He was a
tall, grim-looking man, of uncompromising manners, who told
interminable stories, mostly to the discredit of other people--"not
leaving Lancelot brave or Galahad clean." His chief pleasure seemed to
be in making his hearers uncomfortable. His stories were undeniably
amusing, but left a bad taste in the mouth. He had an attentive
audience, mainly, I think, because most of us were afraid to say what
we thought in his presence. He was a man of wide and accurate
knowledge, and delighted in showing up other people's ignorance. I
suppose the truest courage would have been to withstand him boldly, or,
better still, to attempt to convert him to a more generous view of
life. But it did not seem worth the trouble; it was impossible to argue
with him successfully, and his conversion seemed more a thing to be
prayed for than to be attempted. One aged and genial statesman who was
present did indeed, by persistent courtesy, contrive to give him a few
moments of uneasiness; and the sympathies of the party were so plainly
on the side of the statesman that even our tyrant appeared to suspect
that urbanity was sometimes a useful quality. We all breathed more
freely when he took his departure, and there was a general sense of
heightened enjoyment abroad.
Yet it is impossible to compassionate such a man, because he does not
need compassion. He is perfectly satisfied with his position; he does
not want people to like him--he would consider that to be sentimental,
and for sentiment of every kind he has a profound abhorrence.
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