Yes, A. D. dear, I, too, am thinking of the balcony and the sunset and everything connected with your visit here. I have ever so many enchanting memories of Florence to carry away in my brain, so that in time to come, they can be taken from out their gray cells in quiet moments when I am by myself. Especially that stroll through the Cascine gardens and into the park, where, in its wild hidden places, we sat and talked,—the warm sunshine streaming through the trees and the flowers springing up in the grass under our feet. And how magnificent the Boboli gardens were, their arcades and statues peeping from the hedges, and the long walk with its splendid vista looking out beyond the Palace. Then our excursion to Fiesole, breakfast at the little osteria, and shall you ever forget how we climbed up to the monastery and walked bravely in, where women had no business, and when the monks saw me, how they scuttled away, hiding their faces in their sleeves!
But, by jinks, this sounds terribly like sentimentalizing! I will stop at once and be prim and proper.
So you have forgotten what I look like? And have to go to Rossi to get a photograph! Is it true, I wonder?—“L’amour fait passer le temps; le temps fait passer l’amour!” How I wish I could have looked in at the Spanish Embassy—to me, the Palazzo and the garden are just bits out of the fairy tales of my childhood.
Many, many thanks for St. Mark’s little gold cousin of a lion. He is a dear and I am now wearing him on my chain. I shall look for you next Sunday in Venice.
A. D. TO POLLY
Venice,
June.
It seems very long since you went away, dear Polly, although it was only the day before yesterday that you left. This morning I went into St. Mark’s and sat at the foot of one of the great pillars, trying to imagine that you and I were there together, and that the great iron shutters were rolled out, and we were seeing again that glorious golden screen set with onyx and aquamarine.