The whole party of guests stayed at our house that night. Even one of
the gipsy musicians was found next morning asleep on the sofa in the
library.
No one came down to breakfast. Only Bozevsky got up early and went for a
gallop on the hills.
I awoke at eight o'clock and rang the bell. Elise Perrier came in and
opened the windows. The fresh April breeze blew in and the chirrup of
the nests greeted me.
"Elise, is the morning fine? Can the mountains be seen?"
"Yes, my lady."
"Elise, when you see the mountains do you not feel homesick for
Switzerland?"
"Yes, my lady." And Elise stooped down to set out my slippers and to
hide the flush that rose to her face.
"I am homesick, too, Elise. I am homesick I hardly know for
what--homesick for solitude and peace."
She made no reply.
"Should I find them in your Switzerland, do you think?"
Elise Perrier shakes her head and answers in a low tone: "No, my lady.
Swiss homesickness and Russian homesickness are different."
"In what way?"
"We Swiss are homesick for--how shall I say?--for the outside things we
are far away from ... homesick for mountains and pine-trees and
villages. But Russians are homesick for what they miss in their own
hearts."
"You are right, Elise."
Tioka in his nightdress followed by Tania sucking the head of her
favorite rubber doll have run gaily in and embrace me.
"Are we going to Switzerland?" cries Tioka, who has overheard what we
were saying. "How nice! When do we start?"
"How nice! When do we start?" says Tania, who always echoes everything
her brother says.
"I like to be always going away," adds Tioka.