A poor man, an Italian, who kept a little hotel, came in that evening
for a few minutes; he sometimes translated letters for Vinnie Ream. As
he had no business with me, I did not address any of my remarks to him;
she, on the contrary, treated him with extreme kindness and the greatest
respect, and whispered to me: "Talk nicely to him, as you would to a
gentleman, for that he is; he knows four languages splendidly; he is a
talented man. Take no notice of his plain dress. We Americans do not
regard the position, but the man, and he does honour to his position." I
had not been actuated by the prejudices she attributed to me,
nevertheless entered into conversation with the man, as she wished, and
listened with pleasure to his sensible opinions. (He spoke, among other
things, of Northern art, and warmly praised Carl Bloch's
_Prometheus_.)
XLII.
Vinnie Ream's opinion of me was that I was the most impolitic man that
she had ever known. She meant, by that, that I was always falling out
with people (for instance, I had at once offended the Danes in Rome by
some sharp words about the wretched Danish papers), and in general made
fewer friends and more enemies all the time. She herself won the
affection of everyone she wished, and made everyone ready to spring to
do her bidding.
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