_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 Embassy 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
glass 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?
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