Polly the Pagan Part 7

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 astonishing 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

_Monte Catini, July._

Here I am at Monte Catini for a cure. The G.o.ds were good to me today, little Polly, indeed they were, for I received a silver gondola and oh, I am so happy! It is the prettiest little toy in the world, and a reminder of the most wonderful evening ever spent. It shall stand on my table before me, though I do not need anything to recall Venice and what is always in my heart. Tell Checkers I will certainly be yours, and I wish he would dictate oftener.

I am a little nearer to you than I was yesterday, and that of course is what makes me feel better already. A complete cure would be to be with you. But still, I'm not feeling very well yet, and long for you to write often, whether you are tired, or travelling, or wish to, or don't!

All the way up to Florence on the train I thought of the time when you were there, and how excited I got as I hurried up the stairs and arrived at your rooms all out of breath,--though I hoped you wouldn't notice it. And this led me to thinking of the wonder of the spring in Rome, and of the dance in the lovely Antici Mattei palace. Do you remember how I stood keeping your place in the cotillion? Why I was even jealous of poor Pittsburgo then, for I didn't know he was in love with the Italian singer. And how you came out and favored me--it was the sweetest thing that was ever done. Meanwhile, journeying through this age-old land, a s.n.a.t.c.h of verse goes running through my head.

"Helen's lips are drifting dust, Ilion is consumed with rust; All the galleons of Greece Drink the ocean's dreamless peace; Stately empires wax and wane-- Babylon, Barbary, and Spain;-- Only one thing, undefaced, Lasts though all the worlds lie waste And the heavens are overturned.

--Dear, how long ago we learned."

So, thinking of you, the trip which promised to be tiresome and long, turned into a very interesting journey. It occurred to me to stop over at Orvieto, perched up on that great rock, jutting out of the plain, a medieval but clean little town with very correct architecture, and of course most famous for its cathedral, thought by some to be the most beautiful in the world. I do not think it is, but then to me it was chiefly a reminder, for seeing its mosaics and gorgeous facade, I could only think of St. Mark's, which we had visited together, and which, accordingly, is to me the most glorious that I have ever seen.

In the sunlight of midday the church at Orvieto is brilliant but glaring. The carvings are rich and handsome, but the mosaics are out of place in its Gothic character. Inside are some very fine frescoes by Signorelli, and oh, such a wonderful silver lamp!

Here I saw, too, the Podesta, and the Ospedale. The Duomo in itself is rather insignificant, for its facade in Pisan style, with ascending stories of little colonnades, is too small, but I liked the ancient fortified tower, which has been turned into a campanile, with its crown of pillared porticoes. Inside, in one of the chapels, is an altar screen of silver, not to compare with the screen of gold and carbuncle, aquamarine and precious stones of St. Mark's, but with a story in high relief of the Saviour and apostles and saints. It was made in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries.

Just before leaving Rome, I called on the Minister of Foreign Affairs, as our Amba.s.sador was out of town. At these receptions the Dips are seen at their best, with their most diplomatic manner, all meeting in the anteroom, waiting for their turn to enter (amba.s.sadors take precedence), talking on anything but politics, yet smiling knowingly as if they were bottling up most important state secrets, pretending to be unruffled, though very excited. The time that each one remains with the Minister of Foreign Affairs is carefully noted and commented on.

It was amusing, for the Turkish Amba.s.sador and the Greek Charge smiled and bowed and sc.r.a.ped in the outer room, and then went and probably did all they could to harm each other in the private room of the Minister. As we had nothing of importance to discuss just now, His Excellency and I only pa.s.sed compliments and a.s.sured each other of our mutual and highest esteem and consideration, and expressed hopes that everything would always be satisfactorily conducted and concluded between us. As I came away, the French Charge was disappearing through the folding door--for an Amba.s.sador, they would have opened the double doors. It is mysterious to watch these disappearances into a room where a Foreign Minister is hidden.

I dined with some Diplomats the night before I came away and it was a sad sort of a meal. I think they'll miss me, for each of them confides in me about the peculiarities of the others. Really, the Prince is behaving in a most extraordinary manner. The other night he began running down France to a mild, new, little French Secretary--called French women ugly, French society a sham, French inst.i.tutions bosh, and so attacked the poor astonished little gentleman at his own table that the others had to break up the dinner and the conversation. I can't think what he was driving at. But whatever his faults, he is very clever, and he and I still go to the _birreria_ together. As a rule, he is a most agreeable talker, which makes his outburst the other night all the more incomprehensible.

Today is quite a fete day in Monte Catini. The _contadini_ have been coming down in swarms, and are standing about the crowded main square beneath my windows, doing--nothing! But doing it so well. I really think an Italian idles more complacently and contentedly and picturesquely than any other mortal.

The little town is crowded with country folk celebrating the festival of the a.s.sumption, or the Madonna of Mid-August. The little cracked bells of the tiny church have been tinkling and in front of the church is a staging for a tombola. A train with excursionists and a band is expected from Pistoja and they promise fireworks tonight.

The alleys beneath the trees are crowded with _contadini_ wearing bright-colored kerchiefs on their heads, the women walking three and four abreast, while the men (what hulking, skulking, awkward creatures men are!) come lumbering after them, and there is a great cracking of whips and shouting as the little carts go rapidly past. It makes a very animated scene. About midday I think they'll disappear, though, for it is hot and the sun is beating down, while the distant hills stand out in this wonderful Italian atmosphere as if seen through a telescope, so distinctly visible are the white houses glowing on their green sides and little towns perched on their tops.

Oh, Polly dear, when I think of you, the whole world seems different to me! With you in my heart I take a greater delight and interest in people and things, and feel new ambitions and enjoyments, looking at all things objectively, like a spectator at a play. You have awakened my sympathies so that I am excited when the villain comes sneaking between the borders, and moved when the heroine weeps, and exultant when the hero arrives in the nick of time, and virtue triumphs. In other words, I care more for the world because of you.

The little gondola is in front of me on the table with its saucy silver prow c.o.c.ked up in the air, and its filigree cabin hood and its precious cargo of reminders of the happy Venetian days, for when I left Rome, although in light marching order, I couldn't bear to leave it behind, so brought it along in my pocket.

I am returning to Rome but just for a day or so.

POLLY TO A. D.

_Baden-Baden, August._

What a bad, bad child I am not to write oftener--does the fascinating Mona Lisa correspond constantly? I feel quite guilty, after receiving so many long and interesting letters from you. Well, I am very, very sorry that you are not well, and only wish I were with you at Monte Catini to take care of you.

A. D., what do you think? ! ! ! I have had another proposal--this one by letter--since I saw you. From Gonzaga; but I wrote him he had better marry his cousin the Countess and forget me. Aunt thinks it isn't so fine an offer, from a worldly point of view, as the Prince's, (he writes Aunt frequently) and she still has hopes of my changing my mind and accepting him. If I married G. his mother would not approve of me, an American. She would say I was too independent and had married him for his t.i.tle. Although life as the wife of a Spanish Diplomat spent in the different capitals of Europe would be interesting, still I know G. would not remain true to me for more than a few months, at most.