* * * * *
Dear Carl, it ran, I just couldn't do it. It wouldn't be right to do
it, if I feel that way, would it? And I do, indeed, I do! I told you I
was not in love and it's hard to make up your mind if you don't feel
strongly enough, and I never feel strongly enough about anything until
afterwards. You know that. Now, that's soon enough about Bermuda or
a house in the country, but it's too late in marriage. So I've just
called it off. I've written her a note which doesn't exactly explain
anything but some day she'll be glad, I hope, and so all _you_ have to
do is to make her feel that it's all right. Somehow, I believe she will
understand. Anyway, I don't think she will be surprised. I'm going to
Africa and, if I ever have an address again, I'll send it to you.
Peter.
_Chapter IX_
In September, 1913, I found myself on the Paris-Milan Express on my
way to Venice to meet Edith Dale. I have travelled across Switzerland
many times and I hope to do so again (the view from the car-windows
is magnificent), but I shall never visit that country. God keep me
from lingering in the mountains or by the shores of the sea. Such
immensities of nature strangle talent and even dwarf genius. No great
creative work has ever been composed by the sea or in the shadow of a
mountain. In the presence of the perpetual mysteries of nature, man
feels his smallness. There are those who may say that the sky-scrapers
of the city evoke a similar feeling, but man's relation to these is not
the same; he knows that man built these monster structures and that man
will tear them down again. Mountains and the sea are eternal. Does this
explain why so much that passes for art in America comes from Indiana
and Illinois, the flat, unimposing, monotonous Middle West?
All journeys, I suppose, have their memorable incidents and episodes,
however unimportant. My sole memory of this particular hegira is
trifling. While I was dining, the train gave a lurch or a swerve,
hurling me with my plate in my lap to the farthest corner of the car.
The soup which the plate contained was in my lap, too, and elsewhere.
Fortunately, the soup was not too hot. The accident recalled how
once in a French drawing-room I had spilled a cup of calid coffee
on my leg, scorching it painfully. The hostess was concerned about
her carpet. I do hope, she was saying, that you haven't spilled your
coffee on my carpet. I had not, but my leg was burned so badly and I
felt so outraged by her lack of sympathy, that I took occasion later
to make good the omission. Another night, another year, and certainly
another place, a celebrated lady, next to whom I was sitting at supper,
whisperingly adjured me to upset my coffee into her lap. She was
wearing a new and elaborate frock and, astonished by her unreasonable
request, I was dilatory in obeying. She whispered again, this time
more sharply, Do as I tell you! At last I obeyed her, but the attempt
at carelessness must have seemed very clumsy. I am a poor actor.
Apologize, was her next command. Meekly, I followed instructions. Now
she spoke aloud. It doesn't matter at all, she said. It's only an old
rag. The other gentlemen present condoled with her, but she smilingly
put them off, Don't make the boy feel bad. It wasn't his fault. Next
day, while I lunched with her, a great many boxes arrived from Bendel's
and Hickson's. Every man who had attended the supper had bought her a
new dress, as she had been sure they would!
Towards nightfall, we approached the Italian border and after we had
passed into Italy, the compartment, which had been crowded all day,
was empty but for me and another man. As he was a Roumanian, who spoke
neither French nor English, we did not converse. About 8 o'clock, we
lay down on our respective seats and tried to sleep. It was nearly
midnight when we arrived at Milan and I was glad to descend from the
train, after the long journey, to take a few hours repose at a hotel
near the station. Early in the morning, which was bright and sunny, I
departed for Venice.
In the evening of that day, I was sitting at a table in the garden
of Bonvecchiati's with Edith, who had motored down from Florence.
Since the night I had taken Peter to her house in Washington Square,
I had seen her only for fleeting moments, but she bridged the months
immediately. Peter had been correct in his assumption that she would
remember him. In fact, one of the first questions she asked was:
Where is that boy you brought to my house the other night?
It was "the other night" to Edith; months and even years meant nothing
to her.
Peter Whiffle?
Yes, a nice boy. I liked him. Where is he? Let's take him back to
Florence with us.