HAPPY DAYS
Dear, dear, dear Cordélia! What splendid weeks were ours and how
completely we forgot the doleful Patrick! I am bound to say that I
neglected nothing to bring about this result. I proceeded to overwhelm
my Cordélia with every attention that a husband in love could offer to
his young wife in order to divert her thoughts.
Entertainment followed entertainment, and I wanted my beloved to be the
best-dressed and the most beautiful woman of them all. We made a few
acquaintances. By the good offices of a Secretary to an Embassy who was
a friend of mine, the most exclusive drawing-rooms were open to us, and
Cordélia was the queen of them. She no longer worried me about visits
to ancient ruins. I acted in such a way that her whole time was taken
up by our life of amusement. The museums were forgotten. I had very
good reason to be suspicious of pictures!
When she was weary of Rome we set out for Naples where new joys awaited
us. The wonderful bay with its most beautiful seashore was a witness to
our love. We went to Capri Sorrento and Castellammare. The boatmen sang
as they plied their oars. I burned those little works which are called
“guides,” for I had observed that when Cordélia was carrying them with
her wherever she went, she spoke of nothing but the dead, which was
anything but cheerful.
My holocaust spared us many a story about Tiberius, Claudius, Nero and
the rest of them. That was something to the good. We could not, of
course, escape Pompeii, which, however, is not a tiresome promenade.
Always a great concourse of people is wandering about the ruins;
tourists dressed in such a way that one feels inclined to laugh, and
they alone are worth the trouble....
Dear, dear, dear Cordélia! She was all mine in those happy hours when
we thought only of rejoicing at the beauty of the day, and of our
love, without concerning ourselves with what had existed before our
time and would exist after we were gone. Was not that the essential
condition of happiness? We must not let ourselves give way to too much
thought. No, no, we must not let ourselves think too much.
Observe how happy we had both become since we began to think as
little as possible. In point of fact, though we were always together,
facing each other, we had no occasion to ask the question: “What are
you thinking of?” It is during fits of abstraction, when the mind is
preoccupied, that the “polygon” is up to its tricks. The best method of
preventing one’s thoughts from wandering is to refuse to think at all.
I know what I am talking about.
But the mind must be occupied. After Naples we retraced our steps to
Florence, and finally we reached Venice which I had reserved for the
last. A disastrous town! But let us not anticipate events.