With his head uncovered, the silver top-knot of his brushed-up hair completed the character of his physiognomy, all bony ridges and sunken hollows, clothed in a perfect impassiveness of expression.  His meagre brown hands emerging from large white cuffs came and went breaking bread, pouring wine, and so on, with quiet mechanical precision.  His head and body above the tablecloth had a rigid immobility.  This firebrand, this great agitator, exhibited the least possible amount of warmth and animation.  His voice was rasping, cold, and monotonous in a low key.  He could not be called a talkative personality; but with his detached calm manner he appeared as ready to keep the conversation going as to drop it at any moment.

And his conversation was by no means commonplace.  To me, I own, there was some excitement in talking quietly across a dinner-table with a man whose venomous pen-stabs had sapped the vitality of at least one monarchy.  That much was a matter of public knowledge.  But I knew more.  I knew of him—­from my friend—­as a certainty what the guardians of social order in Europe had at most only suspected, or dimly guessed at.

He had had what I may call his underground life.  And as I sat, evening after evening, facing him at dinner, a curiosity in that direction would naturally arise in my mind.  I am a quiet and peaceable product of civilization, and know no passion other than the passion for collecting things which are rare, and must remain exquisite even if approaching to the monstrous.  Some Chinese bronzes are monstrously precious.  And here (out of my friend’s collection), here I had before me a kind of rare monster.  It is true that this monster was polished and in a sense even exquisite.  His beautiful unruffled manner was that.  But then he was not of bronze.  He was not even Chinese, which would have enabled one to contemplate him calmly across the gulf of racial difference.  He was alive and European; he had the manner of good society, wore a coat and hat like mine, and had pretty near the same taste in cooking.  It was too frightful to think of.

One evening he remarked, casually, in the course of conversation, “There’s no amendment to be got out of mankind except by terror and violence.”

You can imagine the effect of such a phrase out of such a man’s mouth upon a person like myself, whose whole scheme of life had been based upon a suave and delicate discrimination of social and artistic values.  Just imagine!  Upon me, to whom all sorts and forms of violence appeared as unreal as the giants, ogres, and seven-headed hydras whose activities affect, fantastically, the course of legends and fairy-tales!

I seemed suddenly to hear above the festive bustle and clatter of the brilliant restaurant the mutter of a hungry and seditious multitude.