The hotel, formerly the castle of an English queen, was situated on the lake and had an enormous park. Whenever I went out laden with books in search of an isolated spot, I invariably met a quiet man with glasses, going the same way. This was Professor Henry Thode,* also in search of a remote nook where he could work in peace. Although we knew each other we never exchanged a word; but the professor always bowed to me in the most friendly manner, and I was happy that he shared my solitude in a way.
Siegfried Wagner* also came to Villa d’Este. With his big nose, the future Swastika-supporter looked quite Jewish. He whistled tunes from
operettas, and impressed one as loud and common. Later in Florence I made the acquaintance of another, far more appealing member of the Wagner family, a daughter of von Bülow,* who had married a Sicilian and after her husband’s death retired to Florence. Here she lived with her three children in rather modest surroundings. In her salon hung innumerable Wagner pictures, and her main topic of conversation was “Father” and
“Papa.” One got a little confused until finally it became clear that “Father”
was Hans von Bülow while “Papa” was Richard Wagner; “Papa” played by far the more important role.
The Marchesa was a pretty, somewhat faded woman, blonde and German. In contrast, her oldest son, who was then attending the Naval Academy, was passionately Italian. He seems to have the same convictions –
in Italian translation – as his step-uncle. Very badly written but enthusiastic glorifications of Fascism from the pen of Cosima’s grandchild can be read in the “Corriere della Sera” today.
My poor mother suffered a great deal from the proximity of a grown daughter, and so father made the heroic decision to take me along with him to Tangiers, where for a year he had been serving as the Austrian envoy.
Mother stayed behind in Europe.
Tangiers
We embarked at Genoa. The sea was rough, and father drove me to despair by entering my cabin and demanding unfeelingly: “Just tell me, how did you contrive to be seasick?” As if I had done it on purpose!
It was in fact only the short crossing from Gibraltar to Tangiers aboard the Gebbel-Tarik that was really bad. The little ship with its two funnels – a real one and a wooden one for show only – rolled helplessly from side to side.
The friendly old English captain tried to cheer me up by showing me a canary which turned somersaults on his finger. His effort was in vain. The ship rolled and tossed, and the little yellow downy creature turned and turned until I was quite dizzy.
At last, after hours of torment, the coast came in sight, and we were debarked in small boats. A figure out of the Thousand and One Nights, but clad in European style, came to meet us: Abensur, the Austrian vice-consul,
a Moorish Jew and one of the handsomest men I have ever seen. Also waiting for us on the wharf were the Moroccan soldiers who accompany all the foreign representatives.
In those days there were still no paved streets in all Tangiers. During the dry season one sank into the sand, and in the wet season the mud came up over the ankles.
I was still shaky from seasickness but instead of going to the hotel in a carriage, as we usually did, I had to let myself be hoisted by a groom on to Ali, a little brown Arab gelding, while father mounted Moghreb, a large black Berber stallion that was a gift from the Sultan of Morocco.
We rode up a steep path to an area of swarming streets, lined on both sides by open booths, and then reached the great city gate, which was closed every evening at dusk.
Behind the gate was the Suk, the big market-place. Here large dromedaries stood as motionless as if they had been carved out of wood;
little grey donkeys raised their shaggy heads and brayed; and snake-charmers crouched on the ground, surrounded by gaping throngs. As they played monotonous melodies on primitive flutes, an enormous snake would uncoil and wave its body in rhythm. In other parts of the Suk, people were gathered around a story-teller, who, singing, half-speaking, told of wonderful things. After the market place came an empty stretch with nothing but sand. Father spurred Moghreb into a gallop, and Ali began to gallop also. As I was sitting on a horse for the first time, I became extremely uncomfortable and clung without shame to the mane of the beautiful animal. So we rode up to the front of the Villa Valentina, the hotel at Tangiers, where we were welcomed by the proprietress in the most beautiful Austrian dialect.
*
To save himself and me the bother of keeping house, father had taken five rooms in the hotel. The legation itself was just across the way, a one-story house in the midst of a tangled garden.
Mother had sent a French maid along with me, because, now that in some degree I also represented Austria in Morocco, my external appearance (to which I was only too happy to pay no attention) had to be taken care of.
Father made me a little speech about my social duties, and cautioned me never to go out unless I was accompanied by one of the Moroccan soldiers, and never to go riding without Sliman, the groom.
It was about a year before the “Panther affair,”* the country was unsettled, the tribes were in revolt, the sultan was threatened by his one-eyed brother,*
and through the streets rode, heavily armed and surrounded by armed men, a great man of the future: Raisuli.*
For the first few days I was allowed to enjoy my new surroundings for hours on end, always accompanied by the bored, unhappy soldiers; I could stand in the market-place and ride on the beach. But then my social duties made their demands. We were invited to dinner by the French minister.
“Do you know anything about Hippolyte Taine?” father asked me before this event and laid a copy of the Origines de la France Contemporaine before me on the table. “Madame St. R. T.* is a niece of Taine’s, and she never misses a chance to talk about him. Don’t disgrace me.”
“Sir Arthur Nicholson* will be there, too,” he continued. “One of the shrewdest diplomats there is. He may even try to pump you. Don’t say anything stupid.”
The evening came; the maid did my hair beautifully, and I put on my first low-necked dress, in which I thought I looked quite naked. Until dinner all went well, and then, sitting between the French and English ministers I discovered to my horror that I had to blow my nose – and I had no handkerchief.
What was I to do? This was a fine way for me to make my debut. I sniffled violently and lost the thread of the conversation. Father was not within reach. My nose began to run; I looked around at my neighbours:
which of them would be the first to understand my need? The Frenchman was grave and solemn, like a priest celebrating mass. I had been warned against the Englishman, but his blue eyes had a smile in them. I whispered to him: “Can you slip me a handkerchief under the table?” He looked at me astonished, and I began to feel dreadfully embarrassed. Then he laughed, father cast me an approving glance, because I was evidently not boring my dinner partner, and Sir Arthur Nicholson passed the handkerchief to me under the table.
In his heart of hearts Sir Arthur Nicholson was no lover of Germans, and the German minister was no match for the artful Englishman. He knew this and always went around with a troubled, anxious look on his kindly face. All his other colleagues liked him. He was a good man, always ready to help, but he was no diplomat. He was happiest when he could be left to himself at home with his beautiful wife and many children, or when he invited the German colony to some celebration.
Only the Germans, English, French and Spaniards had real interests in Morocco. Representing the entirely disinterested Austrian state, father watched with great interest the skirmishings and intrigues and told me about them, so that I was continually au courant. The first report received by the Austrian Ministry of Foreign Affairs concerning the activities of Raisuli and the latter’s future significance came from my pen. There was to be a wild boar hunt at the time, in which the boars are speared from horses with long lances, and I did not yet ride well enough to go on such a hunt. But as father planned to go, “You might as well write the report,” he said. “No one will read it anyway.”
He was quite pleased with my work, and sent off the report, though he cut out a few poetical expressions, such as “the brave son of the mountains”
and “the falcon-eyed hero.”
*
I learned Spanish and also some Arabic, rode a lot, and danced the nights through. We had to go on horseback even to the balls. In the whole of Tangiers there was a single, ancient, musty-smelling sedan-chair; heaven knows from what century it dated, and what précieuses had leaned back against its cushions. The chair-bearers were Jews: they did not work on Saturdays and holidays, so that on those days elderly ladies were obliged to ride on donkeys to dinners and receptions. We young girls mounted our horses in our evening dresses, pulled the skirts up high and wrapped our legs in plaids. If it rained we held our umbrella in one hand and the bridle in the other. Soldiers walked in front of the horses carrying lanterns with two candles, which only the baschador, the ambassador, was permitted to have. Ordinary mortals had to be content with one candle.
We would ride through the Suk, the fantastic shapes of dromedaries rising ghost-like out of the darkness, little flickering lights burning in front of the tents, and countless rats running in front of the horses’ hoofs. We would halt at the closed gate. One of the soldiers would knock three times, the signal that a baschador wished to enter, then the gate would open with a grating sound and we would pass through. It was all a strange mixture of Orient and Occident. The members of the diplomatic corps were the same people one might meet in the capital of any country, and their dinners and balls could have been given in Vienna, Berlin or any other European city.
Then, out of the blue, something happened that revealed the Orient and its barbaric cruelty in a glaring light.