several miles between chestnuts and oaks. There were open places, too,
from which we saw far below the fair Val di Chiana, and in the distance
Lake Thrasymene, pale and silvery, and close by olive-gardens, through
whose gray branches we looked at the purple mountains and their snowy
summits. Above were broad spaces of bright sky, for the dark clouds were
rolling away beyond the lake, and those that floated around Monte Amiata
were now glistening and white. We had left the wilderness for a garden.
All the bells rang out as if in welcome when, after working up the long
road, so winding that at times the city was completely hidden, we
wheeled into the now dark and cold streets of Montepulciano.
WE ARE DETAINED IN MONTEPULCIANO.
"_They were therefore here in evil
case, and were far from friends and
acquaintances._"
"_Why, truly, I do not know what
had become of me there, had not
Evangelist happily met me._"
It was in this high hill town that one of the pilgrims fell by the way.
For two days J. was too ill to ride, and we feared our pilgrimage had
come to an end. We stayed at the Albergo Marzocco. It was on the fifth
floor of an old palace, and the entrance was through the kitchen. The
_padrone_ and his family were very sociable. Almost immediately his wife
wanted to know the trade of the _Signore_. "Ah! an artist. _Ecco me!_ I
am a washerwoman!"
She was also cook. From the dining-room we could watch her as she
prepared our meals. When she kept us waiting too long we had only to
step into the kitchen and stand over her until the dish we had ordered
was ready. We could look too into an adjacent room where during our stay
one daughter of the house forever ironed table-cloths, while a second
added up endless accounts.
But friendly as these people were, they were stupid. The _padrone_ had a
_pizzicheria_, or pork-shop, across the street. When anything was wanted
at the Albergo it was brought from the shop. Every time I went to my
window I saw messengers on their way between the two establishments. But
no man can serve two masters; the _pizzicheria_ drove a more thriving
trade, and the Albergo suffered in consequence. It was left in the
charge of a youth of unparalleled stupidity, who seldom understood what
we asked for, and when he did, declared it something not to be had. But
a friend was sent to us in our need.
It happened in this way. The first morning we went out for a walk. As we
started, and were passing the palace with the Etruscan inscriptions on
the heavy stones of its lower wall, a Harlequin newly painted in red and
white struck nine from a house-top near by. In the Via dell' Erbe women,
their heads covered with gay handkerchiefs or wide-brimmed, high-crowned
felt hats, were selling vegetables and fruit. Just in front of us,
walking hand in hand, were three beggars, two blind and one lame, and an
old brown monk with a wine-cask on his shoulder. At almost every turn we
saw through an archway the three far-away lakes of Montepulciano,
Chiusi, and Thrasymene. But it was now J. began to feel ill, and we went
to a _caffè_ and called for cognac. As we sat there the door opened and
a young Italian dressed _à l'Anglaise_, even to his silver-headed cane,
came in. He took a seat at the table next to us. When his coffee was
brought he asked the waiter if he had seen the English lady and
gentleman who arrived the evening before on a velocipede. No, the waiter
had not; he knew nothing of these foreigners. There was a pause, while
the young Italian sipped his coffee. But presently he turned to us and
said in good English, but with a marked accent:--
"I beg pardon, sare, but was it not you who came to Montepulciano on a
tricycle?"
"Yes," said J., but rather curtly, for he was just then very miserably.
"Ah, I thought so!" continued the Italian, well satisfied with the
answer. "I have seen it,--a Humber. It is a beautiful machine. I myself
do ride a bicycle,--the _Speecial Cloob_. You know it? I do belong to
the Cyclists' _Touring Cloob_ and to the _Speedvell Cloob_. All the
English champions do belong to that _Cloob_. I did propose some one for
director at the last meeting; you will see my name on that account in
the papers. Here is my card, but in the country around Montepulciano all
call me Sandro or Sandrino. I have ridden from Florence to Montepulciano
in one day. I have what you call the wheel fever,"--and he smiled
apologetically and stopped, but only to take breath.
We were fellow-cyclers, and that was enough. He was at once our friend,
though our greeting in return was not enthusiastic, and our record would
have disgusted the _Speedvell Cloob_. He could sympathize. He was
feeling _vary bad_ himself, because the day before he had gone on his
bicycle as far as Montalcino with a gun to _keel the leetle birds_. It
was too far even for a champion. But he had taken the waters--Janos: he
had great faith in the waters.
The cognac by this time had made J. better, and we started to leave the
_caffè_. Sandrino, to give him his Montepulciano name, insisted on
paying for everything. We must let him have that favor, he said, and
also another. He was not a native of the town,--he was a Roman, as he
supposed we could see by his nose,--but still he would like to do us the
honors of the place. He would take us to see so fine a church we could
not but be pleased with it; it was only a step. Foolishly we went. The
step was a long one. It took us half-way down the mountain-side to the
Madonna di San Biagio. But J. was now really too wretched to look at
anything, and we turned back at once. As we walked slowly up again,
Sandrino explained that he had lived in England several years; and it
turned out that he had the English as well as the wheel fever. All his
clothes were from London, he said, even his flannels; and he pulled down
his sleeve that we might see. He smoked English tobacco,--a friend sent
it to him; and he showed us the small paper box tied with a string in
which he kept it. And most of his news was English, too. His friends
wrote him. He had just had a letter--see--and he opened it. There had
been fearful riots in England. He cared much for the politics of the
country. But the refrain of all he said was praise of cycling. He
offered to ride with us when we left Montepulciano. He could go any day
but the next, which was his twenty-first birthday, when he was to have a
great dinner and many friends and much wine. He would call, if we would
allow him; and with profession of great friendship he left us at the
door of the Albergo.
[Illustration: LEAVING MONTEPULCIANO.
_Page 106._]
He was true to his word. Indeed, I do not know what had become of us but
for his kindness. After our return from our walk, J. was unable to leave
his room. We were both depressed by this unlooked-for delay, and
Sandrino not only helped to amuse, but was of practical use to us. He
came twice the following day. The first time he stopped, he said, to
tell us he did hear from friends in Castiglione del Lago, who, if we
should ride to-morrow, would be glad to see us at lunch. "There will be
nothing much," he concluded; "they will make no preparations. It will be
some _leetle_ thing." Though in the first glory of his twenty-one years,
he went with me to a druggist's to act as interpreter. But I think he
was repaid by his pleasure in carrying back a bottle of his favorite
waters. The boy, when he saw it, with his usual cleverness followed into
the room bringing three glasses. If we had asked for three he doubtless
would have brought one. Sandrino's second visit was in the evening after
he had eaten his great dinner and drunk much wine, which had again made
him feel _vary bad_. Had we ever tasted the famous Montepulciano, "king
of all wine"? he asked. No? Well, then, we must before leaving the town.
It was not to be had anywhere else, and indeed even in Montepulciano
could not be bought in the _caffè_ or shops. He had been presented with
many bottles.
He repeated his invitation to lunch in Castiglione, and it seemed that
other friends in a villa near Cortona would also be charmed to see us,
and to give us wine if we were tired.
IN THE VAL DI CHIANA.
"_Thy company, O sweet Evangelist,
how desirable it is to us poor
pilgrims._"
"_Then I saw in my dream they went
very lovingly on together._"
The next morning J. was much better, and we decided to ride. Sandrino
arrived at half-past seven and breakfasted with us. In the uniform of
the _Speedvell Cloob_, its monogram in silver on his cap, he was even
more English than he had been the day before. Our last experience at the
Albergo was characteristic. The waiter, overcome by Sandrino's
appearance, became incapable of action. We called for our coffee and
rolls in vain. Finally we all, our guest included, made a descent upon
the kitchen and forced him to bestir himself.
It was Sunday morning, and the news of our going had been noised abroad.
The aristocracy as well as the people turned out to see us off. Many of
Sandrino's friends lingered in the barber-shop across the street; others
waited just without the city gate with his mother and sister. When
Sandrino saw the crowd here, he sprang upon his _Speecial Cloob_, worked
with one foot and waved the other in the air, rode to the little park
beyond and back, and then jumped off, hat in hand, at his mother's side,
with the complacent smile of a champion. Indeed, the whole ride that day
savored of the circus. He went down hills with his legs stretched
straight out on either side. On level places he made circles and fancy
figures in the road. Whenever we passed peasants,--and there were many
going to church,--he shrieked a warning shrill as a steam-engine
whistle. No wonder he said he had no use for a bell! He spoke to all the
women, calling them his "beautiful cousins." And in villages the noise
he made was so great that frightened people, staring at him, could not
look behind, so that several times we all but rode over men and women
who walked backward right into our wheels. And all the while J., like
the ring-master, kept calling and shrieking, and no one paid the least
attention to him.
Our way was through the beautiful Val di Chiana, no longer pestilential
and full of stenches as in Dante's day, but fresh and fair, and in
places sweet with clematis. There were no fences or hedges, and it
stretched from mountains to mountains, one wide lovely park. About
half-way to Castiglione we came to the boundary line between Tuscany and
Umbria,--a canal with tall poplars on its banks, throwing long
reflections into the water below, where a boat lay by the reeds. We
stopped there some little time. Sandrino was polite, but I could see he
did not approve. What would the _Speedvell Cloob_ have thought? Farther
on, when we waited again near a low farm-house under the oaks, he
wheeled quickly on. But presently he came back. "Oh," he said, "I
thought you must have had an accident!"
There could be no lovelier lake town than Castiglione del Lago. The high
hill on which it stands projects far into Lake Thrasymene. The olives
which grow from its walls down the hillside into the very water are
larger and finer, with more strangely twisted trunks, than any I have
ever seen. As we came near the town we rode between them, looking
beneath their silvery-gray branches out to the pale blue lake beyond. A
woman came from under their shade with a bundle of long reeds on her
head; a priest passed us on a donkey.
We left our machines in a stable at the foot of the hill and walked
through the streets. Here Sandrino's invitation came to nought; his
friends were away. Whatever _leetle thing_ we had must be found
elsewhere. So we went to a _trattoria_, where another of his friends, a
serious, polite young man who, we learned afterwards, owns the town and
all the country thereabout, sat and talked with us while we ate our
lunch. Poor Sandrino! He had to pay for his English clothes and foreign
friends! The _padrona_, backed by her husband from the kitchen below,
asked him no less than five francs for our macaroni and wine. A dispute,
loud because of the distance between the disputants, followed; but in
the end Sandrino paid four francs, though half that sum would have been
enough. It was some consolation for us to know that, _forestieri_ as we
were, we had never been cheated so outrageously, not even in San
Quirico.
It was pleasant wandering through the town, with the grave young man as
guide, to the Palazzo Communale, where the red and white flag of the
Duke of Cornia waving outside was the same as that painted in the old
frescos within, and where councilmen holding council bowed to us as we
passed; and then to the old deserted castle which, with its gray
battlemented walls and towers, was not unlike an English ruin. But it
was pleasanter when, Sandrino having kissed his friend, we were on the
road again, riding between yellow mulberries by the side of the lake.
Sheep were grazing on the grassy banks; donkeys and oxen were at rest in
the meadows. But the peasants, Mass heard, were at work again. Women on
ladders were stripping the mulberries of their leaves; men on their
knees were digging in the fields.
At the villa, Sandrino's friends were at home. At the gate the gay
bicycler gave his war-cry. A young lady ran out between the roses and
chrysanthemums in the garden and by the red wall where yellow pumpkins
were sunning, to welcome him. Then her mother and sister came and also
gave him greeting. They received us with courtesy. We were led into the
drawing-room, a bare, barn-like place with cold brick floor, where there
were three or four chairs, a table, an old piano, faded cretonne
curtains hung on rough sticks at the windows, and small drawings pinned
on the walls. A man in blue coat and trousers, such as the peasants
wear, followed us in and sat down by the young ladies. He was one of her
men, the _Signora_ explained. Then we had the wine Sandrino promised,
and we became very friendly. One of the daughters knew a little English,
but when we spoke to her she hid her face in her hands and laughed and
blushed. She never, never would dare to say a word before us, she
declared. She was very arch and girlish. One minute she played a waltz
on the piano; the next she teased Sandrino, and there was much
pleasantry between them. The mother spoke French after a fashion, but
when she had anything to say she relapsed into Italian. She lived in
Rome, she said. We must come and see her there. But would we not now
stay at her villa all night, instead of in Cortona? Then she squeezed my
hand. "_Vous êtes bien sympathique_," she said, and I think she meant to
compliment me. Her husband, it seems, was a banker in Rome, and would be
pleased, so she told us through Sandrino's interpretation, to do
anything and everything for us.
Mother and daughters, men and maids, all walking amiably together, came
to the garden gate with us. The _Signora_ here squeezed my hand a second
time. The skittish young lady said "good-by" and then hid behind a bush,
and her sister gave us each some roses. It was here too we were to part
with Sandrino. He must be back in Montepulciano by six; more friends
were coming. Would we write him postal cards to tell him of the distance
and time we made? And that map of Tuscany we said we would give him,
would we not remember it? He was going to take some great rides, and it
would help him. Then we turned one way, and he, riding his best for the
young ladies, the other, to be seen by us no more.
It was roses all the way to Cortona. They grew in villa gardens and
along the road up the mountain; there were a few even among the olives,
on the terraces whose stone embankments make the city from below look as
if it were surrounded by many walls instead of one only. Near the town
we met two young lovers, their arms around each other's waists, and a
group of men who directed us in our search for the inn up a short steep
hill leading away from the main road. Above, inside the city gate,
several other citizens told us we must go down again, for the road we
had left led right by the door. Clearly the Albergo della Stella--for
that was its name--was not well known in Cortona. After a climb of three
miles it was provoking to go even a foot out of our way, and we turned
back in no cheerful mood. It was more disheartening when, having finally
come to the Albergo, we found the lower floor, by which we entered, the
home of pigs and donkeys and oxen. The major was right, I thought;
Cortona was a rough place. The contrast when on the third floor of this
establishment we were shown into a large, clean, really well-furnished
room with window overlooking the valley, made us neglect to drive a
close bargain with the _padrona_,--a neglect for which we suffered
later.
LUCA SIGNORELLI'S TOWN.
"_By this time the pilgrims had a
desire to go forward._"
The principal event of our stay in Cortona was a hunt for Luca
Signorelli's house. Why we were so anxious to find it I did not know
then, nor do I now; but we were very earnest about it. At the start a
youth pursued us with the persistence of a government spy. It was
useless to try and dodge him. No matter how long we were in churches or
by what door we came out, he was always waiting in exactly the right
place. In our indignation we would not ask him the way, but we did of
some other boys, who forthwith led us such a wild-goose chase that I
think before it was over there was not a street or corner of the town
unvisited by us.
[Illustration: CORTONA.]
We next employed an old man as guide. Of course he knew all about Luca
Signorelli. He could show us all his frescos and pictures in Cortona.
Some of them were bad enough, as he supposed the _Signore_ knew; they
were painted in the artist's youth. But we wanted to see his house? Ah!
we had but to follow him, and he led us in triumph to that of Pietro da
Cortona. As this would not do, he consulted with an old woman, who
recommended a visit to a certain _padre_. The _padre_ was in his
kitchen. He had never heard of Signorelli's house, and honestly admitted
his ignorance. But could he show us some fine frescos or sell us
antiquities? This failing, our guide hunted for some friends who, he
declared, knew everything. But they were not in their shop, nor in the
_caffè_, nor on the piazza, and in despair he took us to see another
priest. The latter wore a jockey-cap and goggles, and was a learned man.
He had heard of a life of Signorelli by a German. He had never read it,
nor indeed could he say where it was to be had; but he knew there was
such a book. He was certain our hunt was useless, since Signorelli had
lived in so many houses the city could not afford to put tablets on them
all, and so not one was marked. He himself was a professional
letter-writer, and if the _Signore_ had any letters he wished written--?
We then gave up the search and dismissed the old man with a franc,
though he declared himself still willing to continue it. It was in this
way we saw Cortona.
For the last few days we had begun to be haunted by the fear of the
autumn rains. If they were as bad as Virgil says, and were to fall in
dense sheets, tearing the crops up by the roots, while black whirlwinds
set the stubble flying, and vast torrents filled ditches and raised
rivers, the roads must certainly be made unridable. Since the morning we
left Monte Oliveto the weather had been threatening, and now in Cortona
there were heavy showers. As we sat in our room at the Albergo after our
long tramp, and J. made a sketch from the window, we saw dark clouds
gradually cover the sky. The lake, so blue yesterday, was gray and dull.
The valley and the mountains were in shadow, save where the sun breaking
through the clouds shone on a small square of olives and spread a golden
mist over Monte Amiata. Before J. had finished, the gold faded into
white and then deepened into purple, and we determined to be off early
in the morning.
TO PERUGIA: BY TRAIN AND
TRICYCLE.
"_Now you must note that the City
stood upon a mighty hill, but the
pilgrims went up that hill with
ease._"
The next day I was tired and in no humor for riding. J. wanted once to
try the tricycle without luggage over the Italian roads. It was settled
then between us that I should go alone by train to Perugia, where we
should meet. Before seven we had our breakfast and the _padrona_ brought
us her bill. Because we had not bargained in the beginning she
overcharged us for everything; but we refused to pay more than we knew
was her due. There was the inevitable war of words, more unpleasant than
usual because her voice was loud and harsh and asthmatic. She grew
tearful before it was over, but finally thanked us for what we gave her,
and asked us to come again so gently that we mistrusted her. I thought
it wise to wait with the bags at the station, though my train would not
start till eleven.
It was a beautiful coast down the mountain between the olives, four
miles with feet up. The clouds had rolled away during the night, and it
was bright and warm at the station when J. left me to go on his way. It
was quiet too, and for some time I was alone with the porters. But
presently a young woman with a child in her arms came by. She stopped
and looked at me sympathetically. I spoke to her, and then she came
nearer and patted me on the shoulder and said, "_Poverina!_" It seems
she had seen J. bring me to the station and then turn back by himself. I
do not know what she thought was the trouble, but she felt sorry for me.
She was the wife of the telegraph operator, and lived in rooms above the
station. She took me to them, and then she brought me an illustrated
translation of "Gil Blas" to look at while she made me a cup of coffee.
Every few minutes she sighed and said again, "_Poverina!_" She gave me
her card,--Elena Olas, _nata_ Bocci, was her name. I wrote mine on a
slip of paper, and when the train, only an hour late, came, we parted
with great friendship.
A regiment of soldiers was on its way to Perugia and made the journey
very lively. Peasants who had somehow heard of its coming were in wait
at every station with apples and chestnuts and wine, over which there
was much noisy bargaining. At other times the soldiers sang. As the
train carried us by the lake from which the mountains in the distance
rose white and shadowy and phantom-like, and by Passignano,--built right
in the water, with reeds instead of flowers around the houses, where
fishermen were out in their boats near the weirs,--and then by Maggiore
and Ellora on their hill-tops, I heard the constant refrain of the
soldiers' song, and it reminded me of my friend at Cortona, for it was a
plaintive regret for "_Poverina mia!_" Then there came a pause in the
singing, and a voice called out, "_Ecco_, Perugia!" I looked from the
carriage window, and there, far above on the mountain, I saw it, white
and shining, like a beautiful city of the sun.
At the station J. met me. He had been waiting an hour, having made the
thirty-six miles between Cortona and Perugia in three hours and a half.
He too had had his adventures. Beyond Passignano he met a man on foot
who spoke to him, and to whom he said, "_Buon Giorno_." "Good-morning,"
cried the man in good cockney English, and J. in sheer astonishment
stopped the tricycle. The tramp--for tramp he was--explained that he was
an Englishman and in a bad way. He had been at Perugia with a circus
which had little or no success, and the rascally Frenchman who managed
it had broken up and made off, leaving him with nothing. He was now on
his way to Florence, where he wanted to be taken on by Prince Strozzi,
who kept English jockeys. But in the mean time he was hungry and had no
money, and must tramp it all the way. J. bethought him of the card to
the gentleman of Cortona who had married an English wife. We had not
used it, and it seemed a pity to waste it. The English lady doubtless
would be glad of an opportunity to help a countryman. So he gave it to
the tramp, together with a franc for his immediate wants. The latter
looked at the money. He supposed he could do something with it, he
grumbled. He really was grateful, however, for he offered to push the
machine up a hill down which he had just walked. But J. telling him to
hurry on, engaged instead the services of a small boy who was going his
way. For pay, he gave the child a coast down the other side into his
native village, than which _soldi_ could not have been sweeter. Did not
all his playmates see him ride by in his pride?
Arriving in Perugia, J. himself was a hero for a time. Many officers
with their wives were in the station, and in their curiosity so far
forgot their usual dignity as to surround him and pester him with
questions as to his whence and whither and what speed he could make.
[Illustration: ON THE HILL.
_Page 126._]