Daisy Miller

DAISY MILLER: A STUDY IN TWO PARTS
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.