Paxton's War Read Free Page A

seeing the rest of Europe, and for the last several months have been traveling and absorbing the sights. Autumn here is incredibly beautiful. The colors are magnificent, and as one sits a fine horse alone at the crack of day and watches the sun sparkle on the frost and bring the rainbow palette of the landscape to flaming life, one can only revel in life. For one glorious week, my companions and I stalked the nimble chamois, a deerlike creature of the mountains here. How good it felt to be outdoors and at one with nature again! As important and as glorious as music is, I must never forget that part of me that loved to tramp the woods, to scale cliffs and swing from ropes, to ride and hunt and shoot. Before art, there was the struggle to survive, and though I believe art to be the crowning glory of mankind, I also believe that the man who lives for art and art alone, and expects the harsh realities of life to somehow take care of themselves, is, no matter what his achievements, only half a man.
    Philosophy aside, I must report that the art is glorious. There is a whole universe of painting and sculpture here that Americans can only imagine. And the music? Ah, the music! In Salzburg, I sat in a chamber surrounded by cherubim of glittering gold and listened to concerti written and performed on pianoforte, that most marvelous of modern inventions, by a man, I’m ashamed to say, younger than myself. His name is Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, and if I tell you that his genius for technical perfection and lofty elevation of sentiment exceeds even the great Bach, I exaggerate not in the least.
    In Vienna, I was privileged to hear the divertimenti of Josef Haydn, Mozart’s teacher, a strangely introverted man whose work rivals the ethereal joys of his extraordinary student.
    I’ve now reached my destination. I write you from Emilia, a section of the Italian peninsula wedged between Bologna and Milan. I’m in the city of Parma, at the Conservatorio di Musica, where, with the gracious help of my Charleston patrons Robin Courtenay and Piero Sebastiano Ponti, doors and opportunities have been opened to me. I’m studying composition with the masters of opera seria and opera buffa while also spending much time in the nearby city of Cremona, where the sons of Antonio Stradavari craft violins, the sweet sounds of which fill my eyes with tears.
    Yet amid such lovely and lofty strands, why is my heart so heavy? For days a fog has covered this mysterious city. This morning is bitterly cold and uncomfortably humid, and how I long for the fragrance of magnolia! These years away from home seem an eternity. I’ve been living a long, beautiful dream, but one that soon must come to an end. I can escape no longer. I’ve arranged passage back to America. Look for me in the spring, Colleen.
    My various motives can and will be explained later. Suffice it to say that I’m not unaware of the terrible ways in which my homeland has suffered. From afar, I’ve felt the pain inflicted from every quarter. Even the sublime genius of Herr Mozart cannot assuage my pain. I’ve learned that though I dearly love the music of this ancient continent, there is an even deeper love within my soul … for the place of my birth.
    Your letters and lines of poesy, my loyal friend, have been of comfort to me, and I only wish I could have found the time to write more often. This will have to be my final word to you before we see one another again in Brandborough. Please convey my regards to your distinguished father and your kind aunt.
    With sincere affection, I am your friend, Jason Behan Paxton
    Sincere affection! Loyal friend! Why not love? she wondered. Why not passion? Of course he couldn’t be expected to include such words. She was glad that he had responded at all. And naturally she was overjoyed that he was actually coming home. She thought back over their long separation. He had written only three letters in four years, and each