A TRAVEL LOG
London! London! London!
April tenth.
_Carin_, _my dear_:
I haven’t been writing to you because I haven’t thought best. I didn’t
want to put myself on record. I have been keeping my thoughts to myself,
and I never could have done that successfully if I had been gossiping to
you, could I? Anyway, I knew you were particularly happy and busy. You
were down to Lee for the spring vacation I suppose and opened up the
Shoals, and had your own Vance Grévy there, and delightful people to meet
him and all that. Then you went back to Vassar. And in two months you
will be graduating, and then you and your people will come over to
Europe, bringing, I hope, Annie Laurie with you. I believe you agreed
with me that it would be a fine thing for both of you if she would join
you.
As for me, I have been living in two worlds at once: this mellow, storied
world of England, and my own little secret world of memories and dreams.
We have had unusual opportunities for seeing the real English life. Both
Aunt Lorena and Uncle David have relatives and friends here, and we have
been entertained in a number of homes very graciously indeed.
I like the English people. They are not always fizzing and bubbling like
Americans. There is a repose about them and a quietness of character
that rests me. It even rests me from my fizzly and bubbly self.
But deep down, Carin, beneath all the effervescence, there is something
very quiet and peaceful in me. When I am alone, after the day of
sight-seeing and chattering and laughing and admiring, I and this Still
Soul of mine sit down together and commune.
Then I am no longer foolish. I am something that—how shall I put it?
Something that forever strives! Is that it? I want to do well with my
little life, Carin. I want to spin my silver web very beautifully, so
that when I am old, and the web is all but done, I can look it over and
be satisfied with it.
I have been keeping a diary, and in it are descriptions of all the places
I have seen and the record of what I have done each day. When we get
together again I shall show this to you, and then you can read all about
what has been happening to me. But having written those descriptions
once, I don’t at all feel like doing it again.
Anyway, what is the use? You have seen all of these places. They were
an old story to you before I so much as thought of coming over here. But
I do love London! Uncle and auntie have seen it before, and they get
tired of wandering, so I am put in the care of an excellent Englishwoman
who knows everything, apparently, and who is paid to pass on as much of
her information to me as she possibly can. Her voice is very monotonous,
unfortunately, so that I find myself nodding right on the busses, in the
midst of her discourses, and I am afraid I am not learning one-tenth of
what I ought.
But at odd moments I catch sight of things that enchant me.
The other day she and I were going to the Tate Gallery together, and
after leaving the bus we came out on the Embankment by means of a curious
little street, and suddenly, Carin, we were face to face with some sort
of a ship wrecking place. It looked as if it had been there for hundreds
of years. The great enclosure was heaped up with parts of ships, with
the giant beams and the masts, and hulls, and, more interesting than all
the rest, with countless figureheads.
Of course I knew that nearly every ship carries its figure at its bow.
It was for such a purpose that the beautiful _Victory of Samothrace_ was
built, wasn’t it? But not until I had seen these great wooden creatures,
made to represent Neptune and Boreas and Victory and Venus and mermaids
and angels, and heaven knows what, did I have any idea what care the ship
builders put on these figures.
Miss Sheepshanks, my chaperon, of course didn’t want me to stop to look
at them. She was telling about the pictures waiting for us at the
gallery, and reminding me of the closing hour, et cetera, et cetera, but
for once I was determined to have my way. So I pleaded with her until
she allowed me to go in. There was a white-headed old man in charge,
whose face simply shone when I told him I would like to walk around and
look at his figureheads. So we went side by side, Miss Sheepshanks
following, looking as grieved as she could, and that darling old man told
me stories about the ships these figures had come from.
I swear to you they literally smelled of the seven seas! Ah, such
strange, weird creatures as some of them were, and their battered forms
told their own story of the storms they had weathered and the sights they
had seen.
“What a heap of stories you must know,” I said to him.
“Stories?” he repeated looking at me with his old, bright eyes. “Every
ship could tell as many stories as would make an Arabian Nights. If I
started in, miss, telling the stories I know, I should never be done till
the day of my death.”
“I do wish I lived near here,” I couldn’t help saying; “then I could come
over and listen when you were not busy. That is, if you would be willing
to tell some of your stories to me.”
“It would put life into my old age,” he said earnestly. “Now, miss, I’m
something of a reader in my way. There is a library near that I get my
books from, for thripence a day. Not bad, is it? Even a poor man can
afford that, miss. But when I read the tales, I think to myself: ‘Why
don’t some of you writing fellows come around here and ask the old man a
few questions? He could tell you tales of the salt seas that would make
men’s hair bristle.’”
Miss Sheepshanks seemed to think this was terribly strong language for me
to hear, and she tried to hasten me away, but I wouldn’t go till I had
told him the story of Samuel Bings and had a wonderful story from him in
return. I noted it all down in my diary, and you shall read that, too.
We went to the Gallery after that, and saw some beautiful pictures, but I
am such a silly that my mind kept going back to that old man and the
stories he could tell, and when we came out I insisted on going by his
place again, and we could see him inside his little office, making his
own tea. So the next day, without telling anyone, I sent him a pound of
tea in a queer Chinese cannister, just saying it was from the girl who
liked stories.
Well, well, I shan’t see him again. They hedge me around in every way.
A maid or a chaperon must be with me every minute. How I wish I were
free to go about and get acquainted with people! They—I mean Aunt Lorena
and all the powers of propriety—seem to think that if I did I would have
some awful mishap. But do you know, Carin, I don’t think that would be
the case. I feel as if right at my hand there may be someone I ought to
be knowing and who ought to be knowing me.
That reminds me of what I so long dreamed of doing down in Lee. Not only
was I going to take charge of the Industries and help the mountain people
as they never were helped before, but I was going to have a home which
should be open to every passer-by. Before it was to be a spring of
water—I know the very spring—where people could stop for a cold drink,
and beside the spring would be seats where they could rest. Not far down
the road there would be a trough for horses and another for dogs; and in
my cupboard would always be something for whomever was hungry. It would
not matter how poor or soiled or strange any passer-by might be, he or
she should come in and sit beside my hearth and have of my best. Even
very wicked people could come in. And men on the chain gang, mending the
road—how I would like to take them out a fine dinner and let them know I
believed in them. Perhaps they would let me eat with them, and then
maybe I could find out what they were really thinking.
Carin, that is what I want more than anything, I believe, to know what
other people are really thinking. I can’t tell you how it interests,
nay, absorbs me!
But in the sort of life that I lead now, no one speaks out and says what
he thinks. We are endlessly polite. We all say the same thing. We all
do the same things. At times, it is true, I see someone looking at me
with the eyes of true friendship, but we are parted by the people about
us, and we do not really become acquainted. So I am very lonely, in
spite of all that is interesting and beautiful about me, and I wish you
and I and Annie Laurie were sitting together up in your little
studio-room, with the world far from us, and just we three opening our
hearts to each other.
I have been out to-day selecting some presents for friends back at home,
and I enjoyed that very much. Do you know, I couldn’t resist getting
something for those two lonely women, the Wixons, up on Hebron
mountain—the ones whose soup I ate uninvited. If ever I get back to Lee,
I shall ride up and get acquainted with those women. Isn’t it curious
how people draw you and draw you, even people you have never met, but
know only by report? As for those you do know, they can draw you half
around the world. Yes, out of the millions and millions of human beings
on this old globe, there will be but two or three, perhaps, who are
verily your own, and those you must have.
A young man called on uncle yesterday, bearing a letter of introduction.
He lives, I believe, in Baltimore, and his name is Gerald Hargreaves.
His father was a friend of uncle’s, and some mutual friend who knew that
uncle was over here, gave him the letter. I don’t think he was very keen
about presenting it, but we are glad he did, for he seems a delightful
young man. Uncle David took to him at once, and so, for the matter of
that, did Aunt Lorena and I. He is an athletic young person with a
general blond appearance and a nice voice. He seems modest, too, and
genial. He finished college last year and has been traveling around
Europe, but he means to go back home soon and settle down. He is to
follow the custom of his family and go into the railroad business.
Naturally, we talked about railroads a good deal, and the methods of home
and foreign travel. He turned to me and said:
“What is your favorite means of travel, Miss Knox?” And before I thought
how it would sound I replied:
“Oh, nag travel.”
Aunt Lorena looked rather embarrassed, but Uncle David roared.
“My niece is a true Southern mountaineer,” he said, “and she isn’t afraid
of anything in the way of horseflesh.”
“Though I have been thrown,” I admitted, looking at Uncle David and
thinking of the fateful day that Paprika scampered up the mountain away
from Uncle David’s machine.
“Fortunately,” said Uncle David, and left the young man to figure out
what that might mean.
“I’m glad you think it was fortunate, dear,” I whispered to him. He gave
my hand a little squeeze under the table—we were at tea—and I felt my
heart warm up. When I think that Uncle David loves me it brightens up
everything; but he is a quiet man and does not say much. He likes to go
his own way and amuse himself after his own fashion, and he doesn’t wish
to be bothered all of the time by paying attention to those around him.
As for Aunt Lorena, she takes life as it comes. She is very
philosophical and patient and proud, and she sinks back into her easy
feminine place and doesn’t question anything. The trouble with me is
that I’m nearly bursting with questions.
“Ought I to do this? Ought I to think that? Am I making the most of my
opportunities? Am I being myself, Azalea, or am I imitating these
others? Am I of any use or am I just consuming good oxygen and nice food
and getting in the way generally?”
That’s how I keep at it. I don’t seem to be able to give myself any
rest, but must always be badgering myself like that.
We are all going to the theater to-night to see “A Winter’s Tale.” Mr.
Hargreaves goes with us. I shall wear my white silk and my peach-blow
silk jacket. They are charming together. I have a fillet of silver
wheat for my hair. Yesterday I sewed little perfume bags—with violet
powder in them—in all of my frocks. Violet is the pleasantest of the
perfumes, I think. Though Aunt Lorena uses white rose. What is your
favorite, Carin? I have forgotten. Or perhaps when you and I saw each
other, I was not thinking much about perfumes.
Well, now I think about all such things. I have learned to approve of
certain makes of gloves and to disapprove of others. I know what sort of
laces an unmarried girl should wear, and what ones should be reserved for
married ladies. I know—Oh, I know a thousand things! I hope little
madam grandmother would approve of me. Though she is gone, I still try
to please her. Sometimes, when I have tried particularly hard to be
polite and gay the way she would like me to be, I fancy I feel her little
jeweled hand on my head and that I hear her say:
“You are doing very well indeed, my dear. Really, I could ask nothing
more of you.”
What a pity grandmother could not have passed on her charm as well as her
money to me!
But I am thankful for the money, though money can never play a
tremendously large part in my life, because it is so much less
interesting than some other things. But as I said, I have been out
shopping, and you ought to see what I bought Annie Laurie—a picture of
the sea that I know she will love. And I got a watch for Paralee
Panther—a wrist watch. She’s really a school-teacher at last, as I think
I told you, so the watch will be useful. But I have presents for
everybody. Buying these things for the people dear to me keeps me from
feeling homesick.
Good night, Carin. It is time to dress for dinner. And after that comes
the theater, and I am glad. I do love the theater! And best of all I
enjoy the moment when the curtain begins to rise. It is such a throbbing
moment. What will one see? What story is to be told? Will one forget
that it is a play and believe it all to be true? Will one like life
better for having seen it? Will one go out dancing or weeping?
Oh, it’s a great moment when the curtain begins to rise.
_Azalea_.
* * * * *
Como, August 13.
_Oh_, _my dear neglected friend_:
I meant to have sent you a dozen letters between my last one and this,
but we have been so busy that I simply could not write. I thought I was
a particularly strong person, but I give you my word, Carin, that at the
end of a day of sight-seeing I am glad to eat my dinner and slip into my
bed. However, there is usually something required of me between the
eating of the dinner and the seeking of my couch, for we have been
entertaining much, and have been much entertained.
We left London late in May and sailed to Genoa, and since then we have
been seeing Italy. As it chanced, Aunt Lorena fell in with some old
friends who have been living for years near Fiesole, and they decided to
journey with us. This has given us the entrée to many homes which we
should otherwise not have seen, and it has all been very gay and
diverting.
Never have I loved any place as I do Italy. Such beauty, such pathos! I
cannot express all I feel, though my diary shall some day show you that I
have tried. But more of that some other time, dear girl. I insist that
we must be together this winter for a while. Am I right in thinking you
will go home for the winter, and that you are to have the delicious
experience of preparing your trousseau there in your own dear old home?
I want to help with that. I have hunted out a few little things that may
find a place in it, and I want to use my needle in your service.
Mr. Hargreaves has been everywhere with us. I thought it odd of him to
accompany us to Venice and to Rome, since he had been in both places only
a few months ago. But it was his affair. There was nothing to keep him
from visiting both places again if he chose. Of course he has added to
my pleasure, being nearer my age than any of the others. Uncle and Aunt
Lorena appear to have much satisfaction from his presence, too. They
like him immensely and talk about him a great deal. They think him
brilliant, but I am not sure that I do. His mind clings too long to one
subject. I like a little more agility. Weren’t you always amused at the
way the minds of Mary Cecily and her brother danced from subject to
subject? It was touch and go with them. All they needed was half a
sentence—they understood the rest before it was spoken.
I think myself that no one ought to visit Venice except with her own true
love. To float over those moonlit canals to the sound of music, between
those regal, slumbering palaces in the company of mere casual
acquaintances or elderly relatives is too much to ask of anyone.
We four, uncle, auntie, Mr. Hargreaves and I, were much in the gondolas,
going now here, now there, seeing strange old things and dreaming old
dreams. Not at all, I am sure, because he cares for me, but just because
the surroundings were too much for him, Mr. Hargreaves was inclined to
be—well, a trifle sentimental. But I couldn’t endure that. Having the
wrong man make love is worse than going without—Oh, much! But I didn’t
want to hurt his feelings, so I took it all as a joke, and told him to
hold Aunt Lorena’s hand; that she was a much more sentimental person than
I.
He sent me flowers every morning, but I wouldn’t keep them. There was a
sweet English girl there who was not well, and I made her take most of
them. The rest I threw in the canal—not as an insult to the flowers or
their giver, but because, when I was gondola riding, it gave me pleasure
to throw out a rose now and then and see it drift with the tide. Aunt
Lorena wasn’t sure that I was being kind to her friend, but I was,
really. It wouldn’t have been at all kind to let him think I cared when
I didn’t, would it, dear?
We met a bright young fellow the other day who had studied at the Academy
of Design with Keefe, and he said he thought Keefe had decided to go into
landscape work instead of portraits, after all, which seems rather odd
considering what a success he was making with portraits. I said:
“Why do you think he changed?”
“Oh, it’s hard to say,” he answered. “Keefe doesn’t seem the fellow he
used to be. You remember how jolly he was, and how he loved company? It
is different with him now. He keeps much to himself and works beyond all
reason. I believe in being industrious, but there’s no use in being a
fanatic about work.”
“But is he well? Does he look as he used?”
Suddenly I remembered that he had come south years ago because his lungs
were not strong, and I turned cold at the thought that the trouble that
had threatened him, might really have come back and fastened itself on
him.
“Oh, he looks well enough,” the young man replied. “Only a little wild
and queer. But O’Connor is queer, don’t you think so? A sign of genius,
no doubt. He had a strange bringing up, hadn’t he? He’s a gentleman, of
course; any one can see that; but he’s rather adventurous too; a strange
mixture.”
I didn’t know what to say. I felt I should betray myself if I talked
about him any longer, so I only ventured:
“He has a charming sister. She is one of my best friends.”
“Really?” said the young man. “Well, I hear O’Connor is putting up a
studio somewhere in the Blue Ridge and that he means to try his hand at
interpreting the mountains, but I think myself, he had better have stuck
to portraits.”
“Very likely,” said I.
I have heard many conversations during the last few weeks, Carin, but
that is the only one I remember.
How good to be able to write you like this! I am so tired of keeping
things to myself. We shall be starting for home some time in October, I
believe. I shall hope to write you, but if I do not, think of me still,
in spite of all silences, as
_Your loving friend_,
_Azalea_.