A. D. TO POLLY
My Easter greetings to you, dear Polly; I hope they may come in time.
I have been desolate since you left Rome, and am looking forward
eagerly to seeing you next Sunday at Sorrento. As I passed your
Palazzo, I glanced up and saw the flowers nodding their heads above
the walls of your terrace, and I met the Prince wandering about
outside, appearing decidedly forlorn, poor devil. I fear you treated
him badly. I felt more than a little forlorn myself thinking of you so
many miles away.
I went up with a picnic party among the Alban mountains today, first
to Frascati, then, after déjeuner, we climbed to the ancient city of
Tusculum, and the view was glorious. Way, way off lay Rome and the
great dome of St. Peter’s, and near it, I knew, was your Palazzo.
POLLY TO A. D.
We’ve been driving about all day, and have seen such a lot of people
we know at the hotel. Oh, isn’t it lovely here! And it will be even
nicer when you arrive. Of course you know Sorrento well. It’s very
fascinating to me,—the white oriental villas, the peacock blue of the
sea, and the gray-green olive orchards. We wanted to buy some olives,
but what do you suppose the storekeeper said?
“We have none.”
“But I thought this was the land of olives!”
“We have none,” he repeated. “Ship olives to Park and Tilford, New
York.”
When you come, I am going to take you over to Naples to see an
octopus. I know he was once a faithless lover, and has been changed
into a many-armed, flesh-colored monster by a water-siren whom he
failed to adore properly. Here he is, now, doomed to move forever in a
house of glass where humans come and point their finger at him.
So beware! Such is the wrath of—sirens.
At night we go out on the balcony to listen to some gay Neapolitan
songs sung by a handsome, dark-eyed fellow. He looks like the black
and frowzy-headed Peppi. Aunt threw him a handful of lire for that
reason, I believe. Then we watch the brightly-dressed peasants dance
the tarantella—I have bought some castenets, so when you get here,
I’ll dance for you!
You write of a picnic at Frascati. Was it as nice as ours?—when you
and round-faced Pan went, and the Prince, and lanky Jan, the Dutch
Secretary, and my friend Sybil with her straight black hair and her
flirtatious dark blue eyes? How we enjoyed the yellow wine, and
gobbled our sandwiches under the trees and told naughty stories and
sang lively songs. And on the way back wandered down that lovely
avenue of ilexes hand in hand!
Checkers wishes me to say he would give all his old boots to see you.
Aunt wants me to thank you for the photograph you sent her, ahem!
Please do not get spoiled if I add that I think you are very
good-looking.
A. D. TO POLLY
I am coming to brave the wrath of one little siren tomorrow.
POLLY TO A. D.
You have only just this minute gone. I wonder if you are thinking of
me—I don’t believe you are. I shall treasure the pretty gold pen you
gave me, to write you with. I am christening it now. Aunt calls me
Pliny—she says I write so much that she is sure I indite my letters
from the bath.
Will you hear my lesson? Although I have not been out of school very
long I find I have forgotten a lot and I have really enjoyed reading
about the very early days of Rome, of the Etruscan lords, the raids of
the Sabines and the Celts, and the sack of Rome by the Gauls, the
starting of the republic with the plebs and patricians, about
Hannibal, the Punic wars, and the Macedonian wars, and all kinds of
wars.
Checkers was tickled to death with my anonymous letter signed “Brown
Eyes.” He didn’t say a word, but has smiled ever since receiving it.
All women, he declares, are devils. I notice, however, like the
sailors, he discovers a pretty girl in every port. He’s as fickle,
looking this way and that, as a blade of grass in a high wind. I just
wrote some more nonsense, supposed to be from an Italian girl who had
seen him on the street and had fallen in love with the handsome
American boy. I wish he would fall in love with Sybil, however, but
they are such good friends that I do not so far see a glimmer of hope.
Now I am going to bed, but instead of dreaming of something pleasant,
for instance of you, I shall be wide awake and my head buzzing with
history and dates,—Goths taking the city of Florence,—where we go
tomorrow,—the visit of Charlemagne and the story of the Countess
Mathilde who ruled for over forty years, of endless feuds and battles
and Guelphs and Ghibellines of long ago. Now perhaps I can go to
sleep, having written you all this, and if you don’t remember your
history, you had better read it up.
As one of Checkers’ numerous girls once declared, “You are so
fascinating I can’t stop I writing!” This must be my case for here is
a very long letter. I wish we could stop in Rome on the way north, but
shall expect you for over Sunday in Florence.
A. D. TO POLLY
I feel lost and strange and don’t know what to do without you. Only
yesterday we were driving together in Florence across the river, up
the hillside, to that little church high above the valley where we had
our photographs taken together beneath the gnarled cypress. Then we
came rattling down the zigzag roadway, past the fruit trees in
blossom, and had tea and chocolate and beer, each according to his
taste, at the pastry cook’s, and then went back to the hotel and stood
on the little balcony, looking over the gleaming river Arno, and
beyond to the setting sun.
This pin I enclose for you—a baby Leo, a little relative of the Lion
of St. Mark’s, which you should be wearing, now that you will soon be
in Venice. I bought it today in a little shop as I was toiling up
toward the Pincian, where I listened to the music and watched the
people and the carriages go round and round. Groups of red-robed
Bavarian student priests and straggling bands of monks, brown-cowled,
with sandaled feet and ropes of rattling beads about their waists, and
children, rolling hoops so merrily.
Here, we are smothered in flowers, great baskets full on the streets
for sale, crimson and gold-colored, and the Campagna outside the wall
has its patches of poppies and cornflowers. Spring is very lovely in
Rome, but the season is fast coming to an end.
The garden party late this afternoon at the Spanish Embassy in the
Palazzo Barberini was quite fine,—the Palazzo itself is so glorious!
And the approach up the great staircase through the vast antecamera,
through the salons, and across the bridge into the gardens is
splendidly impressive! It was gay with bright dresses, and a military
band played dance music, though no one danced.
I recollect how you loved the place, but the garden was too damp to
stop in, so I made a circuit, then went back into the house where I
lost the little ghost that had walked with me among the flowers.
The Prince, Gonzaga and I traced our way to the buffet and drank a
glass of champagne together. Gonzaga was as lively as ever, but the
Prince still looks a bit gloomy.
And now for a confession. I have been to Signor Rossi’s studio and
asked for a photograph of his drawing of you. Do you mind? For I want
it very much. After this long letter, now who is fascinating?
POLLY TO A. D.
Yes, A. D. dear, I, too, am thinking of the balcony and the sunset
and everything connected with your visit here. I have ever so many
enchanting memories of Florence to carry away in my brain, so that in
time to come, they can be taken from out their gray cells in quiet
moments when I am by myself. Especially that stroll through the
Cascine gardens and into the park, where, in its wild hidden places,
we sat and talked,—the warm sunshine streaming through the trees and
the flowers springing up in the grass under our feet. And how
magnificent the Boboli gardens were, their arcades and statues peeping
from the hedges, and the long walk with its splendid vista looking out
beyond the Palace. Then our excursion to Fiesole, breakfast at the
little osteria, and shall you ever forget how we climbed up to the
monastery and walked bravely in, where women had no business, and when
the monks saw me, how they scuttled away, hiding their faces in
their sleeves!
But, by jinks, this sounds terribly like sentimentalizing! I will stop
at once and be prim and proper.
So you have forgotten what I look like? And have to go to Rossi to
get a photograph! Is it true, I wonder?—“L’amour fait passer le
temps; le temps fait passer l’amour!” How I wish I could have looked
in at the Spanish Embassy—to me, the Palazzo and the garden are just
bits out of the fairy tales of my childhood.
Many, many thanks for St. Mark’s little gold cousin of a lion. He is a
dear and I am now wearing him on my chain. I shall look for you next
Sunday in Venice.
A. D. TO POLLY
It seems very long since you went away, dear Polly, although it was
only the day before yesterday that you left. This morning I went into
St. Mark’s and sat at the foot of one of the great pillars, trying to
imagine that you and I were there together, and that the great iron
shutters were rolled out, and we were seeing again that glorious
golden screen set with onyx and aquamarine.
As I write I can hear the water of the Grand Canal gently lapping the
little terrace of the hotel, and the ripple and plash from a gondola
going past, and the cry of the boatmen. When I look out of the window
I see the saffron sails, patched and tipped with red and brown, or
lemon yellow pointed with faded blue, that come sailing home in the
late afternoon. Soon I shall venture forth by the little back
passages, along the streets, crossing the arching bridges, beneath the
loggia and then finally enter the piazza of St. Mark’s, so gorgeous in
color, as lovely as anything in the world.
Last night I tried to jolly myself by asking my colleague Charlton of
the British Embassy, who has come up here for a day or two, to dinner,
but he must have found me poor company, for my thoughts were in the
train going North with you. Later we took to the water, but—tell your
aunt that she may know I have reformed—I was home by eleven o’clock,
quite tired out.
There was a fête on the Grand Canal. A beautifully decorated barge
came gliding down with singers on board, while hundreds of gondolas
clustered about, and Bengal fires burned all along the terraces. It
was wonderfully weird and fairylike.
Out in the open water the “Stephanie” was illuminated, preparing to
start out at midnight, and the passengers were hanging over the rail
listening to a boatload of serenaders, as they did the evening we
paddled near and watched and listened. But your rooms at the hotel
were empty and as I looked up at them, there was no light nor anyone
standing on the balcony, and I realized how far away you had gone. I
hope you are safe and happy; I pray so.
The pocket case you gave me, dear Polly, is the handsomest in the
world. I have been flourishing it about a great deal to pay, or rather
overpay, gondoliers. I wish to recall the past days as vividly as
possible and so I have been making alone the excursions that we made
together. And it is funny, but I still draw ancient gondoliers, just
as we did.
POLLY TO A. D.
What a heavenly night we had in Venice out in that gondola when we
stuck on the sand-bar and didn’t care at all, we were so happy. It got
later and later and the moon went down and not until the tide rose in
the early morning did we float away. When we arrived at the hotel, oh,
but wasn’t Aunt angry? She didn’t believe one word we said! I don’t
think she believes our story even now! She suddenly declared tickets
had been bought for the Wagner operas and that we must start the next
day. I never heard of those tickets before! Evidently she still wants
me to marry the Prince and does not approve of my flirting with you.
Even so, I am going to be good to you, for you were good to me in
Venice. I feel pretty blue now that those happy days are gone, and I
wouldn’t part with a memory,—from the merry-go-round at the Lido to
the sand-bar!
But I shall never hear the end of that evening. And I know that’s why
Aunt hurried us all to Bayreuth. Checkers has been making up naughty
verses about the sand-bar, but I shan’t repeat them to you! I doze off
at night thinking about the gondola, the serenades, the moon, the
funny old boatman who was so sleepy,—it was all like a bit out of
fairyland, my fairyland. And now I have waked up and found myself in a
bustling little German town, my fairyland vanished, and my fairy
prince gone!
A. D. TO POLLY
As we glided into the station yesterday (the last time, I had gone to
the station with you!) shoals of little urchins were swimming in the
water and tumbling in such comical ways that even Gilet couldn’t
retain his gravity and burst out laughing as the small rascals went
splashing and diving into the canal. Too soon we reached the station,
too soon the train ran out across the trestles, and too soon Venice
faded in the offing.
Friends came to meet me (the Consul General was the first to greet me
in Rome this morning), and all must think yours truly mad or in love,
for I am so excited and enthusiastic over my holiday. Do you know, it
is just a week since we came back from the Lido together, skirting the
lovely panorama of the city rising from the sea, when we had so much
to say to each other and a great happiness settled down upon me.
Write to me soon, dear, and tell me what you enjoyed most in Venice.
POLLY TO A. D.
Such a heavenly day! Aunt and I are sitting on the balcony and
resting. The opera begins tomorrow. Most of the people are in church
and the street is quite quiet, and empty save for a few pretty peasant
girls in gay colors walking the streets. Lots of things have happened
since I last wrote; we drove over to a fair in a little town yesterday
which was very amusing,—cows and pigs, boots, pipes, and all kinds of
things for sale. Then we went into a little inn and had beer and
danced with the peasants. It was lively, but rather different from my
last ball at the American Embassy after the big dinner served on
silver and gold plates, and dancing with “Dips” and princes.
Aunt, my dear old cart-horse, tired me all out in Venice. She
instructed me properly like a well-brought-up American girl, and took
me about sightseeing with the Red Book in her hand, every minute you
were not there, into all the old churches until I feel I never want to
go to a sanctuary again.
You ask me what I liked best in Venice. Well! After you, sir, perhaps
the marvelous bronze horses. I never got tired of looking at them, the
most perfect ones in the world, and I adore horses. Did you know they
were first known to have crowned one of the triumphal arches in Rome?
They journeyed to Constantinople in the time of Constantine for the
Hippodrome, but Doge Enrico Dandolo brought them back to Venice when
he conquered Constantinople in 1204. But this was not all. Napoleon
wished them for his Arch in the Place du Carrousel and not until 1815
were they returned to San Marco by Francis I of Austria, to whose
portion Venice fell in the settlement. Now can you say the
humming-bird has not been sucking wisdom instead of sugar from the
flowers of Venice! And next best, perhaps, I enjoyed the paintings,
especially the auburn-haired Tintorettos, because Aunt too, has just
such beautiful hair.
A. D. TO POLLY
Jonkheer Jan has had a house warming in his new apartment in the top
of the huge Falconieri Palace, hanging high above the Tiber, with the
Farnesina opposite and the Janiculum, and the city far below. He has a
sunny terrace with the plants already climbing up a trellis and a
little set of rooms which he is beginning to furnish. Today several
congenial souls met up there for tea and music, and then looked out
over the city and the river which lay mapped out below us. He was
quite devoted to our blue-eyed Sybil.
I went yesterday to the Piazza del Quirinale to see the royal
processions come out of the palace and had a fine coign of vantage.
The fanfare blew and the soldiers presented arms, the cortège issued
out beneath the gate and slowly moved across the square and round the
corner out of sight. It was the day when the new Parliament was to be
inaugurated and the King and Queen were to go in state to open the
session, and the Ambassadors and Ministers had to attend in uniform.
There were outriders and cuirassiers and great gilded carriages of
state with lacqueys hanging on behind, and they made a fine show. The
music was gay and joyous, and the sun was shining brightly, but within
an hour it was raining in torrents and the return procession was
through a downpour. But by that time I had sought the protection which
the Embassy grants and was hard at work.
An American Admiral has come to Rome for a few days, leaving his
flagship at Naples. He wishes to be presented to the King and Queen
and so among other things I am busy about that. Last evening I went
over to see him and took him and his flag lieutenant, with whom I at
once struck up a great friendship, to Count L.’s reception in his
palace which lies low beneath the embankment of the river. Through
the courtyard we went, and up the stairway, into the suffocating
rooms, with little knicknacks about by the dozen, all in a mad
confusion. I tried to make the officers enjoy themselves and
introduced them to some girls. When it became too stiflingly crowded,
I steered them away, added dear old Rossi with his genial smile to the
party, and we went to a birreria in the Capo le Casé and had some
wiener wursts and beer; while we were there the Prince came in and the
German Counsellor of Embassy, and we all sat together some time. Then
through the moonlit streets we drove home.
A. D. TO POLLY
What, mademoiselle, do you think was one of the things which happened
after my return here from Venice? The Prince dropped in to see me, and
running after him came a messenger who handed him a letter—a letter
from you, my lady!—and I can tell you that although I was happy to
see your handwriting, it made me jump a bit and feel queer to think
it was from you and to him, and not to me. I had to sit tight for a
little while and say nothing.
But later came the missive I had looked for, the letter for me, dear
Pollykins, and I can tell you I read it eagerly and tried to make it
longer by going over it again. But no matter how many times I read it,
it is too short. Your letters will never be long enough, though they
be miles in length!
The Prince suggested an expedition—an ill-fated one—to Asturia.
Claiming to know the road, he captained it for a while. The affair
proved full of incident. The carriage got stalled in a bog, and one of
the horses literally pulled himself out of the rotten old harness. My
handkerchief and other parts of my attire were used to repair the
break. The Prince, in the middle of it all, calmly said he was tired
of the whole thing. So off he walked, leaving poor Charlton and me to
our fate.
I had almost to lift the team out of the frightful place we sank into,
and to keep encouraging the horses. Meanwhile, the winds from the
Pontine Marshes came blowing over toward us, and even some of the
flowers we picked were said by a passing fisherman to be very
poisonous. The sun was going down and finally it set, and the
interminable sands were still before us. I wrapped up in a newspaper
to keep warm, making a hole in a copy of the Daily Chronicle, and
putting my head through and wearing it like a cape, for I didn’t want
to be chilled after the terrific efforts of the afternoon. Finally we
reached home.
But the extraordinary thing is that Boris didn’t seem to be a bit
ashamed of his desertion, after having persuaded us off the road
because he “knew a short cut,” and leaving us in that unspeakable
pickle. He only chuckled over it. I half believe it was the reception
of your letter that made him so unaccountable. I can’t think he was
playing a trick on me. Anyway, I have begun to dislike him.
Bayreuth I am sure you are enjoying. I always think over my visits
there with great pleasure. Years afterward you will find yourself
vividly remembering that wonderful stage setting, and the sound of
that grand elevating music, rising, falling, in those glorious
harmonies. It will be unforgettable.
POLLY TO A. D.
I have only a minute to write, as I must hurry and read “Siegfried,”
which is to be given this afternoon. Yesterday it was “The Valkyrie,”
which seemed endless,—I had seen it before, in Paris. But “The
Rhinegold” was simply beautiful. I am enjoying every minute of my stay
and only wish you could be here, too.
What a funny world this is! Speaking of Princes and one Prince in
particular, I will give you a little wish: “May the devil cut the toes
of all your foes, that you may know them by their limping!” Where do
you suppose we are going next? Not into a bog with Boris, you may be
sure. I don’t believe you can guess. Well! We start off tomorrow and
go to Baden Baden, then to the Hague, then England, end up in Paris.
A. D. TO POLLY
It is a fête day in Rome, and a grand review of the troops was held
by the King. About half-past six the regimental bands began to pass up
the Via Venti Settembre. I enjoyed the lively airs which I could
faintly hear from far away, growing louder and louder till under my
very window there was a great burst of melody, mingled with the swash
of marching feet, which went by and became fainter in the distance
again. The review was in the Piazza dell’Indipendenza and a large
holiday crowd had gathered there. The King came with a big staff, the
Queen in semi-state, in a carriage with corazzieri. There were not
many troops, but I always like to see the carabinieri with their
three-cornered hats and tail coats and crossed belts. The
bersaglieri, too, are amusing and exciting, going on the run,
trailing their guns, with their fluttering cock-feather hats, and
their fanfare in front tooting a gay quickstep.
The Corso, also, was crowded with a procession of bare-headed
contadini in carriages with banners, the prizes won lately at the
festival of the Divina Amore. The cathedrals were thronged, the
doors hung with crimson and gold curtains, and within, hundreds of
candles burning. Little girls in their confirmation dresses walked in
procession, the proud parents following. It was all really very gay.
The Ambassador who has been away the past week, returned, and we made
a long excursion to Bracciano, the small town on a rock jutting into
the lake. The great castle, once the stronghold of the Orsini, but now
belonging to Prince Odescalchi, rises high above the village.
We had brought our luncheon and champagne, and had it served in the
dining hall of the château. It was a very jolly luncheon and a good
one. Then, after a rest, we climbed over the castello, up into the
battlements and towers, and looked down at the vineyards and the lake
far below us, and out over the chestnut-wooded mountains which stretch
away to the northward. Although Prince Odescalchi passes some time
here, and although he is very rich, yet the halls and courtyards are
crumbling into ruins.
I experienced an exciting incident since I last wrote, which, thank
God! had no terrible results. For a time, however, I felt I was
looking down on a fatal panic. A fire broke out in a crowded theatre
where I was, and I am much more moved by it now than I was at the
time, when I took the affair coolly enough, though it was really
frightful.
It was a gala night at the Opera House Costanzi, where we attended the
masked ball in the carnival season, you remember. The house was
crowded, the pit and orchestra jammed, the boxes all taken and a
ballet with gay music and dancing was being performed—when suddenly
in the molding above the top row of boxes,—I was in one with some
colleagues—there was a phit! phiz-z-z, and a blue flame shot out and
ran sputtering along the woodwork.
For a moment there was a dead stillness, and only the crackling flame
along the electric wire could be heard. Then came a horrible cry which
still rings in my ears, and it seemed as if the whole audience rose in
a mass and rushed to the exits where it struggled and swayed and
choked. The orchestra, instead of being panic-stricken and scrambling
away, played the Royal March, which could just be heard above the din
of confusion. Actors rushed to the front of the stage and tried to
stop the mad stampede. Into the empty boxes, which had cleared in a
twinkling, we rushed and hung out over the balustrade, trying to whip
out the fire with our coats.
In a few moments, some police and firemen joined us and chopped the
burning wood with axes and swords till it fell in sparks about the
orchestra. Then it was a fight until it was put out at last, and the
curtain dropped. Suddenly, again, this time nearer the proscenium,
with its wings, scenes, and flies, there was a sputter, a flash, and
the fire broke out again in a different place, evidently from the same
dangerous wire. Another moment of intense stillness, and then the
firemen rushed along the gallery a second time and whipped and beat
out the flames. The curtain rolled slowly up, showing the great stage
with the ballet only half-dressed, looking anxiously about. The actors
pluckily tried to continue the performance; a few people stayed, but
we scarcely felt in the humor for our coats were scorched and our
hands black. There were no terrible results, but it might have been so
frightful, and the glimpse of the possibility has made me realize the
terror of such a catastrophe.
I have been dining with Prince Boris lately; we do not speak of you,
he, because he dares not, I, because I will not. I would rather think
of you silently.
The heat is becoming intense and I’ve not been feeling very well
lately.
A. D. TO POLLY
This evening the Girandola came off—or rather, went off, for it was
all fireworks, and very fine. The tribunes in the Piazza del Popolo
were crowded, and two bands of music played in the thronged square. It
was an astonishing sight when unexpectedly a powerful searchlight was
turned on, illuminating a sea of upturned faces.
As we sat waiting, a rocket went up over the sky from the Quirinal
Palace as a signal that the Royal Party had started. In a little while
another told that they were approaching; in a moment more Their
Majesties arrived in the royal box, the band played, bombs exploded
in a salute, and a thousand Roman candles shot up in the black night
and burst into a million stars. Soon there was a fizzing, and
gradually the gleaming outline of a huge cathedral, which they say can
be seen far out on the Campagna, was revealed. This is a design
retained from Papal days. All sorts of serpents and wheels and golden
rains followed. Then suddenly a fiery dart went hissing above the
heads of the people and smashed against a great column in the centre
of the square, flying into a dozen pieces, each of which ran on wires
to a corner of the piazza, and set off the Bengal lights.
And so the celebration ended in the midst of a great red glow. The
crowds went away in their thousands, down the Babuino, the Corso, the
Ripetta, and the huge searchlights were directed along each of these
streets, making them bright as day while the people moved along. But
Polly, perhaps like Mr. Dooley you think that “th’ doings iv a king
ain’t anny more interestin’ than th’ doings iv a plumber or a baseball
player.”
POLLY TO A. D.
“I love you just as much as ever, dearest A. D.—Do you love me? Will
you be mine?” Checkers is dictating, so don’t be alarmed!
What a terrible fire that was! I am sure you were the hero of the
occasion. Thank heaven you were not injured!
About two weeks ago this time, you and I at the Lido were riding madly
on merry-go-rounds, seeing trained fleas, and throwing balls. Tonight
my twin and I are going to have a game. You know the old
saying—“Lucky at cards, unlucky at love.” I wonder if I shall win or
lose.
We got so desperate we asked two dreadful Americans to come up for
poker. Checkers is having even a more stupid time than I am, but he is
becoming very chummy with the proprietor, and was actually roped into
going to church, where he passed the plate with an air almost as fine
as yours!
I know he wants to send messages to you, for he often says, “Well, I
really am going to write to A. D. today.” Whether these letters ever
get off or not I do not know.
The other evening, however, was quite amusing, as the beer garden was
full of people, and there was a handsome Italian whom I thought I was
falling in love with; he gave a fascinating bicycle performance. I
bought his photograph, but after talking with him, I decided I did not
like him at all, and threw the picture away.
Signor Peppi is with us, as you know, and Aunt is happy. If they
aren’t engaged now, I think they will be soon. We all went to ride on
horseback today and came home nearly dead, though P. was plucky and
stuck it out. It is so nice to get on a horse again, you can’t imagine
how I enjoy it. I think it is next best to a gondola and a sand-bank.
I am sending you, by the way, a little silver gondola with my love.
P. S. Is there any news from Don Carlo in South Africa? Did the
gardener’s daughter follow him? And my little Spaniard, Gonzaga, how
is he?
A. D. TO POLLY
Here I am at Monte Catini for a cure. The gods were good to me today,
little Polly, indeed they were, for I received a silver gondola and
oh, I am so happy! It is the prettiest little toy in the world, and a
reminder of the most wonderful evening ever spent. It shall stand on
my table before me, though I do not need anything to recall Venice and
what is always in my heart. Tell Checkers I will certainly be yours,
and I wish he would dictate oftener.
I am a little nearer to you than I was yesterday, and that of course
is what makes me feel better already. A complete cure would be to be
with you. But still, I’m not feeling very well yet, and long for you
to write often, whether you are tired, or travelling, or wish to, or
don’t!
All the way up to Florence on the train I thought of the time when you
were there, and how excited I got as I hurried up the stairs and
arrived at your rooms all out of breath,—though I hoped you wouldn’t
notice it. And this led me to thinking of the wonder of the spring in
Rome, and of the dance in the lovely Antici Mattei palace. Do you
remember how I stood keeping your place in the cotillion? Why I was
even jealous of poor Pittsburgo then, for I didn’t know he was in love
with the Italian singer. And how you came out and favored me—it was
the sweetest thing that was ever done. Meanwhile, journeying through
this age-old land, a snatch of verse goes running through my head.
“Helen’s lips are drifting dust,
Ilion is consumed with rust;
All the galleons of Greece
Drink the ocean’s dreamless peace;
Stately empires wax and wane—
Babylon, Barbary, and Spain;—
Only one thing, undefaced,
Lasts though all the worlds lie waste
And the heavens are overturned.
—Dear, how long ago we learned.”
So, thinking of you, the trip which promised to be tiresome and long,
turned into a very interesting journey. It occurred to me to stop over
at Orvieto, perched up on that great rock, jutting out of the plain, a
medieval but clean little town with very correct architecture, and of
course most famous for its cathedral, thought by some to be the most
beautiful in the world. I do not think it is, but then to me it was
chiefly a reminder, for seeing its mosaics and gorgeous façade, I
could only think of St. Mark’s, which we had visited together, and
which, accordingly, is to me the most glorious that I have ever seen.
In the sunlight of midday the church at Orvieto is brilliant but
glaring. The carvings are rich and handsome, but the mosaics are out
of place in its Gothic character. Inside are some very fine frescoes
by Signorelli, and oh, such a wonderful silver lamp!
Here I saw, too, the Podesta, and the Ospedale. The Duomo in itself is
rather insignificant, for its façade in Pisan style, with ascending
stories of little colonnades, is too small, but I liked the ancient
fortified tower, which has been turned into a campanile, with its
crown of pillared porticoes. Inside, in one of the chapels, is an
altar screen of silver, not to compare with the screen of gold and
carbuncle, aquamarine and precious stones of St. Mark’s, but with a
story in high relief of the Saviour and apostles and saints. It was
made in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries.
Just before leaving Rome, I called on the Minister of Foreign Affairs,
as our Ambassador was out of town. At these receptions the Dips are
seen at their best, with their most diplomatic manner, all meeting in
the anteroom, waiting for their turn to enter (ambassadors take
precedence), talking on anything but politics, yet smiling knowingly
as if they were bottling up most important state secrets, pretending
to be unruffled, though very excited. The time that each one remains
with the Minister of Foreign Affairs is carefully noted and commented
on.
It was amusing, for the Turkish Ambassador and the Greek Chargé smiled
and bowed and scraped in the outer room, and then went and probably
did all they could to harm each other in the private room of the
Minister. As we had nothing of importance to discuss just now, His
Excellency and I only passed compliments and assured each other of our
mutual and highest esteem and consideration, and expressed hopes that
everything would always be satisfactorily conducted and concluded
between us. As I came away, the French Chargé was disappearing
through the folding door—for an Ambassador, they would have opened
the double doors. It is mysterious to watch these disappearances into
a room where a Foreign Minister is hidden.
I dined with some Diplomats the night before I came away and it was a
sad sort of a meal. I think they’ll miss me, for each of them confides
in me about the peculiarities of the others. Really, the Prince is
behaving in a most extraordinary manner. The other night he began
running down France to a mild, new, little French Secretary—called
French women ugly, French society a sham, French institutions bosh,
and so attacked the poor astonished little gentleman at his own table
that the others had to break up the dinner and the conversation. I
can’t think what he was driving at. But whatever his faults, he is
very clever, and he and I still go to the birreria together. As a
rule, he is a most agreeable talker, which makes his outburst the
other night all the more incomprehensible.
Today is quite a fête day in Monte Catini. The contadini have been
coming down in swarms, and are standing about the crowded main square
beneath my windows, doing—nothing! But doing it so well. I really
think an Italian idles more complacently and contentedly and
picturesquely than any other mortal.
The little town is crowded with country folk celebrating the festival
of the Assumption, or the Madonna of Mid-August. The little cracked
bells of the tiny church have been tinkling and in front of the church
is a staging for a tombola. A train with excursionists and a band is
expected from Pistoja and they promise fireworks tonight.
The alleys beneath the trees are crowded with contadini wearing
bright-colored kerchiefs on their heads, the women walking three and
four abreast, while the men (what hulking, skulking, awkward creatures
men are!) come lumbering after them, and there is a great cracking of
whips and shouting as the little carts go rapidly past. It makes a
very animated scene. About midday I think they’ll disappear, though,
for it is hot and the sun is beating down, while the distant hills
stand out in this wonderful Italian atmosphere as if seen through a
telescope, so distinctly visible are the white houses glowing on their
green sides and little towns perched on their tops.
Oh, Polly dear, when I think of you, the whole world seems different
to me! With you in my heart I take a greater delight and interest in
people and things, and feel new ambitions and enjoyments, looking at
all things objectively, like a spectator at a play. You have awakened
my sympathies so that I am excited when the villain comes sneaking
between the borders, and moved when the heroine weeps, and exultant
when the hero arrives in the nick of time, and virtue triumphs. In
other words, I care more for the world because of you.
The little gondola is in front of me on the table with its saucy
silver prow cocked up in the air, and its filigree cabin hood and its
precious cargo of reminders of the happy Venetian days, for when I
left Rome, although in light marching order, I couldn’t bear to leave
it behind, so brought it along in my pocket.
I am returning to Rome but just for a day or so.
POLLY TO A. D.
What a bad, bad child I am not to write oftener—does the fascinating
Mona Lisa correspond constantly? I feel quite guilty, after receiving
so many long and interesting letters from you. Well, I am very, very
sorry that you are not well, and only wish I were with you at Monte
Catini to take care of you.
A. D., what do you think? ! ! ! I have had another proposal—this one by
letter—since I saw you. From Gonzaga; but I wrote him he had better
marry his cousin the Countess and forget me. Aunt thinks it isn’t so
fine an offer, from a worldly point of view, as the Prince’s, (he
writes Aunt frequently) and she still has hopes of my changing my mind
and accepting him. If I married G. his mother would not approve of me,
an American. She would say I was too independent and had married him
for his title. Although life as the wife of a Spanish Diplomat spent
in the different capitals of Europe would be interesting, still I know
G. would not remain true to me for more than a few months, at most.
If I married Captain Carlo, well! I would hunt on the Campagna, join
the gayest set in Rome, and continue my flirtations. I would wear the
family jewels and keep the tapestries (unless we got hard up) and be
tolerated if I presented my lord and master with a son and heir. But
then he is far away in South Africa by now.
If I should marry Prince Boris, what would my life be? Ah! that is a
question. On the whole I might get more out of life by marrying a
foreigner and living in Europe, than an American and passing my time
maybe in a small western town, who knows?
Signor Peppi leaves this afternoon for Rome, and, I fear, without
making an offer to Aunt. I want to send you something by him, but he
has already lost his boots and cane as well as his overcoat, so no
telling how much of him will arrive there. However, I will risk
sending you a little gift.
I am just full of business. Aunt says I must learn to travel, so this
is the first trip I am to manage. I have been despatching telegrams in
all directions, buying tickets, reservations, and Baedekers, and so
forth, and I hope we shall get to the Hague all right.
Are you behaving yourself these days, sir?
A. D. TO POLLY
THE DIARY OF A DAY’S DOINGS[4]
A leaflet published under the nom de plume of
“An August Daily”
(very august)
Dedicated with love to Miss Pollykins.
Was awakened at the usual hour by the faithful Gilet, and as usual
turned over and went to sleep again. Up betimes, however, and reviewed
the morning news in the Populo Romano. Breakfasted on two eggs and a
cup of coffee.
Today tried for the first time a new-fangled egg-opener, which, I
concluded, would require practice and experience before using in
public. Shall have to have another napkin for the table at luncheon
time.
Then out and to the Embassy. Found the usual assortment of mail on my
desk, desiring audiences of Queen, or Pope; loan of money, or of
anything, and proposals of marriage, to which last item I sent printed
forms of reply.
Work.
More work.
Will you subscribe to this publication, dear Polly?
POLLY TO A. D.
So you have made a flying trip to Rome, launched a daily paper, and
returned to Monte Catini. For that matter, I, too, have not been idle,
for we have had, since my last letter, a chapter of adventures,
really. You know I was going to take charge of this complicated trip.
Well! Fate was against me. We started off nicely from Baden-Baden, but
hadn’t gone far when a discussion arose with the guard as to where to
change cars. A station official settled that and hustled us into
another train. As we were feeling quite contented and having a good
snooze, we suddenly heard a great rumpus, and found our caboose had
broken down on a bridge. They flagged the Orient express which was
coming behind and hurried us out again into the dark with our bags and
put us aboard, but in the excitement Louisa, the maid, lost her
ticket.
At Strasbourg we had to change cars once more, and being late, we
simply dashed across the station with the guards flying behind and
yelling, “You have only one minute!” It really was awfully comical.
Arriving at Brussels early I had a splendid morning, seeing among
other things the Grande Place with its beautiful old buildings, and
visiting the Gallery Wiertz with all those marvellous but crazy
pictures.
Back to the train again, but alas! our troubles were not at an end.
Checkers stopped to pay the cabby and Aunt and I went into the
station. I was a little ahead with a bag in each hand when suddenly a
perfectly strange man came up and kissed me. I screamed, dropped
everything I was carrying and stared about me, only to see him run
away and look back, laughing. Did you ever hear of anything so saucy?
We got into the car somehow, but Checkers didn’t come and so we went
off without him. Aunt said someone must have cast an evil eye on us.
Such an amusing account as Checkers gave us later of his experience in
Brussels! It seems he had only three francs in his pocket, not enough
for the cab. The driver was furious and couldn’t understand his French
and thought he was trying to cheat him and demanded his arrest. A
sympathetic Englishman offered to “change him a crown,” which,
unfortunately, he didn’t possess. Finally he went to a banker’s and
got things straightened out and came on the next train. It is only
three-thirty now and I am wondering what will happen next. The
excitement can’t keep up much longer. The “Sensation Captain,” as they
now call me, has resigned.
Aunt sends her love but says the only thing she has against you so far
is the fear that she may become a confirmed dipsomaniac through
drinking your health so often. But it is really a silent toast to
Peppi, I think. Of course, if she wants to cherish an absurd
attachment for him it is none of my business, but she makes me just a
little tired!
A. D. TO POLLY
Dear, dear Sensation Captain, what a day that was, to be sure, that
you wrote about. I have read and re-read your experiences and wish I
might have been along to share the perils by cabmen and the perils by
train! But you reached The Hague all the same while I was at this
ineffective distance. Oh, please let me manage a trip some time for
my pretty Polly.
Your little gondola is here in my pocket, for we are inseparable
companions. Indeed I know of none more agreeable, since I cannot be
with you, for while the little boat is always suggesting something
pleasant, yet she permits me to do the talking; so we get on
swimmingly, or rather floatingly, the gondola and I.
I often think, dear, how at the big receptions last spring, I found
such delight in looking at you. Your manner toward all was so
charming. And do you remember the dinner at the American Embassy when
I didn’t sit next to the girl I wanted? But you didn’t seem to mind,
and flirted with the Prince, though every now and then you did look at
me just a little, didn’t you? And then afterwards, in the great
corridor, when the Ambassador was talking to you more affably than I
had ever seen him, I stood by and felt proud and didn’t know
why—though I do now, indeed!
I saw the Spanish Marquis yesterday. He looked at me suspiciously, but
perhaps it was just my imagination, because I knew you had refused
him. No one has heard from Don Carlo, but I believe the gardener’s
daughter has followed him to South Africa.
As for my conduct in Monte Catini, I am doing pretty well, which is
the limit of opportunity in this Tuscan place among the Pistojan
hills. Anyhow, your Dip is thinking constantly of you, and looking a
good many times lately into the back of his timepiece (which Checkers
wanted to inspect, do you remember? and I wouldn’t let him). People
may think I am gazing at the face of my watch, but I watch another
face, I assure you!
POLLY TO A. D.
Oh, A. D., such a funny time as we have had since arriving here! Our
bad luck still continues. First hotel, no rooms to be had; second
hotel, rooms but no meals; third, only one room left, and they were
surprised because Aunt, Checkers and I didn’t want to sleep in it all
together. “Why, it is a big one!” said the proprietor. How we laughed!
But we have a fine apartment now and are quite happy.
It has rained steadily all day and this morning we went to see the
“House in the Woods.” The practical, plump little Queen is away. I
suppose we shall spend most of the day in the picture galleries. The
Hague gives me the impression of being one huge gallery of more or
less immoral fat men and women carousing.
One thing is certain, this country is a paradise for cows, with its
green pastures. I do wish we had our cow here with us for she would
enjoy the grass so much.
Jonkheer Jan’s house is fine and large. They have a remarkable
collection of Delft ware, plates all over the walls, and tapestries,
splendid wood-carving in the hall, and no end of old Dutch silver.
Please tell him how we enjoyed meeting his mother and father, as he
was good enough to give us a letter of introduction to them.
But, oh, I am so homesick I don’t know what to do! Nearly a year away
from home. At first there was the excitement of seeing new places and
people, and I did enjoy travelling, but now it has worn off a little,
and you are so far away. That ought not to make any difference, I have
seen you so little, but I think it does. I haven’t flirted with a soul
for such a long time—not since I left you in Venice. Rather good for
me. But, A. D., how little we have really seen of each other! Here and
there last spring, just a glimpse at a party, a few words of society
nonsense, and perhaps a bit of a chat in the small room on the
terrace, and—your coming to Sorrento. I was so surprised that you
wanted to come.
But, to be sure, Mona Lisa had left Rome.
Then Florence and the sunsets, which I mention so often that Checkers
thinks them a bit worn out, but now that I have Venice to look back
on, the rest of it tends to fade away. And yet, we had only three days
together there.
Everything will be so different at home for me, and very likely you
will forget me if your divorcée returns to Rome. I am sure she cares
for you, and besides, she is fascinating, and you and Peppi think her
beautiful. Are you still devoted to her, I wonder, and do you write to
her, too? You never mention her in your letters. I suppose you know
just what you are doing, writing me so often?
What a long lecture I have given you, and you will probably say to
yourself, what foolishness I have written! But I’ve told you I always
write just what pops into my head. There’s a kiss for you here
somewhere; can you find it?
A. D. TO POLLY
My darling, I am sorry you are homesick, for I know the misery of it,
and how strange scenes and peoples and places and ways have kept you
excited till now you feel weary. Believe me, Polly, I have spoken
truly, and your letter which came to me today is so sweet, yet it
troubles me a little with its doubt. Nevertheless, the kiss you send
quite takes the pain away.
Charlton of the British Embassy has not been at all well and has
joined me here to take the cure. The other day he said he had hoped
that you and I might like each other (like each other, indeed!) and at
this I laughed heartily.
I dined with him at his locanda last evening and as usual he had
made all sorts of careful preparations and the dinner was the best the
landlady could provide, at a little special table beneath an arbor
with a trellis of American woodbine. We could hear in the distance a
band, for it was a fête day again. He treats me with so much ceremony
on these occasions—I am bowed in and bowed out by the whole
establishment in such a way that I feel quite set up. I get him to
talking on his hobby, coins, and then—I think of you. And so we are
both happy.
Your token has just been sent on to me here by Peppi, and entrusted to
the care of Charlton. The first words I blotted with it are the two
that begin this letter, “My darling.” I am so grateful for it, and you
know the thought that sent it is most precious. It means so much to
me. I truly was in need of a blotter, for both my old one and the
little one in my travelling bag have been used up by my many letters
to you. It is so nice to be thought of by one whom one wishes to be
thought of by!
I am reading of the Prince of Naples’ visit to Montenegro to see his
Princess, as interestedly as if I really had something depending on
it. Everyone knows all the details of the royal match. As Mr. Dooley
says, “Nowadays th’ window shades is up at th’ king’s house as well as
everywhere else. Th’ gas is lighted, and we see his Majesty stormin’
around because th’ dinner is late and brushin’ his crown before goin’
out.” I watch the contadini, too, when they come into this little
town,—the lovers,—and wonder at them and with them. For in these
things, you know, dear, prince and peasant meet.
Do not bother your little head about Mona Lisa; you are a dear!
A. D. TO POLLY
The papers today announce the engagement of the Prince of Naples. And
so they are happy, for I believe it is a genuine love affair.
Charlton says the Prince is a fine fellow because he is a numismatist,
a collector of coins, while I think him a fine fellow for choosing his
bride so, and doubtless we both are right. I wish them all luck, don’t
you?
Boris and I said goodbye before I left Rome for Monte Catini. He may
have an idea of how happy I am (he saw me enthusiastically so) but he
didn’t let on. Indeed he may not suspect we are writing to each other.
He is starting for Paris, but journeying there only indirectly. I
can’t help wondering whether he is going to see you, or going on one
of his strange private errands—perhaps a combination of both. You
know every naval or military attaché is really more or less of a spy.
However, he is not acknowledged as an attaché by his embassy. Rather
peculiar, on the whole.
Just before leaving Rome he fought a duel. It appears he was rude to
the Marquis Gonzaga, who they say, behaved like a gentleman in the
affair, and there was a rencontre at which, alas! the Marquis was
scratched, literally scratched, and honor (the Prince’s honor) was
satisfied. So they shook hands. What a farce!
I believe that, as usual in such cases, a woman’s name was mixed up in
it, but I do not know whose. I sincerely hope it was not yours. I
remember they had words about you the night of Pittsburgo’s dinner at
the Grand when Gonzaga tried to kiss you. Perhaps Boris will tell you
all about it.
POLLY TO A. D.
Here we are in your old lodgings on Half Moon Street, and very cosy we
find it. We arrived early this morning. The passage over from Holland
was very smooth and comfortable, and what do you suppose? ! ! ! Mr.
Easthope who keeps the lodgings handed me the dearest little bunch of
white pinks! I thought it very sweet of him, but when I found your
card tied to them, I thought it much sweeter. He appeared in a very
fine evening suit, ah! But he couldn’t look so fine as your Gilet. I
remember him at the pretty dinners in your rooms, as smooth and
dignified as a bishop. Those times seem so far away now—when shall I
see you again? In Paris? Yes, the Prince has written Aunt that he will
join us there. Whom could the duel have been about? Really me, do
you suppose?
Such a delicious little dinner we had tonight, it seemed like home,
with pretty flowers on the table, and we all drank your health. You
must have lived like a fighting cock here—how many years ago was it,
dear old A. D.?
Oh pooh! I don’t see how you can say the Prince of Naples’ engagement
is a true love affair. Why, he can’t marry anyone but a Princess, and
a Catholic one at that, can he? So it doesn’t leave him much choice.
After all, I don’t think it matters. My views have changed somewhat
after being so long in Europe. Why, there are a lot of happy marriages
over here that have been cooked up by the families!
Checkers wants to be remembered, but says his nose is out of joint
since I have taken up with you. Thank you for the flowers, telegrams,
messages—I love them all.
A. D. TO POLLY
Oh how eagerly I read of your safe crossing and arrival in London,
dear! I am so glad you are at Easthope’s. I know every nook and corner
thereabouts, so I can think of you in familiar surroundings, passing
through the little hallway—isn’t it a sort of toy play-house? Have
you learned the postman’s rap yet? I can hear him now coming gradually
down the street from house to house, and finally knocking, bang, bang,
on the front door. And then when you go out, Easthope takes down his
whistle and gives a sharp toot, once for a growler, twice (two short
ones) for a two-wheeler, and from the rank on the other side of
Piccadilly, along the green park, there hurries a hansom and you get
in. Easthope closes the flap in front and then looks inquiringly to
know where he shall tell the cabby to go, or else the cabby himself
opens his little trap (on a rainy day letting in a rivulet) and waits
to be told—Eaton Square, Victoria Station, the stores, or the Gaiety
Theatre—and off you start, the little bells at the horse’s collar
ringing, down the street and into the stream of Piccadilly.
I can see you dining, or breakfasting with muffins and marmalade, the
table so spick and span, and Easthope so intelligent and thoughtful.
But then, he is one in a million, really. I wonder if there is the
same housemaid whom I used to hear before daylight beginning her work
sweeping and cleaning, in the way it was done a century ago. She was
so hard-working and so faithful!
It is not the same boy, I am pretty sure, that helps Easthope, for he
no sooner gets one trained up in the way he should go than some lodger
finds him so good that he takes him away, and Easthope patiently
begins to turn another lout into a footman,—a worm into a butterfly!
Go through Lansdowne Passage some day—it is a short and curious way
of getting to Bond and Dover Streets. Turn into Curzon Street to its
very end and walk through the passageway between Lansdowne House and
Devonshire House to Hay Hill. It is a mysterious little alley to be in
the heart of a great city, the scene of a murder, they say. In my
time it was kept and patrolled by a one-eyed, uncanny-looking old
sweeper who used to waylay me for pennies. When the sweep left, he
would leave his broom behind leaning against the wall to show he
intended to come back, and so maintained his right against any other
who might try to take his place. I send you a little silver broom, my
broom, dear. Take good care of it and don’t let anyone else carry it
away.
I have woven a gossamer web of thoughts, oh so beautiful and delicate
and fine, like threads of gold; and you are caught and tangled in it
and you struggle and struggle, and try to get away, but the meshes of
the web are too strong, and all in vain. Then I, like a ferocious
great spider, come quickly across the web and catch you, and there you
are to stay—in my arms! And so you try to escape and go to Paris and
the Prince, yet there you are in my arms—it is altogether puzzling
but true.
POLLY TO A. D.
Darling! There is no dictation about that this time, A. D., for
Checkers is out buying boots, neckties, and I know not what, for he
lunches with a fair charmer today, and is getting ready to do what he
calls “The Great Mash Act.” He is a dear old thing, all the same.
Such a lovely bunch of red roses and your darling little broom came
this morning,—yes, I am fond of you, and why shouldn’t I say so? I am
getting a little restless for you, I haven’t seen you for so long.
It is a pity to leave London even for a few days’ hunting in
Leicestershire, for this little apartment is so nice and Mr. Easthope
so kind—all on your account. I bought a lovely frame for your picture
and you don’t know how gordgeous you look, standing on my dressing
table where I can see you most all the time, think of you the rest,
and dream of you when I am asleep. Now, isn’t that sweet? I can’t help
laughing as I write, for you see I am not in the habit of saying such
things. I wonder if many girls have written you that—Mona Lisa, for
instance? I should think they all would! P. S. I am so ashamed—if you
were here, you would see me blush. Now you will laugh, but I spelt
gorgeous wrong. I asked Checkers who has just returned and I haven’t
time to re-write the letter. Aunt is out, brother is packing, and it
looks as if we were to move on again.
A. D. TO POLLY
Charlton and I made an excursion to Lucca the other day and quite a
success it proved. Off we drove in the early morning, with pheasant
feathers and jangling bells on our horses, trotting by the trellised
vineyards, the vines wreathing between trees of mulberry, and the
great bunches of grapes beginning to grow purple, past brakes of cane,
between the walls of villas, up and over bridges where the rivers run
higher than the country, banked up by the levees, on through the
plain. In the distance rose the hills, deep blue behind and pale blue
in ranges beyond. We met the country people coming from the fair at
Borgo Buggiano—the greatest cattle market in Tuscany—driving
beautiful white and brindled cows. Soon we came to the town itself and
rattled along its flag-paved streets, making a great noise with
cracking whip and warning cries, and the contadini crowded up
against the wall and stopped their business to watch us as we passed
the gay booths with displays of many colored, mottled, glazed earthen
ware, set forth, perilously near our wheels.
Then out into the country again, and on across flat green meadows from
which rise the ancient walls of Lucca with shaded avenues of
sycamores. We walked on the ramparts after luncheon and visited the
gallery of the Palazzo Ducale with its good Fra Bartolomeos, and the
cathedral filled with tinsel votive offerings of all kinds, and paper
flowers. There were preparations for a pilgrimage which is to adore
the Holy Image, a wooden likeness of the Saviour which Saint Somebody
rescued in Palestine once on a time and placed in a ship without oar
or rudder and set adrift. So the ship floated, miraculously directed
by Providence, to the shores of Italy, and wonderment came over the
people who saw the vessel mysteriously cruising up and down. They
tried to catch it, but it fled from them until one Archbishop of
Lucca, awakened from a warning dream, went out to find it. And the
moment the boat saw the aforesaid archpriest upon the shore it sailed
confidingly up to him and delivered its sacred image, which so came to
Lucca. This is quite like the House of the Virgin at Loreto which was
brought by a flight of angels through the air to that town—to be a
fruitful source of income, for hundreds of thousands of pilgrims visit
the place each year.
P. S. How I should like to run up to Paris, but the Ambassador would
not approve of my having leave again. I am more disappointed than you
can know, but I still hope to see you in America before long—am
returning to Rome.
A. D. TO POLLY
Think of it! The middle of September—and already it seems as if Rome
were taking on its preparations and spinning its web for the catching
of foreigners. One or two of the shops in the Via Condotti and the
Piazza di Spagna have taken down the shutters, and visitors have
already been seen looking into the windows. Next the antiquity dealers
will open, then the hotels, and after that—hurrah! I shall hope to
see you in New York.
The past day you have been constantly in my thoughts and my heart. Let
me see, where have I taken you? To the Embassy in the morning, into
the city to do some commissions, down the Quattro Fontane, down the
steep hill past the Barberini, cutting the corner of the piazza with
its glorious Triton blowing the fountain of spray high into the air,
and into the narrow little Triton Street—the wretched artery that
joins the two Romes—with its crowd of carriages and carts and people
moving slowly, and then to the right along the Due Macelli, and so to
the sunny Piazza di Spagna. Later in the afternoon while sitting in my
rooms, Jonkheer Jan came to see me, looking the same as ever, thin,
tall, and blonde, and stayed on till I was sure he would be late for
his dinner. Do you remember how he would come in late to see you,
always in a hurry, with smiles and excuses and profuse apologies,
twisting his ring around his finger?
The British secretaries have gone to Frascati in a body to stay till
repairs have been made on the Embassy. So I went out there “to dine
and sleep” as they call it in England, and enjoyed the little outing
very much. This morning I took an early train and came down the
hillside, between the groves of grotesque olive trees and across the
endless rolling Campagna half hidden in mauve-colored mist, with its
unholy charm, its lonely skeletons of towers and procession of
aqueducts, the great graveyard of the mighty Past.
How I should like to be in Leicestershire with you, though. You know I
feel like saying that the trip through the Trossachs, the visits to
Holland House and Knole Park, and the other things which you haven’t
been able to do this year, we can do some time together! I am almost
afraid to add, “Can’t we, shan’t we?” for fear you may answer back at
once “Indeed no! What are you talking about?”
Isn’t the way they do things in England funny? The conventions are
amusing for a time—and pleasant too,—then they become chill and
monotonous, like the endless green hedges and woods and parks of
lovely England. But one gets tired, after seeing them day after day,
year after year, and I used to ache for a patch of American landscape
with its sunburnt yellow corn, its brown earth, its zigzag snake
fences of the south, and its whitewashed shanties with the real good
old-fashioned negro loafing about in tattered trousers and coat.
I have just received an amusing letter from Checkers in which he says;
“Give up the diplomatic service, old boy. Come to America and go into
business with me. You’ll be as good at it as a gold fish, for you’ve
been around the globe; you’ll make money cabbage, for you’ve got a
head.”
Who knows, I may.
POLLY TO A. D.
“Bye baby bunting—papa’s gone a-hunting!” But I am letting the cat,
or rather the fox out of the bag.
You know we’re staying with friends at Kibworth. A carriage met us at
the station and brought us to Carlton Curlieu Hall, a fascinating old
house, part of it built in the fifteenth century and part Elizabethan,
with a garden, great trees, and a little pond. Near by are the stables
with nine hunters, and farther away is an old church with its
vicarage, and the village—a few low houses of red brick, some with
thatched roofs.
I had the bed-room Oliver Cromwell slept in the night before the
battle of Naseby. Most of these old houses have a ghost, but Oliver,
I’m sorry to say, didn’t appear.
We are having a ripping time. The Honorable Violet somebody or other
is here, among others. She is lady-in-waiting to the Queen, and a very
charming person. But I don’t know nearly so many Lords and Dukes and
things as you do. I used to detest such people, being an American,
but I find I have changed my mind. What few I have seen have been
perfectly delightful.
Well, the meet yesterday was just like some hunting-pictures we have
at home, with maybe two hundred people, the women and children mostly
on ponies, or driving two-wheeled carts. Then came the ride to cover,
and the drawing. The field was made up of all classes, statesmen,
parsons, peers, and farmers,—all the way from the Duchess of
Hamilton, homely in a brown habit and riding as hard as a man, to a
horse-dealer.
It was quite windy, and most of them said to each other as they
passed, “Good morning. It’s a beastly windy day!”
The hounds rushed in and out of the covers in the hope of finding a
fox, and the huntsmen hallooed and blew their horns. There wasn’t any
fox in the first cover, but at last one was discovered in the open,
and so the pack went scurrying, the huntsmen after them, and the
whips. To my surprise, instead of going straight over a hedge into the
next field, most of the men went galloping off toward a gate. I
didn’t know before that it was bad form to jump unnecessarily. Quite
different in America.
Helter-skelter through the back yards and gardens of the little
cottages we rode, scattering chickens and pigs and children right and
left, while the village people stood in their doorways and watched the
hunters stream past.
Then there was a check—the fox had hidden in one of the barnyards,
and the huntsmen, hounds, and all the small boys searched for him,
while everybody else stood round or walked about in the square in
front of the Bull Head Inn. Soon there was a halloo—the fox had been
found hiding in a hay mow. He was driven out, “broken up” and the
carcass given to the dogs, who yelped and barked and fought for the
pieces. The brush was given to me.
Now you can’t say I haven’t written you a long letter, dear old A.
D.,—but it was such a wonderful day that I just had to tell you all
about it.
POLLY TO A. D.
Now for a confession! There are two young men here at the house party.
One is big and homely and loose-jointed but a good sort, while the
other is dark and very handsome and goes to Oxford. He gave me his
picture and asked if he couldn’t have mine for his watch. I told him I
was surprised that he didn’t have a girl’s photograph for his already.
Before I knew it, he had opened my watch and seen you. I didn’t know
exactly what to do, so I said you were my older brother. He swallowed
it all down seriously, and in fact remarked that he thought I looked
very much like you. I feel immensely flattered and only wish it were
true.
But I am not going to write you any more sweet letters. It isn’t
because I have changed one bit in my feelings toward you, but because
variety is the spice of life, and if you have too many nice things
written to you, you won’t appreciate them, and I have been good for a
long time now. Besides, you say you are not coming to Paris and I am
very cross.
Aunt sends her best wishes and says, “Men are April when they woo, and
December when they wed.” I’m afraid that is true to life—don’t you
think so?
A. D. TO POLLY
Oh, little Polly the Pagan, you say that variety is the spice of life
and accordingly you won’t write any more sweet letters for a time, so
I must hurry to tell you that spice is one of the things forbidden in
the diet of my cure, and so I know you won’t force me to take any. You
must, you must write me real love letters, or something fatal may
happen to me.
Do you wish me to stop writing pretty things to you, now that you have
stopped writing them to me? Because, if that is the case, I—I can’t
do it! So you see, I plan to keep on pestering you day after day, and
you may say, oh, well, as long as it makes him happy, let him
continue. The Frenchwoman’s philosophy is that woman’s greatest
happiness is in making man happy. She may not really care for him,
but she will pretend to, if it makes his heart glad. That is pretty
good philosophy. Since you are soon to be in fair France, you should
consider the French point of view!
As for your Aunt’s quotation, “Men are April when they woo, December
when they wed,” why, that is easily explained. It means that fires
burn more hotly in the cold month and more steadily than in flowery
April.
Peppi and I had all yesterday evening together, and a very pleasant
time of it, too. I went over to his studio and found him. He made a
delightful picture, frowzy-haired but handsome in his bright blue
blouse, with his pallet in his hand, and his pet white goose following
him about, lifting her yellow beak to be fed, and spreading her snowy
wings. He explained he had purchased her for her feathery plumage to
help him in a picture he was painting of an angel. We dined at the
Cambrinus in the garden with colored lights where it was cool and
pretty. And then afterwards I took him to the circus. We meet there
almost every night. It is an epidemic here.
Oh, a most excellent circus that puts on a lot of style! The band
blared out the same old music, marches for the athletes to come
stalking in by and polkas to mark time for the horses, and a really
most beautiful creature, she looks a little like Mona Lisa, performed
on the trapeze—it was great, great fun.
As I can’t go up to Paris, isn’t it possible for you to sail home by
way of Naples so I can get a glimpse of you?
POLLY TO A. D.
On coming back from a drive today, dear, we saw some gypsies camped by
the roadside, so we stopped and gave them the remains of our picnic
luncheon. They invited us into their tents and told our fortunes. An
old gypsy declared the cards said a gray-eyed woman with a mysterious
smile might give me trouble and that a handsome man in the south would
disappoint me. Now what do you think of that?
Say to Peppi that I hope he is not falling in love with that trapeze
girl for Aunt wouldn’t like it. But how about you?
You ask if I want you to stop writing sweet things to me,—why, of
course, I don’t. Every girl likes love letters. But you needn’t feel
obliged to, you know. We have a few days with the Prince in Paris,
then sail for home, sweet home.
Would we go home by way of Italy, you ask! Well, I don’t plan to run
all over the country after a certain young man. If he wants to see me,
he can come to Paris, and if he doesn’t, he needn’t! Now I can see you
laugh, but I don’t care!
A. D. TO POLLY
I beg to thank you, dear Miss Polly, for your gypsy fortune-telling
letter. Did the old gypsy mention by chance a blond Russian Prince? It
was most kind of you to think of me at all, so far away in hot Rome,
and indeed your letter brought a cool, refreshing air to temper the
sirocco and hot sun here.
It has been a trying summer in Rome, and if it hadn’t been for some
happy excursions I have been able to make to Florence and Venice and
into the country and to the circus, I fear I should have found it
unbearable.
Pray forgive my thanking you for your long and very sensible letter
and for becoming almost confidential, and believe me, with my very
cordial regards to your aunt and brother, and my compliments, very
sincerely yours. Why do you let the Prince join you in Paris, I’d
like to know?
(Br-r-r-! Your letter made me shiver!)
TELEGRAM: POLLY TO A. D.
Can’t you stand a little teasing?
TELEGRAM: A. D. TO POLLY
Not from you. Besides, letters are too short and you have been
flirting. What’s more, you are meeting the Prince in Paris. That is
what I don’t like.
TELEGRAM: POLLY TO A. D.
What can you expect when I haven’t seen you all these months?
TELEGRAM: A. D. TO POLLY
More than I am getting.
TELEGRAM: POLLY TO A. D.
Aren’t you unreasonable?
TELEGRAM: A. D. TO POLLY
I think not, under the circumstances.
TELEGRAM: POLLY TO A. D.
?
TELEGRAM: A. D. TO POLLY
!
TELEGRAM: POLLY TO A. D.
.
