A
vain man has little or no admiration to bestow upon competitors.
Landor had an inexhaustible fund. He thought well of his writings,
or he would not have preserved them. He said and wrote that he
thought well of them, because that was his mind about them, and he
said and wrote his mind. He was one of the few men of whom you
might always know the whole: of whom you might always know the
worst, as well as the best. He had no reservations or duplicities.
"No, by Heaven!" he would say ("with unimaginable energy"), if any
good adjective were coupled with him which he did not deserve: "I
am nothing of the kind. I wish I were; but I don't deserve the
attribute, and I never did, and I never shall!" His intense
consciousness of himself never led to his poorly excusing himself,
and seldom to his violently asserting himself. When he told some
little story of his bygone social experiences, in Florence, or where
not, as he was fond of doing, it took the innocent form of making
all the interlocutors, Landors. It was observable, too, that they
always called him "Mr. Landor"--rather ceremoniously and
submissively. There was a certain "Caro Pedre Abete Marina"--
invariably so addressed in these anecdotes--who figured through a
great many of them, and who always expressed himself in this
deferential tone.
Pages:
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109