I
IT was October; the year, 1913. Susan, Miss Goucher and I had just
returned from Liverpool on the good ship "Lusitania"--there was a good
ship "Lusitania" in those days--after a delightful summer spent in Italy
and France. Susan and I entirely agree that the season for Italy is
midsummer. Italy is not Italy until she has drunk deep of the sun; until
a haze of whitest dust floats up from the slow hoofs of her white oxen
along Umbrian or Tuscan roads. You will never get from her churches all
they can give unless they have been to you as shadows of great rocks in
a weary land. To step from reverberating glare to vast cool dimness--ah,
that is to know at last the meaning of sanctuary!
But to step from a North River pier into a cynical taxi, solely
energized by our great American principle of "Take a chance!"--to be
bumped and slithered by that energizing principle across the main
traffic streams of impatient New York--that is to reawaken to all the
doubt and distraction, the implacable multiplicity of a scientifically
disordered world!
New Haven was better; Hillhouse Avenue preserving especially--through
valorous prodigies of rejection--much of its ancient, slightly
disdainful, studiously inconspicuous calm.
Phil Farmer was waiting for us at the doorstep. For all his inclusive
greeting, his warm, welcoming smile, he looked older, did Phil, leaner
somehow, more finely drawn. There was a something hungry about
him--something in his eyes. But if Susan, who notices most things, noted
it, she did not speak of her impression to me. She almost hugged Phil as
she jumped out to greet him and dragged him with her up the steps to the
door.
And now, if this portion of Susan's history is to be truthfully
recorded, certain facts may as well be set down at once, clearly, in due
order, without shame.