Polly the Pagan: Her Lost Love LettersAnderson, Isabel
General
Polly the Pagan: Her Lost Love Letters
Anderson, Isabel
Americans -- Europe -- Fiction; Diary fiction; Epistolary fiction; Love stories; Young women -- Fiction
How bewitching you were! How unspeakably lovely the last evening was,
and how I treasure every little confidence you made me, as we glided
along over the placid lagoon, while about us rose the palaces, the
campanile, the churches, balconies, and arches, reflected below in the
mirroring waters. I could put out my hand and take yours, and turn and
look into the wonder of your eyes, my Polly! Some days are immortal,
the memory of them can never die. We may pass away, but still the
thought of those moments will live forever, for they are divine and
heavenly.
* * * * *
POLLY TO A. D.
_New York,
November._
My A. D. Well, you are in a way mine now, aren’t you? How I hated all
those horrid telegrams we sent each other, and what a long time I
have gone without a letter from you.
I do know what I want! It’s you, you, but oh, things are so hard when
it comes to facing down Aunt. It is not any open opposition--that
would be something definite that I could fight, but she simply assumes
that I don’t mean it when I say I am engaged, and sits bland and
smiling, and pretty soon, makes a remark about Boris.
A. D., if you won’t come over soon to look after me, you’ve just got
to take the risks. Don’t forget I’m a little Pagan, who does enjoy
things, even the Prince. Come home and settle here at once if you love
me as much as you say you do. I am so happy you sent the cable,
because you are the only person in the world I love. So we are really
engaged now and going to be married soon and live happily ever after?
You want to know what I did those few days in Paris? Well, by jinks,
we were off on a shopping rampage most of the time. I went to Worth’s
and ordered some pretty clothes--the prevailing colors this year are
the hummingbird’s.
How did the Prince behave in Paris? On the whole very attentive, but
once in a while just a bit difficult to manage. He brought with him a
magnificent Russian wolf hound, who was very well-trained and would
obey no one but his master. One day Boris invited us all to his
apartment in the hotel to luncheon, but Aunt had such a bad headache
that she left in the midst of it, taking Checkers along to see her
safely back. He was going to return for me since we had more galleries
to inspect. As soon as the lift with them in it had disappeared, Boris
closed the door and smiled meaningly and when I asked him to open it,
he shook his head. I started to open it myself when the wolf hound,
who was lying before it, growled. First I thought it was a joke, but
when I saw the queer look in my host’s eyes, a cold creepy feeling of
fear came over me.
“Once before you were in my power,” he said, “in the stateroom on the
_Cleopatra_. I, a fool, let you go. Now I got dog, no fool any more.”
Backing away from him, I laughed, hysterically, “I came here to eat
and not to make love.”
“Did you?” he inquired, putting his face down close to mine and
taking hold of my shoulders.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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