III

_February 22._ After my mother left us we did not stay in Paris, but

went to Ischl, which we made merely the point of departure for walking

tours which often lasted for weeks. Several times I have spoken of the

region to you, hoping to draw from you some remark proving a

recollection of those days, but you always avoid reply. Yet I am sure

they are not forgotten, for miles of the Tyrol and Alps are as familiar

to me as the garnishings of a breakfast-table. My father had the tact

and kindly humor that make a man equally at home and welcome in

_Gasthaus_ and _Schloss_. Though we traveled with only a knapsack, his

breeding and education were so patent to whomsoever we met that we

spent many a night inside of doors with armorial coats of many

quarterings carved above them, and many a day’s shooting and fishing

followed. Yet pleasant as was this impromptu and “gentle” hospitality,

I think we were all quite as happy when our evenings were spent among

the peasants, drinking beer, talking of farming and forestry, singing

songs, or listening to the blare of the peripatetic military band.

My father was a fine German scholar, and you and I acquired the

language as quickly and as easily as we learned French. We always had

books in our pockets, and used to lie for hours under the trees,

reading aloud. Long discussions followed over what we had conned,

enriched by the thousand side-lights my father could throw on any

subject. To most people reading is a resort to save themselves from

thinking, but my father knew that pitfall, and made us use books as a

basis for thought on our own part. After a volume was finished we would

each write a criticism of it, and the comparison of my boyish attempts

with his brilliant, comprehensive, and philosophic work taught me more

of writing than all the tuition I ever had.

My craving for knowledge, always strong, became inordinate, probably

because the acquisition of it was made so fascinating that I learned

without real exertion. I began to find limits even to my father’s

erudition, and chafed under them. He reviewed his Greek that he might

impart it to us, as he had long before taught us Latin, and together we

all three studied Spanish and Italian. I was not satisfied, for my

desire for the one thing my father was unable to teach was not appeased

by the twenty which he could. I begged for regular tuition, and,

indulgent as he always was, he took us to Heidelberg, where I was

enrolled in the gymnasium. Yet the long hours of separation that this

entailed made little difference in our relations, since except for

these we were inseparable. Whenever my school-work left us time to quit

Heidelberg we made walking tours, and we availed ourselves of the

summer holiday to see far-away lands. The great libraries were our

chief goals, but everything interested us, from the archaic plough we

saw in the field to the masterpiece of the gallery. I do not know

whether I was dull for my years, but I do know that you were precocious

and had no difficulty in keeping up with me in my studies. Indeed,

thanks to your own brightness and to the long hours spent with my

father while I was reciting, you went ahead of me in many respects. It

makes me very happy now to think of what you two were to each other,

and to know that you are so largely indebted to him for the depth and

brilliance of mind that I hear so often commented upon. And I love you

all the better because you made those years so happy to him by your

love and companionship.

Last winter Mrs. Blodgett accused me of being a misogynist, and proved

her point by asking me to tell the color of Agnes’s eyes. You and Agnes

only laughed when I miscolored them, but Mrs. Blodgett was really

nettled. “There!” she said. “Apparently, Agnes and I are the only women

you ever go to see or pretend to care for, and yet you think so little

of us that you don’t know the color of our eyes.” Had she only asked me

to describe your eyes in place of Agnes’s I should not have erred, but

I suppose even then the world would be justified in thinking I do not

care for woman’s society. Certainly you, of all others, have the right

to think so, after my twice refusing your friendship; and yet it is my

love of you far more than my studies or shyness that has made me

indifferent to other women. And so far from being a misogynist, I care

for as few men as women. You perhaps recall how much apart I kept

myself from my fellow students, and how my father had to urge me to

join them in the fencing and chess contests? Later, at the university,

after you had left us, I entered more eagerly into the two pastimes,

and succeeded in making myself a skilled swordsman. As for chess, I

learned to play the game you tested last October on the veranda of My

Fancy. You looked courteously grave when, after our initial battle, I

had to ask from you the odds of a pawn, and never dreamed that I

fathomed your secret triumph over your victory. You are so delightfully

human and womanly, after all, Maizie, to any one who can read your

thoughts. It is a pleasure to see your happiness in the consciousness

of your own power, and I grudge you victory over me no more than over

other men. Yet while you play better chess, I think you could not

conquer me quite as easily if I were not much more interested in

studying the player than the play. Perhaps but for you I should have

made friends, for later, at Leipzig, despite my shyness and

studiousness, I seemed fairly popular; but so long as I had you I cared

for no other friend, and after our separation I could form no new tie.

Neither in love nor in friendship have you ever had a rival in my

heart.

Our happiness ended the day when Johann, the poor factotum of our

lodging-place, found us in the castle park and summoned us back to the

house, where my father and Mr. Walton were awaiting you. The news that

we were to be parted came so suddenly that we could not believe it. I

stood in stunned silence, while you declared that you would not go with

your uncle; even in that terrible moment speaking more like a queen

issuing orders than like a rebel resisting authority. We both appealed

to my father, and the tears stood in his eyes as he told us we must be

parted. Mr. Walton sat with the cool and slightly bored look that his

worldly face wears so constantly, and I presume it was impossible for

him to understand our emotion.

Your luggage had been packed while we were being summoned, and I

carried your bag down to the carriage, in the endeavor to do you some

last little service. We did not even go through the form of a farewell,

but, tearless and speechless, held each other’s hands till my father

gently separated us. To this day the snap of a whip causes me to catch

my breath, it brings back so vividly the crack with which Mr. Walton’s

cabman whipped up his horse. Fate was merciful, for she gave me no

glimpse of the future, and so left me the hope that we should not be

parted long. I question if the delicate lad of those days could have

borne the thought that our separation, enforced by others, would in

time be continued by you.

The life was too happy to last; and yet I do not know why I write that,

for I do not believe that God’s children are born to be wretched, and I

would sooner renounce my faith in him than believe him so cruel to his

own creations. The sadness and estrangement in my life are all of human

origin, and mine, it seems to me, has been a fuller cup of bitterness

than most men have to drink. Or am I only magnifying my own sufferings,

and diminishing those of my fellow mortals? To the world I am a

fortunate man, with promise of even greater success. Do all the people

about me, who seem to be equally prosperous, bury away from sight some

grief like mine that beggars joy?

Can you, Maizie, in the tide and triumph of your beauty and wealth,

hide any such death-wound to all true happiness? Pray God you do not.

Good-night, my darling.