 
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) Rome, April. I am coming to brave the wrath of one little siren tomorrow. 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, 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, 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 his 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! 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 balcony 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? 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 gondolas 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 up 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 in 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 was Aunt, my dear old cart-horse, tired me all out in Venice. She instructed me properly like a well-brought-up American girl, and took me about sightseeing with the Red Book in her hand, every minute you were not there, into all the old churches until I feel I never want to go to a sanctuary again. You ask me what I liked best in Venice. Well! After you, sir, perhaps the marvelous bronze horses. I never got tired of looking at them, the most perfect ones in the world, and I adore horses. Did you know they were first known to have crowned one of the triumphal arches in Rome? They journeyed to Constantinople in the time of Constantine for the Hippodrome, but Doge Enrico Dandolo brought them back to Venice when he conquered Constantinople in 1204. But this was not all. Napoleon wished them for his Arch in the Place du Carrousel and not until 1815 were they returned to San Marco by Francis I of Austria, to whose portion Venice 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. The An American Admiral has come to Rome for a few days, leaving his flagship at Naples. He wishes to be presented to the King and Queen and so among other things I am busy about that. Last evening I went over to see him and took him and his flag lieutenant, with whom I at once struck up a great friendship, to Count L.’s reception in his palace which lies low beneath the embankment of the river. Through 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 me But later came the missive I had looked for, the letter for me, dear Pollykins, and I can tell you I read it eagerly and tried to make it longer by going over it again. But no matter how many times I read it, it is too short. Your letters will never be long enough, though they be miles in length! The Prince suggested an expedition—an ill-fated one—to Asturia. Claiming to know the road, he captained it for a while. The affair proved full of incident. The carriage got stalled in a bog, and one of the horses literally pulled himself out of the rotten old harness. My handkerchief and other parts of my attire were used to repair the break. The Prince, in the middle of it all, calmly said he was tired of the whole thing. So off he walked, leaving poor Charlton and me to our fate. I had almost to lift the team out of the frightful place we sank into, and to keep encouraging the horses. Meanwhile, the winds from the Pontine Marshes came blowing over toward 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 review The Corso, also, was crowded with a procession of bare-headed contadini in carriages with banners, the prizes won lately at the festival of the Divina Amore. The cathedrals were thronged, the doors hung with crimson and gold curtains, and within, hundreds of candles burning. The Ambassador who has been away the past week, returned, and we made a long excursion to Bracciano, the small town on a rock jutting into the lake. The great castle, once the stronghold of the Orsini, but now belonging to Prince Odescalchi, rises high above the village. We had brought our luncheon and champagne, and had it served in the dining hall of the chÂteau. It was a very jolly luncheon and a good one. Then, after a rest, we climbed over the castello, up into the battlements and towers, and looked down at the vineyards and the lake far below us, and out over the chestnut-wooded mountains which stretch away to the northward. Although Prince Odescalchi passes some time here, and although he is very rich, yet the halls and courtyards are crumbling into ruins. I experienced an exciting incident since I last wrote, which, thank God! had no terrible results. For a time, however, I felt I was looking down on a fatal panic. A fire broke out in a crowded theatre where I was, and I am much 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. 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 exploded 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 to 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, So, thinking of you, the trip which promised to be tiresome and long, turned into a very interesting journey. It occurred to me to stop over at Orvieto, perched up on that great rock, jutting out of the plain, a medieval but clean little town with very correct architecture, and In the sunlight of midday the church at Orvieto is brilliant but glaring. The carvings are rich and handsome, but the mosaics are out of place in its Gothic character. Inside are some very fine frescoes by Signorelli, and oh, such a wonderful silver lamp! Here I saw, too, the Podesta, and the Ospedale. The Duomo in itself is rather insignificant, for its faÇade in Pisan style, with ascending stories of little colonnades, is too small, but I liked the ancient fortified tower, which has been turned into a campanile, with its crown of pillared porticoes. Inside, in one of the chapels, is an altar screen of silver, not to compare with the screen of gold and carbuncle, aquamarine and precious stones of St. Mark’s, but with a story in high relief of the Saviour and apostles and saints. It was made in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. Just before leaving Rome, I called on the Minister of Foreign Affairs, as our Ambassador was out of town. At these receptions the Dips are seen at their best, with their most diplomatic manner, all meeting in the anteroom, waiting for their turn to enter (ambassadors take precedence), talking on anything but politics, yet smiling knowingly as if they were bottling up most important state secrets, pretending to be unruffled, though very excited. The time that each one remains with the Minister of Foreign Affairs is carefully noted and commented on. It was amusing, for the Turkish Ambassador and the Greek ChargÉ smiled and bowed and scraped in the outer room, and then went and probably did all they could to harm each other in the private room of the Minister. As we had nothing of importance to discuss just now, His Excellency and I only passed compliments and assured each other of our mutual and highest esteem and consideration, and expressed hopes that everything would always be satisfactorily conducted and concluded between us. As I came away, the French ChargÉ was disappearing I dined with some Diplomats the night before I came away and it was a sad sort of a meal. I think they’ll miss me, for each of them confides in me about the peculiarities of the others. Really, the Prince is behaving in a most extraordinary manner. The other night he began running down France to a mild, new, little French Secretary—called French women ugly, French society a sham, French institutions bosh, and so attacked the poor astonished little gentleman at his own table that the others had to break up the dinner and the conversation. I can’t think what he was driving at. But whatever his faults, he is very clever, and he and I still go to the birreria together. As a rule, he is a most agreeable talker, which makes his outburst the other night all the more incomprehensible. Today is quite a fÊte day in Monte Catini. The contadini have been coming down in swarms, and are standing about the crowded main square beneath my windows, doing— The little town is crowded with country folk celebrating the festival of the Assumption, or the Madonna of Mid-August. The little cracked bells of the tiny church have been tinkling and in front of the church is a staging for a tombola. A train with excursionists and a band is expected from Pistoja and they promise fireworks tonight. The alleys beneath the trees are crowded with contadini wearing bright-colored kerchiefs on their heads, the women walking three and four abreast, while the men (what hulking, skulking, awkward creatures men are!) come lumbering after them, and there is a great cracking of whips and shouting as the little carts go rapidly past. It makes a very animated scene. About midday I think they’ll disappear, though, for it is hot and the sun is beating down, while the distant hills stand out in this wonderful Italian atmosphere as if seen through a telescope, so distinctly visible are the white houses glowing on their green sides and little towns perched on their tops. Oh, Polly dear, when I think of you, the whole world seems different to me! With you in my heart I take a greater delight and interest in people and things, and feel new ambitions and enjoyments, looking at all things objectively, like a spectator at a play. You have awakened my sympathies so that I am excited when the villain comes sneaking between the borders, and moved when the heroine weeps, and exultant when the hero arrives in the nick of time, and virtue triumphs. In other words, I care more for the world because of you. The little gondola is in front of me on the table with its saucy silver prow cocked up in the air, and its filigree cabin hood and its precious cargo of reminders of the happy Venetian days, for when I left Rome, although in light marching order, I couldn’t bear to leave it behind, so brought it along in my pocket. I am returning to Rome but just for a day or so. POLLY TO A. D. Baden-Baden, August. What a bad, bad child I am not to write oftener—does 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 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 A leaflet published under the nom de plume of Was awakened at the usual hour by the faithful Gilet, and as usual turned over and went to sleep again. Up betimes, however, and reviewed the morning news in the Populo Romano. Breakfasted on two eggs and a cup of coffee. Today tried for the first time a new-fangled egg-opener, which, I concluded, would require practice and experience before using in public. Shall have to have another napkin for the table at luncheon time. Then out and to the Embassy. Found the usual assortment of mail on my desk, desiring audiences of Queen, or Pope; loan of money, or of anything, and proposals of marriage, to which last item I sent printed forms of reply. Work. More work. Will you subscribe to this publication, dear Polly? POLLY TO A. D. 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 in At Strasbourg we had to change cars once more, and being late, we simply dashed across the station with the guards flying behind and yelling, “You have only one minute!” It really was awfully comical. Arriving at Brussels early I had a splendid morning, seeing among other things the Grande Place with its beautiful old buildings, and visiting the Gallery Wiertz with all those marvellous but crazy pictures. Back to the train again, but alas! our troubles were not at an end. Checkers stopped to pay the cabby and Aunt and I went into the station. I was a little ahead with a bag in each hand when suddenly a perfectly strange man came up and kissed me. I screamed, dropped everything I was carrying and stared about me, only to see him run away and look back, laughing. Did you ever hear of anything so saucy? We got into the car somehow, but Checkers didn’t come and so we went off without him. Aunt said someone must have cast an evil eye on us. Such an amusing account as Checkers gave us later of his experience in Brussels! It seems he had only three francs in his pocket, not 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 day Your little gondola is here in my pocket, for we are inseparable companions. Indeed I know of none more agreeable, since I cannot be with you, for while the little boat is always suggesting something pleasant, yet she permits me to do the talking; so we get on swimmingly, or rather floatingly, the gondola and I. I often think, dear, how at the big receptions last spring, I found such delight in looking at you. Your manner toward all was so charming. And do you remember the dinner at the American Embassy when I didn’t sit next to the girl I wanted? But you didn’t seem to mind, and flirted with the Prince, though every now and then you did look at me just a little, didn’t you? And then afterwards, in the great corridor, when the Ambassador was talking to you more affably than I had ever seen him, I stood by and felt I saw the Spanish Marquis yesterday. He looked at me suspiciously, but perhaps it was just my imagination, because I knew you had refused him. No one has heard from Don Carlo, but I believe the gardener’s daughter has followed him to South Africa. As for my conduct in Monte Catini, I am doing pretty well, which is the limit of opportunity in this Tuscan place among the Pistojan hills. Anyhow, your Dip is thinking constantly of you, and looking a good many times lately into the back of his timepiece (which Checkers wanted to inspect, do you remember? and I wouldn’t let him). People may think I am gazing at the face of my watch, but I watch another face, I assure you! POLLY TO A. D. 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, It has rained steadily all day and this morning we went to see the “House in the Woods.” The practical, plump little Queen is away. I suppose we shall spend most of the day in the picture galleries. The Hague gives me the impression of being one huge gallery of more or less immoral fat men and women carousing. One thing is certain, this country is a paradise for cows, with its green pastures. I do wish we had our cow here with us for she would enjoy the grass so much. Jonkheer Jan’s house is fine and large. They have a remarkable collection of Delft ware, plates all over the walls, and tapestries, splendid wood-carving in the hall, and no end of old Dutch silver. Please tell him how we enjoyed meeting his mother and father, as he was good enough to give us a letter of introduction to them. But, oh, I am so homesick I don’t know what to do! Nearly a year away from home. At first there was the excitement of seeing new places and people, and I did enjoy travelling, but now it has worn off a little, and you are so far away. That ought not to make any difference, I have seen you so little, but I think it does. I haven’t flirted with a soul for such a long time—not since I left you in Venice. Rather good for me. But, A. D., how little we have really seen of each other! Here and there last spring, just a glimpse at a party, a few words of society nonsense, and perhaps a bit of a chat in the small room on the terrace, and—your coming to Sorrento. I was so surprised that you wanted to come. But, to be sure, Mona Lisa had left Rome. Then Florence and the sunsets, which I mention so often that Checkers thinks them a bit worn out, but now that I have Venice to look back on, the rest of it tends to fade away. And yet, we had only three days together there. Everything will be so different at home for me, and very likely you will forget me if your divorcÉe returns to Rome. I am sure she cares for you, and besides, she is fascinating, and you 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 take I dined with him at his locanda last evening and as usual he had made all sorts of careful preparations and the dinner was the best the landlady could provide, at a little special table beneath an arbor with a trellis of American woodbine. We could hear in the distance a band, for it was a fÊte day again. He treats me with so much ceremony on these occasions—I am bowed in and bowed out by the whole establishment in such a way that I feel quite set up. I get him to talking on his hobby, coins, and then—I think of you. And so we are both happy. Your token has just been sent on to me here by Peppi, and entrusted to the care of Charlton. The first words I blotted with it are the two that begin this letter, “My darling.” I am so grateful for it, and you know the thought that sent it is most precious. It means so much to me. I truly was in need of a blotter, for both my old one and the little one in my travelling bag have been used up by my many letters to you. I am reading of the Prince of Naples’ visit to Montenegro to see his Princess, as interestedly as if I really had something depending on it. Everyone knows all the details of the royal match. As Mr. Dooley says, “Nowadays th’ window shades is up at th’ king’s house as well as everywhere else. Th’ gas is lighted, and we see his Majesty stormin’ around because th’ dinner is late and brushin’ his crown before goin’ out.” I watch the contadini, too, when they come into this little town,—the lovers,—and wonder at them and with them. For in these things, you know, dear, prince and peasant meet. Do not bother your little head about Mona Lisa; you are a dear! A. D. TO POLLY Monte Catini, August. The papers today announce the engagement of the Prince of Naples. And so they are happy, Boris and I said goodbye before I left Rome for Monte Catini. He may have an idea of how happy I am (he saw me enthusiastically so) but he didn’t let on. Indeed he may not suspect we are writing to each other. He is starting for Paris, but journeying there only indirectly. I can’t help wondering whether he is going to see you, or going on one of his strange private errands—perhaps a combination of both. You know every naval or military attachÉ is really more or less of a spy. However, he is not acknowledged as an attachÉ by his embassy. Rather peculiar, on the whole. Just before leaving Rome he fought a duel. It appears he was rude to the Marquis Gonzaga, who they say, behaved like a gentleman in the affair, and there was a rencontre at which, alas! the Marquis was scratched, literally scratched, and honor (the Prince’s honor) was 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 in 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 at I can see you dining, or breakfasting with muffins and marmalade, the table so spick and span, and Easthope so intelligent and thoughtful. But then, he is one in a million, really. I wonder if there is the same housemaid whom I used to hear before daylight beginning her work sweeping and cleaning, in the way it was done a century ago. She was so hard-working and so faithful! It is not the same boy, I am pretty sure, that helps Easthope, for he no sooner gets one trained up in the way he should go than some lodger finds him so good that he takes him away, and Easthope patiently begins to turn another lout into a footman,—a worm into a butterfly! Go through Lansdowne Passage some day—it is a short and curious way of getting to Bond and Dover Streets. Turn into Curzon Street to its very end and walk through the passageway between Lansdowne House and Devonshire House to Hay Hill. It is a mysterious little alley to be in the heart of a great city, the scene 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 many 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 blue 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, 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, The British secretaries have gone to Frascati in a body to stay till repairs have been made on the Embassy. So I went out there “to dine and sleep” as they call it in England, and enjoyed the little outing very much. This morning I took an early train and came down the hillside, between the groves of grotesque olive trees and across the endless rolling Campagna half hidden in mauve-colored mist, with its unholy charm, its lonely skeletons of towers and procession of aqueducts, the great graveyard of the mighty Past. How I should like to be in Leicestershire with you, though. You know I feel like saying that the trip through the Trossachs, the visits to Holland House and Knole Park, and the other 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. 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. 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, you must write me real love letters, or something fatal may happen to me. Do you wish me to stop writing pretty things to you, now that you have stopped writing them to me? Because, if that is the case, I—I can’t do it! So you see, I plan to keep on pestering you day after day, and you may say, oh, well, as long as it makes him happy, let him continue. The Frenchwoman’s philosophy is that woman’s greatest happiness is in making 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 in 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 the sirocco and hot sun here. It has been a trying summer in Rome, and if it hadn’t been for some happy excursions I have been able to make to Florence and Venice and into the country and to the circus, I fear I should have found it unbearable. Pray forgive my thanking you for your long and very sensible letter and for becoming almost confidential, and believe me, with my very cordial regards to your aunt and brother, and my compliments, very sincerely yours. Why do you let the Prince join you in Paris, I’d like to know? (Br-r-r-! Your letter made me shiver!) TELEGRAM: POLLY TO A. D. 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, you 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. . |
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