He wasn't that, of course, in any intrinsic sense: like
most men of his type he had gulped his knowledge standing, as he had
snatched his food from lunch-counters; the wonder of it lay in his
extraordinary power of assimilation. It was the strangest instance of a
mind to which erudition had given force and fluency without culture; his
learning had not educated his perceptions: it was an implement serving to
slash others rather than to polish himself. I have said that at first
sight he was immense; but as I studied him he began to lessen under my
scrutiny. His depth was a false perspective painted on a wall.
It was there that my difficulty lay: I had prepared too big a canvas for
him. Intellectually his scope was considerable, but it was like the
digital reach of a mediocre pianist--it didn't make him a great musician.
And morally he wasn't bad enough; his corruption wasn't sufficiently
imaginative to be interesting. It was not so much a means to an end as a
kind of virtuosity practised for its own sake, like a highly-developed
skill in cannoning billiard balls. After all, the point of view is what
gives distinction to either vice or virtue: a morality with ground-glass
windows is no duller than a narrow cynicism.
His daughter's presence--she always came with him--gave unintentional
emphasis to these conclusions; for where she was richest he was naked. She
had a deep-rooted delicacy that drew color and perfume from the very
centre of her being: his sentiments, good or bad, were as detachable as
his cuffs.
Pages:
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201