The intolerable nervous strain of these walks on the hillside was accompanied by a mental strain almost as distressing.  It would have been bad enough if one’s only responsibility had been to keep Mr. Pulitzer from being crushed against the hillside, or being run over; but this was only half the problem.  The other half was to keep up a continual stream of conversation—­not light, airy nothings, but a solid body of carefully prepared facts—­in a tone of voice which should fail to convey to J. P. the slightest indication of your nervousness.

When we walked on the plage at Mentone, the difficulties were of another kind.  Here there was always more or less of a crowd, and as the paved promenade was narrow, and as very few people had the intelligence to realize that the tall, striking figure leaning on his companion’s arm was that of a blind man, and as fewer still had the courtesy to step aside if they did realize it, our walk was a constant dodging in and out among curious gazers interested in staring at the gaunt, impressive invalid with the large black spectacles.

Conversation was, of course, extremely difficult under such circumstances; and occasionally things were made worse by some stranger stopping squarely in front of us and addressing Mr. Pulitzer by name, for he was a notable personage in the place and was well known by sight.

When accosted in this manner, Mr. Pulitzer always showed signs of extreme nervousness.  He would stamp his foot, raise the clenched fist of his disengaged arm menacingly, and cry, “My God!  What’s this?  What’s this?  Tell him to go away.  I won’t tolerate this intrusion.  Tell him I’ll have him arrested.”

More than once I had to push a man off the promenade and make faces at him embodying all that was possible by such means in the way of threats to do him bodily injury.  It was impossible to argue with these impudent intruders, because anything like an altercation on a public road would have meant two or three days of misery for Mr. Pulitzer, in consequence of the excitement and apprehension he would suffer in such an affair.  It was always with a feeling of intense relief that I saw J. P. safely back at the villa after our walks.

Although Mr. Pulitzer’s intellectual interests covered almost every phase of human life, there was nothing from which he derived more pleasure than from music.  Once, or perhaps twice a week, he motored over to Monte Carlo, or even as far as Nice, to attend a concert.  On such occasions he always took at least two companions with him, so that he never sat next to a stranger.

He preferred a box for his party, but, failing that, the seats were always secured on the broad cross-aisle, so that he would not have to rise when anyone wished to pass in front of him.  He liked to arrive a few minutes before the concert commenced, and one of us would read the program to him.  He had an excellent memory for music, and his taste was broad enough to embrace almost everything good from Bach to Wagner.  He was a keen critic of a performance, and in the intervals between the pieces he criticized the playing from the standpoint of his musical experience.