The Dark Star

It was a slightly dull, laboured, almost emotionless letter. Always

willing to shirk correspondence, he persuaded himself that the letter

called for no immediate answer. After all, it was not to be expected

that a very young girl whom a man had met only twice in his life could

hold his interest very long, when absent. However, he meant to write

her again; thought of doing so several times during the next twelve

months.

It was a year before another letter came from her. And, reading it, he

was a little surprised to discover how rapidly immaturity can mature

under the shock of circumstances and exotic conditions which tend

toward forced growth.

* * * * *

Mon cher ami: I was silly enough to hope you might write to me. But I suppose you

have far more interesting and important matters to occupy you.

Still, don't you sometimes remember the girl you drove home with in a

sleigh one winter night, ages ago? Don't you sometimes think of the

girl who came creeping upstairs, half dead, to your studio door? And

don't you sometimes wonder what has become of her?

Why is it that a girl is always more loyal to past memories than a

man ever is? Don't answer that it is because she has less to occupy

her than a man has. You have no idea how busy I have been during this

long year in which you have forgotten me.

Among other things I have been busy growing. I am taller by two inches

than when last I saw you. Please be impressed by my five feet eight

inches.

Also, I am happy. The greatest happiness in the world is to have the

opportunity to learn about that same world.

I am happy because I now have that opportunity. During these many

months since I wrote to you I have learned a little French; I read

some, write some, understand pretty well, and speak a little. What a

pleasure, mon ami!

Piano and vocal music, too, occupy me; I love both, and I am told

encouraging things. But best and most delightful of all I am learning

to draw and compose and paint from life in the Académie Julian! Think

of it! It is difficult, it is absorbing, it requires energy,

persistence, self-denial; but it is fascinating, satisfying,

glorious.

Also, it is very trying, mon ami; and I descend into depths of

despair and I presently soar up out of those depressing depths into

intoxicating altitudes of aspiration and self-confidence.

You yourself know how it is, of course. At the criticism today I was

lifted to the seventh heaven. "Pas mal," he said; "continuez,

mademoiselle." Which is wonderful for him. Also my weekly sketch was

chosen from among all the others, and I was given number one. That

means my choice of tabourets on Monday morning, voyez vous? So do

you wonder that I came home with Suzanne, walking on air, and that as

soon as déjeuner was finished I flew in here to write to you about

it?