The Connoisseur: An American

He is not an old man, but he is lonely. He who was born in the clash of a western city dwells here, in this silent courtyard, alone. Seven servants he has, seven men-servants. They move about quietly and their slippered feet make no sound. Behind their almond eyes move green, sidelong shadows, and their limber hands are never still. In his house the riches of the Orient are gathered. Ivory he has, carved in a thousand quaint, enticing shapes—pleasant to the hand, smooth with the caressing of many fingers. And jade is there, dark green and milky white, with amber from Korea and strange gems—beryl, chrysoprase, jasper, sardonyx.... His lacquered shelves hold priceless pottery—peachblow and cinnabar and silver grey—pottery glazed like the new moon, fired how long ago for a moon-pale princess of the East, whose very name is dust!

In his vaults are incredible textures and colors that vibrate like struck jade.

Stiff with gold brocade they are, or soft as the coat of a fawn—these sacred robes of a long dead priest, silks of a gold-skinned courtesan, embroideries of a lost throne. When he unfolds them the shimmering heaps are like living opals, burning and moving darkly with the warm breath of beauty.

And other priceless things the collector has, so that in many days he could not look upon them all. Every morning his seven men-servants dress him, and every evening they undress him. Behind their almond eyes move green sidelong shadows. In this silent courtyard the collector lives. He is not an old man but he is lonely.