CHAPTER VIIISAGRADO AND GRADISCA

Gray twilight pour'dOn dewy pastures, dewy trees,Softer than sleep—all things in order stored,A haunt of ancient Peace.Tennyson.

Gray twilight pour'dOn dewy pastures, dewy trees,Softer than sleep—all things in order stored,A haunt of ancient Peace.

Tennyson.

My collaborator and I drove to Villa Vicentina on Friday, June 7th. We took a lady who is possessed with the photographic mania with us, thinking she might be useful, and the Other Boy to carry her camera, etc. There was no rising at unearthly hours in the morning this time—we started at a respectable hour in the afternoon. The early part of our drive was along the same road by which we went to Aquileia—the long white road bordered with poplars leading through the marshes. After passing throughMonfalcone and crossing the bridge over the Isonzo, however, we turned to the right. Hedges of acacia shadowed the road; the flowers are over, here, by June, but the leaves have still their first freshness, the beautiful tender green that the sun seems to love to illumine and brighten into golden yellow. We crossed a little river, a placid stream fringed with graceful willows and bordered with blue forget-me-nots, flowing through the level meadows and sweet-smelling vineyards, and at last came to the gate of Villa Vicentina. The house stands some distance from the road in a large park that, with its huge trees and rich grass, reminds one of dear old England. The trees are really magnificent, mostly white poplars ("the light quivering aspen"), venerable oaks, and towering sombre pines. We got out of our carriage, and walked part of the way to the house

Mid mystic trees, where light falls inHardly at all.

I like big trees, particularly on a hot day; it is so cool and pleasant under their green shade, where no sunlight comes but in little chequered patches here and there, when outside everything is bathed in the scorching rays, and you see the air tremulous with heat.

LITTLE RIVER NEAR VILLA VICENTINA

The Villa Vicentina formerly belonged to Princess Baciocchi, the sister of Napoleon I. Her daughter left it to the late Prince Imperial, and after his death it became the property of the Empress Eugénie. She never comes here—it is left in charge of an old caretaker and his wife, who, with another lady, possibly their daughter, and a female servant, appear to form the establishment. There is nothing particular about the house—it is an ordinary country villa. All the finer things have been taken away too, but there are still some bits of interesting furniture.

VILLA VICENTINA

· · · · ·

It was a strange feeling, not without a tinge of sadness, that stole over one whilst going up and down the deserted staircases and peeping into the empty rooms. Here and there a marble bust with the classic profile of the Buonapartes, an engraving, a faded water-colour, on the scanty remnants of furniture the Imperial eagle, some old firearms, the slender hand of beautiful Pauline Borghese cast in marble, a few bits of rare china, and everywhere the peculiar smell of damp and age that pervades long-unused houses. Where are the eagles now that once spread their wings over all Europe? Where are the famous beauties? Where are the glorious dreams?

But where are the snows of yester-year?

· · · · ·

To be truthful, this last bit is not mine. My collaborator has just been worrying the life out of me to make me grow enthusiastic about Napoleon, but it is useless—quite useless. I amnotenthusiastic about him, nor about his eagles, nor about his dreams. In fact, I cannot bear him, and he and Wagner make my life a burden. I do not admire them—I wish they had never existed. When those two unhappy beings are mentioned I know people will "jump on" me and abuse me. I bear it all as a martyr, but Iabsolutely cannot write with enthusiastic admiration about "old Nap" or stay in the room when there is Wagner music going on. So my collaborator has found it necessary to add these lines to my sketch. I do not call this fair, for whenIwrite somethingshedoes not like, I have no rest till it is cut out. I know that some time or other Wagner will be brought in somehow, and I protest against it even now. It is a comfort that "our host" is of my opinion about Wagner. He says that he has lost all respect for him since he once went to see some Zulus that were exhibited somewhere, and found that those simple and unsophisticated savages with their war-music could make ever so much more noise than a whole orchestra playing Wagner. He says, too, that, after all, he only once went to a Wagner opera, and discovered that the unhappy tenor or baritone was obliged to make a whole shoe on the stage. No humbug, you know. He had to begin from the beginning and to make that whole shoe (a real serviceable article—no pretence about it) to perfection and to sing all the time till he had finished it. Our host could not stand it. He left the house to give the poor man a chance, and when he came back after two hours, there was the unhappy fellow still hammering away at his shoe, singing quite feebly, for he had no breathleft in him. This time he went away for good, and never went to a Wagner opera again.

There! that has done me good.

· · · · ·

The gardens are beautiful—nice old-fashioned gardens where one could wander about all day with pleasure. There is a pretty conservatory with some wonderful climbing geraniums. What delighted us most was a little walk about a hundred yards long, and quite straight, with a trellis-work covered with creepers—a perfect tunnel. At the farther end is an old stone table and seat, where we intended to have tea. It was a charming spot, but unfortunately we were almost devoured by mosquitoes—they seem to be particularly ferocious and bloodthirsty there. The lady-photographer took some photographs, but I am sorry to saysheis an utter fraud. Generally there is nothing at all on the plate, and if there is, you are quite at a loss to know whether the photograph represents a landscape, a dog, or a flash of lightning.

We had brought a huge basket, like a Noah's ark, with us, which contained the "tea-things." My collaborator told me during the drive that they (the tea-things) had originally been packed in a much larger basket, but that she (with characteristicthoughtfulness) had taken them all out and repacked them again in this "small" one. Personally I had looked forward to tea all afternoon. It was very hot, and I was thirsty, so it was with feelings of joyous expectancy that I began unpacking the following articles:—

1. Two forks.

2. Some butter (in a liquid state) wrapped up in white paper.

3. The poemshorts of Rossetti (neatly bound).

4. Three drawing pencils.

5. Two cups (without saucers).

6. A telescope.

7. Three tablets of Pears' soap (unscented).

8. A little bottle containing something—we didn't dare to open it. I fancy it was poison, and had some connection with photography.

9. A bottle of milk (sour).

10. Two enormous bottles of spirit of wine (to boil the kettle).

11. No kettle!

12. No tea!!

Happily the "Photographic Lady" (who considers tea a diabolical beverage) had some cake and some cherries mixed up with her apparatus, so, after all, our "tea" was rather a success—our tea on the oldstone bench of Villa Vicentina, where the mosquitoes flourish!

There is a tree in the garden that was brought from the Emperor's grave in St. Helena. This is the end of the chapter. I finish it up quickly, or my collaborator will have a fit of enthusiasm again.

CHAPTER VIIISAGRADO AND GRADISCA

Blossoms of grape-vines scent the sunny air.Longfellow.

Blossoms of grape-vines scent the sunny air.

Longfellow.

The usual quartette went to Sagrado and Gradisca—two little Italian-like towns—on Saturday, 15th June.

There is one great drawback about Duino—there are only two roads. One goes to Trieste and the other doesn't. It is rather monotonous always driving along the same road. Familiarity breeds contempt, and even poplar-trees and marshes pall on one in time. However, "what can't be cured must be endured," and if you do not want to go to Trieste you must go the other way, even if it has grown almost too familiar. We branched off on a new road after passing through Monfalcone, and soon came to Sagrado. It is quite a little place, more ofa village than a town, but there is an old villa standing in a large park, which was the attraction here. Two magnificent cypresses stand at the entrance-gate, one on each side, and the park is beautiful, full of fine trees, especially oaks overgrown with ivy. It forms a great contrast to the surrounding country, which towards Duino is barren and stony in the extreme. One has a magnificent view from the villa. It stands on a hill, and the valley of the Isonzo stretches below it. Far on the left one catches a glimpse of the sea. Before one, far as the eye can reach, is the plain, covered with vineyards, like waves of a billowy sea of emerald green, with tiny villages nestling here and there (the "Photographic Lady" says you can count two thousand of them, but I am afraid some untruthful person has imposed on her credulity), and the blue river winding through it, like some giant snake; and on the right, rising higher and higher as they fade away into the shadowy distance, are the snow-capped Alps.

The house is an old villa of the Italian style, with stuccoed walls, and on the floor the pretty Italian "terrazzi." In the hall, just when you enter, one is struck by four quaint old pictures of four men almost life-size; they are dressed in the peasant'scostume of the country, of last century, and each holds a little money-bag in his hand. It seems that these worthy people were four farmers, who, when a former owner of the property (one of the Della Torre) was in financial difficulties and on the verge of ruin, came forward and paid off his debts. In gratitude to them he had their portraits painted and put in his entrance-hall. What a pity it is that people don't do this sort of thing nowadays! If any one feels inclined to follow the example of the four farmers and pay offmydebts, I will faithfully promise to have his photograph taken and placed on my writing-table. I am only sorry I cannot rise to oil-paintings and entrance-halls.

From the pretty marble staircase you enter a charming drawing-room in the Italian Louis XVI. style. The walls are green marmorino, with ornaments of white stucco, and big mirrors let into them. There is a very large dining-hall of great height, with its walls and ceiling painted in fresco. No one lives in the villa at present.

The gardens must have been very pretty—all terraces and staircases—when they were kept in the style of the time. They are rather neglected now, and seem to be only inhabited by a perfect army of nightingales. A queer little red house is at thefarther end of the garden, with a crypt under it and an imitation tomb. The walls are covered with mottoes—Greek, Latin, French, etc., and there is one in English: "Happiness is of a retired nature, and an enemy of pomp and noise." The individual who built the house must have been very much struck by this last motto, for it seems that he used to live in this little dismal-looking place all alone, in the one room over the crypt, leaving his smiling villa untenanted at the top of the hill.

We had tea in the park. It is a great mistake to wander about to find a suitable spot for tea—you are sure to pick out the worst possible place. It is much better to stop under the first shady tree one comes to, and to sit down there. On this occasion the ladies chose the situation, and when tea was about half over we found we were sitting on an ant-heap. It was hardly worth moving then, though, so we stayed where we were, and pretended to be very much interested in the movements of the ants. I made the tea. I have a way of my own for making it, which is, I believe, sometimes practised by homeless wanderers in foreign countries—it is very superior to civilised methods. I am not selfish, and I have not taken out a patent for it, so I have no objection to presenting my method to the world,free, gratis, and for nothing. This is my recipe. Boil the water in the kettle, and when fiercely boiling put in your tea (one teaspoonful for each person and one for the kettle) and stir up the mixture. Let it go on boiling for a few seconds, and then pour out and drink. You will find you have excellent tea in this way.N.B.—It is as well to have a strainer with you to get rid of the tea-leaves.

My collaborator had often stayed at the villa as a child, and had hosts of acquaintances. I was interested to know who the various ladies and gentlemen who kept addressing her were, but her explanations were so confusing that I soon gave up inquiring. I remember that one lady was "the sister-in-law of a gardener, who was the step-brother of a cousin of the late wife of the man with the wig, who was the old butler." I cannot grasp such involved relationships—they are too much formyintellect. I made the acquaintance of the "man with the wig" afterwards. We called to ask him to order supper to be ready for us at the little inn when we came back from Gradisca. Then we drove on to Gradisca. You cross the Isonzo to get there, and there is a lovely view from the bridge, of the blue river and the distant Alps. Gradisca is a nice little old-fashioned town. The inhabitants are evidently not accustomedto visitors, and we caused an immense sensation. The "Photographic Lady" took several photographs, and she was always the centre of an admiring crowd. They were rather disappointed, I fancy, not to see any results then and there. They caused the lady great annoyance by going and standing before the camera to get a better view of the performance—in fact, she got quite angry, and abused them in all the four languages of the country.

PALAZZO FINETTI

HOUSE AT GRADISCA

There is a fine old palace in Gradisca that once belonged to the Della Torre. The whole of this part of the country seems to have belonged to them, and everywhere—in churches, on old houses, over doors—you see the tower with crossed lilies that was their coat of arms. In this particular house I was struckby a charming courtyard with graceful "loggia" and a flight of steps from both sides to the ground.

TOMB OF NICOLAO DELLA TORRE

We went to see two churches. The first contained nothing interesting, but the second is worth seeing. There is a tomb there erected to the memory of Nicolao Della Torre in a private burial-chapel. The monument is very large, with a recumbent figure of the gentleman lying in full armour. He must have been of unusual size, with a fine regular face and a long flowing beard, and is very much like the portraits of Martin the Giant. He, too, fought against the infidels, being General of theImperial troops that protected the Hungarian frontier against the Turks. He was badly wounded in one of the battles, but his end was not so tragic as that of his ancestor, and he now lies peacefully in the little church of Gradisca, enjoying at last the strange old motto of his family—"Tranquillité."

The stuccoed ceiling of the chapel, which seems to be particularly fine, was pointed out to me, but somehow I had had too much of churches and monuments for one day, so I was not so appreciative as I suppose I ought to have been. In any case, I was again the victim of sundry abuse.

After all this sight-seeing it was a pleasure to wander quietly and aimlessly through the quaint little streets, meeting only an occasional donkey or dirty baby, who stared very much, whilst at the windows one would sometimes catch a glimpse of a pair of big black eyes following one curiously from behind a row of red carnations. We admired the old walls of the town, which was strongly fortified in ancient times—enormous black walls with battlements, and beneath them a sort of green lawn shadowed by numerous chestnut-trees, the fashionable promenade of the high life of Gradisca.

We drove back to Sagrado and had supper in the little inn. The "man with the wig" waited on uswith a beaming face. I did not feel at all happy, for we had the most horrid wine it has ever been my lot to drink. It is the wine of the country, and said to be the pure juice of the grape (everything nasty seems to be "the pure juice of the grape"). One drinks it diluted with water, and it has a most extraordinary bitter taste. The ladies assured me that I should soon grow accustomed to it, and then I should never like any other wine as well. I had my own opinion on the subject, but I had to smile and look pleasant.

We drove home in the evening. I had foretold a thunderstorm all the afternoon, but had been laughed to scorn by everybody. My prophecies were correct, however, for we had hardly left Sagrado when the storm began. I never saw more vivid lightning—the whole sky was lighted up by it, and it was almost incessant. The weird effect was increased, too, by the fireflies—there must have been millions of them flitting hither and thither, like the lost souls of the departed. We had a great argument as to whether we should remain at Monfalcone till the storm had passed over. The ladies were in favour of waiting, the coachman and I were for going on, and the boy was neutral, being fast asleep. Our eloquence prevailed—we hurried on. It was a desperate race, but we hadthe satisfaction of beating the worst of the storm by some ten seconds.

After all, I did not think much of Sagrado and Gradisca, and I can only say I hope people will be as bored in reading this chapter as I have been in writing it.

CHAPTER IXON GHOSTS

All houses wherein men have lived and diedAre haunted houses. Through the open doorsThe harmless phantoms on their errands glide,With feet that make no sound upon the floors.We meet them at the doorway, on the stair,Along the passages they come and go,Impalpable impressions on the air,A sense of something moving to and fro.There are more guests at table than the hostsInvited; the illuminated hallIs thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts,As silent as the pictures on the wall.Longfellow.

All houses wherein men have lived and diedAre haunted houses. Through the open doorsThe harmless phantoms on their errands glide,With feet that make no sound upon the floors.

We meet them at the doorway, on the stair,Along the passages they come and go,Impalpable impressions on the air,A sense of something moving to and fro.

There are more guests at table than the hostsInvited; the illuminated hallIs thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts,As silent as the pictures on the wall.

Longfellow.

Ghosts! There is a charm in the very word. Tales of gruesome apparitions told over a blazing fire at Christmas-time come back to one—tales told long years ago, when, after hearing them, one was almost afraid to go to bed; when one started atevery shadow on the stairs and imagined it was some dark denizen of the spirit world come to carry us off; when, being fairly in bed and the light out, we drew the sheets over our heads to shut out the phantoms that appeared in the darkness.

From my earliest childhood I was always a firm believer in ghosts—the good old-fashioned ghost, I mean,—the unhappy lady or gentleman who appears at twelve o'clock at night with wailings and groans, and rattles chains and carries his or her head under his or her arm. That is the sort of ghostIlike.

I have a contempt for the feeble ghost of to-day—the spirit that raps on tables and moves chairs, that writes letters backwards that no one can read, and never shows itself or behaves in a rational manner. The modern ghost is very degenerate.

THE WHITE LADY

My collaborator is a member of the Society for Psychical Research, so I must be careful what I say, or I shall be abused again. We had a grandséanceon the evening of 16th June. It was held in the "Emperor's Room"—so called because the Emperor Leopold I. is said to have slept there. His portrait is painted on the ceiling, which, by the way, is of wonderful Venetian stucco, with cupids and garlands of fruits and flowers all over it. It is a haunted room. It is not the Emperor that appears here,however, but a much more interesting sort of person—the White Lady. She had a cruel husband who threw her down the cliff under the ruin. Her body may still be seen, as she was turned into stone, a gigantic woman wrapped in a long white garment—everlastinglyclimbing up the cliff, but never getting any higher. Her spirit returns to the castle and searches for her lost children. On nights when the moon is full one can hear the rustling of her robes,as she wanders disconsolately about in the "Emperor's Room."

THE WHITE LADY

We carried out ourséanceon the most approved methods. Eight of us—my collaborator, the Energetic Lady, the Photographic Lady, Miss Umslopogaas, the two learned men, the Seal, and myself—sat round a little oval table with both our hands on it, and clasped each other's little fingers. The learned Dark Man calculated that there were eighty fingers on that table. "Better eighty fingers on one table than eighty tables on one finger" remarked our host. He was rather a nuisance (our host, I mean), as he insisted on walking about the room and smoking cigarettes. He also kept turning up the lamp (ghosts dislike much light, and it is necessary to respect their feelings) to see how we were getting on.

TIN-HO—FIRST-CLASS MANDARIN

There was also a dog in the room. This dog rejoices in the name of "Tin-ho"—he is a Chinese animal. I believe he is the last of his race, or something of that sort, and is the most cherished possession of the Energetic Lady. He is one of the banes of my life—he, Napoleon I., and Wagner. I like animals—in fact, I love them—especially cats and dogs. Butthisdog is too much for me. I have made the most friendly overtures to him. I have called him by the most endearing terms. I have even learned someItalian (he only understands that language) especially for his benefit, and have saidpoverissima bellissimato him with a pathos that would have moved a stone statue to tears. But it is of no use. He is as unfriendly as ever, and treats me with contempt. Now I kick him, whenever the Energetic Lady is not anywhere near him, which is not very often, by the way.

I have not explained yet who Miss Umslopogaas is. She is a lady who is staying here, and her proper name is difficult to pronounce—at least, I cannot conquer it. I began by calling her Miss Asparagus, but that sounds too much like a vegetable, and is familiar besides. Umslopogaas is quite as much like what I can imagine her real name to be, and has the advantage of sounding more foreign.

Well, we sat round that table for an hour and a half. My collaborator was delighted at the beginning—she was sure the Seal was a perfect medium, as he trembled all over and felt cold. (I have my own private opinion about it.) The table, too, moved occasionally (no wonder, when the Seal was shaking like an aspen leaf), so she was convinced something was about to happen.

At last something did happen!

An unearthly shriek rang through the haunted chamber. There was a sound of scuffling and struggling, a smothered exclamation.

The Photographic Lady leaped a foot from her chair and showed a tendency to go into hysterics. The Seal's teeth chattered with fright.

But, after all, it was only our host who had trodden on the dog.

We sat on. The Photographic Lady flirted withthe learned Fair Man, and Miss Umslopogaas pinched the little finger of the learned Dark Man; but no ghost appeared. I think there were too many of us, or we were not serious enough, or the vagaries of our host and the dog were too much for the spirits. But, in any case, ourséancewas a failure, and we had no manifestations at all.

We gave it up then, and took to telling ghost-stories. The Photographic Lady related an experience of her own. Some three or four years ago she went into the great banqueting hall in the evening, and there saw the figure of a man. He was of immense height, elderly, and with a long flowing beard, and his face was vividly impressed on her memory. He advanced towards her, and then suddenly disappeared. According to her own account she was not at all frightened. At the time she did not know who it was, but on visiting the church at Gradisca some time later, she recognised the ghost at once as the Della Torre who is carved in stone on the tomb there, an ancestor of her own.

The Energetic Lady had had a strange experience in the same room. She was there alone, and achairbegan to move about of its own accord. It moved forwards—it moved backwards—it moved sideways, and then in a slow and stately manner it waltzedround and round. With her usual energy, she chased it, caught it,sat downon it, but it continued its antics, she still sitting on it. She said it was an uncomfortable sensation and confessed to feelings of alarm—in fact, she left the apartment in haste.

At this point the Seal said he should retire, as he did not like to talk of such things. Miss Umslopogaas also took her departure—she did not consider ghosts quite proper. She thought they should not appear in people's bedrooms uninvited. Some of them were so insufficiently clothed too!

The two learned men disputed on ghosts generally. They had different theories on the matter.

My collaborator listened with a look of supreme contempt. She does not care to relateherexperiences to the common herd. I was so crushed by her superior manner that I was too modest to tell any story. I never saw a ghost myself, but an intimate friend of mine has had that pleasure.

Our host was not bashful, however. This is whathesaid: "I like ghosts, because they never come. If there are ten persons in a room, eight are fools, one is a rascal, the tenth might be all right ... butheis generally dead. I have no objection tohiscoming. Still, as 'Happiness is ofa retired nature,' I think him very considerate never to do so."

I did not see any point in this, but every one else seemed to find it very amusing.

Suddenly the great clock in the tower began striking—slowly—twelve!

Then we all went to bed.

· · · · ·

We are all haunted by ghosts—ghosts of old friends, old scenes. We sit alone, and the past rises up before us. They are all with us again—the friends of our childhood, of our school-days, of our "Varsity" life. Once more we feel the warm clasp of their hands, once more we hear the merry voices and look into the kindly faces we knew long years ago.

Picture follows picture.

We see the old garden where we played as children, our brothers and sisters, our child-friends, the old house, the flowers, the green lawn. It is all so familiar, and yet it was all so long ago.

The scene changes: a long, low room, desks hacked with pocket-knives and stained with ink, a hot, drowsy afternoon, a hum of voices, the master's desk, the master himself in cap and gown, a crowd of boys.

The scene changes again. Stately buildings appear before us, old courts and cloisters, the gleam of the river. Old familiar sounds ring in our ears: the thud of the oars in the rowlocks, the click of the cricket-bat, the tramp of feet on the football field.

Fair faces pass before us too. We hear the rustle of their dresses, their girlish laughter, their soft voices, we see the bright eyes that look into ours, the rosy lips that murmured words we shall never forget.

There are things of which I may not speak;There are dreams that cannot die!There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,And bring a pallor into the cheek,And a mist before the eye.And a verse of a sweet old songIs haunting my memory still:A boy's will is the wind's will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.

Where are they all—those friends of other days?

Gone—some dead—all scattered; we have lost sight of most of them. Some are sleeping on distant battlefields or beneath the waves of the hungry sea, some are preaching their message of peace in busy town or quiet village, some fightingwith disease and death in the crowded hospitals of great cities, some working their way upwards through dusty law-courts or in foreign lands. But here—in Shadow-Land—they one and all come back to us.

CHAPTER XCAPODISTRIA

Happy star reign now!Here comes Bohemia.Shakespeare(The Winter's Tale).

Happy star reign now!Here comes Bohemia.

Shakespeare(The Winter's Tale).

This chapter is remarkable, since it introduces a new and interesting character to the public, to wit the "Gentle Lunatic," who rushed down upon us from the wild and boundless forests of Bohemia.

We journeyed to Capodistria on Saturday, 22nd June, the "Gentle One" filling the place of the "Other Boy" in the usual quartette.

We left Duino at 8 o'clock in the morning (another early start), and drove to Nabresina; from thence we went to Trieste by train. Our train was half an hour late, for which we abused the"Photographic Lady," as she had made all the arrangements for the journey.

It is marvellous how our arrangements always go wrong! We have tried all the ladies in turn as superintendent-in-chief: the "Energetic One," who did not want any railway guide or any advice, but knew everything generally; the "Photographic Lady," who smothered herself and everybody else with books, time-tables, etc., asked every one's opinion collectively and singly, and made an elaborate plan beforehand; my collaborator, who did not care a rap how things went, supposed they would be sure to come right somehow, and when they didnot, said it was destiny; but none of them answered. We were always in a hopeless muddle, either starting too soon, or too late, or not at all.

We were very much annoyed by the dilatory conduct of our train, even when it arrived at Nabresina. It is extraordinary the length of time it takes to start a continental train! A bell rings violently and then tollsone. This is to inform the passengers that the train is in the station. A long interval follows. The bell rings more violently than before and then tollstwo. This shows that in the course of time the train will proceed. There is no hurry, however. You have plenty of time still tomake a substantial meal and pay calls on any friends you may have in the neighbourhood of the station. The bell rings a third time and tollsthree. The conductor suggests the advisability of taking your seat, the engine-driver and stoker go for their last drink, and the stationmaster begins to play with a little horn he wears suspended round his neck. The conductors—there are generally two or three of them on each train—having ascertained that none of the passengers have any particular wish to remain any longer, step out upon the platform, shoutready, and blow whistles. The stationmaster, with an air of immense importance, sounds his toy trumpet, the engine utters a scream of defiance to the world generally, and after a decent interval, to avoid the semblance of haste, the train crawls out of the station. It is an imposing ceremony, but as it is repeated at every small station on the line, it grows somewhat monotonous and makes railway-travelling rather a formidable and lengthy business. At last, however, our train, having rested sufficiently, proceeded slowly on its journey, and we arrived in the course of time at Trieste.

We drove to the Hotel Delorme, and ordered lunch to be ready in an hour. The "Gentle Lunatic" announced his intention of going to findsome tame turtles. He said he meant to buy a dozen, and we could take them home in our pockets. He could dispose of six, and we three should have two each. We argued and remonstrated, but it was of no use—he went.

Meanwhile the two ladies and I set out to see the Church of St. Just, a very fine church—in fact, one of the oldest Christian basilicae. It is a great pity that the beautiful old columns are covered with red damask. They look like a forest of pillars, and divide the church into five aisles. Two of the many altars are bright with very ancient Byzantine gold-grounded mosaics.

The "Photographic Lady" took a photograph of the interior and carried on a flirtation with a young verger, to whom she promised a photograph, whether of herself or the church we were unable to discover. We were then joined by the "Gentle One," who was quite heart-broken, as he had not been able to find his turtles.

Trieste is a nice town. It is a pity it is not a pleasure resort instead of a mercantile place, as it is beautifully situated on green hills sloping quite gently down to the sea; the surroundings are pretty, and brightened with villas and flower-covered cottages.

We went on to Capodistria by steamer. Therewas a very motley crowd of passengers on board—peasants returning from market, business people bound for an afternoon's pleasure-seeking, persons of all sorts and conditions. The "Photographic Lady" was delighted that, in one particular at least, her researches with regard to our arrangements were correct—namely, that the steamer had left Trieste at one o'clock. To prove her accuracy, she asked the "G. L." soon after starting to tell her the time. But his answer was somewhat vague, and his method of ascertaining the time appeared to us peculiar. He took out his watch, looked at it for a long time, gazed fixedly at the sun, shut his eyes, seemed by the contortion of his features to be going through some abstruse calculation, and then said it was between one and two o'clock. This nettled the lady, and she replied rather warmly that she wanted to know theexact time. With a mournful smile he took out his watch again, went through the previous programme, and gave the same answer. At this we all insisted on seeing his watch for ourselves, and then the mystery was explained. It had no glass! it had no hands! We suggested that such a watch must be rather inconvenient, but he assured us it was the best watch he had ever had in his life; for more than ten years it had been in this state, duringwhich time it had gone absolutely perfectly, and had never needed the slightest attention beyond winding up.

It took us three-quarters of an hour to reach Capodistria. It looks very quaint and old-fashioned this little out-of-the-way town, with its red-roofed houses, blue sky above, and blue sea all around, and the great gaunt prison lighted up by the golden rays of the sun, and forming a bright patch of yellow in the landscape. My collaborator says the prison spoils the appearance of the town, but I maintain that it forms a pleasing contrast to the old gray walls of the houses.

Capodistria was formerly Byzantine, but in 1278 it became Venetian. Under the Republic of Venice it was a very flourishing place, and is said to have been the richest town in Istria. There were many wealthy patrician families, renowned for their luxurious living, inhabiting it. With the fall of the Venetian Republic, Capodistria declined, and it is now a small unimportant town. It was formerly known by the name of "the Gentlewoman of Istria."

On arriving, we found that we had made a mistake of two hours in the time of the return steamer, a discovery that threw all our plans out of gear, but we comforted ourselves with the reflection that itgave us more time to see the place. We engaged a chariot and drove off to inspect the town. It was a remarkable conveyance. The "G. L." selected it, and it appeared as if he had chosen the dirtiest he could find. It was small too. We could only just squeeze in, and were very much cramped for room; but any trifling defects in the carriage were amply made up for by the horse. This was indeed a noble animal, and high spirited in the extreme; the driver too was perfectly reckless, so we dashed off at the rate of some sixty miles an hour, the chariot pitching and tossing like a small boat in an angry sea.

The "piazza" is quite the sight of Capodistria, and is very picturesque. A church stands on one side of it, and before one is an old Town Hall, turreted on both sides, with graceful Venetian windows, innumerable inscriptions, coats-of-arms, and other carvings, and the whole crowned by the Venetian lion. A pretty outer staircase with little marble columns runs along part of the front of the building, and under it there is a deep and sombre archway, through which one sees a narrow street, with great, high, irregularly built houses almost meeting above it.

THE TOWN HALL

I believe we went to see three churches in this little town, but I have seen such a superabundance of churches lately, that I cannot remember thecharacteristic features of any of the three. I know that in one there was a quantity of fine old silver, and that we were shown round another by a most obsequious monk, clad in russet brown, who explained its beauties to us in a confidential manner. I remember, too, that we saw some pictures. In one church (the "G. L." says it was in the big one on the piazza) there was a very fine one of Benedetto Carpaccio—the Madonna in the company of some saints, and with two little angels playing the banjo (it may be a guitar) at her feet. In the church where we interviewed the monk there was a big altar-piece of Cima da Conegliano, very much spoilt by having been restored, and a most curious picture of Vittore Carpaccio, with a garland of angels' heads (hundreds of them), some painted in natural colours and some brightred. (Red-headed angels—this is art!)

By the way, I was told that in Venice there is a very old picture attributed to the same Carpaccio, and said to represent the Lords of Duino taking tribute from the town of Zara; the Lords of Duino, in quaint armour, with their ladies and soldiers, on the one side of the picture; on the other, the representatives of the vanquished town bringing gold, etc., and in the background a turreted castle—Duino, anda town near it—Trieste. As Carpaccio was a native of Capodistria, it is very probable that he painted this triumph of some of the most powerful barons of his country.

After this came more sight-seeing. We visited a funny old drinking-fountain known as the "Bridge" (why, I know not), and watched the women drawing water.

It is a sleepy and dull little town, with small streets and dark forbidding-looking houses. There are hardly any shops, but in one quaint sort of jeweller's stall the fashionable ornaments of Istria were pointed out to me. These are ear-rings—little crowned negroes' heads in black and white enamel, and the height of fashion among the fishermen is to wear both in one ear.

One sees very few people in the streets. Here and there a dark-eyed girl strolling along with the peculiar shuffling gait caused by the "zoccoli"—the wooden slippers of the Venetian women.

DOOR-KNOCKER

Everywhere are relics of Venice—the carved cisterns on the piazzas, the winged lions on the houses, where you find inscriptions bearing some of the most illustrious names of the Republic, but everywhere, too, silence, abandonment, and decay. There are some fine old palaces, but the windows are shut, andthey seem deserted. On one we admired a wonderful old bronze knocker of most refined workmanship, and as the house with its arched windows and marble balconies looked particularly nice, we explored the interior. There, too, we found the large Venetianentrance-hall and an imposing-looking staircase, but no soul appeared.

Then we repaired to acaféon the piazza. It was formerly an open "loggia," but between the stately marble columns some mean commercial soul has put glass windows, and the interior is dishonoured by the usual little marble tables and black leather seats. The ladies ordered coffee and sponge-cakes, I drank beer, and the "Gentle Lunatic" asked for a cup of hot water—his favourite drink.

CAFÉ AT CAPODISTRIA

One of the "G. L.'s" passions is his liking forlow acquaintances. Hardly had we finished our repast and gone out, before he formed a new friendship of this kind. An old beggar with a long gray beard approached, and the two immediately fraternised. They sat down on a stone bench together, and discussed politics and literature. In the meantime another beggar came up, whom the first beggar introduced as "the greatest poet of Capodistria." The poet was proud, however, and evidently averse to becoming intimate with strangers; at any rate, after having received with lofty condescension the "tip" diffidently offered to him by the "G. L.," he went majestically off. It was with the greatest difficulty that we finally separated the two friends, who parted with mutual expressions of everlasting esteem.

We then once more mounted our chariot, and betook ourselves to the steamer.

So good-bye to "the Gentlewoman of Istria," lying placidly asleep by the blue waters of the Adriatic. Though changed and abandoned, you can still distinguish some of the charms that won for her that poetic name. May she dream of the glorious time long ago—the glorious time of her youth, when she was growing and blooming in the shade of the mighty wings that Saint Mark's lion was once spreading over land and sea!

Back to Index Next