I.

The first stage on the journey thither was by rail to Belluno--about

four or five hours. It is a sufficient commentary on railway travel that

the most important thing about it is to tell how many hours it takes to

get from one place to another.

We arrived in Belluno at night, and when we awoke the next morning we

found ourselves in a picturesque little city of Venetian aspect, with

a piazza and a campanile and a Palladian cathedral, surrounded on all

sides by lofty hills. We were at the end of the railway and at the

beginning of the Dolomites.

Although I have a constitutional aversion to scientific information

given by unscientific persons, such as clergymen and men of letters,

I must go in that direction far enough to make it clear that the word

Dolomite does not describe a kind of fossil, nor a sect of heretics, but

a formation of mountains lying between the Alps and the Adriatic. Draw

a diamond on the map, with Brixen at the northwest corner, Lienz at the

northeast, Belluno at the southeast, and Trent at the southwest, and

you will have included the region of the Dolomites, a country so

picturesque, so interesting, so full of sublime and beautiful scenery,

that it is equally a wonder and a blessing that it has not been long

since completely overrun by tourists and ruined with railways. It

is true, the glaciers and snowfields are limited; the waterfalls are

comparatively few and slender, and the rivers small; the loftiest peaks

are little more than ten thousand feet high. But, on the other hand, the

mountains are always near, and therefore always imposing. Bold, steep,

fantastic masses of naked rock, they rise suddenly from the green and

flowery valleys in amazing and endless contrast; they mirror themselves

in the tiny mountain lakes like pictures in a dream.

I believe the guide-book says that they are formed of carbonate of lime

and carbonate of magnesia in chemical composition; but even if this be

true, it need not prejudice any candid observer against them. For the

simple and fortunate fact is that they are built of such stone that wind

and weather, keen frost and melting snow and rushing water have worn

and cut and carved them into a thousand shapes of wonder and beauty. It

needs but little fancy to see in them walls and towers, cathedrals and

campaniles, fortresses and cities, tinged with many hues from pale

gray to deep red, and shining in an air so soft, so pure, so cool, so

fragrant, under a sky so deep and blue and a sunshine so genial, that it

seems like the happy union of Switzerland and Italy.

The great highway through this region from south to north is the Ampezzo

road, which was constructed in 1830, along the valleys of the Piave, the

Boite, and the Rienz--the ancient line of travel and commerce between

Venice and Innsbruck. The road is superbly built, smooth and level. Our

carriage rolled along so easily that we forgot and forgave its venerable

appearance and its lack of accommodation for trunks. We had been

persuaded to take four horses, as our luggage seemed too formidable for

a single pair. But in effect our concession to apparent necessity

turned out to be a mere display of superfluous luxury, for the two white

leaders did little more than show their feeble paces, leaving the

gray wheelers to do the work. We had the elevating sense of traveling

four-in-hand, however--a satisfaction to which I do not believe any

human being is altogether insensible.

At Longarone we breakfasted for the second time, and entered the narrow

gorge of the Piave. The road was cut out of the face of the rock. Below

us the long lumber-rafts went shooting down the swift river. Above, on

the right, were the jagged crests of Monte Furlon and Premaggiore, which

seemed to us very wonderful, because we had not yet learned how jagged

the Dolomites can be. At Perarolo, where the Boite joins the Piave,

there is a lump of a mountain in the angle between the rivers, and

around this we crawled in long curves until we had risen a thousand

feet, and arrived at the same Hotel Venezia, where we were to dine.

While dinner was preparing, the Deacon and I walked up to Pieve di

Cadore, the birthplace of Titian. The house in which the great painter

first saw the colours of the world is still standing, and tradition

points out the very room in which he began to paint. I am not one of

those who would inquire too closely into such a legend as this. The

cottage may have been rebuilt a dozen times since Titian's day; not a

scrap of the original stone or plaster may remain; but beyond a doubt

the view that we saw from the window is the same that Titian saw.

Now, for the first time, I could understand and appreciate the

landscape-backgrounds of his pictures. The compact masses of mountains,

the bold, sharp forms, the hanging rocks of cold gray emerging from

green slopes, the intense blue aerial distances--these all had seemed

to be unreal and imaginary--compositions of the studio. But now I

knew that, whether Titian painted out-of-doors, like our modern

impressionists, or not, he certainly painted what he had seen, and

painted it as it is.

The graceful brown-eyed boy who showed us the house seemed also to

belong to one of Titian's pictures. As we were going away, the

Deacon, for lack of copper, rewarded him with a little silver piece,

a half-lira, in value about ten cents. A celestial rapture of surprise

spread over the child's face, and I know not what blessings he invoked

upon us. He called his companions to rejoice with him, and we left them

clapping their hands and dancing.

Driving after one has dined has always a peculiar charm. The motion

seems pleasanter, the landscape finer than in the morning hours. The

road from Cadore ran on a high level, through sloping pastures, white

villages, and bits of larch forest. In its narrow bed, far below, the

river Boite roared as gently as Bottom's lion. The afternoon sunlight

touched the snow-capped pinnacle of Antelao and the massive pink wall of

Sorapis on the right; on the left, across the valley, Monte Pelmo's vast

head and the wild crests of La Rochetta and Formin rose dark against the

glowing sky. The peasants lifted their hats as we passed, and gave us a

pleasant evening greeting. And so, almost without knowing it, we slipped

out of Italy into Austria, and drew up before a bare, square stone

building with the double black eagle, like a strange fowl split for

broiling, staring at us from the wall, and an inscription to the effect

that this was the Royal and Imperial Austrian Custom-house.

The officer saluted us so politely that we felt quite sorry that his

duty required him to disturb our luggage. "The law obliged him to open

one trunk; courtesy forbade him to open more." It was quickly done; and,

without having to make any contribution to the income of His Royal and

Imperial Majesty, Francis Joseph, we rolled on our way, through the

hamlets of Acqua Bona and Zuel, into the Ampezzan metropolis of Cortina,

at sundown.

The modest inn called "The Star of Gold" stood facing the public square,

just below the church, and the landlady stood facing us in the

doorway, with an enthusiastic welcome--altogether a most friendly and

entertaining landlady, whose one desire in life seemed to be that

we should never regret having chosen her house instead of "The White

Cross," or "The Black Eagle."

"O ja!" she had our telegram received; and would we look at the rooms?

Outlooking on the piazza, with a balcony from which we could observe

the Festa of to-morrow. She hoped they would please us. "Only come in;

accommodate yourselves."

It was all as she promised; three little bedrooms, and a little

salon opening on a little balcony; queer old oil-paintings and framed

embroideries and tiles hanging on the walls; spotless curtains, and

board floors so white that it would have been a shame to eat off them

without spreading a cloth to keep them from being soiled.

"These are the rooms of the Baron Rothschild when he comes here always

in the summer--with nine horses and nine servants--the Baron Rothschild

of Vienna."

I assured her that we did not know the Baron, but that should make no

difference. We would not ask her to reduce the price on account of a

little thing like that.

She did not quite grasp this idea, but hoped that we would not find

the pension too dear at a dollar and fifty-seven and a half cents a day

each, with a little extra for the salon and the balcony. "The

English people all please themselves here--there comes many every

summer--English Bishops and their families."