I believe that I have succeeded in giving you a rough résumé of the
events which preceded my homecoming from France. I have not gone into
any great detail; firstly, because it might in some way confuse the
main issue; and secondly, because many of the less important incidents
have blurred in my mind with the passing of the years.
I have neither invented anything nor colored the events to favor
myself. I have not tried to find any excuse for the things I did or the
emotions I experienced. You will admit that the portrait I have painted
of myself in no way depicts a hero or a martyr. But I do pray that you
will credit my outspoken truthfulness--which I am essaying at any
cost--by learning the whole story before you turn thumbs down.
I must confess that there was no malicious plot brewed to ruin me
and mark me a murderer; and I do not consider myself a victim of
circumstance. My trial on an indictment of First Degree Murder was the
essence of fair play; the jury that convicted me was composed of very
honest, unprejudiced citizens who, after hearing the preponderance of
unfavorable testimony in the case, voted the only plausible verdict. I
daresay had I myself been a member of that jury and somebody else been
on trial, I would have been quite in accord with that decision.
Really, there is only one person to be blamed: myself. Of course when
you have learned of Anita's actions, you may form the opinion that she
did a frightful thing--and you will be quite right. However, if I had
not been such a blind idiot, the whole thing might never have happened.
And although I blame her for permitting me to marry her, I blame myself
more. Certainly, any half-witted child could have detected something
mighty peculiar about my marriage from the very first; and there is
nothing quite as inexcusable as utter stupidity.
The entire voyage--from the time the ship left Havre until we sighted
the Statue of Liberty--I spent in trying to disperse the growing doubts
and fears which assailed me. If the war had done much to injure me--and
it undoubtedly had--it also did something to help. By virtue of my long
absence from her side, I was able to view Anita more objectively. I was
able to pick out motives for this and that which I had never noticed
before. The clearer insight, unfortunately, was not very pleasant
because not only could I see Anita less obscurely, I also took frank
stock of myself. What could she possibly have seen in me?
It may be that I have an inferiority complex; a neurologist who visited
the prison during my term told me that I have. The fact that I always
have felt self-conscious in a new hat or overcoat seems to bear him
out in this contention. But whether it is true or not, when I married
Anita the successful outcome of my suit at once inflated my ego and I
began to feel that I was _somebody_. How could I have felt subservient
to anyone when I had the most sought-after woman in town as my wife?
It was not until the war took some of the wind out of my sails and I
had read and re-read several of her _friendly_ letters that I began to
seriously wonder if she really did love me. If she did, I reasoned, it
was a very cool sort of love and not at all like the fierce passions of
the French.
Much to my dismay, she substantiated this dark thought of mine by
the way she greeted me at the dock. Surrounding us on all sides were
lovers, families and close friends being reunited, openly kissing and
embracing one another. But when I spotted Anita--looking perfectly
beautiful--and hugged and kissed her, she turned her face away to
preclude the possibility of any repetition. Not only that, she murmured
in a slightly irritated tone of voice: "Oh, please. Must you do that
here?"
I laughed, though not very convincingly. "Darling, I don't care if the
whole world knows I love you! I want them to know!"
I kissed her again, over and above her protests and she said, "Well,
that's very sweet of you and all that, Peter. But must you...?"
At that moment a Customs officer interrupted the scene and I was
grateful. Her marked indifference to my happiness at seeing her hurt me
no end and, had we been alone, I think a scrap would have started. As
it was, an hour later in a taxicab my repressed anger cooled and I slid
an arm about her shoulders. She was far too exquisite to fight with
and since she did not draw away from me or try to remove my arm, any
suspicions I might have had--that she no longer cared for me--fled.
We checked in at the Martinique Hotel, having decided to stay in the
city overnight before taking the train for Ithaca. The desk clerk,
a war veteran himself, kept me in conversation--much to Anita's
disgust--while I registered. Although I was very tired from the ordeal
of the dock formalities, she insisted that I immediately go out and
purchase some civilian clothes.
"That uniform will be the death of me," she complained. "While you've
got it on, anyone, even a street-cleaner, feels he's your equal.
Besides, you're not an officer."
At this, I demurred. "I want to bathe and take a nap for a few hours
first, darling. It's much too hot to shop in this sun. The stores stay
open until seven and I can buy them then. Right after I've put on the
new duds, we can eat dinner."
Anita sighed wearily, as though I was some idiot whom she was eternally
fated to humor. "You're hopeless but I suppose there is nothing that
can be done about it. All right. Have your nap. But be sure you wake up
and get your shopping done in time for an early dinner. I want to go to
the theatre tonight."