Above our heads two pupils of the Conservatory of Moscow played and sang all day long, practising their scales and vocal exercises not less than fifty times in succession. It was enough to make you hate music.
Biarritz is built on a rock. Over trenches excavated by the ocean picturesque bridges are thrown. The top part of the town consists of splendid hotels and lovely villas which stretch towards Bayonne and the road to Spain. It is from Biarritz that Christopher Columbus sailed to discover America. This queen of southern strands is very gay and fashionable. There are three beaches: La Grande Plage has a splendid casino; Port-Vieux, incased between rocks and is well sheltered against the assault of the big billows, where children and invalids bathe in preference. Above Port-Vieux a tunnel is cut through the rock for pedestrians, and on the summit of the rock rises the statue of the Virgin, held in great veneration by the seamen; near it stands a big cross and a pole with an alarm-bell to signal shipwrecks. A bridge is thrown over the dyke under which the ocean roars furiously producing sounds like continual cannon-shots. It is on the third beach, La côte des Basques, that the waves are the strongest. On Sundays the villagers from round about assemble here, dressed in their half Spanish costumes, to dance sprightly mouchachas and the fandangos, with the accompaniment of castanets and tambourines. Having danced to their hearts’ content, they undress completely, and enter the water in a long file, holding each other by the hand, men and women pêle-mêle; after the waves have drenched them thoroughly, they come out and bake themselves on the sand for a while.
We took our bath every morning on the “Grande Plage,” where the waves reached only to the knees, but they were so monstrously long that they splashed us from head to foot, and pushed us far away from the shore. One morning whilst my husband was taking his bath and I was merely present in the character of looker-on, someone called him in Russian by his name. Sergy turned round and saw Colonel Scalon, an aide-de-camp of the Grand Duke Michael. “What an unexpected surprise! How do you do, Colonel?” he exclaimed. “Thank you, I⸺” but at that same moment a gigantic billow had flung them apart without giving time to the Colonel to end his phrase.
Bathing hours are very gay on the beach. A crowd of people from all parts of the world are to be met there. Amongst the lady-bathers an American actress, wearing a white tight-fitting bathing costume, is the main attraction for the moment. I ordered myself a similar costume, which led to a very unpleasant incident. One morning after my bath, I was returning to my cabin with my soaked bathing-costume, clinging to my body. The bathing establishment was especially crowded that day, and the woman on service, who happened to be on my way, handed me the key of my cabin and led me through the throng, whilst two young ladies, seeing this favouritism, swelled with resentment at having to wait their turn longer than I. “Well,” said one of them to her companion in Russian, throwing a murderous glance at me, “It is known that such creatures as this eccentric girl are always served the first; courtesans certainly know how to take care of themselves!” I had great trouble in controlling myself not to give her a good shaking. It appeared that these unpleasant compatriots of mine, who had so badly guessed my social position, were the noisy musical tenants of the Villa Gaston, who exasperated me daily with their scales and exercises. I shall have my revenge the first time I meet them. This occurred on the following day. The young ladies recognised me when I was going out to take my bath, and desirous to repair their silly mistake, they saluted me obsequiously, colouring to their hair, but I pretended not to see them and didn’t recognise their bow.
One afternoon we went by train to Bayonne. There is nothing of much note in that town. The streets are narrow and encumbered with heavy carts and chariots. There was a crowd gathered before a small travelling-circus, where a self-named Hercules, in very dirty tights, lifted up weights of a hundred kilos, to the loud applause of his enthusiastic audience.
Another day we arranged to visit the “Couvent des Bernardines.” This cold grey building is situated some miles off from Biarritz and seems to be shut away from all sounds of the world. From afar the dull sound of a bell was heard, denoting every half-hour the change of the nun on duty. Over the entrance door we saw a plate with the inscription to speak in a low voice when entering the cloister. We saw the nuns walking about two and two, shadowy white-robed women with black hoods that hid their downcast faces. There are many young girls belonging to the best French and Spanish families amongst them. Poor recluses who have taken their vows for eternal silence which would separate them from earthly love for ever. A defiance to natural laws I call it! The “Bernardines” are permitted to converse with their parents for half-an-hour once a year only. I wonder how they could preserve the gift of speech being deprived of it such a long time! A sad-faced lay sister ushered us into a large parlour with long windows and a polished floor. On the walls hung framed texts and coloured prints of the Virgin and Saints. We were shown all over the monastery and saw over the doors of the cells placards bearing the inscription, “God alone!” It was a very hard life in that Order, and silence was everywhere in this house of silence. In church even the nuns are hidden behind a curtain.
A pine wood separates the cloister from the convent of the “Servantes de Marie,” where the nuns lead quite a different sort of life, working with their tongues just as well as with their hands. They are very industrious, do carpentry and photography and cultivate their flower gardens.
The rainy season was coming on. It was time to leave Biarritz and proceed to the country of “Carmen.” From Biarritz the distance to the Spanish frontier is short. At Irun, the first Spanish station, we saw policemen wearing short black mantles and triangular hats, walking up and down the platform. After San Sebastiano, a picturesque town surrounded by fortifications, our train rolled along a curving road winding at the foot of the Pyrenees, vividly outlined on the deep blue sky. Just as we were preparing to arrange ourselves comfortably for our night’s rest, travellers charged with parcels entered our compartment. A miserable child, who was cutting his first tooth, made us pass a bad night. Luckily I was not a bit sleepy, and leaning on the window I enjoyed the beautiful night, the moon and stars shining out gloriously.