Part 3

This afternoon we got our things together to give our American Dip--short for diplomat--a surprise party at his rooms. But he had found out somehow or other, and as we entered we saw a large sign, “WELCOME, SURPRISE PARTY,” and in other places there were drawings representing “the joyous hand” and “the joyous eye,” and besides these, a notice saying that suspicious people had been seen about the place. He is very original and clever. The dinner was awfully jolly and we had great fun as people always do at his parties. Thank Heaven, Mona Lisa was not there.

After it was all over we drove to the Coliseum, for the moon was full. A. D. and I wandered round; it was a beautiful night, the great amphitheatre all gleaming silver. I hadn’t seen any old moonlit ruins since Karnak on the Nile, and there wasn’t any nice young man to see that with. He is such a dear, but a flirt, and I’m sure he’s engaged to Madame Mona Lisa with the lovely gray cat’s eyes. I wish he were half as devoted to me as the Prince is--no, I don’t either, but there isn’t any rubber on my pencil, so I can’t erase it.

* * * * *

What a country for love and romance! Even the Americans are affected by it. Poor wild-eyed Pittsburgo shot and killed himself today in his room in front of the portrait of the beautiful Italian singer. I am terribly shocked and can hardly believe it is true. Some people thought he was in love with me because he came so often to our apartment, and just to make some fun, I wore his ring for a time. All Rome is talking. Poor old Pittsburgo!

This evening I went to the American Embassy--a large dinner of thirty or more people in a lovely big dining room, and with beautiful silver plates and then gold plates--the first time in my life I ever ate from gold plates. The Ambassador was specially nice to me. I tried to pump him about Mona Lisa but didn’t get much. I wish she would leave Rome. Our Dip is rather a puzzler--he just keeps me guessing. I don’t know whether he is engaged to the divorcée or not. I must admit she’s rather fascinating and she has had a sad history, he says. We went on to the Princess Pallavacini’s evening reception--he spent the entire time with Mona. Of course she and I didn’t speak or even bow. Aunt likes him but still prefers a titled foreigner every time.

The Prince was at the reception, too, but I managed to spend most of my spare time flirting with Marquis Gonzaga; he talks a lot but is not so amusing as the Prince. Boris declares he is going to follow me about Europe. Aunt is taking us first to Sorrento and then Florence--after that, the Lord knows where! He is more ardent than ever, so I bet Checkers a hat I’d make Boris propose before I left Rome. I like him better than I did. Checkers says I’m getting used to foreigners.

* * * * *

PRINCE BORIS TO POLLY

_Rome, February._

Darling Miss,

Have you really decide not to let me follow you? If it so, your heart is darker than the Black Forest and you are more wicked as the bears that live there, and if one of those bears eat you, I will say, “So much the better.” But when they see you, I fear they will only lick your hands. Perhaps it is you do not understand the tender language of love belonging to the old countries, you who come from so far away new America? Maybe only way to make you love me is with the rough language of the savage and the hard hand of the brute. I would like to tear the delicate feathers off the hummingbird to punish her. _Bozhe moi!_ But I would like to beat you!

It has been said once I resemble D’Artagnan and perhaps you are afraid of me, afraid of what Spaniards call a _furia francesa_. Perhaps you feel I carry you off like a hero of antiquity--Paris, I think--took Helena away.

You are making game of me. I am very furious. I have try lately to console myself to find another woman, as much as it is possible like my hummingbird. I look but cannot find her. I have treasure long time the only thing I have had that was of you--the handkerchief. But today the handkerchief it is gone and not to be found. I have sorrow like for the loss of a dear friend.

Here I am alone, with thirty people in the hotel, and not one of them hummingbirds. I am weary and think often of you. I would give them all for having you.

* * * * *

JOURNAL CONTINUED

_Rome, March._

Hurrah! I have won the hat from Checkers. When the Prince came to say goodbye, he proposed. “Some speed to that boy,” says Brother. Of course I refused him. Oh, if Aunt knew, she would be madder than a wet hen. But Boris swears he won’t take no for an answer, “You mock me like wicked Pagan girl that you are. But I love Pagans. I meet you in Paris before you sail for America.”

We are leaving Rome tomorrow. A. D. and I had a long talk on the terrace and just a wee bit of nonsense. He wants to spend next Sunday with us at Sorrento. I told him to come along. Thank Heaven the divorcée has left Rome at last.

Carlo also asked to be allowed to come to Sorrento, but I don’t want him to, and so there’s an end to that. He can have his Italian girl. I wonder if Peppi will turn up, for Aunt’s portrait is finished and she likes it. It ought to be good after those long sittings.

It has amused me to lead these foreigners all on, but it is dangerous to play with fire. Gonzaga remarked today, “My mother says me marry my cousin, a Spanish countess, but you, Miss Polly, you hear from me again.” As to foreigners in general and Prince Boris in particular, they certainly know how to flirt, but I wouldn’t trust them around the corner. They like to tell naughty stories and pretend they’re dead in love.

So the Roman season is over; the fun and the beaux and the parties and the drives on the Campagna are things of the past, things for me to remember when I’m old and gray. I’ve had a glorious time here and I’m sorry it’s ended, but Aunt says we must travel again, and I must study. The happy days for Checkers and me are over. I wonder if I will experience some day “_une grande passion_” as they call it over here and marry. Who knows?

I am not sure that I shall have much time to keep a journal after this for it seems as if I’d promised to write to half the men in Rome.

_PART II_

_COURT AND COURTING_

A. D. TO POLLY

_Rome, March._

My Easter greetings to you, dear Polly; I hope they may come in time. I have been desolate since you left Rome, and am looking forward eagerly to seeing you next Sunday at Sorrento. As I passed your Palazzo, I glanced up and saw the flowers nodding their heads above the walls of your terrace, and I met the Prince wandering about outside, appearing decidedly forlorn, poor devil. I fear you treated him badly. I felt more than a little forlorn myself thinking of you so many miles away.

I went up with a picnic party among the Alban mountains today, first to Frascati, then, after déjeuner, we climbed to the ancient city of Tusculum, and the view was glorious. Way, way off lay Rome and the great dome of St. Peter’s, and near it, I knew, was your Palazzo.

* * * * *

POLLY TO A. D.

_Sorrento, March._

We’ve been driving about all day, and have seen such a lot of people we know at the hotel. Oh, isn’t it lovely here! And it will be even nicer when you arrive. Of course you know Sorrento well. It’s very fascinating to me,--the white oriental villas, the peacock blue of the sea, and the gray-green olive orchards. We wanted to buy some olives, but what do you suppose the storekeeper said?

“We have none.”

“But I thought this was the land of olives!”

“We have none,” he repeated. “Ship olives to Park and Tilford, New York.”

When you come, I am going to take you over to Naples to see an octopus. I know he was once a faithless lover, and has been changed into a many-armed, flesh-colored monster by a water-siren whom he failed to adore properly. Here he is, now, doomed to move forever in a house of glass where humans come and point their finger at him.

So beware! Such is the wrath of--sirens.

At night we go out on the balcony to listen to some gay Neapolitan songs sung by a handsome, dark-eyed fellow. He looks like the black and frowzy-headed Peppi. Aunt threw him a handful of lire for that reason, I believe. Then we watch the brightly-dressed peasants dance the tarantella--I have bought some castenets, so when you get here, I’ll dance for you!

You write of a picnic at Frascati. Was it as nice as ours?--when you and round-faced Pan went, and the Prince, and lanky Jan, the Dutch Secretary, and my friend Sybil with her straight black hair and her flirtatious dark blue eyes? How we enjoyed the yellow wine, and gobbled our sandwiches under the trees and told naughty stories and sang lively songs. And on the way back wandered down that lovely avenue of ilexes hand in hand!

Checkers wishes me to say he would give all his old boots to see you. Aunt wants me to thank you for the photograph you sent her, ahem! Please do not get spoiled if I add that I think you are very good-looking.

* * * * *

A. D. TO POLLY

(_Telegram_)[3] _Rome, April._

I am coming to brave the wrath of one little siren tomorrow.

[3] These and succeeding telegrams and cables must have been transmitted by telephone and jotted down since I found none on the regulation blanks. I. A.

* * * * *

POLLY TO A. D.

_Sorrento, April._

You have only just this minute gone. I wonder if you are thinking of me--I don’t believe you are. I shall treasure the pretty gold pen you gave me, to write you with. I am christening it now. Aunt calls me Pliny--she says I write so much that she is sure I indite my letters from the bath.

Will you hear my lesson? Although I have not been out of school very long I find I have forgotten a lot and I have really enjoyed reading about the very early days of Rome, of the Etruscan lords, the raids of the Sabines and the Celts, and the sack of Rome by the Gauls, the starting of the republic with the plebs and patricians, about Hannibal, the Punic wars, and the Macedonian wars, and all kinds of wars.

Checkers was tickled to death with my anonymous letter signed “Brown Eyes.” He didn’t say a word, but has smiled ever since receiving it. All women, he declares, are devils. I notice, however, like the sailors, he discovers a pretty girl in every port. He’s as fickle, looking this way and that, as a blade of grass in a high wind. I just wrote some more nonsense, supposed to be from an Italian girl who had seen him on the street and had fallen in love with the handsome American boy. I wish he would fall in love with Sybil, however, but they are such good friends that I do not so far see a glimmer of hope.

Now I am going to bed, but instead of dreaming of something pleasant, for instance of you, I shall be wide awake and my head buzzing with history and dates,--Goths taking the city of Florence,--where we go tomorrow,--the visit of Charlemagne and the story of the Countess Mathilde who ruled for over forty years, of endless feuds and battles and Guelphs and Ghibellines of long ago. Now perhaps I can go to sleep, having written you all this, and if you don’t remember your history, you had better read it up.

As one of Checkers’ numerous girls once declared, “You are so fascinating I can’t stop I writing!” This must be my case for here is a very long letter. I wish we could stop in Rome on the way north, but shall expect you for over Sunday in Florence.

* * * * *

A. D. TO POLLY

_Rome, May._

I feel lost and strange and don’t know what to do without you. Only yesterday we were driving together in Florence across the river, up the hillside, to that little church high above the valley where we had our photographs taken together beneath the gnarled cypress. Then we came rattling down the zigzag roadway, past the fruit trees in blossom, and had tea and chocolate and beer, each according to his taste, at the pastry cook’s, and then went back to the hotel and stood on the little balcony, looking over the gleaming river Arno, and beyond to the setting sun.

This pin I enclose for you--a baby Leo, a little relative of the Lion of St. Mark’s, which you should be wearing, now that you will soon be in Venice. I bought it today in a little shop as I was toiling up toward the Pincian, where I listened to the music and watched the people and the carriages go round and round. Groups of red-robed Bavarian student priests and straggling bands of monks, brown-cowled, with sandaled feet and ropes of rattling beads about their waists, and children, rolling hoops so merrily.

Here, we are smothered in flowers, great baskets full on the streets for sale, crimson and gold-colored, and the Campagna outside the wall has its patches of poppies and cornflowers. Spring is very lovely in Rome, but the season is fast coming to an end.

The garden party late this afternoon at the Spanish Embassy in the Palazzo Barberini was quite fine,--the Palazzo itself is so glorious! And the approach up the great staircase through the vast antecamera, through the salons, and across the bridge into the gardens is splendidly impressive! It was gay with bright dresses, and a military band played dance music, though no one danced.

I recollect how you loved the place, but the garden was too damp to stop in, so I made a circuit, then went back into the house where I lost the little ghost that had walked with me among the flowers.

The Prince, Gonzaga and I traced our way to the buffet and drank a glass of champagne together. Gonzaga was as lively as ever, but the Prince still looks a bit gloomy.

And now for a confession. I have been to Signor Rossi’s studio and asked for a photograph of his drawing of you. Do you mind? For I want it very much. After this long letter, now who is fascinating?

* * * * *

POLLY TO A. D.

_Florence, June._

Yes, A. D. dear, I, too, am thinking of the balcony and the sunset and everything connected with your visit here. I have ever so many enchanting memories of Florence to carry away in my brain, so that in time to come, they can be taken from out their gray cells in quiet moments when I am by myself. Especially that stroll through the Cascine gardens and into the park, where, in its wild hidden places, we sat and talked,--the warm sunshine streaming through the trees and the flowers springing up in the grass under our feet. And how magnificent the Boboli gardens were, their arcades and statues peeping from the hedges, and the long walk with its splendid vista looking out beyond the Palace. Then our excursion to Fiesole, breakfast at the little _osteria_, and shall you ever forget how we climbed up to the monastery and walked bravely in, where women had no business, and when the monks saw _me_, how they scuttled away, hiding their faces in their sleeves!

But, by jinks, this sounds terribly like sentimentalizing! I will stop at once and be prim and proper.

So you have forgotten what I look like? And have to go to Rossi to get a photograph! Is it true, I wonder?--“_L’amour fait passer le temps; le temps fait passer l’amour!_” How I wish I could have looked in at the Spanish Embassy--to me, the Palazzo and the garden are just bits out of the fairy tales of my childhood.

Many, many thanks for St. Mark’s little gold cousin of a lion. He is a dear and I am now wearing him on my chain. I shall look for you next Sunday in Venice.

* * * * *

A. D. TO POLLY

_Venice, June._

It seems very long since you went away, dear Polly, although it was only the day before yesterday that you left. This morning I went into St. Mark’s and sat at the foot of one of the great pillars, trying to imagine that you and I were there together, and that the great iron shutters were rolled out, and we were seeing again that glorious golden screen set with onyx and aquamarine.

As I write I can hear the water of the Grand Canal gently lapping the little terrace of the hotel, and the ripple and plash from a gondola going past, and the cry of the boatmen. When I look out of the window I see the saffron sails, patched and tipped with red and brown, or lemon yellow pointed with faded blue, that come sailing home in the late afternoon. Soon I shall venture forth by the little back passages, along the streets, crossing the arching bridges, beneath the loggia and then finally enter the piazza of St. Mark’s, so gorgeous in color, as lovely as anything in the world.

Last night I tried to jolly myself by asking my colleague Charlton of the British Embassy, who has come up here for a day or two, to dinner, but he must have found me poor company, for my thoughts were in the train going North with you. Later we took to the water, but--tell your aunt that she may know I have reformed--I was home by eleven o’clock, quite tired out.

There was a fête on the Grand Canal. A beautifully decorated barge came gliding down with singers on board, while hundreds of gondolas clustered about, and Bengal fires burned all along the terraces. It was wonderfully weird and fairylike.

Out in the open water the “Stephanie” was illuminated, preparing to start out at midnight, and the passengers were hanging over the rail listening to a boatload of serenaders, as they did the evening we paddled near and watched and listened. But your rooms at the hotel were empty and as I looked up at them, there was no light nor anyone standing on the balcony, and I realized how far away you had gone. I hope you are safe and happy; I pray so.

The pocket case you gave me, dear Polly, is the handsomest in the world. I have been flourishing it about a great deal to pay, or rather overpay, gondoliers. I wish to recall the past days as vividly as possible and so I have been making alone the excursions that we made together. And it is funny, but I still draw ancient gondoliers, just as we did.

* * * * *

POLLY TO A. D.

_Bayreuth, July._

What a heavenly night we had in Venice out in that gondola when we stuck on the sand-bar and didn’t care at all, we were so happy. It got later and later and the moon went down and not until the tide rose in the early morning did we float away. When we arrived at the hotel, oh, but wasn’t Aunt angry? She didn’t believe one word we said! I don’t think she believes our story even now! She suddenly declared tickets had been bought for the Wagner operas and that we must start the next day. I never heard of those tickets before! Evidently she still wants me to marry the Prince and does not approve of my flirting with you.

Even so, I am going to be good to you, for you were good to me in Venice. I feel pretty blue now that those happy days are gone, and I wouldn’t part with a memory,--from the merry-go-round at the Lido to the sand-bar!

But I shall never hear the end of that evening. And I know that’s why Aunt hurried us all to Bayreuth. Checkers has been making up naughty verses about the sand-bar, but I shan’t repeat them to you! I doze off at night thinking about the gondola, the serenades, the moon, the funny old boatman who was so sleepy,--it was all like a bit out of fairyland, my fairyland. And now I have waked up and found myself in a bustling little German town, my fairyland vanished, and my fairy prince gone!

* * * * *

A. D. TO POLLY

_Rome, July._

As we glided into the station yesterday (the last time, I had gone to the station with you!) shoals of little urchins were swimming in the water and tumbling in such comical ways that even Gilet couldn’t retain his gravity and burst out laughing as the small rascals went splashing and diving into the canal. Too soon we reached the station, too soon the train ran out across the trestles, and too soon Venice faded in the offing.

Friends came to meet me (the Consul General was the first to greet me in Rome this morning), and all must think yours truly mad or in love, for I am so excited and enthusiastic over my holiday. Do you know, it is just a week since we came back from the Lido together, skirting the lovely panorama of the city rising from the sea, when we had so much to say to each other and a great happiness settled down upon me.

Write to me soon, dear, and tell me what you enjoyed most in Venice.

* * * * *

POLLY TO A. D.

_Bayreuth, July._

Such a heavenly day! Aunt and I are sitting on the balcony and resting. The opera begins tomorrow. Most of the people are in church and the street is quite quiet, and empty save for a few pretty peasant girls in gay colors walking the streets. Lots of things have happened since I last wrote; we drove over to a fair in a little town yesterday which was very amusing,--cows and pigs, boots, pipes, and all kinds of things for sale. Then we went into a little inn and had beer and danced with the peasants. It was lively, but rather different from my last ball at the American Embassy after the big dinner served on silver and gold plates, and dancing with “Dips” and princes.

Aunt, my dear old cart-horse, tired me all out in Venice. She instructed me properly like a well-brought-up American girl, and took me about sightseeing with the Red Book in her hand, every minute you were not there, into all the old churches until I feel I never want to go to a sanctuary again.

You ask me what I liked best in Venice. Well! After you, sir, perhaps the marvelous bronze horses. I never got tired of looking at them, the most perfect ones in the world, and I adore horses. Did you know they were first known to have crowned one of the triumphal arches in Rome? They journeyed to Constantinople in the time of Constantine for the Hippodrome, but Doge Enrico Dandolo brought them back to Venice when he conquered Constantinople in 1204. But this was not all. Napoleon wished them for his Arch in the Place du Carrousel and not until 1815 were they returned to San Marco by Francis I of Austria, to whose portion Venice fell in the settlement. Now can you say the humming-bird has not been sucking wisdom instead of sugar from the flowers of Venice! And next best, perhaps, I enjoyed the paintings, especially the auburn-haired Tintorettos, because Aunt too, has just such beautiful hair.

* * * * *

A. D. TO POLLY

_Rome, July._

Jonkheer Jan has had a house warming in his new apartment in the top of the huge Falconieri Palace, hanging high above the Tiber, with the Farnesina opposite and the Janiculum, and the city far below. He has a sunny terrace with the plants already climbing up a trellis and a little set of rooms which he is beginning to furnish. Today several congenial souls met up there for tea and music, and then looked out over the city and the river which lay mapped out below us. He was quite devoted to our blue-eyed Sybil.

I went yesterday to the Piazza del Quirinale to see the royal processions come out of the palace and had a fine coign of vantage. The fanfare blew and the soldiers presented arms, the cortège issued out beneath the gate and slowly moved across the square and round the corner out of sight. It was the day when the new Parliament was to be inaugurated and the King and Queen were to go in state to open the session, and the Ambassadors and Ministers had to attend in uniform. There were outriders and cuirassiers and great gilded carriages of state with lacqueys hanging on behind, and they made a fine show. The music was gay and joyous, and the sun was shining brightly, but within an hour it was raining in torrents and the return procession was through a downpour. But by that time I had sought the protection which the Embassy grants and was hard at work.