“And of all the happiest moments which were wroughtWithin the web of my existence, someFrom thee, fair Venice! have their colors caught.”
“And of all the happiest moments which were wroughtWithin the web of my existence, someFrom thee, fair Venice! have their colors caught.”
“And of all the happiest moments which were wrought
Within the web of my existence, some
From thee, fair Venice! have their colors caught.”
How bewitching you were! How unspeakably lovely the last evening was, and how I treasure every little confidence you made me, as we glided along over the placid lagoon, while about us rose the palaces, the campanile, the churches, balconies, and arches, reflected below in the mirroring waters. I could put out my hand and take yours, and turn and look into the wonder of your eyes, my Polly! Some days are immortal, the memory of them can never die. We may pass away, but still the thought of those moments will live forever, for they are divine and heavenly.
POLLY TO A. D.
New York,
November.
My A. D. Well, you are in a way mine now, aren’t you? How I hated all those horrid telegrams we sent each other, and what along time I have gone without a letter from you.
I do know what I want! It’s you, you, but oh, things are so hard when it comes to facing down Aunt. It is not any open opposition—that would be something definite that I could fight, but she simply assumes that I don’t mean it when I say I am engaged, and sits bland and smiling, and pretty soon, makes a remark about Boris.
A. D., if you won’t come over soon to look after me, you’ve just got to take the risks. Don’t forget I’m a little Pagan, who does enjoy things, even the Prince. Come home and settle here at once if you love me as much as you say you do. I am so happy you sent the cable, because you are the only person in the world I love. So we are really engaged now and going to be married soon and live happily ever after?
You want to know what I did those few days in Paris? Well, by jinks, we were off on a shopping rampage most of the time. I went to Worth’s and ordered some pretty clothes—the prevailing colors this year are the hummingbird’s.
How did the Prince behave in Paris? On thewhole very attentive, but once in a while just a bit difficult to manage. He brought with him a magnificent Russian wolf hound, who was very well-trained and would obey no one but his master. One day Boris invited us all to his apartment in the hotel to luncheon, but Aunt had such a bad headache that she left in the midst of it, taking Checkers along to see her safely back. He was going to return for me since we had more galleries to inspect. As soon as the lift with them in it had disappeared, Boris closed the door and smiled meaningly and when I asked him to open it, he shook his head. I started to open it myself when the wolf hound, who was lying before it, growled. First I thought it was a joke, but when I saw the queer look in my host’s eyes, a cold creepy feeling of fear came over me.
“Once before you were in my power,” he said, “in the stateroom on theCleopatra. I, a fool, let you go. Now I got dog, no fool any more.”
Backing away from him, I laughed, hysterically, “I came here to eat and not to make love.”
“Did you?” he inquired, putting his facedown close to mine and taking hold of my shoulders.
I stared straight back at him, saying, “I am not afraid either of you or your old dog.” At that moment, thank heaven, the door opened and in came the waiter. I dashed out and downstairs, Boris following me and protesting that he was only trying to make a little fun, but I am not sure. Aunt says I made a fuss over nothing, and insisted that we all go together to the circus with him that night, but you may be sure I hung onto Checkers pretty closely. However, the Prince pointed out to me the girl on the trapeze, the same one you had admired in Rome. She was very beautiful—I am a little jealous for she looked like Mona.
Boris and I rode several times together and one day jumped our horses in the Bois, much to the amusement of a female seminary that was passing. I had a fine time and thought how the people at home would laugh if they could see me—such a change was my smart riding habit from my old duds at the farm, and with a Prince. Then the other day he took me to the Luxembourg gallery to look at a curious sculpture ofthe sphinx—the head of a beautiful woman on the body of a lioness, with a man in her clutches, just their lips touching, everything thrown away for that one kiss. It made me think of some verses I read the other day,
“Inviolate and immobile, she does not rise, she does not stir,For silver moons are naught to her, and naught to her the suns that reel.Come forth, my lovely seneschal! So somnolent, so statuesque!Come forth, you exquisite grotesque! Half woman and half animal!And did you talk with Thoth and did you hear the horn-mooned Io weep?And know the painted kings who sleep beneath the wedge-shaped pyramid?Lift up your large black satin eyes which are like cushions where one sinks,Fawn at my feet, fantastic Sphinx! and sing me all your memories!A thousand weary centuries are thine while I have scarcely seenSome twenty summers cast their green for Autumn’s gaudy liveries.”
“Inviolate and immobile, she does not rise, she does not stir,For silver moons are naught to her, and naught to her the suns that reel.Come forth, my lovely seneschal! So somnolent, so statuesque!Come forth, you exquisite grotesque! Half woman and half animal!And did you talk with Thoth and did you hear the horn-mooned Io weep?And know the painted kings who sleep beneath the wedge-shaped pyramid?Lift up your large black satin eyes which are like cushions where one sinks,Fawn at my feet, fantastic Sphinx! and sing me all your memories!A thousand weary centuries are thine while I have scarcely seenSome twenty summers cast their green for Autumn’s gaudy liveries.”
“Inviolate and immobile, she does not rise, she does not stir,
For silver moons are naught to her, and naught to her the suns that reel.
Come forth, my lovely seneschal! So somnolent, so statuesque!
Come forth, you exquisite grotesque! Half woman and half animal!
And did you talk with Thoth and did you hear the horn-mooned Io weep?
And know the painted kings who sleep beneath the wedge-shaped pyramid?
Lift up your large black satin eyes which are like cushions where one sinks,
Fawn at my feet, fantastic Sphinx! and sing me all your memories!
A thousand weary centuries are thine while I have scarcely seen
Some twenty summers cast their green for Autumn’s gaudy liveries.”
The Prince said he believed I was somewhat like her. I told him indignantly I wasn’t, but maybe I am ... and he tells me Iwasthe cause of the duel!
A. D. TO POLLY
Rome,
November.
The top o’ the marnin’ to ye, Polly Darlin’! It would be very inappropriate, wouldn’t it, if this came to you by evening delivery? At any rate it is the top o’ the marnin’ here in Rome, and I am pretending you are right next to me, my kitten-sphinx, and I’m greeting you with a morning kiss in token of our peace, or is it an armistice? Your letter makes me happy and yet your remarks about the Prince trouble me. There is, however, one clear way out of your difficulties, and that is to make our engagement known at once to everyone. I do not want to urge the point too strongly, but doesn’t it seem that circumstances have combined to make an announcement desirable?
Putting aside all consideration of what people may say or think, I feel it would be franker,more dignified, more true to yourself, to others, to me, that the relation between us should be told. All kinds of complications will arise if we keep it secret. Do not act hastily on receiving this. Think it over carefully. Oh, I love you, Polly, with my whole soul! But I can’t come home at once; my friend Charlton is now seriously ill and Embassy matters are tied up. Under the circumstances, I am glad you left Paris when you did. Did Boris see you off?
How bustling and busy your getting away from the hotel must have been,—the drive to the station through the gay streets, the excitement at the train, the helter-skelter of passengers and porters with their bags, baggage, boxes, baskets, and rugs. Then the steamer, the good-byes, the buzz of the engine, the splash of water and a realization at last that you were homeward bound!
It will seem odd to hear about Rome now that you are in America, about the streets yellow with flooding sunshine, and crowded with carts from the Campagna, and cabbies on their rattletrap carriages cracking their whips and crying “ah!” in deep guttural tones at their horses,instead of saying “Whoa!” or “Gee up!” in the proper American way.
Early one afternoon Charlton and I started out in an ancient cab and a decrepit horse to go to the Piazza San Pietro, or perish in the attempt. I had the enthusiasm and he the perseverance. Indeed we took turns in exhibiting these qualities, for there came a time when he was enthusiastic and I persevered. There were moments when the old horse went so slowly that we thought he would never get there, but the driver used the whip encouragingly. Finally we reached St. Peter’s, surrounded by its huge colonnade, with its splashing fountains, went up the broad terrace steps and beneath the greatloggia, and into the overwhelming interior with its vast distance, out of all proportion to anything else in the world.
Inside the people were kissing the toe of St. Peter, while crowds walked about and men were hammering away until the whole place resounded with the work of putting up tribunes for some ceremonies. But a great shaft of yellow sunshine came streaming down from the dome, making the gloom golden, and above the humof voices could be heard the Pope’s angel chanting beautifully.
When I came out and looked over toward your palace and saw the tops of the plants of the garden on the terrace, I could not resist going in to see Peppi. You know he has lately taken your old apartment, in memory of your Aunt, I suppose. Up the stairway we climbed till we came to the door and rang. There was a great rattling of chains and unbolting of locks; the door finally opened and we were told he was home. He asked us to take pot luck with him, so we went up first on the terrace and examined the roses, some poor weedy sunflowers, and a few little pansies that looked pleadingly up at me while I stood in the corner of the terrace where you stood that last night, Polly.
The sky was glorious; the sun had gone down and St. Peter’s and the huge pile of the Vatican, with only here and there a twinkling light in the darkness of the massive building, loomed up in silhouette against a heaven of delicate brown which shaded into pale green. Above us in a pure vault of blue, the crescent moon floated, all silver, while in the opposite horizon, overthe Alban Mountains and the Appenines, great banks of clouds rolled up, black and threatening beneath, reflecting the afterglow above, while forked lightning played ceaselessly through them. Later the façade of the cathedral became outlined in lights, although the dome was left in blackness, and all the Borgo was hung with paper lanterns and was very gay and bright. But I felt lonely without you.
D. V., it will not be long before I reach home! Already I can see the beautiful bay, the boats passing and repassing, and the arrival of Quarantine and Custom officials. The great city—greater New York—faintly appearing through the morning mist, and the huge buildings towering above the fog, like a city in the clouds. We pass the statue, the busy ferry boats hurry beneath our great bow and—ah, Polly, I must confess my eyes are tearful with the excitement and happiness of the thought. My great anxiety to be with you should carry the ship more quickly, though alas, in this practical age, it depends more on the quality of the coal than on the burning anxiety of a lover.
PRINCE BORIS TO POLLY
Paris,
December.
I followed you to Paris and showed you nightly and by day in the restaurants and the Bois, and all the places of fashion, and everybody he look with eyes of admiration at you and at me glances of envy. When you smile with me, then I was for a moment happy. But though you smile, you do not stay—you go away to America. You are like pretty floating milkweed, you touch here and there in your travels. The wind (your Aunt) blow you from place to place.
In sables from Siberia I would dress you and jewels from the Urals, and take you to the opera at Moscow. We would travel in the East, and you are so clever, you would help me in my secret missions. We would decipher riddles and gather secret news. You would fascinate the great ones of the earth, and they would tell you tales of State that would help the great cause. What would you say,ma petite? Be my Princess and let me carry you to my castle in the mountains; it is a little savage among the Tartars, butI hope the hummingbird find it in her heart to make her nest there with me some day.
Soon I meet you in America and we talk again.
A. D. TO POLLY
Rome,
December.
Your cable telling me of your willingness to announce our engagement was received with inexpressible happiness. I did not realize that making known our secret would bring such a new joy into my life. It almost makes me burst from sheer felicity when people say pleasant things. Dear old Checkers sent me an engagement book because, he wrote, I was engaged! Beaming, round-faced Pan bustled in, with his red fez on one side, and his fingers strung with all his jewelled rings, to talk about you and my wonderful luck. He got as excited as I did, and we both rattled on at the same time. Then we went out to dinner and had a bottle of champagne. Up he got to drink our healths,—can’t you see him?—reciting,
“May your joys be as deep as the ocean,Your sorrows as light as its foam!”
“May your joys be as deep as the ocean,Your sorrows as light as its foam!”
“May your joys be as deep as the ocean,
Your sorrows as light as its foam!”
But poor Charlton! I went in to tell him of our engagement and he gave me the warmest congratulations. He doesn’t seem any better. Indeed, Polly, I doubt if he is ever going to get well. I shall hurry homewards as soon as possible, but I can’t leave him now. Pay no attention to your Aunt’s obstacles, my dear, if they threaten our love for each other, will you? Surely, surely, you will be true.
PRINCE BORIS TO POLLY
Moscow,
December.
Ah, the pleasure to have been with you in Paris! I think about it every night and wish to have you near.
You say to me once, write about my country,—Russia, oh my Russia, hail! You think only of bombs and Nihilists inla Russie, but we have many good things, museums best in the world, artistes most fine, ballet splendid, and Slavic music, ah, it make the blood stir. When I go to opera, and lover makes love to his lady, thenI think of—you. Do you think of Boris walking the streets of Moscow, where roofs are green as malachite and strange domes grow in the sky like vegetables? Learn our history, about Ivan the Terrible, about Peter the Great, and Catherine the great lover. Read, too, our literature, Turgeniev, close to the heart, Pushkin, melancholy poet, and Artzibasheff ironical. No! Me I read them to you some day with a tremble of the voice and then you will surely fall in love with a Muscovite.
Your Aunt she write me come to New York. Perhaps you make me American when I come over. Why you not say me come yourself? I remind me of the proverb, “A thousand raps on the door but no salute or invitation from within.” Your American diplomat he amuse himself very well in Rome. As you know, he went often to the circus, to see pretty girl there who look like your enemy, the lady of the gray eyes. That the reason he not come to Paris, I think. He not want to see you both there at one time.
A. D. TO POLLY
Rome,
December.
Behold me at my desk! I couldn’t bear this place, my own, if it had not, on every hand, remembrances of you. Here in this very office, you have sat. The last day or two in Florence, whither Embassy affairs took me, brought thronging memories of our hours together there. This morning as the train crawled across the Campagna in the weird twilight of the moon just before dawn, I gazed out of the window and watched the ruins rise out of the uncanny plain like tombstones of a dead civilization,—spectres of decay and times long past. Think of all the lovers they have looked on since first the aqueducts went marching off to the hills in gigantic strides.
My precious, when the gray dawn was just breaking, I entered the Grand Hotel, and then thought of you again, of the night I first called you, Pollykins, by your own little name, right there in the doorway. Don’t be disappointed in my letters, if from time to time they tell only somebody’s feelings, and forget to mentionwhat is happening. Now you alone are my life. But write and let me know howyoufeel.
POLLY TO A. D.
Black Horse Farm on the Hudson,
December.
Here we are at the Farm, Aunt, Checkers, and I. Although our engagement may be announced in Rome, my stern relative says we must wait until we’re settled a bit before announcing it in New York. I was going to give a luncheon and tell everyone, but she suddenly dashed away into the country with me in her wake, flying like Alice through the Looking Glass after the Mad Queen.
You would like this place, dear,—an old Colonial house of brick with wings and white trimmings, surrounded by great elms overlooking the Hudson. The furniture is Chippendale, queer ancient panoramic wall paper makes a background for some delightful eighteenth-century prints, and fireplaces ablaze with logs are in every room. I’ve been secretly wonderingif we couldn’t have our honeymoon here. Do you fancy the idea, dearest?
There is still a sheet of paper left right under my nose, staring up as much as to say, “Why don’t you use me? Why not write more to your secretary?” Well, it will have to be in pencil, for to use ink will mean going down stairs where there are still people dashing about; while up in my bedroom I am quite alone except for John Sullivan, our bull pup.
Isn’t it perfectly pathetic to be left all solitary this long cold winter with the only boy I love so far away?
P. S. Is Charlton really so ill that you do not like to leave him? No other reason? You wrote that Mona Lisa had disappeared from your life. Are you sure she has no successor?
A. D. TO POLLY
Rome,
December.
Your letter came yesterday telling of your visit to Black Horse Farm, and as for spending our honeymoon there, it would be a bit out ofParadise! But don’t, Polly, don’t, I beg of you, put off announcing your engagement in New York. Think of the position it puts me in; as you know, Rome is all agog with it. Ask your Aunt frankly why she is so hesitant. Apparently she liked me, and she offered no objections in Europe to what she must have known was coming. In any case she cannot force you to accept the attentions of the Prince.
I wish, dearest, you might have been at the diplomatic reception at the Court, at the Quirinal, the other evening. How sweet you would have looked in your Court dress! I was overwhelmed, absolutely overwhelmed by congratulations and good wishes. Even the ministers and chiefs of missions seemed to know of my great happiness and took the occasion to say nice things. The world does indeed love a lover. When I reached my apartment I danced the Highland fling with two umbrellas crossed together for swords, and felt like sliding down the banisters, too!
At Court the reception is always a very fine function; first to rattle through the entrance of the palace, across the court to the foot of thebroad staircase where the bigportiersin red liveries salute and bow, then up the brilliantly-lighted, crimson-carpeted staircase to the hugeantecamerahung with tapestries, a vast chamber where a company of splendidcorazzieriin gleaming helmets and cuirasses stand at attention and salute each Ambassador.
The reception-room is magnificent, and there the diplomats in their uniforms, gaudy with all sorts of tinsel plaques, stars, crescents, and gold embroidery, stand about till the approach of the Royalties is announced. Then they bustle into line according to precedence—a procession that reaches around the room, each Ambassador with his staff behind him. Thereupon the King and Queen arrive! They bow; we all bow. His Majesty shakes hands with the Ambassadors, and makes conversation. One by one, the secretaries step forward and are addressed, while the Queen speaks only to the Chiefs of Missions. Meanwhile the Ladies-in-waiting stand in a row arranged opposite; so do we all remain for over an hour and a half.
In conversation with Pan this evening he let it slip out that the Prince was going to Americabefore long on a secret mission. I have no idea what he is up to. Don’t delay, my sweetheart, in announcing our engagement—write me that you love me.
P. S. Really I do not know where Mona Lisa has gone, and I am interested in nobody but you, dear.
PRINCE BORIS TO POLLY
Moscow,
December.
A silver plate I send you for bread and cellar for salt, so do Russians give to the Tsar, the Little Father, in token of homage. As the Cossacks say, “Feed the mouth, the eyes will not be bashful.” I make you gifts, in other words, and you will be ashamed not to look on me with kindness. Often I dream of your eyes, blue as lapis lazuli from the Urals.
From Rome comes news,—you engaged to American diplomat. I cannot believe serious—tell me not true. Lady from Virginia say once, often American girls engage to two, three men all same time—is it so? It may be. Turks andChinese have several wifes, and lady Laplanders, they have several husbands,n’est ce pas?Is it you write no more because you really serious engage? Your Aunt she say why no, of course; you not know your own mind. Peppi say she wish title for you. But I still wait that little Hummingbird welcome me to New York.
POLLY TO A. D.
Black Horse Farm,
Christmas Morning.
This morning, dearest, what should arrive but the most beautiful roses in the world from you, and in the toe of my Xmas stocking, I found a heavenly diamond engagement-ring! How can I ever thank you enough? Polly is very proud and happy to wear it. Did Gilet put the little cuff links I sent in your sock, or perhaps you didn’t hang one up in the chimney?
A. D., I love you madly—yes, I do, you can’t know, you never will know how much. Every day I want to be with you. Whenever I have a good time I say to myself, “I wish my dear ‘Dip’ were here to enjoy it, too.” Americaseems pretty empty with someone I love in beautiful Italy.
Aunt wants news of Peppi, says she hasn’t heard from him lately. The Prince sent me a lovely present, and wants to know if you and I are seriously engaged.
I wish I could have seen you do the sword-dance! It takes a lot of courage to tackle Aunt and get her to go back with us to New York and tell of the engagement of a proud little Pagan to a dear diplomat. Your father sent me a sweet letter from California.
A. D. TO POLLY
Rome,
Christmas Day.
In my dreams last night were all sorts of Christmas things—home and mistletoe and you under it, my love. On my breakfast-tray this morning lay your lovely cuff-links. A thousand thanks,—I shall wear them every day.
The Christmas decorations at church were holly and palms. The greens were dotted with oranges and apples, the high pillars wreathedwith ivy, the chancel and altar banked with flowers, for the Reverend Nevin is very artistic in his arrangement of such things. I was so full of gratitude and thanksgiving, so placidly content that even when an awkward worshipper knocked my silk hat (Gilet’s shining pride) on the floor and rumpled and broke it, I didn’t mutter, or even think a wicked thing!
I said a little prayer for you, Polly dear. Then I hurried home, for there were so many things to attend to,—as Checkers would remark, “Merry Christmas, but not a dish washed!”
A. D. TO POLLY
Rome,
December 31.
Tell your Aunt that Peppi is looking better but still far from well. He will not stay in bed and take care of himself, but keeps on painting and painting behind locked doors. The endless rains this autumn have been bad for him, though he seems gay and talks a lot—calls me the birdcage, because I have caught the Hummingbird. For me the place is full of memories of you—the terrace, the sitting-room with the corner where you used to make tea, and where I would sit, falling deeper and deeper in love, hour by hour.
This is the last day of the dear old year, a year blessed as no other can be, for therein have I met my Polly, known her, loved her. Ah, old year, you have been good to me passing belief! How many moments of supreme happiness have you given me, days of bliss with my beloved, nights of anxiety away from her, moments of doubt and fear, moments of heavenly exaltation.
Think of the mystery of the years! I was born the Lord knows when; you flew right down from heaven, and we loved so on this old earth. The last words I shall ever write in this year are—I love you, Polly!
POLLY TO A. D.
New York,
December 31.
It is seven o’clock here and I somehow feel that you are thinking of me—in Rome it must be midnight, the beginning of the New Year. Ifwe could only hold hands for just one little minute, it would make me so happy. An hour ago I sent you a cable, so you’ll get my message with your breakfast.
There’s just a moment left in which to write a line before dressing for dinner. Then comes a ball to which I shall wear a frock all little fluttering iridescent draperies, suggesting an airy hummingbird. Sybil is spending the night here—it is months since I last saw her in Rome. She is just as pretty and lively as ever, smoking cigarettes all the time and using the same exaggerated language,—that you’re the handsomest man that ever existed, that I’m “the luckiest girl in Heaven or Hell.” She’s much excited over our betrothal and hopes we may live a million years and have a thousand children!
Sybil went with me to ask Aunt to put an announcement in the papers, to which my autocratic relative replied that she would see. Do you suppose your Polly will have any partners now that she is engaged? For rumors are leaking out, of course. Partners or no partners, if Aunt doesn’t, I’ll put it in the papers myself, I will!
You wouldn’t believe it of me, would you, but I’m growing positively sentimental. Half the time I live in a dream with you, dear, thinking of you, wanting so much to please you, wondering what you would like me to do. The little forget-me-not enclosed, carries a kiss.
A. D. TO POLLY
Rome,
New Year’s Day.
I love you with all my heart! These are the first words that I write in the new year—just as you were the first thought in my mind as the bells chimed out midnight. God guard us, my own, during the coming months, and grant us His blessing!
New Year’s Eve, the municipality sends a band to serenade the Embassies, a pretty custom, but I wandered over to your Palazzo instead, to Peppi’s where we had a little supper and drank toasts to the old year and the new one, to you and your Aunt. “Here’s to the ladies,” sighed P.—“God bless ’em! We can’tdo anything with ’em, and we can’t do anything without ’em.”
At breakfast Gilet walked in on me with your cable of greetings in his hand, so you see how timely it arrived. Thank you, my Sweetheart, for the dear message which began our New Year. This morning is brilliant and abersaglieriregiment has just gone past on a quick-step with feathers waving, and the band ofcarabinieriplaying a lively air. The movement and the music are entrancing but all is incomplete without you.
Later.
I have passed the afternoon very quietly, for the news of Charlton’s death today has shocked me so. Poor old fellow! Accordingly I only left a few cards officially and then went and sat a long time in the Church of the Jesuits where vespers were being sung. The building was outlined with candles, the effect fine, solemn and religious. The aisles were thronged with people while organ-music and singing rose and fell. Then I hurried back to my fireside, through the narrow crowded streets, across the Corso with its endless files of carriages, for the dread chill of Romecame on, and the men and women wrapped their cloaks about them.
Now that poor Charlton is gone, I am sending in my resignation to the President. I have decided to go into business, for a very good offer has turned up that I hope you will approve. Moreover, the Ambassador himself dispatched his own resignation yesterday. Mine will follow close upon its heels “to take effect at the earliest convenience of the Department of State,” and I added “an earnest request to be relieved of my duties at the first opportunity as private matters of an anxious and urgent nature call me home.”
If the Department either loves me much or hates me much, it will let me off promptly. My feelings wouldn’t be hurt if a cablegram should come markedurgent, and stating, “Your resignation accepted with pleasure, and to take effectat once,” the last two words underlined. I’d knock over the tables and chairs, slam the doors, and go home so quickly that one wouldn’t have time to say “Jack Robinson!” Then I would cry, “Gilet! Gilet! Where in thunder are you, Gilet? Pack my things, throw them in helter skelter, pellmell, all in a heap. It doesn’t matter—nothingmatters, for we are going home! Hip-hip-hurrah!” I am all excited at the mere thought. And if anyone wondered at this indecent haste (“Haste which mars all decency of act”), I’d say, “I am going back to my love,” and they would never blame me.
POLLY TO A. D.
New York,
January.
Your photograph is beside me, and I have kissed it so many times today and every day that it would be quite worn out if it weren’t for the glass in front. The separation has made my love for you grow stronger and finer, and shows me clearly that it is you and you only I love and want. The weeks since we became engaged have found me very happy in the knowledge that there was someone who would always take care of me, someone whom I would look up to and respect. I am behaving so well for me that soon I shall no longer be known as Polly the Pagan.
I was very sorry to hear of Lord RonaldCharlton’s death, for I know you must miss him greatly. So you have sent in your resignation. Splendid! I shall expect you shortly. Cable me when you leave.
Auntie says I ought not to announce my engagement here until you can set a definite date to return. Won’t you do that for me?
A. D. TO POLLY
Rome,
January.
Fi, fo, fum! I should indeed like to be at “hum.” The days are becoming longer, and so I find my only happiness in thinking that before they begin to shorten again, I shall have come to you, my angel, to love and to hold and to cherish you forever. But meantime my letters are blue because I am blue, and I am a deep cerulean because you are so far off. Why, being away from you is enough to make me turn into a box of indigo. Blue indeed—I am Black!
To console myself I read and re-read your letters and daydream about the future. Yes, I shall come and as soon as the State Departmentwill let me. It won’t be long now—not long, though I cannot as yet set a date. I think May would be the prettiest time of the whole year to be married in, and then go (as you suggest) to Black Horse Farm, though nobody must know; afterwards we’ll cruise slowly South down through the Spanish Main, across the Equator, skirting the coast of Guiana, past Brazil. We’ll round the Horn together and see if we can find the Enchanted Isles and other heavenly ineffable places. What do you think of this plan, my darling?
Meantime, I have only your picture, as you have mine. In case you may like to see the arrangement of my habitation, I have sketched it for you. The little cross is where my altar is placed, the point to which your devotee turns, not twice or thrice or four times a day, as do the Mahometans toward their place of worship, but constantly in prayer and thanksgiving. Your photograph is my Mecca and you are my little Pagan goddess, part nymph, part naughty elfin sprite, and part some winged flitting creature out of a fairy mythology not as yet discovered. But here in this room you aremy Lares and Penates—you are my Love.
Last night I said goodbye to your picture, and went off to the Court Ball, where I saw many of our fair compatriots. It was a fine sight. It makes me think of what Mr. Dooley said, “at coort rayciptions th’ Ambassadure iv England wore th’ gorgeous unyform iv his station, th’ Ambassadure iv France jingled with medals, th’ American Ambassadure looked like a detictive at a fancy ball.” Three sides of the great room were lined with rows of people who all bowed and curtseyed as the King and Queen entered, while the orchestra played the Royal March. The Queen danced in the Quadrille of Honor, and after that the music struck up the first waltz and the moment arrived when, it may interest you to know, I opened the Ball!
The Grand Master of Ceremonies asked me to dance with his daughter, and so, bang! out in front of all the people I walked on my trembling legs, bowed to her Majesty, and went across and asked the signorina. Round and round the room we spun while all gazed upon us; at last some others took the floor and the ball was on! It was about the most trying thingthat I have ever done; in fact we almost danced down the King and the wife of the Prime Minister, and a few other dignitaries who stood in our parabolic way. After things got started, I tried to dance with all the American girls present but it was warm work. The Queen and Mona Lisa, who has come back to Rome, to Peppi’s intense joy—but don’t tell your aunt—were probably the two most remarkable women there, both beautifully dressed, and they looked at each other, as ladies will. My last Court Ball!
But my troubles are not over, for our Ambassador and his wife are to receive the King and Queen; so I have that to arrange. The legend is that the Queen has expressed a desire to go to the United States Embassy. It is going to make a lot of work, of course, for Their Majesties very seldom do this thing, though Embassies are, as you know, among the few places which may entertain them. It should be a fine function—the palace of our Ambassador is so magnificent—and I hope it may be well done, though the preparation must needs be tremendous. Only certain people can be asked, andgreat state maintained. Oh, my darling, if you were only here to enjoy it!
A thousand invisible fibres are drawing me towards you ever and always. But Polly, I am beginning to be uneasy. I had hoped surely to go when the Ambassador left Rome, but now he says very emphatically that it is my duty to stay here until a new secretary comes, and that is the reason I have not heard from the State Department. I am, oh, so disappointed. Trust me! Believe in me! Don’t let this separation, this uncertainty bring about any misunderstanding between us, no matter how slight. I have fought off a feeling of foreboding all day. Love me, dearest, always.
PRINCE BORIS TO POLLY
Moscow,
February.
For America I start, though to Rome I must go on the way. I am flattered that you say you read our Russian authors. But read a little French poetry, too, some very beautiful but destructive to the morals. My little blond rose,though very young, knows how to fish for hearts—the Parisian need not teach her that, for she has already caught many.
I have not written to you for days because you tell me you are engaged, but if so, why is it American Diplomat he not go to you soon like me? Is it a pretty divorcée holds him yet, as you say “with the come hither eye?” She is muchépriseof him, I hear. But I should not tell you this. That she has returned to Rome many weeks ago, you know already, yes? I kiss your hand.
A. D. TO POLLY
Rome,
February.
Last night our Embassy Ball took place and the King and Queen came. It was quite stately, the Palace is so spacious and imposing and the Royalties were very gracious. At the last minute while we stood waiting for the royal carriages to be announced, the French Ambassadress arrived, saying that her lord had suddenly been taken ill with (literally)un mal à l’estomac.So the plans for theQuadrille d’honneur, which had been arranged with all sorts of finality during the days beforehand, had to be done over, and alas! by me. However, the invited guests had arrived, and the sheep separated from the goats. The Ambassador and Ambassadress walked down to the front door, beneath the vast entrance, while others of the official family stood at the head of the staircase. A red carpet was rolled out to the carriage and I had to go ahead and act as a sort of grand master of ceremonies. The Queen and the Ambassador, the King and the Ambassadress, followed by the Diplomatic Corps, moved down between the lines of curtseying people to the ball-room where a throne on a raised dais had been placed.
Gilet was stationed near the door so that I was able to signal to him and start the band playing the Royal March, followed by a few bars of the Star Spangled Banner. All stood until the Queen sat down. Then came the Royal Quadrille, as at the Court Ball, and the waltzes and “dancing in the barn” which Her Majesty wanted to see. At last Royalty made a move, and they were escorted to the little salon wherea small table with two places had been set for the Queen and the Ambassadress, and a small buffet at one side for the ladies of the court. The King stood and drank a glass of wine with the Ambassador. Back again to the ballroom—I thought they would never go, but at last they departed, the host and hostess going down the stairs with Their Majesties between the banks of flowers to the carriage.
Then the great dining-hall with its lofty ceiling and glittering lights concealed in towering palm trees, was opened, for it was not etiquette to serve the guests with supper while the King and Queen remained. In a little while it looked as if a plague of locusts had passed over the land. There was nothing left but bones and crumbs and glasses and empty bottles. I never before felt so glad when a thing was over! It has been a good deal of a strain for all of us.
This morning I feel like a boy just out of school. Although I only got to bed at dawn, my forty winks have rejuvenated me, and I am as chipper as can be. The echoes of the ball are very enthusiastic. It appears now that theother embassies are trying to get Their Majesties to go to them.
What do you think I am doing these afternoons? Why, riding horseback like a little man! It took me days to find a respectable (looking) horse, but at last I found at Ferini’s, near the Borghese villa, a nice chestnut with two white stockings and a good deal of style when she frisks about. Peppi calls her Mona Lisa. So, in the afternoons, early or late, according to the amount of work I have to do, I may be seen sallying forth, and an hour later, returning, the horse fresh and without a hair unturned, but the rider pretty well done up.
But oh how I want to leave it all and come flying to you! Remember me courteously to your Aunt. Does she still think of Peppi?
POLLY TO A. D.
New York,
February.
Every night I read your letters over and over. You are my love and my sweetheart and I adore you. I can hardly believe such happiness iscoming to me, for there never was anyone so dear in all the world, there never has been, there never will be. Your friends have been so kind to me and your father has sent me such nice letters.
Oh by the way, whom are you riding horseback with? Mona Lisa? Ahem, and the horse is called after her. So the grass widow is back in Rome, and Peppi, you say, is cocking his eye at her? I think Aunt is too busy with her charities lately to remember about her handsome artist with his wild hair. She no longer wears floppy artistic gowns, she really likes titles, and is getting quite excited over Prince Boris’ coming.
Now, A. D., I’ve got some news for you. Aunt just wouldn’t formally announce our engagement, so I did! Yes, my dear! I sent a notice myself to the papers, chuckling as I wrote it. Now it’s up to you. The only thing for you to do, I warn you, is to come over as quickly as you can and carry off your Pagan Polly, provided you still want her.
A. D. TO POLLY
Rome,
February.
Here I am at the office, receiving company in the mildest manner, trying to soothe my dissatisfied countrymen, and do impossibilities of one sort and another. I have already had several visitors this morning. One was a young man who has had the cheerful but fruitful experience of being buncoed out of several thousand francs at Naples and is accordingly needy. I helped him out of the store of my wisdom and out of the store of my bank account, and he has departed wiser if somewhat sadder.
Last night Jan and I went again to Peppi’s studio. It seemed as if you were really in the terrace room—you seemed to pervade the place with its old tapestries and sketches, its rugs and easels and paints and books of photographs, and the northern window letting in a flood of moonlight. And there your shadow sat, while Jan played the piano delightfully, gavottes, mazurkas, ballets.
I have adopted a plan which makes me the happiest of men. I carry the last letter whichI receive from you in my pocket until the next one comes, and so I am never disappointed in not having a missive from you. It is a splendid scheme, for then I always have something to read. I shan’t want to give up the one I received today, though, when the next one comes, for it is so nice. But then, the next one may be still nicer.
POLLY TO A. D.
Black Horse Farm,
March.
At the farm again. It is lonely up here without you. The winter with its drifting snow was fine, but now that is melting. The roads are muddy and make such hard pulling for the horses that Checkers is hitching up four while I write, and I plan to drive them.
How you would laugh if you could see me; I am the funniest looking object—huge rubber boots, a queer-looking short skirt with half a yard of tear down the side made by the bull pup, (he is the dearest thing, though) an oldbrown jacket very much the worse for wear, a Scotch tam, and Checker’s furry gloves—you know what I mean, the lovely pussy ones. Now we are off!
Later, a postscript.
This afternoon Checkers and I had a horseback ride and I can sympathize with you after your Campagna rides, for I don’t feel as spry as I might. Though, after all, you have Mona Lisa with you to while away the time, and I?—Well, Boris is coming to America soon, so you’d better be on your best behavior. It is midnight and I have hopped into bed and spilt the ink; it’s high time I stopped writing and went to sleep and to dream of—well, of one of you, anyway.
PRINCE BORIS TO POLLY
Rome,
March.
Mon ange, I am in Rome again, but will soon be in America with you. American Secretary like me no more because I follow after you; he go the other way, if possible, and I look insky as if observing interesting eclipse. It make me very angry—wish to pull his nose—my heart is inky as the devil’s pit.
Your Aunt, she likes me, at least. The Carthorse she calls herself, but not of your family surely, for you are like wild Arab colt. I try without success to tempt you with sweets and with fresh dates of the desert, but you not let me put on bridle. After Paris, my heart have big hole. Now I run after you to America to try mend the hole.
You can be princess if you wish, and live in a country that will some day soon be master of the world.
A. D. TO POLLY
Rome,
March.
Your letters, dear, from the farm bring the fine country air with them. I can see the still cold moonlight on the pure white snow and hear the ringing of the sleigh bells, I can see the old house, the fire crackling up the chimney, and the cozy room with the old prints, the warmthand geniality. Thank you, dear, for the picture.
But your mood changed, didn’t it, darling, when you got back from your ride? I am sure your Aunt dropped some little bit of gossip, possibly something the Prince or Peppi may have written, though I feared he had quite forgotten her. He’s too deeply in love with Mona Lisa now to act like a sensible person, and whatever he says is colored by his insane jealousy of every other man in Rome who even looks on his divinity. But I’m coming home, Polly. I’ll do anything to get away. I know you want to live in America and so do I.
Last night was the ball at the Austrian Embassy to which came the King and Queen. In a word—and a slang word at that—it wasn’t a patch on our Embassy Ball. Their palace, for one thing, doesn’t compare with ours, and then, notwithstanding all the etiquette and fuss of the Austrians, all their punctiliousness, it didn’t go off so smoothly. The fact is, it wasn’t so well done, and out of this I privately found much gratification. The American function had been a great success, while the reception of last night was rather a commonplace affair.
I stood around and watched the Austrian secretaries work—five or six of them to do what I alone had done, and I delighted in seeing them run about, and look sheepish or important, according to their natures, as they did the more or less foolish things the occasion demanded. As soon as their Majesties had gone, I departed, so got to bed at a comparatively early hour. They had a cotillion afterwards which we had the good sense not to undertake. Rather a funny thing was the fact that a class of Americans who hadn’t been asked to our ball were invited to this one!
I took a ride on my chestnut horse this afternoon—yes, the one Peppi dubbed Mona Lisa. But don’t you worry about the real lady Lisa—she—well, she just helps to pass the time away. Today as we started out, great banks of clouds toward the East had gathered, casting shadows on the hills, and these advanced till a glorious double rainbow arched across the Campagna. It was all so beautiful that we innocently rode right into the storm and were drenched in a pelting rain.
The Embassy is humming with people calling,making inquiries, asking for passports, demanding everything from a room in the best hotel to a good store where an American can buy a pair of suspenders, and a thousand and one other requests. Then the Ambassador is getting ready to go away, so all is topsy-turvey. As soon as he goes, I shall begin to pack my boxes—a few books and pictures; and then some evening when the new secretary gets here, I shall quietly go to the station, take the train, and ride rattling across the uncanny old Campagna for the last time, and say goodbye to old Rome, goodbye! I follow your pesky Prince!
POLLY TO A. D.
New York,
March.
Here I am, twenty-one years old and everything to make me happy except two little things. One is I don’t like to have that grass-widow with her gray cat’s eyes again in Rome. She’s much too smartly dressed, and calculating, too, yes, she is, A. D. She just goes after what she wants, then if it’s not obtainable, takeswhatever else is handy. She may be amusing, but even if you and Peppi do rave about her looks, I don’t think she’s a bit pretty.
And this is the other thing. Aunt has inserted a denial of our engagement, after the nice announcement I had put in the paper. That’s why we darted up to the Black Horse Farm last week. To get me away so I shouldn’t see it contradicted in the Sunday papers. But Sybil did and sent it to me. What shall I do next?
I’m grateful anyway for the dearest sweetheart in the world; that’s more than anyone else has! This morning the sun shining brightly into my room awoke me, and the day has turned out glorious, not a cloud in the sky. Don’t you hope our wedding-day will be like this? Louisa decorated the breakfast table and on it were some birthday gifts—a pair of pretty bedroom slippers, a work-bag from Grandmother (Ahem, I sew so much!) and a pretty cardcase from Aunt, and a little silver coffee pot, just big enough for two, from Checkers. Aunt sniffed when Checkers explained elaborately the two it was meant for. I believe she is still actually set on my becoming a Princess.
And then! There lay two letters and a cable—all three from you. They got torn open first, even before I untied the great box that contained your roses. I put away the letters till I could take them off to my lair, to read and re-read secretly—such dear letters and such lovely flowers. I’d like to kiss you and tell you so this very minute, but you’re leagues and leagues away, so there’s something lacking to my birthday after all.
After breakfast there was business to be attended to. Now I’m of age, Aunt is no longer my guardian. (Do you suppose she’s heaving a sigh of relief?) So forth I sallied into town with our business man, Mr. French—we went in a cab—quite improper, don’t you think? And at such an early hour! Well, we got to the office and were closeted together for ages and ages while he talked and talked and read and read again papers and documents, I signing them above and below and around about until my wrist ached. Then a man with a red stamp came in to help officiate till finally we got them all fixed up. After that Mr. French took me to a safe where there was a little tin box; here weput the precious papers with my John Hancock all over them, and after he had given me two keys, he left me. And what do you suppose I did? Having for the first time a little money of my own, I went to a jeweller and bought a very pretty ring—for Sybil. Now are you disappointed? Never mind. Something else was bought for somebody I won’t mention.
On coming home I found, well! ! ! There are no words enthusiastic enough to thank you for the glorious great pearl on a chain to go about my neck. But you know that these few poor inadequate thanks come from my heart, and hidden somewhere in them are endless devotion and perfect faithfulness to you.
A. D. TO POLLY
Rome,
March.
I enclose some photographs of the “meets” on the Campagna—of the pack and the huntsmen and tent, and a group of onlookers—the princess of San Faustino, the last Orsini, and Prince Solofra who seems to be scratching hishead and meditating on the past glories of the great feudal families. Also one of your friends, Gonzaga, with the Countess he is going to marry.
There is an attempt being made to revive the Carnival fêtes—the races in the Corso—but the Veglione won’t be so much fun as last year, I know. Every moment of that night together is unforgettable. Poor erratic Pittsburgo, how you did tease him! And dear old Checkers! There’ll never again be anything so funny as he was in that round masque with its fixed grin, dancing about on the floor of the Costanzi. But now it isn’t carnival for me. Who could feel gay when his love is not here? So I am only an observer, while others sport and play the fool, more or less amusingly.
The Corso has been crowded, and many of the balconies draped with bright carpets, and wreathed with flowers. Through the throngs there moved an irregular succession of fantastic figures, men on horseback, dressed in red and yellow, heralds, groups of historic patriots and warriors, and even Marcus Aurelius so ingeniously imitated that he appeared exactlylike the statue on the Capitol, which is supposed to have left its pedestal and come down to enjoy the mirth. Then there was a “char” with Venus—to whom as the Goddess of love, I took off my hat and bowed,—drawn by tinsel cupids and snowy pigeons tugging away at the ends of stiff wires. There were sacrificial chariots, too, and floats of hanging gardens, and still more Roman statues,—