_The Hague,
August._
Oh, A. D., such a funny time as we have had since arriving here! Our
bad luck still continues. First hotel, no rooms to be had; second
hotel, rooms but no meals; third, only one room left, and they were
surprised because Aunt, Checkers and I didn’t want to sleep in it all
together. “Why, it is a big one!” said the proprietor. How we laughed!
But we have a fine apartment now and are quite happy.
It has rained steadily all day and this morning we went to see the
“House in the Woods.” The practical, plump little Queen is away. I
suppose we shall spend most of the day in the picture galleries. The
Hague gives me the impression of being one huge gallery of more or
less immoral fat men and women carousing.
One thing is certain, this country is a paradise for cows, with its
green pastures. I do wish we had our cow here with us for she would
enjoy the grass so much.
Jonkheer Jan’s house is fine and large. They have a remarkable
collection of Delft ware, plates all over the walls, and tapestries,
splendid wood-carving in the hall, and no end of old Dutch silver.
Please tell him how we enjoyed meeting his mother and father, as he
was good enough to give us a letter of introduction to them.
But, oh, I am so homesick I don’t know what to do! Nearly a year away
from home. At first there was the excitement of seeing new places and
people, and I did enjoy travelling, but now it has worn off a little,
and you are so far away. That ought not to make any difference, I have
seen you so little, but I think it does. I haven’t flirted with a soul
for such a long time--not since I left you in Venice. Rather good for
me. But, A. D., how little we have really seen of each other! Here and
there last spring, just a glimpse at a party, a few words of society
nonsense, and perhaps a bit of a chat in the small room on the
terrace, and--your coming to Sorrento. I was so surprised that you
wanted to come.
But, to be sure, Mona Lisa had left Rome.
Then Florence and the sunsets, which I mention so often that Checkers
thinks them a bit worn out, but now that I have Venice to look back
on, the rest of it tends to fade away. And yet, we had only three days
together there.
Everything will be so different at home for me, and very likely you
will forget me if your divorcée returns to Rome. I am sure she cares
for you, and besides, she is fascinating, and you and Peppi think her
beautiful. Are you still devoted to her, I wonder, and do you write to
her, too? You never mention her in your letters. I suppose you know
just what you are doing, writing me so often?
What a long lecture I have given you, and you will probably say to
yourself, what foolishness I have written! But I’ve told you I always
write just what pops into my head. There’s a kiss for you here
somewhere; can you find it?
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