CERNOBBIO
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.