ARTHUR
17

You can imagine, if you can, the sensation produced by this instantaneous transformation. Appearance is strongly influenced by clothing. Checkered shirts, buttons on the neck, awkward fustian coats, checkered trousers and bare feet, now replaced by linen and muslin, green striped nankeen coats, needle-stitched white silk vests, cassimere pantaloons, variegated silk stockings, and shoes that are in softness, suppleness, and polished surface compete with satin. I could hardly resist looking back to see if the image on the glass, which was so proportioned, so gallant, and so graceful, did not belong to anyone else. I could barely recognize my own straightness. I walk to the window. "Twenty minutes ago," I said, "i was crossing the road as a barefoot beggar; now I am." Once again I surveyed myself. "Of course some madness has been attached to my understanding. My senses are a dream sport. Some magic that underestimates the complexity of nature's progress has made this change." I was awakened from this doubt by the call to breakfast, which was delivered obediently by a black servant.

I found Welbeck (next I will call him by his real name) at the breakfast table . An incredible piece of silver and porcelain equipment was before him. He was surprised to see my entrance. The change in my clothes seemed to have deceived him for a moment. His eyes were often fixed on me with unusual fortitude. At these moments, there was nervousness and astonishment in his face.

I now have a chance to check on my host. There was courtesy but no ornaments in her dress. His form is middle height, reserve, but strong and graceful. His face was emblazoned, I thought, in a foreign print. His forehead shrank to more than the degree I used to see. His eyes were large and prominent, but showed no signs of the usual hospitality and excitement. The rest of his face forcibly suggested the idea of a convex edge. His entire figure impressed me with the emotions of adoration and admiration. Gravity that is almost the same as sadness always accompanies it when we are alone.

He whispered the waiter who was waiting, who was about to retire. He then said, turning towards me, "A woman will enter at this time, which you should treat with respect because of my daughter. You must not look at any emotion that he might betray upon seeing you, nor expect him to speak to you; for he does not understand your language." He barely spoke when he came in. I was overwhelmed by certain doubts and concerns that may have been caused by the clown's education. I have so far conquered my fear, however, to seize seeing it. I was not born to execute his portrait. Perhaps the turban that covered his head, his brilliant texture and incomparable folds of curtains, and the angel-like hole, more than his personal essential attribute, bestowed splendor on the heavenly vision. Perhaps it was the hue of the snow, and the casting instead of the position of his face, that was very alluring; or perhaps the magic was only from my own ignorance.

In this art, like most other arts, I am an untrained fool. On Welbeck's face, there was something other than sympathy with the woman's astonishment and distress; but I could not interpret this additional token. When his attention is distracted by Welbeck, his eyes often look obscure or downcast; his cheeks contract a deeper hue; and his breath almost extends to *******. This is a sign that I did not make a comment at the time. My own situation was calculated to cause confusion in my mind and awkwardness in my gestures. Breakfast was over, the woman, apparently at Welbeck's request, sat down in front of the piano.

Here again I must be silent. I am not entirely lacking in musical practice and musical taste. I have a level of knowledge that allows me to estimate the transcendent skills of these players. As if the sadness of his touch wasn't enough, I discovered after some time that the clattering of unlawful keys was reprimanded by his own more fluid record. He played without a book, and, although his bass might have been pre-conceived, it was clear that his right-hand notes were a momentary and spontaneous inspiration. Meanwhile Welbeck stood up, leaning his arm on the back of a nearby chair, with eyes fixed on his face. Its features are full of meanings that I want to interpret, but cannot.

I have read about transitions influenced by magic; I have read about castles and deserts subject to the power of mantras; poets may exercise with their power, he said, but I am sure no transition has ever been imagined more incredible and more beyond the reach of foresight than the one I just experienced. Heaths disturbed by midnight storms can be turned into choir nymphs and banquets halls; forest swamps can provide a sudden place for colonnades and carnivals; but he whose senses are deceived finds himself still in the earth of his birth. These miracles are despicable in comparison to what put me under this roof and gave me to take part in this audience. I know that my emotions are in danger of being considered laughable by those who cannot understand for themselves the consequences of a limited and rural education.