Part 7

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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.

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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.

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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.

You say to me once, write about my country,--Russia, oh my Russia, hail! You think only of bombs and Nihilists in _la Russie_, but we have many good things, museums best in the world, artistes most fine, ballet splendid, and Slavic music, ah, it make the blood stir. When I go to opera, and lover makes love to his lady, then I think of--you. Do you think of Boris walking the streets of Moscow, where roofs are green as malachite and strange domes grow in the sky like vegetables? Learn our history, about Ivan the Terrible, about Peter the Great, and Catherine the great lover. Read, too, our literature, Turgeniev, close to the heart, Pushkin, melancholy poet, and Artzibasheff ironical. No! Me I read them to you some day with a tremble of the voice and then you will surely fall in love with a Muscovite.

Your Aunt she write me come to New York. Perhaps you make me American when I come over. Why you not say me come yourself? I remind me of the proverb, “A thousand raps on the door but no salute or invitation from within.” Your American diplomat he amuse himself very well in Rome. As you know, he went often to the circus, to see pretty girl there who look like your enemy, the lady of the gray eyes. That the reason he not come to Paris, I think. He not want to see you both there at one time.

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A. D. TO POLLY

_Rome, December._

Behold me at my desk! I couldn’t bear this place, my own, if it had not, on every hand, remembrances of you. Here in this very office, you have sat. The last day or two in Florence, whither Embassy affairs took me, brought thronging memories of our hours together there. This morning as the train crawled across the Campagna in the weird twilight of the moon just before dawn, I gazed out of the window and watched the ruins rise out of the uncanny plain like tombstones of a dead civilization,--spectres of decay and times long past. Think of all the lovers they have looked on since first the aqueducts went marching off to the hills in gigantic strides.

My precious, when the gray dawn was just breaking, I entered the Grand Hotel, and then thought of you again, of the night I first called you, Pollykins, by your own little name, right there in the doorway. Don’t be disappointed in my letters, if from time to time they tell only somebody’s feelings, and forget to mention what is happening. Now you alone are my life. But write and let me know how _you_ feel.

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POLLY TO A. D.

_Black Horse Farm on the Hudson, December._

Here we are at the Farm, Aunt, Checkers, and I. Although our engagement may be announced in Rome, my stern relative says we must wait until we’re settled a bit before announcing it in New York. I was going to give a luncheon and tell everyone, but she suddenly dashed away into the country with me in her wake, flying like Alice through the Looking Glass after the Mad Queen.

You would like this place, dear,--an old Colonial house of brick with wings and white trimmings, surrounded by great elms overlooking the Hudson. The furniture is Chippendale, queer ancient panoramic wall paper makes a background for some delightful eighteenth-century prints, and fireplaces ablaze with logs are in every room. I’ve been secretly wondering if we couldn’t have our honeymoon here. Do you fancy the idea, dearest?

There is still a sheet of paper left right under my nose, staring up as much as to say, “Why don’t you use me? Why not write more to your secretary?” Well, it will have to be in pencil, for to use ink will mean going down stairs where there are still people dashing about; while up in my bedroom I am quite alone except for John Sullivan, our bull pup.

Isn’t it perfectly pathetic to be left all solitary this long cold winter with the only boy I love so far away?

P. S. Is Charlton really so ill that you do not like to leave him? No other reason? You wrote that Mona Lisa had disappeared from your life. Are you sure she has no successor?

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A. D. TO POLLY

_Rome, December._

Your letter came yesterday telling of your visit to Black Horse Farm, and as for spending our honeymoon there, it would be a bit out of Paradise! But don’t, Polly, don’t, I beg of you, put off announcing your engagement in New York. Think of the position it puts me in; as you know, Rome is all agog with it. Ask your Aunt frankly why she is so hesitant. Apparently she liked me, and she offered no objections in Europe to what she must have known was coming. In any case she cannot force you to accept the attentions of the Prince.

I wish, dearest, you might have been at the diplomatic reception at the Court, at the Quirinal, the other evening. How sweet you would have looked in your Court dress! I was overwhelmed, absolutely overwhelmed by congratulations and good wishes. Even the ministers and chiefs of missions seemed to know of my great happiness and took the occasion to say nice things. The world does indeed love a lover. When I reached my apartment I danced the Highland fling with two umbrellas crossed together for swords, and felt like sliding down the banisters, too!

At Court the reception is always a very fine function; first to rattle through the entrance of the palace, across the court to the foot of the broad staircase where the big _portiers_ in red liveries salute and bow, then up the brilliantly-lighted, crimson-carpeted staircase to the huge _antecamera_ hung with tapestries, a vast chamber where a company of splendid _corazzieri_ in gleaming helmets and cuirasses stand at attention and salute each Ambassador.

The reception-room is magnificent, and there the diplomats in their uniforms, gaudy with all sorts of tinsel plaques, stars, crescents, and gold embroidery, stand about till the approach of the Royalties is announced. Then they bustle into line according to precedence--a procession that reaches around the room, each Ambassador with his staff behind him. Thereupon the King and Queen arrive! They bow; we all bow. His Majesty shakes hands with the Ambassadors, and makes conversation. One by one, the secretaries step forward and are addressed, while the Queen speaks only to the Chiefs of Missions. Meanwhile the Ladies-in-waiting stand in a row arranged opposite; so do we all remain for over an hour and a half.

In conversation with Pan this evening he let it slip out that the Prince was going to America before long on a secret mission. I have no idea what he is up to. Don’t delay, my sweetheart, in announcing our engagement--write me that you love me.

P. S. Really I do not know where Mona Lisa has gone, and I am interested in nobody but you, dear.

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PRINCE BORIS TO POLLY

_Moscow, December._

A silver plate I send you for bread and cellar for salt, so do Russians give to the Tsar, the Little Father, in token of homage. As the Cossacks say, “Feed the mouth, the eyes will not be bashful.” I make you gifts, in other words, and you will be ashamed not to look on me with kindness. Often I dream of your eyes, blue as lapis lazuli from the Urals.

From Rome comes news,--you engaged to American diplomat. I cannot believe serious--tell me not true. Lady from Virginia say once, often American girls engage to two, three men all same time--is it so? It may be. Turks and Chinese have several wifes, and lady Laplanders, they have several husbands, _n’est ce pas?_ Is it you write no more because you really serious engage? Your Aunt she say why no, of course; you not know your own mind. Peppi say she wish title for you. But I still wait that little Hummingbird welcome me to New York.

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POLLY TO A. D.

_Black Horse Farm, Christmas Morning._

This morning, dearest, what should arrive but the most beautiful roses in the world from you, and in the toe of my Xmas stocking, I found a heavenly diamond engagement-ring! How can I ever thank you enough? Polly is very proud and happy to wear it. Did Gilet put the little cuff links I sent in your sock, or perhaps you didn’t hang one up in the chimney?

A. D., I love you madly--yes, I do, you can’t know, you never will know how much. Every day I want to be with you. Whenever I have a good time I say to myself, “I wish my dear ‘Dip’ were here to enjoy it, too.” America seems pretty empty with someone I love in beautiful Italy.

Aunt wants news of Peppi, says she hasn’t heard from him lately. The Prince sent me a lovely present, and wants to know if you and I are seriously engaged.

I wish I could have seen you do the sword-dance! It takes a lot of courage to tackle Aunt and get her to go back with us to New York and tell of the engagement of a proud little Pagan to a dear diplomat. Your father sent me a sweet letter from California.

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A. D. TO POLLY

_Rome, Christmas Day._

In my dreams last night were all sorts of Christmas things--home and mistletoe and you under it, my love. On my breakfast-tray this morning lay your lovely cuff-links. A thousand thanks,--I shall wear them every day.

The Christmas decorations at church were holly and palms. The greens were dotted with oranges and apples, the high pillars wreathed with ivy, the chancel and altar banked with flowers, for the Reverend Nevin is very artistic in his arrangement of such things. I was so full of gratitude and thanksgiving, so placidly content that even when an awkward worshipper knocked my silk hat (Gilet’s shining pride) on the floor and rumpled and broke it, I didn’t mutter, or even think a wicked thing!

I said a little prayer for you, Polly dear. Then I hurried home, for there were so many things to attend to,--as Checkers would remark, “Merry Christmas, but not a dish washed!”

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A. D. TO POLLY

_Rome, December 31._

Tell your Aunt that Peppi is looking better but still far from well. He will not stay in bed and take care of himself, but keeps on painting and painting behind locked doors. The endless rains this autumn have been bad for him, though he seems gay and talks a lot--calls me the birdcage, because I have caught the Hummingbird. For me the place is full of memories of you--the terrace, the sitting-room with the corner where you used to make tea, and where I would sit, falling deeper and deeper in love, hour by hour.

This is the last day of the dear old year, a year blessed as no other can be, for therein have I met my Polly, known her, loved her. Ah, old year, you have been good to me passing belief! How many moments of supreme happiness have you given me, days of bliss with my beloved, nights of anxiety away from her, moments of doubt and fear, moments of heavenly exaltation.

Think of the mystery of the years! I was born the Lord knows when; you flew right down from heaven, and we loved so on this old earth. The last words I shall ever write in this year are--I love you, Polly!

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POLLY TO A. D.

_New York, December 31._

It is seven o’clock here and I somehow feel that you are thinking of me--in Rome it must be midnight, the beginning of the New Year. If we could only hold hands for just one little minute, it would make me so happy. An hour ago I sent you a cable, so you’ll get my message with your breakfast.

There’s just a moment left in which to write a line before dressing for dinner. Then comes a ball to which I shall wear a frock all little fluttering iridescent draperies, suggesting an airy hummingbird. Sybil is spending the night here--it is months since I last saw her in Rome. She is just as pretty and lively as ever, smoking cigarettes all the time and using the same exaggerated language,--that you’re the handsomest man that ever existed, that I’m “the luckiest girl in Heaven or Hell.” She’s much excited over our betrothal and hopes we may live a million years and have a thousand children!

Sybil went with me to ask Aunt to put an announcement in the papers, to which my autocratic relative replied that she would see. Do you suppose your Polly will have any partners now that she is engaged? For rumors are leaking out, of course. Partners or no partners, if Aunt doesn’t, I’ll put it in the papers myself, I will!

You wouldn’t believe it of me, would you, but I’m growing positively sentimental. Half the time I live in a dream with you, dear, thinking of you, wanting so much to please you, wondering what you would like me to do. The little forget-me-not enclosed, carries a kiss.

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A. D. TO POLLY

_Rome, New Year’s Day._

I love you with all my heart! These are the first words that I write in the new year--just as you were the first thought in my mind as the bells chimed out midnight. God guard us, my own, during the coming months, and grant us His blessing!

New Year’s Eve, the municipality sends a band to serenade the Embassies, a pretty custom, but I wandered over to your Palazzo instead, to Peppi’s where we had a little supper and drank toasts to the old year and the new one, to you and your Aunt. “Here’s to the ladies,” sighed P.--“God bless ’em! We can’t do anything with ’em, and we can’t do anything without ’em.”

At breakfast Gilet walked in on me with your cable of greetings in his hand, so you see how timely it arrived. Thank you, my Sweetheart, for the dear message which began our New Year. This morning is brilliant and a _bersaglieri_ regiment has just gone past on a quick-step with feathers waving, and the band of _carabinieri_ playing a lively air. The movement and the music are entrancing but all is incomplete without you.

_Later._

I have passed the afternoon very quietly, for the news of Charlton’s death today has shocked me so. Poor old fellow! Accordingly I only left a few cards officially and then went and sat a long time in the Church of the Jesuits where vespers were being sung. The building was outlined with candles, the effect fine, solemn and religious. The aisles were thronged with people while organ-music and singing rose and fell. Then I hurried back to my fireside, through the narrow crowded streets, across the Corso with its endless files of carriages, for the dread chill of Rome came on, and the men and women wrapped their cloaks about them.

Now that poor Charlton is gone, I am sending in my resignation to the President. I have decided to go into business, for a very good offer has turned up that I hope you will approve. Moreover, the Ambassador himself dispatched his own resignation yesterday. Mine will follow close upon its heels “to take effect at the earliest convenience of the Department of State,” and I added “an earnest request to be relieved of my duties at the first opportunity as private matters of an anxious and urgent nature call me home.”

If the Department either loves me much or hates me much, it will let me off promptly. My feelings wouldn’t be hurt if a cablegram should come marked _urgent_, and stating, “Your resignation accepted with pleasure, and to take effect _at once_,” the last two words underlined. I’d knock over the tables and chairs, slam the doors, and go home so quickly that one wouldn’t have time to say “Jack Robinson!” Then I would cry, “Gilet! Gilet! Where in thunder are you, Gilet? Pack my things, throw them in helter skelter, pellmell, all in a heap. It doesn’t matter--nothing matters, for we are going home! Hip-hip-hurrah!” I am all excited at the mere thought. And if anyone wondered at this indecent haste (“Haste which mars all decency of act”), I’d say, “I am going back to my love,” and they would never blame me.

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POLLY TO A. D.

_New York, January._

Your photograph is beside me, and I have kissed it so many times today and every day that it would be quite worn out if it weren’t for the glass in front. The separation has made my love for you grow stronger and finer, and shows me clearly that it is you and you only I love and want. The weeks since we became engaged have found me very happy in the knowledge that there was someone who would always take care of me, someone whom I would look up to and respect. I am behaving so well for me that soon I shall no longer be known as Polly the Pagan.

I was very sorry to hear of Lord Ronald Charlton’s death, for I know you must miss him greatly. So you have sent in your resignation. Splendid! I shall expect you shortly. Cable me when you leave.

Auntie says I ought not to announce my engagement here until you can set a definite date to return. Won’t you do that for me?

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A. D. TO POLLY

_Rome, January._

Fi, fo, fum! I should indeed like to be at “hum.” The days are becoming longer, and so I find my only happiness in thinking that before they begin to shorten again, I shall have come to you, my angel, to love and to hold and to cherish you forever. But meantime my letters are blue because I am blue, and I am a deep cerulean because you are so far off. Why, being away from you is enough to make me turn into a box of indigo. Blue indeed--I am Black!

To console myself I read and re-read your letters and daydream about the future. Yes, I shall come and as soon as the State Department will let me. It won’t be long now--not long, though I cannot as yet set a date. I think May would be the prettiest time of the whole year to be married in, and then go (as you suggest) to Black Horse Farm, though nobody must know; afterwards we’ll cruise slowly South down through the Spanish Main, across the Equator, skirting the coast of Guiana, past Brazil. We’ll round the Horn together and see if we can find the Enchanted Isles and other heavenly ineffable places. What do you think of this plan, my darling?

Meantime, I have only your picture, as you have mine. In case you may like to see the arrangement of my habitation, I have sketched it for you. The little cross is where my altar is placed, the point to which your devotee turns, not twice or thrice or four times a day, as do the Mahometans toward their place of worship, but constantly in prayer and thanksgiving. Your photograph is my Mecca and you are my little Pagan goddess, part nymph, part naughty elfin sprite, and part some winged flitting creature out of a fairy mythology not as yet discovered. But here in this room you are my Lares and Penates--you are my Love.

Last night I said goodbye to your picture, and went off to the Court Ball, where I saw many of our fair compatriots. It was a fine sight. It makes me think of what Mr. Dooley said, “at coort rayciptions th’ Ambassadure iv England wore th’ gorgeous unyform iv his station, th’ Ambassadure iv France jingled with medals, th’ American Ambassadure looked like a detictive at a fancy ball.” Three sides of the great room were lined with rows of people who all bowed and curtseyed as the King and Queen entered, while the orchestra played the Royal March. The Queen danced in the Quadrille of Honor, and after that the music struck up the first waltz and the moment arrived when, it may interest you to know, I opened the Ball!

The Grand Master of Ceremonies asked me to dance with his daughter, and so, bang! out in front of all the people I walked on my trembling legs, bowed to her Majesty, and went across and asked the signorina. Round and round the room we spun while all gazed upon us; at last some others took the floor and the ball was on! It was about the most trying thing that I have ever done; in fact we almost danced down the King and the wife of the Prime Minister, and a few other dignitaries who stood in our parabolic way. After things got started, I tried to dance with all the American girls present but it was warm work. The Queen and Mona Lisa, who has come back to Rome, to Peppi’s intense joy--but don’t tell your aunt--were probably the two most remarkable women there, both beautifully dressed, and they looked at each other, as ladies will. My last Court Ball!

But my troubles are not over, for our Ambassador and his wife are to receive the King and Queen; so I have that to arrange. The legend is that the Queen has expressed a desire to go to the United States Embassy. It is going to make a lot of work, of course, for Their Majesties very seldom do this thing, though Embassies are, as you know, among the few places which may entertain them. It should be a fine function--the palace of our Ambassador is so magnificent--and I hope it may be well done, though the preparation must needs be tremendous. Only certain people can be asked, and great state maintained. Oh, my darling, if you were only here to enjoy it!

A thousand invisible fibres are drawing me towards you ever and always. But Polly, I am beginning to be uneasy. I had hoped surely to go when the Ambassador left Rome, but now he says very emphatically that it is my duty to stay here until a new secretary comes, and that is the reason I have not heard from the State Department. I am, oh, so disappointed. Trust me! Believe in me! Don’t let this separation, this uncertainty bring about any misunderstanding between us, no matter how slight. I have fought off a feeling of foreboding all day. Love me, dearest, always.

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PRINCE BORIS TO POLLY

_Moscow, February._