Shine I shine I shine — shine like the evening star … Shoo fly, don’t bother me … Shoo fly, don’t bother me … for I belong to Company G … I remember her singing and laughing and singing again: If you don’t wear a collar and a tie … then you won’t go to heaven when you die … If you don’t wear ruffles on your drawers … then you won’t go to heaven when you die… Negro spirituals. It was Krehbiel, wasn’t it, that wrote that book? Let mah — pee-pul — go … And those stories the Negro nurses used to tell us in the mornings while they dressed us. The crane with the cork. What a story to tell children. It was Brer Rabbit who pulled out the cork. At the party, it was — and it created a scandal … Like Smith’s story of the Starcroft Inn. Heavens, how superb — the real Chaucerian flavor. Pop-eyed Popper Smith watching eagerly from the door, with all the other men, while all the women fled from the ball room … She lying on her back there, laughing hysterically, drunk, with her skirt up, fallen down and unable to stand, screeching with laughter, and the jazz orchestra of niggers going suddenly cuckoo with excitement — drums banged, trombones yelling, saxophones bubbling the Himmelfahrt, the niggers themselves screaming and sobbing … Goodness gracious gawdness Agnes. Agnes Day equals Agnus Dei … “No-no! — too many ladies here,” said Smith. Yes, there it is — that whole side of a man’s life that must be concealed. So many things we conceal even from other men … We all have our little p-p-p-p-peculiarities which we don’t mention; and which nevertheless are of great importance to us. Canyon yodling. Pearl diving. Muff barking. Palpation. The dance of the seven unveils. Arrangements of mirrors. That girl at the casino, when I was with Julian — there was a scuffle in the row ahead of us and the young man was taken out. “I didn’t mind when he give me the leg, but when he give me the”—I wonder if he was arrested or what.… That time visiting with Julian for the weekend — at Plymouth it was — the young school-marm who was taking her Easter holiday alone at that little deserted hotel. She sat with her knees, oh, so carelessly crossed — black silk stockings. The misty wisty wistful yearning expression in Julian’s eyes — he sat on the table edge and talked to her in a peculiar soft way, gentle, gently laughing, gently suggestive, gently agreeing and gently echoing: turtledoves, Cooo — coooo. A problem: both of us attracted to her, but neither of us admitted it or wanted to say to the other—“You go on to Plymouth — I’ll stay here …” At breakfast in the morning I tried to touch her knee with mine under the table. But I wasn’t bold enough. More wistful conversation, and then we motored away, both of us sulky for the rest of the day … Wonderful charm such incomplete adventures have … They take on gradually a special beauty … Abbozzi … Life is full of them … Familiarity breeds contempt. Sometimes they are too painful, though. C. I. E., on the train, for example. How frightfully unhappy that made me, and still, when I think about it, makes me … I got into the train and she was sitting opposite me, with her dress-suitcase on the seat beside her … C.I.E. were the initials on it — a fiber suitcase. In the rack above her was a violin. Small, she was, in a soft gray coat; with a mauve or lilac-colored hat — I could see white stitches in it. An artificial flower on her coat lapel. I couldn’t decide at first whether I thought she was pretty or not — but I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She was reading Tilly of Bloomsbury—I watched her blue eyes, small and of a sweet roundness, traveling along the lines. Now and then she smiled. Her mouth — it seemed to me extraordinary. I can’t visualize it, but I thought it like a Michelangelo mouth — great richness and subtlety of modeling, voluptuous and yet suggestive of strength and curtness; the color rather peculiar, a pale coral. Freckled a little, with dark golden hair showing in circular plaits over her ears. Her eyebrows darker than her hair, and richly curved, softly curved, over shy eyes … She occasionally looked up obliquely at the woman who sat beside me — or looked at the woman’s gay-striped stockings when she put her feet on the edge of the seat opposite. She avoided my eyes — if she found me looking at her, she slid her eyes rapidly across me and looked out at the fields, and the bare trees which had been etherealized by a beautiful frost, trees like white smoke. It was cold. The other window open. Had to keep my gloves on. Shy about taking off my gloves to unbutton my gray coat and fish out my handkerchief: she covertly watched me. Then I thought of that theater program in my pocket — so I read it to impress her with our similarity in tastes. Sorry I hadn’t bought The Nation instead of John o’ London. The cold wind whistling about our feet; she crossed her knees, and then drew them up under her, just touching the floor with the tip of the Cordova slipper, a slipper somewhat worn, but nice. Woolen gloves. Once — halfway, after an hour — she looked at me — O God, what a look. Perplexed, shy, injured, reproachful. “You shouldn’t stare at me like that; I am a nice girl, intelligent and refined, sensitive. Nevertheless I perceive that we have something in common.” Then she turned two pages at once. She read more rapidly, she skipped. A station. Another station. Only an hour more. Clippity clop te clap te clip te clap te cluckle, te WHEEEEEE. Tunnel! Shall I rise and shut the other window? No: too shy. It might lead to a harmless and friendly beginning to talk? No. In the dark (the dusty lamp burning dimly on the ceiling) perhaps our feet would encounter? No. I uncrossed my knees and crossed them the other way, away from the door and pointing toward her. No … After she looked at me like that, in that desolated way, I turned to the window, sorrowfully, apologetically, suffering, frowning. I’m sorry, I wouldn’t offend you for worlds. I too am gentle and refined … Then, just that once, her foot slid scraping sharply forward and touched mine. Should I look at her and appear conscious? No. Pay no attention. Out of the corner of my eye observing, I saw that she showed no sign of confusion or self-consciousness. She had withdrawn her foot instantly … We were approaching London. She put Tilly of Bloomsbury into the suitcase — it was neatly packed, full, covered with a transparent silk. No secrets disclosed. Would she get out at London Bridge? No — but the two old women did. Now! What would happen? Her toe had touched twice, oh so faintly, the cuff of my trouser-leg. Intentional? Probably not. Dare!.. I dared — I slid the right foot forward, resting a little more palpably in contact. Not enough — it might appear accidental. Dare again! I dared again, as the train started from Waterloo, with only five minutes to go. My right ankle rested firmly and ecstatically against the side of the Cordova slipper. I looked at her — devoured her — stared — but she kept her eyes averted, her face suffused with — what? Unhappiness. Speak to her! But I was shy, hungry, weak, cold, psychically out of joint. I had been desiring her too long and too intensely, and though the words went round and round in my head — Will you lunch with me? — I couldn’t speak them. The Thames covered with mist. We were sliding into the station, ankle and toe still praying to each other. Dare! The last chance! Dare! Say “May I help you with your bags?” Hurry! A porter was at the door, with his red tie. I stood up, trembling, to take my bag from the rack. I looked at her beseechingly, still hoping for a miracle; but as I turned she leaned toward the opening door and said in a low harassed voice, her dry lips barely moving, “Porter!” … I got out and walked along the platform, walking slowly, so that she might overtake me. How exquisite, small, graceful she was! The neat, precise, energetic and charmingly girlish gait! She did not turn toward me — her small chin was lowered humbly into the bright batik scarf. Gone. She was gone forever. We were divorced, after a marriage — how divinely happy — of two hours … MISERY … Why hadn’t I said, “Will you have lunch with me?” Why hadn’t I said, “Need we separate like this?” Why hadn’t I said, “Do you like