After the snow of the 26th of August a pure sky was resplendent in vain
in the Upper Engadine, an exaltation for the eye and the imagination;
in vain a wondrous golden sun enlivened everything, in vain did an
even more victorious and absorbing fascination emanate from the whole
countryside, and in vain the beauty of things became more absorbing
and penetrating. Everything was in vain for a crowd that wished to
depart, and nothing availed to keep it now that it was bent on fleeing.
It was a crowd that no longer had eyes, or feelings, or nerves, with
which to see and feel and respond; it was a crowd that was blind, deaf,
and inert to every joy-bearing impression, dominated and absorbed as
it was by its desire of departing. With the same impetus with which
it had arrived from all parts and every distant country a month ago,
had violently and feverishly invaded hotels, _pensions_, and villas,
filling them to overflowing, had peopled the most remote and deserted
corners, had placed its outposts on the most impervious slopes and
climbed the loftiest peaks: with this same irresistible impetus by
which it had conquered and fashionably devastated the silence, calm,
and poesy of the Upper Engadine, that crowd was now turning its back,
departing, and fleeing, without anyone or anything availing to delay
its departure for an hour or a day. But the departure did not seem like
a departure, it resembled a precipitous flight, a _sauve qui peut_, as
if there had been a summons to some lofty duty or to the enjoyment of
some great pleasure.
For a week the little station of St. Moritz Dorf had been besieged by
the crowd, to book seats in _wagons-lits_ in the expresses of the great
international lines for Paris, London, Brussels, Berlin, Frankfort, and
it would leave the station disconsolate, because for days the places
in the _wagons-lits_ on all lines had been taken; for at the mere idea
of being forced to continue its sojourn for a day or an hour in the
Engadine, the despairing crowd caused it to rain telegrams, offering to
pay to have the _wagons-lits_ and first-class carriages increased, in a
state of agitation at every little obstacle that hindered its departure
and flight. For a week the post office of St. Moritz Bad had been
hedged in by a crowd booking places in the mail-coaches that descended
twice a day into Italy, but so many people wanted to leave that places
were lacking and every day the office added extra carriages, but even
these were insufficient; so the exasperated crowd that wished to
descend pell-mell into Italy booked special carriages at a high fee,
just to get away on the day and the hour, without giving a glance
behind. For a week conversations overlapped.
"I have my places for Tuesday evening...."
"I have telegraphed to Zurich...."
"I am expecting a telegram from Basle...."
"We hired a carriage from Tiraboschi to descend...."
"Frau Goertz has given up her places in the _wagons-lits_ to me: she is
returning to Italy by carriage from the Bernina...."
"If I am unable to find places in _wagons-lits_ I shall descend to
Chiavenna, and go from thence to the frontier at Chiasso."
Never had the Upper Engadine been so beautiful. Its surrounding colours
and its breezes had indescribable charms in those last days of August.
It seemed to change its aspect a hundred times, each more graceful
than the other, it was a medley of the brightest colours, it appeared
to be swimming in a divine, crystalline air, and to be poised amidst
the most vivid freshness. So sensitive souls, hearts secretly pierced,
spirits being poisoned by slow poison--some rare soul, some rare heart
and spirit--at such exquisite beauty felt themselves trembling with a
new, mysterious life, felt themselves in those last days healed of all
their old bleeding wounds and freed from gall and bitterness, as if a
powerful and unknown medicine had performed such a miracle. But when
even for them the hour of departure drew near, a great regret, a great
grief, and an immense nostalgia oppressed and suffocated their hearts.
But if by chance a long sigh of nostalgia for the Engadine land escaped
their oppressed hearts, where they had found a balm for all their
wounds, if this sigh became a word or an expression, scandalised,
the crowd would turn and brutally tell the poor man or woman that it
was ridiculous, yes, ridiculous, to want to remain even a single day
longer. Brutally the crowd reduced to silence the timid man or tender
woman who would still have liked, in those few beautiful September
days, to console, heal, and free themselves amidst the grace, purity,
and simplicity of the Engadine. Silently timid man and tender woman
bowed the head, expressing all the grief of broken dreams, the
nostalgia for things that would have consoled, healed, and freed them
and which they must implacably leave.
Implacably the crowd bustled, racketing everywhere, with hurry,
anxiety, and despair, to arrange its departure. In hotel rooms there
was a dull and continuous shock of boxes being put down and lifted,
of heavy luggage being filled and strapped, of opening and closing
of wardrobes, with a continuous, nervous ringing of electric bells.
The coming and going in corridors and _salons_ of managers, waiters,
chambermaids, servants, and porters was vertiginous; the offices of the
hotels were in a continuous bustle, getting ready bills and cashing
money at all hours; the porters no longer had a minute's peace, taking
a hundred orders, at the same time, for a hundred things incidental to
departure, and every evening, at the great desk of the head porter, on
a long black board, written in chalk, were the numbers of the rooms
which would be free on the following day, and the number of passengers
who would be leaving. Joyfully, brutally, the crowd jostled before the
blackboard and read there that a part of them, an ever greater part,
would be leaving to-morrow by such and such a train, by such and such a
post-carriage.
"Twenty-seven people left this morning."
"To-morrow, see, thirty-eight are leaving."
"On Sunday is the great departure from here, seventy-two people."
From day to day the last words were said, the last acts accomplished
rapidly and anxiously. In the hotels the crowd surged round the
telephone boxes impatiently waiting its turn to telephone to Zurich, or
Geneva, or Basle, giving orders, changing itineraries and instructions,
receiving affirmative, or adverse replies. The crowd surged in the
roads at the doors of the five or six banks, to withdraw the balance
of their last letters of credit, to send away their last sum of money;
they surged from shop to shop, to buy the last pretty and useful
things from the Engadine, and the last souvenirs of St. Moritz and the
Grissons, to take away for relations and friends; they surged at the
post office to expedite the last registered letter, to stamp the last
picture post cards, to send the last telegrams. But the crowd surged
more or less compactly, with one object only in every place, from the
little wooden gallery where the music plays in the morning, near the
"Kurhaus," to the larger gallery at the new springs by the "Stahlbad,"
while the serenade from _Pagliacci_ resounded sadly; they surged from
the _confiserie_ of De Gasparis to the tea-rooms of the "Kulm," from
the pastry shop of Hanselmans to tea at the Golf Club, as they came
and went on foot or tram, with the single idea of looking for friends
to say good-bye to them. Every moment at these and other places,
beneath the beautiful porticoes of the Bad, at the Inn bridge, before
the vestibules of the hotels, on the footpaths of the Dorf, at the
carriage door, there were meetings, little cries of joy, feigned sighs,
greetings and leave-takings.
"... I will look you up."
"... Of course I will come."
"... We leave this evening."
"... At Paris within three weeks."
"... To-morrow at Lucerne, on Tuesday at Geneva."
"... At Varrenna, on the 15th of September."
Early in the morning horses pawed the ground and tinkled their little
bells before the main doors of the hotels, to warn those who were to
descend in special carriages to Italy. Before the post office, the
ordinary and special post-carriages were drawn up in a line, one behind
the other, while postilions busied themselves around them, and porters
continuously sought out and piled up fresh luggage on the carts which
followed the carriages. Everywhere there was a rapid movement, a great
hurrying of those who were setting out at this early hour, who had few
friends and acquaintances and an indescribable anxiety to get away,
speeded at the hotel door only by the very sleepy under-secretary,
speeded at the post office merely by the under-porter, leaving without
companions and without flowers, hurriedly, securing themselves in their
carriages and settling themselves comfortably, without a glance at the
country they were leaving, without a farewell as they went on their
way. Amidst the cracking of postilions' and coachmen's whips and the
tinkling of bells they went on their way tranquilly and serenely, now
that they had started for the Maloja, the Val Bregaglia--and Italy.
The others set out in carriages, much later, towards Italy, at ten
or eleven, those who were in an immense hurry to fly, but who had to
take leave of so many people in the hotels, greet so many friends
on the square, return thanks and accept and render homage, receive
flowers, give _bonbonnières_, all with an increasing anxiety which
worldly politeness did not succeed in concealing, with a joyful
excitement which was hidden by a false regret, as if to console those
who were still remaining for two or three days, and who had no need
of consolation, since they in their turn would leave. So on one side
and the other words of farewell tried in vain to be sorrowful, though
as a matter of fact the lady who was about to leave was secretly glad
that she was being surrounded by this homage for the last time, and
the man was secretly glad to be rid of another of his relations in
the high mountains. The husband for private reasons, good and bad,
was glad to be going elsewhere, and the children were at the height
of joy and mischief, as was the case every time they changed ground.
A little crowd surrounds the carriage; hats are lifted once more, the
horses spring forward: the travellers wave their gloved hands, veils
flutter, bells tinkle, and they are away over the Inn bridge, towards
the Maloja, the Val Bregaglia, and Italy. Other carriages are with
them which have arrived from the Dorf hotels, Campfer, Silvaplana, and
Sils, and all unite to form a cortège of noisily rolling carriages,
of trotting horses, cracking whips, tinkling bells, fluttering veils,
without any of those who were on their way giving a glance to the
mountains, lakes, and meadows that they are leaving behind them,
without any act of farewell for the things around them.
Those who had just taken leave of them, bringing flowers and gifts with
a wish for a pleasant journey, would remain for a few minutes to talk
quietly without the least melancholy, afterwards to disperse among the
ever less frequented roads of the Bad. They went to see about their
final affairs, for within a day or two they, too, would be far-away.
Many were getting ready for the principal trains leaving that day or
on the morrow--the two daily expresses whose departure from St. Moritz
Dorf took place amidst the terrible hurrying of the crowd, which at
last left for all the countries of the world. Away, away, they went
from the Upper Engadine without a glance or a nod of farewell--for the
train pierced two tunnels in succession and was immediately at and
beyond Samaden--already _distrait_ and forgetful, already anxious and
longing for another life elsewhere, where their fantasies, nerves,
and feelings should have other visions, other impressions, and other
sensations.
Carriages and omnibuses arrived at a sharp trot from St. Moritz Bad
and St. Moritz Dorf, full of people who were turning their backs with
such hurry and furor. The pretty, clean little station was groaning
with people, was heaped with piles of enormous luggage, and amidst
ladies, men and children waved baskets and bunches of flowers, baskets
of fresh fruit tied with ribbons and bows, large _bonbonnières_ of
Swiss chocolate--all gifts and souvenirs for those who were leaving
from those who, impatient, were secretly waiting the brief flight of
the hours to go in their turn. Ah, these accompaniments of flowers
and gifts, what a last essay of worldly rivalry! What a steeplechase
between Madame and Miss, each hoping to have more than the other, more
than their dearest friend and dearest enemy, hoping to be surrounded
by the most followers at the station--by a really big group, while
the others should have only five, or six, or eight, but no more. It
was a profitable business in these last few days for the florists,
confectioners, and vendors of souvenirs. There were retinues of
bouquets, of baskets and bunches of flowers amongst the crowd at the
little station, flowers wrapped in wrappings of tissue paper were
held in the hands of ladies, children, and maids, an occasional bunch
pressed to the bosom, the most precious of the bundle of flowers!
Ah, how the ladies who were leaving counted them! How they paled
with envy the day on which the Marquise de Vieuxcastel left, as they
counted, astonished and irritated, the flowers in a hundred shapes that
followed her in a floral crown, accompanied by friends, relations,
and servants--the Marquise who was Grace personified, to whom all
the ladies gave forty-five or fifty years and all the men thirty;
nevertheless, she was full of beauty and youth from the depths of her
beautiful young soul. And what deep anger on the part of little Madame
d'Allart, when at the station she perceived that at least four of
the bouquets she expected were missing, while, as a matter of fact,
the pale, blond, reserved and thoughtful Comtesse de la Ferté Guyon
had more than she--the tower of ivory! the tower of ivory to whom no
one dare pay court! And what grotesque anger on the part of Madame
Mentzel, who arrived at the station with but five followers and seven
bouquets of flowers, one of which she had bought herself, at the sight
of floral garlands that were clasped on all sides by the crowd, by all
these ladies of the "Palace," even by the Comtesse Pierre de Gérard,
_la grande Comtesse_, the noble lady of the self-conscious and almost
statuesque posings, with a face that seemed almost that of a Sphinx,
pure, ardent, and silent. Although she was considered the proudest and
most distant of that assembly, even she was surrounded by friends, and
Madame Mentzel went about exclaiming, from one end to the other of the
little station, that unfortunately all her friends had left before her.
Even in their departure these ladies of the "Palace" were created to
exasperate and annoy those from other hotels--all the poor profane!
They left--these Olympians--with an even more Olympic air than usual,
with a contempt that was totally _distrait_, with a serene pride,
so much so that it seemed as if a cloud, mythologically speaking,
should bear them away and not a trivial train. Each had thirty or
forty packages to which the railway and railway people servilely gave
preference. They had reserved carriages and saloons for themselves
alone. Madame Azquierda was followed by eight or ten servants, who
carried a hundred things into her reserved carriage--pillows, her
bridge table, her table to prepare lunch, a bird-cage of thirty rare
birds: Madame de Aguilar travelled with two English detectives to watch
over her jewels and took with her four guests whom she was transporting
to the shores of the North Sea, even to Heligoland, where her yacht
of two thousand tons, _La Gitana_, would take them, together with
other guests, for a cruise in the North Sea. In fact, these Olympian
ladies of the "Palace," as if to damn the profane, were leaving for,
shall we say, the most unexpected countries; none of them, just to
be different, were making for the usual, banal places. One was going
to Munich to hear a cycle of Mozart's works; another was going to
England and the Scotch lakes, another to Bruges la Morte; another was
going to Umbria, to Perugia; another in automobile to Bohemia--each
to a strange place, for strange reasons, through artistic, literary,
or æsthetic snobbishness, or perhaps--_perhaps_--through real taste,
but certainly they were making a different journey, looking for a
different atmosphere, sighing after different impressions. In fact,
Madame Lawrence, whom many had dubbed a Jewess, who never went to
church, to do something odd, was going on a pilgrimage to Our Lady of
Lourdes. Biting her lips, Donna Mercédès de Fuentes, after inquiring
from everyone, learnt that no one from the "Palace" was coming with
her to Lucerne for _la_ _grande semaine_. It was enough to drive one
mad, and only Don Giorgio Galanti could console her a little on the
day of departure, for he had left over a little bunch of four splendid
roses--how one knows not--that had found no billet; he offered them to
her, so she arranged a meeting with him for October in Paris at the
Elysée Palace.
But in spite of the Olympian disdain of the ladies at the station the
hour of departure, with the crowd that thronged more densely, grew
vertiginous. Waves of movement in every sense passed over the crowd:
a noise first dull, then higher and higher, became a deafening din,
amidst the crashing of carts, the rumbling of baggage, the thousand
voices and calls, the arrival of fresh carriages and unloading of
fresh luggage, and over all was the invincible anxiety to clamber into
the train, to close the eyes, to be transported far, far-away from
the Engadine, not even putting the head out to see how everything was
disappearing to right and left, as if now the Engadine were a dream
that was over, as if it had never been either reality or dream.
The sky was of a sapphire blue--of the deep sapphire of the east--over
the Engadine, liquid gold was the sun, like limpid rock crystal the
atmosphere, like ambrosia the air, the dawn pink with a thousand rosy
tints, the noontide trembling with light and heat, the twilight of a
thousand shades of purple, and the nights palpitated indescribably
with stars, as never before. Amidst such splendour and softness its
roads were thinned of passersby, and no longer clouds of dust arose;
the paths and little white tracks amongst the immense meadows were no
longer crossed except by few people, and for hours and hours by no
one. The little donkeys with their red plush saddles, which had taken
ladies and children for outings and excursions, had disappeared from
the square before the public gardens; slowly donkeys and drivers had
taken the Bernina road to return to Vallettina. Before the Kursaal of
the Maloja the Comese boats of the lake of Sils had been beached; the
electric launch on the lake of St. Moritz had ceased its trips, and
was drawn up to its winter garage; the gondoliers had gone with their
gondolas to Italy. One day the music played no more in the little
wooden gallery by the Hôtel Kurhaus, another day there was no music in
the great gallery at the "Serpentquelle," and gradually the musicians
began to gather together, to pack their luggage, and set off for the
Italian lakes and Milan. Some of the shops of the Bad closed towards
the end of August; the kiosks for jewellery, lace, and flowers lowered
their iron shutters and all Tiraboschi's coachmen hurried to leave
with their horses by easy stages towards Italy, Lombardy, Piedmont,
and the French frontier, to arrive after a couple of months at Nice
and Monte Carlo, where they would do service for the greater winter
season. Gradually waiters and chambermaids, major-domos and grooms
left, and there remained but the staff, which, within a week or ten
days, would also have disappeared. At certain hours of the day there
was a deep silence; no longer at night did the "Kulm," the Grand Hotel,
the "Palace," the "Schweizerhof," flame with their lights reflected
in the lake, but only a feeble, flickering light threw some slender
spark thereon. A great peace, not melancholy, now spread over the
Upper Engadine; a solemn calm stretched to its farthest borders. Above
mountains, fields, lakes, in almost deserted country roads, solitude
and silence was enhancing the beauty of the Upper Engadine--its
incomparable, intangible beauty.
During the last week the little affairs of love and passion, of big
and little flirts, had strangely changed in aspect and substance.
Nearly all had become more intense, as if the imminent separation had
caused their modest flames to flash forth, rendering more serious
and sad the gay caprice of a month. Every morning in the pine woods,
full of the freshest perfumes, in the little paths one met nothing
but amorous couples, some silent and slow, with lowered eyes, some
rapid and agitated in their conversation, and on the seats in the
little woods, and by the lake only flirting couples were to be seen,
some melancholy, and contemplating with distracted eyes the even more
solitary landscape, others exchanging long, significant glances. In
front of the windows of Faist's library, amongst the Sorrento woods
and tortoiseshell of Pasquale Gallone, at florists', at kiosks where
the picture post cards were on sale, these couples of every age and
nation and condition stopped to look for a book, buy a little present,
exchange bouquets of flowers and post cards, pressing their hands
suggestively, after a sentimental exchange. But these meetings and
exchanges of little pledges happened at all hours till late at night,
even in the vestibules, halls, and _salons_ of the large hotels. There
was not a corner unoccupied, not a divan that did not accommodate two
persons, not a table at which two heads were not bent, while a gold
pencil or silver pen raced rapidly over the page of an open volume,
on the white pages of a volume of souvenirs. Heads were raised, a
long, melancholy, and passionate glance between the twain expounded
the motto, the name, and the date. There was now less dancing in the
ballrooms, and only a few courageous couples gyrated to the last tunes
of the orchestra; but the love-making increased even more, couples
sat side by side, always conversing in a low voice, heeding not the
calls of the "Boston" and "two-step." Couples were in the embrasures
of windows and verandah, or promenading in the farthest corridors or
before the buffet, drinking together a drink of the same colour, each
eating a pastry of the same shape; couples withdrew to the _salon_,
the billiard and reading-rooms, pretending to interest themselves
in things they saw not; only to get far-away. Wherever one could
take a cup of tea, in hotels, _cafés_, restaurants, above at the
_Unteralpina_, below at the _Meieri_, everywhere pairs of flirts were
seated at the tables; and the tea smoked invitingly and in vain in the
cups which the absent and absorbed couples forgot to sip. Everywhere
mothers and fathers, relations and tutors, as with final complacency
they thought that to-morrow, perhaps, all would be over, and not
wishing to sadden the last days, pretended more than ever to see and
know nothing, not to be aware of anything or understand. They were the
last concessions of maternal indulgence, which preferred not to exalt
or exasperate the last meetings, the last glances and hand-claspings.
In glances and words, in scribbled mottoes and hand-squeezes, in some
fleeting kiss exchanged at the back of a deserted room, behind the
pages of a large illustrated paper or the hedge of the tennis-court,
there was always a promise and an oath of eternal love and fidelity.
Who did not promise? Who did not swear? The Comtesse di Durckeim,
the eccentric Hungarian, smiling bitterly on the last day, told her
women friends that she was bound by an everlasting oath to five of her
suitors, and that she had given them tryst in five different countries,
while she herself would go to a sixth country in search of an unknown
lover--_l'inconnu, ma chère amie, l'inconnue, celui que j'aime toujours
plus que les autres_. Lia Norescu had given at least ten promises and
received ten solemn oaths--the astonishing girl with a soul full of
ashes and poison--but as a matter of fact she left with only one flirt,
an elderly, wealthy gentleman, who, perhaps, would have married her,
but she was subtle and elusive, and would not let herself be taken;
another flirt, a youth whom she liked very much, was waiting for her
at Ostend, a handsome youth, who pretended to be rich, but _que_
_faire_? Don Giorgio Galanti, the fascinating, astute Italian, had
sworn eternal fidelity to numerous flirts at the Bad, the Dorf, and
Pontresina; but he went to join an enchanting woman whom he loved at
the Semmering, near Vienna, and who loved him, but who could only meet
him two or three times a year for a single day at a time, in far-away
and different districts, a real romance, which he concealed beneath his
cynical aspect of _viveur_. The Marquise d'Allart, small, exquisite,
gracefully corrupt, believing neither what was told her nor what she
said, gathered promises and took oaths in a half-pretty and sentimental
tone, with a veil of melancholy in her voice; and later, when alone in
her room, full of little gifts and flowers, when she was to sleep her
last night in the Engadine, she laughed cruelly at herself and others,
showing her fierce little teeth to her mirror.
Madame Lawrence, indifferent, unfeeling, listened to promises and
oaths, and gathered them with an expressive smile, but she made none in
exchange as now and then she uttered some banal word, perhaps purposely
insipid. Once again her suitors and flirts were indignant at her want
of feeling, and some of them took their leave, deciding not to run
after her or to see her no more; others, though angry, believed that
time and other encounters and opportunities would pierce the heart
of this woman who was too beautiful, and disguised their feelings.
The other professional beauty, the divine Miss Miriam Jenkyns, was
even more terrible in her indifference, since she tranquilly rejected
promises and oaths, declared against the inutility of the lies, and
the vacuity of these sentimental forms, and beautiful, imperturbable,
Olympian, but perhaps hugging to her heart a secret that was torturing
and killing her, she discouraged, repressed, and settled all her
suitors and flirts, carrying her mystery behind her pale, pure brow.
Who did not promise? Who did not swear? Amidst sylvan perfumes, along
the shores of the lakes, amidst the fields where the last flowers
of summer still bloomed, in flower-clad gardens, in ballrooms, in
reading-rooms, in solitary terraces, on white verandahs where the moon
was contemplated, more especially on the last evening and morning, at
the last moment, before a carriage whose horses were pawing the ground
impatient to start, before the closing doors of the train, lovers,
flirts, and suitors, a little pale, a little moved, promised in a low
voice, made oath subduedly even if convinced they were lying; even if
cynical they were moved. Here and there one was deeply moved, taken and
conquered, by pure sentiments and a sincere love.
On a clear morning the handsome youth, the tall, blond, elegant Pole,
Ladislaus Woroniecki, with the dreamy eyes, left for his own country;
he was in love with the beautiful, fragile invalid, Else von Landau,
who was remaining in the Upper Engadine, having decided to live and
grow well, and who would remain there for a year or two. She had
accompanied him to say good-bye at the station, and the two held each
other's hands without caring for the public. Their loving eyes spoke a
true promise, and a true oath, which they would maintain.
Miss Ellis Robinson was leaving for Paris, the charming American old
maid of forty; her Italian flirt, the gracious Don Carlo Torriani, who
had followed her with courteous obstinacy, besieged her with lively
but sincere court, striving to make her renounce her part of _vieux
garçon_--this Italian lover--"_le beau Torriani beau pour moi_," as
she smilingly spoke of him--suddenly understood that as she promised
him to return soon to Italy, certainly in November, promising him
_"d'y penser un peu ... à cette chose ... seulement un peu_," as she
smiled no more, as she looked at him seriously, that the charming old
maid of forty would keep her vow. Vows and promises which were true,
vows and promises which were half true, and vows and promises which
were false, each man and woman uttered them on those last clear nights
and limpid mornings--cynics, sceptics, indifferents, ingenuous, or
impassioned, all felt a dull agitation disturbing them, all tried in
vain to control themselves and to laugh and smile. Only those who had
had a caprice, a flirtation, a little affair of passion, or love, those
who had known how to play with love or whom love had mocked, those who
had been chained for a short time, or those who were chained for ever,
they only, even the most sceptical and most superficial--and much more
so those with feeling heart and soul--experienced the sharp bitterness
of having to leave that country, were pierced by the nostalgia for all
they were abandoning, and turned to gaze at for the last time, to smile
at and bless for the last time the Upper Engadine.
Divine Engadine, beloved, adored, blessed by all those who have
discovered the face of love and perhaps of happiness. While the
pleasure-seekers forgetfully left her without regret, seeking other
surroundings with other pleasures, with an inextinguishable thirst
that inundated the hearts and souls, while the snobs left without
understanding anything, diseased with snobbishness as they were, and
anxious to find other circles where they could abandon themselves
to their ridiculous infirmity; while the vicious and corrupt fled,
shrugging their shoulders, annoyed, in fact, because they had been
unable to develop, as they believed and hoped, their vice and
corruption; while the indifferent, from whom everything glides
away, left without an impression or a recollection, while all those
pleasure-seekers, snobs, the vicious, corrupt, and indifferent were
dragged along by the same vortex to live elsewhere the same life, while
for all of them the magnificent beauty of things and the majesty of the
deserted heights had been useless and vain--only those who had loved,
for a day, for an hour, for ever in the Engadine, took her away with
them in their hearts as a sweet, ineffaceable memory. They delighted in
her as the country of their dearest poesy, they shut her up in their
fantasy, as the purest of their dreams, they blessed her in the name
of their love. The divine Engadine had offered all her most precious
treasure to them, even to those seized by a light caprice, even to
those transported by a little flirtation in a summer night in the
high mountains, even to lovers' tears, even to those who must forget
everything at once: the divine Engadine had given to those men and
women all her dearest gifts. Divine Engadine! Her winding paths amongst
the soft verdure of the meadows had felt the light steps of lovers
who had gone along them in forgetfulness of every other human thing;
her shady paths amid the salient woods had given their odoriferous
freshness to the couples which had traversed them, holding arm or
hand; the small singing waters of the brooks hidden amidst grass and
rocks had murmured to lovers' ears the music of gaiety and caress; the
great, motionless, and shining waters of the lakes had opened before
the rocking boats which bore the lovers; had brilliantly reflected the
faces of those who had curiously gazed into them from the bank; and the
lofty mountain had gathered the more daring, who, in joyous desire of
peril, bore their love up there, towards the white and terrible peaks.
All her favours--light, flowers, and perfumes--the Upper Engadine had
conceded to those who loved her. She had only been beautiful, pure,
luminous, the fount of health and life to her old admirers of half a
century, of thirty and twenty years, and one of them she had pressed
to her bosom for ever in a mortal embrace; only to the humble sick who
had come there to seek peace, solitude, and strength. And for those who
would never return again, in spite of their nostalgia, as for those
who would return the following year, in sentimental pilgrimage, the
Upper Engadine remained for them, with all her precious treasures and
admirable gifts, a country of well-being and dreams; and later, they,
on hearing her name or seeing her outlines on a post card, or hearing
mention of some high peak, would experience a tremor of inconsolable
regret.
Thus in these last days they were passing together in the Upper
Engadine, Mabel Clarke and Vittorio Lante, in spite of the happy
certainty of their love and future, in spite of the fact that they were
going thence together to Paris, where Mrs. Annie Clarke was feverishly
anxious to arrive, requiring a stay of at least six weeks there for all
her dresses and hats--thirty dresses and sixty hats for herself and
daughter--before setting out for America; in spite of the certainty
that in New York the great parent, the great John Clarke would at
once consent to the marriage of his daughter with Don Vittorio Lante,
Prince of Santalena (there was the title in the family), because John
Clarke loved his daughter, and would, like every good American, respect
her wish; in spite of all that was smiling on their youth and troth,
every now and then they looked at the country where they had known
each other, where they had grown fond of each other, and a light cloud
obscured their eyes. Their young nerves vibrated with the fullness
of life, and absorbed the deep pleasure of being young, healthy, and
of loving: but in the presence of the places where their stay in the
high mountains had unfolded itself, in its episodes, now gay, now
sentimental, they experienced a feeling of unexpected melancholy. Mabel
Clarke did not want Vittorio to love her too much _all'italiana_, as
she said, that is, with currents of vague melancholy, with mysterious
languors, obscure currents of sadness which characterise Italian
love; she did not like that--the frank, lively, American girl, all
expansiveness, and without secret comers in her heart or secret
thoughts in her mind. But every now and then she was dragged down into
that soft, sentimental whirlpool. If they passed before the English
library of the Dorf, where they had met the first time; if once again
they crossed the wood of Charnadüras where, a trifle jestingly, they
had spoken the first words of love; if they renewed the walk round the
lake where one day he had expressed more vigorously and ardently the
fascination by which she subdued him; if for a moment they gazed into
the dark but limpid night from the balconies of the "Palace," with its
memories of other nocturnal contemplations; if on the return from the
Maloja they noticed from the carriage the sunset girdle with its veils
Crestalta and Villa Story; if they saw again a turn of the road, a
corner of a room--the slow whirlpool of amorous sadness engulfed them
both. They mourned for the Engadine which they would shortly leave,
they even mourned for her when jesting and smiling at St. Moritz Dorf
station, whence they left together, and where the departure of Mrs.
Clarke and her daughter caused a bustle, anxiety, and despair in all;
where all the friends and acquaintances had come to provide them with a
triumphal departure, with cheers and good wishes--they mourned for the
Engadine although they were going towards their happiness. While the
train entered the tunnel opposite the foaming white cascade of the Inn,
Mabel Clarke extricated herself from the slow mental whirlpool, and
said to Vittorio Lante:
"We shall never love each other in another land as we have in the
Engadine."
"In Italy," he replied, serene and confident.
"Ah, in Italy," she murmured, a little drearily.
Lilian Temple and Lucio Sabini had prolonged their stay in the Engadine
through all that charming first week of September, which had rendered
the beauty of the country more intense and penetrating. As by an
enchantment it had held them bound, in forgetfulness of all other
surroundings.
Every day the peace and silence increased around them, and on them
the enchantment worked more profoundly. When Lilian timidly spoke of
their departure she saw Lucio's face disturbed with mortal sadness.
She became silent, and remained yet a day, and again another; while
Miss Ford waited, calm and patient. At last, one day, the 6th of
September, Lucio asked permission to accompany the two ladies on a
visit they proposed making, after leaving the Engadine, to Berne,
to old Berne, the historical, true Swiss city, whither go neither
worldlings nor snobs, but where it is possible to pass two or three
days of tranquillity in touch with an ancient world of art and poesy.
He asked hesitatingly, trembling at the fear of a refusal, to be
allowed to accompany them still further, to Basle, where they wished to
stop again, to grey Basle, where Hans Holbein left his best pictures,
and where Nietzsche taught philosophy. And nothing had been more
torturing for him than the moment in which he waited for the reply of
the two ladies, although the reply came rapid, frank, decisive, and
affectionate, filling him with joy which he knew not how to conceal,
which he read in Lilian's eyes and smile, like his own. So from that
land where they had arrived from different countries and directions,
with different souls and hearts, from that land where destiny had
strangely brought them together, with hand clasped in hand they left
together, as if they were to journey thus all their lives. Now and then
Lilian's eyes were fixed on the horizon of mountains towering towards
the sky, but they seemed to see nothing, being absorbed by their
interior vision; Lucio Sabini saw nothing except the dear face and dear
person of Lilian beside him, and only a confused regret in the depth
of their hearts, just a little gnawing sorrow possessed them on the
morning they left with Miss May Ford for Berne.
On the morning of departure it was already calmer at the station,
because the crowd had now fled in every direction, by every line,
because silence reigned in the valleys and in the two little villages
of St. Moritz; because only those remained who were allowing themselves
some days of calm and comfort before leaving for the large, stifling,
noisy cities. Silently, and a little pale, Lilian followed with quiet
steps her two travelling companions, who were busy with the details of
departure. She was wearing a thick white veil, and as on the evening of
the dance at the "Kulm," she had in her hand three white roses which
Lucio had given her as a souvenir. Silent and pale, she got into the
train and stood as she watched to see if Lucio were following; pale
and silent she sat in a corner by a window, watching the hill of the
Dorf and the plain of the Bad below, and the beautiful lake that unites
them on its banks. Her friend and companion seated herself in another
corner, and opened a large English newspaper, while Lucio silently
settled the luggage. With a feeble whistling the train departed and
entered the tunnel along the gloomy gorge of the Inn; but Lilian
still kept her head turned to the window, a little bowed. Uncertain
and embarrassed by the presence of May Ford, Lucio had not dared to
approach Lilian; but at last, unable to resist, he drew near to her,
calling her twice, and touching her hand and the roses, and then he
perceived that the roses were bedewed with tears. He bent towards her
ear and said in a firm voice:
"Lilian, you mustn't cry; you mustn't suffer."
Simply and courageously she ceased to weep, smiled a moment, and
replied:
"That is true. I mustn't cry and I mustn't suffer."