Since the view of the world put forward in Plus ultra will be a highly personal one, it is perhaps appropriate at this juncture to say something of myself.
Picture to yourself the scene. It is a sultry midsummer evening in one of the Home Counties. A small party of guests has just adjourned to enjoy a few after-dinner drinks in a well-appointed drawing room in an old country house. There are gasps of affected admiration as the hostess is complimented on her skill and taste in furnishing the room in a sympathetic period style. This topic is soon exhausted, and the initial buzz of interest begins to die down. At this point, one of the guests - acting with a laudable resourcefulness and presence of mind to head-off an anticipated hiatus in the flagging conversation - volunteers what he supposes to be an innocuous observation on an uncontroversial subject. But just as he pauses with a not unbecoming modesty to receive the gratitude and compliments which are surely his due for so timely an intervention, there is the ominous sound of someone clearing his throat. Suddenly, everybody’s attention is directed towards a rather crumpled and dishevelled-looking figure, slouched indecorously in a corner, and evidently already somewhat the worse for wear with drink, of which he had been partaking liberally at table. Previously taciturn almost to the point of truculence, this preposterous individual now erupts with an impetuous volubility. Heedless alike of the embarrassment of his hostess or the consternation of his interlocutor, he proceeds with a self-assurance bordering on presumption ungraciously to question assumptions, peremptorily to demand explanations, and insidiously to divert the stream of conversation into uncongenial and recondite courses …
Picture to yourself the scene. It is a sultry midsummer evening in one of the Home Counties. A small party of guests has just adjourned to enjoy a few after-dinner drinks in a well-appointed drawing room in an old country house. There are gasps of affected admiration as the hostess is complimented on her skill and taste in furnishing the room in a sympathetic period style. This topic is soon exhausted, and the initial buzz of interest begins to die down. At this point, one of the guests - acting with a laudable resourcefulness and presence of mind to head-off an anticipated hiatus in the flagging conversation - volunteers what he supposes to be an innocuous observation on an uncontroversial subject. But just as he pauses with a not unbecoming modesty to receive the gratitude and compliments which are surely his due for so timely an intervention, there is the ominous sound of someone clearing his throat. Suddenly, everybody’s attention is directed towards a rather crumpled and dishevelled-looking figure, slouched indecorously in a corner, and evidently already somewhat the worse for wear with drink, of which he had been partaking liberally at table. Previously taciturn almost to the point of truculence, this preposterous individual now erupts with an impetuous volubility. Heedless alike of the embarrassment of his hostess or the consternation of his interlocutor, he proceeds with a self-assurance bordering on presumption ungraciously to question assumptions, peremptorily to demand explanations, and insidiously to divert the stream of conversation into uncongenial and recondite courses … 
No comments:
Post a Comment