CHAPTER XIGORITZ

In the greenest of our valleys.E. A. Poe.

In the greenest of our valleys.

E. A. Poe.

On Monday, 24th June, we went to Goritz—my collaborator, the "Gentle Lunatic," and I. Our party had already broken up—the "Energetic Lady" and the "Seal," Miss Umslopogaas, the two learned men, the Thin Boy, the Other Boy, even "our host"—all had gone. And now we left too. My collaborator was going on to Venice from Goritz, and the G. L. and I, after picking up the Fat Boy at Nabresina, were going to Vienna by the night train.

We drove to Monfalcone, and then went on by rail.

Goritz is charmingly situated in the smiling valley of the Isonzo. I have spoken of the beauty of this valley before, but never does it strike one sopleasantly as when one approaches Goritz. It is a forest of vineyards surrounded by tier upon tier of majestic mountains, that rise higher and higher, until they are lost to sight among the clouds, and in the centre of the mass of greenery, on the banks of the blue river, nestles the little town.

Not much is known of the early history of Goritz. From the twelfth century, however, it seems to have played an important part in the history of the country, and the Counts of Goritz stand out prominently as a powerful and warlike family, second in importance only to the Patriarchs of Aquileia. They were celebrated for their munificence and for the splendour of the tournaments promoted by them. By the way, an old chronicle says that in 1224 a great tournament, arranged by Mainardo II., Count of Goritz, was held at Trieste. To this came Ulrich of Lichtenstein, the German Minnesänger, who always went about dressed as Venus. Unfortunately the details of his dress are wanting.

After the extinction of the family, Goritz came into the possession of the Emperors. The Venetians attempted to conquer it, and indeed appear to have held it for a short time. The town seems to have kept up its reputation of gaiety, as later chronicles speak of the lavish hospitality of the nobility residing there.

It is now quite a lively little place, with broad streets and good shops, and its outskirts are one charming garden full of pretty villas. There is not much to be seen in the way of antiquities—an old castle, by no means beautiful, perched on a hill, and some churches.

It was a very hot day. It is all very well to talk poetically of the sunny South, but for my part I wish it was not so confoundedly warm. We were taken to an antiquary's shop by my collaborator, and spent most of the morning there—she in looking over the things in a business-like manner, the G. L. in wandering aimlessly around, and I in sitting on the back stairs. (I found it the coolest place.)

We lunched with Count and Countess C., and, to speak truly, my pleasantest recollections of Goritz are associated with that lunch. I must say I had spent rather a miserable sort of morning, what with the heat and the antiquary's shop, but these troubles were soon forgotten on our arriving at their house.

It is an old-fashioned, rambling house, with low, dim rooms, furnished with a charming disregard to all pretence at style—old carved furniture side by side with little modern round tables, and valuable paintings of the last century hanging by oleographs of to-day. Every room, too, is a menagerie—dogs, cats,monkeys, snakes, birds of all sorts, are everywhere. I like a house of this kind—there is an entire absence of that bugbearArt(art with a big capital "A," you know), and most charming of all are its inhabitants. They are brother and sister, and both on the verge of eighty, the Countess the personification of goodness and the Lady Bountiful of the town, and the Count a curious mixture of the beau of the beginning of the century, poet, artist, and philosopher rolled into one. In spite of their age they both look marvellously young, and are more gay and active than the majority of young people I know.

We ate our lunch—which was excellent, by the way—in a little cool room that opens into the garden. The latter is as quaint as the house—roses and red currants grow together in luxuriant profusion. There is a delightful little arbour overgrown with white jasmine, and an old flight of steps that leads up to what was probably once a fortification, but is now a fine bed of cabbages with a border of hollyhocks, and the whole overshadowed by an enormous cherry-tree. Just outside the garden rises a big modern building, and from this, every now and then, a chorus of sweet girlish voices floated forth upon the still summer air. They were factory girls spinning silk, I was told, and singing over their work.

A CAST

After lunch we adjourned to the Count's study—the most remarkable room in the house perhaps. It is lower than the street, very large and vaulted, full of old furniture and curiosities of every kind; here and there casts of famous sculptures, very white against the dark walls; on the many tables a litter of books and papers, except on one, where we were told to admire a collection of paper-knives.

It is an extraordinary thing that passion for collections. I knew a man once who collectedpipes. He had one hundred and sixty-three when I saw him last, and he had stolen them all. I have no sympathy with this sort of thing, and quite disapproved of his actions—in fact, I withdrew from his acquaintance. I have too much affection for my own pipes to know such people. The "Gentle One" told me that a friend of his collectedold hats. He labelled each hat with the name of its former owner, and studied his character from his head-covering. He knew a family too who collected buttons. They were accustomed to secretly steal them from their visitors' overcoats, with a view to scientifical and psychological research—of course!

Now I collect money. Do not think me a miser. I do not hoard it up—I spend it. I shall be delighted to receive help with my collection. I have no false pride—any contribution, however small, will be thankfully received, and acknowledged by return of post.

In the afternoon the "Gentle Lunatic" and I drove round to inspect the place. We made a sort of grand tour of the town, and then went out to a little village from which there is a view. It is a lovely view, too. You stand on a hill and lookdown into a valley, or rather glen; far below one flows the Isonzo, bluer than any sea or any sky, winding along, with a little cascade here and there, between banks thickly covered with oak woods, whilst above everything tower the mountains. Another interesting place near Goritz is the church and convent of Castagnavizza, not on account of the buildings, which are nothing remarkable, but because the last princes of the French Royal Family are buried there. They all lie in a little chapel (a Della Torre burial-ground, by the way), in simple coffins—Charles X. and his sons, the unfortunate Duchess of Angoulême, and, last of all, the Count and Countess of Chambord. It is a very gloomy vault, and one cannot help thinking of all the splendour and glory of Versailles, of all the memories of that long lineage of kings, and contrasting them with this their last resting-place, so humble and forsaken in a strange land—the royal lilies withered in a foreign soil.

After this visit one is glad to get out into the sunshine again and to ramble through the streets of the gay little town.

There are four languages generally spoken in Goritz—Italian, Slav, Friulan, and German. Friulan is an extraordinary language, a sort of Italian dialect,only spoken in the Friul, as the neighbourhood of Goritz is called. German is, of course, the State language, but Italian is universally spoken all over the Littoral. The lower classes do not understand a word of German, and I have found that hardly any one understandsmyGerman. I had a forcible illustration of this not long ago. I was lunching with the Gentle Lunatic at a hotel, when an acquaintance of his came in and sat at our table. With my accustomed modesty, I said little or nothing until the G. L. suggested that I might air some of my German. I promptly opened conversation with a sentence I had learned from an exercise book—"The dog is more faithful than the cat." It was perhaps not the sort of remark one would as a rule make to a stranger, but I thought he would in all probability agree with my sentiments, and then it was one of the few complete German sentences I knew. The reply, however, was not what I expected. Instead of answering, "Yes, but have you seen the penknife of my grandmother's female gardener?" or something of that sort, he turned to the Gentle One—"Tell him," he said, "I am very sorry, but I have forgotten all my English." It was a crushing blow—he had mistaken my best German sentence for English!

GIRL FROM DUINO

The people of the Littoral are of the Italian type.Many of the women are very handsome, and they have almost all fine eyes, large and black, and soft and velvety-looking. They hold themselves very well too, probably from being accustomed to carry baskets and bundles on their heads. Only the better class women wear hats. The peasants wear nothing but their own luxuriant hair, or merely a coloured kerchief thrown gracefully over their heads. The height of fashion at present is a black kerchief with large red spots. The people generally are agood-natured, cheerful race. "They are dirty, they are rough and ready, but they have the heart in the right place," as the G. L.'s English butler says, and his words exactly describe them.

CASTLE DUINO FROM THE RAILWAY

We stopped at an open-aircaféin driving back and drank some beer, and then we returned to Count C.'s and ate ices. Beer and ices arenota nice mixture. Don't try it if you have not already done so.

We saw my collaborator off, and then started ourselves for Vienna. The railway line runs quiteclose to Duino, so we had one more glimpse of the old castle from the train. There had been a thunder-storm in the afternoon, and the sky was still covered with black clouds. The sea was leaden-coloured and the far horizon blotted out by thick gray mist and rain streaks, but as we flattened our noses against the window-pane to "take a last fond look," one bright ray from the setting sun shone through the darkness of the thunder-clouds. It brightened the old gray walls of the castle, and bathed them in rosy light; it lingered lovingly round the great Roman tower, and lit up the red and white Hohenlohe banner that floated in the breeze.

And so I saw Duino for the last time.

CHAPTER XIIONNOTHING AT ALL

Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir.

My collaborator is to blame for this chapter. She found that when the eleven chapters already written and the Introduction and the Conclusion (reckoning the two last as chapters) were added together, the result would be thirteen. And so I am to write one more, and there is nothing to write about. I feel myself to be a martyr offered up on the altar of superstition.

Superstition is all very well, but I think it can be carried too far. I was a victim to this fatalnumber 13 only the other day. I came in to lunch rather late, and was just going to sit down, when the "Energetic Lady" jumped up from the table with a howl of despair, taking her plate with her, and began to eat at a sideboard. She had seen that when I sat down there would be thirteen at table. Of course, I could not allowherto be made uncomfortable, so the result was that I had to go and sit at a little table by myself, and eat my lunch in lonely misery. I have known people too (I will not mention names) who would not start on a journey, or arrive at a place—in fact, I believe they absolutely do nothing—on the thirteenth of the month. I am rather superstitious myself about some things. I confess I always throw three grains of salt over my left shoulder if I should by any chance spill some; also I always tap my first and fourth fingers on something wooden, and say "unberufen" when I have made some such remark as "I have not had toothache for more than three years"; and then I invariably take off my hat to a single magpie. But then you cannot call these things superstitions—they are merely the force of habit.

"For use almost can change the stamp of nature," as Shakespeare says.

Speaking of superstitions reminds me that I haveknown people who believe implicitly in dreams. I have a near relation who says he always dreams that he has a tooth pulled out before the death of any one of the family or of an intimate friend.

I had a curious dream the other night. I dreamed I was sitting in a little room with a big sheet of paper before me, on which was written in large letters, "On the Philosophy of Life." I was to write an article on the subject. I had absolutely no ideas about the Philosophy of Life, and felt very miserable. Whilst I was pondering over it the door opened, and in cameSlip. Slip is a small fox terrier, and a particular friend of mine. I cannot say he looks very reputable—he has a sort of rakish appearance about him, and is, in fact, a great rascal, always up to any mischief, with funny ears that flap about when he runs, and small eyes—he always shuts one and winks at you when he feels in safe society. So in came Slip, winking and smiling as dogs can smile, and I asked him immediately forhisideas on the subject. I was not at all surprised when he began to speak and answered as follows: "Don't you worry your head about things of that sort. Men are never true philosophers—we dogs know that well. Take your pipe and your cap and let's go for a stroll. It's a glorious evening,and I know a particular spot where there are rabbits. Bother the 'Philosophy of Life.' Tell me rather why rabbits, and rats too, have such confoundedly small holes? Come along, old fellow!" He made some steps towards the door, wagging his little stump of a tail and flapping his funny ears with a knowing look; but all at once he stopped, turned back, came to me, took me by the hand, and winking more than ever, said confidentially in an undertone, "But believe me, my friend,womenare at the root of all evil."

I awoke, and am still pondering over that dream.

By the way, I heard a touching anecdote about a dog the other day. It is quite true. I knew the dog well—in fact, we were on the most intimate terms. He was a pug, and a very ancient one, and for some time had been in failing health. His constitution was breaking up, but no one imagined that his end was so near. This dog had a wife, but she lived at a house some little distance from his home. One night the dog became worse—as a matter of fact he was dying. Though he must have felt that his last hour had come, that poor dog dragged himself to the abode of his wife, up a flight of stairs,

And there by her sideHe lay down and died.

(This poetry is original.) Did you ever hear of a more touching exhibition of domestic affection?

Some of my best friends have been dogs. A dog never bothers nor worries one, nor tells one things for one's good, nor remarks how foolish one was to do so and so, nor says, "You see if you had only taken my advice that would never have happened." And who can enter into all one's moods better than a dog? You want to go out, you feel gay and joyous—doggie is game enough, and frisks and barks around you. You want to sit quietly by the fire and think—doggie will sit quietly by the fire and think too. And when you feel utterly miserable and wish you were dead, who comes and licks your hand and looks up with silent sympathy in his big, honest, loving brown eyes, which say as plainly as eyes can speak, "Never mind, old chap, you always have me, you know.Ishall never leave you."

Dear faithful old doggie! They say you have only instinct and no soul, and will never go to heaven—more's the pity—but if ever there was a true friend you are one.

Faäithful an' true—them words be i'Scriptur—an faäithful an' trueUll be fun' upo' four short legs tenTimes fur one upo' two.

· · · · ·

LAWN-TENNIS GROUND

I remember that I have not said anything about the tennis-court at Duino. It was formerly a riding-school, but the roof has been taken off, and the walls make excellent "fielders." Here we were accustomed to disport ourselves every evening. It was interesting to notice the variouscharacteristic(that word will please my collaborator—she says one ought always to notice the characteristic features of everything) styles of play: the "Energetic Lady," with her dress pinned up, a large white hat on her head, and a look of intense determination on her face; the "Photographic Lady" progressing about the court with a series of little jumps and bounds, and expressing her feelings by sundry squeaks and screams; my collaborator "serving" with tremendous vigour, but leaving all the after play to her partner and Destiny; Miss Umslopogaas not playing at all, but looking on sweetly with great success; our host playing brilliantly as long as the ball came obligingly to him, but never running at all (a thing distinctly against his principles);the "Gentle Lunatic" rushing madly about; the "Seal" in gorgeous apparel, trotting along with bristling moustache, and revenging his failures on the unoffending balls; the ponderous "Fat Boy" with the ground shaking and trembling beneath his elephantine tread; the "Thin Boy" tying himself into intricate knots; the "Other Boy" posing in various elegant statue-like attitudes; and the twolearned men, each with a distinct but equally unsuccessful theory.

ENTRANCE TO THE VILLAGE OF DUINO

Lawn-tennis is very popular in Austria, and quite a fashionable game; whilst (alas!) the glorious games of cricket and football are almost unknown. No wonder, though; cricket and football must be begun in one's earliest boyhood, and boys here are so overburdened with learning that they havevery little time for out-of-door sports. I think the educational system on the Continent is a great mistake. They cram all sorts of knowledge into the heads of the miserable children, never thinking of their bodily development and health. What is the result? Every other child one meets wears spectacles, and the sickly appearance of schoolboys generally is something depressing.

All work and no playMakes Jack a dull boy.

Make a note of this, all ye professors and schoolmasters! The moral side, too, is, as a rule, not enough thought of. Surely to teach a boy to fear God, honour the King, Queen, Emperor, or whatever the ruling power is, to be a gentleman, and speak the truth, are, after all, more important factors in his education than all the languages and sciences under the sun.

There! I have preached my little sermon, so will finish the chapter. There is not much in it about "Nothing at all." It would be rather an interesting subject. I will write about it some other time.

CONCLUSION

What ...I did not well I meant well.Shakespeare(The Winter's Tale).

What ...I did not well I meant well.

Shakespeare(The Winter's Tale).

And now these sketches are finished, and there is nothing left but to take farewell. It is always painful to say good-bye, whether to friends or places.

Life is a curious drama, and the scenes change very quickly. Accident, destiny, fate (call it what you like) sends us to some place; we stay there a few days, or weeks, or years; we make friends, we are on the most intimate terms with them; something calls us away; we never return to the well-known spot, and the friends there pass out of our lives—place and friends alike are but a memory.

Memories! how they crowd in on us, and how each year adds to their number! Look back down the fading river of years, and see how they standout—monuments of bygone days—till they are finally lost in the sea of forgetfulness. Thank God, the pleasant ones last the longest! It seems as if old Time loves to wipe out the painful recollections, and to keep the pleasant ones ever fresh and green.

· · · · ·

I am writing in a railway carriage. The "Gentle Lunatic" is snoring sweetly on the seat opposite me, and the train is taking us every minute farther and farther from Duino.

Good-bye, old castle! May your old walls withstand the wear and tear of many another century. They have been very happy days that I have spent in them, but they are all over. Only in dreams shall I behold your old battlements and towers, the sea in all its blueness breaking at your feet, the sun setting in a sky of golden glory and gilding your gray stones with its dying rays.

Good-bye to all the friends who have made up our party! If ever these sketches should be printed, and you should read them, I hope you will none of you be offended at anything I have written. In case you should be so, I apologise most humbly beforehand, and trust you will forgive me.

And to you, my collaborator, I must also say good-bye for the present.

To you I dedicate these little sketches. If they bring back to you one pleasant thought of the days in Duino,

Where the world is quiet,

they will have fulfilled their mission.

Printed byR. & R. Clark, Limited,Edinburgh.

Back to Index Next