_Rome,
July._
What, mademoiselle, do you think was one of the things which happened
after my return here from Venice? The Prince dropped in to see me, and
running after him came a messenger who handed him a letter--a letter
from you, my lady!--and I can tell you that although I was happy to
see your handwriting, it made me jump a bit and feel queer to think
it was from you and to him, and not to me. I had to sit tight for a
little while and say nothing.
But later came the missive I had looked for, the letter for _me_, dear
Pollykins, and I can tell you I read it eagerly and tried to make it
longer by going over it again. But no matter how many times I read it,
it is too short. Your letters will never be long enough, though they
be miles in length!
The Prince suggested an expedition--an ill-fated one--to Asturia.
Claiming to know the road, he captained it for a while. The affair
proved full of incident. The carriage got stalled in a bog, and one of
the horses literally pulled himself out of the rotten old harness. My
handkerchief and other parts of my attire were used to repair the
break. The Prince, in the middle of it all, calmly said he was tired
of the whole thing. So off he walked, leaving poor Charlton and me to
our fate.
I had almost to lift the team out of the frightful place we sank into,
and to keep encouraging the horses. Meanwhile, the winds from the
Pontine Marshes came blowing over toward us, and even some of the
flowers we picked were said by a passing fisherman to be very
poisonous. The sun was going down and finally it set, and the
interminable sands were still before us. I wrapped up in a newspaper
to keep warm, making a hole in a copy of the _Daily Chronicle_, and
putting my head through and wearing it like a cape, for I didn’t want
to be chilled after the terrific efforts of the afternoon. Finally we
reached home.
But the extraordinary thing is that Boris didn’t seem to be a bit
ashamed of his desertion, after having persuaded us off the road
because he “knew a short cut,” and leaving us in that unspeakable
pickle. He only chuckled over it. I half believe it was the reception
of your letter that made him so unaccountable. I can’t think he was
playing a trick on me. Anyway, I have begun to dislike him.
Bayreuth I am sure you are enjoying. I always think over my visits
there with great pleasure. Years afterward you will find yourself
vividly remembering that wonderful stage setting, and the sound of
that grand elevating music, rising, falling, in those glorious
harmonies. It will be unforgettable.
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