Essays on Life 



Beatrice's name is Towler ; she is waitress at 

 a small inn in German Switzerland. I used 

 to sit at my window and hear people call 

 " Towler, Towler, Towler," fifty times in a 

 forenoon. She was the exact antithesis to 

 Abra ; Abra, if I remember, used to come 

 before they called her name, but no matter 

 how often they called Towler, every one came 

 before she did. I suppose they spelt her name 

 Taula, but to me it sounded Towler ; I never, 

 however, met any one else with this name. 

 She was a sweet, artless little hussy, who 

 made me play the piano to her, and she said 

 it was lovely. Of course I only played my 

 own compositions; so I believed her, and it 

 all went off very nicely. I thought it might 

 save trouble if I did not tell her who she 

 really was, so I said nothing about it. 



I met Socrates once. He was my muleteer 

 on an excursion which I will not name, for 

 fear it should identify the man. The moment 

 I saw my guide I knew he was somebody, 

 but for the life of me I could not remember 

 who. All of a sudden it flashed across me 



that he was Socrates. He talked enough for 



28 



