We left Stuttgart in winter, and there we were in full blooming-time of violets and roses. We made several excursions and went as far as the wicked little principality of Monaco. Mamma gained large sums of money at the roulette tables of Monte-Carlo. I was also longing to try my luck, but roulette was prohibited, alas for youngsters like me.
We were invited to a ball given on an American man-of-war, the “Franklin,” which anchored in the harbour of Villefranche. The ball was too delightful; I highly enjoyed myself and nearly danced my shoes off. There never was anything to equal the amiability of the officers of the frigate; their commander, Captain Folger, was awfully charming to us and hoisted the Russian flag in our honour.
We had such a delightful fortnight in Nice. The days went like lightning and the hour of our departure approached. I detested the idea of going back to dull Stuttgart to pursue my studies, but I had a compensation in the person of my darling Bobbie.
Señor Alvarez pined with grief at being obliged to part with me. He accompanied us as far as Marseilles and delivered to me, whilst travelling with us, a Spanish poem, of his composition, dedicated to me, speaking of delirious passion, broken heart and other fiddlesticks. One of our fellow-passengers, a handsome Canadian girl begged him to dedicate at least three lines to her. Alvarez at once pulled a note-book out of his pocket and scribbled down three words only: Adieu pour toujours. Not very amiable on his part! Bidding me good-bye, Alvarez took hold of my hands, squeezing them as if they had been shut in a door, and looking at me with an expression of entreaty, he requested my permission to pay us a visit in Russia. By the manner I answered him, I would not in his place have undertaken such a long journey.
Here I was again in Stuttgart, carried back to lessons. In January, on the occasion of my sixteenth birthday, mamma gave me a coming-out dance. I considered myself fully grown now, having put up my golden mane and let down my frock for the first time that night. I was awfully unhappy to leave Stuttgart in April, for I left my heart behind. It was such a sore trial to part with Jeffrey. He was unwell on the day of our departure and could not see us off. I was in despair at not being able to bid him farewell and sobbed desperately at the thought that I should never see his darling face again. At that moment he was more indispensable to me than air and light. Being ashamed that mamma should see me cry, I swallowed my tears and tried to look cheerful, but when the train began to move, I crept into a corner of the railway-carriage and sobbed my heart out in childish grief, little fool that I was.
Before returning to Russia we made a trip to Italy and travelled as far as Naples in the company of the Italian Consul of Manchester, Signor Raphaello Giordano, middle-aged and perfectly gentleman-like. He promised to be our cicerone in Naples, where we arrived at night, rather disconcerted by the hubbub of the clamorous Neapolitans. When we found ourselves on the crowded platform, noisy fachini (porters) besieged us and snatched away our bags. Signor Giordano had to desert us on the quay, whilst we went to get our luggage through the Customs promising to be back soon. In his absence a young man began to hang about in front of us, staring at me all the time with frankest impertinence. He came close to me and managed to whisper in my ear: “What hotel are you going to? Do stop at the hotel where I am staying.” Impudent fellow! I was greatly astonished at his audacity. Fortunately Signor Giordano strolled in at the right moment and rescued me. Both men were standing nervously facing each other and Giordano exclaimed in arrogant tones, his eyes blazing with wrath: “What right have you to speak to that young lady?” “And you, how do you dare to speak to me?” was the impertinent answer. A squabble sprang up between them; it was so hateful to have a scandal! Giordano went to seek a policeman and we remained alone, dreading to move in fear of losing sight of our protector, and our boxes were so long in coming. At last we decided to be bold and wait no longer. We hailed a carriage and rode off to Victoria Hotel, recommended by Giordano, and were very glad when he made his appearance an hour after.
Early next morning I opened the shutters and was fascinated by the splendid panorama of the bay of Naples and Vesuvius with its cone rising against the azure sky. How glorious it all was!
We spent three weeks in Naples making excursions and visiting all the curiosities in the neighbourhood. Pompeii produced a very painful impression on me by its atmosphere of death and disaster. We were present at the digging up of vases, bracelets and other curious relics of by-gone days.
Wishing to give a surprise to my father, mamma had my portrait made by a horrible little hunch-backed painter of modest pretensions. After my very first sitting we did not appreciate this Quasimodo’s manner of painting. Mamma took great pains in pointing out to him his mistakes, but instead of repairing them, the little fright contemplated that abominable painting with his ugly head first on this side and then on that, as if lost in admiration, repeating all the time: “Bellissimo, grazioso!” The portrait was, as we expected, a great failure, but we had to take, nevertheless, that spoilt canvas, unworthy of preservation, paying for it the sum of 200 francs.
One day, having to change some Russian coins, we entered an American bank, where I made, as it appears, a great impression upon one of the clerks, a very good-looking chap, with light hair and brilliant black eyes. He found a pretext to come and see us at the hotel next morning. After that, we saw him nearly every day; he spent all his spare time with me. This youth, named Alphonso Shildecker, was of cosmopolitan origin, born in America of a German father and an Italian mother. Though only a banker’s clerk, Shildecker was nevertheless very well educated and spoke several languages fluently. He had an agreeable tenor voice and taught me some popular Neapolitan songs. This poor youth was getting seriously in love with me, which was perfectly ridiculous. I liked him pretty well in the beginning, and rather encouraged his hopes and accepted his advances in a friendly spirit, but if he thought I was serious, he was making a great mistake. It had all gone much deeper with him than with me. To me he was only a new toy; I was delighted with any one who could amuse me and was simply playing with him out of girlish perversity.