I HAD been out of sorts all the spring; my business engagements had kept
me longer than usual in town, and prevented my getting a little
relaxation. It was not until the end of August I was able to put into
execution a long-contemplated visit to some relatives in Italy, and try
what change of air and a holiday would do for me.
So away we started—a party of four, my wife and two ladies under my
charge—and armed with Cook’s tickets we made our way _via_ Newhaven to
Paris, which we reached late at night. Next day, as our train for Italy
did not leave till the evening, we wandered about Paris, visiting the
sad scenes of Communistic destruction. Plenty of photographs in every
shop illustrative of the wretched devastation which was visible on all
sides. In a place like Paris there was of course all qualities, shapes,
and sizes; and, in addition to _souvenirs_ of the ruined public
buildings, there were to be bought a great variety purporting to be
faithful representations of the events of the siege, such as barricades,
executions, streets with dead bodies lying in them, and so forth. These,
it is needless to say, were fictitious, carefully-arranged tableaux, but
terribly natural, and greedily bought by tourists, the greater portion
of whom never for one moment questioned the reality of the
representation.
At night we started from the Lyons station for our long-through journey
over Mont Cenis, for the tunnel was not yet complete. By morning we were
travelling through the lovely scenery from Chambery to St. Michel, the
commencement of the Fell railway over the mountain. Here there is a
splendid field for the photographic artist, and, so far as I could
discover, hitherto unworked. As the railway wound its tortuous way
amidst the charming mountain scenery the landscape changed at every
turn—bridges, cottages, foliage of every variety, rivers, brooks, and
torrents coming into view every instant. Here a photographer might spend
weeks without exhausting the rich field for his camera.
At three o’clock St. Michel was reached, and after some inexplicable
delay—which, however, gave us the opportunity of making a comfortable
dinner—we changed from the ordinary line of railway to the special
narrow-gauge carriages on the Fell system for crossing the mountain. A
grand journey it is—zigzagging over the steep ascent, through scenery of
charming and varied character! This Fell system has been so often
described I shall forbear to say more about it, except that it
contrasted very favourably both in time and comfort with the old
diligence journey I had undergone some years before over the same route.
From our delay in starting we got to the other side of the mountain just
in time to miss the last train for Turin, which we had the satisfaction
to see leaving the station as we entered it. This involved our stopping
at Susa for the night; and, of all wretched, miserable places, commend
me to Susa. Nobody stops there who can get away. It was eleven at night,
and we had been travelling ever since 8.40 the previous evening. Telling
the porter to take us to the best hotel, away we trudged, only too glad
to take advantage of any resting-place for the night we could get—a
regular old-fashioned Italian hotel, the entry through the kitchen, and
the lower part of which, built round a courtyard, was devoted to the
horses, cows, and pigs—very picturesque, no doubt, but, as may be easily
imagined, anything but savoury in the way of scent.
The next morning we explored the town, which, though small, is the seat
of a bishopric. It contains plenty of quaint bits of buildings, which
would make good food for the camera, but not a photograph did I see for
sale. As soon as breakfast was over we set off for Milan, being anxious
to reach that city, as we expected some of our family to meet us there.
This involved our missing Turin, the scenery around which is well worth
the photographer’s attention, as I know of old, though the city itself
has no feature of interest to the artist. At Milan we met with plenty of
photographs of the Turin scenery, but, like the rest of the photographs
to be seen in the shops as _souvenirs_ of these places of a very
inferior character.
At Milan, though there are several good portraitists, the views of the
place and surroundings are of a very inferior quality. Shop after shop
we visited in the hope of getting a presentable view of the wondrous
cathedral, but not one could I succeed in obtaining which would be worth
having. In former days, no doubt, there was considerable difficulty in
managing to get to a sufficient distance for a good point of view, and
wide-angle lenses were not to be had. Now, however, that the Milan
Improvements Company have cleared a broad space in front, this
difficulty has been removed; but there seems no one who knows how to
take advantage of it. Swing backs appear to be unknown, and every view
is wretchedly distorted with converging perpendiculars—if such a phrase
be admissible—owing to the tilting of the camera.
After spending a few days at Milan we started to visit my eldest son,
resident in a small Lombard town off the main track of the railway,
where he, as a civil engineer, was superintending the construction of
some irrigation works. Here we stayed some days, seeing something of
genuine Italian peasant or farmer life, which the ordinary tourist sees
nothing of. A primitive life it is. The farmer or peasant grows his own
hemp or flax, and steeps it in one of the numerous streams that are led
through the place. It is then beaten or rubbed out with the hand, the
women specially joining in this labour, and afterwards spinning it with
the distaff. When spun it is woven in a primitive handloom into linen
for household use; or it is made into ropes by means equally primitive
in their arrangement. All these would form numerous interesting groups
and bits for the photographer, and tourists would gladly purchase if
they could get these _souvenirs_ of the peasant in his picturesque
costume engaged in these various occupations, standing at the door of
the tumble-down cottage, or driving his peculiar cart.
The country is one vast flat, and it is only the people and their
dwellings that afford any food for the photographer, but these are well
worth recording. To do this, however, the artist must leave the beaten
track, and he will need some enthusiasm for his work to make him put up
with the wretched accommodation he will meet with in his country tour.
We, indeed, were fortunate in not having to avail ourselves of this,
staying in very comfortable quarters with our relative. The heat was
excessive—so much so, that the navvies engaged on the canal construction
worked all but naked, wearing nothing but a shirt.
After a few days’ stay, much interested in all we saw, we rejoined the
railway and sped on our way to Arona, steamed along the shore of Lago
Maggiore to Pallanza, whence we travelled along the great Simplon route
to a village where another son resided, who is connected with the gold
mines of that district. Here we took up our abode, making excursions up
the Val Ansasca to the foot of Monte Rosa, and visiting the various
Italian lakes, passing from one place to another on their shores,
sometimes in rowing boats, sometimes in steamers, and sometimes by
carriage. In this way we passed through scenes of lake and mountain to
which no photographer that we could meet with had done justice. At every
place we stopped there were plenty of photographs offered to the
tourist, from the humble _carte-de-visite_ size to the more pretentious
12 by 10, but not one did I see that was worth having.
Landscape photography seems not to be understood by the Italians. They
seem to set the camera down anywhere, without any consideration for
picturesque effect—no judgment whatever exercised as to light and shade,
and the result is a hard black and white picture with a clean white
paper sky, wholly devoid of anything like artistic effect.
What would not a Wilson or an England effect here! I wish they who have
done so much for Scotland and Switzerland could be persuaded to cross
the Alps and give us the benefit of their labours in these charming
scenes. Surely it would answer their purpose to spend some months in
these parts. I can promise them, in addition to scenery of surpassing
beauty and variety, good hotels and not expensive, with the means of
locomotion easy and cheap. If the foregoing lines should induce them or
some other competent artists to pay a visit to these regions, I shall, I
hope, have done some service to photography and the diffusion of art.
P. LE NEVE FOSTER, M.A., Cantab.
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