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Aunt Kathryn was prepared to like Abbazzia before she saw it, because it was the scene of Prince Dalmar-Kalm's birth, and also because she'd been told it was the favourite resort of Austrian aristocracy. I hadn't listened much, because I had clung to the idea of visiting historic Pola; but Abbazzia captured me at first glance. Everywhere was beauty and peace.
As soon as Mother can get up she is going to Abbazia for a change, and most likely Dora will go with her. March 26th. Mother and Dora are going to Abbazzia next week. Dora thinks I envy her the journey, and she said: "I would willingly renounce the journey and the seaside if only Mother would get well. And this year when I have to matriculate, I certainly should not go for pleasure."
Terry argued, looking obstinate. "I have never driven in Dalmatia, although I've been to Fiume and Abbazzia; but I have a friend who went with his car, and he had no adventures which ladies would not have enjoyed. Our principal difficulty would be about petrol; but we could carry a lot, and have supplies sent to us along the route. I'll engage to manage that and the car."
Soon after ten we were en route for Abbazzia close to Fiume slanting along the neck of the Istrian peninsula by a smooth and well-made road that showed the Austrians were good at highways.
I loved her passionately, I dreamed of her every night, and then this "your forsaken," "your forgotten" what did it mean? What was it for? And then the dreariness of the country, the long evenings, the disquieting thoughts of Lubkov. . . . The uncertainty tortured me, and poisoned my days and nights; it became unendurable. I could not bear it and went abroad. Ariadne summoned me to Abbazzia.
"Funny he should be more familiar with the country than you, as you've got a castle there," Beechy soliloquized aloud. "I make no secret that I have never lived at Hrvoya," the Prince answered. "Neither I, nor my father before me. The house where I was born is at Abbazzia. That is why I want you to go that way.
She scrutinised me and frowned. "Abbazzia is not the country," she said; "here one must be comme il faut." Then we went to the restaurant. Ariadne was laughing and mischievous all the time; she kept calling me "dear," "good," "clever," and seemed as though she could not believe her eyes that I was with her.
But for Abbazzia itself, it seemed the most unconventional pleasure place I ever knew. Instead of a smart "parade" all along the rocky indentations which jutted into or receded from the sea, ran a winding rustic path, tiny blue waves crinkling on one side; on the other, fragrant groves of laurel, olives, magnolias, and shady chestnut-trees.
A baby was wheeled by in a perambulator and the wheels squeaked on the damp sand. A decrepit old man with jaundice passed, then a crowd of Englishwomen, a Catholic priest, then the Austrian General again. A military band, only just arrived from Fiume, with glittering brass instruments, sauntered by to the bandstand they began playing. Have you ever been at Abbazzia?
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