Certain Personal Matters | Page 9

intends to marry Di Sorno, and who
has been calling into the story in a casual kind of way since the
romance began, now comes prominently forward. She has denounced
Margot for heresy, and at a masked ball the Inquisition, disguised in a
yellow domino, succeeds in separating the young couple, and in
carrying off "the sweet Margot" to a convent.
"Di Sorno, half distraught, flung himself into a cab and drove to all the
hotels in Grenada" (he overlooked the police station), and, failing to
find Margot, becomes mad. He goes about ejaculating "Mad, mad!"
than which nothing could be more eloquent of his complete mental
inversion. In his paroxysms the Countess di Morno persuades him to
"lead her to the altar," but on the way (with a certain indelicacy they go
to church in the same conveyance) she lets slip a little secret. So Di
Sorno jumps out of the carriage, "hurling the crowd apart," and,
"flourishing his drawn sword," "clamoured at the gate of the
Inquisition" for Margot. The Inquisition, represented by the fiery-eyed
monk, "looked over the gate at him." No doubt it felt extremely
uncomfortable.
Now it was just at this thrilling part that Euphemia came home, and the
trouble about the flattened hat began. I never flattened her hat. It was in
the box, and so was I; but as for deliberate flattening----It was just a
thing that happened. She should not write such interesting stories if she

expects me to go on tiptoe through the world looking about for her hats.
To have that story taken away just at that particular moment was
horrible. There was fully as much as I had read still to come, so that a
lot happened after this duel of Sword v. Fiery Eye. I know from a sheet
that came out of place that Margot stabbed herself with a dagger
("richly jewelled"), but of all that came between I have not the faintest
suspicion. That is the peculiar interest of it. At this particular moment
the one book I want to read in all the world is the rest of this novel of
Euphemia's. And simply, on the score of a new hat needed, she keeps it
back and haggles!

OF CONVERSATION
AN APOLOGY
I must admit that in conversation I am not a brilliant success. Partly,
indeed, that may be owing to the assiduity with which my aunt
suppressed my early essays in the art: "Children," she said, "should be
seen but not heard," and incontinently rapped my knuckles. To a larger
degree, however, I regard it as intrinsic. This tendency to silence, to go
out of the rattle and dazzle of the conversation into a quiet apart, is
largely, I hold, the consequence of a certain elevation and breadth and
tenderness of mind; I am no blowfly to buzz my way through the
universe, no rattle that I should be expected to delight my
fellow-creatures by the noises I produce. I go about to this social
function and that, deporting myself gravely and decently in silence,
taking, if possible, a back seat; and, in consequence of that, people who
do not understand me have been heard to describe me as a "stick," as
"shy," and by an abundance of the like unflattering terms. So that I am
bound almost in self-justification to set down my reasons for this
temperance of mine in conversation.
Speech, no doubt, is a valuable gift, but at the same time it is a gift that
may be abused. What is regarded as polite conversation is, I hold, such
an abuse. Alcohol, opium, tea, are all very excellent things in their way;
but imagine continuous alcohol, an incessant opium, or to receive,

ocean-like, a perennially flowing river of tea! That is my objection to
this conversation: its continuousness. You have to keep on. You find
three or four people gathered together, and instead of being restful and
recreative, sitting in comfortable attitudes and at peace with themselves
and each other, and now and again, perhaps three or four times in an
hour, making a worthy and memorable remark, they are all haggard and
intent upon keeping this fetish flow agoing. A fortuitous score of cows
in a field are a thousand times happier than a score of people
deliberately assembled for the purposes of happiness. These
conversationalists say the most shallow and needless of things, impart
aimless information, simulate interest they do not feel, and generally
impugn their claim to be considered reasonable creatures. Why, when
people assemble without hostile intentions, it should be so imperative
to keep the trickling rill of talk running, I find it impossible to imagine.
It is a vestige of the old barbaric times, when men murdered at sight for
a mere whim; when it was good