I gathered from the conversation that Mr. Skimpole had been educated for the medical profession and had once lived, in his professional capacity, in the household of a German prince.  He told us, however, that as he had always been a mere child in point of weights and measures and had never known anything about them (except that they disgusted him), he had never been able to prescribe with the requisite accuracy of detail.  In fact, he said, he had no head for detail.  And he told us, with great humour, that when he was wanted to bleed the prince or physic any of his people, he was generally found lying on his back in bed, reading the newspapers or making fancy-sketches in pencil, and couldn’t come.  The prince, at last, objecting to this, “in which,” said Mr. Skimpole, in the frankest manner, “he was perfectly right,” the engagement terminated, and Mr. Skimpole having (as he added with delightful gaiety) “nothing to live upon but love, fell in love, and married, and surrounded himself with rosy cheeks.”  His good friend Jarndyce and some other of his good friends then helped him, in quicker or slower succession, to several openings in life, but to no purpose, for he must confess to two of the oldest infirmities in the world:  one was that he had no idea of time, the other that he had no idea of money.  In consequence of which he never kept an appointment, never could transact any business, and never knew the value of anything!  Well!  So he had got on in life, and here he was!  He was very fond of reading the papers, very fond of making fancy-sketches with a pencil, very fond of nature, very fond of art.  All he asked of society was to let him live.  That wasn’t much.  His wants were few.  Give him the papers, conversation, music, mutton, coffee, landscape, fruit in the season, a few sheets of Bristol-board, and a little claret, and he asked no more.  He was a mere child in the world, but he didn’t cry for the moon.  He said to the world, “Go your several ways in peace!  Wear red coats, blue coats, lawn sleeves; put pens behind your ears, wear aprons; go after glory, holiness, commerce, trade, any object you prefer; only—­let Harold Skimpole live!”

All this and a great deal more he told us, not only with the utmost brilliancy and enjoyment, but with a certain vivacious candour—­ speaking of himself as if he were not at all his own affair, as if Skimpole were a third person, as if he knew that Skimpole had his singularities but still had his claims too, which were the general business of the community and must not be slighted.  He was quite enchanting.  If I felt at all confused at that early time in endeavouring to reconcile anything he said with anything I had thought about the duties and accountabilities of life (which I am far from sure of), I was confused by not exactly understanding why he was free of them.  That he was free of them, I scarcely doubted; he was so very clear about it himself.