Chapter III: Part 3

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 that was, to be sure, that you wrote about. I have read and re-read your experiences and wish I might have been along to share the perils by cabmen and the perils by train! But you reached The Hague all the same while I was at this ineffective distance. Oh, please let _me_ manage a trip some time for my pretty Polly.

Your little gondola is here in my pocket, for we are inseparable companions. Indeed I know of none more agreeable, since I cannot be with you, for while the little boat is always suggesting something pleasant, yet she permits me to do the talking; so we get on swimmingly, or rather floatingly, the gondola and I.

I often think, dear, how at the big receptions last spring, I found such delight in looking at you. Your manner toward all was so charming. And do you remember the dinner at the American Embassy when I didn’t sit next to the girl I wanted? But you didn’t seem to mind, and flirted with the Prince, though every now and then you did look at me just a little, didn’t you? And then afterwards, in the great corridor, when the Ambassador was talking to you more affably than I had ever seen him, I stood by and felt proud and didn’t know why--though I do now, indeed!

I saw the Spanish Marquis yesterday. He looked at me suspiciously, but perhaps it was just my imagination, because I knew you had refused him. No one has heard from Don Carlo, but I believe the gardener’s daughter _has_ followed him to South Africa.

As for my conduct in Monte Catini, I am doing pretty well, which is the limit of opportunity in this Tuscan place among the Pistojan hills. Anyhow, your Dip is thinking constantly of you, and looking a good many times lately into the back of his timepiece (which Checkers wanted to inspect, do you remember? and I wouldn’t let him). People may think I am gazing at the face of my watch, but I watch another face, I assure you!

* * * * *

POLLY TO A. D.

_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 you and Peppi think her beautiful. Are you still devoted to her, I wonder, and do you write to her, too? You never mention her in your letters. I suppose you know just what you are doing, writing me so often?

What a long lecture I have given you, and you will probably say to yourself, what foolishness I have written! But I’ve told you I always write just what pops into my head. There’s a kiss for you here somewhere; can you find it?

* * * * *

A. D. TO POLLY

_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 the cure. The other day he said he had hoped that you and I might like each other (like each other, indeed!) and at this I laughed heartily.

I dined with him at his _locanda_ last evening and as usual he had made all sorts of careful preparations and the dinner was the best the landlady could provide, at a little special table beneath an arbor with a trellis of American woodbine. We could hear in the distance a band, for it was a fête day again. He treats me with so much ceremony on these occasions--I am bowed in and bowed out by the whole establishment in such a way that I feel quite set up. I get him to talking on his hobby, coins, and then--I think of you. And so we are both happy.

Your token has just been sent on to me here by Peppi, and entrusted to the care of Charlton. The first words I blotted with it are the two that begin this letter, “My darling.” I am so grateful for it, and you know the thought that sent it is most precious. It means so much to me. I truly was in need of a blotter, for both my old one and the little one in my travelling bag have been used up by my many letters to you. It is so nice to be thought of by one whom one wishes to be thought of by!

I am reading of the Prince of Naples’ visit to Montenegro to see his Princess, as interestedly as if I really had something depending on it. Everyone knows all the details of the royal match. As Mr. Dooley says, “Nowadays th’ window shades is up at th’ king’s house as well as everywhere else. Th’ gas is lighted, and we see his Majesty stormin’ around because th’ dinner is late and brushin’ his crown before goin’ out.” I watch the _contadini_, too, when they come into this little town,--the lovers,--and wonder at them and with them. For in these things, you know, dear, prince and peasant meet.

Do not bother your little head about Mona Lisa; _you_ are a dear!

* * * * *

A. D. TO POLLY

_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) was satisfied. So they shook hands. What a farce!

I believe that, as usual in such cases, a woman’s name was mixed up in it, but I do not know whose. I sincerely hope it was not yours. I remember they had words about you the night of Pittsburgo’s dinner at the Grand when Gonzaga tried to kiss you. Perhaps Boris will tell you all about it.

* * * * *

POLLY TO A. D.

_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 your rooms, as smooth and dignified as a bishop. Those times seem so far away now--when shall I see you again? In Paris? Yes, the Prince has written Aunt that he will join us there. Whom could the duel have been about? Really _me_, do you suppose?

Such a delicious little dinner we had tonight, it seemed like home, with pretty flowers on the table, and we all drank your health. You must have lived like a fighting cock here--how many years ago was it, dear old A. D.?

Oh pooh! I don’t see how you can say the Prince of Naples’ engagement is a true love affair. Why, he can’t marry anyone but a Princess, and a Catholic one at that, can he? So it doesn’t leave him much choice. After all, I don’t think it matters. My views have changed somewhat after being so long in Europe. Why, there are a lot of happy marriages over here that have been cooked up by the families!

Checkers wants to be remembered, but says his nose is out of joint since I have taken up with you. Thank you for the flowers, telegrams, messages--I love them all.

* * * * *

A. D. TO POLLY

_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 the horse’s collar ringing, down the street and into the stream of Piccadilly.

I can see you dining, or breakfasting with muffins and marmalade, the table so spick and span, and Easthope so intelligent and thoughtful. But then, he is one in a million, really. I wonder if there is the same housemaid whom I used to hear before daylight beginning her work sweeping and cleaning, in the way it was done a century ago. She was so hard-working and so faithful!

It is not the same boy, I am pretty sure, that helps Easthope, for he no sooner gets one trained up in the way he should go than some lodger finds him so good that he takes him away, and Easthope patiently begins to turn another lout into a footman,--a worm into a butterfly!

Go through Lansdowne Passage some day--it is a short and curious way of getting to Bond and Dover Streets. Turn into Curzon Street to its very end and walk through the passageway between Lansdowne House and Devonshire House to Hay Hill. It is a mysterious little alley to be in the heart of a great city, the scene of a murder, they say. In my time it was kept and patrolled by a one-eyed, uncanny-looking old sweeper who used to waylay me for pennies. When the sweep left, he would leave his broom behind leaning against the wall to show he intended to come back, and so maintained his right against any other who might try to take his place. I send you a little silver broom, my broom, dear. Take good care of it and don’t let anyone else carry it away.

I have woven a gossamer web of thoughts, oh so beautiful and delicate and fine, like threads of gold; and you are caught and tangled in it and you struggle and struggle, and try to get away, but the meshes of the web are too strong, and all in vain. Then I, like a ferocious great spider, come quickly across the web and catch you, and there you are to stay--in my arms! And so you try to escape and go to Paris and the Prince, yet there you are in my arms--it is altogether puzzling but true.

* * * * *

POLLY TO A. D.

_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 girls have written you that--Mona Lisa, for instance? I should think they all would! P. S. I am so ashamed--if you were here, you would see me blush. Now you will laugh, but I spelt gorgeous wrong. I asked Checkers who has just returned and I haven’t time to re-write the letter. Aunt is out, brother is packing, and it looks as if we were to move on again.

* * * * *

A. D. TO POLLY

_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 in ranges beyond. We met the country people coming from the fair at Borgo Buggiano--the greatest cattle market in Tuscany--driving beautiful white and brindled cows. Soon we came to the town itself and rattled along its flag-paved streets, making a great noise with cracking whip and warning cries, and the _contadini_ crowded up against the wall and stopped their business to watch us as we passed the gay booths with displays of many colored, mottled, glazed earthen ware, set forth, perilously near our wheels.

Then out into the country again, and on across flat green meadows from which rise the ancient walls of Lucca with shaded avenues of sycamores. We walked on the ramparts after luncheon and visited the gallery of the Palazzo Ducale with its good Fra Bartolomeos, and the cathedral filled with tinsel votive offerings of all kinds, and paper flowers. There were preparations for a pilgrimage which is to adore the Holy Image, a wooden likeness of the Saviour which Saint Somebody rescued in Palestine once on a time and placed in a ship without oar or rudder and set adrift. So the ship floated, miraculously directed by Providence, to the shores of Italy, and wonderment came over the people who saw the vessel mysteriously cruising up and down. They tried to catch it, but it fled from them until one Archbishop of Lucca, awakened from a warning dream, went out to find it. And the moment the boat saw the aforesaid archpriest upon the shore it sailed confidingly up to him and delivered its sacred image, which so came to Lucca. This is quite like the House of the Virgin at Loreto which was brought by a flight of angels through the air to that town--to be a fruitful source of income, for hundreds of thousands of pilgrims visit the place each year.

P. S. How I should like to run up to Paris, but the Ambassador would not approve of my having leave again. I am more disappointed than you can know, but I still hope to see you in America before long--am returning to Rome.

* * * * *

A. D. TO POLLY

_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 other things which you haven’t been able to do this year, we can do some time together! I am almost afraid to add, “Can’t we, shan’t we?” for fear you may answer back at once “Indeed no! What _are_ you talking about?”

Isn’t the way they do things in England funny? The conventions are amusing for a time--and pleasant too,--then they become chill and monotonous, like the endless green hedges and woods and parks of lovely England. But one gets tired, after seeing them day after day, year after year, and I used to ache for a patch of American landscape with its sunburnt yellow corn, its brown earth, its zigzag snake fences of the south, and its whitewashed shanties with the real good old-fashioned negro loafing about in tattered trousers and coat.

I have just received an amusing letter from Checkers in which he says; “Give up the diplomatic service, old boy. Come to America and go into business with me. You’ll be as good at it as a gold fish, for you’ve been around the globe; you’ll make money cabbage, for you’ve got a head.”

Who knows, I may.

* * * * *

POLLY TO A. D.

_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, you _must_ write me real love letters, or something fatal may happen to me.

Do you wish me to stop writing pretty things to you, now that you have stopped writing them to me? Because, if that is the case, I--I can’t do it! So you see, I plan to keep on pestering you day after day, and you may say, oh, well, as long as it makes him happy, let him continue. The Frenchwoman’s philosophy is that woman’s greatest happiness is in making man happy. She may not really care for him, but she will pretend to, if it makes his heart glad. That is pretty good philosophy. Since you are soon to be in fair France, you should consider the French point of view!

As for your Aunt’s quotation, “Men are April when they woo, December when they wed,” why, that is easily explained. It means that fires burn more hotly in the cold month and more steadily than in flowery April.

Peppi and I had all yesterday evening together, and a very pleasant time of it, too. I went over to his studio and found him. He made a delightful picture, frowzy-haired but handsome in his bright blue blouse, with his pallet in his hand, and his pet white goose following him about, lifting her yellow beak to be fed, and spreading her snowy wings. He explained he had purchased her for her feathery plumage to help him in a picture he was painting of an angel. We dined at the Cambrinus in the garden with colored lights where it was cool and pretty. And then afterwards I took him to the circus. We meet there almost every night. It is an epidemic here.

Oh, a most excellent circus that puts on a lot of style! The band blared out the same old music, marches for the athletes to come stalking in by and polkas to mark time for the horses, and a really most beautiful creature, she looks a little like Mona Lisa, performed on the trapeze--it was great, great fun.

As I can’t go up to Paris, isn’t it possible for you to sail home by way of Naples so I can get a glimpse of you?

* * * * *

POLLY TO A. D.

_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 love with that trapeze girl for Aunt wouldn’t like it. But how about you?

You ask if I want you to stop writing sweet things to me,--why, of course, I don’t. Every girl likes love letters. But you needn’t feel obliged to, you know. We have a few days with the Prince in Paris, then sail for home, sweet home.

Would we go home by way of Italy, you ask! Well, I don’t plan to run all over the country after a certain young man. If he wants to see me, he can come to Paris, and if he doesn’t, he needn’t! Now I can see you laugh, but I don’t care!

* * * * *

A. D. TO POLLY

_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 are 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._

.

* * * * *

_PART III_

_UNCERTAINTY_

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, _who_ could 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 shadowy ruins 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.

“And of all the happiest moments which were wrought
Within the web of my existence, some
From thee, fair Venice! have their colors caught.”

How bewitching you were! How unspeakably lovely the last evening was, and how I treasure every little confidence you made me, as we glided along over the placid lagoon, while about us rose the palaces, the campanile, the churches, balconies, and arches, reflected below in the mirroring waters. I could put out my hand and take yours, and turn and look into the wonder of your eyes, my Polly! Some days are immortal, the memory of them can never die. We may pass away, but still the thought of those moments will live forever, for they are divine and heavenly.

* * * * *

POLLY TO A. D.

_New York,
November._

My A. D. Well, you are in a way mine now, aren’t you? How I hated all those horrid telegrams we sent each other, and what a long time I have gone without a letter from you.

I do know what I want! It’s you, you, but oh, things are so hard when it comes to facing down Aunt. It is not any open opposition--that would be something definite that I could fight, but she simply assumes that I don’t mean it when I say I am engaged, and sits bland and smiling, and pretty soon, makes a remark about Boris.

A. D., if you won’t come over soon to look after me, you’ve just got to take the risks. Don’t forget I’m a little Pagan, who does enjoy things, even the Prince. Come home and settle here at once if you love me as much as you say you do. I am so happy you sent the cable, because you are the only person in the world I love. So we are really engaged now and going to be married soon and live happily ever after?

You want to know what I did those few days in Paris? Well, by jinks, we were off on a shopping rampage most of the time. I went to Worth’s and ordered some pretty clothes--the prevailing colors this year are the hummingbird’s.

How did the Prince behave in Paris? On the whole very attentive, but once in a while just a bit difficult to manage. He brought with him a magnificent Russian wolf hound, who was very well-trained and would obey no one but his master. One day Boris invited us all to his apartment in the hotel to luncheon, but Aunt had such a bad headache that she left in the midst of it, taking Checkers along to see her safely back. He was going to return for me since we had more galleries to inspect. As soon as the lift with them in it had disappeared, Boris closed the door and smiled meaningly and when I asked him to open it, he shook his head. I started to open it myself when the wolf hound, who was lying before it, growled. First I thought it was a joke, but when I saw the queer look in my host’s eyes, a cold creepy feeling of fear came over me.

“Once before you were in my power,” he said, “in the stateroom on the _Cleopatra_. I, a fool, let you go. Now I got dog, no fool any more.”

Backing away from him, I laughed, hysterically, “I came here to eat and not to make love.”

“Did you?” he inquired, putting his face down close to mine and taking hold of my shoulders.

I stared straight back at him, saying, “I am not afraid either of you or your old dog.” At that moment, thank heaven, the door opened and in came the waiter. I dashed out and downstairs, Boris following me and protesting that he was only trying to make a little fun, but I am not sure. Aunt says I made a fuss over nothing, and insisted that we all go together to the circus with him that night, but you may be sure I hung onto Checkers pretty closely. However, the Prince pointed out to me the girl on the trapeze, the same one you had admired in Rome. She was very beautiful--I am a little jealous for she looked like Mona.

Boris and I rode several times together and one day jumped our horses in the Bois, much to the amusement of a female seminary that was passing. I had a fine time and thought how the people at home would laugh if they could see me--such a change was my smart riding habit from my old duds at the farm, and with a Prince. Then the other day he took me to the Luxembourg gallery to look at a curious sculpture of the sphinx--the head of a beautiful woman on the body of a lioness, with a man in her clutches, just their lips touching, everything thrown away for that one kiss. It made me think of some verses I read the other day,

“Inviolate and immobile, she does not rise, she does not stir,
For silver moons are naught to her, and naught to her the suns that
reel.
Come forth, my lovely seneschal! So somnolent, so statuesque!
Come forth, you exquisite grotesque! Half woman and half animal!
And did you talk with Thoth and did you hear the horn-mooned Io
weep?
And know the painted kings who sleep beneath the wedge-shaped
pyramid?
Lift up your large black satin eyes which are like cushions where
one sinks,
Fawn at my feet, fantastic Sphinx! and sing me all your memories!
A thousand weary centuries are thine while I have scarcely seen
Some twenty summers cast their green for Autumn’s gaudy liveries.”

The Prince said he believed I was somewhat like her. I told him indignantly I wasn’t, but maybe I am ... and he tells me I _was_ the cause of the duel!

* * * * *

A. D. TO POLLY

_Rome,
November._

The top o’ the marnin’ to ye, Polly Darlin’! It would be very inappropriate, wouldn’t it, if this came to you by evening delivery? At any rate it is the top o’ the marnin’ here in Rome, and I am pretending you are right next to me, my kitten-sphinx, and I’m greeting you with a morning kiss in token of our peace, or is it an armistice? Your letter makes me happy and yet your remarks about the Prince trouble me. There is, however, one clear way out of your difficulties, and that is to make our engagement known at once to everyone. I do not want to urge the point too strongly, but doesn’t it seem that circumstances have combined to make an announcement desirable?

Putting aside all consideration of what people may say or think, I feel it would be franker, more dignified, more true to yourself, to others, to me, that the relation between us should be told. All kinds of complications will arise if we keep it secret. Do not act hastily on receiving this. Think it over carefully. Oh, I love you, Polly, with my whole soul! But I can’t come home at once; my friend Charlton is now seriously ill and Embassy matters are tied up. Under the circumstances, I am glad you left Paris when you did. Did Boris see you off?

How bustling and busy your getting away from the hotel must have been,--the drive to the station through the gay streets, the excitement at the train, the helter-skelter of passengers and porters with their bags, baggage, boxes, baskets, and rugs. Then the steamer, the good-byes, the buzz of the engine, the splash of water and a realization at last that you were homeward bound!

It will seem odd to hear about Rome now that you are in America, about the streets yellow with flooding sunshine, and crowded with carts from the Campagna, and cabbies on their rattletrap carriages cracking their whips and crying “ah!” in deep guttural tones at their horses, instead of saying “Whoa!” or “Gee up!” in the proper American way.

Early one afternoon Charlton and I started out in an ancient cab and a decrepit horse to go to the Piazza San Pietro, or perish in the attempt. I had the enthusiasm and he the perseverance. Indeed we took turns in exhibiting these qualities, for there came a time when he was enthusiastic and I persevered. There were moments when the old horse went so slowly that we thought he would never get there, but the driver used the whip encouragingly. Finally we reached St. Peter’s, surrounded by its huge colonnade, with its splashing fountains, went up the broad terrace steps and beneath the great _loggia_, and into the overwhelming interior with its vast distance, out of all proportion to anything else in the world.

Inside the people were kissing the toe of St. Peter, while crowds walked about and men were hammering away until the whole place resounded with the work of putting up tribunes for some ceremonies. But a great shaft of yellow sunshine came streaming down from the dome, making the gloom golden, and above the hum of voices could be heard the Pope’s angel chanting beautifully.

When I came out and looked over toward your palace and saw the tops of the plants of the garden on the terrace, I could not resist going in to see Peppi. You know he has lately taken your old apartment, in memory of your Aunt, I suppose. Up the stairway we climbed till we came to the door and rang. There was a great rattling of chains and unbolting of locks; the door finally opened and we were told he was home. He asked us to take pot luck with him, so we went up first on the terrace and examined the roses, some poor weedy sunflowers, and a few little pansies that looked pleadingly up at me while I stood in the corner of the terrace where you stood that last night, Polly.

The sky was glorious; the sun had gone down and St. Peter’s and the huge pile of the Vatican, with only here and there a twinkling light in the darkness of the massive building, loomed up in silhouette against a heaven of delicate brown which shaded into pale green. Above us in a pure vault of blue, the crescent moon floated, all silver, while in the opposite horizon, over the Alban Mountains and the Appenines, great banks of clouds rolled up, black and threatening beneath, reflecting the afterglow above, while forked lightning played ceaselessly through them. Later the façade of the cathedral became outlined in lights, although the dome was left in blackness, and all the Borgo was hung with paper lanterns and was very gay and bright. But I felt lonely without you.

D. V., it will not be long before I reach home! Already I can see the beautiful bay, the boats passing and repassing, and the arrival of Quarantine and Custom officials. The great city--greater New York--faintly appearing through the morning mist, and the huge buildings towering above the fog, like a city in the clouds. We pass the statue, the busy ferry boats hurry beneath our great bow and--ah, Polly, I must confess my eyes are tearful with the excitement and happiness of the thought. My great anxiety to be with you should carry the ship more quickly, though alas, in this practical age, it depends more on the quality of the coal than on the burning anxiety of a lover.

* * * * *

PRINCE BORIS TO POLLY

_Paris,
December._

I followed you to Paris and showed you nightly and by day in the restaurants and the Bois, and all the places of fashion, and everybody he look with eyes of admiration at you and at me glances of envy. When you smile with me, then I was for a moment happy. But though you smile, you do not stay--you go away to America. You are like pretty floating milkweed, you touch here and there in your travels. The wind (your Aunt) blow you from place to place.

In sables from Siberia I would dress you and jewels from the Urals, and take you to the opera at Moscow. We would travel in the East, and you are so clever, you would help me in my secret missions. We would decipher riddles and gather secret news. You would fascinate the great ones of the earth, and they would tell you tales of State that would help the great cause. What would you say, _ma petite_? Be my Princess and let me carry you to my castle in the mountains; it is a little savage among the Tartars, but I hope the hummingbird find it in her heart to make her nest there with me some day.

Soon I meet you in America and we talk again.

* * * * *

A. D. TO POLLY

_Rome,
December._

Your cable telling me of your willingness to announce our engagement was received with inexpressible happiness. I did not realize that making known our secret would bring such a new joy into my life. It almost makes me burst from sheer felicity when people say pleasant things. Dear old Checkers sent me an engagement book because, he wrote, I was engaged! Beaming, round-faced Pan bustled in, with his red fez on one side, and his fingers strung with all his jewelled rings, to talk about you and my wonderful luck. He got as excited as I did, and we both rattled on at the same time. Then we went out to dinner and had a bottle of champagne. Up he got to drink our healths,--can’t you see him?--reciting,

“May your joys be as deep as the ocean,
Your sorrows as light as its foam!”

But poor Charlton! I went in to tell him of our engagement and he gave me the warmest congratulations. He doesn’t seem any better. Indeed, Polly, I doubt if he is ever going to get well. I shall hurry homewards as soon as possible, but I can’t leave him now. Pay no attention to your Aunt’s obstacles, my dear, if they threaten our love for each other, will you? Surely, surely, you will be true.

* * * * *

PRINCE BORIS TO POLLY

_Moscow,
December._

Ah, the pleasure to have been with you in Paris! I think about it every night and wish to have you near.