_Dear Polly_:
I am on top of a mountain by a lake, with other mountains towering
irregularly in all directions; a primeval wilderness, in fact, for
every mountain is covered with a dense forest, and we reached our lake
by an ascent up an almost perpendicular “corduroy” road--made of logs.
Agatha and I walked most of the time, for the way the horses stumbled
and strained was appalling. Of course poor Bertie had to stay in the
“buckboard”--a sort of box on wheels without springs--and stand the
terrible jolting; but I think the unique experience diverted him and he
would have enjoyed it rather if it had not been for the poor horses. I
could not look at them, and lingered some distance behind and stared
into this wonderful forest. The Adirondacks are said to be one of
the original ranges of the earth, and when one reflects that these
spruces and maples and hemlocks and birches had great-grandfathers
about the same time--the sensation is almost uncanny, and I realise
how over-civilised we all are. Not that I am blasée at twenty-six. God
forbid; and I never have been so keen about anything in my life as I am
to see every rapidly succeeding phase of this extraordinary country. It
is so new, so various, so contradictory, so vital, so un-European.
But to return to the Adirondacks. By the merest good fortune we did
not have to go to an hotel, for, in spite of the fact that we brought
over a retinue of servants, I am sure that even Quick never would
have known how to go to work to find a house in this wilderness, and
it would have come to our taking a floor--if we could get it--of some
hotel, and having no end of bother. But on the Oceanic we got to know
rather well a Mr. Rogers, who belongs to one of the many clubs that
own lakes and tracts in the Adirondacks, and he offered us his house
or “camp”--said that his mother and sister were going abroad this
summer, and that he could live at the Club House, which he preferred.
Of course Bertie and Agatha demurred, as the club rules would not
permit Mr. Rogers to accept any rent; but I said at once to take it,
and gave them no peace till they consented. I urged that we could repay
Mr. Rogers’ hospitality a hundred fold in England, that we all hated
hotels and bother, and that it was of the utmost importance to settle
Bertie at once. Now they are very grateful to me, for Bertie, poor
darling, is better already, and the house is not only comfortable but
charming. It would hold five or six people besides the servants, and
is built of big logs, with the rough bark on, and an upper and lower
veranda connected by little flights of stairs. Inside it is “sealed”
with diagonal strips of polished wood instead of plaster; the floors
are also of hard wood with rugs, and the furniture is mostly cane and
very picturesque and jolly. In the living-room is a huge fireplace of
stones with the moss on, the low ceiling is crossed with heavy beams,
and there are several mounted deer heads. From the front verandas and
windows we get a fine view of the lake and the little irregularities
which form its bays, but on all other sides we look directly into the
forest. There is no clearing to speak of about the house, and the tall
spruce-trees, pointed like church spires, and the maples with their
delicate beautiful leaves form a perfect wall; for their branches grow
to the very ground. It is all very wild, and I am writing to you on a
table made from the lower section and part of the roots of a tree.
But I must tell you of something that happened on the journey. It
interested me deeply. We did not make the journey too comfortably.
Agatha sent all the servants but Bertie’s man, Parker, and including
our maids, to the lake three days before ourselves, in order that our
unconscionable number of boxes might be unpacked, and the place look as
familiar to Bertie as possible. At New York and Albany we did not miss
the servants and took for granted that wherever there were shillings
there were porters. But at a city with a Greek name, where we had to
change cars, we found ourselves standing on the platform in the midst
of portmanteaux, and Parker with his hands full supporting Bertie, who
was terribly knocked up by the trip. I asked a man if there were no
porters, and he said, “nup.” I forgot to say that poor Agatha had one
of her headaches, and for once everything devolved upon me. She sank
down upon a bench and looked as if she never intended to move again.
Parker assisted Bertie into the waiting-room, and then went in search
of tea and rolls. I approached a policeman. He was a big manly looking
fellow, and I was sure he would help me. He did, the dear thing. When I
asked him to tell me where I could find a porter, he said, “No porters
here, but I’ll take your things to the parcel room. Your train won’t
be along for forty-five minutes.” At the parcel window, when he had
handed all those big portmanteaux in and got me a cheque, I offered him
a quarter of a dollar, about the equivalent of our shilling. He refused
it so nicely. “Another time,” he said. I apologized, saying that the
act was mechanical, and he smiled and said, “Well, I guess you’ll find
that we can help a lady for nothing up here.” He then pointed out the
restaurant at the end of the platform, and after I had assisted Agatha
there, and had a cup of the most shocking tea I ever tasted, I looked
him up again; for I was so much interested in his refusal to accept a
tip that I wanted to talk to him. Agatha had subsided beside Bertie,
and would not have cared if I had stood on my head on the platform. I
began by asking him if he would help us on to the train, and he said
emphatically that he would, and then we talked about tipping, and
both agreed that it was a pernicious system, calculated to destroy a
man’s self-respect. He added with a fine scorn that he did not see
how a man who thought anything of himself could take any money but
his wages, particularly from a lady. Then he asked me if I wasn’t
English, and if my brother--or husband?--“brother, I guess, you don’t
look married”--were not consumptive. “He looks it,” he added; “but not
too far gone for the Adirondacks to set him up.” And then we talked
about the cheerful subject of consumption, and he seemed quite pleased
when I told him that so far Bertie had not developed tuberculosis,
although he had had twenty-six hemorrhages in the last two years, and
was getting weaker all the time. He told me I mustn’t worry, but give
him all the mountain air he could swallow and all the sunshine he could
“soak in.” I couldn’t make the man out at all. He had the monumental
dignity of our policemen, but he talked to me exactly as if I were his
equal, and, as he had no thought of taking a liberty, with no offensive
familiarity. And yet he certainly was not a gentleman working for his
living; just a plain, ordinary--well, I suppose the word American will
do as well as any other. All the Americans I have met think a jolly lot
of themselves, and I suppose my policeman was one of the finer flowers
of the Declaration of Independence. After he had helped us into the
train he shook hands with me and said he’d look forward to seeing me
again on my way back. “I knew you were English the moment I set eyes on
you,” he said, “and I thought by your looks you were very proud, and
high-and-mighty, but the minute you spoke I seen you were just as nice
as nice could be, and I’m glad to have done what I could for you.” As
the train moved out of the station I bowed to him and he touched his
helmet with his club like an officer saluting. Now what do _you_ make
of him?
There’s not a soul up here yet but ourselves; so you’ll doubtless be
inflicted with another letter in a day or two. I must go and read to
Bertie. He is swinging in a hammock on the front veranda in the sun
and _does_ seem so much better. The mornings and nights are cold, but
for several hours during the day the sun is heavenly, and one feels so
close to it up here. You, too, are a lone figure, not on a mountain but
on a moor, and dreadfully _ennuyée_, I fear; so relieve your loneliness
after my fashion and write to me often. I know that you have some one
else to write to--alas! that I have not--but heaven knows you must have
time for us both. What a thousand pities Freddy could not have died a
glorious death rescuing some one from the lions when they were walking
the streets of Umtali, or trying to assassinate Mr. Kruger. I am not
blood-thirsty, but we all have to die some time, and Freddy _is_ so
wicked, and has made you so unhappy, and there _is_ such a chance of
happiness for you, and I do so hate to think of you in a divorce court
with all the world reading the hateful particulars. Well, it is all on
the knees of the gods.
Bertie sends you his love, and I send you all of mine you have not
already.