales that turn on a dead jackass, nor with constitutions that give the ballot to the representatives, and withhold the suffrage from the people; neither have I much faith in that enthusiasm for the beaux arts, which shows its produce in execrable music, detestable pictures, abominable sculpture, and a droll something that I believe the French call POETRY. Dancing and cookery,—these are the arts the French excel in, I grant it; and excellent things they are; but oh, England! oh, Germany! you need not be jealous of your rival!"

      These are not the author's remarks,—he disowns them; they were Mr. Cleveland's. He was a prejudiced man; Maltravers was more liberal, but then Maltravers did not pretend to be a wit.

      Maltravers had been several weeks in the city of cities, and now he had his apartments in the gloomy but interesting Faubourg St. Germain, all to himself. For Cleveland, having attended eight days at a sale, and having moreover ransacked all the curiosity shops, and shipped off bronzes and cabinets, and Genoese silks and objets de vertu, enough to have half furnished Fonthill, had fulfilled his mission, and returned to his villa. Before the old gentleman went, he flattered himself that change of air and scene had already been serviceable to his friend; and that time would work a complete cure upon that commonest of all maladies,—an unrequited passion, or an ill-placed caprice.

      Maltravers, indeed, in the habit of conquering, as well as of concealing emotion, vigorously and earnestly strove to dethrone the image that had usurped his heart. Still vain of his self-command, and still worshipping his favourite virtue of Fortitude and his delusive philosophy of the calm Golden Mean, he would not weakly indulge the passion, while he so sternly fled from its object.

      But yet the image of Evelyn pursued,—it haunted him; it came on him unawares, in solitude, in crowds. That smile so cheering, yet so soft, that ever had power to chase away the shadow from his soul; that youthful and luxurious bloom of pure and eloquent thoughts, which was as the blossom of genius before its fruit, bitter as well as sweet, is born;

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