Where were all the women, the pretty women, the house used to
be so full of? Where was that old feeling in the heart as he waited for
one of those great singers? Where that sensation of the intoxication of
life and of his own power to enjoy it all?
The greatest opera-goer of his day! There was no opera now! That fellow
Wagner had ruined everything; no melody left, nor any voices to sing it.
Ah! the wonderful singers! Gone! He sat watching the old scenes acted, a
numb feeling at his heart.
From the curl of silver over his ear to the pose of his foot in its
elastic-sided patent boot, there was nothing clumsy or weak about old
Jolyon. He was as upright--very nearly--as in those old times when he
came every night; his sight was as good--almost as good. But what a
feeling of weariness and disillusion!
He had been in the habit all his life of enjoying things, even imperfect
things--and there had been many imperfect things--he had enjoyed
them all with moderation, so as to keep himself young. But now he was
deserted by his power of enjoyment, by his philosophy, and left with
this dreadful feeling that it was all done with. Not even the Prisoners'
Chorus, nor Florian's Song, had the power to dispel the gloom of his
loneliness.
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