[Illustration: "ASPETTI!"
_Page 172._]
TWO
PILGRIMS' PROGRESS
BY
JOSEPH AND ELIZABETH ROBINS PENNELL
AUTHORS OF
"_A CANTERBURY PILGRIMAGE_"
BOSTON
ROBERTS BROTHERS
LONDON
SEELEY & CO.
1887
_Copyright, 1886_,
BY ROBERTS BROTHERS.
University Press:
JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE.
TWO
Pilgrims' Progress
FROM
FAIR FLORENCE,
TO
The eternal City of ROME:
Delivered under the Similitude of a
RIDE
Wherein is Discovered,
The manner of their setting out,
Their Dangerous Journey; And safe
Arrival at the Desired City.
_And Behold they wrought a Work on the Wheels._
_IER.18.3_
By _Joseph & Elizabeth Robins Pennell_.
Licensed and Entred according to Order.
_And_
_Published By_
ROBERTS BROS.
BOSTON
MDCCCLXXXVI
_A FRIEND'S Apology_
_For this Booke._
_By CHARLES G. LELAND._
_Loe! what is this which Ime to sett before ye?
It is, I ween, a very pleasant Story,
How two young_ Pilgrimes _who the World would see,
Did Wheele themselves all over Italy.
One meant to write on't, whence it may be said
That for the Nonce hers was the Wheelwright's trade;
Which is a clever Crafte, for yee have heard
What flits about as a familiar Word
Which in a Workshopp often meets the Eare,
"Bad Wheelwright maketh a good Carpentere,"
If of a bad one such a Saying's true,
Oh what, I pray, may not a good one do?
For by Experience I do declare
'Tis easier to make Books than build a Chaire._
Experto crede--I _have tried them Both,
And sweare a Book is easier--on my Oathe!_
_He who with her a Pilgriming did go,--_
That was her Husband. As this Book doth show,
_Rare skill he had when he would Sketches take,
And from those Sketches prittie Pictures make.
She with the Pen could well illuminate,
He with the Pencil Nature illustrate.
Oh, is't not strange that what they did so well
In the Pen way meets in the Name Pen-nell?
By which the Proverb doth approved appeare,_
Nomen est Omen,--_as is plain and cleere.
Which means to say that every Soule doth Bear
A Name well suited to his charactere._
_Now, when this Couple unto Mee did come,
And askt me iff I'de write a little Pome,
That Tale and Picture as they rouled along
Might have some small Accomp'niment of Song,
I set my Pen to Paper with Delighte,
And quickly had my Thoughts in Black and White.
Even as_ JOHN BUNYAN _said he did of yore,
So I, because I'd done the like before.
Since I was the first man of modern time
Who on the bycicle e'er wrote a Rime,
How I a Lady in a Vision saw
Upon a Wheel like that of Budda's Law,
Which kept the Path and went exceeding fast;
Loe! now my Vision is fulfilled at last,
In this brave writer who with ready Hand
Hath guided well the Wheel ore many a Land,
Showing the World by her adventurous Course
How one may travel fast as any Horse,
Without a Steed, and stop where'er ye will,
And have for oats or stable nere a Bill._
_Now, for the Book I something have to say
(Pray mark Mee well, good Reader, while_ you _may)._
They _say that in the Publick some there bee
Who'll take it ill 'cause it doth Parody_
JOHN BUNYAN'S Progress. _That can ne'er be said
By any who_ JOHN BUNYAN'S _Booke have read,
Since he himself protests against the Whim
Of those who said the selfsame thing of him,
And thought he lightly treated solemn Things.
List the Defence which to this Charge he brings:
"This Book will make a Traveler of_ Thee,
_If by its Councill_ thou _wilt guided be.
And it is writ in such a Dialect
As may the Minds of listless Men affect.
It seems a_ NOVELTY, _and yet contains
Nothing but sound and honest Gospel Strains."_
_Now I can make no more Apologie
Than Honest_ JOHN _did make for himself, d'ye see;
As for the Rest--if you but cast your Eye
Upon the Pictures ere the Booke ye buy,
And if of Art you are a clever Judge,
The Price for it you'll surely not begrudge.
Now, Reader, I have praysed this Booke to Thee,
I trust that Thou wilt scan Itt carefullie;
'T will set before thee Portraiture of Townes,
Castles and Towres, antient Villes and Downs,
How rowling Rivers to y^e Ocean hast,
Of Roadside Inns and many a faire Palast,
Served up, I ween, with so much gentle Mirthe,
Thoulte fairly own thou'st gott_ thy _Money's Worth.
If thou art Cheated Mine shall bee the Sinn,--
Turn o'er the Page, my Lady, and Begin!_
* * * * *
_Loe! Vanity Faire!--the Worlde is there,
Hee and his Wife beside.
Ye may see it afoot, or from the Traine,
Or if on a Wheel you ride._
_To
CHARLES GODFREY LELAND,
Who is responsible for our First Work Together,
&
Who has been the Great-Heart of many a Pilgrimage taken
in his Company,
We dedicate this Book._
CONTENTS.
PAGE
THE START 11
IN THE VAL D'ARNO 14
AT EMPOLI 22
THE ROAD TO FAIR AND SOFT SIENA 25
AT POGGIBONSI 34
IN THE MOUNTAINS 36
FAIR AND SOFT SIENA 45
AN ITALIAN BY-ROAD 61
MONTE OLIVETO 81
THROUGH THE WILDERNESS TO A GARDEN 94
WE ARE DETAINED IN MONTEPULCIANO 101
IN THE VAL DI CHIANA 109
LUCA SIGNORELLI'S TOWN 118
TO PERUGIA: BY TRAIN AND TRICYCLE 122
AT PERUGIA 128
ACROSS THE TIBER TO ASSISI 134
AT ASSISI 138
VIRGIL'S COUNTRY 142
TERNI AND ITS FALLS 155
IN THE LAND OF BRIGANDS 157
A MIDDLING INN 164
ACROSS THE CAMPAGNA 166
THE FINISH 173
* * *
APPENDIX 175
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
* * *
PAGE
OVER THE PONTE VECCHIO 14
IN THE SUNLIGHT 18
LASTRA 20
A PERUGINO LANDSCAPE 24
ON THE ARNO--NEAR EMPOLI 36
A SLIGHT OBSTRUCTION 40
NOONTIME 42
BY THE RIVER 50
CHIUSURE 68
MONTE OLIVETO 84
AT THE FOOT OF THE CROSS 96
LEAVING MONTEPULCIANO 106
CORTONA 118
ON THE HILL 126
THE BRONZE PONTIFF'S BENEDICTION, PERUGIA 134
A FROWN OF DISAPPROVAL, ASSISI 136
GATHERING LEAVES 146
"PIPING DOWN THE VALLEY" 160
FROM VIA FLAMINIA, NEAR PONTE MOLLE 170
"ASPETTO!" 172
TWO
PILGRIMS' PROGRESS.
TWO PILGRIMS' PROGRESS.
THE START.
"_They are a couple of far-country
men, and, after their mode, are
going on Pilgrimage._"
We stayed in Florence three days before we started on our pilgrimage to
Rome. We needed a short rest. The railway journey straight through from
London had been unusually tiresome because of our tricycle. From the
first mention of our proposed pilgrimage, kind friends in England had
warned us that on the way to Italy the machine would be a burden worse
than the Old Man of the Sea; porters, guards, and custom-house officials
would look upon it as lawful prey, and we should pay more to get it to
Italy than it had cost in the beginning. It is wonderful how clever
one's friends are to discover the disagreeable, and then how eager to
point it out!
Our first experience at the station at Holborn Viaduct seemed to confirm
their warnings. We paid eight shillings to have the tricycle carried to
Dover, porters amiably remarking it would take a pile of money to get
such a machine to Italy. Crossing the Channel, we paid five-and-sixpence
more, and the sailors told us condolingly we should have an awful time
of it in the custom-house at Calais. This, however, turned out a genuine
seaman's yarn. The tricycle was examined carefully, but to be admired,
not valued. "That's well made, that!" one guard declared with
appreciation, and others playfully urged him to mount it. To make a long
story short, our friends proved false prophets. From Calais to Florence
we paid only nine francs freight and thirty-five francs duty at Chiasso.
But unfortunately we never knew what might be about to happen. We
escaped in one place only to be sure the worst would befall us in the
next. It was not until the cause of our anxiety was safe in Florence
that our mental burden was taken away.
But here were more friends who called our pilgrimage a desperate
journey, and asked if we had considered what we might meet with in the
way we were going. There was the cholera. But we represented that to get
to Rome we should not go near the stricken provinces. Then they
persisted that our road lay through valleys reeking with malaria until
November at least. We should not reach these valleys before November,
was our reply. Well, then, did we know we must pass through lonely
districts where escaped convicts roamed abroad; and in and out of
villages where fleas were like unto a plague of Egypt, and good food as
scarce as in the wilderness? In a word, ours was a fool's errand.
Perhaps it was because so little had come of the earlier prophecies that
we gave slight heed to these. They certainly made no difference in our
plans. On October 16, the third morning after our arrival, we rode forth
_sans_ flea-powder or brandy, _sans_ quinine or beef-extract, _sans_
everything our friends counselled us to take,--and hence, according to
them, right into the jaws of death.
IN THE VAL D'ARNO.
"_Now their way lay just upon the
bank of the river; here, therefore,
Christian and his companion walked
with great delight._"
The _padrone_ who helped to strap our portfolio and two bags to the
luggage-carrier, our coats to the handle-bars, and the knapsack to J.'s
back, and Mr. Mead, the one friend who foretold pleasure, stood at the
door of the Hotel Minerva to see us off. The sunlight streamed over the
Piazza of Santa Maria Novella and the beggars on the church-steps and
the cabmen who good-naturedly cried "No carriage for you," as we wheeled
slowly on, over to the Via Tornabuoni, past Doni's, by Viesseux's, up
the Lung' Arno to the crowded Ponte Vecchio where for this once at least
we were not attacked by the little shopmen, by the Via de' Bardi, then
back through the Borgo San Jacopo, again along the Lung' Arno, and then
around with the twisting street-car tracks, through the Porta San
Frediano, and out on the broad white road which leads to Pisa.
[Illustration: OVER THE PONTE VECCHIO.
_Page 14._]
But even before we left Florence we met with our first accident. The
luggage-carrier swung around from the middle to the side of the
backbone. The one evil consequence, however, was a half-hour's delay.
Beyond the gate we stopped at the first blacksmith's. Had either of us
known the Italian word for "wire," the delay might have been shorter. It
was only by elaborate pantomime we could make our meaning clear. Then
the blacksmith took the matter in his own hands, unstrapped the bags,
and went to work with screw-driver and wire, while the entire
neighborhood, backed by passing pedlers and street-car drivers and
citizens, pronounced the tricycle "beautiful!" "a new horse!" "a
tramway!" When the luggage-carrier was fastened securely and loaded
again, the blacksmith was so proud of his success that he declared
"nothing" was his charge. But he was easily persuaded to take something
to drink the _Signore's_ health. After this there were no further stops.
Our road for some distance went over streets laid with the great stones
of the old Tuscan pavement,--and for tricyclers these streets are not
very bad going,--between tall gray houses, with shrines built in them,
and those high walls which radiate from Florence in every direction, and
keep one from seeing the gardens and green places within. Women plaiting
straw, great yellow bunches of which hung at their waists, and children
greeted us with shouts. Shirtless bakers, their hands white with flour,
and barbers holding their razors, men with faces half shaved and still
lathered, and others with wine-glasses to their lips, rushed to look at
this new folly of the foreigner,--for ours was the first tandem tricycle
ever seen in Italy. At Signa, on the steep up-grade just outside the
town, we had a lively spurt with a dummy engine, the engineer apparently
trying to run us down as we were about to cross the track. After this we
rode between olives and vineyards where there were fewer people. There
was not a cloud in the sky, so blue overhead and so white above the far
hill-tops on the horizon. The wind in the trees rustled gently in
friendliness. Solemn, white-faced, broad-horned oxen stared at us
sympathetically over the hedges. One young peasant even stopped his cart
to say how beautiful he thought it must be to travel in Italy after our
fashion. All day we passed gray olive-gardens and green terraced
hillsides, narrow Tuscan-walled streams dry at this season, and long
rows of slim straight poplars,--"white trees," a woman told us was their
name. Every here and there was a shrine with lamp burning before the
Madonna, or a wayside cross bearing spear and scourge and crown of
thorns. Now we rode by the fair river of Arno, where reeds grew tall and
close by the water's edge, and where the gray-green mountains rising
almost from its banks were barren of all trees save dark stone-pines and
towering cypresses, like so many mountains in Raphael's or Perugino's
pictures. Now we came to where the plain broadened and the mountains
were blue and distant. Mulberries the peasants had stripped of their
leaves before their time, but not bare because of the vines festooned
about them, broke with their even ranks the monotony of gray and brown
ploughed fields. Here on a hill was a white villa or monastery, with
long, lofty avenue of cypresses; there, the stanch unshaken walls and
gates of castle or fortress, which, however, had long since disappeared.
It is true, all these things are to be seen hastily from the windows of
the railway train; but it is only by following the windings and straight
ways of the road as we did that its beauty can be worthily realized.
Later in the afternoon, with a turn of the road, we came suddenly in
view of Capraia, high up above, and far to the other side of the
river,--so far, indeed, that all detail was lost, and we could only see
the outline of its houses and towers and campanile washed into the
whitish-blue sky. And all the time we were working just hard enough to
feel that joy of mere living which comes with healthy out-of-door
exercise, and, I think, with nothing else. Sometimes we rode seeing no
one, and hearing no other sound than the low cries of a cricket in the
hedge and the loud calls of an unseen ploughman in a neighboring field;
then an old woman went by, complimenting us on going so fast without a
horse; and then a baker's boy in white shirt and bare legs, carrying a
lamb on his shoulders. But then, again, we met wagon after wagon, piled
with boxes and baskets, poultry and vegetables, and sleeping men and
women, and with lanterns swinging between the wheels,--for the next day
would be Friday and market-day, and peasants were already on their way
to Florence. There were pedlers, too, walking from village to village,
selling straw fans and gorgeous handkerchiefs. Would not the _Signora_
have a handkerchief? one asked, showing me the gayest of his stock. For
answer I pointed to the bags on the luggage-carrier and the knapsack on
J.'s back. "Of course," he said; we already had enough to carry; would
the _Signora_ forgive him for troubling her? And with a polite bow he
went on his way.
[Illustration: IN THE SUNLIGHT.
_Page 18._]
We came to several villages and towns,--some small, where pots and
bowls, fresh from the potter's wheel, were set out to dry; others large,
like Lastra, with heavy walls and gates and old archways, and steps
leading up to crooked, steep streets, so narrow the sun never shines
into them; or like Montelupo, where for a while we sat on the bridge
without the farther gate, looking at the houses which climb up the
hillside to the cypress-encircled monastery at the top. Women were
washing in the stream below, and under the poplars on the bank a priest
in black robes and broad-brimmed hat walked with a young lady. But
whenever we stopped, children from far and near collected around us.
There were little old-fashioned girls, with handkerchiefs tied over
their heads in womanly fashion, who kept on plaiting straw, and small
boys nursing big babies, their hands and mouths full of bread and
grapes. If, however, in their youthful curiosity they pressed upon us
too closely, polite men and women, who had also come to look, drove them
back with terrible cries of _Via, ragazzi!_ ("Go away, children!")
before which they retreated with the same speed with which they had
advanced.
[Illustration: LASTRA.
_Page 20._]
Just beyond Montelupo, when a tedious up-grade brought us to a broad
plateau, a cart suddenly came out a little way in front of us from a
side road. A man was driving, and on the seat behind, and facing us,
were two nuns, who wore wide straw hats which flapped slowly up and down
with the motion of the cart. When they saw us, the younger of the two
covered her face with her hands, as if she thought us a device of the
Devil. But the other, who looked the Lady Abbess, met the danger
bravely, and sternly examined us. This close scrutiny reassured her.
When we drew nearer she wished us good-evening, and then her companion
turned and looked. We told them we were pilgrims bound for Rome. At this
they took courage, and the spokeswoman begged for the babies they cared
for in Florence. We gave her a few sous. She counted them quite
greedily, and then--but not till then--benevolently blessed us. They
were going at jog-trot pace, so that we soon left them behind. "_Buon
viaggio_," the Abbess cried; and the silent sister smiled, showing all
her pretty white teeth, for we now represented a temptation overcome.
AT EMPOLI.
"_The pilgrim they laid in a large
upper chamber whose window opened
towards the sunrising; the name of
the chamber was Peace; where he
slept till break of day._"
We put up that night at Empoli. The Albergo Maggiore was fair enough,
and, like all large Italian inns, had a clean spacious stable in which
to shelter the tricycle. The only drawback to our comfort was the misery
at dinner of the black-eyed, blue-shirted waiter at our refusal to eat a
dish of birds we had not ordered. He was very eager to dispose of them.
He served them with every course, setting them on the table with a
triumphant "_Ecco!_" as if he had prepared a delicious surprise. It was
not until he brought our coffee that he despaired. Then he retired
mournfully to the kitchen, where his loud talk with the _padrona_ made
us fear their wrath would fall upon us or the tricycle. But later they
gave us candles, and said good-night with such gracious smiles that we
slept the sleep which knows neither care nor fear.
The next morning their temper was as unclouded as the sky. They both
watched the loading of the tricycle with smiling interest. He had seen
velocipedes with two wheels, the waiter said, but never one with three.
And that a _Signora_ should ride, the _padrona_ added, ah! that indeed
was strange! Then she grew confidential. Only occasionally I caught her
meaning, for my knowledge of Italian was small. She had had seven
children, she said, and all were dead but one. And I, had I any? And
where had I bought my dress? She liked it so much; and she took it in
her hand and felt it. Should we stay long in Italy? and sometime we
would come back to Empoli? Her son, a little fellow, was there too. He
had been hanging about the machine when we came down to breakfast, and
ever since. He stood speechless while J. was by, but when the latter
went away for a few minutes,--less shy with me, I suppose, because he
knew I could not understand him as well,--he asked what might such a
velocipede cost? as much perhaps as a hundred francs? But J. coming back
he was silent as before. They all followed us out to the street, the
_padrona_ shaking hands with us both, and the boy standing by the
tricycle to the very last.
[Illustration: A PERUGINO LANDSCAPE.
_Page 24._]
THE ROAD TO FAIR AND SOFT
SIENA.
"_They went till they came into a
certain country whose air naturally
tended to make one drowsy._"
"_Let us not sleep as do others,
but let us watch and be sober._"
It was good to be in the open country again, warming ourselves in the
hot sunshine. The second morning of our ride was better than the first.
We knew beforehand how beautiful the day would be, and how white and
smooth was the road that lay before us. The white oxen behind the
ploughs, and the mules in their gay trappings and shining harness seemed
like old acquaintances. The pleasant good-morning given us by every
peasant we met made us forget we were strangers in the land. A little
way from Empoli we crossed the Ponte d'Elsa, and then after a sharp turn
to the right we were on the road to "fair and soft Siena." It led on
through vineyards and wide fields lying open to the sun, by sloping
hillsides and narrow winding rivers, by villas and gardens where roses
were blooming. In places they hung over the wall into the road. We asked
a little boy to give us one,--for the _Signora_, J. added. But the child
shook his head. How could he? The roses were not his, he said. Once we
passed a wayside cross on which loving hands had laid a bunch of the
fresh blossoms. Sometimes we heard from the far-away mountains the loud
blasting of rocks, and then the soft bells of a monastery; sometimes
even the cracking of the whip of a peasant behind us, driving an
unwilling donkey. Then we would pass from the stillness of the country
into the noise and clamor of small villages, to hear the wondering cries
of the women to which we were already growing accustomed, the piercing
yells of babies, who well secured in basket go-carts could not get to us
quickly enough, and the sing-song repetition of older children saying
their lesson in school, and whom we could see at their work through the
low windows.
About noon we rode into Certaldo,--Boccaccio's town. I know nothing that
interferes so seriously with hero-worship as hunger. I confess that if
some one had said, "You can go either to see Boccaccio's house or to
lunch at a _trattoria_, but both these things you cannot do," our answer
would have been an immediate order for lunch. We went at once to a
_trattoria_ on the piazza where Boccaccio's statue stands. I doubt if
that great man himself ever gathered such numbers about him as we did.
Excited citizens, when the tricycle was put away, stood on the threshold
and stared at us until the door was shut upon them. Then they pressed
their faces against the windows and peered over piles of red and yellow
pears; and every now and then one, bolder than the rest, stealthily
thrust his head in and then scampered off before he could be captured.
This gave a spice of novelty and excitement to our midday meal. We
ordered a very simple lunch,--soup, bread and cheese, coffee and
vermouth. But the _padrona_ had to send out for everything. Her sister,
a young girl as fair as an Englishwoman, was her messenger. We were
scarcely seated before she came back with coffee and a large bottle that
she set before us. This, of course, was the vermouth, and we half filled
our glasses and at once drank a little. The two women stared with a
surprise we could not understand. The fair girl now disappeared on a
second foraging expedition, and stayed away until we had finished our
soup. "_Ecco_, vermouth!" she said on her return, putting another bottle
in front of us. Then we knew the reason of their wonder. We had
swallowed, like so much water, the not over-strong cognac intended only
to flavor our coffee.
Presently the _padrona_ entered into conversation with us. We were
English, she supposed. No; Americans, we told her. At this there was
great rejoicing. They had a brother in America. He lived in a large town
called Buenos Ayres, where he kept a _trattoria_. Like theirs it was the
_Trattoria_ Boccaccio. They were glad to see any one from the same
country, whether from north or south. Was it not all America? The
_padrona_ went upstairs to bring down his picture that we might see it.
Her sister pointed to the purple woollen jersey she wore, and said with
pride her brother had sent it to her. It too was American. They even
called in their old mother, that she might see her son's
fellow-countrymen.
We spent an hour wandering through the old town, on top of the hill, in
which Boccaccio really lived. The sun was shining right down into the
streets, in which the gay kerchiefs of the women, the bunches of straw
at their waists, and their cornstalk distaffs made bright bits of color.
Though we left the tricycle at the _trattoria_, our coming made a stir
in the little place. Our clothes were not like unto those of the
natives, and J.'s knee-breeches and long black stockings made them
wonder what manner of priest he might be. As we stood looking at the
_loggia_ and tower and arched doorway of Boccaccio's house, the
custodian, with a heavy bunch of keys, came to take us through it. But
we declined his services. We cared more for the old streets and walls
and palaces, which, though their greatness has gone, have not been
changed since mediæval times, than for an interior, however fine, whose
mediævalism dates from to-day. The old man turned rather sulkily. J.,
seeing there had been some mistake, explained we had not sent for him.
Then his face cleared. The women had said we wanted him, else he would
never have disturbed us; and he took off his hat, and this time went
away with a friendly _à rivederle_.
The Palazzo Communale, at the highest point of the town, is still
covered with the arms and insignia of other years, of the Medici and
Piccolomini, of the Orsini and Baglioni. Its vaulted doorway is still
decorated with frescos of the Madonna, and saints and angels. But
everywhere the plaster is falling away, and in the courtyard grass grows
between the bricks of the pavement; and instead of pages and
men-at-arms, we there saw only a little brown-faced ragged child
climbing cat-like over the roofs, and a woman scolding him from below.
We left the town by the frescoed gateway, through which we saw the near
hills, gray, bare, and furrowed, the long lines of cypresses, the
stretches of gray olives, the valley below with its vineyards, and the
far mountains, purple and shadowy, the highest topped with many-towered
San Gimignano.
It is better not to be jocund with the fruitful grape in the middle of
the day when one is tricycling. The cognac we had taken at lunch, weak
as it was, and the vermouth made us sleepy and our feet heavy. I
sympathized with the men who lay in sound slumbers in every cart we met.
But their drowsiness forced us into wakefulness. Of the ride from
Certaldo to Poggibonsi, I remember best the loud inarticulate cries of
J. and his calls of "_Eccomi!_" as if he were lord of the land, to
sleeping drivers. The Italian cry of the roads, rising to a high note
and then suddenly falling and ending in a low prolonged one, which is
indispensable to travellers, is not easy to learn. J.'s proficiency in
it, however, made him pass for a native when he limited himself to
howling. But often donkeys darted into ditches and oxen plunged across
the road before the peasants behind them awoke. Like Sancho Panza they
had a talent for sleeping.
Once, after we had climbed a short but steep hill and had passed by
several wagons in rapid succession, we stopped under the shade to rest.
It was a pleasant place. We looked over the broad valley, where the
vines were festooned, not as Virgil saw them, from elm to elm, but from
mulberry to mulberry, and up to San Gimignano, beginning to take more
definite shape on its mountain-top. A peasant in peaked hat and blue
shirt, with trousers rolled up high above his bare knees, crossed the
road and silently examined the tricycle. "You have a good horse," he
then said; "it eats nothing." We asked him if they were at work in his
vineyard. No, he answered; but would we like to look in the wine-press
opposite? And then he took us through the dark windowless building,
where on one side the grape-juice was fermenting in large butts, and on
the other fresh grapes had been laid on sets of shelves to dry. He
picked out two of the finest bunches and gave them to me. When I offered
to pay him he refused. The _Signora_ must accept them, he said.
As the road was now a dead level and lumpy into the bargain, we were
glad when Poggibonsi was in sight. We drew up on a bridge where a man
was standing, to ask him if he knew of a good inn. He recommended the
Albergo dell' Aquila. "It is good," he went on, "and not too dear. This
is not a town where they take one by the neck," and he clutched his own
throat. So to the Albergo dell'Aquila we went. We had only to ride
through the wide avenue of shady trees, past a row of houses, out of one
of which a brown-robed monk came, to rush back at sight of us, past a
washing-place surrounded by busy chattering women, and we were at the
door of the inn.
AT POGGIBONSI.
"_Then she asked him whence he
was come and whither he was going;
and he told her. She asked
him also how he got into the way;
and he told her. And last she asked
his name._"
The Albergo dell' Aquila was even more comfortable than the Maggiore in
Empoli. We dined in a room from whose walls King Humbert and his Queen
smiled upon us, while opposite were two sensational and suggestive
brigands in lonely mountain passes. The _padrona_ came up with the
salad, and she and the waiter in a cheerful duet catechised us after the
friendly Italian fashion, and then told us about the visit to their
house of the American consul from Florence; of the hard times the
cholera had brought with it for all Italy; of the bad roads to San
Gimignano and the steep ones to Siena, along which peasants never
travelled without bearing in mind the old saying, _All' ingiù tutti i
santi ajutano; ma all' insú ci vuol Gesù_,--"Going down hill, call upon
the saints; but going up, one needs Jesus." Before long J. joined in the
talk, and the duet became a trio. Never had I been so impressed with his
fluent Italian. Even the _padrona_ was not readier with her words than
he with his. When I spoke to him about it afterwards, he said he
supposed it was wonderful; he had not understood half of it himself.
After dinner and in the twilight we walked through the lively crowded
streets and into the church, where service was just over. A priest in
white surplice left the altar, and another began to put the lights out
when we entered. But in the unlit nave many of the faithful still knelt
in prayer. The town grew quieter as night came on. But just as we were
going to sleep some men went along the street below our window singing.
One in a loud clear tenor sang the tune, the others the accompaniment
like a part song, and the effect was that of a great guitar. Their song
was a fitting good-night to a day to whose beauty there had been not a
cloud.
IN THE MOUNTAINS.
"_He saw a most pleasant
mountainous country, beautified
with woods, vineyards, fruits of
all sorts, flowers also with
springs and fountains, very
delectable to behold._"
Though we left Poggibonsi in the beginning of the morning, a large crowd
waited for us at the door of the inn. The _padrona_ said farewell with
many good wishes; men and women we had never seen before called out
pleasantly _à rivederle_, two _carabinieri_ watched us from the other
side of the piazza, the railroad officials at the station cried
"_Partenza! Partenza!_" and then we were off and out of the town. It
would be _su_, _su_, _su_, all the way they told us at the inn, but for
several miles we went fast enough, so that I felt sure the peasants we
passed were still only calling on the saints. The ascent at first was
very gradual, while the road was excellent. There were down as well as
up grades, and for every steep climb we had a short coast. Now we came
out on villas which but a little before had been above us, and now we
reached the very summit of hills from which we looked forth upon
mountain rising beyond mountain,--some treeless and ashen gray, others
thickly wooded and glowing with golden greens and russets, and still
others white and mist-like, and seeming to melt into the soft white
clouds resting on their highest peaks. All along, the hedges were
covered with clusters of red rose-berries and the orange berries of the
pyracanthus. The grass by the roadside was gay with brilliant crimson
pinks, yellow snapdragons and dandelions, and violet daisies. Once we
came to a vineyard where the ripe fruit still hung in purple clusters
from the vines, and where men and women, some on foot and others on
ladders, were gathering and filling with them large buckets and baskets.
At the far end of the field white oxen, their great heads decorated with
red ribbons, stood in waiting. Boys with buckets slung on long poles
were coming and going between the vines. In all the other vineyards we
had passed the vintage was over, so we waited to watch the peasants as,
laughing and singing, they worked away. But when they saw us, they too
stopped and looked, and one man came down from his ladder and to the
hedge to offer us a bunch of grapes.
[Illustration: ON THE ARNO--NEAR EMPOLI.
_Page 36._]
The only town through which we rode was Staggia, where workmen were busy
restoring the old tower and making it a greater ruin than it had ever
been before. One town gate has gone, but from the battlements of the
other grass and weeds still wave with the wind, while houses have been
built into the broken walls. It is a degenerate little town, and its
degeneracy, paradoxical as it may sound, is the result of its activity.
For its inhabitants have not rested content like those of Lastra with
the mediævalism that surrounds them. They have striven to make what is
old new by painting their church and many of their houses in that
scene-painting style which to-day seems to represent the art of the
people in Italy. Often during our journey we saw specimens of this vile
fashion,--houses with sham windows and shutters, churches with
make-believe curtains and cords,--but nowhere was it so prominent as in
Staggia.
Beyond Monteriggione, whose towers alone showed above its high walls,
the road began to wind upward on the mountain-side. It was such a long,
steady pull that although the surface was perfect we gave up riding and
walked. Our machine was heavily loaded, and not too easy to work over
prolonged up-grades. Besides, we were not time nor record makers, nor
perambulating advertisements, and we had the day before us. We were now
closed in with woods. On either side were chestnuts and dwarf-oaks and
bushes, their leaves all "yellow and black and pale and hectic red." And
occasional openings showed near mountain-tops covered with downy gray
grass and a low growth like heather, and here and there were groups of
dark pines. For an hour at least we were alone with the sounds and
silence of the mountains. The wandering wind whispered in the wood and
black swine rooted in the fallen leaves, but of human life there was no
sign. Then there came from afar a regular tap-tap, low at first, but
growing louder and louder, until, as we drew closer to it, we knew it to
be the steady hammering of stone-breakers. There were two men at work in
this lonely pass, and as we stood talking to them two more came from
under the chestnuts. These had guns on their shoulders, and wore high
boots and the high-crowned conventional brigand hats. Ever since we left
Florence we had seen at intervals in the fields and woods a notice with
the words, "_È vietata la bandita_," which we interpreted as a warning
against the bandits or convicts for whom our Florentine friends had
prepared us. And now we seemed to have come face to face with two of
these brigands. But it turned out that there was little of the bandit
about them save their appearance. Their guns were for birds, and later
on we learned that the alarming signs were merely to forbid the
trespassing of these very gentlemen.
[Illustration: A SLIGHT OBSTRUCTION.]
A mile or two farther on, the road began to go down again. We were both
glad to be on the machine after our walk. We could see to the bottom of
the hill, and there was no one in sight. J. let go the brake. None but
cyclers know the delight of a five-minutes coast after hours of up-hill
toiling. They, however, will sympathize with our pleasure in the
mountains near Siena. But when it was at its fullest, and the machine
was going at the rate of about twenty miles an hour, and neither brake
nor back-pedalling could bring it to a sudden halt, a man (or the foul
fiend himself) drove a flock of sheep out from the woods a few feet in
front of us. When we reached them only the first had crossed the road;
of course, all the rest had to follow. They tried to go on right through
the wheels, but only succeeded in getting under them, setting the
machine to pitching like a ship in a heavy sea. But I held on fast; J.
stood on the pedals and screwed the brake down; the little wheel
scattered the sheep like the cow-catcher of an engine, and we brought up
in the gutter. Before we stopped, J. began a moral lecture to the
shepherd, and was showing him how, if the machine had gone over, the
consequences would have been worse for us than for his flock. The
lecture ended rather _im_morally with _accidente voi_, and _imbecile_,
the deadliest of all Italian maledictions, punishable in places by
imprisonment. The shepherd looked as if he was ready to curse us in
return, but before he had time we were out of hearing, though we first
made sure that no sheep were injured. We were none the worse for the
accident, and the tricycle was unhurt, save for a deep dent in the dress
guard.
The rest of our way was divided between walking and riding. The woods
with their solitude and wildness, but not the good road, came to an end.
Once beyond them, we wheeled out by fields where men and women were at
work, their oxen whiter than any we had yet seen, by contrast with the
rich red of the upturned earth. In olive-gardens peasants were eating
their midday meal; men with white aprons, women with enormous Sienese
hats, and dogs and oxen were all resting sociably together. By the
roadside others were making rope, the men twisting and forever walking
backwards, a small boy always turning at the wheel. Scattered on the
hill-tops and by the road were large red-brick farm-houses, instead of
the white ones we had seen near Florence.
[Illustration: NOONTIME.
_Page 42._]
At one, where there was a well on the other side of the wall, we asked
for a glass of water. A man brought it to the gate, where he was joined
by three or four others. They stared inquiringly at the tricycle, at the
bags, and at us, while J. squeezed lemon-juice into the water. Then one
opened his mouth very wide and pointed to his teeth: "The little sir,"
he asked, "is he a dentist?"
It was noon when we first saw Siena, and we were then at the very walls.
In the old days it was always said, "More than her gates, Siena opens
her heart to you!" But the heart of him who sat in office by the city
gate was shut against us. When we rode past him he bade us descend. To
our "_Perchè?_" he said it was the law. Oh the vanity of these Sienese!
Through the streets of Florence and over the crowded Ponte Vecchio we
had ridden undisturbed; but in this mountain town, which boasts of but
two hacks, and where donkeys and oxen are the only beasts to be
frightened, we were forced to get down. The dignity of the law-makers of
the city must be respected. So we two weary pilgrims had to walk along
the narrow streets, between the tall palaces, while tanners in red caps,
and women in flowered, white-ribboned _festa_ hats, and priests and
soldiers stared, and one man, with a long push-cart, kept close to us
like an evil genius in a dream. He was now on one side, and now on the
other, examining the wheels, asking endless questions, and always
getting in the way. At all the street corners he hurried on before, and
with loud shouts called the people to come and see. Then he was at our
heels again, shrieking his loud, shrill trade-cry into our very ears. J.
as a rule is not ill-tempered; but there is a limit to all things. The
stupid sheep, the watchful guard, and now this plague of a flower-pedler
brought his patience to an end, and on our way through the town he said
much in good plain English which it was well the citizens could not
understand.
FAIR AND SOFT SIENA.
"_For there where I go is enough
and to spare._"
"_Read it so, if you will, in my
Book._"
Even pilgrims of old on their way to Rome sometimes tarried in castle or
village. We could not pass through Siena, discourteous though her first
welcome had been, as we had through smaller and less fair towns. So for
a day or two we put away our tricycle and the "cockle-shells and sandal
shoon" of our pilgrimage. We went to a _pension_, one at which J. had
stayed before, and which he liked. I admit it was better in many ways
than the inns in which hitherto we had slept and eaten. There was carpet
on the floor of our room, and in it easy-chairs and a lounge. There were
elaborate breakfasts at one, and still more elaborate dinners at six,
and there was always a great plenty,--as the Englishwoman who sat next
me, and who I fear had not always fared so well, said when she urged me
to eat and drink more of the fruit and wine set before me. "You can have
all you want in this house," she finished with a sigh, as if her crown
of sorrow was in remembering unhappier things. But we both thought
regretfully of the dining-rooms with the bad prints on the walls, and
the more modest dinners of our own ordering. I think too we had found
more pleasure in the half-understood talk of _padroni_ and waiters than
we did now in the elegant and learned conversation of our
fellow-boarders, for they were all, it seemed, persons of learning and
refinement. There was the retired English major-general who sat opposite
and who had written a book, as he very soon let us know. He recognized
us as Americans before we opened our mouths to speak, which fact he also
let us know by his reminiscences, addressed not to us but to our
neighbors. He had travelled in Spain with Mr. Fillmore, the
ex-President, "the most courteous of gentlemen;" he said he well knew
Mr. Marion Crawford, the talented novelist, and his uncle, "dear old Sam
Ward;" he had counted among his best friends _Bay_ard Taylor, "as you
remember I have said in my book." This same book which made the major so
communicative appeared to have crushed the spirit out of his wife; she
sat silent during dinner, fortifying herself at intervals with weak
whiskey and water.
Then there was the elderly English lady travelling abroad with her
daughter "who has just taken up architecture;" she informed us, "she has
always painted heads till now, but she is fascinated by her
architectural work. Then I, you know, am _so_ fond of water-colors." And
there was the Swedish lady, who could talk all languages, speaking to us
in something supposed to be English, and who was as eager in her pursuit
of food for the body as for the mind. I count the way in which she
greedily swallowed the _vino santo_ in her glass, when our host passed
round the table the second time with his precious bottle, one of the
wonders of our visit to Siena. It was pathetic too to see her
disappointment when he turned away, just before he reached her, his
bottle empty. And there were still others who knew much about pictures
and palaces, statues and studios, and no doubt we might greatly have
profited thereby.
But we liked it better upstairs, where we were alone and there was less
culture. Our window overlooked a high terrace in which marigolds and
many-colored chrysanthemums were blooming, the gardens of the
Piccolomini Palace full of broad-leaved fig-trees and pale olives, and
the wide waste of mountain and moorland stretching from the red city
walls to the high, snow-capped Apennines on the horizon. All the morning
the sun shone in our windows, and every hour and even oftener we heard
the church bells, and the loud, clear bugle-calls from the barracks,
once a monastery, whose mass of red and gray walls rose from the near
olives. They say it snows in Siena in the winter-time, and that it is
cold and bleak and dreary; but I shall always think of it as a place of
flowers and sunshine and sweet sounds.
But best of all were the hours when we wandered through the town, up and
down dark alley-ways and flights of steps, under brick arches, along
precipitate narrow streets where we had to press close to the houses, or
retreat into an open door, to let the wide-horned oxen pass by with
their load; now coming out at the very foot of La Mangia, on the broad,
sunny piazza; now by the tanneries where little streams of brown water
trickled down towards the washing-place at the foot of the hill, and
where the walls were hung with dripping brown skins, probably just as
they were when the little Catherine--her visions already beginning--and
Stefano walked by them and towards home in the fading evening light,
from a visit to the older and married sister Bonaventura. One hour we
were with the past in the shadowy aisles of the Duomo, where Moses and
Trismegistus, Solomon and Socrates, Sibyls and Angels looked up at us
from the pavement, and rows of popes kept watch from above the tall
black and white pillars, while in the choir beyond priests chanted their
solemn psalms. Next we were with the present in the gay Lizza, under the
acacias and yellow chestnuts, by flower-beds full of roses and scarlet
sage, and walls now covered with brilliant Virginia creepers; and out on
the fort above to see a golden sky, and the sun disappearing behind
banks of purple, golden-edged, and red clouds, and pale, misty hills,
and to look back across the hollow to the red town climbing up from low
olive-gardens towards the Duomo on its hill-top, and tall La Mangia
towering aloft from its own little hollow beyond. From every side came
the voices of many people,--of soldiers in the barracks, of women and
children under the trees, of ball-players in the old court below, and of
applauding lookers-on lounging on the marble benches.
[Illustration: BY THE RIVER.
_Page 50._]
The tall unfinished arch of the Duomo that rises above houses and
churches, and indeed above everything but the lofty La Mangia and the
Campanile, tells the story of greatness and power and wealth suddenly
checked. But the deadly plague, which carried off so many citizens that
not even enough were left to make their city beautiful as they meant it
should be, could not take away the great beauty it already had, nor kill
the joyousness of its people. There are no Spendthrift Clubs in Siena
now, nor any gay Lanos like him Dante met in the _Inferno_. But there
are still laughter and song loving Sienese who in their own simple
fashion go through life gathering rosebuds while they may. It seemed to
me a very pretty fashion when I saw them holiday-making on Sunday
afternoon, peasants, priests, officers, townspeople, all out in their
Sunday best, and when on the Via Cavour, near the _Loggia_, we met two
wandering minstrels singing love-songs through the town. One played on a
mandolin which hung from his neck by a wide red ribbon, and as he played
he sang. His voice was loud and strong and very sweet, and like another
Orpheus he drew after him all who heard his music. His companion sold
copies of the song, printed on pink paper, gay as the words. He went
bowing and smiling in and out of the crowd,--from the women whose broad
hats waved as they kept time to the singing, to the men who had stuck
feathers in their soft felts worn jauntily on one side; from demure
little girls holding their nurses' hands, to swaggering soldiers. Then
when the first singer rested he, in his turn, sang a verse. There was
with them a small boy who every now and then broke in in a high treble,
so that there was no pause in the singing.
Wherever we went that afternoon, whether by the Duomo or out by the
Porta Romana, on the Lizza or near San Domenico, we saw large written
posters, announcing that at six in the evening there would be, at No. 17
Via Ricasoli, a great marionette performance of the _Ponte dei Sospiri_.
Apparently this was to be the event of the day, and to it we determined
to go. When a little before the appointed hour we came to the Via
Ricasoli, we half expected to see a theatre ablaze with light. What we
did find after much difficulty was a low doorway on the ground floor of
a many-storied palace, and before it a woman by a table, lighting a very
small lamp, to the evident satisfaction of half a dozen youngsters. Over
the open doorway was a chintz curtain; behind it, darkness. This was not
encouraging. But presently a woman with a child came to buy tickets. One
of the groups of youthful admirers was then sent up and a second down
the street, and after they had come back with mysterious bundles another
lamp was produced, lit, and carried inside, and the first two of the
audience followed. It was now five minutes of six, so we also bought our
tickets, three _soldi_, or cents, for each, and the curtain was drawn
for us.