Thus her nearness, planned, as I guessed, with the tender
intention of displaying, elucidating him, of making him accessible in
detail to my dazzled perceptions--this pious design in fact defeated
itself. She made him appear at his best, but she cheapened that best by
her proximity. For the man was vulgar to the core; vulgar in spite of his
force and magnitude; thin, hollow, spectacular; a lath-and-plaster bogey--
Did she suspect it? I think not--then. He was wrapped in her impervious
faith... The papers? Oh, their charges were set down to political rivalry;
and the only people she saw were his hangers-on, or the fashionable set
who had taken him up for their amusement. Besides, she would never have
found out in that way: at a direct accusation her resentment would have
flamed up and smothered her judgment. If the truth came to her, it would
come through knowing intimately some one--different; through--how shall I
put it?--an imperceptible shifting of her centre of gravity. My besetting
fear was that I couldn't count on her obtuseness. She wasn't what is
called clever; she left that to him; but she was exquisitely good; and now
and then she had intuitive felicities that frightened me. Do I make you
see her? We fellows can explain better with the brush; I don't know how to
mix my words or lay them on. She wasn't clever; but her heart thought--
that's all I can say...
If she'd been stupid it would have been easy enough: I could have painted
him as he was.
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