Mr. Winthrop had a circle of
literary friends, who seemed determined to make his stay so pleasant
that he would not be in a hurry to return to the solitude of Oaklands.
When I saw his keen enjoyment of their society, and the many varied
privileges he had in that brief period--musical, artistic, and literary,
I was filled with surprise that he should make his home at Oaklands at
all, and expressed my wonder to Mrs. Flaxman.
"Oh, he often goes away--sometimes to Europe, and sometimes to the great
American centres of thought and life; then he comes home apparently glad
of its quiet and freedom from interruption. I think he uses up all the
raw experiences and ideas he gets when away."
I thought her reply over, and wondered if it was the usual habit of
literary people to go out on those foraging expeditions and bring back
material to be used up in weeks of solitude. We were either out among
friends, at concerts, lectures, evening gatherings, or else receiving Mr.
Winthrop's particular friends at our hotel, every evening. I enjoyed
those evenings at home, I think, the very best of all. We sat late,
supper being served about midnight--a plain, sensible repast that, with
a man of Mr. Winthrop's means, might certainly betoken high thinking.
However, the intellectual repast served to us reminded me of the feasts
of the gods, or even better, in old Homeric times. There were condensed
thoughts that often kept me puzzling over their meanings long after their
words had died on the air.
Pages:
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118