



Produced by Judith Boss





DAISY MILLER: A STUDY

IN TWO PARTS

The text is that of the first American appearance in book form, 1879.





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