LONDON
We put up at Charing-Cross Hotel. After a good wash and brush-up, we
went to find out the Rydes, my old Stuttgart friends who had settled in
London for some years. I did not hear from Ettie Ryde, with whom I used
to have great fun, since our school-days. What a chance to meet again!
It was some little time before we found out the Rydes. We were received
by Ettie’s sisters, who had just returned from church. I was very much
disappointed when I was told that Ettie was out of town at the present
moment, but the Rydes are going to spend most of the summer at Blackgang,
in the Isle of Wight, and I hope to see a great deal of Ettie.
It was Sunday that day, which reduced us to inactivity, and we had
nothing else to do than to return to our hotel. There was a great
demonstration in the streets, and we met on our way a procession of the
“Westminster Democratic Society,” composed of a deputy of cabmen and
wine-merchants and other corporations, who were shouting and waving
flags. They marched with their bands at the head, without disturbing the
order in the streets. Three ragamuffins opened the march, mounted on
decrepit old hacks, holding large banners. The police gazed upon this
demonstration with the phlegm of an elephant whom a fly would like to
sting.
The next day we visited the Health Exhibition in Kensington Palace. The
trains left every five minutes and stopped with great jerks; we were
thrown out of our places so violently that I found myself sitting on
the knees of my neighbour opposite. There were many interesting things
to see at the Exhibition, but the Russian section was rather poorly
represented—furs and stuffed animals predominated. We had a good laugh
when we stopped before a manikin representing a Russian soldier, a
frightful guy, more like a bear than a human being, with a beard right up
to the eyes. The “quarter of old London,” attracted us the most. Whilst
walking the narrow dark streets lined with houses and shops, and crowded
with people dressed in the costumes belonging to the fifteenth century,
we had a vivid sensation of the past ages.
We returned to Charing-Cross Hotel longing to have a good rest, but on
entering our apartment we found our beds upset, the sheets and blankets
lying on the floor in a heap. It was the sour-faced chambermaid who
thought that we were leaving that same day, and was making ready the beds
for new visitors. When we told her that we were going to remain another
night in London, she picked up the sheets, flung them on the beds and
carried away the clean linen. I could have smacked her!
We left London at ten the next morning, having taken our tickets
straight to Ryde, the principal port of the Isle of Wight. On arriving
at Portsmouth we embarked on a small steamer which corresponded with the
train leaving for Shanklin, a sea-bathing place where we intended to
spend about three weeks. The crossing, though short, was rather rough.
It took ten minutes by train from Ryde to Shanklin station, where we got
into an omnibus and drove to Hollier’s Hotel.
Shanklin is a clean and pleasant village built on a cliff with trees
planted along its streets, detached houses standing back amid gardens
and a grey church reminiscent of rural England, with a spire rising from
among the trees. We have taken an apartment of two rooms for two guineas
a week. Hollier’s Hotel is a white house overgrown with honeysuckle
and sheltered by two enormous linden trees. Boxes of red geraniums
hang out of the windows. There was a most charming air of home-like
comfort about the whole house. Our sitting-room was prettily furnished,
full of nick-nacks, with chintz covers, muslin curtains and vases of
fresh flowers on the mantlepiece, and landscapes on the walls. Three
bay-windows look on the front at the entrance and at the back into a
railed-in garden with a broad, well-kept lawn like a green velvet carpet,
shaded by cedars a century old. Before the entrance door stands the hotel
omnibus, which is in ceaseless demand the whole day, bringing passengers
from and taking them to the station. The driver, perched on his high
seat, is dozing in the shade, with his nose on his paper.
On the following day of our arrival we were awakened by the sound of the
rain beating against the window-panes. It did not hinder Sergy to go and
take his first bath. It was low tide and the bathers were taken out into
the sea in a small cabin drawn by a horse.
We have arranged to have our meals served in our apartment. At five
o’clock a waiter brought in a neatly arrayed tray with nice tea,
delicious cream and fresh-baked rolls.
In the afternoon the sun came out, and we went for a stroll to the Chine,
a picturesque narrow pass which descends to the sea-edge. The Chine is,
for its own sake, well worth a visit to Shanklin; the admittance is only
twopence each. We sat down to rest on a crooked arm of a fallen tree, and
listened to the music of a small water-fall down below.
After dinner Sergy went to Mew’s post-office to hire a dog-cart for a
drive to Sandown, a neighbouring watering-place. We have run the risk
of breaking our necks during the promenade. I drove a restless horse
who pranced and kicked all the time, taking fright at a passing train
he jerked to one side, bolted and sprang into a furious gallop nearly
dragging my hands off. I frantically tugged at the reins and managed
to pull up the frightened animal some way down the road, driving him
into a heap of stones. The season had not yet begun at Sandown, and the
houses with their locked doors and closed shutters looked as if in sleep.
Everywhere placards were to be seen bearing the inscription, “Apartments
to Let,” and announcements that pieces of ground were to be let. There
was land to be sold for 999 years.
Having learned that the Rydes were living already at Blackgang, not far
away from Shanklin, I hurried to let them know of our arrival, looking
forward to seeing a great deal of Ettie. Although years had separated
us, I was not one to forget old friends and had been simple enough to
believe that Ettie, also, was burning with impatience to meet me. But one
always believes what one desires, it is the weak point of human nature!
Several days went by and it was queer that Ettie did not send any word
of her coming. This meeting so hotly desired by me came at last, but
in a fashion altogether different from that which I had pictured. One
morning a knock came at the door, and the parlour-maid ushered in Ettie
in person. I must say she was sadly altered, and I scarcely recognised
her; time passing over her had modified her as it does everything in this
world, nothing was left of the pretty Scotch lassie of by-gone days. She
was altered morally too; she looked so stiff, so unlike her old self.
Ettie reminded me, nevertheless, of my youthful days, and memories which
had slumbered for years awoke now in me. Stirring the cinders of our
reminiscences we spoke of the dear old days gone by when we were both
sixteen. We kept Ettie for dinner; when she went back in the evening her
farewell seemed stiff and formal to me, she gave me a cold kiss on my
cheek, and we were parting for no one knows how many years, for good and
all, perhaps, for the Rydes were leaving Blackgang in a few days. I am a
terrible creature for taking things to heart, and felt at the moment as
if I had been drenched with cold water. She is a cold-hearted creature,
Ettie, and I do not want to be friends with her any more. I should like
to be cold-hearted too, and not to care for any one. When Ettie had gone,
I remained for some time wrapped in thoughts the reverse of agreeable,
and was not able to put Ettie out of my mind. Sergy, who has a wonderful
soothing influence over me, set to work to comfort me, but he did not
succeed, and this time I was not to be comforted.
There are delightful walks and drives in all directions of the Isle
of Wight. We undertook to make excursions through the neighbouring
country in a huge pleasant-tour coach named “Old Times.” This coach can
hold twenty people inside and is driven by four powerful horses gaily
decorated with ribbons. We began our tour by Bembridge, and scrambled
into the back seat of the immense car by a ladder of ten steps. The
postilion frantically blew his horn, the coachman cracked his whip
over the head of his horses, and the coach rattled full speed along
beautifully kept roads. The drive proved long and interesting. We made
three halts without changing horses. Our fellow-passengers were not
very elegant-looking. I took Sergy’s neighbour, a tall, bearded man,
who was chewing a stinking cigar, for a German colonist, and he proved
to be a German Royal Prince. Towards noon we drew up before the veranda
of Bembridge Hotel standing on the beach, and had lunch on the spacious
terrace, enjoying the sea-breeze. At the same time a pleasure-boat had
brought a crowd of tourists to the hotel. We were back to Shanklin for
dinner, having taken another road through the woods and corn-fields.
Before us there was a lovely stretch of country with the gold of ripening
grain and the scarlet glint of poppies smelling like honey; full blown
blossoms of clover white and pink, scented the air. The Isle of Wight,
so green and fresh, is well named “The Garden of England,” really it is
quite the nicest bit of England. Trees and grass are of a wonderful vivid
green peculiar to this island. The climate is so mild that figs, laurel,
and myrtle trees grow in the open air. Intense heat is quite unknown here.
The next day we had gone coaching again. This time I had the front
seat of the coach. My neighbour was an elegant young man who had the
manner and the bearing of a Prince of the blood Royal. Having taken the
day before a Royal Prince for a colonist, Sergy this time promoted my
neighbour to the post of State Minister at least, and I felt sure he
was no less a person than a Royalty travelling incognito. At a stoppage
one of the horses had cast a shoe, and one can easily imagine how we
felt when my aristocratic neighbour began to shoe the horse—he was a
blacksmith! Our driver put into good spirits by frequent sips taken
at the stoppages, seemed to have completely forgotten his business.
He drove recklessly, taking the corners in a way that made me gasp; I
had to hold fast to the seat not to be thrown out of the omnibus at
every turn. I couldn’t bear it any longer and begged our driver to go
slower, but it only made him rush down the inclines at the speed of
an express train, turning in the same time his back to the horses and
chatting with the passengers. He boasted of how well he could manage
his long whip, and waving it right and left, he caught the rake of a
villager who was passing on the road. Luckily the idea didn’t come to
our driver to lift the man like a spilikin in the air. Half-way on we
stopped at Ventnor, a resort for consumptive patients, to give a rest
to the horses. We saw numerous invalids drawn through the streets in
their bath-chairs. We continued our way by an avenue of trees bending
over and forming a roof, and towards four o’clock we rattled into the
quiet village of Carisbrooke, and tore like a hurricane through the
narrow streets, scattering the crowd of dogs and hens before us. The
village with its white cottages and grass growing liberally out of the
broken pavement, looked very cosy. We saw a group of women all down on
their knees cheerfully doing their washing in the stream, laughing and
chatting together, and village children who were playing at soldiers
near a puddle where the ducks were quacking. The foaming horses came to
a stop before the Red Lion Inn, and everyone descended. We had dinner
at the inn, consisting of soup tasting like dish-water, and slices of
mutton not thicker than a sheet of paper, and they charged us five
shillings for the meagre repast! A two hours’ halt gave us time to visit
the picturesque ruins of old Carisbrooke Castle, after which we flung
ourselves with satisfaction upon the grass under a stack of hay, and
had for company an ancient white cart-horse who chewed his bunch of hay
under an old ash tree. We felt quite bucolic, it was so cool and nice
here, and the new-mown hay smelt so sweetly. Meanwhile our coachman had
put out his horses and gone to lie down. When we returned to the inn we
found him stretched full length on the grass under the shade of a big
tree, his face covered with his hat, sleeping the sleep of the just. The
postilion put him on his legs with some difficulty, for the brave man had
fortified himself still more with plentiful libations at the bar of the
inn. The horses were put to with the aid of the postilion, and we drove
back to Shanklin at the rate of twenty miles an hour. The photographer
who had taken a photograph of our group in the morning, just before we
had started for our tour, was waiting on the high-road and handed to each
passenger a copy of it.
The next day we went to Cowes, the summer residence of Queen Victoria. We
were speeding along level roads bordered by green woods—all soft grass
and splendid trees—and rolled through fields golden with buttercups. The
road now wound through bright green pastures where big fat cows dozed,
lying in the shade of apple-trees. We passed neat little white cottages
embowered in green, and a big farm-house belonging to the Prince of
Wales. We drew now through an avenue sheltered by stately elm-trees and
descended a steep hill leading to the river Medina, which we crossed on a
ferry, and arrived at Cowes. Our coach drew up before a big hotel where
we were to have dinner. The view from the terrace was one of exquisite
beauty, the surroundings of Cowes being amongst the most splendid in
England. We went and sat down on a bench beside the pier, waiting for the
bell to call us to table-d’hôte. Two big yachts belonging to the Queen,
the “Neptune” and “Man-of-War,” were moored in front of us. Side by side
with us on the bench sat an old man, with a face framed in a grey fringe
of beard, wearing a cotton bonnet drawn over his ears, who held a short
pipe in his toothless mouth. We fell into conversation with him and were
very much surprised when he told us that in all his long life he had only
been once to London.
Another day we went by rail to Ryde, the most frequented beach of the
Isle of Wight. The esplanade with its elm-groves, different-coloured
flower-beds, and well raked lawns, is magnificent.
The day after we went and spent the whole afternoon in the neighbouring
town of Newport, to visit the Exhibition of Agriculture. There was only
one passenger in our compartment, a stiff, solemn-looking lady, who
plunged her nose in her book all the way without uttering one word. On
arriving at Newport our silent companion dropped on my lap a small bunch
of flowers and a leaflet describing the way to get to Heaven. It flashed
upon me that, perhaps, that lady was some kind of missionary who wanted
to snatch me from the grip of the Evil One, and rescue my soul from
destruction.
The Exhibition, decorated with flags and banners, occupied a large space.
In the first place we were taken to see the section of work-horses,
cows, sheep and pigs in their stalls. All these animals, enormous in
size, were well worth looking at, especially the pigs, long and low,
with no legs to speak of, interested me much. The prize-animals had
placards hanging round their necks, bearing the inscription: _First
Prize_, _Highly Commended_, and simply _Commended_. On a big square we
watched the show of the carriage, saddle and cart-horses, their manes
plaited and interwoven with wild flowers and ears of corn, and their
tails jauntily braided with red cords. Then came the jumping competition
in which the first riders were to prove what they and their horses could
do in clearing hedges, hurdles, water-jumps and other obstacles. Special
experts were observing the print of the horses-hoofs on the sand, in
order to see which one had made the longest leap. One of the horses
bolted before a water-ditch and all the brave experts took to their
heels, carrying off their chairs with them. There was suddenly a stir
on the ring and stifled shrieks. It was a swarm of bees, which, leaving
their hive, had settled on the head of a poor lady. Luckily a doctor who
was present, rushed to her aid and began to scrape off with his pen-knife
the bees from their victim’s face, which had become all at once one
blistered mass. We had dinner in a big refreshment tent, during which a
red-coated military band played the best pieces from their repertoire.
Towards evening it began to rain, and we hurried back to Shanklin.
One afternoon we saw a carriage stop at our entrance door, it held King
Oscar of Sweden and his suite, who had come to take lunch at our hotel.
After their meal the whole company withdrew to the lawn in front of our
window. The Swedes threw themselves down on the grass, and the eldest
member of the party, who was lying on his back in idle contentment,
began to sing at the top of his voice a Swedish song with the burden of
_O Matilde_, coming over and over again. Another Swede, forgetting his
dignity, pirouetted and executed somersaults like a veritable clown, his
legs making frequent excursions towards the sky, to the great indignation
of one of the hotel tenants, a prudish maiden-lady of some fifty years,
who was knitting in the garden. She rose suddenly, gathered up her work
in dignified displeasure, and walked back to the hotel with an air of
offended maidenhood, like a startled virgin whose virtue was being put
to the test. King Oscar was travelling in strictly incognito under the
name of _Count Haga_. When my husband asked our waiter, who had just
brought in our tea, if the gentleman who sang _O Matilde_, was the King,
he responded stoutly that it was not at all the King, but his first
minister. Some time afterwards, during our stay in Paris, we saw the
portrait of the Swedish King exposed in the window of a picture shop, and
the fact appeared undeniable—that the singer was precisely King Oscar.
In Shanklin, like everywhere else in England, Sunday is a dull day; the
village is asleep, the shopkeepers put up their shutters and retire to
the bosom of their families. Over the door of a thatched-roofed cottage
just opposite Hollier’s Hotel, the sign-board Library in big white
letters, is taken off and the mistress of the shop does not sweep the
steps on her threshold, as she does every week-day. The baths, even, are
open only until eight o’clock in the morning. There are very few people
in the streets, only at eleven o’clock a.m., and at eight p.m. you can
see the inhabitants with their prayer-books, going off to Chapel.
We had quite enough of the Isle of Wight. Shanklin is such a dull and
sleepy place! It has only one advantage, you can’t spend money there.
The worst of the place is that there is nothing to do in the evenings;
at nine o’clock all the houses close their shutters, and one can only go
to bed. My pleasure-loving temperament revolted against this life, and I
was very pleased when the day of our departure arrived. We went by train
to Cowes, where we took the boat to Southampton. Before leaving British
soil, we entered a druggist’s shop and bought some homeopathic medicine
against sea-sickness, for each crossing makes me horribly ill.
We arrived at Havre the next morning at sunrise. The fog was so thick
that we could not see two paces ahead of us, and had to signal our
approach by shrill sounds of the fog-horn. We took the express train at
Havre and arrived the same evening at Paris, where we made a three days’
halt, and then started back to Russia.