We all played, danced, and acted. No one asked me to walk funny, no one asked me to twirl a cane. If I wanted to do a tragic bit, I did, and so did everyone else. You were a creature of the present, not a production of the past, not a promise of the future. You were accepted as is, sans "Who's Who" labels and income-tax records.
George asks me about my trip, but he does not interview. He gives me letters to friends.
In my puny way, sounding hollow and unconvincing, I try to tell George how foolish he is. He tries to explain that he can't help it. Like all trail blazers, he is a martyr. He does not rant. He blames no one. He does not rail at fate.
If he believes himself persecuted, his belief is unspoken. He is almost Christlike as he explains to me. His viewpoint is beautiful, kind, and tender.
I can't imagine what he has done to be sentenced to twenty years. My thought must speak. He believes he is spoiling my party through making me serious. He doesn't want that.
He stops talking about himself. Suddenly he runs, grabs a woman's hat, and says, "Look, Charlie, I'm Sarah Bernhardt!" and goes into a most ridiculous travesty.
I laugh. Everyone laughs. George laughs.
And he is going back to the penitentiary to spend eighteen of the most wonderful years of his life!
I can't stand it. I go out in the garden and gaze up at the stars. It is a wonderful night and a glorious moon is shining down. I wish there was something I could do for George. I wonder if he is right or wrong.
Before long George joins me. He is sad and reflective, with a sadness of beauty, not of regret. He looks at the moon, the stars. He confides, how stupid is the party, any party, compared with the loveliness of the night. The silence that is a universal gift—how few of us enjoy it. Perhaps because it cannot be bought. Rich men buy noise. Souls revel in nature's silences. They cannot be denied those who seek them.