or to criticise. I am too much civilized to take a party view of
either aristocracy or democracy. I leave that as a pastime to those
who live in the country, or in remote places where ideas, like
fashions, are some ten years late. From the time when privileges were
done away with, the question has been closed; but in remoter parts,
where the world remains more or less stagnant, it has become not
so much a question of principle as rather a question of vanity and
nerves. In regard to myself, I like well-bred people,--people with
brains and nerves, and look for them where they are most readily
found. I like them as I like works of art, fine scenery, and beautiful
women. From an aesthetic point of view, I possess refined nerves,--too
refined, perhaps, owing to my early training and a naturally
impressionable temperament. This aesthetic sensitiveness gives me
as many delights as torments, and renders me one great service: it
preserves me from cynicism or otherwise extreme corruption, and serves
me instead of moral principle. I recoil from many things, not because
they are wicked, but because they are ugly. From my aesthetic nerves I
derive also a certain delicacy of feeling. Taken all in all, it seems
to me that I am a man a little marred by life, decent enough though to
say the truth, rather floating in mid-air because not supported by any
dogma, either social or religious. I am also without an aim to which I
could devote my life.

One word more about my abilities before concluding the synthesis. My
father, my aunt, my colleagues, and sometimes strangers, consider them
simply prodigious. I allow that my intellect has a certain glitter.
But will the _improductivité Slave_ scatter all the hopes invested in
me? Considering all I have, or rather have not done up to this day,
either for others or myself, I feel inclined to think that such
will be the case. This confession costs me more than appears on the