CHAPTER IX

enditwillcome.AtHeidelbergImetafatveterinarysurgeonwhosevoicebrokewithsobsasherepeatedsomemawkishpoetry.Soeasyformetolaugh—I,whoneverrepeatpoetry,goodorbad,andcannotrememberonefragmentofversetothrillmyselfwith.Mybloodboils—well,I’mhalfGerman,soputitdowntopatriotism—whenIlistentothetastefulcontemptoftheaverageislanderforthingsTeutonic,whetherthey’reBocklinormyveterinarysurgeon.‘Oh,Bocklin,’theysay‘hestrainsafterbeauty,hepeoplesNaturewithgodstooconsciously.’OfcourseBocklinstrains,becausehewantssomething—beautyandalltheotherintangiblegiftsthatarefloatingabouttheworld.Sohislandscapesdon’tcomeoff,andLeader’sdo.” “IamnotsurethatIagree.Doyou?”saidhe,turningtoMrs.Wilcox. Shereplied:“IthinkMissSchlegelputseverythingsplendidly”andachillfellontheconversation. “Oh,Mrs.Wilcox,saysomethingnicerthanthat.It’ssuchasnubtobetoldyouputthingssplendidly.” “Idonotmeanitasasnub.Yourlastspeechinterestedmesomuch.GenerallypeopledonotseemquitetolikeGermany.Ihavelongwantedtohearwhatissaidontheotherside.” “Theotherside?Thenyoudodisagree.Oh,good!Giveusyourside.” “Ihavenoside.Butmyhusband”—hervoicesoftened,thechillincreased—“hasverylittlefaithintheContinent,andourchildrenhavealltakenafterhim.” “Onwhatgrounds?DotheyfeelthattheContinentisinbadform?” Mrs.Wilcoxhadnoideashepaidlittleattentiontogrounds.Shewasnotintellectual,norevenalert,anditwasoddthat,allthesame,sheshouldgivetheideaofgreatness.Margaret,zigzaggingwithherfriendsoverThoughtandArt,wasconsciousofapersonalitythattranscendedtheirownanddwarfedtheiractivities.TherewasnobitternessinMrs.Wilcoxtherewasnotevencriticismshewaslovable,andnoungraciousoruncharitablewordhadpassedhe