Part 16 (2/2)
I took a ride on my chestnut horse this afternoon--yes, the one Peppi dubbed Mona Lisa. But don't you worry about the real lady Lisa--she--well, she just helps to pa.s.s the time away. Today as we started out, great banks of clouds toward the East had gathered, casting shadows on the hills, and these advanced till a glorious double rainbow arched across the Campagna. It was all so beautiful that we innocently rode right into the storm and were drenched in a pelting rain.
The Emba.s.sy is humming with people calling, making inquiries, asking for pa.s.sports, demanding everything from a room in the best hotel to a good store where an American can buy a pair of suspenders, and a thousand and one other requests. Then the Amba.s.sador is getting ready to go away, so all is topsy-turvey. As soon as he goes, I shall begin to pack my boxes--a few books and pictures; and then some evening when the new secretary gets here, I shall quietly go to the station, take the train, and ride rattling across the uncanny old Campagna for the last time, and say goodbye to old Rome, goodbye! I follow your pesky Prince!
POLLY TO A. D.
_New York, March._
Here I am, twenty-one years old and everything to make me happy except two little things. One is I don't like to have that gra.s.s-widow with her gray cat's eyes again in Rome. She's much too smartly dressed, and calculating, too, yes, she is, A. D. She just goes after what she wants, then if it's not obtainable, takes whatever else is handy. She may be amusing, but even if you and Peppi do rave about her looks, I don't think she's a bit pretty.
And this is the other thing. Aunt has inserted a denial of our engagement, after the nice announcement I had put in the paper. That's why we darted up to the Black Horse Farm last week. To get me away so I shouldn't see it contradicted in the Sunday papers. But Sybil did and sent it to me. What shall I do next?
I'm grateful anyway for the dearest sweetheart in the world; that's more than anyone else has! This morning the sun s.h.i.+ning brightly into my room awoke me, and the day has turned out glorious, not a cloud in the sky. Don't you hope our wedding-day will be like this? Louisa decorated the breakfast table and on it were some birthday gifts--a pair of pretty bedroom slippers, a work-bag from Grandmother (Ahem, I sew so much!) and a pretty cardcase from Aunt, and a little silver coffee pot, just big enough for two, from Checkers. Aunt sniffed when Checkers explained elaborately the two it was meant for. I believe she is still actually set on my becoming a Princess.
And then! There lay two letters and a cable--all three from you. They got torn open first, even before I untied the great box that contained your roses. I put away the letters till I could take them off to my lair, to read and re-read secretly--such dear letters and such lovely flowers. I'd like to kiss you and tell you so this very minute, but you're leagues and leagues away, so there's something lacking to my birthday after all.
After breakfast there was business to be attended to. Now I'm of age, Aunt is no longer my guardian. (Do you suppose she's heaving a sigh of relief?) So forth I sallied into town with our business man, Mr.
French--we went in a cab--quite improper, don't you think? And at such an early hour! Well, we got to the office and were closeted together for ages and ages while he talked and talked and read and read again papers and doc.u.ments, I signing them above and below and around about until my wrist ached. Then a man with a red stamp came in to help officiate till finally we got them all fixed up. After that Mr. French took me to a safe where there was a little tin box; here we put the precious papers with my John Hanc.o.c.k all over them, and after he had given me two keys, he left me. And what do you suppose I did? Having for the first time a little money of my own, I went to a jeweller and bought a very pretty ring--for Sybil. Now are you disappointed? Never mind. Something else was bought for somebody I won't mention.
On coming home I found, well! ! ! There are no words enthusiastic enough to thank you for the glorious great pearl on a chain to go about my neck. But you know that these few poor inadequate thanks come from my heart, and hidden somewhere in them are endless devotion and perfect faithfulness to you.
A. D. TO POLLY
_Rome, March._
I enclose some photographs of the ”meets” on the Campagna--of the pack and the huntsmen and tent, and a group of onlookers--the princess of San Faustino, the last Orsini, and Prince Solofra who seems to be scratching his head and meditating on the past glories of the great feudal families. Also one of your friends, Gonzaga, with the Countess he is going to marry.
There is an attempt being made to revive the Carnival fetes--the races in the Corso--but the Veglione won't be so much fun as last year, I know. Every moment of that night together is unforgettable. Poor erratic Pittsburgo, how you did tease him! And dear old Checkers!
There'll never again be anything so funny as he was in that round masque with its fixed grin, dancing about on the floor of the Costanzi. But now it isn't carnival for me. Who could feel gay when his love is not here? So I am only an observer, while others sport and play the fool, more or less amusingly.
The Corso has been crowded, and many of the balconies draped with bright carpets, and wreathed with flowers. Through the throngs there moved an irregular succession of fantastic figures, men on horseback, dressed in red and yellow, heralds, groups of historic patriots and warriors, and even Marcus Aurelius so ingeniously imitated that he appeared exactly like the statue on the Capitol, which is supposed to have left its pedestal and come down to enjoy the mirth. Then there was a ”char” with Venus--to whom as the G.o.ddess of love, I took off my hat and bowed,--drawn by tinsel cupids and snowy pigeons tugging away at the ends of stiff wires. There were sacrificial chariots, too, and floats of hanging gardens, and still more Roman statues,--
”Priests and prophets of the ages, Vestals, augurs, pontiffs, mages, Brazen-belted, scarlet-shrouded, All their altars incense-clouded, Roman wealth of aeons ma.s.sing Now in golden pageant pa.s.sing.”
The people threw flowers and confetti and everything else they could lay their hands on. Between certain hours there was complete license, and a mask could hit or kiss or be as wild as he pleased. (You know, dear, there _is_ a certain kind of kissing I do not disapprove of.)
Yesterday, too, was gay with crowds of people in the streets, for it was the King's birthday, and I was awakened by the music of marching bands, in time to see from my window the Persian Amba.s.sador starting to call on the King at the Quirinal. The gala carriages made a fine show with their caparisoned horses, the three liveried footmen behind and bewigged coachman stuck up in front. This important Emba.s.sy had traveled all the way from Persia to tell the King that a new Shah had come to the throne, a bit of news we had learned by telegraph months ago,--but such are the ways of monarchs. I wonder when the Amba.s.sador will arrive from America to announce the accession of the new Administration! The evening found me dining at the Foreign Office in honor of His Majesty's birthday. It was a very splendid and stately affair, the diplomats and officials all in uniforms of gold lace, c.o.c.ked hats, with swords and fine feathers, my simple, unadorned black coat being the only one at the table. (However, the servants were dressed like me, though to be sure, even some of them were decorated!) It was a dinner of fifty, long and ceremonious, and afterwards we all stood about while I watched the Greek and Turk dodging each other, and taking turns in talking excitably to their fellow guests. Tomorrow they will probably be at each other's throats.
The Amba.s.sadorial family has just left, with a good many people to see them off, chiefly officials. I put some flowers in their compartment, as I did when my darling Polly left Rome. I had hoped to be able to leave with them, but, as I wrote you, I must wait until a new Amba.s.sador, or his Secretary, arrives before I can turn over the affairs and leave. Oh, Polly, I am so sorry for this further delay.
You know how disappointed I am, and you will be patient with me, won't you, dear?
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