Part 7 (1/2)
I experienced an exciting incident since I last wrote, which, thank G.o.d! had no terrible results. For a time, however, I felt I was looking down on a fatal panic. A fire broke out in a crowded theatre where I was, and I am much more moved by it now than I was at the time, when I took the affair coolly enough, though it was really frightful.
It was a gala night at the Opera House Costanzi, where we attended the masked ball in the carnival season, you remember. The house was crowded, the pit and orchestra jammed, the boxes all taken and a ballet with gay music and dancing was being performed--when suddenly in the molding above the top row of boxes,--I was in one with some colleagues--there was a phit! phiz-z-z, and a blue flame shot out and ran sputtering along the woodwork.
For a moment there was a dead stillness, and only the crackling flame along the electric wire could be heard. Then came a horrible cry which still rings in my ears, and it seemed as if the whole audience rose in a ma.s.s and rushed to the exits where it struggled and swayed and choked. The orchestra, instead of being panic-stricken and scrambling away, played the Royal March, which could just be heard above the din of confusion. Actors rushed to the front of the stage and tried to stop the mad stampede. Into the empty boxes, which had cleared in a twinkling, we rushed and hung out over the bal.u.s.trade, trying to whip out the fire with our coats.
In a few moments, some police and firemen joined us and chopped the burning wood with axes and swords till it fell in sparks about the orchestra. Then it was a fight until it was put out at last, and the curtain dropped. Suddenly, again, this time nearer the proscenium, with its wings, scenes, and flies, there was a sputter, a flash, and the fire broke out again in a different place, evidently from the same dangerous wire. Another moment of intense stillness, and then the firemen rushed along the gallery a second time and whipped and beat out the flames. The curtain rolled slowly up, showing the great stage with the ballet only half-dressed, looking anxiously about. The actors pluckily tried to continue the performance; a few people stayed, but we scarcely felt in the humor for our coats were scorched and our hands black. There were no terrible results, but it might have been so frightful, and the glimpse of the possibility has made me realize the terror of such a catastrophe.
I have been dining with Prince Boris lately; we do not speak of you, he, because he dares not, I, because I will not. I would rather think of you silently.
The heat is becoming intense and I've not been feeling very well lately.
A. D. TO POLLY
_Rome, July._
This evening the Girandola came off--or rather, went off, for it was all fireworks, and very fine. The tribunes in the Piazza del Popolo were crowded, and two bands of music played in the thronged square. It was an astonis.h.i.+ng sight when unexpectedly a powerful searchlight was turned on, illuminating a sea of upturned faces.
As we sat waiting, a rocket went up over the sky from the Quirinal Palace as a signal that the Royal Party had started. In a little while another told that they were approaching; in a moment more Their Majesties arrived in the royal box, the band played, bombs exploded in a salute, and a thousand Roman candles shot up in the black night and burst into a million stars. Soon there was a fizzing, and gradually the gleaming outline of a huge cathedral, which they say can be seen far out on the Campagna, was revealed. This is a design retained from Papal days. All sorts of serpents and wheels and golden rains followed. Then suddenly a fiery dart went hissing above the heads of the people and smashed against a great column in the centre of the square, flying into a dozen pieces, each of which ran on wires to a corner of the piazza, and set off the Bengal lights.
And so the celebration ended in the midst of a great red glow. The crowds went away in their thousands, down the Babuino, the Corso, the Ripetta, and the huge searchlights were directed along each of these streets, making them bright as day while the people moved along. But Polly, perhaps like Mr. Dooley you think that ”th' doings iv a king ain't anny more interestin' than th' doings iv a plumber or a baseball player.”
POLLY TO A. D.
_Baden Baden, July._
”I love you just as much as ever, dearest A. D.--Do you love me? Will you be mine?” Checkers is dictating, so don't be alarmed!
What a terrible fire that was! I am sure you were the hero of the occasion. Thank heaven you were not injured!
About two weeks ago this time, you and I at the Lido were riding madly on merry-go-rounds, seeing trained fleas, and throwing b.a.l.l.s. Tonight my twin and I are going to have a game. You know the old saying--”Lucky at cards, unlucky at love.” I wonder if I shall win or lose.
We got so desperate we asked two dreadful Americans to come up for poker. Checkers is having even a more stupid time than I am, but he is becoming very chummy with the proprietor, and was actually roped into going to church, where he pa.s.sed the plate with an air almost as fine as yours!
I know he wants to send messages to you, for he often says, ”Well, I really am going to write to A. D. today.” Whether these letters ever get off or not I do not know.
The other evening, however, was quite amusing, as the beer garden was full of people, and there was a handsome Italian whom I thought I was falling in love with; he gave a fascinating bicycle performance. I bought his photograph, but after talking with him, I decided I did not like him at all, and threw the picture away.
Signor Peppi is with us, as you know, and Aunt is happy. If they aren't engaged now, I think they will be soon. We all went to ride on horseback today and came home nearly dead, though P. was plucky and stuck it out. It is so nice to get on a horse again, you can't imagine how I enjoy it. I think it is next best to a gondola and a sand-bank.
I am sending you, by the way, a little silver gondola with my love.
P. S. Is there any news from Don Carlo in South Africa? Did the gardener's daughter follow him? And my little Spaniard, Gonzaga, how is he?
A. D. TO POLLY