Americans -- Europe -- Fiction; Europe -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; United States -- Social life and customs -- Fiction
herself was not a Rossetti, but a Gainsborough or a Lawrence, and she
had in her appearance no elements more romantic than a cold, ladylike
candor, and a well-starched muslin dress.
It was in a garment, and with an expression, of this kind, that she made
her entrance, after I had exchanged a few words with Miss Ambient. Her
husband presently followed her, and there being no other company we went
to dinner. The impression I received from that repast is present to me
still. There were elements of oddity in my companions, but they were
vague and latent, and did n’t interfere with my delight It came mainly,
of course, from Ambient’s talk, which was the most brilliant and
interesting I had ever heard. I know not whether he laid himself out
to dazzle a rather juvenile pilgrim from over the sea; but it matters
little, for it was very easy for him to shine. He was almost better as
a talker than as a writer; that is, if the extraordinary finish of his
written prose be really, as some people have maintained, a fault. There
was such a kindness in him, however, that I have no doubt it gave him
ideas to see me sit open-mouthed, as I suppose I did. Not so the two
ladies, who not only were very nearly dumb from beginning to the end
of the meal, but who had not the air of being struck with such an
exhibition of wit and knowledge. Mrs. Ambient, placid and detached, met
neither my eye nor her husband’s; she attended to her dinner, watched
the servants, arranged the puckers in her dress, exchanged at wide
intervals a remark with her sister-in-law, and while she slowly rubbed
her white hands between the courses, looked out of the window at the
first signs of twilight--the long June day allowing us to dine without
candles.. Miss Ambient appeared to give little direct heed to her
brother’s discourse; but on the other hand she was much engaged in
watching its effect upon me. Her lustreless pupils continued to attach
themselves to my countenance, and it was only her air of belonging to
another century that kept them from being importunate. She seemed to
look at me across the ages, and the interval of time diminished the
vividness of the performance. It was as if she knew in a general way
that her brother must be talking very well, but she herself was so rich
in ideas that she had no need to pick them up, and was at liberty to see
what would become of a young American when subjected to a high aesthetic
temperature.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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