On the following day we started for Cernobbio to spend a week at the Villa d’Este. Our apartment was large and airy; the marble floor and white-washed walls looked agreeably cool, with windows and balcony looking out on the lake, and the hotel terrace with flights of white marble steps descending to the water’s edge. A boat belonging to the hotel was anchored near it. I went early to bed that night, and just as I was going to fall asleep, I heard a chorus of men’s voices singing to a guitar accompaniment. I jumped out of bed and saw a boat moored to the terrace, in which a dozen men, gifted with fresh, strong voices, were giving us a serenade. The moon came up at that moment, silvering the lake and lighting up the scene. I leant out of the window to throw some coins in the direction of the singers, who were making the round of the group of visitors who had gathered on the terrace. I was very much disenchanted when I was told that these minstrels were, all of them, citizens of Como, who, having their day’s work done, floated on the lake and sang ballads. Time passed slowly, one day like another. The heat obliged us to stay indoors all the afternoon, and I was glad to rest in our cool room. After dinner, we took long walks in the park surrounding the hotel, with mediæval castles, turrets, fountains and water-falls. On the top of a hillock stands a pavilion named Il Bello Sguardo, from which you have a full view of the lake. One morning we went for a row on the lake. I was at the wheel, and Sergy, taking off his coat, rowed on for an hour or more. Our light skiff flew like a bird on the beautiful lake, which is fifty miles long. The shores are lovely, surrounded by hills covered with fig-trees, olive-trees, pine-trees, like big open umbrellas, and rich vineyards. The edges of the lake are strewn with pretty villas of the nobility of Milan, with splendid gardens stretching down to the water. The wonderful southern vegetation amazed us; orange and lemon trees, laden with fruit, grow in groves in the open air. As there is no road, there is no approach but by water to the villas; nearly all of them have a small separate embankment. One of the prettiest villas belongs to Taglioni, the renowned ballet dancer, who in long past days delighted our grandfathers. A little further on we saw the villa belonging to Mme. Pasta, the celebrated French actress. On its frescoed fronts different musical instruments are painted. Bellini once upon a time had been on a visit to Mme. Pasta, and the piano on which the great composer had improvised his music, is kept there as a relic. We went another day by steamer to Menaggio. The hills that encircled these shores are covered by poor vegetation, only dull olive trees here and there. We were startled by the formidable report of the dynamite blowing up the rocks which are to serve for the building of houses; the hills all around caught up the sound and echoed it from one to the other.