On the golf links that extend from the extremity of the Hôtel Kulm,
climbing and descending the whole of the hill of Charnadüras, and
which are so green that not even the players' feet have succeeded
in making them less green, early in the afternoon the slow, strange
parties of golfers kept appearing, to the wonderment of bystanders who
did not understand the game, as they leaned over the little hurdles
and watched with staring eyes which at last became tired and annoyed
at understanding nothing. They kept appearing, to the surprise of
wayfarers who stopped a moment to see a man in white shirt-sleeves
or in a bright flannel waistcoat with long sleeves, advancing along
the course, sometimes directly, sometimes obliquely, holding his
club in his hand, stopping as he brandished it in an aimless blow,
and then resuming his way, followed always by a boy who carried, by
a shoulder-strap, a leather bag, which seemed like a pagan quiver; a
silent, patient boy, who regulated each step to that of the player,
who crouched sometimes as he did, and finally vanished in his wake.
Continuously from the green beneath the great tent of the Golf Club,
where the inexpert remained to take lessons under the direction of
two or three professionals, the players started whither the game and
their more or less skill led them, and their rough outlines grew less
and less in the far distance, till at times the links, or the horizon,
became perfectly deserted, as if no players existed, as if they had
been dissolved by the air or swallowed by the earth. The spectators
who had come, as if on some doubtful invitation, to see a game of golf,
saw the man and woman disappear without understanding the reason,
and shrugging their shoulders they departed, laughing at and mocking
golfers, particularly the Germans, who laughed among themselves and
with their wives; more especially because it was an English game
the Germans found it idiotic, _itiote_, as they pronounced it, when
they wished to talk French. And the wayfarers, after a minute of
contemplation and waiting, went again on their way, especially as they
read on certain wooden posts the notice: "_Prenez garde aux balles du
golf._" Balls? Where were the balls? How? The golfers, when they made
a stroke, seemed to be assailing the air as if with a sudden movement
of madness, and afterwards they looked like solitary vagabonds who were
walking without a fixed goal, in spite of the respectful and silent
companionship, at ten paces distance, of the urchin laden with the bag
of clubs.
Those who played in the early afternoon were truly solitary lovers
of that curious sport which obliges one to walk much in silence, in
a sustained and concentrated attention, in the open country, in a
peculiar search for a ball and one's opponent, in a broad horizon,
neither feeling heat nor cold, exercising not only the muscles,
but even a little--really a little--the intellect. They were great
solitaries, who fled from society because they frequented her too much
at other times of their day; great solitaries who loved contact with
the open air and fields and woods, in contrast with the confined, heavy
life they were forced to lead elsewhere; great solitaries who for a
secret reason, sad, perhaps, or tragic, but secret and dissembled, now
hated man and woman; great solitaries whose age and experience had
divorced them from games of love, of vanity, and perhaps of ambition.
In fact, the early golfers were the real, keen golfers, and for the
most part middle-aged men and women. Among such were the Comte de
Buchner, an Austrian diplomat, a pupil of Metternich, who perceived
but did not wish to confess the end of the diplomatic legend, the end
of a policy made by ambassadors, a septuagenarian who already felt
himself dead amongst his ancestors; the Baron de Loewy, from London, of
the powerful Loewy bank, who sometimes held in his hand the whole of
European finance, a handsome, robust man with white moustaches, full of
spirit, who passed hours out of doors at golf, and who came there to
find equilibrium for his winter life as a great banker; Madame Lesnoy,
a woman of sixty-five, who had made her fortune thirty years ago, and
though _une grande bourgeoise_, had married her sons and daughters to
the greatest names in European heraldry, and who now had nothing else
to do but play golf by day and bridge by night; the Marquis de Cléan,
whose wife had been killed two years ago with her lover in an hotel at
Montreux, a story which tortured his life of worldly scepticism and
over which he dared not feign cynicism; the Contessa di Anagni, of the
best society of Rome, who had been loved by a King and had been unable
to fix the heart of the volatile sovereign; Max and Ludwig Freytag, for
whom Karl Ehbehard, the great doctor, had ordered this exercise, as
being excellent to stimulate their weakened temper; the Comtesse Fulvia
Gioia, who thus even better preserved her health and mature beauty,
like that of sappy, ripe fruit; and so many others who at two and three
o'clock deserted their rooms and hotels and directed themselves to the
links and shortly afterwards disappeared in every direction--great
solitaries, true golfers.
Towards half-past four, in the meadow which skirts the high road from
the Dorf and extends beneath the terrace of the Golf Club House, in
that meadow which was almost like a stage, the players increased in
number, in couples and groups, not going far-away, always returning
to the meadow, where at that evening hour there was a pretence of
playing golf. It was a theatre whose pit was the Dorf high road with
its footpath and wall, behind which people who were passing stopped
to watch, whose big and little boxes were the big and little terraces
of the Golf Club, where tea was taken from half-past four to six. The
keen and serious players had been away for two hours and perhaps had
returned. The make-believe players at tea-time represented the comedy
of the game under the eyes of a hundred spectators, turning continually
to the terraces, greeting and smiling at a friend and beginning with
an important air to hit mightily at a golf-ball which never left the
ground, because they either missed it or gave it a laughable little hit.
Not far-away, in the spacious tennis-courts, where from the 18th August
to the 24th the Engadine Cup was contested in the Tournament, games of
tennis, singles and doubles, proceeded at every hour, from lunch-time
till the evening. Truly, tennis was played everywhere, at every hour,
by hundreds of enthusiasts throughout the Bad; in front and behind the
hotels, and everywhere one went, in the beautiful broad roads of the
Bad, amongst the beautiful broad gardens of the Hôtel du Lac, around
the "Kurhaus," around the "Victoria," appeared courts with players of
both sexes, dressed in white, and the fatiguing exclamation was to
be heard--"Play!" But where this passion became delirious was down
below at the Tennis Tournament grounds near the "Kulm." Still, the
tennis-court, like the golf links, became a theatrical scene towards
half-past four in the afternoon. At that hour, on the left side of the
Hôtel Kulm, the tea-tables, already set and decorated with flowers,
were placed in the broad space which borders the courts. People began
to climb from the Bad and to arrive from the other hotels and villas of
the Dorf. Everywhere the crowd increased; some of the tables which had
been placed together held twenty or thirty persons. The usual German
element came and mingled with the great ladies and great snobs, their
imitators, attired curiously, wearing rough garments and dusty boots,
with a proud, mocking smile, as they talked loudly in German, and
forcibly occupied the best seats, brutally turning their shoulders to
the ladies, and sometimes smoking pipes. Play went on, but they were
show games of young maidens who wished to be seen and admired, of women
who affected the pose of sport after having tried so many poses. There
were games as of a theatrical performance played by actors, if we may
say so, for whom tennis was a pretext and an excuse for chatting and
talking at liberty, for isolating themselves, for donning a different
dress, for making acquaintances, and especially for showing themselves
to all the princesses, marchionesses, ladies, and serene highnesses.
That day in particular there was a game of great parade, because as
Katinka Orloff, a beautiful young Russian of twenty, elegant and
robust, the best player of the season, and champion of the Engadine for
two years in succession, was retiring after having played a great deal
in practice for the Tournament, an intermediary, an Austrian Baron,
came to tell her that Her Imperial and Royal Highness, the Archduchess
Maria Vittoria, desired to play with her, naturally only to learn, for
she was so much weaker. Being very tired, the Russian hesitated for a
moment, then she accepted.
It was a great tennis rehearsal, and the tea-tables, with their
half-filled cups, were deserted by the ladies, and snobs who imitated
them. A crowd gathered round to watch Maria Vittoria, who at first
played slowly and cautiously, then more rapidly, her blood coursing
beneath her brownish, nobly pallid cheeks, her white skirt twisting
round the long slender feet, while Katinka Orloff, dexterous but
_distrait_, now and then allowed herself to be beaten, resuming the
lead for a moment, only to lose it again. With heightened colour and
a gleam in her dark, pensive eyes, the Archduchess of Austria exerted
herself amidst the complacent murmurs of admiration of the true ladies,
and male and female snobs, and with a happy little cry the game ended.
Politely Katinka Orloff, who knew the protocol, allowed herself to be
beaten. Proud and silent the Archduchess stretched out her hand to the
Orloff.
* * * * *
On mountains, houses, and lake, on golf links and tennis-court the
grey, purple twilight descended. The white dresses of the lady players
seemed to dissolve and become fantastic, and the dark clothes of the
men in the distance became shadows. The terrace of the Golf Club was
almost deserted, with tables overturned on every side and chairs in
disorder. In a corner, separated by a group of people who were just
about to depart, Mabel Clarke and Vittorio Lante were saying some
subdued words. Nor were they looking at the links which they had never
looked at. They troubled not about the company, which troubled not
about them. They were unaware of the twilight hour, and did not observe
the failing light around them. The sunset shadows descended upon the
tennis-court. Players put on their heavy, dark wraps over their whites,
stuffed their rackets into cases, and left, silent, tired, but content.
Not far-off, in the deserted square, Lucio Sabini and Lilian Temple
were taking leave of each other on the return from Sils Maria, without
speaking, eye to eye, and hand in hand.