_London,
May._
This is the last way station, dearest, on my journey to New York and
you. I delight in these stages, the jump from Rome to Paris--Paris to
London--and London to Home!
The crossing from Paris was wretched, a great gale blowing up the
channel, but at least we were able to make it, which wasn’t the case
every day this week. England hasn’t changed much since my last visit.
I am always amused on landing to find everything exactly the
same--the same weather, the same incomprehensible accent and manner
of talking, the same points of view, the newspapers harping on the
same subjects, the same items in the society columns--everything so
conventional.
We were landed in the same old uncomfortable manner at Folkestone,
while the same crowds of mannish-looking women with great buns of hair
stood in line and stared, and men in knickerbockers and mackintoshes
stood sturdily in the wet gale and smoked bull-dog pipes, just as
pictures in “Punch” show they did a generation ago. Then in the same
cold compartment carriages we came speeding across the same country,
past the same roof tops, into the same Charing Cross station. And
behold, the atmosphere was made up of the same smoke and fog I learned
to know so well, and the lights burned dimly as of old.
The change from gay, well-lighted Paris, all en fête, to London,
sombre, melancholy, was just as great as ever, and just as complete.
And how small great but little Rome seems beside these huge,
up-to-date cities! I feel lost in them, and am terrified at the
crossings of the streets, and, like an elderly country woman, I pass
most of my time on the “Islands” in Piccadilly.
I have visited many of my former haunts, gone to the Embassy, seen
many old friends, and feel quite jollied up. I even went to a tea
yesterday, where some men and women stood around unintroduced, in the
delightfully awkward way which Du Maurier, alas, will no longer draw.
The evening found me dining at Prince’s Restaurant and later going on
to the Palace Varieties, where again I saw the pretty circus rider,
and although a certain person thought much of the performance, yet he
thought a great deal more of--you!
This morning I walked out--the London haze was pearly gray and
opalescent and a lozenge sun was in the sky, a beautiful day for
London--and I went down to the foot of Curzon Street and through
Lansdowne passage, and there, yes, there was my old friend the
cock-eyed sweeper, standing by his little pile of dust. I gave him a
shilling in my delight at seeing him again, and with his broom. Have
you kept my broom, I wonder?
It is still cold in London, and I try to keep warm with a foolish
little fire in a tiny grate. It is dismal enough, too, for candle
light. The British are afraid of “over heating,” as they call
it--which means really that they are careful of their coal. But then,
one is “stoking up” all day long in this climate, a heavy breakfast, a
heavier luncheon, the heaviest of dinners, with tea and toast and
muffins in the afternoon, and a supper at night.
Last night I had a dream which, although there wasn’t anybody to tell
it to before breakfast and so make it come true, I hope may be
realized. The only one to confide in, for Gilet was out on business,
was the fluffy-haired footman who wasn’t sufficiently sympathetic for
me to commune with. But indeed I am not superstitious, and the dream
was pleasant enough for me to think over to myself--because it was
about you!
Although this letter may go by the same steamer that I sail on, yet I
can’t help writing and sending you my love.
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