She wanted a child above all things. All of us remember some woman whom
we knew in youth who kept canaries, or raised flowers or had some queer
little fad. We learn to know why women do this. In her case she
expressed her mother's passion in studies, in art, in travel, in
friendship, in kindness to every one; above all in devotion to her
husband. She mothered him in the most tender and beautiful way. In a
little while I knew all her story, as she did mine.
Serafino came for me one morning at the studio. There was an old cafe
beyond the walls near the Campagna where the food was wholly Italian and
of the best. It was a wonderful place for the rest of the noonday meal,
for a view of the Alban hills. The sun was warm, the sky was clear. The
intoxication of an Italian day was in the air. I wished so much to share
the delight with someone. Mrs. Winchell was sitting near absorbed in her
work. But she had looked up and bowed to Serafino, whom she had seen
with me so frequently. I turned to her and asked: "Would you and Mr.
Winchell like to join me?" "Let us go and ask him," she replied. So we
set off to the pension to invite Uncle Tom. That was the name she called
him, and I had begun to use it myself.
Uncle Tom had made the acquaintance of some men of his own age from New
York. They had begun to patronize a cafe located beyond the American
Embassy, where broiled chicken and fresh vegetables were a specialty and
where the red wine was of the best.
Pages:
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369