The Lone Pilgrim by Laurie Colwin Page A

hand me my Italian dictionary?” he said. “It’s in my jacket pocket.”
    As he wrote he leaned closer to me. From time to time he looked at me and smiled as if we were soul mates.
    The little candle flickered on the crypt. I looked over his shoulder and with the remnants of my college Italian I could make out:
    Dear One:
    This is a beautiful moment in my life. I am so close to you I do not have to count the hours until we are together. We are as near as two people ever were. Each breath I take is yours. These moments are printed on my heart forever.

A Girl Skating
    I grew up in the shadow of a great man—James Honnimer, the famous American poet. My family lived on a college campus, and Honnimer was its sensation. His classes had to be divided into sections; his readings caused traffic jams on the local roads. When he came back from collecting the awards he was always winning, the receptions in his honor were held in the chapel, since no one’s house was big enough. When he played tennis, his court was lined with students who loved to watch their hero sweat like other men; and when he went off campus, you could feel the change—something stopped happening.
    When I was young, Honnimer was always on hand as the birthday-party entertainment. He loved a gathering of children—especially the bright offspring of his academic colleagues. If the fathers would not let themselves be made fools of, Honnimer would. He got down on all fours and growled like a bear. He let children ride on his back, and he swung them in his arms until their heads almost touched the ceiling. He could imitate the standard barnyard animals, and he could trumpet like an elephant. He taught children how to hang from doorjambs by their fingertips. Most of all, he liked to make up stories. At any birthday party, you could find him on the couch, surrounded by children, whose feet barely cleared the seat cushions. His children’s books started out as stories told at these parties, and after they were published, he read from them aloud and showed the pictures. I hated him.
    I was the only child of two professors. My father taught advanced mathematics; he was Honnimer’s chess partner. My mother taught botany, and she supplied Honnimer with the Latin names of flowers that he used in his poems. We were a quiet family. Honnimer mistook that quietude for sadness; his poems indicate that he thought we were sad. So into our house he brought noise: large gestures, fierce opinions, his big laugh. My parents, who were extremely fond of him, did not mind having their peace disturbed in this way, and the calmness of their lives seemed to soothe him. They were not silent people, but they had the tidy, orderly habits of scientists. Their colleagues encouraged their own children to display emotions, lest they suffer from repression in later life. My parents would not have minded a demonstrative child, but I was not one. I was a tidy, orderly child.
    The stories I was read as a little girl that impressed me most were stories about Indian children, who did not cry when they were hurt. Instead, they were brave and fleet, and learned to make useful implements out of willow twigs. I was let loose to wander in the woods and pastures that bordered the campus, where I spent as much time as possible practicing to be an Indian.
    My parents were bookish, and so was I, but they taught me all the other things they had loved as children. I learned to swim, fish, and sail. On weekends, my mother took me bird walking; and when I could read and write, my parents presented me with a pair of child’s field glasses and a notebook in which to start my life list. Honnimer knew all this and found it enchanting.
    I was the child he loved best, and there was no escaping him. When he read to a group of children, I was the one he read for. I never sat on the couch with him, but in my own chair or on the floor in the corner. When he came to the house, he tried to