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Jeremy Kwock and Uzma G.
PANDORA
by Henry James
CHAPTER I
It has long been the custom of the North German Lloyd steamers,
which convey passengers from Bremen to New York, to anchor for
several hours in the pleasant port of Southampton, where their human
cargo receives many additions. An intelligent young German, Count
Otto Vogelstein, hardly knew a few years ago whether to condemn this
custom or approve it. He leaned over the bulwarks of the Donau as the
American passengers crossed the plank--the travellers who embark at
Southampton are mainly of that nationality--and curiously, indifferently,
vaguely, through the smoke of his cigar, saw them absorbed in the huge
capacity of the ship, where he had the agreeable consciousness that his
own nest was comfortably made. To watch from such a point of
vantage the struggles of those less fortunate than ourselves--of the
uninformed, the unprovided, the belated, the bewildered--is an
occupation not devoid of sweetness, and there was nothing to mitigate
the complacency with which our young friend gave himself up to it;
nothing, that is, save a natural benevolence which had not yet been
extinguished by the consciousness of official greatness. For Count
Vogelstein was official, as I think you would have seen from the
straightness of his back, the lustre of his light elegant spectacles, and
something discreet and diplomatic in the curve of his moustache, which
looked as if it might well contribute to the principal function, as cynics
say, of the lips--the active concealment of thought. He had been
appointed to the secretaryship of the German legation at Washington
and in these first days of the autumn was about to take possession of his
post. He was a model character for such a purpose--serious civil
ceremonious curious stiff, stuffed with knowledge and convinced that,
as lately rearranged, the German Empire places in the most striking
light the highest of all the possibilities of the greatest of all the peoples.
He was quite aware, however, of the claims to economic and other
consideration of the United States, and that this quarter of the globe
offered a vast field for study.
The process of inquiry had already begun for him, in spite of his having
as yet spoken to none of his fellow-passengers; the case being that
Vogelstein inquired not only with his tongue, but with his eyes--that is
with his spectacles--with his ears, with his nose, with his palate, with
all his senses and organs. He was a highly upright young man, whose
only fault was that his sense of comedy, or of the humour of things, had
never been specifically disengaged from his several