Part 16 (1/2)
_Rome, February._
Here I am at the office, receiving company in the mildest manner, trying to soothe my dissatisfied countrymen, and do impossibilities of one sort and another. I have already had several visitors this morning. One was a young man who has had the cheerful but fruitful experience of being buncoed out of several thousand francs at Naples and is accordingly needy. I helped him out of the store of my wisdom and out of the store of my bank account, and he has departed wiser if somewhat sadder.
Last night Jan and I went again to Peppi's studio. It seemed as if you were really in the terrace room--you seemed to pervade the place with its old tapestries and sketches, its rugs and easels and paints and books of photographs, and the northern window letting in a flood of moonlight. And there your shadow sat, while Jan played the piano delightfully, gavottes, mazurkas, ballets.
I have adopted a plan which makes me the happiest of men. I carry the last letter which I receive from you in my pocket until the next one comes, and so I am never disappointed in not having a missive from you. It is a splendid scheme, for then I always have something to read. I shan't want to give up the one I received today, though, when the next one comes, for it is so nice. But then, the next one may be still nicer.
POLLY TO A. D.
_Black Horse Farm, March._
At the farm again. It is lonely up here without you. The winter with its drifting snow was fine, but now that is melting. The roads are muddy and make such hard pulling for the horses that Checkers is. .h.i.tching up four while I write, and I plan to drive them.
How you would laugh if you could see me; I am the funniest looking object--huge rubber boots, a queer-looking short skirt with half a yard of tear down the side made by the bull pup, (he is the dearest thing, though) an old brown jacket very much the worse for wear, a Scotch tam, and Checker's furry gloves--you know what I mean, the lovely p.u.s.s.y ones. Now we are off!
_Later, a postscript._
This afternoon Checkers and I had a horseback ride and I can sympathize with you after your Campagna rides, for I don't feel as spry as I might. Though, after all, you have Mona Lisa with you to while away the time, and I?--Well, Boris is coming to America soon, so you'd better be on your best behavior. It is midnight and I have hopped into bed and spilt the ink; it's high time I stopped writing and went to sleep and to dream of--well, of one of you, anyway.
PRINCE BORIS TO POLLY
_Rome, March._
_Mon ange_, I am in Rome again, but will soon be in America with you.
American Secretary like me no more because I follow after you; he go the other way, if possible, and I look in sky as if observing interesting eclipse. It make me very angry--wish to pull his nose--my heart is inky as the devil's pit.
Your Aunt, she likes me, at least. The Carthorse she calls herself, but not of your family surely, for you are like wild Arab colt. I try without success to tempt you with sweets and with fresh dates of the desert, but you not let me put on bridle. After Paris, my heart have big hole. Now I run after you to America to try mend the hole.
You can be princess if you wish, and live in a country that will some day soon be master of the world.
A. D. TO POLLY
_Rome, March._
Your letters, dear, from the farm bring the fine country air with them. I can see the still cold moonlight on the pure white snow and hear the ringing of the sleigh bells, I can see the old house, the fire crackling up the chimney, and the cozy room with the old prints, the warmth and geniality. Thank you, dear, for the picture.
But your mood changed, didn't it, darling, when you got back from your ride? I am sure your Aunt dropped some little bit of gossip, possibly something the Prince or Peppi may have written, though I feared he had quite forgotten her. He's too deeply in love with Mona Lisa now to act like a sensible person, and whatever he says is colored by his insane jealousy of every other man in Rome who even looks on his divinity.
But I'm coming home, Polly. I'll do anything to get away. I know you want to live in America and so do I.
Last night was the ball at the Austrian Emba.s.sy to which came the King and Queen. In a word--and a slang word at that--it wasn't a patch on our Emba.s.sy Ball. Their palace, for one thing, doesn't compare with ours, and then, notwithstanding all the etiquette and fuss of the Austrians, all their punctiliousness, it didn't go off so smoothly.
The fact is, it wasn't so well done, and out of this I privately found much gratification. The American function had been a great success, while the reception of last night was rather a commonplace affair.
I stood around and watched the Austrian secretaries work--five or six of them to do what I alone had done, and I delighted in seeing them run about, and look sheepish or important, according to their natures, as they did the more or less foolish things the occasion demanded. As soon as their Majesties had gone, I departed, so got to bed at a comparatively early hour. They had a cotillion afterwards which we had the good sense not to undertake. Rather a funny thing was the fact that a cla.s.s of Americans who hadn't been asked to our ball were invited to this one!