Henry James's
novels, The Portrait of a Lady, where Gilbert Osmond, a selfish
dilettante, finding that he cannot make a great success or attain a
great position, devotes himself to trying to mystify and provoke
the curiosity of the world by retiring into a refined seclusion,
and professing that it affords him an exquisite kind of enjoyment.
The hideous vulgarity of his attitude is not at first sight
apparent; he deceives the heroine, who is a considerable heiress,
into thinking that here, at last, is a man who is living a quiet
and sincere life among the things of the soul; and having obtained
possession of her purse, he sets up house in a dignified old palace
in Rome, where he continues to amuse himself by inviting
distinguished persons to visit him, in order that he may have the
pleasure of excluding the lesser people who would like to be
included.
This is, of course, doing the thing upon an almost sublime scale;
but the fact remains that in an age which values notoriety above
everything except property, a great many people do suffer from the
disease of not enjoying things, unless they are aware that others
envy their enjoyment.
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