_Rome,
December 31._
Tell your Aunt that Peppi is looking better but still far from well.
He will not stay in bed and take care of himself, but keeps on
painting and painting behind locked doors. The endless rains this
autumn have been bad for him, though he seems gay and talks a
lot--calls me the birdcage, because I have caught the Hummingbird. For
me the place is full of memories of you--the terrace, the
sitting-room with the corner where you used to make tea, and where I
would sit, falling deeper and deeper in love, hour by hour.
This is the last day of the dear old year, a year blessed as no other
can be, for therein have I met my Polly, known her, loved her. Ah, old
year, you have been good to me passing belief! How many moments of
supreme happiness have you given me, days of bliss with my beloved,
nights of anxiety away from her, moments of doubt and fear, moments of
heavenly exaltation.
Think of the mystery of the years! I was born the Lord knows when; you
flew right down from heaven, and we loved so on this old earth. The
last words I shall ever write in this year are--I love you, Polly!
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