PART I
At
the little town of Vevey, in Switzerland, there is a particularly
comfortable hotel. There are, indeed, many hotels, for the
entertainment of tourists is the business of the place, which, as
many travelers will remember, is seated upon the edge of a
remarkably
blue lake—a lake that it behooves every tourist to visit. The shore
of the lake presents an unbroken array of establishments of this
order, of every category, from the "grand hotel" of the
newest fashion, with a chalk-white front, a hundred balconies, and
a
dozen flags flying from its roof, to the little Swiss pension of an
elder day, with its name inscribed in German-looking lettering upon
a
pink or yellow wall and an awkward summerhouse in the angle of the
garden. One of the hotels at Vevey, however, is famous, even
classical, being distinguished from many of its upstart neighbors
by
an air both of luxury and of maturity. In this region, in the month
of June, American travelers are extremely numerous; it may be said,
indeed, that Vevey assumes at this period some of the
characteristics
of an American watering place. There are sights and sounds which
evoke a vision, an echo, of Newport and Saratoga. There is a
flitting
hither and thither of "stylish" young girls, a rustling of
muslin flounces, a rattle of dance music in the morning hours, a
sound of high-pitched voices at all times. You receive an
impression
of these things at the excellent inn of the "Trois Couronnes"
and are transported in fancy to the Ocean House or to Congress
Hall.
But at the "Trois Couronnes," it must be added, there are
other features that are much at variance with these suggestions:
neat
German waiters, who look like secretaries of legation; Russian
princesses sitting in the garden; little Polish boys walking about
held by the hand, with their governors; a view of the sunny crest
of
the Dent du Midi and the picturesque towers of the Castle of
Chillon.I
hardly know whether it was the analogies or the differences that
were
uppermost in the mind of a young American, who, two or three years
ago, sat in the garden of the "Trois Couronnes," looking
about him, rather idly, at some of the graceful objects I have
mentioned. It was a beautiful summer morning, and in whatever
fashion
the young American looked at things, they must have seemed to him
charming. He had come from Geneva the day before by the little
steamer, to see his aunt, who was staying at the hotel—Geneva
having been for a long time his place of residence. But his aunt
had
a headache—his aunt had almost always a headache—and now she was
shut up in her room, smelling camphor, so that he was at liberty to
wander about. He was some seven-and-twenty years of age; when his
friends spoke of him, they usually said that he was at Geneva
"studying." When his enemies spoke of him, they said—but,
after all, he had no enemies; he was an extremely amiable fellow,
and
universally liked. What I should say is, simply, that when certain
persons spoke of him they affirmed that the reason of his spending
so
much time at Geneva was that he was extremely devoted to a lady who
lived there—a foreign lady—a person older than himself. Very few
Americans—indeed, I think none—had ever seen this lady, about
whom there were some singular stories. But Winterbourne had an old
attachment for the little metropolis of Calvinism; he had been put
to
school there as a boy, and he had afterward gone to college
there—circumstances which had led to his forming a great many
youthful friendships. Many of these he had kept, and they were a
source of great satisfaction to him.After
knocking at his aunt's door and learning that she was indisposed,
he
had taken a walk about the town, and then he had come in to his
breakfast. He had now finished his breakfast; but he was drinking a
small cup of coffee, which had been served to him on a little table
in the garden by one of the waiters who looked like an attache. At
last he finished his coffee and lit a cigarette. Presently a small
boy came walking along the path—an urchin of nine or ten. The
child, who was diminutive for his years, had an aged expression of
countenance, a pale complexion, and sharp little features. He was
dressed in knickerbockers, with red stockings, which displayed his
poor little spindle-shanks; he also wore a brilliant red cravat. He
carried in his hand a long alpenstock, the sharp point of which he
thrust into everything that he approached—the flowerbeds, the
garden benches, the trains of the ladies' dresses. In front of
Winterbourne he paused, looking at him with a pair of bright,
penetrating little eyes."Will
you give me a lump of sugar?" he asked in a sharp, hard little
voice—a voice immature and yet, somehow, not young.Winterbourne
glanced at the small table near him, on which his coffee service
rested, and saw that several morsels of sugar remained. "Yes,
you may take one," he answered; "but I don't think sugar is
good for little boys."This
little boy stepped forward and carefully selected three of the
coveted fragments, two of which he buried in the pocket of his
knickerbockers, depositing the other as promptly in another place.
He
poked his alpenstock, lance-fashion, into Winterbourne's bench and
tried to crack the lump of sugar with his teeth."Oh,
blazes; it's har-r-d!" he exclaimed, pronouncing the adjective
in a peculiar manner.Winterbourne
had immediately perceived that he might have the honor of claiming
him as a fellow countryman. "Take care you don't hurt your
teeth," he said, paternally."I
haven't got any teeth to hurt. They have all come out. I have only
got seven teeth. My mother counted them last night, and one came
out
right afterward. She said she'd slap me if any more came out. I
can't
help it. It's this old Europe. It's the climate that makes them
come
out. In America they didn't come out. It's these hotels."Winterbourne
was much amused. "If you eat three lumps of sugar, your mother
will certainly slap you," he said."She's
got to give me some candy, then," rejoined his young
interlocutor. "I can't get any candy here—any American candy.
American candy's the best candy.""And
are American little boys the best little boys?" asked
Winterbourne."I
don't know. I'm an American boy," said the child."I
see you are one of the best!" laughed Winterbourne."Are
you an American man?" pursued this vivacious infant. And then,
on Winterbourne's affirmative reply—"American men are the
best," he declared.His
companion thanked him for the compliment, and the child, who had
now
got astride of his alpenstock, stood looking about him, while he
attacked a second lump of sugar. Winterbourne wondered if he
himself
had been like this in his infancy, for he had been brought to
Europe
at about this age."Here
comes my sister!" cried the child in a moment. "She's an
American girl."Winterbourne
looked along the path and saw a beautiful young lady advancing.
"American girls are the best girls," he said cheerfully to
his young companion."My
sister ain't the best!" the child declared. "She's always
blowing at me.""I
imagine that is your fault, not hers," said Winterbourne. The
young lady meanwhile had drawn near. She was dressed in white
muslin,
with a hundred frills and flounces, and knots of pale-colored
ribbon.
She was bareheaded, but she balanced in her hand a large parasol,
with a deep border of embroidery; and she was strikingly, admirably
pretty. "How pretty they are!" thought Winterbourne,
straightening himself in his seat, as if he were prepared to
rise.The
young lady paused in front of his bench, near the parapet of the
garden, which overlooked the lake. The little boy had now converted
his alpenstock into a vaulting pole, by the aid of which he was
springing about in the gravel and kicking it up not a
little."Randolph,"
said the young lady, "what ARE you doing?""I'm
going up the Alps," replied Randolph. "This is the way!"
And he gave another little jump, scattering the pebbles about
Winterbourne's ears."That's
the way they come down," said Winterbourne."He's
an American man!" cried Randolph, in his little hard voice.The
young lady gave no heed to this announcement, but looked straight
at
her brother. "Well, I guess you had better be quiet," she
simply observed.It
seemed to Winterbourne that he had been in a manner presented. He
got
up and stepped slowly toward the young girl, throwing away his
cigarette. "This little boy and I have made acquaintance,"
he said, with great civility. In Geneva, as he had been perfectly
aware, a young man was not at liberty to speak to a young unmarried
lady except under certain rarely occurring conditions; but here at
Vevey, what conditions could be better than these?—a pretty
American girl coming and standing in front of you in a garden. This
pretty American girl, however, on hearing Winterbourne's
observation,
simply glanced at him; she then turned her head and looked over the
parapet, at the lake and the opposite mountains. He wondered
whether
he had gone too far, but he decided that he must advance farther,
rather than retreat. While he was thinking of something else to
say,
the young lady turned to the little boy again."I
should like to know where you got that pole," she said."I
bought it," responded Randolph."You
don't mean to say you're going to take it to Italy?""Yes,
I am going to take it to Italy," the child declared.The
young girl glanced over the front of her dress and smoothed out a
knot or two of ribbon. Then she rested her eyes upon the prospect
again. "Well, I guess you had better leave it somewhere,"
she said after a moment."Are
you going to Italy?" Winterbourne inquired in a tone of great
respect.The
young lady glanced at him again. "Yes, sir," she replied.
And she said nothing more."Are
you—a—going over the Simplon?" Winterbourne pursued, a
little embarrassed."I
don't know," she said. "I suppose it's some mountain.
Randolph, what mountain are we going over?""Going
where?" the child demanded."To
Italy," Winterbourne explained."I
don't know," said Randolph. "I don't want to go to Italy. I
want to go to America.""Oh,
Italy is a beautiful place!" rejoined the young man."Can
you get candy there?" Randolph loudly inquired."I
hope not," said his sister. "I guess you have had enough
candy, and mother thinks so too.""I
haven't had any for ever so long—for a hundred weeks!" cried
the boy, still jumping about.