There were eminent gentlemen, as I was sure they could only be, to
"meet" and, alas, awfully to interrogate me--for vivid has remained to
me, as the best of my bewilderment, the strangeness of finding that I
could be of interest to _them_: not indeed to call it rather the proved
humiliation of my impotence. My identity for myself was _all_ in my
sensibility to their own exhibition, with not a scrap left over for a
personal show; which made it as inconvenient as it was queer that I
should be treated as a specimen and have in the most unexpected manner
to prove that I was a good one. I knew myself the very worst
conceivable, but how to give to such other persons a decent or coherent
reason for my being so required more presence of mind than I could in
the least muster--the consequence of which failure had to be for me, I
fear, under all that confused first flush, rather an abject acceptance
of the air of imbecility. There were, it appeared, things of interest
taking place in America, and I had had, in this absurd manner, to come
to England to learn it: I had had over there on the ground itself no
conception of any such matter--nothing of the smallest interest, by any
perception of mine, as I suppose I should still blush to recall, had
taken place in America since the War. How _could_ anything, I really
wanted to ask--anything comparable, that is, to what was taking place
under my eyes in Half-Moon Street and at dear softly presiding Rutson's
table of talk. It doubtless essentially belonged to the exactly right
type and tone and general figure of my fellow-breakfasters from the
Temple, from the Home Office, the Foreign Office, the House of Commons,
from goodness knew what other scarce discernible Olympian altitudes, it
belonged to the very cut of their hair and their waistcoats and their
whiskers--for it was still more or less a whiskered age--that they
should desire from me much distinctness about General Grant's first
cabinet, upon the formation of which the light of the newspaper happened
then to beat; yet at the same time that I asked myself if it was to such
cold communities, such flat frustrations as were so proposed, that I
had sought to lift my head again in European air, I found the crisis
enriched by sundry other apprehensions.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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