Free Villa America by Liza Klaussmann Page A

something so slight that weighs so heavily on me afterward, no. Yet you are not here. And I long to know what your eyes are seeing; something brighter and bolder, no doubt.
    The Black Service—that darkness that descends on me without warning and that had me in its grip in the last letter—has passed. I can write to you now with a clearer head and, perhaps, clearer intention.
    It is as if I have been living in some shell, some prison, that is shaped like the world but is actually some false interpretation of it. There are times I could shake with frustration at not being able to make what I feel inside manifest on the outside. I would give anything to be able to taste and see and feel and show things like other people, but I am held in, somehow.
    Write to me of your adventures.
    Yours,
Gerald
     
    Jaipur
March 10, 1914
    Dear Gerald,
    Let us talk of small things, then. I sleep with your beautiful drawing case under my head on trains. So soft, it feels as though it has been thumbed a hundred times. A pillow full of sketches that have you lined in them, not your likeness, of course, but things I think you will understand even if you’ve never seen them before.
    And Bombay, not a small thing, but full of the Blue God. Full of Bakst, and thus full of the afternoon we spent together.
    Then Jaipur, the Pink City, all rose-colored, indeed bolder than your cherry blossoms, and warmer. Painted pink for the Prince of Wales—imagine such a thing—and the Palace of the Winds, like an intricate wedding cake, built of blushing sandstone. To see it lit just before sunset—it simply glows. Yesterday, we rode elephants, their leathery gray ears softer than you can imagine—softer even than your case—to the Amber Palace, set like some fairy-tale castle high on a hill.
    It’s dryer here than Bombay and gives one the impression of truly being lost to the outside world.
    You should see this, Jerry. Nothing, not even your Black Service, could reach you here.
    Yours,
Sara
    Postscript: We have decided to stop in Rome instead of going straight on to Marseille, so send any further post this month to
Palazzo del Grand Hotel
Via Vittorio Emanuele Orlando, 3
     
    Rome
March 20, 1914
    Dearest Wayward Jerry,
    What can you possibly mean by never writing? You have neglected us shamefully. Olga and Hoytie are reading this over my shoulder with equal indignation, having reminded me this afternoon that the last letter we received from you was as far back as January. Like Phileas Fogg, we have been round the world and return to civilization none the wiser to your doings.
    Hoytie says she has heard that you were seen skulking around at a costume ball at the St. Regis, and we would like to know what costume it was you were wearing.
    India has been magical, really the wildest success, even if we were accused by the local newspaper in Delhi of singing “coon song snatches”—a very unpleasant way of describing our lovely ragtime medley performance at the Gymkhana Club. Hoytie wants me to tell you that the reaction was “disgusting.” Father felt the music was a poor selection (his words) and remains very huffy about it. Mother, of course, is thrilled.
    Do send news.
Love from us all
     
    Rome
March 25, 1914
    Dear Gerald,
    Please forgive the deceit of the last letter. I know you’ll understand. But, really, what have you been doing? I have been sketching quite a lot. Spring in Rome truly is Jamesian and, after India, feels very false and mannered. I’m pining for the colors—the reds and greens and golds, the pinks and blues—the smell of amber burning and the noise of the market calls. The air was so thick with it, it almost had weight.
    In haste,
Sara
     
    New York
April 16, 1914
    Dear Sara,
    It seems your letters from Rome were much delayed—the slow boat to China perhaps?—so that all three of them, including the one from Jaipur, arrived at once yesterday. It was strange reading them in tandem, like a mask and then the face