In order to recover entirely from the effects of my illness, the physicians sent me to Biarritz. I was taken abroad by mamma. Towards the latter end of July, travelling from Berlin there was a nice German lady with her niece in our compartment, and I was delighted with my new acquaintance, a girl of about my own age, ever ready for frolic and fun. As soon as the whistle of our train announced an approaching station, we hung our heads out of the window and exchanged glances with groups of German students, in red caps who promenaded on the platform, shouting to them: “Rothkapchen!” But as soon as they approached, our heads were hurriedly withdrawn.
We established ourselves in Biarritz at the delightful Hôtel d’Angleterre, full of English tourists. The outlook from our windows was splendid; in the distance came the incessant wash of the ocean, and at night, the murmur of the waves was a sweet lullaby soothing me to sleep.
On the first day of our arrival, at table-d’hôte, my eyes travelled round the table and noticed an attractive-looking English trio sitting opposite to us: Mr Delbruck, his son Alfred and his nephew Walter Heape, a fine, fresh-looking boy, with whom I made a nice little bit of flirtation during our stay in Biarritz. He was very much drawn towards me; I also entertained tender feelings towards him. (And what of the prince of Montenegro?) But, never mind the prince, he was far enough away, just then, anyhow!
In Biarritz you are next door to Spain and I longed to snatch a glimpse of that poetic country of fans, mantillas and serenades. The Delbrucks agreed to go with us to San-Sebastiano, a Spanish town near the frontier. We could easily go there and be back by dinner-time. We started at an early hour, half asleep all of us, but were soon cheered up as we came out into the freshness and crispness of the early morning.
As we passed the frontier, I was very much disappointed to see that the Spanish officials, walking on the platform, looked just the same as the French ones,—not a bit like opera Toreadors or Tradiavolos!
After a speedy breakfast at the London Hotel we loitered about the town of San-Sebastiano in a labyrinth of narrow streets, and mounted to the top of the citadel. The climb proved to be a long, hot and fatiguing one. Half way up we saw the monument of a German merchant who, after having become bankrupt, had thrown himself into the ocean from that spot. When we reached the citadel we went groping along silent passage-ways; the semi-darkness within began to provoke a disagreeable impression on me, especially when I perceived a ghastly face peep in at us through the bars of a dungeon window. The prisoner was beckoning to us, trying to explain by an expressive pantomime, that he was going to have his head cut off. I regarded him with eyes of terror and alarm and remarking my fright, the prisoner amused himself to increase it by shouting to me: “Señorita, escucha Vd!” (Listen to me Miss!) which I certainly declined to do, and hid myself behind the backs of my cavaliers.
We returned to the hotel thoroughly done up. After dinner, as we took our seats in the train carrying us back to Biarritz, an elderly Spaniard came in, cigar in mouth. He sat down and sent a dense cloud of horrid smoke right into our faces, making mamma feel faint. Noticing that, Mr. Delbruck requested our unpleasant fellow-traveller to stop smoking, but he only sneered, puffing away at his cigar.
The next day the Delbrucks proposed another expedition to the convent of the “Bernardines,” where the nuns took vows of perpetual silence. When we came within the enclosure of that monastery, situated near Bayonne, there was an ominous deep stillness around us. In passing through the garden we saw a group of nuns sitting in pairs under the trees, with their backs turned to each other reading their bréviaires. These poor cloistered women were draped in long white robes with a black cross embroidered on the back; an enormous hood covered their faces entirely.
Mamma, having enough of hotel life, began to look for a private villa, and I triumphed inwardly each time she did not come to a right understanding with the proprietors, for it did not suit me a bit to be separated from Walter Heape. But mamma made her choice at last, and before long we were installed in a pretty cottage called “Maison Monheau.” Happily the day of our removal coincided with the day of the departure of my English friends. Mr. Delbruck gave us a pressing invitation to come and have a grape-cure on his property, situated in the neighbourhood of Bordeaux. This suggestion was seized upon by the boys with enthusiasm; they promised me a warm reception and said they would do anything they could to make my visit a pleasant one, and painted me entrancing pictures of the good times they would give me; they could offer me fishing, a pony for me to ride, and other enticing things. For my part I thought it would be splendid fun, and the invitation was so tempting that I was ready to embrace Mr. Delbruck, but mamma declined it to my intense disappointment.
Towards the end of September we started on our homeward journey.