_Monte Catini,
July._
Here I am at Monte Catini for a cure. The gods 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 snatch 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 façade, 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 façade 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 Ambassador 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 (ambassadors 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 Ambassador and the Greek Chargé smiled
and bowed and scraped 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 passed compliments and assured 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 Chargé was disappearing
through the folding door--for an Ambassador, 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 institutions 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 fête 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 Assumption, 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 cocked 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.