the san francisco mountain lies in northern arizona, above flagstaff, and its blue slopes and snowy summit entice the eye for a hundred miles across the desert. about its base lie the pine forests of the navajos, where the great red-trunked trees live out their peaceful centuries in that sparkling air. the piñons and scrub begin only where the forest ends, where the country breaks into open, stony clearings and the surface of the earth cracks into deep canyons. the great pines stand at a considerable distance from each other. each tree grows alone, murmurs alone, thinks alone. they do not intrude upon each other. the navajos are not much in the habit of giving or of asking help. their language is not a communicative one, and they never attempt an interchange of personality in speech. over their forests there is the same inexorable reserve. each tree has its exalted power to bear.
that was the first thing thea kronborg felt about the forest, as she drove through it one may morning in henry biltmer’s democrat wagon—and it was the first great forest she had ever seen. she had got off the train at flagstaff that morning, rolled off into the high, chill air when all the pines on the mountain were fired by sunrise, so that she seemed to fall from sleep directly into the forest.
old biltmer followed a faint wagon trail which ran southeast, and which, as they traveled, continually dipped lower, falling away from the high plateau on the slope of which flagstaff sits. the white peak of the mountain, the snow gorges above the timber, now disappeared from time to time as the road dropped and dropped, and the forest closed behind the wagon. more than the mountain disappeared as the forest closed thus. thea seemed to be taking very little through the wood with her. the personality of which she was so tired seemed to let go of her. the high, sparkling air drank it up like blotting-paper. it was lost in the thrilling blue of the new sky and the song of the thin wind in the piñons. the old, fretted lines which marked one off, which defined her,—made her thea kronborg, bowers’s accompanist, a soprano with a faulty middle voice,—were all erased.
so far she had failed. her two years in chicago had not resulted in anything. she had failed with harsanyi, and she had made no great progress with her voice. she had come to believe that whatever bowers had taught her was of secondary importance, and that in the essential things she had made no advance. her student life closed behind her, like the forest, and she doubted whether she could go back to it if she tried. probably she would teach music in little country towns all her life. failure was not so tragic as she would have supposed; she was tired enough not to care.
she was getting back to the earliest sources of gladness that she could remember. she had loved the sun, and the brilliant solitudes of sand and sun, long before these other things had come along to fasten themselves upon her and torment her. that night, when she clambered into her big german feather bed, she felt completely released from the enslaving desire to get on in the world. darkness had once again the sweet wonder that it had in childhood.
