neither Bice nor anyone else in the family could make sense of because it was in English. Segantini himself spoke only Italian and rarely considered the fact a drawback because the people around here were all familiar with his native tongue. Of course they were. After all, the wine came from Valtellina, the polenta from northern Italy, the farmers were from the Bregaglia Valley, and people spoke Romansh, which was related to Italian anyway. Segantini decided not to answer the letter, to continue with his normal schedule. But for some inexplicable reason, he didn’t throw it away. Every time his eye fell on it, he felt a little pang. Finally, he had a sudden inspiration; grabbing the letter, he hurried over to the Hotel Maloja.
“How nice to see you, Signor Segantini,” Achille Robustelli said, getting up from behind his desk. “Please sit. What can I do for you?”
Segantini sat down awkwardly and handed Signor Robustelli the letter. “I’d be grateful to you if you could translate this for me. I don’t know English, and there might be something important in i t . . . you never know.”
Achille Robustelli nodded and scanned the piece of paper. “Good news,” he said. Someone wants to write an article about you for an English newspaper, and the gentleman asks for an appointment with you.”
Segantini frowned, “And do you think this is on the up-and-up, Achille? Is the man trustworthy?”
“Absolutely,” Robustelli replied. “It will be perfectly all right for you to agree to talk to him. Mr. Danby is a journalist; he would also like to take a few photographs. He is staying at the Pension Veraguth in St. Moritz.” He noticed Segantini’s hesitation, “If you like, I can send him an answer on your behalf.”
Segantini nodded but still seemed to have some doubts, and so Robustelli said, “I’m sure I can find an interpreter who would be suitable for the interview. It’s an opportunity you shouldn’t turn down.”
Segantini agreed, but did not stand up to leave, even after he had thought it over and told Robustelli just when such a meeting would be possible.
And so Robustelli said, “I think you’ll probably be interested in the concerts we’re planning for the summer season. You have been in previous years. I know how much you like music. But I can’t give you any details yet since the season has just begun, and the dates haven’t yet been set. However, I’ll keep you informed.”
Segantini still didn’t get up, but seemed to be getting ready to say something.
“Robustelli,” he began, then paused as if gathering his thoughts one more time. “There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about. I heard that you’ve hired the young woman the Biancotti sons found on the mountain path that leads from Grevasalvas to Maloja. They say the girl doesn’t speak, and people in the village are saying all sorts of things about her. She’s living with the Biancottis, no one knows who she is, and everyone is making guesses about where she might come from.”
Robustelli waited politely, for it seemed that Segantini had not finished yet.
“Well, Robustelli, I saw her at the lake, and ever since I’ve been mulling over where I’d seen her before.” Segantini crossed his arms over his chest, then uncrossed them again as if he had just thought of the answer.
“She’s from Mulegns! From the other side of the Julier. Did you know that I lived in Savognin until 1894? We lived there from 1886 on, and Savognin isn’t far from Mulegns, only two post coach stops.”
He paused, but Robustelli just nodded; he still didn’t want to interrupt him.
“I saw her at one of the village celebrations in Mulegns, about three years ago, at any rate, it was shortly before we moved to Maloja in 1894. She was fifteen, maybe sixteen years old back then. I noticed her because of the unusual color of her eyes and her beautiful hair. But she was shy and just stood at the edge of the fairground. And no one invited
“How nice to see you, Signor Segantini,” Achille Robustelli said, getting up from behind his desk. “Please sit. What can I do for you?”
Segantini sat down awkwardly and handed Signor Robustelli the letter. “I’d be grateful to you if you could translate this for me. I don’t know English, and there might be something important in i t . . . you never know.”
Achille Robustelli nodded and scanned the piece of paper. “Good news,” he said. Someone wants to write an article about you for an English newspaper, and the gentleman asks for an appointment with you.”
Segantini frowned, “And do you think this is on the up-and-up, Achille? Is the man trustworthy?”
“Absolutely,” Robustelli replied. “It will be perfectly all right for you to agree to talk to him. Mr. Danby is a journalist; he would also like to take a few photographs. He is staying at the Pension Veraguth in St. Moritz.” He noticed Segantini’s hesitation, “If you like, I can send him an answer on your behalf.”
Segantini nodded but still seemed to have some doubts, and so Robustelli said, “I’m sure I can find an interpreter who would be suitable for the interview. It’s an opportunity you shouldn’t turn down.”
Segantini agreed, but did not stand up to leave, even after he had thought it over and told Robustelli just when such a meeting would be possible.
And so Robustelli said, “I think you’ll probably be interested in the concerts we’re planning for the summer season. You have been in previous years. I know how much you like music. But I can’t give you any details yet since the season has just begun, and the dates haven’t yet been set. However, I’ll keep you informed.”
Segantini still didn’t get up, but seemed to be getting ready to say something.
“Robustelli,” he began, then paused as if gathering his thoughts one more time. “There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about. I heard that you’ve hired the young woman the Biancotti sons found on the mountain path that leads from Grevasalvas to Maloja. They say the girl doesn’t speak, and people in the village are saying all sorts of things about her. She’s living with the Biancottis, no one knows who she is, and everyone is making guesses about where she might come from.”
Robustelli waited politely, for it seemed that Segantini had not finished yet.
“Well, Robustelli, I saw her at the lake, and ever since I’ve been mulling over where I’d seen her before.” Segantini crossed his arms over his chest, then uncrossed them again as if he had just thought of the answer.
“She’s from Mulegns! From the other side of the Julier. Did you know that I lived in Savognin until 1894? We lived there from 1886 on, and Savognin isn’t far from Mulegns, only two post coach stops.”
He paused, but Robustelli just nodded; he still didn’t want to interrupt him.
“I saw her at one of the village celebrations in Mulegns, about three years ago, at any rate, it was shortly before we moved to Maloja in 1894. She was fifteen, maybe sixteen years old back then. I noticed her because of the unusual color of her eyes and her beautiful hair. But she was shy and just stood at the edge of the fairground. And no one invited
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