Next morning, supplied with tickets from Cook’s agency, we sailed for Italy on the “Amphitrite,” a splendid steamer belonging to the Austrian Lloyd Company, a veritable floating town filled with every possible requirement. The third bell announcing our departure rung and the boat moved out to sea. Soon Egyptian land disappeared from view. The Adriatic, which is particularly treacherous, promised a stormy passage. There were big black clouds on the horizon and the wind was very strong; we were in for rough weather! The whole night our ship tossed about like a cockle-shell, and foaming waves broke against the portholes of our cabin. I couldn’t go to sleep till daybreak. When the liner swung into the familiar waters of the Mediterranean, it was calm as a lake. After the intense heat of Egypt it seemed very cold, but one is never satisfied with the temperature one has!

After six days at sea we arrived at Brindisi, where the formalities of landing are very strict. A pilot-boat came to meet us with a sanitary officer, who had a long conference with our ship’s doctor. The pilot, at length, having ascertained himself that everything on board was right, hoisted the sanitary flag and piloted us to the Custom House, after which we took the train to Bari. Two American ladies, mother and daughter, occupied our compartment, and soon conversation began between us. The younger one told us that they came from the new world to the old one to have her trousseau made at Worth’s. What a shame to leave her bridegroom for six months for her frivolities. This flighty bride said that in return she bought her sweetheart a collection of neckties in every capital of Europe.

We arrived in the afternoon at Bari, which seems very dull and poor, and took an antediluvian coach drawn by a drowsy nag, sent by the Hôtel Continental to the station. This hotel, the best one in Bari, proved anything but comfortable. A dirty, sleepy waiter showed us into a bare, cold room, and soon after an old witch, who had only one tooth in her mouth and wore enormous copper ear-rings, came to make our beds. After a spare lunch composed of a burnt chicken and a dish of macaroni, we went to visit the famous church where the relics of St. Nicholas repose. The temple swarmed with pilgrims. Two nuns were on their knees before the mausoleum of the Saint, waiting their turn to creep into the narrow nook where the holy remains are laid. We saw them crawling flat on the floor, and the attendant on duty began to drag them out by their legs to give up the place to other pilgrims. Before we left the church the pater put under our noses a big book in which generous travellers, leaving various sums of money as a gift to the church, put their names down. He tried to draw our attention on the signature of a Russian merchant who had bestowed the sum of a hundred roubles, but we did not take the hint, and he had to be satisfied with less than that sum.

When we went back to the hotel, dinner was served in our apartment. We went to bed directly after our meal. The room was like ice. We had to cover ourselves with all the shawls and rugs that we had brought with us, and still we couldn’t get warm; in spite of the cold, voracious mosquitoes ill-treated us the whole night. We got up very early, swallowed hastily a cup of nasty coffee and left for Naples. At the stations our train stopped as long as the guards wanted it. “Partenza!” they cried out, but the train did not move. A lady, who travelled in our compartment, said that there were smugglers on the line, and told us some horrors which fairly made my hair stand on end. While she was going on with stories of smugglers, our train, which was going full speed, stopped suddenly the moment we entered a tunnel; we were for long minutes in complete darkness and heard voices calling noisily and the sound of smashed glass. Good Heavens! what could be the matter? My imagination being awfully excited, I nearly died of fright. It appeared that our guards had forgotten to provide us with candles for the tunnel, and were doing so now, in the dark, breaking to pieces the lantern. I heaved a sigh of relief when we came out of the tunnel into the light again.

On the platform of Naples we were attacked by a swarm of facchini, who took our luggage by force and installed us in a cab, which brought us to the Grand Hôtel on the Chiaia. The traffic in the noisy streets of Naples was bewildering; we had to proceed cautiously between carriages, heavy cars and laden donkeys. The horses in Naples are not bridled, and therefore very difficult to manage when they happen to be of an independent character. The horse who drew us was of amorous temperament and watched for an opportunity to flirt and bite his rivals all the way, and many a time I was on the point of jumping out of the carriage.

We took an apartment which looked out on to the Piazza Vittorio, where the Municipal band played in the afternoon. The weather was cold and raw, it rained steadily and we were forced to remain indoors.

Naples is not a cheerful place in wet weather and we were ready to turn our back to it and return to Russia, but the weather having cleared up on the third day of our sojourn, we decided to prolong our stay for a fortnight. We wrapped ourselves up warmly and took the tram to make a tour round the town. When passing the Emigrant’s Office we saw a long line of pale-faced emigrants, with babies and bundles clasped in their arms, who were going to America, sitting on the ground and waiting their turn to subscribe themselves for expatriation. After our drive, the guide took us through the Royal Palace, where we admired the beautiful Concert Hall, constructed by the Bourbons, with the marble statues of the nine muses standing along the walls.

Profiting by our stay in Naples, I wanted to take a few lessons on the mandoline, and Sergy bought me a costly pearl-inlaid instrument at Vinacio’s, the best mandoline-maker. A lady-teacher, recommended by our hotel-keeper, was engaged to instruct me in the difficulties of the “tremolo” on the strings, but she proved to be a very mediocre teacher and taught me the “tremolo” with her gloves on. I did not repeat my lesson and Professor D’Ambrosio, a well-known musician and composer, was invited in her place. I spent hours studying my mandoline, playing scales and exercises.

During the summer and autumn months, the San-Carlo, one of the biggest theatres in the world, is closed, and we went to see “Faust” at a small theatre, where the performance began very early, at six o’clock in the evening. The chairs in the first row cost only two francs. The conductor of the orchestra seemed little more than a boy and could not be over twenty, and the performance didn’t please me: Faust was too fat and Mephistopheles not diabolical enough; Siebel had a fine mezzo-soprano, but boy’s clothes did not suit the outlines of her stout figure, and Margaret had nothing of the woman but the skirt, and struggled against the almost impossible task of the mature woman impersonating a girl of seventeen, and was listening with all the coyness of forty years and six children at home, to the love-making of Faust. At eight o’clock a new performance of “Don Giovanni” was about to begin, but our eyes closed with sleep and we did not purchase any more tickets.

On the 12th November we took the train to Rome. I became suddenly aware that one of our fellow passengers, a dandy-looking young Italian, was staring at me over his newspaper. He wore an eyeglass which made him squint a little and through which he couldn’t see, I am sure, but his sight, evidently, was so excellent that he could well afford to sacrifice the vision of one eye, now and then, for the sake of effect. He faced me with a gaze that made me long to box his ears. Feeling awfully disturbed I looked anywhere but in his direction, and throwing myself back in my corner, I opened a magazine and pretended to be deeply engrossed in its pages. I slowly turned leaf after leaf; I turned so many that he became impatient and tried, in altering his position by moving up opposite to me, to take a better view of me and catch my eye, but my eye refused to be attracted. Then the persevering man tried to enter into conversation with me in asking permission to smoke. I bent my head in careless assent and pretended to become violently interested in the landscape. “What a splendid scene!” he exclaimed suddenly, but I continued to gaze out of the window and made no reply, laughing inwardly at this little manœuvre and regretting that I had no eyes behind my back to look on the other side and see his discomfiture. When we reached Rome we seized our bags and descended on the platform. We had to cross the railway line, running to catch the Florence train. Whilst my pursuer was calling a facchini to look after his luggage, he lost sight of us in the hurry of changing trains, rather to my regret, I must confess, for like Faust’s “Margaret” “Je voulais bien savoir quel etait ce jeune homme et comment il se nomme,” I was so sorry that I didn’t know who he was and where he came from. We entered an empty car, and Sergy promised the guard a good tip if he would leave us to be sole occupants of the compartment. All at once we saw my “Faust” running about the platform and peeping anxiously into all the cars. He started when he saw me at the window, and prepared to step in, when the guard slammed the carriage door in his face, and I never saw him any more!

When we arrived at Wirballen, the sight of our frontier, the Russian voices, the Russian train, the Russian porters were a joy to me. How nice it is to be home again! We found Moscow in full winter: all the streets were white.