This etext was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net>
By George Meredith
Books and dreams, like the two rivers cited by my father, flowed side byside in me without mixing; and which the bright Rhone was, which thebrown Arve, needs not to be told to those who know anything of youth;they were destined to intermingle soon enough. I read well, for I feltground and had mounting views; the real world, and the mind and passionsof the world, grew visible to me. My tutor pleased the squire immenselyby calling me matter-of-fact. In philosophy and history I hatedspeculation; but nothing was too fantastic for my ideas of possibleoccurrences. Once away from books, I carried a head that shot rockets tothe farthest hills.
My dear friend Temple was at sea, or I should have had one near me todetect and control the springs of nonsense. I was deemed a remarkablyquiet sober thoughtful young man, acquiescent in all schemes projectedfor my welfare. The squire would have liked to see me courting the girlof his heart, as he termed Janet Ilchester, a little moredemonstratively. We had, however, come to the understanding that I wasto travel before settling. Traditional notions of the importance of theGrand Tour in the education of gentlemen led him to consent to my takinga year on the Continent accompanied by my tutor. He wanted some one, hesaid, to represent him when I was out over there; which signified that hewanted some one to keep my father in check; but as the Rev. AmbrosePeterborough, successor to the Rev. Simon Hart, was hazy and manageable,I did not object. Such faith had the quiet thoughtful young man atRiversley in the convulsions of the future, the whirlwinds and whirlpoolsspinning for him and all connected with him, that he did not object tohear his name and Janet's coupled, though he had not a spark of love forher.
I tried to realize to myself the general opinion that she was handsome.Her eyebrows were thick and level and long; her eyes direct in theirgaze, of a flinty blue, with dark lashes; her nose firm, her lipsfullish, firm when joined; her shape straight, moderately flexible. Butshe had no softness; she could admire herself in my presence; she claimedpossession of me openly, and at the same time openly provoked a siegefrom the remainder of my sex: she was not maidenly. She caughtimagination by the sleeve, and shut it between square whitewashed walls.Heriot thought her not only handsome, but comparable to Mrs. WilliamBulsted, our Julia Rippenger of old. At his meeting with Julia, herdelicious loss of colour made her seem to me one of the loveliest womenon earth. Janet never lost colour, rarely blushed; she touched neithernerve nor fancy.
'You want a rousing coquette,' said Heriot; 'you won't be happy tillyou 've been racked by that nice instrument of torture, and the fairBulsted will do it for you if you like. You don't want a snake or acommon serpent, you want a Python.'
I wanted bloom and mystery, a woman shifting like the light with eveningand night and dawn, and sudden fire. Janet was bald to the heartinhabitin