Polly the Pagan Part 13

_Rome, November._

The top o' the marnin' to ye, Polly Darlin'! It would be very inappropriate, wouldn't it, if this came to you by evening delivery?

At any rate it is the top o' the marnin' here in Rome, and I am pretending you are right next to me, my kitten-sphinx, and I'm greeting you with a morning kiss in token of our peace, or is it an armistice? Your letter makes me happy and yet your remarks about the Prince trouble me. There is, however, one clear way out of your difficulties, and that is to make our engagement known at once to everyone. I do not want to urge the point too strongly, but doesn't it seem that circ.u.mstances have combined to make an announcement desirable?

Putting aside all consideration of what people may say or think, I feel it would be franker, more dignified, more true to yourself, to others, to me, that the relation between us should be told. All kinds of complications will arise if we keep it secret. Do not act hastily on receiving this. Think it over carefully. Oh, I love you, Polly, with my whole soul! But I can't come home at once; my friend Charlton is now seriously ill and Emba.s.sy matters are tied up. Under the circ.u.mstances, I am glad you left Paris when you did. Did Boris see you off?

How bustling and busy your getting away from the hotel must have been,--the drive to the station through the gay streets, the excitement at the train, the helter-skelter of pa.s.sengers and porters with their bags, baggage, boxes, baskets, and rugs. Then the steamer, the good-byes, the buzz of the engine, the splash of water and a realization at last that you were homeward bound!

It will seem odd to hear about Rome now that you are in America, about the streets yellow with flooding sunshine, and crowded with carts from the Campagna, and cabbies on their rattletrap carriages cracking their whips and crying "ah!" in deep guttural tones at their horses, instead of saying "Whoa!" or "Gee up!" in the proper American way.

Early one afternoon Charlton and I started out in an ancient cab and a decrepit horse to go to the Piazza San Pietro, or perish in the attempt. I had the enthusiasm and he the perseverance. Indeed we took turns in exhibiting these qualities, for there came a time when he was enthusiastic and I persevered. There were moments when the old horse went so slowly that we thought he would never get there, but the driver used the whip encouragingly. Finally we reached St. Peter's, surrounded by its huge colonnade, with its splashing fountains, went up the broad terrace steps and beneath the great _loggia_, and into the overwhelming interior with its vast distance, out of all proportion to anything else in the world.

Inside the people were kissing the toe of St. Peter, while crowds walked about and men were hammering away until the whole place resounded with the work of putting up tribunes for some ceremonies.

But a great shaft of yellow sunshine came streaming down from the dome, making the gloom golden, and above the hum of voices could be heard the Pope's angel chanting beautifully.

When I came out and looked over toward your palace and saw the tops of the plants of the garden on the terrace, I could not resist going in to see Peppi. You know he has lately taken your old apartment, in memory of your Aunt, I suppose. Up the stairway we climbed till we came to the door and rang. There was a great rattling of chains and unbolting of locks; the door finally opened and we were told he was home. He asked us to take pot luck with him, so we went up first on the terrace and examined the roses, some poor weedy sunflowers, and a few little pansies that looked pleadingly up at me while I stood in the corner of the terrace where you stood that last night, Polly.

The sky was glorious; the sun had gone down and St. Peter's and the huge pile of the Vatican, with only here and there a twinkling light in the darkness of the ma.s.sive building, loomed up in silhouette against a heaven of delicate brown which shaded into pale green. Above us in a pure vault of blue, the crescent moon floated, all silver, while in the opposite horizon, over the Alban Mountains and the Appenines, great banks of clouds rolled up, black and threatening beneath, reflecting the afterglow above, while forked lightning played ceaselessly through them. Later the facade of the cathedral became outlined in lights, although the dome was left in blackness, and all the Borgo was hung with paper lanterns and was very gay and bright.

But I felt lonely without you.

D. V., it will not be long before I reach home! Already I can see the beautiful bay, the boats pa.s.sing and repa.s.sing, and the arrival of Quarantine and Custom officials. The great city--greater New York--faintly appearing through the morning mist, and the huge buildings towering above the fog, like a city in the clouds. We pa.s.s the statue, the busy ferry boats hurry beneath our great bow and--ah, Polly, I must confess my eyes are tearful with the excitement and happiness of the thought. My great anxiety to be with you should carry the ship more quickly, though alas, in this practical age, it depends more on the quality of the coal than on the burning anxiety of a lover.

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 pet.i.te_? 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.

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.

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.

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 Emba.s.sy 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.

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 Gla.s.s after the Mad Queen.

You would like this place, dear,--an old Colonial house of brick with wings and white tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs, 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?

A. D. TO POLLY

_Rome, December._