_Rome,
November._
I do call it Heaven, or I would if only you were here. As it is, the
doors are locked, for you are my golden key to happiness, to Paradise
itself. It seems ages since your last letter came. Don’t play with me
again, will you, dearest? Although your letters this summer have been
so sweet, I know what a little Pagan you are. Sometimes I wonder if
you have any conscience at all about me. If you have, I’ve not as yet
discovered it, but--my heart is in your keeping. Mona Lisa has
disappeared from my life.
Of course your Aunt is set on your marrying the Prince. That has been
plain all along,--how did he behave in Paris?--but you, my darling,
_who_ could have guessed whether or not you were ready to make up your
mind to settle down? So I delayed asking you to marry me--in so many
words. But now that we have quarrelled, I long to make up and have
everything settled. There is no peace left your lover till he knows
that you love him, once and always. This letter is serious because,
beneath it all, I am serious.
Your letters have been the key-notes to my days, and when they have
seemed confidential and affectionate, I have been very happy, and when
they have been less enthusiastic, I have been troubled and cast down.
So, they have enabled me to measure my own disposition. What I wish to
write you is this; that everything I ever told you or have written
you, was the truth.
I realize more and more as time goes on, and on, that my love goes
back farther into the past than I had dared to acknowledge to myself.
One day, you appeared in Rome and were stopping at your sunny Palazzo.
Over I went to see--your Aunt, of course. I recall so vividly just
where you stood in the little room, how you came frankly forward to
meet me, and how I made my call, with the Prince, whom I met on the
street just outside your door.
Then at your apartment and out in society, I saw you often; when you
came to dine with me, I determined just to be nice to you,--I know I
was flirting with Lisa,--but I had a sort of pride that you should
enjoy your stay in Rome, and wished to add what I could to it. I
thought your Aunt would be gratified, and frankly, I liked you. I
allowed myself to think that much.
Then came moments, Polly dear, when I felt a thrill, a glow, that I
couldn’t explain. Can I ever forget that evening when we were together
in the Coliseum, while the moon swam in the sky, and the great black
chasm of the excavations yawned below us, while the shadowy ruins
towered around and above us. I treasure in my heart the memory of the
rollicking fun of the escapade at the Carnival Ball, the Veglione,
with its confidences, and the privilege, too, of that drive from the
Duchess of Sermoneta’s, through the narrow streets, across the bridge,
when I saw you home, and those afternoons and evenings in the little
room in the roof garden, one after another. Each seemed more wonderful
and more complete to me, till that last night before you went away to
Sorrento, when I first spoke words of love. I was overwhelmed and
staggered, my pulses beat with a new strange gladness till I could
scarcely see you. How I got back to my rooms, I have forgotten.
I had determined not to make love to you in Rome, but I couldn’t help
it, I couldn’t help speaking as I did. Then came romantic days at
Sorrento and Florence and those enchanting dream moments in Venice.
Were they real, ah, tell me, were they true?
It is months now, dear, since we met in Venice. What perfect hours we
had there! So completely happy. I can feel you near me, next to me,
while far away, mysteriously, I seem even yet to hear the music and
the love songs.
“And of all the happiest moments which were wrought
Within the web of my existence, some
From thee, fair Venice! have their colors caught.”
How bewitching you were! How unspeakably lovely the last evening was,
and how I treasure every little confidence you made me, as we glided
along over the placid lagoon, while about us rose the palaces, the
campanile, the churches, balconies, and arches, reflected below in the
mirroring waters. I could put out my hand and take yours, and turn and
look into the wonder of your eyes, my Polly! Some days are immortal,
the memory of them can never die. We may pass away, but still the
thought of those moments will live forever, for they are divine and
heavenly.
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