He had always, more or less, kept up his study of the French,
begun so long ago on the river and it stood him in good stead now. Still,
it was never easy for him, and the multitude of notes along the margin of
his French authorities bears evidence of his faithfulness and the
magnitude of his toil. No previous work had ever required so much of
him, such thorough knowledge; none had ever so completely commanded his
interest. He would have been willing to remain shut away from visitors,
to have been released altogether from social obligations; and he did
avoid most of them. Not all, for he could not always escape, and perhaps
did not always really wish to. Florence and its suburbs were full of
delightful people--some of them his old friends. There were luncheons,
dinners, teas, dances, concerts, operas always in progress somewhere, and
not all of these were to be resisted even by an absorbed author who was
no longer himself, but sad old Sieur de Conte, following again the banner
of the Maid of Orleans, marshaling her twilight armies across his
illumined page.
CLXXXIV
NEW HOPE IN THE MACHINE
If all human events had not been ordered in the first act of the primal
atom, and so become inevitable, it would seem a pity now that he must
abandon his work half-way, and make another hard, distracting trip to
America.
But it was necessary for him to go. Even Hall was no longer optimistic.
His letters provided only the barest shreds of hope.
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