“Pull off your walking coat,Comb back your hair,Cut loose your corset string,Take in some air;Put on your bonnet, love,Don’t act a fool;See that your harness fitsSame as a mule.”
“Pull off your walking coat,Comb back your hair,Cut loose your corset string,Take in some air;Put on your bonnet, love,Don’t act a fool;See that your harness fitsSame as a mule.”
“Pull off your walking coat,
Comb back your hair,
Cut loose your corset string,
Take in some air;
Put on your bonnet, love,
Don’t act a fool;
See that your harness fits
Same as a mule.”
We almost feel we are at Black Horse Farm again at home. Between parties Sybil, Checkers, and I go sight-seeing, for Aunt says we must learn something besides deviltry.
“So you think I’m enjoying myself too much over here, Auntie,” my twin remarks. “Well, when I get home I’ll show you I’m not afraid of work,—I’ll lie right down beside it, see if I don’t. But while I’m here, I’m out for a good time.”
I’ve seen the Prince many times lately; he is most devoted. I love his letters, he interestsbut he frightens me a little. My feelings are so mixed I can’t write them down. When not with me, he spends much time with Peppi and Madame Mona Lisa. I often see them prowling about among the old paintings in the galleries.
PRINCE BORIS TO POLLY
Rome,
February.
Oh, Cleopatra child, present in my mind and heart is ever strange emotion I felt on meeting enigmatic girl, the first time and all times. But I have not progressed in detection of enigma, and it may be I shall die without solving it. The more I think, the dearer she becomes to me.
That night on the steamer the lady moon, how she danced on the fairy water! When talking to you in the cabin of the ship, I felt like a small boy, daring to do or say nothing. How stupid I have been that night, how little I profit my time while you bewitch me. I told so few things and I had so many to tell.
When you first appear in the doorway dressed like a rainbow in the sky you looked more likea fairy goddess than earth woman. Were you inhabitant of star? But what have you done in star for having fallen down amongst us humans? Or was it penance enough that you fell?
I feel strong emotion in my being. As I think of you, the music of Werther flows through my veins. All things of that first meeting rush round me. How the sea was sparkling, the sky silver, the air sweet!
JOURNAL CONTINUED
Rome,
February.
This morning I thought I never should wake up—it was twelve o’clock, but even then I felt tired. Yesterday was the last day of the carnival, the last ball for me. Marquis Gonzaga sent me the loveliest bunch of flowers, great orchids tied with a beautiful ribbon.
So much for the pleasant—now for the unpleasant. I got an anonymous letter about Captain Carlo from an Italian girl who is in love with him, saying she will kill me if I donot leave him alone. I can’t imagine who she can be—I’ll try to do some detective work, be a Sherlock Holmes, and find out. I think it would be fun and I’m sure I’d be good at it. Living in Rome is like being in a play, it doesn’t seem real at all.
But the climax came when another epistle arrived, this time a catty note from the Mona Lisa divorcée saying she was soon to leave Rome and A. D. to me, and she hoped “little Pagan Polly would enjoy herself.” Checkers and I went off for a long drive through the Campagna. It was good to get out into the country, away from all trouble. I wonder what on earth will happen next?
What did happen was that the divorcée followed up her note by a call. Louisa announced her just as I returned, and I heard Checkers greeting her in the next room—“Good afternoon! Glad of your hand. Hope you feel as good as new money.”
She laughed a little, but for all that, he hadn’t put her in a pleasant frame of mind. When I went in to see her, I looked a little surprised and asked her what I could do for her.
“You can let my friend alone,” she said.
“I do not know whom you mean,” I retorted.
“Oh yes you do! You can’t play innocence with me with your big blue eyes and your nursery airs.”
That made me angry and I told her to be civil to me or she might be ushered out. She fired up then, though she had tried to keep hold of herself at first, and pointed to A. D.’s picture, asking sarcastically if he had given it to me, and if she was to congratulate me on my conquest. I saw she was afraid I was really engaged to him and was trying to find out and I determined she should not.
So I hung my head and pretended to be dreadfully shy, and murmured she might congratulate me if she wished to. Then I was sorry, for she turned very white and then red.
“I don’t believe a word of it!” she choked, “and this is all the congratulation you’ll get out of me!” She snatched his photograph off the table and threw it into the fireplace, and as I did not know what else to do, I rang for Louisa to show her the door, but before the maid could come, Mona Lisa swept out, muttering to herself,“I’ll get even with you yet.” That is the last glimpse I shall get of her, I hope.
I went and told Aunt. The American Ambassador came to call in the late afternoon and they were both closeted for about an hour. When I asked her what they talked about, she said about A. D. and Mona, but she wouldn’t tell me anything else. But I know that divorcée is trying to make some mischief. Well, she may if she wants to. I don’t care. If A. D. likes that kind of woman, he may have her.
Pittsburgo and Captain Carlo came for luncheon, and then later in came the Prince for tea. Aunt insists on leaving us together every chance she gets. But he is a trifle too impassioned, even for me. When he left today, he said, “Why is it you are unkind? You say me not sweet things, I who would kiss your feet. Naughty one, you are cold as March to me when I want you to be like the month of May.” And that’s the way he’s always going on.
After Marquis Gonzaga’s dinner, the other evening, I left while the others were still dancing. Carlo was watching mournfully from the balcony above and ran down to put me in mycarriage, but round-eyed Pittsburgo caught up with him, much to his disgust, so he did not have the farewells to himself, and Louisa and I set off for home.
But when we reached the Palazzo, what do you suppose? There was Carlo to open the door! He had gotten into another carriage and raced ahead of us. He begged for the violets that I was wearing. I wouldn’t give them then, but when I reached the upper landing, just out of deviltry, I threw them out of the window to him. It’s a funny game, but this isn’t the first time I’ve played it, nor the first time he has either, for that matter. I wonder if I’ll get knifed by his Italian girl. I’ll risk it, for it’s all such fun.
The dinner had been awfully uninteresting, and I had to have a little bit of amusement. A. D. was to sit on one side of me but he never came. I suppose he was with Mona Lisa. Also I spilt coffee over my new dress and got rather cross. I didn’t sleep a wink all night.
In the meanwhile I hadn’t forgotten about the anonymous letter warning me to let Carloalone, so one afternoon I showed the note to Boris who was here calling and suggested that we do a little detective work together. His eyes glittered and I told him he could be Doctor Watson, but I should be Sherlock. As we sallied forth for a walk to talk it over, we saw a pretty contadina sauntering up and down the street outside the palazzo, and just on impulse, I said, “What do you make of that, Watson?” She happened to glance up, and if ever there was a look of hatred on a human face, she had it.
“I have seen her before,” remarked my companion.
“You have?” I gasped.
“Dining in a little trattoria with—”
“Anyone I know?”
Boris nodded and I guessed at once that he meant Carlo but preferred not to say so definitely.
So I took the hint and kept a careful lookout for a few days, and sure enough, there she was, hanging about or strolling past every time that Carlo came to visit me. Once the captain who had just been calling on me, stopped and spoke to her; he appeared to be angry. So I took the Prince, who had dropped in, and we shadowedthem home, quite delighted with ourselves and our adventure, until they separated, he striding away surlily and she looking after him until he turned the corner. Then she went into a tumbled-down house.
“Signor, who lives there?” I asked of a neighbor lounging on his steps.
“The gardener of Capitano Carlo,” he told me politely. So there was all my evidence, and the next time we met I told my Italian Captain about the letter and that I had discovered the author of it. He admitted that I was probably right, and that it sounded like his gardener’s daughter.
She was jealous of me, evidently, but he didn’t seem at all put out about it,—in fact I think it rather tickled his vanity. People say the poor girl is half mad about him.
Carlo is now in an army prison for having been seen at the Marquis’ dance when he was supposed to be on the sick list. He writes me he will go to South Africa if I won’t be good to him.
This afternoon we got our things together to give our American Dip—short for diplomat—a surprise party at his rooms. But he had found out somehow or other, and as we entered we saw a large sign, “WELCOME, SURPRISE PARTY,” and in other places there were drawings representing “the joyous hand” and “the joyous eye,” and besides these, a notice saying that suspicious people had been seen about the place. He is very original and clever. The dinner was awfully jolly and we had great fun as people always do at his parties. Thank Heaven, Mona Lisa was not there.
After it was all over we drove to the Coliseum, for the moon was full. A. D. and I wandered round; it was a beautiful night, the great amphitheatre all gleaming silver. I hadn’t seen any old moonlit ruins since Karnak on the Nile, and there wasn’t any nice young man to see that with. He is such a dear, but a flirt, and I’m sure he’s engaged to Madame Mona Lisa with the lovely gray cat’s eyes. I wish he were half as devoted to me as the Prince is—no, I don’t either, but there isn’t any rubber on my pencil, so I can’t erase it.
What a country for love and romance! Eventhe Americans are affected by it. Poor wild-eyed Pittsburgo shot and killed himself today in his room in front of the portrait of the beautiful Italian singer. I am terribly shocked and can hardly believe it is true. Some people thought he was in love with me because he came so often to our apartment, and just to make some fun, I wore his ring for a time. All Rome is talking. Poor old Pittsburgo!
This evening I went to the American Embassy—a large dinner of thirty or more people in a lovely big dining room, and with beautiful silver plates and then gold plates—the first time in my life I ever ate from gold plates. The Ambassador was specially nice to me. I tried to pump him about Mona Lisa but didn’t get much. I wish she would leave Rome. Our Dip is rather a puzzler—he just keeps me guessing. I don’t know whether he is engaged to the divorcée or not. I must admit she’s rather fascinating and she has had a sad history, he says. We went on to the Princess Pallavacini’s evening reception—he spent the entire time with Mona. Of course she and I didn’tspeak or even bow. Aunt likes him but still prefers a titled foreigner every time.
The Prince was at the reception, too, but I managed to spend most of my spare time flirting with Marquis Gonzaga; he talks a lot but is not so amusing as the Prince. Boris declares he is going to follow me about Europe. Aunt is taking us first to Sorrento and then Florence—after that, the Lord knows where! He is more ardent than ever, so I bet Checkers a hat I’d make Boris propose before I left Rome. I like him better than I did. Checkers says I’m getting used to foreigners.
PRINCE BORIS TO POLLY
Rome,
February.
Darling Miss,
Have you really decide not to let me follow you? If it so, your heart is darker than the Black Forest and you are more wicked as the bears that live there, and if one of those bears eat you, I will say, “So much the better.” But when they see you, I fear they will only lickyour hands. Perhaps it is you do not understand the tender language of love belonging to the old countries, you who come from so far away new America? Maybe only way to make you love me is with the rough language of the savage and the hard hand of the brute. I would like to tear the delicate feathers off the hummingbird to punish her.Bozhe moi!But I would like to beat you!
It has been said once I resemble D’Artagnan and perhaps you are afraid of me, afraid of what Spaniards call afuria francesa. Perhaps you feel I carry you off like a hero of antiquity—Paris, I think—took Helena away.
You are making game of me. I am very furious. I have try lately to console myself to find another woman, as much as it is possible like my hummingbird. I look but cannot find her. I have treasure long time the only thing I have had that was of you—the handkerchief. But today the handkerchief it is gone and not to be found. I have sorrow like for the loss of a dear friend.
Here I am alone, with thirty people in the hotel, and not one of them hummingbirds. Iam weary and think often of you. I would give them all for having you.
JOURNAL CONTINUED
Rome,
March.
Hurrah! I have won the hat from Checkers. When the Prince came to say goodbye, he proposed. “Some speed to that boy,” says Brother. Of course I refused him. Oh, if Aunt knew, she would be madder than a wet hen. But Boris swears he won’t take no for an answer, “You mock me like wicked Pagan girl that you are. But I love Pagans. I meet you in Paris before you sail for America.”
We are leaving Rome tomorrow. A. D. and I had a long talk on the terrace and just a wee bit of nonsense. He wants to spend next Sunday with us at Sorrento. I told him to come along. Thank Heaven the divorcée has left Rome at last.
Carlo also asked to be allowed to come to Sorrento, but I don’t want him to, and so there’s an end to that. He can have his Italiangirl. I wonder if Peppi will turn up, for Aunt’s portrait is finished and she likes it. It ought to be good after those long sittings.
It has amused me to lead these foreigners all on, but it is dangerous to play with fire. Gonzaga remarked today, “My mother says me marry my cousin, a Spanish countess, but you, Miss Polly, you hear from me again.” As to foreigners in general and Prince Boris in particular, they certainly know how to flirt, but I wouldn’t trust them around the corner. They like to tell naughty stories and pretend they’re dead in love.
So the Roman season is over; the fun and the beaux and the parties and the drives on the Campagna are things of the past, things for me to remember when I’m old and gray. I’ve had a glorious time here and I’m sorry it’s ended, but Aunt says we must travel again, and I must study. The happy days for Checkers and me are over. I wonder if I will experience some day “une grande passion” as they call it over here and marry. Who knows?
I am not sure that I shall have much time to keep a journal after this for it seems as if I’d promised to write to half the men in Rome.
A. D. TO POLLY
Rome,
March.
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.
Sorrento,
March.
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
(Telegram)[3]
Rome,
April.
I am coming to brave the wrath of one little siren tomorrow.
[3]These and succeeding telegrams and cables must have been transmitted by telephone and jotted down since I found none on the regulation blanks. I. A.
[3]These and succeeding telegrams and cables must have been transmitted by telephone and jotted down since I found none on the regulation blanks. I. A.
POLLY TO A. D.
Sorrento,
April.
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
Rome,
May.
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 histaste, 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.
Florence,
June.
Yes, A. D. dear, I, too, am thinking of the balconyand 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 littleosteria, 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 sawme, 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
Venice,
June.
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 gondolasclustered 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.
Bayreuth,
July.
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 upnaughty 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
Rome,
July.
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 inlove, 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.
Bayreuth,
July.
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 waslively, 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 Venicefell 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
Rome,
July.
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. Thefanfare 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. Throughthe 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
Rome,
July.
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 mejump 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 forme, 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 towardus, 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 theDaily 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.
Bayreuth,
July.
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
Rome,
July.
It is a fête day in Rome, and a grand reviewof 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 withcorazzieri. There were not many troops, but I always like to see thecarabinieriwith their three-cornered hats and tail coats and crossed belts. Thebersaglieri, 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-headedcontadiniin carriages with banners, the prizes won lately at the festival of theDivina 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 muchmore 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
Rome,
July.
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 explodedin 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.
Baden Baden,
July.
“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 towrite 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
Monte Catini,
July.
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.