CADINEN (pronounced Cadeenen) and its glories were, for the first few months of our acquaintance, a frequent topic of the Princess’s conversation, so that it was with very lively interest that I found myself in the month of June of the following year journeying towards its promised felicities. We were travelling all night in the special train, which carried the usual portentous amount of luggage, besides three tutors, one doctor, a lady-in-waiting, myself, and various footmen and maids. In addition to Prince Joachim and his sister, their two young cousins, Princes Max and Fritz of Hesse, whose acquaintance I had made in Homburg, were also going with us.

Her Majesty was to come to Cadinen later, when the Kieler Woche was over, bringing with her Prince Oskar and Prince August Wilhelm from Ploen.

His Majesty never came at the same time as his family, for the simple reason that there was then no room for himself and his numerous suite: even on ordinary occasions it was a very tight fit for everybody.

Once, with a sudden determination to see how the Empress was getting on, the Emperor made a descent of three or four days, announcing his coming only a few hours beforehand. A kind of general shuffle of apartments had to be made instantly, everybody packing up their things and squeezing themselves into little out-of-the-way holes and corners. Every house in the village having a decent spare room was requisitioned, but only two were available, the rest being impossible; and somebody suggested a tent on the lawn, but unfortunately there were no tents.

Most of His Majesty’s adjutants had to use the train, shunted on to a siding, as an hotel, sleeping and dressing there in much discomfort; for it is one thing to live simply, divested of life’s superfluities, and quite another to retain a courtier-like appearance in the midst of an absolute dearth of means to that end.

“We have only accommodation for a tooth-brush and a cake of soap, yet must change into four different costumes every day,” complained one unfortunate Kammer-Herr.

Fortunately it only lasted for four days, and then the Emperor and his suite departed to more comfortable and roomy quarters.

But on our first visit we had the house to ourselves and plenty of space in which to move about.

The journey from Berlin is long and slow, and appears interminable. The train passed through very flat, uninteresting country, especially during the last few miles, where the railway approaches the Frisches Haff, that curious bay formed by the waters of the sluggish Vistula, separated from the Gulf of Danzig by a thin strip of sand which stretches some hundred miles along the coast.

Cadinen is about ten miles from Elbing, which is reached from there by a train which puffs leisurely up and down the single branch line at long intervals of the day. The station platform at this little village, when I first knew it, was practically non-existent. One descended from the blue-and-gold royal train right on to the meadow. Great purple columbines, yellow and blue lupines, seemed to be almost growing over the line itself. No road was visible excepting a sandy cart-track, full of ruts, where three or four of the royal carriages, looking entirely out of place, were waiting to take us up to the Schloss. One felt that a farm-cart drawn by a yoke of oxen would have been more appropriate.

We bumped towards the Schloss, the coachman wisely eschewing the track and driving over the meadow itself, past a Zigelei (tile-factory) belonging to the Emperor, and up a shady lane of ancient and weathered oaks, till we came to one of those stucco, villa-like country-houses usual in the Fatherland, which makes it easy to understand why the Germans fall into raptures over ours in England.

It stood, with a small interval of untidy lawn, close to the road and opposite the village green and duck-pond, around which other houses were clustered. At the back was what is called a park in Germany, but the term has no relation to the English idea of a park, and means simply an extensive garden and orchard. A lovely avenue of chestnut trees was the chief beauty of the garden. They unfortunately grew close up to the house, and made some of the bedrooms so dark that on dull days one could not read or write without a lamp on the writing-table, which was very inconvenient, especially as our rooms had to serve as combined sitting-and bed-rooms.

The Empress and the Princess had with them all their servants, including housemaids, from the New Palace, but peasant-women of the neighbourhood waited upon the suite—clean, strong, healthy-looking people who usually worked barefoot in the fields for a wage of threepence or fourpence a day, but at the advent of the court were thrust into print gowns and boots, and, wearing little flat caps on their heads, pervaded the house, smiling broadly. They spoke with an engaging West-Prussian accent, and only came for an hour or two in the mornings, and again in the afternoons for another short spell of work. In the intervals they went back to their occupations in the fields, for the Inspektor did not approve of their absence just at the busy harvest time. They were all of them Catholics, for the Reformation never penetrated to that district, and among them is much Polish blood.

In the rather untidy but pleasant Schloss garden was an ornamental pond, from which arose at every moment of the day and night, never ceasing, never changing, a pitiful moaning cry, which speedily got on to everybody’s nerves, and was possibly the reason why all the grown-up people felt rather snappy and cross during the first few days. It had somewhat the effect on one’s mind of a squeaking slate-pencil, and speedily became intolerable, for it penetrated the house, and nowhere was there a refuge from the nerve-rending noise.

It was the cry of the Unken, a peculiarly loathsome kind of frog which inhabited the pond, where large green frogs whose note was a comparatively cheerful kind of cackle lived in harmony with these almost invisible but painfully audible pests.

The term Unken-ruf (Unken-cry) is used in Germany to express any persistently ominous prediction, and is a very expressive term, for there are few things more depressing to the spirits than the call of these tiny black creatures.

Rendered desperate, however, by our sufferings, the little Hessian princes produced a butterfly net and managed after some trouble to catch a good many of the Unken, which floated on the top of the pond, and were practically invisible except for a tiny green spot which projected over each eye. The princes speedily became very expert at locating them, and enjoyed excellent sport every day after dinner, catching over a hundred in two or three days. The horrid, slimy, glutinous things—which the Princess handled without any qualms—were a bright flame-colour underneath and deep black above. They were carefully transferred in a water-can to the Haff, which was not far away, and every one felt much benefited by their change of quarters.

The chief charm of Cadinen was its idyllic simplicity. There were no tourists, no “respectable” people, just simple workers in the fields and crowds of barefooted, sunburnt children. Pigs, sheep, and chickens pervaded the place, all of them belonging to His Majesty, who had purchased the whole estate just as it stood and proceeded with characteristic energy to improve it. Gradually he changed the prevailing simplicity of everything, and built new stables as well as a large automobile garage, containing ample accommodation for grooms and chauffeurs. He pulled down the old picturesque houses, where the children and pigs and chickens had lived together in happy amity, and erected some very pretty gabled cottages, the plans of which had been sent to him from England—charming cottages, with roses climbing over the door and wire netting round the grass plot to keep out the hens, not forgetting a nice convenient pigsty at the back—but the barefooted peasant women with the handkerchiefs tied over their heads never looked very much at home in them, and were always sighing after the old, dirty, insanitary houses around whose memory their heart-fibres still clung.

The Emperor was very angry and impatient one day with a woman who expressed some of this regret, and told her she was ungrateful; yet it was obviously not ingratitude that prompted her to speak, but rather a wistful retrospect, a sorrowful longing for the scenes associated with all the joys she had ever known. Even the duck-pond, that enchanted spot where the Princess from her window watched every evening the farm horses as they waded in and drank delicately just in the yellow and scarlet glory of the sunset, where the herd of cows came and stood in the water, switching their tails and taking long, deliberate draughts every evening after milking-time—all was done away with, the pond filled up, the green levelled and kept smoothly rolled. No children or dogs played on it any more, the horses and cattle went another way home, and sentries, those adjutants of royalty, were posted where erstwhile the geese had waddled across the grass.

Fortunately it was some time before all these improvements were made. No sentries marred those early years in Cadinen. Only one or two green Gendarms wandered about the place or sat somnolently in the sunshine. The clink of the blacksmith’s shop penetrated the open windows of the schoolroom as the Princess read with her tutor. The blacksmith was a most delightful man, who had been at sea and travelled far afield, and was still young and handsome, with a pleasant-faced wife and two little children, one of whom, Lenchen, squinted most frightfully, but was a great friend of the Princess.

“Every year it seems to me that Lenchen squints worse,” she would sigh after the first interview; “but perhaps it is because I haven’t seen her for so long. She is going to be operated on next winter. She would be quite pretty if her eyes were right.”

A village forge has been from time immemorial an irresistible attraction to children, and it was surprising how all roads in Cadinen seemed somehow to lead past the blacksmith’s, who was always either fitting shoes on horses, or mending a ploughshare, or doing something interesting of that kind.

“So useful,” said the Princess as she gazed—“so much better than learning the date of the Silesian Wars, isn’t it?”

Sometimes she helped to blow the bellows.

A tiny chapel, capable of holding about twenty people, had been built on the top of a very steep hill in the “park.” Every Sunday morning we toiled pantingly up to Gottes-Dienst. A stalwart clergyman came over from Elbing to hold the service, and always stood at the door of the church and shook hands with each worshipper, saying, “God greet you.” He seemed almost a size too large for the chapel, so tall and broad was he. From the doorway was a wide view over the Haff, which was always muddy in colour except at sunrise, when it was blue, and at sunset, when it turned yellow and pink and sometimes blood-red; but beyond it there was always a clear strip of deeper blue—the waters of the Baltic, or Ost-See (East Sea) as it is called in Germany. We grew to know the Haff very well, for every afternoon the children were taken across it in a little steamer to bathe at a tiny place called Kahlberg, which lay on the farther shore.

This small steamer, called the Radaune, was hired from somebody in Danzig for a few weeks every summer, and manned by three mariners whom the children considered with much reason to be the cleverest and most delightful men they had ever met. One named Vigand was captain and steersman, another attended to the machinery, and a third just hovered generally around, fetching out camp-stools and answering questions, at which he showed himself most fluent and explanatory.

Prince Joachim, under Vigand’s strict tuition, took lessons in steering; and the duties of the man at the engine were not so arduous but that he found time to pop his head up on deck and join in the conversation for several minutes at a time.

The doctor and both the tutors, two maids and two footmen, also two dogs, always accompanied us; for we took tea on to the shore as well as bath towels and changes of dry garments, as the Princess had a knack of falling into a wave fully dressed, so that one had to be prepared for emergencies.

The Haff itself was a greasy, oily, rather smelly stretch of water in the hot weather—so stagnant that a small weed grew on its surface—but it suffered occasional violent storms, which dispelled the oily greasiness but tossed the tiny steamer up and down in a manner most disagreeable to indifferent sailors. Fortunately it only took half an hour to get to the opposite side, but even that was too long for some people, and they succumbed to the horrors of sea-sickness almost in sight of port.

Arrived on the other side, we had, until a small pier was built, to get into a boat and row to shore, then walk over a strip of sand, which took perhaps seven or eight minutes, and there on the other side lay the sand-dunes with the beautiful clean Baltic Sea dimpling in a curve of white foam.

In the distance away to the left could be seen the houses and “pensions” of the tiny fishing village of Kahlberg, to which visitors came in the season. The far end of the shore was strictly reserved for the use of the royal children, so that they were able to enjoy themselves without restriction.

It was perhaps the most uninteresting bit of coast to be found anywhere. The Baltic is practically tideless, and the shore has no rocks to break the long monotony of sand which stretches away for a hundred miles eastward. The sun blazed down fiercely with the usual untempered glare of seaside places; nowhere was there the least shelter from the intense heat; but the Princess and her brother and cousins thought it the loveliest spot on earth, for it was the only seaside place they knew. They paddled in the waves and dug sand castles, and, after great discussions and consultations with the doctor, were at last allowed to bathe, which filled them all to the brim with happiness.

Five minutes was the absolute limit of time allowed for us to disport ourselves in the water, and the lady-in-waiting stood watch in hand on the shore and called “Time’s up—come out,” at the end of what seemed a mere flash of seconds.

“Why, we haven’t had time to get our bathing-dresses wet,” the Princess would remonstrate, and then would commence a heated argument to the effect that the Countess must have misread the time. This lady, in a position somewhat analogous to that of an unfortunate hen who sees her ducklings in the water, would stand on the shore gesticulating, commanding, imploring with ever-increasing vehemence, while the Princess, secure in her impregnable position, and fully alive to the advantages of lengthened discussion, would duck under the water and emerge splutteringly to shriek, “One minute more, dear Countess, one minute more: I know your watch is fast—you said so this morning,” and she would plunge under again, while the outraged Countess, angered by this illogical reasoning, would threaten to stop the bathing altogether; and at last, by the most circuitous route, the dripping Princess would emerge.

This scene was enacted almost daily, even when the doctor conceded ten minutes in the ocean instead of five. Often, when the Princess was enjoying herself exceedingly, she would plunge under as soon as the Countess opened her mouth to speak and make a tremendous noise and splashing. Once I heard her shriek “Our future lies on the water,” as a wave swallowed her up and nothing but a row of pink toes remained visible.

After bathing we had tea, which was always brought to the shore in stone screw-topped bottles and drunk out of silver tumblers. After tea everybody looked for Bernstein or amber—for the coast of the Baltic is the only place in Europe where it is found, and Danzig is famous as a centre for very beautiful artistic specimens of cups and vases ornamented with pieces of this stone.

When it was time to return to the steamer on the far side of the sand-dunes, a long row of spectators, many of them with cameras, was always waiting to see us embark; and often a somewhat shy, reluctant child, propelled forward by some invisible agency in the rear, would present the Princess with a rose or a bunch of flowers.

The joy with which all the children met Vigand and the other members of the crew after their short separation was very touching. The engine-man exhibited the versatility of his accomplishments, and a talent for domesticity, by drying all the soaked garments, especially stockings, of which the consumption was large, in the mysterious region down below.

Prince Joachim’s steering was occasionally somewhat erratic, but improved day by day, until he was able to take us into haven and bring up alongside the pier in a most masterly manner.

When the Empress and the two older princes arrived, they also accompanied us to Kahlberg, and were introduced to Vigand and the rest of the crew with great joy, as these heroes had been described in detail to Her Majesty long before she saw them, and their manifold virtues and talents dinned incessantly into her ears.

The Princess became at this time frequently reminiscent of a week she had once passed on her mother’s yacht, the Iduna. The chief personality on board appeared to be the English cook, who hailed, I believe, from Brighton, and always addressed Her Majesty as “mum.” His culinary talents excited the rapture of the Princess, who went into ecstasies over his porridge and curries and other toothsome dishes. One of his brothers was steward on board and waited at table, and had the peculiarity of invariably stubbing his toe against the raised threshold of the dining saloon whenever he came in or out, flying, so to speak, headlong into the saloon or alley-way. But the cook’s talents were so pronounced that the Empress asked him for various English recipes, which I was called upon to translate into German—a very difficult task for any one unacquainted with the technical terms of German cookery.

Sometimes the Princess would drive in her pony-cart along the road in the direction of Frauenburg, famous as the dwelling-place of Copernicus. These drives were not an undiluted joy to her, for the small bare-legged peasant children insisted on presenting flowers all along the route, which meant pulling up the ponies every five minutes to avoid driving over some staggering infant of tender years who, escorted by an elder sister, clasping in its grubby little paw some herbage torn from the nearest hedge, would precipitate itself recklessly into the path of the carriage. The flowers, generally intermixed with bunches of over-ripe wild strawberries had all to be taken into the carriage, and exuded their green sap and berry-juice liberally on to the cushions and the dresses of the occupants.

Frauenburg was a quaint old town, the capital of the great Prussian diocese of Ermland, formerly under the jurisdiction of the Teutonic Knights, who possessed large territories in that neighbourhood. In 1309 the executive officers of this great order of fighting monks established themselves in the castle of Marienburg, a few miles beyond Elbing, which the Emperor has recently restored to its old glory, having entirely rebuilt it, as far as possible, in exact accordance with the former building, which had almost crumbled to decay.

Cadinen often suffered from severe thunderstorms, which came on with great suddenness. One day, when for some reason we did not go to Kahlberg, the children and their teachers went in two open carriages for a long drive. Prince Joachim, who was an ardent whip, drove one of them, and we were getting along very merrily, several miles away from home, when suddenly heavy drops began to fall, and the thunder rumbled threateningly. Fortunately a big Garten-Restaurant with ample stabling accommodation was close at hand, so we immediately drove into the yard, and the carriages and horses were just put under shelter as the rain came tumbling down in torrents. We all sat in a sort of covered glass veranda and played games for an hour, when, the weather having cleared up, we started off again. To the great joy of the children, almost as soon as the horses’ heads turned homewards, two closed royal carriages were perceived hastening in our direction, obviously bringing succour for half-drowned persons, for they were piled up inside with cloaks and rugs of every description. The consternation written legibly on the faces of the coachmen made the whole crew of children burst into irrepressible laughter, it pictured so visibly the agitation of mind into which the entire Schloss had been thrown.

“Yes,” remarked the Princess callously, “as soon as the storm came on I could see the Countess wringing her hands and putting us to bed and the doctor coming to feel our pulses.”

Naturally both Countess and doctor were much relieved that their precautions had been unnecessary, and we were praised for being “so sensible” as to take refuge in the restaurant; but it was a very lucky chance that we happened to be near one, as in that lonely region they were but sparsely distributed, and we might have gone many miles before finding another.

The Emperor, among other properties on the estate, became owner of a Zigelei or tile-factory, of which there are many hundreds along this coast, which possesses a peculiar variety of clay, very suitable for the manufacture of bricks and tiles. The old Cathedral of Frauenburg, of which Copernicus, though he was never a priest, was canon, is built entirely of brick, for there is no stone in the neighbourhood. The Emperor’s factory has in the last few years begun the experimental manufacture of the finer kinds of porcelain, and produces year by year many artistic objects which are sold in Berlin.

During the many wet days of our stay in Cadinen, the children found great occupation in modelling various articles out of the prepared clay, which were afterwards sent to the factory to be burned. Some little fern-pots and vases, the product of her amateur efforts, were regarded with great pride by the Princess.

The Emperor took the greatest interest in his factory, and never failed to visit it as often as he could do so, inspecting and criticizing every department. He has built delightful houses and cottages for the heads of departments and the workers. Some people scoff at it as a piece of costly, needless extravagance, and object to the Emperor’s competition with other factories. It is run chiefly, however, as a practical scientific experiment, and although a good deal of cheap pottery is made and sold to the general public at current market prices, it aims at artistic development as well as the invention and discovery of colours and new glazes. From his travels the Emperor is always bringing here some piece of antique porcelain, Italian, Greek or Roman, which may suggest something new in form or colouring. He is so keen himself that he is bound to inspire keenness in others.

Once or twice I have been round the factory with the Emperor and Empress, who would stay there for an hour or two sometimes on their way to or from Rominten. His Majesty always took the whole of his suite with him, and liked them to be as interested as himself. On one occasion, from the heaped shelves of the warehouses he hurled—there is no other word which quite expresses it—terra-cotta busts of himself and large vases and other pottery of the same material at the members of the suite. My share of the spoil was a bust of himself and two flower-vases. We all emerged carrying our property, and the officers in uniform looked rather comical with large terra-cotta plaques under each arm or cradling a bust carefully against the shoulder.

In fine weather the Princess sometimes rode in the forest, but during the second and third year of her visit to Cadinen she devoted herself entirely to bathing and did not ride as well. As, however, there were twenty riding-horses available, I always got up at half-past five, and rode alone with a Sattel-Meister through the beautiful forest, which was of quite a different nature to that of Potsdam. It had a wild delightful freshness, with dimpling brooks appearing out of the greenery; great rocks and boulders stood at the turn of every path, with ferns growing from their crevices. The roads were not so good as those to which we had been accustomed, as they were full of tenacious and slippery beds of clay, and quite dangerous after rain, as were the fourteen little wooden bridges which crossed the wimpling stream which meandered aimlessly but beautifully through the trees. But when it was impossible to ride in the forest, there were the cornfields, and the stubble-fields from which the oats had been cleared were magnificent for a good stretching gallop. Those early rides lengthened the day a good deal.

At five o’clock the Lampier, the old man who trimmed the lamps and cleaned the shoes, would knock softly at my door according to orders. I would rouse up hastily and dress, and then creep warily past the rooms where every one slept, and down the back staircase into the yard, where, in the morning sunshine, the wrinkled old HÜhner-frau was feeding her flock of ducks and chickens; then, slipping like a conspirator through the wet bushes into the stable-yard round the corner, I would come upon the smiling Sattel-Meister in his neat uniform, standing beside two horses held by stable-boys. We would bow to each other in ceremonious German fashion, mount, and away into the glory of the dewy morning; for however wet and stormy the after part of the day might be, the mornings were always fair and smiling.

Curtains of filmy cobwebs, threaded with beadlets of dew, spanned every twig, while gorgeous beds of lupines ranging from white through pale and deep heliotrope to dark purple, great upstanding masses of campanulas, tall yellow foxgloves, and other flowers unknown to me bordered the field paths through which we rode. The shimmering yellow of the bearded rye, the darker reddish-brown of the wheat, rippled like a sea by the breath of morning, the vivid emerald of the potato fields, the glorious chrome and sulphur of the yellow lupines grown as cattle fodder, mingled with the subtle green of the forest trees, and the long-drawn-out blue thread of the distant Baltic, all dappled and gleaming in the dawn, blended together in a riot of luminous colour.

The peasant women working in bands of twenty or thirty among the potatoes would lift up their friendly brown faces, and wave a hand and smile as we galloped past. Occasionally we came unexpectedly on one of them kneeling before a tiny wooden shrine almost hidden in the standing corn.

The last Sunday of our stay in Cadinen was always devoted to the Kinder-Fest, or treat for the school-children, given by the Empress.

The youth of the village was scrubbed and washed and starched and ironed to a pitch of painful perfection, but none of the children wore anything in the shape of finery, and nobody thought of curling or waving their abundant locks for the occasion. The girls’ tight pigtails were tied, if anything, a trifle tighter, while the boys’ heads were cropped almost to the bone. The most conspicuous change in their attire was the presence of shoes and stockings, which obviously severely handicapped their activities. All the light-footed boys and girls, who usually skipped untrammelled down the grassy lanes, became slow-footed, slouching, awkward louts, moving with a stiff propriety which was as much the effect of footgear as of respect for royalty.

The festivities began by coffee and cake at three o’clock, for tea is unknown in that district. The cake was a kind of bread with currants stuck in it at long intervals, and the coffee, which we will hope was not as strong as it looked, was imbibed by infants of the tenderest age, babes in arms sipping it eagerly from their mothers’ cups apparently without any evil effects.

The Empress and the Princes and Princess waited on the small sunburnt guests, and saw that they were well supplied, and after tea was finished games were played.

“The very stupidest games I ever saw,” said the Princess, who preferred something more exciting than “Here we go round the Mulberry-Bush,” or its German equivalent. So she immediately organized sack-races among the boys, helping to tuck the small urchins into their sacks, and instructing them how to hop along, cheering on the blacksmith’s son, whom she obviously desired to see the winner.

All the mothers, most of whom appeared to be employed at the Schloss as housemaids, clustered round in their clean print dresses, watching the sports with the deepest interest; while the green-clad foresters, the Inspektor and his family, the fishermen from the Haff, also stood in a respectful semicircle, gravely and seriously absorbed in the sack-races.

At half-past six the Fest was finished, and everybody dispersed homewards; but at the Schloss the children often continued the Fest on their own account. On one occasion, after supper, Prince Joachim, having by some mysterious means discovered that one of the footmen as well as a cook were performers on the harmonica, a sort of improved accordion, proposed that they should be sent for and an impromptu dance held on the lawn.

The cook arrived first in his white cap and apron, looking rather embarrassed at being called upon to perform before royalty. He made a deep bow to Her Majesty, and was then conducted by the young Princes to the garden seat and requested to begin at once, so he flung himself with the ardour of a true musician into a waltz, and they all skipped merrily round upon the grass. Presently a rather fat red-faced footman arrived with a second harmonica, bowed, and took his place beside the cook, and the two went hard at it, the cook playing the air while the footman made the accompanying harmonies. Occasional discords arose, whereupon they regarded each other sternly, each tacitly accusing the other; but it never disturbed the rhythm, and the dancers hopped energetically round in spite of the heat and their hard day’s work.

The cook, possessing an artistic soul, always waved his head in time to the music, gazing upwards to the stars; but the fat footman, being a man of another temperament, sat stolidly, moving nothing but his fingers.

Bed-time for the children was long passed when the musicians were reluctantly dismissed with the warm thanks of the Empress, and cook and footman retired in a series of graceful bows to their respective spheres.

The last day of Cadinen comes. The luggage has been packed and carried downstairs and loaded into carts by a quarter-section of soldiers sent over from Elbing for the purpose. The brown-faced youths penetrate every room, grinning amiably, and shoulder everything they can find, while harassed footmen rush about with lists in their hands, which they consult hurriedly.

The train is waiting, the Land-Rat is waiting, the Inspektor, the Zigelei-Direktor, In the dusk, as we drive down to the station, beyond which glimmers the long line of the Haff, we pass rows of workpeople, who timidly wave hats and aprons as Her Majesty goes by.

We are quickly in the train, and stand at the windows, waving our hands vigorously as it moves off. The fields fade away into the distance, the blue cornflowers on the edge of the railway banks nod farewell, a solitary stork can be seen wending his way homewards on wide-sweeping wings. The darkness falls and blots it out. When the dawn comes we are nearing Potsdam once more, and on the whole rather glad to be back again, for, as the Princess says, “Cadinen’s very nice, but ‘there’s no place like home,’ is there?”