“Helen’s lips are drifting dust,Ilion is consumed with rust;All the galleons of GreeceDrink the ocean’s dreamless peace;Stately empires wax and wane—Babylon, Barbary, and Spain;—Only one thing, undefaced,Lasts though all the worlds lie wasteAnd the heavens are overturned.—Dear, how long ago we learned.”
“Helen’s lips are drifting dust,Ilion is consumed with rust;All the galleons of GreeceDrink the ocean’s dreamless peace;Stately empires wax and wane—Babylon, Barbary, and Spain;—Only one thing, undefaced,Lasts though all the worlds lie wasteAnd the heavens are overturned.—Dear, how long ago we learned.”
“Helen’s lips are drifting dust,
Ilion is consumed with rust;
All the galleons of Greece
Drink the ocean’s dreamless peace;
Stately empires wax and wane—
Babylon, Barbary, and Spain;—
Only one thing, undefaced,
Lasts though all the worlds lie waste
And the heavens are overturned.
—Dear, how long ago we learned.”
So, thinking of you, the trip which promised to be tiresome and long, turned into a very interesting journey. It occurred to me to stop over at Orvieto, perched up on that great rock, jutting out of the plain, a medieval but clean little town with very correct architecture, andof course most famous for its cathedral, thought by some to be the most beautiful in the world. I do not think it is, but then to me it was chiefly a reminder, for seeing its mosaics and gorgeous façade, I could only think of St. Mark’s, which we had visited together, and which, accordingly, is to me the most glorious that I have ever seen.
In the sunlight of midday the church at Orvieto is brilliant but glaring. The carvings are rich and handsome, but the mosaics are out of place in its Gothic character. Inside are some very fine frescoes by Signorelli, and oh, such a wonderful silver lamp!
Here I saw, too, the Podesta, and the Ospedale. The Duomo in itself is rather insignificant, for its façade in Pisan style, with ascending stories of little colonnades, is too small, but I liked the ancient fortified tower, which has been turned into a campanile, with its crown of pillared porticoes. Inside, in one of the chapels, is an altar screen of silver, not to compare with the screen of gold and carbuncle, aquamarine and precious stones of St. Mark’s, but with a story in high relief of the Saviour and apostles and saints. It was made in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries.
Just before leaving Rome, I called on the Minister of Foreign Affairs, as our Ambassador was out of town. At these receptions the Dips are seen at their best, with their most diplomatic manner, all meeting in the anteroom, waiting for their turn to enter (ambassadors take precedence), talking on anything but politics, yet smiling knowingly as if they were bottling up most important state secrets, pretending to be unruffled, though very excited. The time that each one remains with the Minister of Foreign Affairs is carefully noted and commented on.
It was amusing, for the Turkish Ambassador and the Greek Chargé smiled and bowed and scraped in the outer room, and then went and probably did all they could to harm each other in the private room of the Minister. As we had nothing of importance to discuss just now, His Excellency and I only passed compliments and assured each other of our mutual and highest esteem and consideration, and expressed hopes that everything would always be satisfactorily conducted and concluded between us. As I came away, the French Chargé was disappearingthrough the folding door—for an Ambassador, they would have opened the double doors. It is mysterious to watch these disappearances into a room where a Foreign Minister is hidden.
I dined with some Diplomats the night before I came away and it was a sad sort of a meal. I think they’ll miss me, for each of them confides in me about the peculiarities of the others. Really, the Prince is behaving in a most extraordinary manner. The other night he began running down France to a mild, new, little French Secretary—called French women ugly, French society a sham, French institutions bosh, and so attacked the poor astonished little gentleman at his own table that the others had to break up the dinner and the conversation. I can’t think what he was driving at. But whatever his faults, he is very clever, and he and I still go to thebirreriatogether. As a rule, he is a most agreeable talker, which makes his outburst the other night all the more incomprehensible.
Today is quite a fête day in Monte Catini. Thecontadinihave been coming down in swarms, and are standing about the crowded main square beneath my windows, doing—nothing! But doing it so well. I really think an Italian idles more complacently and contentedly and picturesquely than any other mortal.
The little town is crowded with country folk celebrating the festival of the Assumption, or the Madonna of Mid-August. The little cracked bells of the tiny church have been tinkling and in front of the church is a staging for a tombola. A train with excursionists and a band is expected from Pistoja and they promise fireworks tonight.
The alleys beneath the trees are crowded withcontadiniwearing bright-colored kerchiefs on their heads, the women walking three and four abreast, while the men (what hulking, skulking, awkward creatures men are!) come lumbering after them, and there is a great cracking of whips and shouting as the little carts go rapidly past. It makes a very animated scene. About midday I think they’ll disappear, though, for it is hot and the sun is beating down, while the distant hills stand out in this wonderful Italian atmosphere as if seen through a telescope, so distinctly visible are the white houses glowing on their green sides and little towns perched on their tops.
Oh, Polly dear, when I think of you, the whole world seems different to me! With you in my heart I take a greater delight and interest in people and things, and feel new ambitions and enjoyments, looking at all things objectively, like a spectator at a play. You have awakened my sympathies so that I am excited when the villain comes sneaking between the borders, and moved when the heroine weeps, and exultant when the hero arrives in the nick of time, and virtue triumphs. In other words, I care more for the world because of you.
The little gondola is in front of me on the table with its saucy silver prow cocked up in the air, and its filigree cabin hood and its precious cargo of reminders of the happy Venetian days, for when I left Rome, although in light marching order, I couldn’t bear to leave it behind, so brought it along in my pocket.
I am returning to Rome but just for a day or so.
POLLY TO A. D.
Baden-Baden,
August.
What a bad, bad child I am not to write oftener—doesthe fascinating Mona Lisa correspond constantly? I feel quite guilty, after receiving so many long and interesting letters from you. Well, I am very, very sorry that you are not well, and only wish I were with you at Monte Catini to take care of you.
A. D., what do you think? ! ! ! I have had another proposal—this one by letter—since I saw you. From Gonzaga; but I wrote him he had better marry his cousin the Countess and forget me. Aunt thinks it isn’t so fine an offer, from a worldly point of view, as the Prince’s, (he writes Aunt frequently) and she still has hopes of my changing my mind and accepting him. If I married G. his mother would not approve of me, an American. She would say I was too independent and had married him for his title. Although life as the wife of a Spanish Diplomat spent in the different capitals of Europe would be interesting, still I know G. would not remain true to me for more than a few months, at most.
If I married Captain Carlo, well! I would hunt on the Campagna, join the gayest set in Rome, and continue my flirtations. I would wear the family jewels and keep the tapestries(unless we got hard up) and be tolerated if I presented my lord and master with a son and heir. But then he is far away in South Africa by now.
If I should marry Prince Boris, what would my life be? Ah! that is a question. On the whole I might get more out of life by marrying a foreigner and living in Europe, than an American and passing my time maybe in a small western town, who knows?
Signor Peppi leaves this afternoon for Rome, and, I fear, without making an offer to Aunt. I want to send you something by him, but he has already lost his boots and cane as well as his overcoat, so no telling how much of him will arrive there. However, I will risk sending you a little gift.
I am just full of business. Aunt says I must learn to travel, so this is the first trip I am to manage. I have been despatching telegrams in all directions, buying tickets, reservations, and Baedekers, and so forth, and I hope we shall get to the Hague all right.
Are you behaving yourself these days, sir?
A. D. TO POLLY
Rome.
THE DIARY OF A DAY’S DOINGS[4]
A leaflet published under thenom de plumeof“An August Daily”(very august)Dedicated with love to Miss Pollykins.
[4]Issued in response to a certain inquiry as to whether or not I am behaving myself.
[4]Issued in response to a certain inquiry as to whether or not I am behaving myself.
Was awakened at the usual hour by the faithful Gilet, and as usual turned over and went to sleep again. Up betimes, however, and reviewed the morning news in thePopulo Romano. Breakfasted on two eggs and a cup of coffee.
Today tried for the first time a new-fangled egg-opener, which, I concluded, would require practice and experience before using in public. Shall have to have another napkin for the table at luncheon time.
Then out and to the Embassy. Found the usual assortment of mail on my desk, desiring audiences of Queen, or Pope; loan of money, or of anything, and proposals of marriage, to which last item I sent printed forms of reply.
Work.
More work.
Will you subscribe to this publication, dear Polly?
POLLY TO A. D.
The Hague,
August.
So you have made a flying trip to Rome, launched a daily paper, and returned to Monte Catini. For that matter, I, too, have not been idle, for we have had, since my last letter, a chapter of adventures, really. You know I was going to take charge of this complicated trip. Well! Fate was against me. We started off nicely from Baden-Baden, but hadn’t gone far when a discussion arose with the guard as to where to change cars. A station official settled that and hustled us into another train. As we were feeling quite contented and having a good snooze, we suddenly heard a great rumpus, and found our caboose had broken down on a bridge. They flagged the Orient express which was coming behind and hurried us out again into the dark with our bags and put us aboard, but inthe excitement Louisa, the maid, lost her ticket.
At Strasbourg we had to change cars once more, and being late, we simply dashed across the station with the guards flying behind and yelling, “You have only one minute!” It really was awfully comical. Arriving at Brussels early I had a splendid morning, seeing among other things the Grande Place with its beautiful old buildings, and visiting the Gallery Wiertz with all those marvellous but crazy pictures.
Back to the train again, but alas! our troubles were not at an end. Checkers stopped to pay the cabby and Aunt and I went into the station. I was a little ahead with a bag in each hand when suddenly a perfectly strange man came up and kissed me. I screamed, dropped everything I was carrying and stared about me, only to see him run away and look back, laughing. Did you ever hear of anything so saucy?
We got into the car somehow, but Checkers didn’t come and so we went off without him. Aunt said someone must have cast an evil eye on us. Such an amusing account as Checkers gave us later of his experience in Brussels! It seems he had only three francs in his pocket, notenough for the cab. The driver was furious and couldn’t understand his French and thought he was trying to cheat him and demanded his arrest. A sympathetic Englishman offered to “change him a crown,” which, unfortunately, he didn’t possess. Finally he went to a banker’s and got things straightened out and came on the next train. It is only three-thirty now and I am wondering what will happen next. The excitement can’t keep up much longer. The “Sensation Captain,” as they now call me, has resigned.
Aunt sends her love but says the only thing she has against you so far is the fear that she may become a confirmed dipsomaniac through drinking your health so often. But it is really a silent toast to Peppi, I think. Of course, if she wants to cherish an absurd attachment for him it is none of my business, but she makes me just a little tired!
A. D. TO POLLY
Monte Catini,
August.
Dear, dear Sensation Captain, what a daythat was, to be sure, that you wrote about. I have read and re-read your experiences and wish I might have been along to share the perils by cabmen and the perils by train! But you reached The Hague all the same while I was at this ineffective distance. Oh, please letmemanage a trip some time for my pretty Polly.
Your little gondola is here in my pocket, for we are inseparable companions. Indeed I know of none more agreeable, since I cannot be with you, for while the little boat is always suggesting something pleasant, yet she permits me to do the talking; so we get on swimmingly, or rather floatingly, the gondola and I.
I often think, dear, how at the big receptions last spring, I found such delight in looking at you. Your manner toward all was so charming. And do you remember the dinner at the American Embassy when I didn’t sit next to the girl I wanted? But you didn’t seem to mind, and flirted with the Prince, though every now and then you did look at me just a little, didn’t you? And then afterwards, in the great corridor, when the Ambassador was talking to you more affably than I had ever seen him, I stood by and feltproud and didn’t know why—though I do now, indeed!
I saw the Spanish Marquis yesterday. He looked at me suspiciously, but perhaps it was just my imagination, because I knew you had refused him. No one has heard from Don Carlo, but I believe the gardener’s daughterhasfollowed him to South Africa.
As for my conduct in Monte Catini, I am doing pretty well, which is the limit of opportunity in this Tuscan place among the Pistojan hills. Anyhow, your Dip is thinking constantly of you, and looking a good many times lately into the back of his timepiece (which Checkers wanted to inspect, do you remember? and I wouldn’t let him). People may think I am gazing at the face of my watch, but I watch another face, I assure you!
POLLY TO A. D.
The Hague,
August.
Oh, A. D., such a funny time as we have had since arriving here! Our bad luck still continues. First hotel, no rooms to be had; second hotel,rooms but no meals; third, only one room left, and they were surprised because Aunt, Checkers and I didn’t want to sleep in it all together. “Why, it is a big one!” said the proprietor. How we laughed! But we have a fine apartment now and are quite happy.
It has rained steadily all day and this morning we went to see the “House in the Woods.” The practical, plump little Queen is away. I suppose we shall spend most of the day in the picture galleries. The Hague gives me the impression of being one huge gallery of more or less immoral fat men and women carousing.
One thing is certain, this country is a paradise for cows, with its green pastures. I do wish we had our cow here with us for she would enjoy the grass so much.
Jonkheer Jan’s house is fine and large. They have a remarkable collection of Delft ware, plates all over the walls, and tapestries, splendid wood-carving in the hall, and no end of old Dutch silver. Please tell him how we enjoyed meeting his mother and father, as he was good enough to give us a letter of introduction to them.
But, oh, I am so homesick I don’t know what to do! Nearly a year away from home. At first there was the excitement of seeing new places and people, and I did enjoy travelling, but now it has worn off a little, and you are so far away. That ought not to make any difference, I have seen you so little, but I think it does. I haven’t flirted with a soul for such a long time—not since I left you in Venice. Rather good for me. But, A. D., how little we have really seen of each other! Here and there last spring, just a glimpse at a party, a few words of society nonsense, and perhaps a bit of a chat in the small room on the terrace, and—your coming to Sorrento. I was so surprised that you wanted to come.
But, to be sure, Mona Lisa had left Rome.
Then Florence and the sunsets, which I mention so often that Checkers thinks them a bit worn out, but now that I have Venice to look back on, the rest of it tends to fade away. And yet, we had only three days together there.
Everything will be so different at home for me, and very likely you will forget me if your divorcée returns to Rome. I am sure she cares for you, and besides, she is fascinating, and youand Peppi think her beautiful. Are you still devoted to her, I wonder, and do you write to her, too? You never mention her in your letters. I suppose you know just what you are doing, writing me so often?
What a long lecture I have given you, and you will probably say to yourself, what foolishness I have written! But I’ve told you I always write just what pops into my head. There’s a kiss for you here somewhere; can you find it?
A. D. TO POLLY
Monte Catini,
August.
My darling, I am sorry you are homesick, for I know the misery of it, and how strange scenes and peoples and places and ways have kept you excited till now you feel weary. Believe me, Polly, I have spoken truly, and your letter which came to me today is so sweet, yet it troubles me a little with its doubt. Nevertheless, the kiss you send quite takes the pain away.
Charlton of the British Embassy has not been at all well and has joined me here to takethe cure. The other day he said he had hoped that you and I might like each other (like each other, indeed!) and at this I laughed heartily.
I dined with him at hislocandalast evening and as usual he had made all sorts of careful preparations and the dinner was the best the landlady could provide, at a little special table beneath an arbor with a trellis of American woodbine. We could hear in the distance a band, for it was a fête day again. He treats me with so much ceremony on these occasions—I am bowed in and bowed out by the whole establishment in such a way that I feel quite set up. I get him to talking on his hobby, coins, and then—I think of you. And so we are both happy.
Your token has just been sent on to me here by Peppi, and entrusted to the care of Charlton. The first words I blotted with it are the two that begin this letter, “My darling.” I am so grateful for it, and you know the thought that sent it is most precious. It means so much to me. I truly was in need of a blotter, for both my old one and the little one in my travelling bag have been used up by my many letters to you.It is so nice to be thought of by one whom one wishes to be thought of by!
I am reading of the Prince of Naples’ visit to Montenegro to see his Princess, as interestedly as if I really had something depending on it. Everyone knows all the details of the royal match. As Mr. Dooley says, “Nowadays th’ window shades is up at th’ king’s house as well as everywhere else. Th’ gas is lighted, and we see his Majesty stormin’ around because th’ dinner is late and brushin’ his crown before goin’ out.” I watch thecontadini, too, when they come into this little town,—the lovers,—and wonder at them and with them. For in these things, you know, dear, prince and peasant meet.
Do not bother your little head about Mona Lisa;youare a dear!
A. D. TO POLLY
Monte Catini,
August.
The papers today announce the engagement of the Prince of Naples. And so they are happy,for I believe it is a genuine love affair. Charlton says the Prince is a fine fellow because he is a numismatist, a collector of coins, while I think him a fine fellow for choosing his bride so, and doubtless we both are right. I wish them all luck, don’t you?
Boris and I said goodbye before I left Rome for Monte Catini. He may have an idea of how happy I am (he saw me enthusiastically so) but he didn’t let on. Indeed he may not suspect we are writing to each other. He is starting for Paris, but journeying there only indirectly. I can’t help wondering whether he is going to see you, or going on one of his strange private errands—perhaps a combination of both. You know every naval or military attaché is really more or less of a spy. However, he is not acknowledged as an attaché by his embassy. Rather peculiar, on the whole.
Just before leaving Rome he fought a duel. It appears he was rude to the Marquis Gonzaga, who they say, behaved like a gentleman in the affair, and there was a rencontre at which, alas! the Marquis was scratched, literally scratched, and honor (the Prince’s honor) wassatisfied. So they shook hands. What a farce!
I believe that, as usual in such cases, a woman’s name was mixed up in it, but I do not know whose. I sincerely hope it was not yours. I remember they had words about you the night of Pittsburgo’s dinner at the Grand when Gonzaga tried to kiss you. Perhaps Boris will tell you all about it.
POLLY TO A. D.
London,
September.
Here we are in your old lodgings on Half Moon Street, and very cosy we find it. We arrived early this morning. The passage over from Holland was very smooth and comfortable, and what do you suppose? ! ! ! Mr. Easthope who keeps the lodgings handed me the dearest little bunch of white pinks! I thought it very sweet of him, but when I found your card tied to them, I thought it much sweeter. He appeared in a very fine evening suit, ah! But he couldn’t look so fine as your Gilet. I remember him at the pretty dinners inyour rooms, as smooth and dignified as a bishop. Those times seem so far away now—when shall I see you again? In Paris? Yes, the Prince has written Aunt that he will join us there. Whom could the duel have been about? Reallyme, do you suppose?
Such a delicious little dinner we had tonight, it seemed like home, with pretty flowers on the table, and we all drank your health. You must have lived like a fighting cock here—how many years ago was it, dear old A. D.?
Oh pooh! I don’t see how you can say the Prince of Naples’ engagement is a true love affair. Why, he can’t marry anyone but a Princess, and a Catholic one at that, can he? So it doesn’t leave him much choice. After all, I don’t think it matters. My views have changed somewhat after being so long in Europe. Why, there are a lot of happy marriages over here that have been cooked up by the families!
Checkers wants to be remembered, but says his nose is out of joint since I have taken up with you. Thank you for the flowers, telegrams, messages—I love them all.
A. D. TO POLLY
Monte Catini,
September.
Oh how eagerly I read of your safe crossing and arrival in London, dear! I am so glad you are at Easthope’s. I know every nook and corner thereabouts, so I can think of you in familiar surroundings, passing through the little hallway—isn’t it a sort of toy play-house? Have you learned the postman’s rap yet? I can hear him now coming gradually down the street from house to house, and finally knocking, bang, bang, on the front door. And then when you go out, Easthope takes down his whistle and gives a sharp toot, once for a growler, twice (two short ones) for a two-wheeler, and from the rank on the other side of Piccadilly, along the green park, there hurries a hansom and you get in. Easthope closes the flap in front and then looks inquiringly to know where he shall tell the cabby to go, or else the cabby himself opens his little trap (on a rainy day letting in a rivulet) and waits to be told—Eaton Square, Victoria Station, the stores, or the Gaiety Theatre—and off you start, the little bells atthe horse’s collar ringing, down the street and into the stream of Piccadilly.
I can see you dining, or breakfasting with muffins and marmalade, the table so spick and span, and Easthope so intelligent and thoughtful. But then, he is one in a million, really. I wonder if there is the same housemaid whom I used to hear before daylight beginning her work sweeping and cleaning, in the way it was done a century ago. She was so hard-working and so faithful!
It is not the same boy, I am pretty sure, that helps Easthope, for he no sooner gets one trained up in the way he should go than some lodger finds him so good that he takes him away, and Easthope patiently begins to turn another lout into a footman,—a worm into a butterfly!
Go through Lansdowne Passage some day—it is a short and curious way of getting to Bond and Dover Streets. Turn into Curzon Street to its very end and walk through the passageway between Lansdowne House and Devonshire House to Hay Hill. It is a mysterious little alley to be in the heart of a great city, the sceneof a murder, they say. In my time it was kept and patrolled by a one-eyed, uncanny-looking old sweeper who used to waylay me for pennies. When the sweep left, he would leave his broom behind leaning against the wall to show he intended to come back, and so maintained his right against any other who might try to take his place. I send you a little silver broom, my broom, dear. Take good care of it and don’t let anyone else carry it away.
I have woven a gossamer web of thoughts, oh so beautiful and delicate and fine, like threads of gold; and you are caught and tangled in it and you struggle and struggle, and try to get away, but the meshes of the web are too strong, and all in vain. Then I, like a ferocious great spider, come quickly across the web and catch you, and there you are to stay—in my arms! And so you try to escape and go to Paris and the Prince, yet there you are in my arms—it is altogether puzzling but true.
POLLY TO A. D.
London,
September.
Darling! There is no dictation about that this time, A. D., for Checkers is out buying boots, neckties, and I know not what, for he lunches with a fair charmer today, and is getting ready to do what he calls “The Great Mash Act.” He is a dear old thing, all the same.
Such a lovely bunch of red roses and your darling little broom came this morning,—yes, I am fond of you, and why shouldn’t I say so? I am getting a little restless for you, I haven’t seen you for so long.
It is a pity to leave London even for a few days’ hunting in Leicestershire, for this little apartment is so nice and Mr. Easthope so kind—all on your account. I bought a lovely frame for your picture and you don’t know how gordgeous you look, standing on my dressing table where I can see you most all the time, think of you the rest, and dream of you when I am asleep. Now, isn’t that sweet? I can’t help laughing as I write, for you see I am not in the habit of saying such things. I wonder if manygirls have written you that—Mona Lisa, for instance? I should think they all would! P. S. I am so ashamed—if you were here, you would see me blush. Now you will laugh, but I spelt gorgeous wrong. I asked Checkers who has just returned and I haven’t time to re-write the letter. Aunt is out, brother is packing, and it looks as if we were to move on again.
A. D. TO POLLY
Monte Catini,
September.
Charlton and I made an excursion to Lucca the other day and quite a success it proved. Off we drove in the early morning, with pheasant feathers and jangling bells on our horses, trotting by the trellised vineyards, the vines wreathing between trees of mulberry, and the great bunches of grapes beginning to grow purple, past brakes of cane, between the walls of villas, up and over bridges where the rivers run higher than the country, banked up by the levees, on through the plain. In the distance rose the hills, deep blue behind and pale bluein ranges beyond. We met the country people coming from the fair at Borgo Buggiano—the greatest cattle market in Tuscany—driving beautiful white and brindled cows. Soon we came to the town itself and rattled along its flag-paved streets, making a great noise with cracking whip and warning cries, and thecontadinicrowded up against the wall and stopped their business to watch us as we passed the gay booths with displays of many colored, mottled, glazed earthen ware, set forth, perilously near our wheels.
Then out into the country again, and on across flat green meadows from which rise the ancient walls of Lucca with shaded avenues of sycamores. We walked on the ramparts after luncheon and visited the gallery of the Palazzo Ducale with its good Fra Bartolomeos, and the cathedral filled with tinsel votive offerings of all kinds, and paper flowers. There were preparations for a pilgrimage which is to adore the Holy Image, a wooden likeness of the Saviour which Saint Somebody rescued in Palestine once on a time and placed in a ship without oar or rudder and set adrift. So the ship floated,miraculously directed by Providence, to the shores of Italy, and wonderment came over the people who saw the vessel mysteriously cruising up and down. They tried to catch it, but it fled from them until one Archbishop of Lucca, awakened from a warning dream, went out to find it. And the moment the boat saw the aforesaid archpriest upon the shore it sailed confidingly up to him and delivered its sacred image, which so came to Lucca. This is quite like the House of the Virgin at Loreto which was brought by a flight of angels through the air to that town—to be a fruitful source of income, for hundreds of thousands of pilgrims visit the place each year.
P. S. How I should like to run up to Paris, but the Ambassador would not approve of my having leave again. I am more disappointed than you can know, but I still hope to see you in America before long—am returning to Rome.
A. D. TO POLLY
Rome,
September.
Think of it! The middle of September—and already it seems as if Rome were taking on its preparations and spinning its web for the catching of foreigners. One or two of the shops in the Via Condotti and the Piazza di Spagna have taken down the shutters, and visitors have already been seen looking into the windows. Next the antiquity dealers will open, then the hotels, and after that—hurrah! I shall hope to see you in New York.
The past day you have been constantly in my thoughts and my heart. Let me see, where have I taken you? To the Embassy in the morning, into the city to do some commissions, down the Quattro Fontane, down the steep hill past the Barberini, cutting the corner of the piazza with its glorious Triton blowing the fountain of spray high into the air, and into the narrow little Triton Street—the wretched artery that joins the two Romes—with its crowd of carriages and carts and people moving slowly, and then to the right along the Due Macelli,and so to the sunny Piazza di Spagna. Later in the afternoon while sitting in my rooms, Jonkheer Jan came to see me, looking the same as ever, thin, tall, and blonde, and stayed on till I was sure he would be late for his dinner. Do you remember how he would come in late to see you, always in a hurry, with smiles and excuses and profuse apologies, twisting his ring around his finger?
The British secretaries have gone to Frascati in a body to stay till repairs have been made on the Embassy. So I went out there “to dine and sleep” as they call it in England, and enjoyed the little outing very much. This morning I took an early train and came down the hillside, between the groves of grotesque olive trees and across the endless rolling Campagna half hidden in mauve-colored mist, with its unholy charm, its lonely skeletons of towers and procession of aqueducts, the great graveyard of the mighty Past.
How I should like to be in Leicestershire with you, though. You know I feel like saying that the trip through the Trossachs, the visits to Holland House and Knole Park, and the otherthings which you haven’t been able to do this year, we can do some time together! I am almost afraid to add, “Can’t we, shan’t we?” for fear you may answer back at once “Indeed no! Whatareyou talking about?”
Isn’t the way they do things in England funny? The conventions are amusing for a time—and pleasant too,—then they become chill and monotonous, like the endless green hedges and woods and parks of lovely England. But one gets tired, after seeing them day after day, year after year, and I used to ache for a patch of American landscape with its sunburnt yellow corn, its brown earth, its zigzag snake fences of the south, and its whitewashed shanties with the real good old-fashioned negro loafing about in tattered trousers and coat.
I have just received an amusing letter from Checkers in which he says; “Give up the diplomatic service, old boy. Come to America and go into business with me. You’ll be as good at it as a gold fish, for you’ve been around the globe; you’ll make money cabbage, for you’ve got a head.”
Who knows, I may.
POLLY TO A. D.
Leicestershire,
October.
“Bye baby bunting—papa’s gone a-hunting!” But I am letting the cat, or rather the fox out of the bag.
You know we’re staying with friends at Kibworth. A carriage met us at the station and brought us to Carlton Curlieu Hall, a fascinating old house, part of it built in the fifteenth century and part Elizabethan, with a garden, great trees, and a little pond. Near by are the stables with nine hunters, and farther away is an old church with its vicarage, and the village—a few low houses of red brick, some with thatched roofs.
I had the bed-room Oliver Cromwell slept in the night before the battle of Naseby. Most of these old houses have a ghost, but Oliver, I’m sorry to say, didn’t appear.
We are having a ripping time. The Honorable Violet somebody or other is here, among others. She is lady-in-waiting to the Queen, and a very charming person. But I don’t know nearly so many Lords and Dukes and things as you do.I used to detest such people, being an American, but I find I have changed my mind. What few I have seen have been perfectly delightful.
Well, the meet yesterday was just like some hunting-pictures we have at home, with maybe two hundred people, the women and children mostly on ponies, or driving two-wheeled carts. Then came the ride to cover, and the drawing. The field was made up of all classes, statesmen, parsons, peers, and farmers,—all the way from the Duchess of Hamilton, homely in a brown habit and riding as hard as a man, to a horse-dealer.
It was quite windy, and most of them said to each other as they passed, “Good morning. It’s a beastly windy day!”
The hounds rushed in and out of the covers in the hope of finding a fox, and the huntsmen hallooed and blew their horns. There wasn’t any fox in the first cover, but at last one was discovered in the open, and so the pack went scurrying, the huntsmen after them, and the whips. To my surprise, instead of going straight over a hedge into the next field, most of the men went galloping off toward a gate.I didn’t know before that it was bad form to jump unnecessarily. Quite different in America.
Helter-skelter through the back yards and gardens of the little cottages we rode, scattering chickens and pigs and children right and left, while the village people stood in their doorways and watched the hunters stream past.
Then there was a check—the fox had hidden in one of the barnyards, and the huntsmen, hounds, and all the small boys searched for him, while everybody else stood round or walked about in the square in front of the Bull Head Inn. Soon there was a halloo—the fox had been found hiding in a hay mow. He was driven out, “broken up” and the carcass given to the dogs, who yelped and barked and fought for the pieces. The brush was given to me.
Now you can’t say I haven’t written you a long letter, dear old A. D.,—but it was such a wonderful day that I just had to tell you all about it.
POLLY TO A. D.
Leicestershire,
October.
Now for a confession! There are two young men here at the house party. One is big and homely and loose-jointed but a good sort, while the other is dark and very handsome and goes to Oxford. He gave me his picture and asked if he couldn’t have mine for his watch. I told him I was surprised that he didn’t have a girl’s photograph for his already. Before I knew it, he had opened my watch and seen you. I didn’t know exactly what to do, so I said you were my older brother. He swallowed it all down seriously, and in fact remarked that he thought I looked very much like you. I feel immensely flattered and only wish it were true.
But I am not going to write you any more sweet letters. It isn’t because I have changed one bit in my feelings toward you, but because variety is the spice of life, and if you have too many nice things written to you, you won’t appreciate them, and I have been good for a long time now. Besides, you say you are not coming to Paris and I am very cross.
Aunt sends her best wishes and says, “Men are April when they woo, and December when they wed.” I’m afraid that is true to life—don’t you think so?
A. D. TO POLLY
Rome,
October.
Oh, little Polly the Pagan, you say that variety is the spice of life and accordingly you won’t write any more sweet letters for a time, so I must hurry to tell you that spice is one of the things forbidden in the diet of my cure, and so I know you won’t force me to take any. You must, youmustwrite me real love letters, or something fatal may happen to me.
Do you wish me to stop writing pretty things to you, now that you have stopped writing them to me? Because, if that is the case, I—I can’t do it! So you see, I plan to keep on pestering you day after day, and you may say, oh, well, as long as it makes him happy, let him continue. The Frenchwoman’s philosophy is that woman’s greatest happiness is in makingman happy. She may not really care for him, but she will pretend to, if it makes his heart glad. That is pretty good philosophy. Since you are soon to be in fair France, you should consider the French point of view!
As for your Aunt’s quotation, “Men are April when they woo, December when they wed,” why, that is easily explained. It means that fires burn more hotly in the cold month and more steadily than in flowery April.
Peppi and I had all yesterday evening together, and a very pleasant time of it, too. I went over to his studio and found him. He made a delightful picture, frowzy-haired but handsome in his bright blue blouse, with his pallet in his hand, and his pet white goose following him about, lifting her yellow beak to be fed, and spreading her snowy wings. He explained he had purchased her for her feathery plumage to help him in a picture he was painting of an angel. We dined at the Cambrinus in the garden with colored lights where it was cool and pretty. And then afterwards I took him to the circus. We meet there almost every night. It is an epidemic here.
Oh, a most excellent circus that puts on a lot of style! The band blared out the same old music, marches for the athletes to come stalking in by and polkas to mark time for the horses, and a really most beautiful creature, she looks a little like Mona Lisa, performed on the trapeze—it was great, great fun.
As I can’t go up to Paris, isn’t it possible for you to sail home by way of Naples so I can get a glimpse of you?
POLLY TO A. D.
Leicestershire,
October.
On coming back from a drive today, dear, we saw some gypsies camped by the roadside, so we stopped and gave them the remains of our picnic luncheon. They invited us into their tents and told our fortunes. An old gypsy declared the cards said a gray-eyed woman with a mysterious smile might give me trouble and that a handsome man in the south would disappoint me. Now what do you think of that?
Say to Peppi that I hope he is not falling inlove with that trapeze girl for Aunt wouldn’t like it. But how about you?
You ask if I want you to stop writing sweet things to me,—why, of course, I don’t. Every girl likes love letters. But you needn’t feel obliged to, you know. We have a few days with the Prince in Paris, then sail for home, sweet home.
Would we go home by way of Italy, you ask! Well, I don’t plan to run all over the country after a certain young man. If he wants to see me, he can come to Paris, and if he doesn’t, he needn’t! Now I can see you laugh, but I don’t care!
A. D. TO POLLY
Rome,
October.
I beg to thank you, dear Miss Polly, for your gypsy fortune-telling letter. Did the old gypsy mention by chance a blond Russian Prince? It was most kind of you to think of me at all, so far away in hot Rome, and indeed your letter brought a cool, refreshing air to temper thesiroccoand hot sun here.
It has been a trying summer in Rome, and if it hadn’t been for some happy excursions I have been able to make to Florence and Venice and into the country and to the circus, I fear I should have found it unbearable.
Pray forgive my thanking you for your long and very sensible letter and for becoming almost confidential, and believe me, with my very cordial regards to your aunt and brother, and my compliments, very sincerely yours.Why do you let the Prince join you in Paris, I’d like to know?
(Br-r-r-! Your letter made me shiver!)
TELEGRAM: POLLY TO A. D.
Leicestershire, October.
Can’t you stand a little teasing?
TELEGRAM: A. D. TO POLLY
Rome, October.
Not from you. Besides, letters are too short and you have been flirting. What’s more, youare meeting the Prince in Paris. That is what I don’t like.
TELEGRAM: POLLY TO A. D.
Leicestershire, October.
What can you expect when I haven’t seen you all these months?
TELEGRAM: A. D. TO POLLY
Rome, October.
More than I am getting.
TELEGRAM: POLLY TO A. D.
Leicestershire, October.
Aren’t you unreasonable?
TELEGRAM: A. D. TO POLLY
Rome, October.
I think not, under the circumstances.
TELEGRAM: POLLY TO A. D.
Leicestershire, October.
?
TELEGRAM: A. D. TO POLLY
Rome, October.
!
TELEGRAM: POLLY TO A. D.
Leicestershire, October.
.
CABLE FROM A. D.
Rome,
November. Three weeks later.
Will you marry me? Uncertainty in our relations troubling me deeply. Where do I stand? Heaven or Hell?
CABLE FROM POLLY
New York,
November.
Call it Heaven.
A. D. TO POLLY
Rome,
November.
I do call it Heaven, or I would if only you were here. As it is, the doors are locked, for you are my golden key to happiness, to Paradise itself. It seems ages since your last letter came. Don’t play with me again, will you, dearest? Although your letters this summer have been so sweet,I know what a little Pagan you are. Sometimes I wonder if you have any conscience at all about me. If you have, I’ve not as yet discovered it, but—my heart is in your keeping. Mona Lisa has disappeared from my life.
Of course your Aunt is set on your marrying the Prince. That has been plain all along,—how did he behave in Paris?—but you, my darling,whocould have guessed whether or not you were ready to make up your mind to settle down? So I delayed asking you to marry me—in so many words. But now that we have quarrelled, I long to make up and have everything settled. There is no peace left your lover till he knows that you love him, once and always. This letter is serious because, beneath it all, I am serious.
Your letters have been the key-notes to my days, and when they have seemed confidential and affectionate, I have been very happy, and when they have been less enthusiastic, I have been troubled and cast down. So, they have enabled me to measure my own disposition. What I wish to write you is this; that everything I ever told you or have written you, was the truth.
I realize more and more as time goes on, and on, that my love goes back farther into the past than I had dared to acknowledge to myself.
One day, you appeared in Rome and were stopping at your sunny Palazzo. Over I went to see—your Aunt, of course. I recall so vividly just where you stood in the little room, how you came frankly forward to meet me, and how I made my call, with the Prince, whom I met on the street just outside your door.
Then at your apartment and out in society, I saw you often; when you came to dine with me, I determined just to be nice to you,—I know I was flirting with Lisa,—but I had a sort of pride that you should enjoy your stay in Rome, and wished to add what I could to it. I thought your Aunt would be gratified, and frankly, I liked you. I allowed myself to think that much.
Then came moments, Polly dear, when I felt a thrill, a glow, that I couldn’t explain. Can I ever forget that evening when we were together in the Coliseum, while the moon swam in the sky, and the great black chasm of the excavations yawned below us, while the shadowyruins towered around and above us. I treasure in my heart the memory of the rollicking fun of the escapade at the Carnival Ball, the Veglione, with its confidences, and the privilege, too, of that drive from the Duchess of Sermoneta’s, through the narrow streets, across the bridge, when I saw you home, and those afternoons and evenings in the little room in the roof garden, one after another. Each seemed more wonderful and more complete to me, till that last night before you went away to Sorrento, when I first spoke words of love. I was overwhelmed and staggered, my pulses beat with a new strange gladness till I could scarcely see you. How I got back to my rooms, I have forgotten.
I had determined not to make love to you in Rome, but I couldn’t help it, I couldn’t help speaking as I did. Then came romantic days at Sorrento and Florence and those enchanting dream moments in Venice. Were they real, ah, tell me, were they true?
It is months now, dear, since we met in Venice. What perfect hours we had there! So completely happy. I can feel you near me, next to me, while far away, mysteriously, I seem even yet to hear the music and the love songs.