VILLA D’ESTE
On the following day we started for Cernobbio to spend a week at the
Villa d’Este. Our apartment was large and airy; the marble floor and
white-washed walls looked agreeably cool, with windows and balcony
looking out on the lake, and the hotel terrace with flights of white
marble steps descending to the water’s edge. A boat belonging to the
hotel was anchored near it.
I went early to bed that night, and just as I was going to fall asleep,
I heard a chorus of men’s voices singing to a guitar accompaniment. I
jumped out of bed and saw a boat moored to the terrace, in which a dozen
men, gifted with fresh, strong voices, were giving us a serenade. The
moon came up at that moment, silvering the lake and lighting up the
scene. I leant out of the window to throw some coins in the direction of
the singers, who were making the round of the group of visitors who had
gathered on the terrace. I was very much disenchanted when I was told
that these minstrels were, all of them, citizens of Como, who, having
their day’s work done, floated on the lake and sang ballads.
Time passed slowly, one day like another. The heat obliged us to stay
indoors all the afternoon, and I was glad to rest in our cool room.
After dinner, we took long walks in the park surrounding the hotel, with
mediæval castles, turrets, fountains and water-falls. On the top of a
hillock stands a pavilion named Il Bello Sguardo, from which you have a
full view of the lake. One morning we went for a row on the lake. I was
at the wheel, and Sergy, taking off his coat, rowed on for an hour or
more. Our light skiff flew like a bird on the beautiful lake, which is
fifty miles long. The shores are lovely, surrounded by hills covered with
fig-trees, olive-trees, pine-trees, like big open umbrellas, and rich
vineyards. The edges of the lake are strewn with pretty villas of the
nobility of Milan, with splendid gardens stretching down to the water.
The wonderful southern vegetation amazed us; orange and lemon trees,
laden with fruit, grow in groves in the open air. As there is no road,
there is no approach but by water to the villas; nearly all of them have
a small separate embankment. One of the prettiest villas belongs to
Taglioni, the renowned ballet dancer, who in long past days delighted
our grandfathers. A little further on we saw the villa belonging to Mme.
Pasta, the celebrated French actress. On its frescoed fronts different
musical instruments are painted. Bellini once upon a time had been on
a visit to Mme. Pasta, and the piano on which the great composer had
improvised his music, is kept there as a relic.
We went another day by steamer to Menaggio. The hills that encircled
these shores are covered by poor vegetation, only dull olive trees here
and there. We were startled by the formidable report of the dynamite
blowing up the rocks which are to serve for the building of houses; the
hills all around caught up the sound and echoed it from one to the other.
From Menaggio to Porlezza we continued our trip in a carriage, and took
the boat again to Lugano. The Swiss frontier begins on the middle of the
lake, and thus, for a short time, we found ourselves on Helvetic waters.
Towards night we returned to Como by the railway.
Baron Rosen, the Russian military attaché at Rome, came to spend two or
three days at the Villa d’Este. We saw a great deal of him; he devoted
his whole attention to me, and offered me his escort for moonlight
promenades, but I preferred to regain prosaically my bed rather than
stroll with him about the moonlit park. He called me obstinate and
matter-of-fact, and said that I had warm water instead of blood, and
that, like the “Sleeping Beauty in the Woods,” I was asleep to the whole
of life’s pleasures, leading the existence of a nun; but his agreeable
task to wake me up did not succeed.
The heat continued to be overpowering, then one morning, after many days
of waiting, the rain fell, but in the afternoon, the sun was ablaze, and
again there was no breath of air in the overheated atmosphere.
During dinner that same day, I saw by the expression of Sergy’s face that
he was preparing a surprise for me. And, in fact, he made me awfully
happy by announcing that instead of establishing me at Frau Weidemann’s
boarding-house, he would take me with him to Piacenza, a small town in
the neighbourhood of which the manœuvres would take place. And thus it
was settled that we should start on the following day for the Baromees
Islands on Lake Maggiore, and go straight from there to Piacenza.
We left the train at Verona and took the boat, coasting along Lake
Maggiore. We passed Isola Madre and moored at Isola Bella, the residence
of the Counts Barromée, who dwell here only in autumn, but the beautiful
feudal castle and gardens are open to the public. A smart footman showed
us all over the place, after which we took a row-boat and crossed over
to Isola Peschia, a fishing village with only nets all along the shore
hanging out to dry, and a fishy smell over it all. On the water edge
small boats were moored and a group of fishermen were sitting on the
shore, mending their nets and counting their day’s catch. Suddenly I
heard someone calling “Romeo!” I turned round and beheld a fisher-lad,
bare-legged, with clothes in tatters, and a dirty fish-basket over his
arm, looking most unromantic, and bearing very little resemblance to the
Shakesperian hero.
On our return to Isola Bella, we took the train to Milan, where we
arrived at sunset. Before we went to bed, it was settled that we should
go next morning to Piacenza. When I awoke, Sergy made me understand
that it would be far more convenient for him to go first by himself
to Piacenza, in order to look out for a lodging for me. I was foolish
enough to feel horribly hurt, and to take it into my head that my husband
wanted to get rid of me. “Oh! very well, be it so!” I said to myself,
and made the vow to await the end of the manœuvres at Cernobbio at Frau
Weidemann’s boarding-house; and, acting on blind impulse, with quick
tears rising to my eyes, I told Sergy I did not want him to be bothered
with me and intended to start with the first train to Como. Having said
my say I began instantly to throw my things into my trunk in petulant
haste, drying my tears with quick, impatient dashes. Sergy tried to talk
some common sense into me, but to reason with me at that moment was
impossible; what I once made up my mind to do, I would do, no matter how
hard it was. Sergy insisted upon accompanying me to Cernobbio. We had
to be at the station by eight o’clock, but with all these parleys we
missed the train, and Sergy, knowing my tempers to be of short duration,
was very glad of it, thinking that it was just as well that I should be
allowed a little time to recover my good-humour. But I made out that
there was another train about nine. When we had secured a compartment
to ourselves, I drew myself far into my corner and pulled down my veil
to hide my tears, feeling as if I was going off to prison. We rolled on
towards Como in gloomy spirits; the journey was a very silent one. How
stupid of me to have made that vow, but it was too late to alter matters
now, and pride, holding me back, I had to stand firm. Nevertheless I
blamed myself bitterly. All the pleasure of our trip was at an end.