Zanoni — Edward Bulwer-Lytton
decorums of conventional ease. Still a kind of wild nobleness, not before apparent in him, characterized his aspect, and gave something of dignity to the freedom of his language and gestures. “So, then, you are settled, Mervale, —I need not ask you if you are happy. Worth, sense, wealth, character, and so fair a companion deserve happiness, and command nt “Would you like some tea, Mr. Glyndon?” asked Mrs. Mervale, kindly. “Thank you, —no. I propose a more convivial stimulus to my old friend. Wine, Mervale, — wine, eh! — or a bowl of old English punch. Your wife will excuse us, — we will make a night of it! ” Mrs. Mervale drew back her chair, and tried not to look aghast. Glyndon did not give his friend time to reply. “So at last Iam in England,” he said, looking round the room, with a slight sneer on his lips; “surely this sober air must have its influence; surely here I shall be like the rest.” “ Have you been ill, Glyndon? ” “Til! yes. Humph! you have a fine house. Does it contain a spare room for a solitary wanderer? ” Mr. Mervale glanced at his wife, and his wife looked steadily on the carpet. “ Modest and shy in his manners, —rather too much so!” Mrs. Mervale was in the seventh heaven of indignation and amaze! “My dear?” said Mr. Mervale at last, meekly and interrogatingly. “My dear!” returned Mrs. Mervale, innocently and sourly. “We can make up a room for my old friend, Sarah?” The old friend had sunk back on his chair, and,
p. 359
gazing intently on the fire, with his feet at ease upon the fender, seemed to have forgotten his question. Mrs. Mervale bit her lips, looked thoughtful, and at last coldly replied, “Certainly, Mr. Mervale; your friends do right to make themselves at home.” With that she lighted a candle, and moved majestically from the room. When she zeturned, the two friends had vanished into Mr. Mervale’s study. Twelve o’clock struck, —one o’clock, two! Thrice had Mrs. Mervale sent into the room to know, — first, if they wanted anything; secondly, if Mr. Glyndon slept on a mattress or feather-bed; thirdly, to inquire if Mr. Glyndon’s trunk, which he had brought with him, should be unpacked. And to the answer to all these questions was added, in a loud voice from the visitor, —a voice that pierced from the kitchen to the attic, — “Another bowl! stronger, if you please, and be quick with it! ” At last Mr. Mervale appeared in the conjugal chamber, not penitent, nor apologetic, —no, not a bit of it. His eyes twinkled, his cheek flushed, his feet reeled; he sang, — Mr. Thomas Mervale positively sang! “Mr. Mervalei is it possible, sir — ”
*¢Qld King Cole was a merry old soul —’ ® “Mr. Mervale! sir! — leave me alone, sir!” “¢ And a merry old soul was he —’” “What an example to the servants! ” “¢ And he called for his pipe, and he called for his bowl—’ * “Tf you don’t behave yourself, sir, I shall call—” “Call for his fiddlers three!*”
p. 351
CHAPTER III.
In der Welt weit Aus der Einsamkeit
Wollen sie Dich locken.? Faust.
THE next morning, at breakfast, Mrs. Mervale looked as if all the wrongs of injured woman sat upon her brow. Mr. Mervale seemed the picture of remorseful guilt and avenging bile. He said little, except to complain of headache, and to request the eggs to be removed from the table. Clarence Glyndon — impervious, unconscious, unailing, impenitent — was in noisy spirits, and talked for three. “Poor Mervale! he has lost the habit of good-fellowship, madam. Another night or two, and he will be himself again! ” “Sir,” said Mrs. Mervale, launching a premeditated sentence with more than Johnsonian dignity, “ permit me to remind you that Mr. Mervale is now a married man, the destined father of a family, and the present master of a household.” “Precisely the reasons why I envy him so much. I myself have a great mind to marry. MHappiness is contagious.” “ Do you still take to painting?” asked Mervale, languidly, endeavoring to turn the tables on his guest. “Oh, no; I have adopted your advice. No art, no ideal, — nothing loftier than Commonplace for me now. If I were to paint again, I positively think you would
1 In the wide world, out of the solitude, will these allure thee,
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decorums of conventional ease. Still a kind of wild nobleness, not before apparent in him, characterized his aspect, and gave something of dignity to the freedom of his language and gestures. “So, then, you are settled, Mervale, —I need not ask you if you are happy. Worth, sense, wealth, character, and so fair a companion deserve happiness, and command nt “Would you like some tea, Mr. Glyndon?” asked Mrs. Mervale, kindly. “Thank you, —no. I propose a more convivial stimulus to my old friend. Wine, Mervale, — wine, eh! — or a bowl of old English punch. Your wife will excuse us, — we will make a night of it! ” Mrs. Mervale drew back her chair, and tried not to look aghast. Glyndon did not give his friend time to reply. “So at last Iam in England,” he said, looking round the room, with a slight sneer on his lips; “surely this sober air must have its influence; surely here I shall be like the rest.” “ Have you been ill, Glyndon? ” “Til! yes. Humph! you have a fine house. Does it contain a spare room for a solitary wanderer? ” Mr. Mervale glanced at his wife, and his wife looked steadily on the carpet. “ Modest and shy in his manners, —rather too much so!” Mrs. Mervale was in the seventh heaven of indignation and amaze! “My dear?” said Mr. Mervale at last, meekly and interrogatingly. “My dear!” returned Mrs. Mervale, innocently and sourly. “We can make up a room for my old friend, Sarah?” The old friend had sunk back on his chair, and,
p. 359
gazing intently on the fire, with his feet at ease upon the fender, seemed to have forgotten his question. Mrs. Mervale bit her lips, looked thoughtful, and at last coldly replied, “Certainly, Mr. Mervale; your friends do right to make themselves at home.” With that she lighted a candle, and moved majestically from the room. When she zeturned, the two friends had vanished into Mr. Mervale’s study. Twelve o’clock struck, —one o’clock, two! Thrice had Mrs. Mervale sent into the room to know, — first, if they wanted anything; secondly, if Mr. Glyndon slept on a mattress or feather-bed; thirdly, to inquire if Mr. Glyndon’s trunk, which he had brought with him, should be unpacked. And to the answer to all these questions was added, in a loud voice from the visitor, —a voice that pierced from the kitchen to the attic, — “Another bowl! stronger, if you please, and be quick with it! ” At last Mr. Mervale appeared in the conjugal chamber, not penitent, nor apologetic, —no, not a bit of it. His eyes twinkled, his cheek flushed, his feet reeled; he sang, — Mr. Thomas Mervale positively sang! “Mr. Mervalei is it possible, sir — ”
*¢Qld King Cole was a merry old soul —’ ® “Mr. Mervale! sir! — leave me alone, sir!” “¢ And a merry old soul was he —’” “What an example to the servants! ” “¢ And he called for his pipe, and he called for his bowl—’ * “Tf you don’t behave yourself, sir, I shall call—” “Call for his fiddlers three!*”
p. 351
CHAPTER III.
In der Welt weit Aus der Einsamkeit
Wollen sie Dich locken.? Faust.
THE next morning, at breakfast, Mrs. Mervale looked as if all the wrongs of injured woman sat upon her brow. Mr. Mervale seemed the picture of remorseful guilt and avenging bile. He said little, except to complain of headache, and to request the eggs to be removed from the table. Clarence Glyndon — impervious, unconscious, unailing, impenitent — was in noisy spirits, and talked for three. “Poor Mervale! he has lost the habit of good-fellowship, madam. Another night or two, and he will be himself again! ” “Sir,” said Mrs. Mervale, launching a premeditated sentence with more than Johnsonian dignity, “ permit me to remind you that Mr. Mervale is now a married man, the destined father of a family, and the present master of a household.” “Precisely the reasons why I envy him so much. I myself have a great mind to marry. MHappiness is contagious.” “ Do you still take to painting?” asked Mervale, languidly, endeavoring to turn the tables on his guest. “Oh, no; I have adopted your advice. No art, no ideal, — nothing loftier than Commonplace for me now. If I were to paint again, I positively think you would
1 In the wide world, out of the solitude, will these allure you,
p. 352
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