“I saw nothing of them till the spring, when I had a surprise visit from
Mrs. Kerr, looking considerably dilapidated. ‘Ach, Ferdinand
Ferdinandovich, you won’t believe what I have been through in these two
months! If I were a writer like you I would write a novel in the _genre_
of Dostoevski, so true, and yet incredible, so poignant! I have begun a
diary. I will bring it to you this afternoon. You can make use of it for
your books.
“‘Lord de Jones lent me some money to go and have a thorough change and
rest, and so Zita, Eva, John and I went to Abbazia. A lovely coast. Blue
sea, sunshine, casino, roulette, _chemin de fer_, baccarat. A real
change and rest for the nerves. All day we gamble, and at night dancing,
flirtations. Both girls passionate gamblers, also John. But luck went
against us and we found we had no more money to go on with. I pawned
some of my things and we lived very comfortably for a time at the Grand
Hotel--dancing, music, sea bathing twice a day and getting to know lots
of very agreeable young men on the beach, and at night moonlight walks
in the wood--in couples: Zita with the Italian boy; Eva with the young
Dane; and I with the Spaniard Rodrigo. Or to the cinema--always in
couples, Rodrigo looking at me with great passionate eyes. Very
delightful and charming. When the money was exhausted, I found a post as
housekeeper in a small pension overlooking the sea--very artistically
situated--and Zita, Eva and John were taken in by a lady friend of
Rodrigo’s, a very nice, quiet, well-read woman. I was busy all day in
the kitchen which gives out into the garden, and the children, looking
so gay and fresh in their white summer things, would be coming to see me
all the time. And I’d say to them, “Go and play in the garden,” and I
would give them things through the window, as the lady friend of
Rodrigo’s could not provide them with food. “There you are, children,
take this and this and this,” and I’d give them cakes, coffee, sugar,
sweets, dainties, pastry, everything, and they’d take it home and eat it
and come back for more. And I’d give them more through the window, all
kinds of preserved meats and provisions: “Here you are, children,” and
they never went short of anything while I was housekeeper there.
But--but would you believe it, Fyodor Frederickovich? The landlady,
seeing me give nourishment to my children, gave me the sack. If it had
been for myself, I understand, but for the children! I have noticed a
strange insensibility in those people, a hardness, a general--how shall
I say?--unfeelingness. No love, no understanding of children. I just
looked at her like that--I could say nothing. I could not have expressed
what was in my heart. A feeling of sorrow, not of anger. And as I took
my things and passed her on the doorstep I just turned my head to her:
“In Russia this could not have been,” and went without a word.
“‘Outside, in the street, the children around me, I stop and ask:
“All-wise and loving God,” I ask, “why dost Thou punish me so? _Why?_”
“‘From there I got into the Grand Hotel as “Kaffee-Köchin” and all day
long I had to boil coffee, first for the clients, then for the hotel
staff--all day long boil coffee and nothing but coffee. They gave me a
tiny little room on the roof, overlooking an unfinished church, and at
night dogs would come to sleep in that church and howl hungrily--dogs;
and up in the trees, nightingales. I opened the window. Below in the
square, lilac shrubs in bloom. The scent of lilac. And thoughts, like a
bevy of bees, stung my heart. I remembered our dear Russia when I was a
young girl, my mother a young woman, my father, my two brothers, and how
I felt and how I hoped. It all came back--Pushkin, Lermontov, Tolstoy,
Turgenev, Dostoevski--and hot tears streamed down my cheeks. “Dear God,”
I said, “to think what was once! and what is now! Come back, days of
youth, of my innocence, and hot faith in the divinity of Thy Creation,
Thy Love! Vague dreams of my heart, virgin and untouched, of my
unsullied soul, come back, come back!...” The breath of Spring. Dogs, an
unfinished church, you know ... and those nightingales, all the night
through. Dogs and nightingales.
“‘All day long I boiled coffee. I went by the name of “Frau
Kaffeeköchin,” for I alone in the whole hotel was to boil coffee and I
wasn’t to do anything else. From six in the morning till ten at night I
boiled coffee. But at half past ten I would put on my yellow satin gown
and sit out on the Casino terrace, order a vermouth, light a cigarette,
and never in a thousand years would it occur to anyone that the smart,
elegantly gowned, romantic-looking woman sitting out on the Casino
terrace and looking, you might say, like a Queen of the Steppes, was the
Frau Kaffeeköchin of the Grand Hotel. And one night as I sit there, an
old beggar, sick, filthy, stenchy, all in rags, and barefoot, comes up
to me. “Here, beggar,” I give him a copper, and he holds out his hand
and introduces himself: “Captain of the Imperial Russian Navy, Nobleman
Khan Balalykin.” Yes, Khan Balalykin--a Tartar Prince! And, do you know,
Ferdinand Ferdinandovich, he fell in love with me? What am I to do?
Where I go he follows me. “No,” he says, “I cannot live without you,”
and looks at me with soft, love-lorn eyes. And also calls me “My Queen
of the Steppes.” Or quotes a lyric from Lermontov. Well, we made a night
of it, and spoke of Russia. Next morning I return to the hotel to work;
he after me, right into the kitchen. “Sit down, Captain,” I say, “here
is meat, bread, cheese, butter, beer. Eat and drink, it will do you
good, restore your strength a bit.” He tucked in, oblivious of
everything, poor old man, he looked so starved; but here the head cook,
a huge great man, comes in--a great big animal with a short, thick neck,
just like an ox--horrible!--an obnoxious big bully, the real cave man.
And, would you believe it, Ferdinand Fyodorovich, begins to remonstrate
with Captain Khan Balalykin, who is peacefully tucking in at the table?
But I wasn’t going to be bullied by this ox of a man. “Don’t you dare
shout at me,” I screamed, “I’m not afraid of you. I care that much for
your being head cook. In Russia at one time one used to beat one’s cook
when one wasn’t satisfied with him, and I, the daughter of Pàvel
Yàkovlevich Sabolenko, won’t stand any of your nonsense, I can tell
you!” Well, I thought this would pacify him a little. But no! The ox
shouts and storms more than ever and begins to insult Captain Khan
Balalykin. Well, I wasn’t going to have my guest reviled and insulted.
He may look dirty and all that, which is not surprising in his sphere
as a beggar, but he is a real gentleman of the old school, a captain of
the Russian Navy, graduated with Honours at the Imperial Naval Academy,
and the bully is a common ignorant Austrian cook. I took the big brass
pan with the potatoes and crashed it to the ground: I was so angry.
Well, he begins shouting madder than ever and kicks Captain Khan
Balalykin out of the kitchen and then fetches in the manager and points
at me and the potatoes on the floor and screams: “It’s she!” And the
pair of them begin to scream at me together, though I can scream as loud
as they together. “No--it’s _he!_--_he!_--_he!_” I scream, and go for
both of them with my fists. Insulting a distinguished Russian officer,
an old nobleman, Khan Balalykin, a graduate of the Imperial Naval
Academy: I _was_ so wild!
“‘Well, do you know, Fyodor Ferdinandovich, the manager being hand in
glove with the head cook, gave me the sack. I pawned my last ruby ring
and we all came back this morning. In Milan we ran across Fräulein von
Wiesendorf, and we all came back together.’
“‘And how is she?’ I asked.
“‘Well, it seems from all the drinking bouts during the _Fasching_ and
the late hours Fräulein von Wiesendorf got the colics and a sort of
nervous breakdown. Her father, who is Comptroller of Public Morals,
alarmed at his daughter’s condition, called in the doctor, who examined
Fräulein von Wiesendorf and found symptoms of the beginnings of
consumption and ordered her _immediately_, without a moment’s loss or
hesitation, at railway speed to Italy. “As fast as the train will carry
you!” he said. Fräulein von Wiesendorf throws a few odd things into a
bag and darts off, helter-skelter, to Italy and arrives, holus-bolus, in
Genoa and as she has no means takes a post as governess to children.
Nine children of assorted ages. She has to teach and feed and wash for
them and take them out for walks, and the children all veritable devils,
real Machiavellis, cruel, mischievous, teasing her, and the parents
exigent and stingy. In a month poor Fräulein von Wiesendorf was worn to
a shadow; a doctor was called in, examined her and--“Back home!” he
said, “at full tilt! As fast as you can fly!” She arrived in hot haste
this morning. To-morrow night we are making a last night of it, and the
day after I am off to Abbazia.’
“‘What! again!’
“‘To get the ruby ring back from the pawn-shop. I’ve borrowed some money
here on the strength of my caracole coat.’
“‘And how are Zita, Eva and John?’
“‘The children are so happy. As we had no quarters to go to on arrival
we went and sat in the Hofpark and we’ve chummed up with four Bulgarian
students: two small ones, a thin one, and a big one. The two small ones
have fallen in love with Zita and Eva. the thin one with Fräulein von
Wiesendorf, and the big one with me. I must be off now to look for a
room for the children, and don’t forget to ask them for my diary.’”