kindness, with a full recognition of her
many merits. Those who did not know the story little supposed that the
lady lived still in Paris. His conduct in this matter was highly
characteristic. He regarded passions and emotions as things altogether
outside and independent of the rational man. Their power could not be
denied in their own sphere and season; he admitted that they must be
felt--raw feeling was their province; he denied that they should affect
thought or dominate action. In others they were his opportunity, in
himself a luxury that had never been dangerous, or an ailment that was
troublesome but never fatal. He was hard on a blunder; as a necessary
presupposition to effective negotiation or business he recognised a
binding code of honour; he has frequently told me he did not understand
the theological conception of sin. He had eaten of our salt and was our
servant; thus he would readily have died for us; but he prayed pardon if
we asked him to believe in us. "Conduct," he said once, "is the outcome
of selfishness limited by self-conceit." It was his way so to put things
as to strip them of friendly, decent covering; had he said self-interest
limited by self-respect, the axiom would have been more accepted and
less quoted. A superficial person used to exclaim to me, "And yet he is
so kind!" A man without ideals finds kindness the easiest thing in the
world. In truth he was kind, and in a confidential sort of way that
seemed to chuckle and wink, saying, "We're rogues together; then I must
lend you a hand." But he could be ruthless also, displaying a curious
aloofness from his fellow-men and an unconsciousness of any suffering he
might inflict that left mere cruelty far behind. If I were making an
automaton king, I would model my machine on the lines of Hammerfeldt. He
had no belief in a future life, but would sometimes trifle whimsically
with the theory of a transmigration of souls; he traced all beliefs in
immortality to the longing of those who were unfortunate here (and who
did not think himself so?) for a recompense (a revenge he called it)
hereafter, and declared transmigration to be at once the most ingenious
and the most picturesque embodiment of this yearning. He played
billiards extremely well, and excused his skill on the ground that he
was compelled to pass the time while foreign diplomatists and his own
colleagues were making up their mind. I do not think that he ever
hesitated as to what he had best