By Thursday midnight, my motor had already borne me north two hundred
miles from my studio and all its works. Some men sit by a brookside
to think, but I go fishing to forget. I wanted an oblivious antidote
against art and angels in art. But my respite was brief. Sunday night, on
returning to the mountain inn at the head of the lake, carrying with me
a gorgeous string of trout that I knew would win me the plaudits of all
guests at Monday’s breakfast, I was confronted with a telegram.
Studio destroyed. Come as soon as you can.