beard, most
swiftly and astonishingly disposed of at times only to be regrown at
others, and always, and intentionally, I am sure, most amusing to
contemplate. In addition to all this he had an air of well-being, force
and alertness which belied the other surface characteristics as anything
more than a genial pose or bit of idle gayety.

Plainly he took himself seriously and yet lightly, usually with an air
of suppressed gayety, as though saying, "This whole business of living
is a great joke." He always wore good and yet exceedingly mussy clothes,
at times bespattered with ink or, worse yet, even soup--an amazing
grotesquery that was the dismay of all who knew him, friends and
relatives especially. In addition he was nearly always liberally
besprinkled with tobacco dust, the source of which he used in all forms:
in pipe, cigar and plug, even cigarettes when he could obtain nothing
more substantial. One of the things about him which most impressed me at
that time and later was this love of the ridiculous or the grotesque, in
himself or others, which would not let him take anything in a dull or
conventional mood, would not even permit him to appear normal at times
but urged him on to all sorts of nonsense, in an effort, I suppose, to
entertain himself and make life seem less commonplace.

And yet he loved life, in all its multiform and multiplex aspects and
with no desire or tendency to sniff, reform or improve anything. It was
good just as he found it, excellent. Life to Peter was indeed so
splendid that he was always very much wrought up about it, eager to
live, to study, to do a thousand things. For him it was a workshop for
the artist, the thinker, as well as the mere grubber, and without really
criticizing any one he was "for" the individual who is able to
understand, to portray or to create life, either feelingly and
artistically or with accuracy and discrimination. To him, as I saw then
and see even more clearly now, there was no high and no low. All things
were only relatively so. A thief was a thief, but he had his place.
Ditto the murderer. Ditto the saint. Not man but Nature was planning, or
at least doing, something which man could not understand, of which very
likely he was a mere tool. Peter was as much thrilled and entendered by
the brawling strumpet in the street or the bagnio as by the virgin with
her starry crown. The rich were rich and the poor poor, but all were in
the grip of imperial forces whose