The Small House at Allington - Anthony Trollope (i want to read a book txt) 📗

not afraid of a roaring bull, nor yet of that man when you thrashed him at the railway station. You’ve pluck enough of that kind. You must now show that you’ve that other kind of pluck. You know the story of the boy who would not cry though the wolf was gnawing him underneath his frock. Most of us have some wolf to gnaw us somewhere; but we are generally gnawed beneath our clothes, so that the world doesn’t see; and it behoves us so to bear it that the world shall not suspect. The man who goes about declaring himself to be miserable will be not only miserable, but contemptible as well.”

“But the wolf hasn’t gnawed me beneath my clothes; everybody knows it.”

“Then let those who do know it learn that you are able to bear such wounds without outward complaint. I tell you fairly that I cannot sympathize with a lackadaisical lover.”

“I know that I have made myself ridiculous to everybody. I wish I had never come here. I wish you had never seen me.”

“Don’t say that, my dear boy; but take my advice for what it is worth. And remember what it is that I say; with your grief I do sympathize, but not with any outward expression of it;⁠—not with melancholy looks, and a sad voice, and an unhappy gait. A man should always be able to drink his wine and seem to enjoy it. If he can’t, he is so much less of a man than he would be otherwise⁠—not so much more, as some people seem to think. Now get yourself dressed, my dear fellow, and come down to dinner as though nothing had happened to you.”

As soon as the earl was gone John looked at his watch and saw that it still wanted some forty minutes to dinner. Fifteen minutes would suffice for him to dress, and therefore there was time sufficient for him to seat himself in his armchair and think over it all. He had for a moment been very angry when his friend had told him that he could not sympathize with a lackadaisical lover. It was an ill-natured word. He felt it to be so when he heard it, and so he continued to think during the whole of the half-hour that he sat in that chair. But it probably did him more good than any word that the earl had ever spoken to him⁠—or any other word that he could have used. “Lackadaisical! I’m not lackadaisical,” he said to himself, jumping up from his chair, and instantly sitting down again. “I didn’t say anything to him. I didn’t tell him. Why did he come to me?” And yet, though he endeavoured to abuse Lord De Guest in his thoughts, he knew that Lord De Guest was right, and that he was wrong. He knew that he had been lackadaisical, and was ashamed of himself; and at once resolved that he would henceforth demean himself as though no calamity had happened to him. “I’ve a good mind to take him at his word, and drink wine till I’m drunk.” Then he strove to get up his courage by a song.

“But I do care. What stuff it is a man writing poetry and putting into it such lies as that! Everybody knows that he did care⁠—that is, if he wasn’t a heartless beast.”

But nevertheless, when the time came for him to go down into the drawing-room he did make the effort which his friend had counselled, and walked into the room with less of that hangdog look than the earl and Lady Julia had expected. They were both there, as was also the squire, and Bell followed him in less than a minute.

“You haven’t seen Crofts today, John, have you?” said the earl.

“No; I haven’t been anywhere his way!”

“His way! His ways are every way, I take it. I wanted him to come and dine, but he seemed to think it improper to eat two dinners in the same house two days running. Isn’t that his theory, Miss Dale?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, Lord De Guest. At any rate, it isn’t mine.”

So they went to their feast, and before his last chance was over John Eames found himself able to go through the pretence of enjoying his roast mutton.

There can, I think, be no doubt that in all such calamities as that which he was now suffering, the agony of the misfortune is much increased by the conviction that the facts of the case are known to those round about the sufferer. A most warmhearted and intensely-feeling young gentleman might, no doubt, eat an excellent dinner after being refused by the girl of his devotions, provided that he had reason to believe that none of those in whose company he ate it knew anything of his rejection. But the same warmhearted and intensely-feeling young gentleman would find it very difficult to go through the ceremony with any appearance of true appetite or gastronomic enjoyment, if he were aware that all his convives knew all the facts of his little misfortune. Generally, we may suppose, a man in such condition goes to his club for his dinner, or seeks consolation in the shades of some adjacent Richmond or Hampton Court. There he meditates on his condition in silence, and does ultimately enjoy his little plate of whitebait, his cutlet and his moderate pint of sherry. He probably goes alone to the theatre, and, in his stall, speculates with a somewhat bitter sarcasm on the vanity of the world. Then he returns home, sad indeed, but with a moderated sadness, and as he puffs out the smoke of his cigar at the open window⁠—with perhaps the comfort of a little brandy-and-water at his elbow⁠—swears to himself that, “By Jove, he’ll have another try for it.” Alone, a man may console himself, or among a crowd of unconscious mortals; but it must be admitted that the position of John Eames was severe. He