Polly the Pagan Part 5

When you come, I am going to take you over to Naples to see an octopus. I know he was once a faithless lover, and has been changed into a many-armed, flesh-colored monster by a water-siren whom he failed to adore properly. Here he is, now, doomed to move forever in a house of gla.s.s where humans come and point their finger at him.

So beware! Such is the wrath of--sirens.

At night we go out on the balcony to listen to some gay Neapolitan songs sung by a handsome, dark-eyed fellow. He looks like the black and frowzy-headed Peppi. Aunt threw him a handful of lire for that reason, I believe. Then we watch the brightly-dressed peasants dance the tarantella--I have bought some castenets, so when you get here, I'll dance for you!

You write of a picnic at Frascati. Was it as nice as ours?--when you and round-faced Pan went, and the Prince, and lanky Jan, the Dutch Secretary, and my friend Sybil with her straight black hair and her flirtatious dark blue eyes? How we enjoyed the yellow wine, and gobbled our sandwiches under the trees and told naughty stories and sang lively songs. And on the way back wandered down that lovely avenue of ilexes hand in hand!

Checkers wishes me to say he would give all his old boots to see you.

Aunt wants me to thank you for the photograph you sent her, ahem!

Please do not get spoiled if I add that I think you are very good-looking.

A. D. TO POLLY

(_Telegram_)[3]

_Rome, April._

I am coming to brave the wrath of one little siren tomorrow.

[3] These and succeeding telegrams and cables must have been transmitted by telephone and jotted down since I found none on the regulation blanks. I. A.

POLLY TO A. D.

_Sorrento, April._

You have only just this minute gone. I wonder if you are thinking of me--I don't believe you are. I shall treasure the pretty gold pen you gave me, to write you with. I am christening it now. Aunt calls me Pliny--she says I write so much that she is sure I indite my letters from the bath.

Will you hear my lesson? Although I have not been out of school very long I find I have forgotten a lot and I have really enjoyed reading about the very early days of Rome, of the Etruscan lords, the raids of the Sabines and the Celts, and the sack of Rome by the Gauls, the starting of the republic with the plebs and patricians, about Hannibal, the Punic wars, and the Macedonian wars, and all kinds of wars.

Checkers was tickled to death with my anonymous letter signed "Brown Eyes." He didn't say a word, but has smiled ever since receiving it.

All women, he declares, are devils. I notice, however, like the sailors, he discovers a pretty girl in every port. He's as fickle, looking this way and that, as a blade of gra.s.s in a high wind. I just wrote some more nonsense, supposed to be from an Italian girl who had seen him on the street and had fallen in love with the handsome American boy. I wish he would fall in love with Sybil, however, but they are such good friends that I do not so far see a glimmer of hope.

Now I am going to bed, but instead of dreaming of something pleasant, for instance of you, I shall be wide awake and my head buzzing with history and dates,--Goths taking the city of Florence,--where we go tomorrow,--the visit of Charlemagne and the story of the Countess Mathilde who ruled for over forty years, of endless feuds and battles and Guelphs and Ghibellines of long ago. Now perhaps I can go to sleep, having written you all this, and if you don't remember your history, you had better read it up.

As one of Checkers' numerous girls once declared, "You are so fascinating I can't stop I writing!" This must be my case for here is a very long letter. I wish we could stop in Rome on the way north, but shall expect you for over Sunday in Florence.

A. D. TO POLLY

_Rome, May._

I feel lost and strange and don't know what to do without you. Only yesterday we were driving together in Florence across the river, up the hillside, to that little church high above the valley where we had our photographs taken together beneath the gnarled cypress. Then we came rattling down the zigzag roadway, past the fruit trees in blossom, and had tea and chocolate and beer, each according to his taste, at the pastry cook's, and then went back to the hotel and stood on the little balcony, looking over the gleaming river Arno, and beyond to the setting sun.

This pin I enclose for you--a baby Leo, a little relative of the Lion of St. Mark's, which you should be wearing, now that you will soon be in Venice. I bought it today in a little shop as I was toiling up toward the Pincian, where I listened to the music and watched the people and the carriages go round and round. Groups of red-robed Bavarian student priests and straggling bands of monks, brown-cowled, with sandaled feet and ropes of rattling beads about their waists, and children, rolling hoops so merrily.

Here, we are smothered in flowers, great baskets full on the streets for sale, crimson and gold-colored, and the Campagna outside the wall has its patches of poppies and cornflowers. Spring is very lovely in Rome, but the season is fast coming to an end.

The garden party late this afternoon at the Spanish Emba.s.sy in the Palazzo Barberini was quite fine,--the Palazzo itself is so glorious!

And the approach up the great staircase through the vast antecamera, through the salons, and across the bridge into the gardens is splendidly impressive! It was gay with bright dresses, and a military band played dance music, though no one danced.

I recollect how you loved the place, but the garden was too damp to stop in, so I made a circuit, then went back into the house where I lost the little ghost that had walked with me among the flowers.

The Prince, Gonzaga and I traced our way to the buffet and drank a gla.s.s of champagne together. Gonzaga was as lively as ever, but the Prince still looks a bit gloomy.

And now for a confession. I have been to Signor Rossi's studio and asked for a photograph of his drawing of you. Do you mind? For I want it very much. After this long letter, now who is fascinating?

POLLY TO A. D.

_Florence, June._

Yes, A. D. dear, I, too, am thinking of the balcony and the sunset and everything connected with your visit here. I have ever so many enchanting memories of Florence to carry away in my brain, so that in time to come, they can be taken from out their gray cells in quiet moments when I am by myself. Especially that stroll through the Cascine gardens and into the park, where, in its wild hidden places, we sat and talked,--the warm sunshine streaming through the trees and the flowers springing up in the gra.s.s under our feet. And how magnificent the Boboli gardens were, their arcades and statues peeping from the hedges, and the long walk with its splendid vista looking out beyond the Palace. Then our excursion to Fiesole, breakfast at the little _osteria_, and shall you ever forget how we climbed up to the monastery and walked bravely in, where women had no business, and when the monks saw _me_, how they scuttled away, hiding their faces in their sleeves!

But, by jinks, this sounds terribly like sentimentalizing! I will stop at once and be prim and proper.

So you have forgotten what I look like? And have to go to Rossi to get a photograph! Is it true, I wonder?--"_L'amour fait pa.s.ser le temps; le temps fait pa.s.ser l'amour!_" How I wish I could have looked in at the Spanish Emba.s.sy--to me, the Palazzo and the garden are just bits out of the fairy tales of my childhood.

Many, many thanks for St. Mark's little gold cousin of a lion. He is a dear and I am now wearing him on my chain. I shall look for you next Sunday in Venice.

A. D. TO POLLY

_Venice, June._

It seems very long since you went away, dear Polly, although it was only the day before yesterday that you left. This morning I went into St. Mark's and sat at the foot of one of the great pillars, trying to imagine that you and I were there together, and that the great iron shutters were rolled out, and we were seeing again that glorious golden screen set with onyx and aquamarine.

As I write I can hear the water of the Grand Ca.n.a.l gently lapping the little terrace of the hotel, and the ripple and plash from a gondola going past, and the cry of the boatmen. When I look out of the window I see the saffron sails, patched and tipped with red and brown, or lemon yellow pointed with faded blue, that come sailing home in the late afternoon. Soon I shall venture forth by the little back pa.s.sages, along the streets, crossing the arching bridges, beneath the loggia and then finally enter the piazza of St. Mark's, so gorgeous in color, as lovely as anything in the world.

Last night I tried to jolly myself by asking my colleague Charlton of the British Emba.s.sy, who has come up here for a day or two, to dinner, but he must have found me poor company, for my thoughts were in the train going North with you. Later we took to the water, but--tell your aunt that she may know I have reformed--I was home by eleven o'clock, quite tired out.

There was a fete on the Grand Ca.n.a.l. A beautifully decorated barge came gliding down with singers on board, while hundreds of gondolas cl.u.s.tered about, and Bengal fires burned all along the terraces. It was wonderfully weird and fairylike.

Out in the open water the "Stephanie" was illuminated, preparing to start out at midnight, and the pa.s.sengers were hanging over the rail listening to a boatload of serenaders, as they did the evening we paddled near and watched and listened. But your rooms at the hotel were empty and as I looked up at them, there was no light nor anyone standing on the balcony, and I realized how far away you had gone. I hope you are safe and happy; I pray so.

The pocket case you gave me, dear Polly, is the handsomest in the world. I have been flourishing it about a great deal to pay, or rather overpay, gondoliers. I wish to recall the past days as vividly as possible and so I have been making alone the excursions that we made together. And it is funny, but I still draw ancient gondoliers, just as we did.