"Capri, April 24.
"Dearest Uncle Bertram,--If to-day for the first time, in our travels I write to you, take this as a gentle punishment for not having come to our wedding. Take it--no, I must not tell you a falsehood, not even in jest. We--I mean Kurt and myself--regretted your absence greatly, but were angry only with those wretched politics which would not release you just at a time, when, as Kurt explained to me, such important matters were at stake. Take, then, I pray you, my prolonged silence as a proof of the confusion under which I labour, amidst the thousand new impressions of travel, and through the hurry with which we have travelled. Kurt has just four weeks' leave, so we had indeed to make, haste; and, therefore, we steamed direct from Genoa to Naples, calling at Leghorn only, and yesterday evening we arrived there only to leave this morning, and to sail to Capri, favoured by a lively tramontane.
"I am writing this my first letter upon the balcony of a house in Capri.
"Dearest Uncle Bertram, do you know such a house which 'stands amidst orange groves, with sublimest view of the blue infinity of the ocean, a fair, white hostelry embowered in roses'?
"The words are your own, and do you know when you spoke them to me? On that first night when I met you in the forest on the Hirschstein hill. You have probably forgotten it, but I remember it well, and all through the journey your words were ever before me; and of all the glories of Italy, I wanted first to see the house which had, since then, remained in your fond remembrance, where you 'ever since longed to be back again,' and the very name of which was always to you 'a sound of comfort, of promise: Qui si sana!'
"And now we are here--we who need no comfort, we to whom all promise of earthly bliss has been fulfilled, and so drink in the blue air of heaven, and inhale the sweet fragrance of roses and oranges.
"And you, dearest Uncle Bertram, you dwell--your heart full of longing for fair Quisisana--yonder in the dull grey North, buried beneath parliamentary papers, wearied and worn--and, uncle, that thought is the one grey cloud, the only one in the wide blue vault of heaven, like the one floating yonder above the rugged rocky front of Monte Solaro, of which our young landlord, Federigo, foretells that it will bring us a burrasca. I gave him a good scolding, and told him I wanted sunshine, plenty of sunshine, and nothing but sunshine, but I thought of you only, and not of us. And surely for you too, who are so noble and good, the sun does shine, and you walk in its light, in the sunny light of great fame! Yes, Uncle Bertram, however modest you are, you must yet be glad and proud to learn how your greatness is recognised and admired. I am not speaking of your friends, for that is a matter of course, but of your political opponents. In Genoa, at the table d'hôte, we made the acquaintance of some Count from Pomerania--I have forgotten his name--with whom Kurt talked politics a good deal. In the evening the Count brought us a Berlin paper, which contained your last great speech. 'Look here,' he said, 'there is a man from whom all can learn, one of whom each party should be proud.' He had no idea why Kurt looked so pleased and proud, nor why I burst into tears when I read your splendid speech.
"Only fancy, Uncle Bertram! Signor Federigo has just brought me, at my request, an old visitors' book--the one for the year 1859, the year in which I knew you had been here. Many leaves had been torn out, but the one upon which you had written your name was preserved, and the date turns out to be that of the very day on which I, was born! Is not this passing strange? Signor Federigo has, of course, had to present the precious leaf to me, which he did with a most graceful bow--the paper in one hand and the other laid upon his heart--and we have resolved to celebrate here the day of your arrival in Capri and of my arrival in the world. Why, indeed, should we travel on so swiftly? There can be no fairer scene than this anywhere. Sunshine, the fragrance of roses, the bright blue sky; the everlasting sea, my Kurt, and the recollection of you, whose dear image every rock, every palm tree, everything I see brings as if by magic before my inner eye! No, no; we surely will stay here until my birthday.
"Signor Federigo is calling from the verandah that 'Madama' has only five minutes more for writing if the letter is to leave to-day. Of course it is to leave to-day; but I have the terrible conviction of having written nothing so far. It cannot now be helped. So next time I will tell you everything that I could not do to-day: about my parents, who are writing letters full of happiness--papa, in particular, who seems delighted that he has given up his factories--which surprised me greatly; about Agatha's engagement to Herr von Busche, which did not surprise me, for I saw it coming during the merrymakings previous to my wedding; about ...
"Signor Federigo, you are intolerable!