Part 10
We were steaming down the river. I was very tired and, having the desire to rest in bed, I began to undress. Suddenly it came over me that I had made a great mistake. I put my clothes on again rapidly, dashed to the deck, and hunted up the purser. You know, he had already befriended me. I told him that I had just opened my mail and my telegrams and had run across one informing me of the violent illness of my father--you know how much that would really worry me!--and that I _must_ go back. He informed me that this was impossible, but another bill--a very large one this time--made him more sympathetic and my disembarkation was arranged with the aid of a tug-boat. I even got my trunks off, but I had to cry a good deal to do that. I'm very sorry for you, Mr. Whiffle, the purser said. He will never forget me, I'm sure.
The telephone rang. Peter lifted the receiver from the hook and I heard him say, Please reserve me a deck cabin on the Kronprinz Wilhelm sailing tomorrow. He turned, as he put the receiver back: I'm not crazy about the North German Lloyd but I've already sailed this week on the French Line, the Holland-American, the Cunard, and the White Star. I had to change.
By telephone the next day, I learned that Peter had _not_ sailed on the Kronprinz Wilhelm.
Do you know, he said, I've hit on a solution. I could not decide where to go--every place has its faults--but it has occurred to me that I am not compelled to go anywhere; I can stay on right here!
There is still a pendant to this part of my tale. In May, Peter informed me that he had rented a house on Long Island, a small cottage near Great Neck, with a big fire-place and furniture that would do. He took me out with him the first night. He had engaged a man and his wife, Negroes, to care for the place and cook. We enjoyed a very good dinner and he seemed to have settled down for the summer but in the morning, at breakfast, I, and the Negroes, learned that he was dissatisfied.
I don't like the place much, he explained, at least, I don't think I do. At least, I'm not going to stay here.
He paid the servants two weeks wages and dismissed them. Then he telephoned an expressman to call for his trunks, none of which had been opened. Carrying the bags, two of which contained cats, we caught the 9 o'clock train back to town.
Before this last fluctuation, some time in April, I think it was, Peter's father really did die. Peter did not go to Toledo for the funeral but, after it was over, Mrs. Whiffle came to New York and I met her one day at tea. There was no change in Peter; certainly not a band of black on his arm.
He did seem to have one fixed idea that spring, an idea that centred on marriage.
I'm not particularly in love with any one, he admitted, and so it is rather difficult to choose, but I want children and my children must have a mother. There is Mahalah Wiggins ... and there is the Rajah's grand-daughter. Well, I don't know that they will marry me, but I must decide what I am going to do before I give them a chance to decide what they are going to do!
A week or so later: I've been considering this question of marriage. It's a serious step. I can't rush into a thing like that. Mahalah doesn't like cats. You know, I couldn't give up my cats. I can't marry a woman who doesn't like cats. Luckily I haven't asked her.
A few days later: I will marry Mahalah, I think. She understands me; she doesn't seem to mind the crazy things I do. She is beginning to like the cats. She is healthy and she might produce fine children.
Another interval and then: She has accepted me. Isn't it wonderful for her to love me at my age for my money alone!
The preparations for the wedding were portentous, although it was to be celebrated as quietly as possible. There were clothes to buy and an apartment to be furnished. He left the decision of the day and place to Mahalah--fortunately that was her affair--but there was endless discussion about the honeymoon. He considered in turn nearly every spot on the globe, including Patagonia and Abyssinia. As the day in May set for the ceremony approached, Maine was mentioned rather more frequently than any other locality, but I had no real conviction that they would ultimately go there. I was to be the sole attendant at the wedding. That much seemed to be settled.
The great day dawned and brought with it a windy rain. I knew that Peter detested windy days; one of his superstitions associated them with disaster. He did not telephone me in the morning and his silence seemed ominous. Nevertheless, I put on a morning coat and a silk hat and presented myself at his rooms an hour before the minute set for the ceremony, which was to be celebrated in a little church in the neighbourhood. On another day, I would not have been surprised to find a note from Peter instead of himself but when, on reaching the top landing, I discovered the door open, and an old charwoman, packing up books and bowls inside, handed me a note with the superfluous information that Mr. Whiffle had gone away, my knees shook to such an extent that I wondered if I had suddenly become afflicted with tabes.
I managed to ask, Where?
I dunno, sir. He took his trunks.
I opened the letter.
* * * * *
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.
I don't know where he is.
Then I told her the story of how Peter did not get married.
I knew he was amusing. Let's get in touch with his vibrations and find him.
Edith, indeed, had invented her own kind of wireless long before Marconi came along with his. Distances, as a matter of fact, circumscribed her even less than time.
Just then, she saw Constant Lounsberry, or some one else, at a table in the corner of the garden where we were dining and she strolled over to talk with her. Sipping my coffee and smoking my cigarette, I recognized a familiar voice and turned to see Peter, with his mother, about to claim an adjacent table from which the occupants were rising. He looked two years younger than he had four months before and his rather pretty mother helped to confirm the illusion. Of course, I joined them at once and soon we were discussing the Italian futurists, the comparative merits of spaghetti and risotto, Lydia Borelli, the moving pictures, and the Marchesa Casati, who had given a magnificent festa the evening previous, when, clad in a leopard's pelt, she had stood on the steps of her palace, and greeted her guests as they approached by gondola on the Canale Grande. Peter, I noted, was wearing his amethyst intaglio of Leda and the Swan on the little finger of his left hand. After a time, during which, for a brief few moments, the conversation drifted towards Toledo and the small affairs of Mrs. Whiffle, he told me his story.
I came near dying in Africa, Carl, surrounded by niggers and fleas! It was horrible. Hot as a New York roof-garden and nearly as uncomfortable. There I lay, rotting with a nameless fever, no one with me but an incompetent Dutch doctor, who was more ignorant of the nature of my complaint than I was myself, and a half-naked aboriginal, who wanted to call in the witch-doctor and who, when burked in this direction, attempted a few amateur charms, which at least had the merit of awakening my interest. There I lay in a rude thatched hut with a roof of caked cow-dung; I couldn't eat, drink, or speak. I thought it was the end. Funny, but the only sound that reached my ears, after a few days, was the chattering of monkeys, and later they told me there were no monkeys about at all.
Over my head on the wall, hung a dirty thonged whip. Whether its purpose was to beat women or oxen, I don't know, but, you will remember, perhaps, that sometimes, when I awaken from sleep in the middle of the night, I have a strange habit of holding one arm straight up in the air, at right angles with my body. Well, while I was ill, there it was, most of the time, straight up! One night, when my strength was fast ebbing away, I reached higher and grasped the whip. Then I grew drowsy; everything seemed to turn blood-red, even the palm-leaves that waved across the opening made by the doorway of the hut, and it was very hot, unspeakably roasting. Now, through this same doorway, walked a woman in a rusty black robe and, although I knew it must be Death, the figure confused itself in my mind with Kathleen-ni-Houlihan and (will you believe it?) Sara Allgood! Fancy the appearance of Death in the middle of Africa suggesting to me the character of an Irish play and the actress I had seen in it! There followed a slight pause, during which Death stood perfectly still. Then two more figures entered the tiny hut. One was the Devil, Ahriman, Abaddon, what you will; I recognized him at once, he was so likable and, besides, he was lame. The other, I gathered after a little conversation, was an emissary from heaven. Eblis seated himself on one side of my cot, resting his crutches against the wall, and Gabriel's ambassador stood on the other side. Now these two droll fellows began to describe the climates and amusements of heaven and hell to me, each speaking in his turn, and continually interrupting themselves to beg me to decide speedily where I wanted to go. They stated frankly that they had not any too much time, as they had several other visits to make before dinner in various parts of the world. The Angel polished his feathers with a small hat-brush and the Devil seemed to be taking good care of his nails, in default of the opportunity to visit a manicure. Death stood immovable, inexorable. Imagine, even in her presence, I had to make up my mind where I wanted to go. It was a terrible experience, I can tell you! It was as if she were saying, Hurry now, hurry now! Nine minutes more. Only, of course, she did not utter a single word. The Angel and the Devil were too silly. Had they been silent, it would have been so much easier for me to decide. My mind would just be wavering in a certain direction, when one of the supernatural visitors would put me completely out with a warning about his rival's domain and a word of enthusiasm for his own. Never have I suffered such agony. I could not decide whether to go to Paradise or Pandemonium. My perplexity grew as they argued. Meantime, it was obvious that I was keeping Death from other bedsides. I could see that she was becoming nervous and irritable, shifting first on one foot, then on the other. It was evidently very irksome to her that she had taken a vow of silence. In life, it is so easy; there is always something else to do. But, in death, Carl, there is a single alternative; at least, it seemed so to me for an unconscionable space of time. Suddenly, however, two ideas occurred to me: I remembered that I had read somewhere that demon and deity were originally derived from the same root: in that case, one place would be as bad or as good as the other; and I remembered my solution of the Bermuda problem: I could stay where I was. _I was not compelled to go anywhere._ Stretching up my hands, I pulled hard on the whip, which must have broken loose from the nail, because when I came out of my coma, the thongs were gripped tightly in my hand, lying on the blanket.
Peter concluded his story and, suddenly, with that delightful inconsequence, which contributed so definite a charm to his manner, he pointed to a woman in the crowd.
She resembles an ostrich and she is dressed like a peacock, he said.
Peter, I wish you wouldn't jest about death and holy things, interjected Mrs. Whiffle, on whose literal mind the tale had evidently clawed as an eagle claws the brain of a cat.
But, mother, Peter tried to mollify her, I am not jesting. I am telling you something that happened.
Something that you _thought_ had happened, Mrs. Whiffle corrected, but we should only think good thoughts. We should keep the dark ones out of our minds, especially when they interfere and conflict with the powerful words of Almighty God, our Creator.
I'm sorry, mother, I won't tell it again, he said, simply. Then, after a nibble or two at a lobster, he turned to me, Mother is going to America tomorrow. I shall be alone. Have you been to the Austrian Tyrol? There's Russia, of course, and Spain, and those islands where Synge used to go. Where are they? And Bucharest. Carlo, will you go with me tomorrow to Buenos Ayres or Helsingfors?
You are not to be told where you are going, I replied, but you are going with me.
Experience has taught me that people with principles are invariably unreasonable. Peter had no principles and therefore he was reasonable. So the next day, he really did drive back with us to Florence, through the pleasant olive groves and vineyards. A jeroboam of chianti enlivened the journey, and Edith adored the story of Peter's encounter with Death, the Devil, and the Angel.
The Villa Allegra is set on the hills of Arcetri, high above the long cypress-bordered avenue called the Stradone del Poggio Imperiale. The villa is so artfully concealed amongst the cunningly-grouped, gnarled olive trees, eucalypti, myrtles, plane-trees, laurels, pepper-trees, and rows of cypresses, that, until you are in the very courtyard, you are unaware of its propinquity, although, by some curious paradox, the view from the loggia commands the surrounding country. The lovely curve of the façade has been attributed to the hand of Raphael, and Brunelleschi is said to have designed the cortile, for the physician of the Medici once inhabited this country house, but the completely successful loggia and the great salone were added by Chester Dale.
Peter had never been in Florence before; no more had I; so the romantic charm of this lovely old house in the mountains served to occupy us for several days. We inspected the sunken Roman bath and were thrilled by the rope-ladder, which, when lowered through a trap-door, connected a chamber on the second storey with a room on the first. We were satisfied to sit in the evening under the red brocaded walls, illuminated by wax tapers set in girandoles of green and rose faience, to stroll in the gardens, to gaze off towards the distant hills from the loggia. Edith entertained us with long accounts of the visits of the spectre, the dame blanche who haunted the house. It was, if the servants who swore they had seen her were to be believed, the spirit of an elderly maiden lady who had died there. In life, it seems, she had been of a jealous disposition and had tried to make the villa uncomfortable for other guests. She was not successful in this effort until she died, and not altogether successful even then, for there were those who refused to be terrified by the persistent presence of this spinster eidolon, which manifested itself in various ways. Others, however, resembled Madame de Staël, who did not believe in ghosts but was afraid of them.
In the mornings, Peter and I breakfasted together in the garden, whither was borne us by the cynical butler a tray with individual coffee percolators, a plate of fresh rolls, and a bowl of honey. The peacocks strutted the terrace and the breeze blew the branches of the fragrant gardenias across our noses. In the distance, the bells of Florence softly tolled. In the afternoon, the distant hills became purple and, in the evening, the atmosphere was tinged with green. The peasants sang in the road below and the nightingales sang in the olive copse. Roman lamps flickered on the tables and Strega, the golden witch-liquid, stood in our tiny crumpled Venetian tumblers, their distorted little bellies flecked with specks of gold. There were occasional callers but no other resident guests than ourselves at the villa and Edith, as was her custom, left us a good deal alone. On the day of our arrival, indeed, she disappeared after luncheon and only returned two days later, when she explained that she had gone to visit a friend at Pisa. We usually met her at dinner when she came out to the garden-table, floating in white crêpe de chine, with a turban of turquoise blue or some vivid brilliant green, but during the day she was seldom visible. She ate her breakfast alone on the balcony above our bedroom, then read for an hour or two. What she did after, one never knew, save as she told of it.
Meanwhile, Peter and I wandered about, inspecting the shops on the Ponte Vecchio, tramping through the old palaces and galleries. Several times Peter paused; he hesitated for the longest time, I think, before the David of Donatello, that exquisite soft bronze of the Biblical lad, nude but for his wreathed helmet, standing in his adolescent slender beauty with one foot on the head of the decapitated giant. He carries a sword and over his face flutters a quizzical expression. Indeed, what Walter Pater said of the face of Monna Lisa might equally well apply to the face of David. So remarked Peter, explaining that the quality of both the David and Leonardo's darling was the same, both possessed a compelling charm, and it was the charm of David which had slain the ugly giant, just as charm always kills ugliness. And he swore that this was the most beautiful object that the hand of man had yet created, an art expression which reached its emotional and intellectual zenith, and then he spoke of the advantage that sculpture enjoyed over painting.
One tires of a painting. It is always the same. There is never anything new in it. But with a statue, every different light gives it a novel value, _and it can be turned around_. When you tire of one aspect, you try another. That is why statues belong in houses and pictures belong in museums. You can visit the museum when you wish to look at a picture, but it is impossible to live with a picture, because it is always the same. You can kill any picture, even a picture by Velázquez, by hanging it on your own wall, for in a few days it becomes a commonplace to you, a habit, and at last one day you do not look at it any more, you scarcely are aware that it is there at all, and you are surprised when your friends speak of it, speak of it admiringly. Yes, you say, unconvinced, it is beautiful. But you do not believe it. On the other hand, a statue is new every day. Every passing cloud in the sky, every shifting of the location of a lamp, gives a new value to a statue, and when you tire of seeing it in the house, you can transfer it to the garden where it begins another avatar.