I have not written to you for days because you tell me you are engaged, but if so, why is it American Diplomat he not go to you soon like me? Is it a pretty divorcée holds him yet, as you say “with the come hither eye?” She is much éprise of him, I hear. But I should not tell you this. That she has returned to Rome many weeks ago, you know already, yes? I kiss your hand.
A. D. TO POLLY
Rome,
February.
Last night our Embassy Ball took place and the King and Queen came. It was quite stately, the Palace is so spacious and imposing and the Royalties were very gracious. At the last minute while we stood waiting for the royal carriages to be announced, the French Ambassadress arrived, saying that her lord had suddenly been taken ill with (literally) un mal à l’estomac. So the plans for the Quadrille d’honneur, which had been arranged with all sorts of finality during the days beforehand, had to be done over, and alas! by me. However, the invited guests had arrived, and the sheep separated from the goats. The Ambassador and Ambassadress walked down to the front door, beneath the vast entrance, while others of the official family stood at the head of the staircase. A red carpet was rolled out to the carriage and I had to go ahead and act as a sort of grand master of ceremonies. The Queen and the Ambassador, the King and the Ambassadress, followed by the Diplomatic Corps, moved down between the lines of curtseying people to the ball-room where a throne on a raised dais had been placed.
Gilet was stationed near the door so that I was able to signal to him and start the band playing the Royal March, followed by a few bars of the Star Spangled Banner. All stood until the Queen sat down. Then came the Royal Quadrille, as at the Court Ball, and the waltzes and “dancing in the barn” which Her Majesty wanted to see. At last Royalty made a move, and they were escorted to the little salon where a small table with two places had been set for the Queen and the Ambassadress, and a small buffet at one side for the ladies of the court. The King stood and drank a glass of wine with the Ambassador. Back again to the ballroom—I thought they would never go, but at last they departed, the host and hostess going down the stairs with Their Majesties between the banks of flowers to the carriage.
Then the great dining-hall with its lofty ceiling and glittering lights concealed in towering palm trees, was opened, for it was not etiquette to serve the guests with supper while the King and Queen remained. In a little while it looked as if a plague of locusts had passed over the land. There was nothing left but bones and crumbs and glasses and empty bottles. I never before felt so glad when a thing was over! It has been a good deal of a strain for all of us.
This morning I feel like a boy just out of school. Although I only got to bed at dawn, my forty winks have rejuvenated me, and I am as chipper as can be. The echoes of the ball are very enthusiastic. It appears now that the other embassies are trying to get Their Majesties to go to them.
What do you think I am doing these afternoons? Why, riding horseback like a little man! It took me days to find a respectable (looking) horse, but at last I found at Ferini’s, near the Borghese villa, a nice chestnut with two white stockings and a good deal of style when she frisks about. Peppi calls her Mona Lisa. So, in the afternoons, early or late, according to the amount of work I have to do, I may be seen sallying forth, and an hour later, returning, the horse fresh and without a hair unturned, but the rider pretty well done up.