MY SECOND TRIP ABROAD
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hurriedly withdrawn.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.