My One Friend [Hannaford's letter began]: You have many friends,
and that is as it should be, but I have only one human being dear
enough to be called by the good name of "friend": _You._ And that's
why I am writing you now. There's nobody else I care to write to;
but somehow I want you to know that I haven't got a very long lease
of life. Doctors tell me this. My heart isn't much good for the
ordinary everyday uses a man wants to put his heart to, and soon it
may decide to strike work. I feel sure this verdict is a true one,
but I wouldn't bother you with my presentiments if it weren't for a
certain thing which concerns your future. I may wake up dead--as
the Irishman remarked--any morning, and I want you to have whatever
is mine to leave behind me. You mustn't object to this, for it's
the one thought that gives me pleasure; and honestly there's no one
else to whom I can bequeath my worldly goods. All I have worth
giving is the Chateau Lontana and just enough money to make it
habitable. I am writing this letter there, on the loggia I told you
about. I used to wish it could be arranged for you to come and see
my big new toy. I was pretty sure you would like it, for I
felt--though you never told me so--that you cared a great deal for
beautiful and romantic things.
The Chateau Lontana in its poetic wilderness of garden is both
romantic and beautiful.
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