Peter Whiffle by Carl Van Vechten — Read

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!