The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1885-03-08

A r A IN Y j u N T..
A STORY IN THREE PARTS, BY "oUIDA."
p A r r 1 I.

=
From the Prince di San Zenone Coobe Bysset to the
Duchessa dell Aquila Fulva, Palazzo, Fulva, Milano:
Il am still in my box Of wet moss. have
been in it two weeks, four days and eleven hours,
by the calendar and the clocks. I have read all
my novels. have spelled through my Figaro,
from the title to the printers address, every
morning. Ihave smoked twenty cigarettes ev-
cry twenty minutes, and have yawned as many
times. This is paradise know it; tell myself
50; but still can not help it, yawn. There is
q pale, watery sun, which shines itfully. There
is quantity of soaked hay which they are 60
ing to dry by machinery. There is great
variety of muddy lanes in which to ride. There
is postoflce seven miles off, and telegraph
station fifteen miles further of. The ensemble
is not animated. When you go out
you see very sleek cattle, very white
sheep very fat children. You may meet
at intervals laborine people very roundabout
dered and very sulky. You also meet, if you
are in lucks way with traction engine; and
wherever you look you perceive church steeple.
It is all very harmless, except the traction en-,
CINE; but it is not animated or enlivening. You
will not wonder that soon came TO the end Of
abled me to discover that my angel is very
easily rufled In fact, she is that touchy thing
"a saint. had no idea that she was a saint
when / saw her drinking her cup of tea in that
garden ON the Thames True, she had her
lovely little serene, holy, noli me tangere air,
but thought that would pass; it does not pass.
And when I wanted her to laugh with me at
'Autour du Marriage she blushed up to the eyes
and was offended. What arm to do! l am no
saint. / cannot pretend to be one ! am not
worse than other men, but / like to amuse
myself cannot go through life singing mis-
erere. am afrald we shall quarrel. You think
that very Wholesome. But there are quarrels
and Guarreis Some clear the air like thunder
storms. Ours are little Irritating differences
which end in her bursting into tears, and In my
self looking ridiculous and feeling brute. She
has cried quite number of times in the last
fortnight dare say if she went into rage, as
you justly say Nicoletta would do, and you might
have added you have done, it would rouse me,
and should be ready to strike her, and should
end in covering her with kisses. But she only
turns her eyes on me like dying fawn, bursts
into tears and goes out of the room. Then she
comes in again-to dinner, perhaps or to that
odd ceremony, 5 o'clock tea-with her little sad,
stiff, reproachful air as Of martyr, answers
meeky and makes me again feel a
brute. The English sulk long
time, think. We are at daggers
drawn one moment but then we kiss and forget
the next. We are more passionate, but we are
more amiable want to get away, to 60 to Paris
Homburg, Trouvi]le, anywhere; but I dare not
propose it. ! only drop adroit hints. If / should
die of ennui, and be buried under the wet moss
forever, weep for me-"
From the Princess di San Zenone Coombe Bysset to
Lady Gwendolen Chieester, ST. Petersburg
''Coombe is quite too lovely now. 1t does rain
sometimes, certainly, but between the showers
it is SO delicious l asked Piero to come out and
hear the nightingale; there really is one in the
home wood, and he laughed ut the idea. He
said, we have hundreds Of nightingales shout
ing all day and all night at Lanciano We don't
think about them; we eat them in PASTA they
are very good Fancy eating nightingale!
You might as well eat Romeo and
Juliet Piero has got number of French
books from London, and he lies about the
touches and reads them. He wants me to listen
TO naughty bits of fun out Of them; but I will
not, and then he calls me a prude and gets
angry. / don't see why he shouldn't laugh as
much as he likes himself, without telling me
why he laughed. dislike that sort of thing.
am horribly afraid / shall care for nothing but
him all my life, while he-he yawned yesterday.
Papa said to me, before we were married, My
dear little girl, San Zenone put on such lot of
steam at first, he'll be obliged TO ease his pace
after Bit. Don't be vexed if you find the
thing cooling Now, papa speaks so oddly; al
ways that sort of laundering, bald metaphor,
you remember it; but / knew what
he meant Nobody could go on being
such a lover as Pero was All,
No, don't quite mean that. He is Romeo still,
very often, and he sings me the divinest love
songs, lying at my feet on cushions in the moon
light. But it is not quite the same thing as it
was at first He found fault with one of my
gowns this morning and said | was fagotee
'Fagoteer l am terribly frightened lest Coombe
has bored him too much. l would come here. /
wanted TO be utterly ont of the world, and so
did he: and / am sure there isn't lovers nest
anywhere comparable to Coombe in midsummer
You remember the rose garden, and the lime
avenues, and the chapel ruins by the little lakel
When Aunt Carrie offered it to us for this June
] was so delighted, but now am half afraid the
choice of it was mistake, and that he does not
know what to do with himself He
is depayse. l cried little yesterday;
it was too silly but l couldn't
help it. He laughed at me. but he got a little
angry. Enf1n que veux tuF he said impatient
ly; 'je sus tot bien TOT, beaucoup trop a toll
He seemed to me to regret being mine told
him so; he was more angry 1t was, l suppose,
what you would call scene. In five minutes he
was penitent, and earessed me as only he can do;
and the sun came out, and we went in the
woods and heard the nightingale; but the remem'
brance of it alarms me. If he can say as much
a., - TO-