Stories by American Authors, Volume 5 | Page 4

gave him my
own, and he stood smiling at me like some quaint old image in ivory
and ebony, scanning my face with a curiosity which he took no pains to
conceal. "God bless me," he said, at last, "how much you look like your
father!" I sat down, and for half an hour we talked of many things--of
my journey, of my impressions of America, of my reminiscences of
Europe, and, by implication, of my prospects. His voice is weak and
cracked, but he makes it express everything. Mr. Sloane is not yet in his
dotage--oh no! He nevertheless makes himself out a poor creature. In
reply to an inquiry of mine about his health, he favored me with a long
list of his infirmities (some of which are very trying, certainly) and
assured me that he was quite finished.
"I live out of mere curiosity," he said.
"I have heard of people dying from the same motive."
He looked at me a moment, as if to ascertain whether I were laughing at
him. And then, after a pause, "Perhaps you don't know that I disbelieve
in a future life," he remarked, blandly.
At these words Theodore got up and walked to the fire.
"Well, we shan't quarrel about that," said I. Theodore turned round,
staring.
"Do you mean that you agree with me?" the old man asked.
"I certainly haven't come here to talk theology! Don't ask me to
disbelieve, and I'll never ask you to believe."
"Come," cried Mr. Sloane, rubbing his hands, "you'll not persuade me
you are a Christian--like your friend Theodore there."
"Like Theodore--assuredly not." And then, somehow, I don't know why,
at the thought of Theodore's Christianity I burst into a laugh. "Excuse
me, my dear fellow," I said, "you know, for the last ten years I have
lived in pagan lands."
"What do you call pagan?" asked Theodore, smiling.
I saw the old man, with his hands locked, eying me shrewdly, and

waiting for my answer. I hesitated a moment, and then I said,
"Everything that makes life tolerable!"
Hereupon Mr. Sloane began to laugh till he coughed. Verily, I thought,
if he lives for curiosity, he's easily satisfied.
We went into dinner, and this repast showed me that some of his
curiosity is culinary. I observed, by the way, that for a victim of
neuralgia, dyspepsia, and a thousand other ills, Mr. Sloane plies a most
inconsequential knife and fork. Sauces and spices and condiments seem
to be the chief of his diet. After dinner he dismissed us, in
consideration of my natural desire to see my friend in private. Theodore
has capital quarters--a downy bedroom and a snug little salon. We
talked till near midnight--of ourselves, of each other, and of the author
of the memoirs, down stairs. That is, I spoke of myself, and Theodore
listened; and then Theodore descanted upon Mr. Sloane, and I listened.
His commerce with the old man has sharpened his wits. Sloane has
taught him to observe and judge, and Theodore turns round, observes,
judges--him! He has become quite the critic and analyst. There is
something very pleasant in the discriminations of a conscientious mind,
in which criticism is tempered by an angelic charity. Only, it may
easily end by acting on one's nerves. At midnight we repaired to the
library, to take leave of our host till the morrow--an attention which,
under all circumstances, he rigidly exacts. As I gave him my hand he
held it again and looked at me as he had done on my arrival. "Bless my
soul," he said, at last, "how much you look like your mother!"
To-night, at the end of my third day, I begin to feel decidedly at home.
The fact is, I am remarkably comfortable. The house is pervaded by an
indefinable, irresistible love of luxury and privacy. Mr. Frederick
Sloane is a horribly corrupt old mortal. Already in his relaxing presence
I have become heartily reconciled to doing nothing. But with Theodore
on one side--standing there like a tall interrogation-point--I honestly
believe I can defy Mr. Sloane on the other. The former asked me this
morning, with visible solicitude, in allusion to the bit of dialogue I have
quoted above on matters of faith, whether I am really a
materialist--whether I don't believe something? I told him I would
believe anything he liked. He looked at me a while, in friendly sadness.
"I hardly know whether you are not worse than Mr. Sloane," he said.
But Theodore is, after all, in duty bound to give a man a long rope in

these matters. His own rope is one of the longest. He reads Voltaire
with Mr. Sloane, and Emerson in his own room. He is the stronger man
of the two; he has the larger