went faster than we ever climbed mountain before, for we tied the
tricycle to the back of the diligence. J. rode and steered it, but I sat
inside, ending my day's journey as I had begun it, in commonplace
fashion. The driver was full of admiration. We must go to Terni on our
velocipede, he said; in the mountains beyond Spoleto we should go
down-hill for seven miles. _Ecco!_ no need of a diligence then!
AT PERUGIA.
"_And did see such things there,
the remembrance of which will stick
by me as long as I live._"
The _padrone_ of the Albergo at Perugia was a man of parts. He could
speak English. When we complimented him on a black cat which was always
in his office, he answered, with eyes fixed on vacancy, and pausing
between each word like a child saying its lesson:
"Yes-it-is-a-good-cat. I-have-one-dog-and-four-cats.
This-cat-is-the-fath-er-of-the-oth-er-cats.
One-are-red-and-three-is-white." And when we had occasion to thank him,
he knew enough to tell us we were very much obliged.
But we gave him small chance to display his powers. There was little to
keep us in the Albergo, when, after a few minutes' walk we could be in
the piazza, where the sun shone on Pisano's fountain, and on the Palazzo
of the Baglioni and the Duomo opposite. But what a fall was there! A
couple of _gendarmes_, priests walking two by two, a few beggars, were
the only people we saw in this broad piazza, where at one time men and
women, driven to frenzy by the words of Saint Bernardino, spoken from
the pulpit by the Duomo door, almost fell into the fire they had kindled
to burn their false hair and ornaments, their dice and cards; and where
at another Baglioni fought, with the young Raphael looking on to paint
later one at least of the combatants; and where the beautiful Grifonetto
lay in death agony, the avengers of his murdered kinsmen waiting to see
him die, the heads of his fellow-assassins looking grimly down from the
Palazzo walls, and Atalanta, his mother, giving him forgiveness for the
deed, for which but yesterday she had cursed him. In the aisles of the
Duomo, once so stained with the blood of the Baglioni that they had to
be purified with wine before prayers could again be offered in them, a
procession of white-robed priests and acolytes, bearing cross and
censer, passed from one chapel to another before a congregation of two
or three old women. It was the same in the narrow streets; all is now
still and peaceful where of old Baglioni, single-handed, kept back the
forces of Oddi, their mortal foes. Only the memory of their fierceness
remains; though I have two friends who say that in the dark street
behind the Palazzo, where brave Simonetto and Astore fought the enemy
until corpses lay in piles around them, they one night heard voices
singing sadly, as if in lamentation; and these voices led them onwards
under one archway and then another until suddenly the sounds ceased. But
when they turned to go homewards, lo! they had lost their way. The next
morning they returned that they might by daylight see whence the music
could have come. But all along the street was a dead wall. None but
spirits could have sung there; and what spirits would dare to lift their
voices in this famous street but those of Baglioni?
It must be the degeneracy of modern warriors that sets these heroes of
the old school to singing lamentations. The Grifonettos and Astores who
feasted on blood, could they come back to life and their native town,
would have little sympathy with the captains and colonels who now drink
tamarind-water in the _caffè_, booted and spurred though the latter be.
The _caffè_ is everywhere the lounging-place of Italian officers, but in
Perugia it seemed to be their headquarters. There was one on the Corso,
a few doors from the Palazzo, which they specially patronized. They were
there in the morning even before the shops were opened, and again at
noon, and yet again in the evening, while at other times they walked to
and fro in front of it, as if on guard. But though the youngest as well
as the oldest patronized it, the distinctions of rank between them were
observed as scrupulously as Dickens says they are with the Chatham and
Rochester aristocracy. The colonel associated with nothing lower than a
major, the latter in turn drawing the line at the captain, and so it
went down to the third lieutenant, who lorded it only over the common
soldier. On the whole, I think the lesser officers had the best of it;
for whether they eat cakes and drank sweet drinks, or played cards, they
were always sociable and merry. Whereas, sometimes the colonel sat
solitary in his grandeur, silent except for the few words with the boy
selling matches as he hunted through the stock to find a box with a
pretty picture.
We were long enough in Perugia to carry the _Abate's_ letters to San
Pietro. The monks to whom they were written were away, but a third came
in their place and gave us welcome. He showed J. the inner cloister, to
which I could not go: women were not allowed there. It was because of my
skirts, he said; and yet he too wore skirts, and he spread out his
cassock on each side. While they were gone I waited in the church. I
wonder if ghostly voices are never heard within it. The monks, long
dead, whose love and even life it was to make it beautiful until its
walls and ceilings were rich and glowing, its choir a miracle of
carving, and its sacristy hung with prayer-inspiring pictures, have,
like the Baglioni, cause to bewail the degenerate latter day. The beauty
they created now lives but for the benefit of a handful of monks whose
monastery is turned into a Boys' Agricultural School, and for the
occasional tourist. Later from the high terrace of the park opposite San
Pietro we saw the boys in their blue blouses digging and hoeing in the
fields under the olives, where probably the monks themselves once
worked. There is in this little park an amphitheatre with archway,
bearing the Perugian griffin in the centre. It is shaded by dense
ilex-trees, from whose branches a raven must once have croaked; for evil
has come upon the place, as it has upon the gray monastery so near.
Instead of nobles and men-at-arms and councillors of state, two or three
poor women with their babies sat on the stone benches gossiping. And as
we lingered there in the late afternoon there came from San Pietro the
sound, not of monks chanting vespers, but of some one playing the "Blue
Danube" on an old jingling piano. Only the valley below, and the Tiber
winding through it, and the mountains beyond are unchanged.
ACROSS THE TIBER TO ASSISI.
"_And I slept and dreamed again and
saw the same two pilgrims going
down the mountains along the
highway towards the city._"
When we left Perugia in the early morning we passed first by the statue
of Julius II., thus receiving, we said to each other, the bronze
pontiff's benediction. We imagined this to be an original idea; but it
is useless to try to be original. Since then we have remembered the same
thought came to Miriam and Donatello when they made the statue their
trysting-place. Then we rode through the piazza, where a market was
being held, and where at one end a long row of women holding baskets of
eggs stood erect, though all around other women and even men, selling
fruits and vegetables, sat comfortably on low stools.
[Illustration: THE BRONZE PONTIFF'S BENEDICTION, PERUGIA.
_Page 134._]
On the other side of the Porta Romana we saw that while Perugia was
bright and clear in the sunlight, a thick white mist covered the valley,
so that it looked as if a great lake, bounded by the mountains, lay
below. The chrysanthemums and marigolds, hanging over high garden walls,
and the grass by the road-side glistened with dew. Shining silver
cobwebs hung on the hedges. Before many minutes, so fast did we go, we
were riding right into the mist. We could see but a few feet in front of
us, and the olives on either side, through the heavy white veil, looked
like spectres. We passed no one but a man carrying a lantern and a cage
of owls. It seemed but natural that so uncanny a ride should lead to a
home of shadows. And when we came to the tomb of the Volumnii at the
foot of the mountain we left the tricycle without, and went down for a
while into its darkness and damp. When we came out the mist had
disappeared and the road lay through sunshine.
A little farther on we had our first near view of the Tiber. We crossed
it by the old Ponte San Giovanni, so narrow that there was not room for
us to pass a boy and a donkey just in front. J. called, and the boy
pushed his donkey close to the stone wall; but for all that we could not
pass. Even as J. called he was stopped by a sudden sharp pain in his
side, the result probably of his descent into the tomb while he was
still warm; for he had back-pedalled coming down the mountain. And so we
waited for many minutes on the bridge to see, not the yellow Tiber one
always hears about, but a river blue in mid-stream, white where it came
running over the mill-wheel and down the dam, and red and yellow and
green where it reflected the poplars and oaks, and the skirts and
handkerchiefs of the women washing on its banks. But after the bridge we
left the river, for we were bound for Assisi. We had a quiet, peaceful
ride for several miles on the Umbrian plain, where in the old times no
one dared to go without the permission of the Baglioni, between
vineyards and fields where men were ploughing, and through insignificant
little villages, until we came out upon the large piazza in front of
Santa Maria degli Angeli. It was crowded with peasants, for market was
just over, and there came from every side the sound of many voices. When
we rode by we were surrounded at once, two or three men keeping close to
our side to sing the praises of the hotels at Assisi and shower their
cards upon us. They pursued us even into the church, and as far as the
little hermitage beneath the dome, to tell us that each and all could
speak English.
[Illustration: A FROWN OF DISAPPROVAL, ASSISI.
_Page 136._]
If the Umbrians about Assisi were always like this, Saint Francis was a
wise man to hide himself in the woods and make friends with beasts and
birds. Over the sunny roads beyond Santa Maria, where he and Fra Egidio
walked singing and exhorting men and women to repentance, we wheeled
imploring, or rather commanding, them to get out of the way. It was a
hard pull up the mountain-side, the harder because the great monastery
on its high foundations seemed always so far above us. When almost at
the city gate a monk in brown robes, the knotted cord about his waist,
passed. He stopped to look, but it was with a frown of disapproval; I
think Saint Francis would have smiled.
AT ASSISI.
"_Methought these things did ravish
my heart; I would have stayed at
that man's house a twelvemonth but
that I knew I had farther to go._"
It was just noon when we reached Assisi, but we rode no more that day.
We spent the afternoon in the town of Saint Francis. The Albergo we
selected from the many recommended was without the large cloisters of
the monastery. The waiter at once remembered that J. had been there
before, though eighteen months had passed since his first visit. The
_Signore_ had two ladies with him then, he said. He was delighted with
the velocipede. It was the first time in all his life he had seen one
with three wheels. Nothing would do but he must show us the finest road
to Rome. He spread our map on the table as we eat our dinner, and put on
his glasses,--for he was a little bad in the eyes, he explained,--and
then he pointed out the very route we had already decided upon. _Ecco!_
here, between Spoleto and Terni, we should have a long climb up the
mountain, but then there would be seven miles down the other side. Ah!
that would be fine! This long coast to Terni was clearly to make up for
the hardships we already had endured on toilsome up-grades.
After dinner we went to the church. Goethe, when he was in Assisi, saw
the old Roman Temple of Minerva,--and then, that his pleasure in it
might not be disturbed, refused to look at anything else in the town,
and went quickly on his way. But when I passed out of the sunlight into
the dark lower church and under the low rounded arches to the altar with
Giotto's angels and saints above, it seemed to me he was the loser by
his great love for classic beauty. Many who have been to this wonderful
church have written descriptions of it, but none have really told, and
indeed no one can ever tell, how wonderful it is. The upper church, with
its great lofty nave and many windows through which the light streams in
on the bright frescoed walls, is beautiful. But this lower one, with its
dark, subdued color and dim light, and the odor of incense which always
lingers in it, is like the embodiment of the mystery and love that
inspired the saint in whose honor it was built. In it one understands,
for the first time perhaps, what it is for which the followers of Saint
Francis gave up life and action. Whoever was long under the influence of
this place must, I thought, always stay,--like the old gray-haired monk
we saw kneeling before a side altar rapt in contemplation. And yet on
the very threshold we found three or four brothers laughing and joking
with two women,--Italian Dr. Mary Walkers they must have been, for they
wore men's collars and cravats and coats, with field-glasses slung over
their shoulders, and stiff gray hats, and they were smoking long _sigare
Cavour_. They were artists, and had been painting, oh, so badly! in the
church all the morning.
The sun was setting when we left the monastery and walked through the
streets, now silent and deserted, where Francis in his gay youth
wandered with boon companions, singing not hymns but love-songs. A small
boy came and walked with us, and, unbidden, acted as our guide. Here was
the Duomo, he said, and here the Church of Santa Chiara; and, when we
were on the road without the city gate, _Ecco!_ below, Santa Maria degli
Angeli! For from where we stood we looked down upon the huge church
rising from the plain, where even now there are scarcely more houses
than in the days when Franciscans, coming from far and near to hold
counsel with their founder, built their straw huts upon it. Our
self-appointed guide was a bright little fellow, and never once begged
like the other children who followed us. So when he showed us the road
to Foligno where we must ride on the morrow, J. gave him a _sou_. At the
door of the Albergo he said he must go home, but not to supper; he never
had any. He asked at what time we should leave in the morning, when he
would like to come and say good-by. _Felice notte_--"a happy
night"--were his last words as he turned away.
VIRGIL'S COUNTRY.
"_If we have such ill speed at our
first setting out, what may we
expect betwixt this and our
journey's end!_"
The next morning, with a select company of ragged boys, our young guide
arrived in time to see us start. When I came out he nodded in a friendly
way, as if to an old acquaintance, to the wonder and admiration of the
other youngsters. The waiter, his glasses on, came to the gate with us.
Two monks standing there asked how far we were going on our velocipede.
"To Rome?" they cried. "Why, then, here are two pilgrims and two
priests!" Our guide and his friend ran down the mountain-side after us
until we gave the former another _sou_, when they at once disappeared.
It seemed a little ungrateful; but I did not give him much thought, for
just then J. bade me back-pedal with all my might. The machine went very
fast, despite my hard work, and to my surprise J. suddenly steered into
a stone-pile by the roadside. "The brake is broken!" was his explanation
as we slowly upset.
Fortunately, however, the upright connecting the band of the brake with
the handle had only slipped out of place, and though we could not fix it
in again securely, J. could still manage to use it. This, so far as we
could see, was the one defect in our tricycle, but defect it was. A nut
on the end of the upright would have prevented such an accident. But
this is one of the minor particulars in which tricycle-makers--and we
have tried many--are careless. We had the rest of the coast without
interruption. Half-way down, our little friend and his followers ran out
from under the olives; he had taken a short cut that he might see us
again.
From Assisi to Terni was a long day's ride by towns and villages,
through fair valleys and over rough mountains. From the foot of the
mountain at Assisi, past Monte Subasio, which, bare and rocky, towered
above the lower olive-covered hills, the road was level until we rode by
Spello with its old Roman gateway and ruined amphitheatre. But the hill
here was not steep, and then again there came a level stretch into
Foligno, the first lowland town to which we had come since we left
Poggibonsi, and which, with its mass of roofs and lofty dome rising high
above the city walls, looked little like the Foligno in Raphael's
picture. Already in our short ride--for it is but ten miles from Assisi
to Foligno--we noticed a great difference in the people. It was not only
that many of the women wore bodices and long earrings, and turned their
handkerchiefs up on top of their heads, but they, and the men as well,
were less polite and more stupid than the Tuscans or Umbrians about
Perugia.
Few spoke to us, and one woman to whom we said good-morning was so
startled that she thanked us in return, as if unused to such civilities.
For all J.'s shouts of _a destra_--to the right--and _Eccomi!_ they
would not make room for us; and now in Foligno one woman, in her
stupidity or obstinacy, walked directly in front of the machine, and
when the little wheel caught her dress, through no fault of ours, cried
"_Accidente voi!_"--the _voi_, instead of _le_, being a far greater
insult than the wishing us an accident. Then she walked on, cursing in
loud voice, down the street, by the little stream that runs through the
centre of the town, and into the market-place where Saint Francis, in
mistaken obedience to words heard in ecstasy, sold the cloth he had
taken from his father that he might have money to rebuild the church of
San Damiano.
Even the beasts we met were stupid as the people. At our coming, horses,
donkeys, and oxen tried to run. We therefore looked for at least a
skirmish when, beyond Foligno, a regiment of cavalry in marching order
advanced upon us. But the soldiers stood our charge bravely. Only the
officer was routed and retreated into the gutter. Then, forgetting
military discipline, he turned his back upon his men to see us ride.
We were now on the old Via Flaminia and in the valley of the
Clitumnus,--Virgil's country. The poet's smiling fields and tall, stiff
oaks, his white oxen and peasants behind the plough or enjoying the cool
shade, were on either side. Crossing the fields were many stony beds of
streams, dry at this season, lined with oaks and chestnuts, under whose
shade women were filling large baskets with acorns and leaves. The
upturned earth was rich and brown. Through the trees or over them we saw
the whitish-blue sky, the purple mountains, some pointed like pyramids,
and the gray olive hills with little villages in their hollows, and
before long Trevi on its high hill-top. And then we came to the temple
of the river god Clitumnus, of which Pliny writes, and where the little
river, in which Virgil says the white flocks for the sacrifice bathed,
runs below, an old mill on its bank and one willow bending over it.
[Illustration: GATHERING LEAVES.
_Page 146._]
At the village of Le Vene, near the source of the stream, we stopped at
a wine-shop to eat some bread and cheese. There was no one there but the
_padrone_ and a dwarf who wore a decent suit of black clothes and had a
medallion of the Pope on his watch-chain. He had come in a carriage
which waited for him at the door. I think he was a drummer. He drank
much wine, and spoke to us in a vile patois. Indeed, the people
thereabout all spoke in dialects worse, I am sure, than any Dante heard
at the mouth of Hell. The dwarf had travelled, and had been in Florence,
where he had seen a velocipede, but not like ours. It was finer, or
perhaps he should say more commodious. The seats were side by side, and
it had an umbrella attached, and it was worked by the hands. It went,
oh, so fast! and he intimated that we could not hope to rival its speed.
I suppose our machine without an umbrella seemed to him like a ship
without a sail. But I think he had another tale to tell when, ten
minutes later, he having started before we did, we passed him on the
road. We were going so fast I only had time to see that in his wonder
the reins fell from his hands.
Then came the small, wretched village of San Giacomo, with its old
castle built up with the houses of the poor, and then Spoleto, where we
lunched in a _trattoria_ of the people which was much troubled by a
plague of flies. A company of Bersaglieri, red caps on the backs of
their heads and blue tassels dangling down their backs, sat at one
table, ordering with much merriment their soup and meat and macaroni to
be cooked _à la Bersagliere_; at another, two young men were evidently
enjoying an unwonted feast; and at the table with us were three
peasants, one of whom had brought his bread in his pocket: he eat his
soup for dessert, and throughout the meal used his own knife in
preference to the knife and fork laid at his place. Two dogs, a cat, and
a hen wandered in from the piazza and dined on the bits of macaroni
dropped by the not over-careful soldiers. The waiter greeted us
cordially. He too had a machine, he said, but had never heard of
velocipedes with three wheels. His had but two; the _Signore_ must see
it. And before he would listen to our order for lunch, he showed J. his
bicycle,--a bone-shaker. He was very proud of it. He had ridden as far
as Terni. Ah! what a beautiful time we should have before the afternoon
was over! Seven miles down the mountain!
The thought of this coast made us leave Spoleto with light hearts,
though we knew that first must come a hard climb. But if the road was as
perfect as it had been all the morning, there was not much to dread. It
was half-past two when we started from the _trattoria_, but we were
fifteen minutes in walking to the other end of the town. There was no
use riding. The streets were narrow and steep, and crowded with stupid
men and women and donkeys, and with officers who instead of controlling
were controlled by their horses. Beyond the gate the ascent at first was
gradual and we rode easily, even as we worked looking back to the famous
old aqueduct and the shadowy heights of Norcia. For some distance we
went by the dried-up bed of a wide stream, meeting many priests on foot
and peasants on donkeys. But as the way became steeper we left the
stream far below, and came into a desolate country, where the mountains
were covered with scrub-oaks, and priests and peasants disappeared; only
one old man kept before us, making short cuts up the mountain-side, but
after a while he too rode out of sight.