_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 Canal 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
passages, 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 Embassy, 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 fête on the Grand Canal. A beautifully decorated barge
came gliding down with singers on board, while hundreds of gondolas
clustered 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 passengers 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.
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