# Vivian Grey/Volume 2/Chapter 4.2

CHAPTER II.
DEVELOPEMENT OF THE PLOT.
These conversations play the very deuce with one's story. I had intended to have commenced this book with something quite terrific—a murder, or a marriage: and I find that all my great ideas have ended in a lounge. After all it is, perhaps, the most natural termination. In life surely, man is not always as monstrously busy, as he appears to be in novels and romances. We are not always in action—not always making speeches, or making money, or making war, or making love. Occasionally we talk,—about the weather, generally—sometimes about ourselves— ​oftener about our friends—as often about our enemies—at least, those who have any; which, in my opinion, is the vulgarest of all possessions;—I have no enemies. Am I not an amiable fellow? At this moment, I am perfectly happy—am I not a lucky fellow?
And what is your situation, Mr. Felicity, you will ask? Have you just made a brilliant speech in the House? or have you negociated a great loan for a little nation? or have you touched, for the first time, some fair one"s cheek? In short, what splendid juggle have you been successful in? Have you deluded your own country, or another? Have you deceived another's heart—or, are you, yourself, a dupe? Not at all, my sweet questioner—I am strolling on a sunny lawn, and flanking butterflies with a tandem whip.
I have not felt so well for these six months. What would I have given to have had my blood dancing as it is now, while I was scribbling ​the first volume and a half of this dear book. But there is nothing like the country? I think I was saying that these lounges in St. James's Park do not always very materially advance the progress of our narrative. Not that I would insinuate that the progress of our narrative has flagged at all; not in the least, I am sure we can't be accused of being prosy. There has been no Balaam (I don't approve this neologism; but I am too indolent, at present, to think of another word,) in these books. I have withstood every temptation; and now, though I scarcely know in what way to make out this volume, here I am, without the least intention of finally proving that our Vivian Grey is the son of the Marquess of Carabas, by a former and secret marriage—in Italy, of course,—Count Anselmo—Naples—and an old nurse, &c. &c.; or that Mrs. Felix Lorraine is Horace Grey, Esquire, in disguise; or of making that much neglected beauty, Julia Manvers, ​arrive in the last scene with a chariot with four horses and a patent axle-tree— just in time!—Alas! dear Julia! we may meet again. In the meantime the memory of your bright blue eyes shall not escape me; and when we do meet, why you shall talk more and laugh less. But you were young when last you listened to my nonsense; one of those innocent young ladies, who, on entering a drawing-room, take a rapid glance at their curls in a pier glass, and then, flying to the eternal round table, seek refuge in an admiring examination of the beauties of the Florence Gallery, or the binding of Batty's views.
This slight allusion to Julia is a digression. I was about to inform you, that I have no intention of finishing this book by any thing extraordinary. The truth is, and this is quite confidential, invention is not to be "the feature" of this work. What I have seen, I have written about; and what I shall see, I shall perhaps, ​also write about. Some day I may, perchance, write for fame; at present, I write for pleasure. I think, in that case, I'll write an epic, but it shall be in prose. The reign of Poesy is over, at least for half a century; and by that time my bones will be bleached. I think I should have made a pretty poet. Indeed, it is with great difficulty that I prevent my paragraphs from hobbling into stanzas.
Stop! I see the finest Purple Emperor, just alighting upon that myrtle. Beautiful insect! thy title is too humble for thy bright estate! for what is the pageantry of princes to the splendour of thy gorgeous robes? I wish I were a purple Emperor! I came into the world naked—and you in a garment of glory. I dare not subject myself to the heat of the sun, for fear of a coup de soleil; nor to a damp day for fear of the rheumatism; but the free sky is your proper habitation, and the air your peculiar element. What care you, bright one, ​for Dr. Kitchener, or the Almanach des Gourmands? you, whose food is the dew of heaven, and the honied juices which you distil from every flower? Shadowed by a leaf of that thick shrub, I could for a moment fancy that your colour was sooty black; and yet now that the soft wind has blown the leaf aside, my eye is suddenly dazzled at the resplendent glow of your vivid purple. Now I gaze in admiration at the delightful, and amazing variety of your shifting tints playing in the sunbeam; now, as it is lighting up the splendour of your purple mantle, and now lending fresh brilliancy to your rings of burnished gold!
My brilliant purple Emperor! I must have you—I must indeed:—but I wish, if possible, to bring you down, rather by the respiration of my flank than the impulse of my thong.—Smack!—Confound the easterly wind playing up my nostril. I've missed him—and there he flies, mounting higher and higher, till at last ​he fixes on the topmost branch of yon lofty acacia. What shall I do? I'm not the least in the humour for writing.
There is the luncheon bell! Luncheon is a meal, if meal it may be called, which I do not patronise. 'Tis very well for school-boys and young ladies; acceptable to the first, because they are always ready to devour—and to the second, because a glass of sherry and a slice of reindeer's tongue, and a little marmalade, and a little Neufchâtel, enable them to toss their pretty little heads at dinner, and "not touch any thing;" be proportionately pitied, and look proportionately interesting. Luncheon is the modern mystery of the Bona Dea. I say nothing, but I once acted Clodius, in this respect. I never wondered afterwards at a woman's want of appetite.
But in the dear delicious country, and in a house where no visitor is staying, and where I am tempted to commit suicide hourly, I think ​I must take a very thin crust, or one traveller's biscuit, and a little Hock and Seltzer; although I'm in that horrid situation, neither possessing appetite, nor wanting refreshment. What shall I do now? Who can write when the sun shines? It's a warm, soft, sunny day, though in March. I'll lie down on the lawn and play with my Italian greyhound. Don't think me a puppy for having one. It was given to me by——. That's a sufficient excuse, is it not? Now Hyacinth, now my Hyacinth, now my own dog; try to leap over me!—frolick away, my beautiful one; I love thee, and have not I cause? What confidence have you violated? What sacred oaths have you outraged? Have you proved a craven in the hour of trial? Have I found you wanting when I called, or false when I fondled? Why do you start so, my pretty dog? Why are your eyes so fixed, your ears so erect. Pretty creature! does any thing frighten you? Kiss me, my own Hya​cinth, my dear, dear dog! Oh! you little wretch! you've bit my lip. Get out! I'll not speak to you for a fortnight.
I'll get Spenser's Faery Queen—I'm just in the humour for reading it; but still its a horrid bore to get up and go to the library. Come! a desperate exertion! On my legs again—there's nothing like energy. Here's the book. Oh! how I shall revel in his sweet and bitter fancies!—Confusion! I've brought a volume of Tillotson's Sermons. I hate the fellow! That's the advantage of your country libraries, having all your books bound the same.
Now I don't know what I shall do. I think I'll amuse myself by jumping over that ha-ha;—I'm quite confident I can do it—and yet whenever I'm about trying, my heart sadly misgives me. It's a complete fallacy; it's devilish deep though. There—that easterly wind has baulked me again; and here I am, ​up to my knees in mud, and my pretty violet-coloured slippers spoilt!
First dinner bell! A hecatomb to the son of Latona,—his rays are getting less powerful, and it's getting a little later. Though nobody is staying here, I'll go and dress myself in the most elaborate manner; it will assist in the destruction of the time. What a dull dinner! I have eaten of every thing:—soupe printannière (twice)—fillets of turbot à la crême—fowl à la Montemorenci, garnished with ragoût à l'Allemande—neck of veal à la S$^{te}$. Menehoult—marinade of chickens à la St. Florentin—Muriton of red tongue, with spinach—six quails—two dishes of kale, merely with plain butter—half a dozen orange jellies, en mosaïques—cauliflowers with velouté sauce, and a petit gateau à la Mænon—a soufflée with lemon, and a dozen Neufchâtel cheeses —a bottle of Markebrunnen, a pint of Latour, and ​a pint of Maraschino. Gone through it all; and yet here I am, breathing as freely as a young eagle. Oh! for an indigestion, if merely for the sake of variety! Good heavens! I'm afraid I'm getting healthy!
Now for Vivian Grey again! I don't know how it is, but I cannot write to-day; the room's so hot. Open that door: now I shall get on better. Oh, what a wretched pen! I can't get out a sentence. The room's too cold;—shut that horrid door. Write I must, and will,—what's the matter? It's this great bowstring of a cravat. Off with it! who could ever write in a cravat?