Читать книгу The storm of London: a social rhapsody онлайн

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How many more seasons would he have to stand there and watch the ebb and flow of the feminine tide? He had for such a long time felt on his brow the breath of the mare as she galloped past him; and he had too often heard the feverish snort of the winner as she came back, led by her master’s groom. He knew no others. Perhaps a country lass, purely brought up by Christian parents, would modestly wait on a stile until she was won; but that girl would have no repartie, and would look mystified at a problem play. No doubt, in the suburbs there existed women whose sole ambition was to help a life companion in the search of true happiness, who padded the monotonous life of some City clerk who regularly came back by the 6.15 train, bringing home Tit-Bits for the evening recreation, and Home Chat for household requirements. Bah! that woman never could analyse the psychology of cookery, and besides, she was not a lady. He was an epicure in the culinary art, and thirsted for something he had not yet met with: a lady who would be a perfect woman. Then came the war; and he longed to escape the routine of London life and Gwendolen’s incessant requests for presents: he started for South Africa, hoping to lose there the nasty taste that was forever on his lips. Gwendolen soon followed, escorted by some of her friends and their numerous trunks. New frocks were shaken out, bonnets were twisted back into their original shapes, and an improvised season was inaugurated in one of the South African towns, to the utter disgust of her fiancé, who, having been wounded, had the misfortune of seeing her parade daily round his bed. The sights he witnessed sickened him unto death; the amalgam of frivolity and callousness seemed to him more irrelevant in that new country, and the physical excitement and interest of danger having worn itself off, he very soon realised that the old game of war must necessarily be played out in a civilisation that boasts of commercial supremacy, and whose scientific discoveries are daily endeavouring to bring nations nearer to one another. He returned to England on sick leave, more embittered than heretofore with Gwendolen, London, and himself. He frequently sat at twilight in his large library at Selby House, wondering whether this was all a fellow could do with his life, and whether the other side was not more entertaining than this rotten old stage? To-night, as he drove in his carriage, listening to the crashing of the thunder, every event of his life came back to him in strong relief and vivid colours, and the prospect of joining in holy matrimony with Gwendolen seemed more than he could bear. Perhaps the taste of death that he so nearly met with in Africa came to him at this hour of night, when all the elements were at war against man; and he came to the conclusion that he was not obliged to submit to life’s platitudes any longer. A gentleman should always quit a card table when he has been cheated. Life had cheated him, and he resolved to leave life. The other side of Acheron could not be a worse fraud than this; besides, he knew all about this world, there was nothing that could astonish him any more, nor keep his attention riveted for more than five minutes. Why not try the experiment? If it were complete oblivion, so much the better, he did not object to a long sleep out of which he would never wake. If it were, as so many declared, eternal punishment—well, the retribution could never, in all its black horror, be any worse than the gnawing heartache of the life in which we were chained.