My dear Montie,
We are at Taormina! When I say that, I want you to realise that we have arrived at the Most Beautiful Place in the world. Nothing less than capital letters can express it. We have had six glorious days in Sicily, and it is fit that these wild ramblings of mine with the Goddess should end here amidst such scenes of loveliness that even the imagination can conjure up nothing more exquisite. For end these ramblings must; to be continued, as I hope (but dare not expect), in a life-journey in which I may wear my own name shared then by her. It is through my dear, kind, little match-making mother that I trust this may be brought about; for my pluck fails me when I think of confessing my imposture to the Goddess.
I told you in my letter from Rome that at the hotel there I found a forwarded letter from the mater, saying that on account of the continued rain and cold she and the inevitable Barrows had determined to leave Rome suddenly and go to Naples, perhaps to Sicily, in search of sunshine. She added that she had been worried about me, as she had not heard anything for weeks, from which it is clear that at least three letters have somehow miscarried-doubtless owing to her constant change of address and the carelessness of hotel people in forwarding. The worst of it is that I haven't been able to reassure her mind, as she gave me no new address, but merely said that when she was settled she would wire. Of course, I gave the hall-porter at the "Grand" the most explicit directions as to where I was to be found, and tipped him well. The result is that on my arrival here in Taormina I found a telegram (sent on from Rome) to say that my mother and the Barrows will arrive here to-morrow to stay a week with Sir Evelyn Haines, an old friend of the mater's, who has, I believe, bought a deserted monastery and turned it into a fine house. To-morrow, then, my mother will be here; I shall tell her everything, throw myself on her mercy, and get her to make peace for me with the Goddess. That, at least, is my present plan. But who can tell how events may upset it?
Well, as you don't know Italy south of Naples, perhaps you'd like to hear something of our Sicilian adventures. Of adventures, in the strict sense, we have had less here than in other places. If I hadn't been certain that the country was quite safe as far as brigandage is concerned, I should not have been such a fool as to bring two ladies through it in a motor-car. But we have had, as I said, "six glorious days," and the Goddess and I are agreed that in many ways Sicily is the best thing we have done on our whole long tour.
We landed at Palermo, after a night passage in a comfortable boat from Naples, leaving one world-famous bay to enter another scarcely less beautiful. Rarely have I seen anything finer than Palermo and the group of mountains round it as we steamed in at sunrise on a white and gold morning. The ship goes alongside the quay, so there was no difficulty at all about landing the car. It was slung, and gently deposited on shore by the ship's crane, and we drove off on it at once to the Villa Igiea. Everything was new to me in Sicily, and I confess that the Igiea was a surprise. One has heard that Sicily is a hundred years behind the times, and that in accommodation the island is deficient. That cannot be said any longer. The Igiea is perfect. Miss Randolph reluctantly admitted that there is nothing better in America. In situation the house is unique, lying under the tall, pink Monte Pellegrino. It was built by the Sicilian millionaire Florio for a sanitorium, but never so used. It is a long building of honey-coloured stone, standing in an exquisite terraced garden that stretches along the sea, and actually overhangs it-a charmingly irregular garden, with many unexpected nooks, and sweet-smelling flowers, palms, and all kinds of sub-tropical plants, fountains playing in marble basins, and a huge, half-covered balcony, where everyone except insignificant chauffeurs assemble for tea. Altogether a gay and delightful place, and it is having the effect of bringing to the island a stream of rich and luxury-loving travellers.
From afar I saw Miss Randolph and Aunt Mary breakfasting on the big balcony; and they could not have lingered long over their unpacking, for at ten o'clock I had orders to be at the hotel door with the Napier. I knew no more of Sicily than they did, but it is my mêtier to keep up the reputation of a walking encyclopædia; therefore, in the small watches of the night, while the Goddess and her Aunt slept the sleep of the just, I had poured over guide-books and fat little volumes of Sicilian history. What I wasn't prepared to tell them that heavenly morning about Ulysses, Polyphemus, the omnipotent Roger, and other persons of local interest, to say nothing of the right buildings to be visited, was not worth telling.
We ran along the shore, past harbours and basins where strangely shaped boats lay at anchor on a smooth, blue sea, with an elusive background of shimmering, snowclad mountains; and in a street, like a moving picture gallery, we made the acquaintance of those painted carts which are indigenous to the island. Quaintly rudimentary as carts, these extraordinary vehicles are remarkable as works of art, and the Goddess did exactly what I expected of her-wanted to buy one. With her usual quick discrimination, she picked out a fine specimen, the wheels, shafts, and underwork a mass of elaborate wood-carving, richly coloured, the boldly painted panels representing a victory of Roger's, attended with great slaughter. The little horse was jingling with bells, and almost overweighted with his towering scarlet plumes.
"I must have that," exclaimed my impulsive Angel. "Please stop the car, Brown, and ask the man how much he will sell it for, just as it stands-harness and all, but not the horse."
The much-enduring Brown stopped, ran back, hailed the owner of the cart, who was accompanied by a dove-eyed wife and seven Saracenic children all piled in anyhow on top of each other like parcels. Never, probably, was a man more surprised than by the question hurled at him, but Sicilians retain too deep a strain of the oriental to show that they are flustered. He said in a strange patois that his cart was the pride and joy of the household; that it had been decorated by the one man in Sicily who had inherited the true art of historical cart-painting; that it was one of the best on the island, and he had expected it to remain an ornament to his family unto the third and fourth generations, but that he would part with it for the sum of one thousand lira. I beat him down until, with tears in his magnificent eyes, he consented to accept two-thirds, which really was more than the cart was worth, or than he had expected to get when he began to bargain. The cart was Miss Randolph's, and later that day I arranged about having it taken to pieces, boxed, and sent to New York. She was delighted with her purchase, and in such a radiant mood that she thought everything and everyone she saw perfect, from the men milking goats to the dramatically talented gardien of the beautiful old red-domed San Giovanni degli Eremiti, once a mosque.