CHAPTER III
MIRAMAR
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.
E. A. Poe.
On Friday, 31st May, we all went to Miramar, eleven of us. We drove to Nabresina, the nearest station to Duino, went from there to Miramar by train (it gave some trouble to the engine-driver, as he had to stop the train on purpose for us to get out), and then walked from the station to the castle. It was a stupid way of getting there; it would have been much better to have driven all the way, but the directress of our party did not think so. I suppose she thought we should enjoy the various modes of travelling. It was rather a pity we had not relays of saddle-horses and bicycles to meet us somewhere—we should have had still more variety. We might have crawled the last bit too on our hands and knees, but I didn't think of it at the time. I used to like railway travelling. When I was very small I could have no greater treat than to be taken somewhere by train—now I don't. I still like to see a train. If I am in the country and feel lonely, I walk to the nearest railway line and wait for an express to rush by. That cheers me. I don't wish to be in it—the sight of it is enough. It must be an English express, however; a Continental express merely irritates one, and deepens the melancholy; I feel I can walk faster than it can travel.
We arrived at the Imperial Castle at last. The gardens are very pretty. There are numbers of terraces, and flights of steps, and cedar-trees, and little Italian gardens. There are big palm-trees, and strange foreign-looking shrubs, and beautiful beds of old-fashioned monthly roses.
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I had written so far in this chapter when I thought I had better consult my collaborator. I found her making a sketch in pen and ink. "That is very nice," I said. "I really know those things are trees."
"I am glad you realise what they are," she answered with icy coldness. "Won't you read what you have written?"