_Rome,
September._
Think of it! The middle of September--and already it seems as if Rome
were taking on its preparations and spinning its web for the catching
of foreigners. One or two of the shops in the Via Condotti and the
Piazza di Spagna have taken down the shutters, and visitors have
already been seen looking into the windows. Next the antiquity dealers
will open, then the hotels, and after that--hurrah! I shall hope to
see you in New York.
The past day you have been constantly in my thoughts and my heart. Let
me see, where have I taken you? To the Embassy in the morning, into
the city to do some commissions, down the Quattro Fontane, down the
steep hill past the Barberini, cutting the corner of the piazza with
its glorious Triton blowing the fountain of spray high into the air,
and into the narrow little Triton Street--the wretched artery that
joins the two Romes--with its crowd of carriages and carts and people
moving slowly, and then to the right along the Due Macelli, and so to
the sunny Piazza di Spagna. Later in the afternoon while sitting in my
rooms, Jonkheer Jan came to see me, looking the same as ever, thin,
tall, and blonde, and stayed on till I was sure he would be late for
his dinner. Do you remember how he would come in late to see you,
always in a hurry, with smiles and excuses and profuse apologies,
twisting his ring around his finger?
The British secretaries have gone to Frascati in a body to stay till
repairs have been made on the Embassy. So I went out there “to dine
and sleep” as they call it in England, and enjoyed the little outing
very much. This morning I took an early train and came down the
hillside, between the groves of grotesque olive trees and across the
endless rolling Campagna half hidden in mauve-colored mist, with its
unholy charm, its lonely skeletons of towers and procession of
aqueducts, the great graveyard of the mighty Past.
How I should like to be in Leicestershire with you, though. You know I
feel like saying that the trip through the Trossachs, the visits to
Holland House and Knole Park, and the other things which you haven’t
been able to do this year, we can do some time together! I am almost
afraid to add, “Can’t we, shan’t we?” for fear you may answer back at
once “Indeed no! What _are_ you talking about?”
Isn’t the way they do things in England funny? The conventions are
amusing for a time--and pleasant too,--then they become chill and
monotonous, like the endless green hedges and woods and parks of
lovely England. But one gets tired, after seeing them day after day,
year after year, and I used to ache for a patch of American landscape
with its sunburnt yellow corn, its brown earth, its zigzag snake
fences of the south, and its whitewashed shanties with the real good
old-fashioned negro loafing about in tattered trousers and coat.
I have just received an amusing letter from Checkers in which he says;
“Give up the diplomatic service, old boy. Come to America and go into
business with me. You’ll be as good at it as a gold fish, for you’ve
been around the globe; you’ll make money cabbage, for you’ve got a
head.”
Who knows, I may.
* * * * *