My eye, pursuant of the search, met not him, but another
and dissimilar figure, well seen amidst the crowd,
for the height as well as the port lent each its distinction.
This way came Dr. John, in visage, in shape, in hue,
as unlike the dark, acerb, and caustic little professor,
as the fruit of the Hesperides might be unlike the
sloe in the wild thicket; as the high-couraged but
tractable Arabian is unlike the rude and stubborn
“sheltie.” He was looking for me,
but had not yet explored the corner where the schoolmaster
had just put me. I remained quiet; yet another
minute I would watch.
He approached de Hamal; he paused near him; I thought
he had a pleasure in looking over his head; Dr. Bretton,
too, gazed on the Cleopatra. I doubt if it were
to his taste: he did not simper like the little
Count; his mouth looked fastidious, his eye cool; without
demonstration he stepped aside, leaving room for others
to approach. I saw now that he was waiting, and,
rising, I joined him.
We took one turn round the gallery; with Graham it
was very pleasant to take such a turn. I always
liked dearly to hear what he had to say about either
pictures or books; because without pretending to be
a connoisseur, he always spoke his thought, and that
was sure to be fresh: very often it was also
just and pithy. It was pleasant also to tell
him some things he did not know—he listened
so kindly, so teachably; unformalized by scruples
lest so to bend his bright handsome head, to gather
a woman’s rather obscure and stammering explanation,
should imperil the dignity of his manhood. And
when he communicated information in return, it was
with a lucid intelligence that left all his words
clear graven on the memory; no explanation of his
giving, no fact of his narrating, did I ever forget.
As we left the gallery, I asked him what he thought
of the Cleopatra (after making him laugh by telling
him how Professor Emanuel had sent me to the right
about, and taking him to see the sweet series of pictures
recommended to my attention.)
“Pooh!” said he. “My mother
is a better-looking woman. I heard some French
fops, yonder, designating her as ‘le type du
voluptueux;’ if so, I can only say, ‘le
voluptueux’ is little to my liking. Compare
that mulatto with Ginevra!”
THE CONCERT.
One morning, Mrs. Bretton, coming promptly into my
room, desired me to open my drawers and show her my
dresses; which I did, without a word.
“That will do,” said she, when she had
turned them over. “You must have a new
one.”
She went out. She returned presently with a dressmaker.
She had me measured. “I mean,” said
she, “to follow my own taste, and to have my
own way in this little matter.”
Two days after came home—a pink dress!
“That is not for me,” I said, hurriedly,
feeling that I would almost as soon clothe myself
in the costume of a Chinese lady of rank.
