Frau Weidemann, a comely, grey-haired woman, in a frilled cap and white apron, came out to receive us and wish us welcome. She had taken us for a honeymoon couple, and thought that we started forth on our wedding trip. Her boarding-house is a quiet family sort of establishment, but the whole effect of my apartment was rather cheerless, and the boarding-house surroundings were distasteful to me. The furniture was old and shabby, with faded curtains and threadbare carpet in the middle of the room. Frau Weidemann’s prices are very moderate, I pay eight francs per day for board with a room. I have arranged to have breakfast and lunch in my own room, but must go down to dinner at table-d’hôte, which I do not like at all.
My windows look out on the lake and bit of garden belonging to our boarding-house. Just before dinner I looked out of the window and discovered our hostess sitting in the garden, holding a bit of crotchet in her fingers. I found that she had altered in a most surprising way, and was utterly metamorphosed and unrecognisable, transformed into a portly lady, wearing a black silk dress, with hair beautifully dressed.
When we entered the dining-room we saw Frau Weidemann presiding at the dinner table, looking very prim and dignified. All her boarders were present: A Russian lady—Mme. N— and her daughter, Melle. Nadine, future opera-singer, studying singing with Professor Lamperti, the first singing master of the day. Then came Fräulein Weltmann, a maiden lady of ripe years, an ex-prima donna still dreaming of her successes, which she alone remembers, and who must have been once upon a time very good-looking, but it was a thing of the past, alas. All through dinner we had to listen to the endless stories of the brilliant days of her conquests in her vanished youth. I remarked that in speaking of herself she generally dropped dates. Last came an American lady, Mrs. G—, with her two children, a boy and girl aged eight and ten, called Hermann and Danys. Mrs. G— is what one might call miscellaneous, she has an American father, a Spanish mother and a German husband. Little Danys is a Roman Catholic, and her brother is a Lutheran. Mrs. G— crossed the ocean, coming all the way from New Orleans to Cernobbio, to prepare herself for professional work with Professor Lamperti, who inhabits Milan in winter and comes to Cernobbio in summer. The old mæstro has the custom to nick-name his pupils, thus Mrs. G— is called “Norma” because of her two children, though they are not twins. Danys is a very clever little girl, and unusually sharp for her years. This small damsel, who sat next to Sergy at table, made shrewd observations and questions, not unfrequently astonishing her elders. Finding it her duty to entertain her neighbour, like a grown up person, she at once entered into conversation: “My name’s Danys, what’s yours? Have you got any children and how many? You are old enough to have a lot, though your wife looks so young!” cried out the ingenuous child in a breath, and when she was told by Frau Weidemann that little girls must not pass remarks, the bold little maid, turning scarlet, exclaimed: “One always asks how many children have you got when one meets for the first time!”
Sergy returned to Milan with the evening boat, and left me a grass widow in charge of Frau Weidemann. I suddenly felt utterly alone and so miserable, so desolate, with no one to care about my comings and goings! Our ladies took pity on me and said that they would try to make me feel at home with them. As soon as Sergy left the house, I shut myself in my room, and then my nerves failed me altogether. I sat down on my lonely bed and cried. Then I lay down and fell asleep and woke unhappy. Marie, the Swiss maid-of-all-work, in very creaking boots, brought in a telegram from Sergy with my breakfast. The day began well!
When I went down to luncheon I was taken by storm by Danys, who had felt one of these sudden fancies to me, which children sometimes do form for their elders. She rushed up to me, and flinging her arms tempestuously around my neck kissed me so rapturously that I was afraid of being smothered.
“Melle. Vava, you’re a darling! I’m so glad you came down. I love you so much I should like to eat you up!” cried out Danys. I am called here by everyone Madame Vava, but Danys insisted in calling me Melle. Vava, saying that it didn’t suit me to be called Madame because I didn’t look at all like a married lady. Both children wanted to sit next me at table, “Oh! sit by me!” pleaded Danys, rubbing her cheek against my hand, “No, by me, please!” said Hermann, and I good-naturedly placed myself between them both.
For the first few days I got on pretty well with Frau Weidemann’s boarders, who were all showing themselves very amiable and kind to me. One night they asked me to go to the theatre, where a travelling troop was giving a performance. And such a theatre! We found ourselves in a long room with a small stage at one end, lighted by three petroleum lamps suspended from the ceiling, which smoked horribly and were very dim; in fact they gave more smell than light. The grey holland curtain came up by the aid of two cords drawn through an iron ring. The band was supplied by local talent, all the musicians being labourers and workmen from Cernobbio, our gardener in the number, who received 20 centimes per evening. As to the performers they were all more or less bad. It was the benefit night of the leading actress, who was to be a mother in three months, and you could see it at a glance. Our seats in the first row cost only one franc. The audience consisted chiefly of Lamperti’s pupils. Lamperti has produced many divas, Marcella Sembrich in the number. The mæstro was present at the play. He carries very lightly his eighty years, and has just taken, for second wife, one of his favourite pupils, a very pretty young creature.
I am having a very dull time, and my spirits are down to zero. I do want Sergy so badly, so very badly! Oh! if I had only not come to that horrid Cernobbio! I am spending my days stretched in an easy-chair, yawning over a book. Melle. Nadine’s room is next to mine, and I can hear her singing or chatting with her intimate friend, Baroness B— a tall, rather ungainly girl, with red hands and very bad manners. Her mother is a very troublesome, bad-tempered old lady, embellished by a horrid black wig. She is vulgarity itself, and resembles a cook trying to play the lady. That detestable woman generally makes her appearance with a horrid pug-dog tucked under one arm, which snarls at you, and flies out of her arms trying to bite your toes.
Melle. Nadine and her friend carried on a flirtation with a young Italian tenor, and ran after him in a most barefaced fashion, contriving both to catch him. Melle. Nadine, who was determined to keep him for herself, took him in hand and totally eclipsed the young Baroness, which led to a succession of stormy scenes. I perceived that the atmosphere was highly charged with electricity, and that there will be a row presently. One day they had a fearful dispute about the hero of their romance, after which the young Baroness did not appear for a week. Her mother, wishing to reconcile the rivals, brought over her daughter to make up her quarrel with Melle. Nadine, but the interview was not pleasant. Melle. Nadine refused to see her friend’s outstretched hand, at which the old Baroness flew into a rage and fell on Melle. Nadine with fiery reproaches. “What!” screamed the old lady at the top of her voice and rolling infuriated eyes, “My daughter wants to make up with you and this is the way you treat her. You base, ungrateful girl! I will never allow her after that to set foot in your house!” Having said her say, the old Baroness sank into an armchair, holding strong smelling-salts to her nose, and throwing back her head, she waited for a fit of hysterics which would not come, and two minutes after she made her exit, banging the door after her. If I were in the place of Melle. Nadine I should have nothing more to do with the Baroness and her daughter, but half-an-hour afterwards I saw both young ladies seated close together on a bank in the garden, hand in hand, mingling their tears together, after having made each other the vow of eternal friendship.
Melle. Nadine had another admirer in the person of Doctor Bianchi, a forty-year old cherub, who worshipped the very ground that she trod on, and cooed his romance into her ears like a real troubadour. But he is far from being the ideal Lohengrin, with his bald head and prominent abdomen. He wouldn’t have been my hero even with more hair on his head, being rather a fool and very ignorant, especially of geography. To him Russia represented only snow, bears, and tallow candles. “May I ask you if you are English?” he inquired when being presented to me.—“Russian?” he exclaimed in blank astonishment. “Oh! I can’t believe it, you look quite European.” Stupid fellow! I detested him after that, for I am exceedingly tenacious in questions of patriotic pride. Doctor Bianchi had made several times the offer of his hand and heart to Melle. Nadine, but she refused him flatly over and over again. She treats him very harshly and hates the very sight of him. When Doctor Bianchi enters one door she goes out by the other. But the long-suffering physician makes an ass of himself and continues to persecute his lady-love with his tenacious wooing and poor Melle. Nadine doesn’t know how to get rid of him. As for me I would have known how to knock the calf-love out of him soon enough. What awful idiots men make themselves when they are in love.
Our landlord, Signor Bonsignore, is a magnificent old beau, awfully stuck up and prim, belonging to the ancient school, and suited rather to the eighteenth century than to our modern era. He affected an antiquated style of dress, his chin resting within the points of a high collar, which reached to his ears. One day he came to keep me company whilst I had my lunch in my room, and remained quite a long time paying me old-fashioned compliments. He said that he regretted that he had not met my second-self in his young days, and that it was the reason why he is still single. Signor Bonsignore is an awful old screw, one could see it by the motto carved over the door of our dining-room saying: “One never repents of having eaten too little.” Frau Weidemann follows the motto to the letter in respect of her boarders, practising rigorous economy, rarely varying her scanty menus and making mental photographs of the joints before they are removed. My frugal breakfast, day after day, has been coffee, one egg and insufficient bread and butter. My lunch is brought in to me on a tray; the limited menu is unvariably composed of cold meat, green beans and a dessert of two biscuits and half an apple. Marie, the household treasure, whilst clearing away my scanty repasts, always asks as if in derision: “Madame a bien mangé?” which made me groan inwardly.
Mrs. G— and Melle. Nadine came in hopelessly late to table, and sometimes didn’t appear until after eight, keeping dinner waiting. One day when I descended to the dining-room, a smart young man, in the barber’s block style, wearing very yellow gloves and yellow boots, walked in. He had a white gardenia in his buttonhole and an eyeglass, which made him squint. Frau Weidemann introduced him to me as Signor Gorgolli, the son of her close friend. He shook hands with me raising his elbow to his ear, and bowed his head as politely as the exigencies of his high collar would allow. Mrs G—, who lighted up when men were present, but languished if there were only ladies in the room, had taken extraordinary pains with her toilette for Signor Gorgolli, and came down to dinner having put on her most becoming gown. She was displaying her best graces to him, and laid herself out to be irresistible, and encouraged the young snob, which I regretted, because you could see at once that he wasn’t the kind who needs encouragement, being thoroughly pleased with himself and seeming to think that every woman must fall in love with him. Edging his chair closer to where Mrs. G— was sitting, he picked out a rose from a bowl of flowers that stood on the dinner-table, and pinned it into her low bodice. That coxcomb talked of himself all through the course of the meal, and didn’t want to hear what you say, only to tell you about himself. The letter “I” was the backbone of his conversation. He said “I this” and “I that” every time he opened his mouth; a more conceited ass I never set eyes upon. His manner struck me as peculiarly odious. He was trying all the time to impress the company with the idea that he belongs to a circle in society in which he certainly never set foot, and confessed barefacedly that his finances, being at low ebb, he was on the look-out for a rich heiress to pay off his debts, but that in the meanwhile he was disposed to get all the fun he could out of life, feeling far too young to settle into a sober family man.
Signor Gorgolli came back the next day and the day after. He tried to get up a flirtation with me and was always hanging about me, twisting up the ends of his moustache and prepared for conquest. He paid me compliments upon my looks and said that he came to Cernobbio only on my account, at which I assumed an expression of extreme innocence, and pretended not to understand what he was driving at. He was certainly a very compromising young man, and I tried to avoid every occasion of meeting him, but he was such a fool, and would imagine anything except that he is not wanted. Presuming young idiot!
One afternoon I sat with a book on the veranda whilst our ladies were out shopping, and Signor Gorgolli, who was quick to take advantage of it, came to keep me company. I grasped the fact that he intended to stay with me, and began to wish the ladies would come back. In the street a hand-organ was reeling out a waltz, and I was reckless enough to give Signor Gorgolli a dance. He put his arm round me and held me very tight. I had done wrong in allowing my hand to stay in his a second or two longer than necessary. Dating from that afternoon he became bolder than ever, and ventured even to press my hand under the table-cloth during dinner. I never heard of such impudence! The matter was going a bit too far, and I began to crush him with my scorn, and soon put him back to his proper place in throwing his photograph, which he had just given me, into the waste-paper basket, whilst he pulled his moustache and looked silly. He left the room feeling terribly snubbed. A week went by and I saw nothing of him. I was awfully glad to be free from his detestable society. He might go to Jericho for what I cared.
The evenings were getting longer, and dragged like an eternity. To shorten them somehow we played society games and puzzles, which bored me to death and made me yawn.
One night after I had gone to bed, a terrible storm arose; ceaseless lightning harrowed the sky, and the rain came pouring down. Suddenly one of my windows was blown open. I jumped out of bed and went to shut it, and was nearly carried away by a gust of wind. After having wedged the frames with matches I crept back to bed, when bang! bang!! went the windows, and I had to get up again, and the match work had to be done all over once more. When I awoke next morning I opened the window and breathed the fresh pure air with delight. The mist was hanging like a grey curtain across the lake and the swallows were flying low over the water. From afar I heard the church bells ringing the Ave Maria. As a contrast to this peaceful scene, I saw under my window our cook chasing the hens, innocently awaiting their hasty doom in the patch of garden which was the resort of Frau Weidemann’s fowls. The pacha of these poor victims, a little crested cock, didn’t seem to remark the diminution of his harem, and continued to fling out his shrill Koukarikou joyously.
The little Americans are quite their own masters. They are running about all day without no one to look after them, and spend most of their time in quarrelling, flying at each other’s faces, pulling each other by the hair, and pinching, and scratching. I hear Danys’s shrill little voice coming from the garden, shouting orders to her brother, “Hermann, go in the shade!” but he would not obey and paid no heed to her repeated calls to be quiet.
Hermann’s sole idea of pleasure was making others miserable. He was full of mischief, and took delight in provoking his sister, and teased her constantly. One day he glued the hair of Danys’s favourite doll, and she broke, in revenge, the legs of all the animals in his Noah’s ark.
Another day Danys entered into a loud detail of grievances of which her brother was the cause. She had to keep strict watch on him; but he did everything that he was told not to do, and gave her a world of trouble. When he got ideas into his head, there was never peace till he had what he wanted. He was mamma’s own pet, and could get almost anything he liked out of her, and led her by the nose. Whatever Hermann did, whatever Hermann said, was always right, and Danys was always in the wrong, and had undeserved punishment even when she was behaving in the most exemplary manner. She was Hermann’s scapegoat and accustomed to hear herself roughly spoken to by her mother, and always roared at. “I wish I were as small as a needle and Hermann as big as an elephant, perhaps I wouldn’t have always to bear the blame then!” said poor Danys, her eyes filling with tears.
“It is perfectly true,” shouted Hermann, giving Danys a vicious little pinch, “I can thump her as much as I like, and she doesn’t dare to touch me even with her little finger!”
But Danys, who was in a rebellious mood just then, turned upon him in a rage, and a resounding slap came before we could interfere, thereupon Hermann belaboured her with his little fists, straining to get his teeth into her hands.
Hermann was a very wicked little boy, and took delight in torturing animals and insects. What pleased him more than anything was to help the cook to wring the chickens’ and hens’ necks and then to boast of it afterwards, showing us his blood-stained hands. Horrid little creature! There never was such a child for mischief; he enjoyed playing all sorts of tricks on Frau Weidemann. That imp of a boy stole behind her chair when she was knitting in the garden, and took a malicious pleasure in tangling her skeins of wool. At dinner Hermann loved annoying Danys; the little pig dropped hair into her soup and gave her furtive little kicks under the table. Frau Weidemann did all she could to train him a little.
One day, just as we were sitting down to table, Hermann brought me a radish, fresh from its bed of mould, and the hand that held it out was evidently the spade that had dug it therefrom, and in sore need of soap. Frau Weidemann told him that he must always be washed and brushed before he went down to the dining-room, and ordered him to go and wash his hands immediately, but Hermann, who had no acquaintance with the word must, set his mouth in a hard curve and didn’t move; he looked so obstinate that I was strongly tempted to shake him. A more wilful boy I never saw: he’d try the temper of a saint. But this time Frau Weidemann had her own way, and ordered him out of the room. Hermann reluctantly obeyed, with rage in his little heart, and dashed from the room, banging the door with a shock that made the room rattle. Hermann ran straight to his mother, who didn’t come down to dinner that day, to complain of Frau Weidemann, and instead of giving him a good scolding, Mrs. G. rewarded him with chocolates and kisses.
That night when I went to bed, passing through the dark corridor, I suddenly felt a tight grip on my wrist, it was Hermann, who giving an emphatic tug at my skirts, said in a husky whisper, “That’s you who must have clean hands, because you are a young lady, and as to me, I may have them dirty as much as I like. I cannot be always washing myself and always thinking of my nails, like grown ups!”
Both children had got bad manners at table; they fidgeted on their chairs, kicked their legs right and left, and were eating noisily, rattling vigorously their knives and forks. They spilt their soup all over their napkin and spattered jam all over themselves. They also made a point of overeating themselves, transferring the largest and best pieces to their plates; they had several helps of pudding and wanted to have all the cake.
One morning Frau Weidemann caught Hermann throwing stones at passers-by over the hedge of our garden. “What are you doing, horrid little boy?” cried out our hostess.
“I am chasing these people away, I don’t want them to stare at me!” declared Hermann vehemently.
“You are a bad, undutiful child!” exclaimed Frau Weidemann, “go away, go away at once!”
But Hermann, who meant to go on being obstinate, jerking his shoulders, retorted rudely, “Mamma told me that I am not bound to obey Frau Weidemann, and I’ll do as I please, do you understand, as I please, as I please!” shouted that delightful boy stamping viciously his little foot.
Frau Weidemann losing patience, said she would have him punished for daring to be so rude, and wouldn’t take him with his sister for their habitual walk next morning.
Danys, with tears coursing down her cheeks, implored Hermann to ask forgiveness, but tears and prayers were of no avail; he stuck firmly to his chair, his nose in his picture book, dangling his feet backwards and forwards, and would not apologise.
“I don’t propose to ask Frau Weidemann’s pardon anyhow, that’s flat. When I am in a rage, I remain in a rage one week, two months, a whole year!” declared Hermann, doggedly, and remained sternly unapproachable.
When I came down to dinner that day I saw poor Danys, her eyes all swollen, her nose red, huddled up in a chair—a picture of misery. “We don’t go for our walk to-morrow!” she said sobbing loudly.
The next day I was writing in my room upstairs, with the windows wide open, when suddenly I heard in the garden below my name called in a ringing voice, “Hullo! Madame Vava, look out of the window.” It was Hermann, success written in his sunny little countenance, accompanied by Danys and Frau Weidemann, who having fallen into a melting mood, was taking out the children for their usual walk, and Hermann, radiant with triumph, wanted to prove to me that he had it all his own way. It was Hermann who had forced Danys to ask his forgiveness, and she had coaxed Frau Weidemann, with kisses and pleading words, to go out for a walk with them. She is a weak person, Frau Weidemann; I should have kept my word in her place.
Danys also was not quite easy to manage, and was liable sometimes to storms of temper. One afternoon all the company, except myself, went out for a sail on the lake. Frau Weidemann, who had forgotten to prepare a sauce for the trout we were to have at dinner, returned home before the others with Danys, in a small row-boat. Danys was in a fury to come back so early, and made an awful scene with Frau Weidemann, rocking herself to and fro in a paroxysm of grief; she fretted, foamed and turned nasty, shouting out all her bad words, for when she loses her temper she does not measure her language. She called down curses on Frau Weidemann and sent her to Mephistopheles, and wished her at the bottom of the lake, and eaten up by the mermaids. As soon as they reached home the door of my room was dashed open and Danys flew in looking like a fury. “That’s Frau Weidemann who insisted on coming back so early for that horrid old sauce. I hate it and shall never eat it as long as I live! I wish there were no sauces at all in the world, that I do!” cried out Danys. That same day at dinner Danys was tiresome with awkward questions: “why this,” and “why that,” and Frau Weidemann found it necessary to stop her. “Eat your soup,” she said, “and remember that polite little girls never interrupt people’s speeches.” “But I say,” exclaimed Danys, turning to her with blazing eyes and face aflame, “polite little girls can want to know what they do not know, can’t they?” At which her mother administered a good scolding to her and told her that if she said one word more, she would give her a damned slap. “It isn’t me that mamma curses, it is the slap!” said the bold little girl unabashed.
I hadn’t got any news from Sergy for several days, and wrote to him six pages full of reproaches. I was expecting the postman’s knock every moment, but nothing came. One morning I was sitting at my solitary breakfast, when at last a long letter from Sergy was brought to me. I devoured its contents. He wrote in high spirits and gave me all the details of his life at Piacenza, and glowing accounts of the manœuvres and all he was seeing. Two big rooms were reserved to him at the Hotel San Marco. After lunch, on the day of his arrival, he put on his uniform and went to present himself to the Commandant of Piacenza, in whose drawing-room a group of foreign officers, in the most varied uniforms, were gathered. Such a lot of strangers was quite an event for the little town of Piacenza, which was dressed all over with flags; a band played in the Square. When Sergy returned to the hotel he found on his table an envelope containing different instructions concerning the manœuvres, with maps and programmes for every day. The military representatives received a compliment in verse with the following inscription: Dedica agli eccellentissimi signori, rappresentarano le nazioni, in occasione della lora venuta a Piacenza. The representatives were entertained with much festivity; rich banquets were given in their honour. Twenty officers of different armies sat down to table every day: four Austrians, one Bavarian, three Germans, two Belgians, two Swedes, two Englishmen and three Russians. Sergy’s neighbour was a Swedish general, an old trooper belonging to the school of “Gustav Vasa,” who probably would never have stirred the world with any striking discovery, being rather narrow-minded. He said to Sergy that whilst travelling in Italy he was very much astonished that all the railway stations were named “Uscita” (which means exit), and was quite bewildered that in this country even children were able to surmount the difficulties of the language, and chatted Italian quite as a matter of course to each other! The manœuvres of one division against the other began on the 18th August. My husband with his brother-officers got up at daybreak and started by a special train to “Castello Giovanni,” where a hillock, surrounded by vineyards, was chosen as point of observation. The Marchese Cambroso gave them a lunch in his splendid mansion that day, with champagne in abundance; a military band played during the repast. On the following morning the valiant sons of Mars went to Voghera, where they put up in private houses, as there was no hotel in that small place. Their proprietors hoisted up the flags of the different nationalities who sheltered under their roofs. Over the house where Sergy stopped, with two members of the Russian mission, a flag with a double eagle floated, and in their sitting-room stood a samovar (a Russian tea-kettle) deprived of its tap. It was Count Bellisione who regaled the missions that day in his superb feudal castle.
My husband seemed to be quite happy while I am pining away at Cernobbio, and I positively could not admit that he was enjoying himself apparently while I was gloomily brooding here alone and miserable. How I long to go away from that hateful Cernobbio! I am quite out of place with my surroundings and feel like a fish out of water, thoroughly out of my element and out of tune with the whole atmosphere, which is a very different one from that to which I was accustomed. The relations between Frau Weidemann’s lady boarders were not so warm as they had promised to be at first. I wanted to be very good friends here with everybody, but our way of life is so different and our natures are diametrically opposite; we seemed to be as far apart as the poles. The only topic of conversation of our lady-boarders was vocal matters, solfeggias and exercises. I tried to keep out of their way and remained in my room as long as I could. Frau Weidemann was far more sympathetic than her boarders; I liked her kind, motherly ways. She tried to cheer me up and took the greatest pains to amuse me, but I refused all propositions of amusement and didn’t care to join their out-of-door parties. For two weeks I had been controlling myself, but it gets worse every day. Our lady-boarders turn up their noses at me and cut me dead. We scarcely notice each other and only meet at table. What dismal meals we had! It is Mrs. G— who has especially taken a dislike to me. If wishes could have killed, I should have been dead long ago. She detested me, I could read it in her eyes. We were at daggers drawn. I, too, was in entire readiness to show fight, for I like people who like me and hate those who don’t like me; it is unchristian, but I can’t help it! I am not a quiet, woolly lamb, and if Mrs. G— wanted to bite, I knew how to show my teeth too, and could take revenge on her, for to be silent and let others have all their say is not my nature.
Without the least intention of playing the eavesdropper I chanced to overhear a word or two spoken plainly on my account by Mrs. G—, which hadn’t been intended to reach my ears. I had not the temperament to turn “the other cheek” at any insult; I could take revenge, too. I tried to hold my tongue when I sat next to Mrs. G— at table, and had to close my lips tight—tight, or else a bad word would jump out, but the day would surely come when we should have a regular fight. We were both in a mood when the merest spark would cause explosion, and the spark came! At dinner one day Mrs. G—, in the presence of her children, boasted shamelessly that she could do very well without her husband, who, luckily for her, was retained by business in America, whilst she was enjoying herself across the ocean. Her vicious morality was so different from my own that I found it necessary to give her to understand that she was a heartless and undutiful woman, and losing all control over myself at such cynicism, I gave her a bit of my mind, and was obliged to tell her some truths which did not please her, after which Mrs. G—, who has a cutting tongue, made spiteful allusions concerning Signor Gorgolli, and asked if I ever practised what I preached, and added that I had better be careful of myself. But I was not a bit baffled by the sharp prick of her poisonous arrow, and not a bit afraid of her back-handed little stabs. I knew how to answer her and hold my ground, and got the better of her after all, having taught her not to interfere with me.
Our hen-coop is in commotion by the advent of a cock of very nasty plumage, it is true. The new-comer is an American chanter, who has come from Chicago to study singing with Professor Lamperti. At dinner I gazed with some curiosity at the Yankee, and found him helplessly shy and utterly unattractive, with sandy-coloured hair and features all wildly wrong; his kindest friend could not have called him anything but ugly. His clothes had the air of having been bought ready-made at a cheap shop and wanted brushing badly; he wore a turned-over collar which showed his neck far down, and a white tie, tied a good deal on one side. Our new lodger was painfully conscious of his physical shortcomings, and if ever a man wanted taming he did. At dinner he made all sorts of blunders, kept his eyes on his plate all the time and hardly spoke at all. The advent of a man of that kind was not dangerous and far better for the peace of mind of our lady-boarders, for the new arrival was assuredly not of the type who seek adventure; having nothing of the hero about him he would not play the Don Juan like Signor Gorgolli.
The Regattas had attracted a great number of spectators on the shore of Cernobbio. Eighteen row-boats, adorned with wreaths of flowers, bearing each its number and denomination, were lining the coast like race-horses ready to start. At a signal given by a cannon shot the boats spun along rapidly in the direction of Como. I didn’t take any interest at all in these Regattas, my thoughts being miles away, for the manœuvres being over, I was leaving Cernobbio on the following day. To think that to-morrow at this time I shall be with Sergy again! I was getting so excited I didn’t know how to wait till next morning, and went to bed as early as possible in order to reduce the evening to its very shortest proportions. It was my last night in that nasty place, and to-morrow I would shake the dust off my feet!
When I awoke in the morning I felt a great happiness. I dressed quickly and went to the window to look out for the carriage that was to take me to the railway station. To my great pleasure all our ladies, except Frau Weidemann, were asleep. I shall probably never set eyes on them again. If I ever see them, it will be only in my nightmares. I wanted to get away from here without the delay of a minute, and was leaving the house at a quarter to seven. I set out of Cernobbio deliciously light of heart, and hope I shall never return to this inhospitable place again. I had a first-class compartment to myself and felt like a schoolgirl off on her holiday. At every turn of the wheels my heart gave a glad throb at the thought that soon I would meet my husband, who was to arrive at Milan a few hours after me. I have left all my sorrows at Cernobbio: all the little bothers that were my lot were left behind. All that was done with now, and I’ll make up for lost time, that I will!
On arriving at Milan I went straight to the Hôtel de la Ville. The manager came up to me and made me welcome, and told me that my husband was expected in the afternoon. I was shown into the same apartments we had before, which made me feel quite at home. I grew awfully impatient waiting; I could not keep still and began to walk restlessly up and down the room, counting the minutes when Sergy would arrive, and every little while looking at the clock. At last I heard hurried steps in the corridor, and in an instant Sergy held me in his arms.
After luncheon, I drove with my husband in a smart landau with a pair of fine bays, put at our disposal by the Government, to the Hôtel Continental where all the members of the foreign missions had put up. Sergy wore his full uniform, on which shone many decorations, and created a great sensation; people stopped and turned their heads when we passed through the street. In the long gallery of the hotel we saw groups of foreign representatives walking about. Sergy proceeded to introduce all the officers to me. Captain Sawyer, the aide-de-camp of General Freemantle, the English representative, was the best looking of them all. A Spanish colonel, Señor Achcaragua, came up by himself and begged for an introduction. His ardent eyes fixed on mine rather frightened me. One of his brother officers told Sergy that the colonel’s brains were slightly touched, thanks to his somewhat stormy youth, during which he had spent himself too much physically, being not insensible to the Southern temperament of the Spanish ladies. During this edifying colloquy, General Fabre, the French representative, came up to Sergy and told him that he had just been appointed by King Humbert “Cavaliere” of the Order of the Corona d’Italia.
“It is the arrival of my wife at Milan, which has brought me that luck!” Sergy put in gallantly. We have invited the members of the Russian mission to dine with us at the National that night. Just as we were sitting down at table, an Italian officer brought the Order and ribbon granted to Sergy by the King, and I received in the same time a printed invitation from the Syndic of the town to assist at the grand review of troops which was to take place on the following day.
After dinner we removed to the Hôtel de la Ville, where an apartment was appointed to my husband. His name was on the door “Maggiore General de Doukhovskoy,” in big white letters. I had scarcely time to take off my hat, when General Freemantle asked for permission to present himself to me. He was accompanied by Captain Sawyer, a very fair specimen of the English officer; he was considerably over six feet and looked very smart and upright in his red uniform. That charming son of Albion paid me much attention and was extremely entertaining, he was astonished at my English, a language with which, from my childhood, I had been familiar. We didn’t have five minutes’ talk before Captain Sawyer defined my character. He called me whirlwind, and nicknamed me “Quicksilver.” I must confess I liked Captain Sawyer, he was quite my type of man.
When the members of the English mission left us, three officers of the German army came in, bowing with great clinking and much ceremony. They were martial-looking individuals, with fiercely twisted moustaches. The Teuton trio solemnly kissed my hand, sat down for two minutes, and stiffly bowed themselves off.
Italian orderlies, speaking the language of the members of the foreign missions, have been put to their service. The soldier allotted to my husband, Giovanni Varallo by name, a very handsome chap, spoke Russian very well, being born in Moscow where his parents have a little shop. Varallo is a funny sort of type. From the very beginning he made all sorts of blunders; he disengaged himself of his knapsack in the drawing-room, and put his cap on the middle of the table!
At eight o’clock the following morning we were awakened by Varallo, who rapped sharply at our door and said that it was time to get up. I dressed quickly, and on entering our sitting-room I saw that Varallo had arranged it according to his idea of a lady’s requirements. To complete all he was holding my hat at the moment and insisted on brushing it with the blacking brush!
Mme. Favre, the wife of the French General, asked me to drive with her to the parade ground, our husbands having started together some minutes before us. We went first to the railway station to see the arrival of the King and Queen from Monzo, the Royal summer residence. On stepping out of the train King Humbert, mounted on horseback, and Queen Margareta took her place in a victoria, bowing graciously on right and left. The Italians do not cheer their sovereigns as we do in Russia, they applaud and shout “bravo,” which seemed rather strange to me.
At the review we had seats in the Queen’s stand. Queen Margareta sat a few paces from us, looking splendid in a beautiful gown embroidered with golden flowers. The King soon appeared, followed by his suit, my husband in the number. The throng was so great that the policemen had to use main force to procure free passage to the King. A crowd of lookers-on stood behind the double range of soldiers shouting bravo and clapping their hands to the King. In an open space of ground both infantry and cavalry were assembled. After all the regiments had defiled before the King, we went to the Continental where the representatives of the different nations were invited to a banquet given to them by the government. They came out afterwards into the courtyard to have their group taken. The photographer grouped the party according to his idea. Sergy and General Freemantle in the centre, while the others clustered round them. Many failures issued, as all these warriors, feeling themselves returned to boyhood, wouldn’t sit still and laughed when they had to keep serious. The patience of the photographer was something wonderful. I looked at that comic scene out of the gallery facing the courtyard. Captain Sawyer came up to me and said that he had fixed me all the time whilst they were being photographed in order to have a pleasant expression and to look nice.
On that same day the missions were invited to dinner at Monzo. I remained alone at the hotel and sat in the deep window-seat to witness their departure. Varallo found it his duty to entertain me during my husband’s absence and brought up an album with coloured views of Milan, which he began to explain to me.
Sergy returned enchanted with the warm reception of the Royal family. At dinner he sat next to the beautiful Countess Barromée. All the ladies wore a daisy pinned on their bodices, in honour of Queen Margaret. When the guests were leaving Monzo, the King, speaking in Russian, bade Sergy adieu, saying Do svidania, which means “good-bye,” and asked Sergy to transmit his best regards to our Emperor.