In the most ancient portions of the city, in the little dark streets
with their high walls, tunnels, and archways, one may go back a
thousand years to the ninth and tenth centuries. Here are many towers
for defence, and massive fortified dwellings with richly carved
porticos, balustrades, and balconies; and in keeping with the antique
architecture are the peasants, in their wide-brimmed hats and sheepskin
breeches with the hair outside, still wearing their cloaks like the
ancient Romans, one end thrown over the left shoulder. The storm-cloaks
of the peasants of this region are heirlooms, descending from father
to son, often more than a hundred years old. The walls of Viterbo are
almost as perfect as in the twelfth century, when, like Troy of old, it
stood a long siege for the sake of a woman's beauty and charm. Galiana,
for whose possession two powerful families of Rome and Viterbo waged
war, must have been a far nobler creature than the lady of Trojan fame.
When the Romans outside the walls promised to end the war if Galiana
would but grant them a sight of her fair face upon the town walls,
she promptly yielded to the request, and appeared upon a tower which
still bears her name. Here Galiana fell, pierced by the arrow of a
treacherous Roman. We saw the tomb and an inscription to the heroic
Galiana on the façade of the Church of St. Angelo, which stands on the
Piazza del Plebiscito.
"I wonder if women are beautiful enough nowadays to lead men to war
for their sakes," said Angela. As she stood there, her perfect outline
silhouetted against the gray background of Galiana's old tower, the
slanting sunbeams lighting up her fair hair, I wondered whether Helen
of Troy or Galiana of Viterbo had either of them been more beautiful
than our American Angela. Then, suddenly recalling the little scene at
the railroad station in Rome, I answered so emphatically, "I hope not,"
that Zelphine started, and came back from the past long enough to look
at me questioningly.
"How seriously you take it all, Margaret," said Angela, with her light
laugh. "Even if we are not as beautiful as those old-time ladies, we
are certainly much happier, travelling about to please ourselves, as
we are doing, instead of being carried off to some castle to please
somebody else, and then having a long war about it all. I do wonder,
though, that some great poem has not been written about Galiana on her
tower."
"No doubt Italian poets have written about her again and again," said
Zelphine.
"Oh yes, of course, but I mean in some language that people can
understand. Mr. Browning, for instance, could have written a great poem
about Galiana."
I doubt if Mr. Browning ever found his way here; few English-speaking
people came to Viterbo before the railroad from Rome was built. But
was not Angela's explanation sufficiently original to please you or
Zelphine or any other ardent admirer of Mr. Browning?
Zelphine was delighted, and said, as she linked her arm in mine to
descend the narrow, steep street that leads towards the hotel, that
under her tutelage and mine Angela was really beginning to develop
some sentiment. Angela's sentiment did not impress me as much as her
linguistic perspective, which made me think of the Scotchwoman who said
that the Lord would not listen to the prayers of the French, because
they were "sic jabberin budies."--You remember the story; was it before
the battle of Agincourt? How one forgets English history, here in towns
that so long antedate the Norman conquest!
This morning we drove to Bagnaja, only a short distance north-east of
Viterbo and built upon one of the slopes of the Ciminian Hills. From
an eminence near Bagnaja we had a noble view of Montefiascone ten miles
away, a little, gray town dominated by the dome of the vast cathedral,
while much nearer lay Viterbo, with its lofty campanile and one hundred
towers, dark, formidable, and majestic. We stopped at Bagnaja to
see the great mediæval castle, with its huge machicolated tower; and
then driving to the south of the main piazza over a fine macadamized
road, if one may venture to use a term so modern in describing this
land of the ancients, we were soon face to face with one of the most
beautiful of the Italian villas, that of the Duca di Lante. We were
admitted to fairyland by a very conventional method, the presentation
of visiting-cards, and were then conducted by a most obsequious
servant, evidently with generous expectations, who unlocked gates that
led to the more secluded precincts of this garden of delight. Rest
and refreshment for body and spirit we found in the loveliness and
harmony of our surroundings. Surely the queen of the fairies, Titania
herself, must have presided over the laying out of these grounds.
Zelphine and I ignored the lore of guides and guide-books, not caring
to learn that any mortal man had had a hand in producing such beauty as
this. The great basin in front of the house, with its central fountain
bordered by blooming plants, glittered in the sunshine. Beyond were
the terraces, with their tiers of fairy cascades and fountains, where
ilexes as large as those in the Borghese Gardens cast a shade so deep
that nymphs and sprites might dance under them, as freely as in Corot's
pictures, unseen by loiterers on the adjacent parterres.
Sitting under the shade of a huge ilex, while a bird sang to us from
its sheltering branches, we all breathed a deep sigh of content, and
congratulated ourselves, in Jeffersonian phrase, upon life, liberty,
and the pursuit of happiness, after our own vagrant fashion. We might
suffer from cold and even from hunger in some wretched inn to-night,
but to-day we drank from a full cup of delight; the largess of the gods
was ours, in a wealth of Italian sunshine and an air as intoxicating
as the muscatel wine for which this region is famous. For the moment
we possessed all the glories of the dead and gone Dukes of Lante, with
neither their sorrows nor their crimes to deepen the shadows upon those
gay parterres and sparkling fountains.
"It matters little whether or not we lunch to-day," said Zelphine, "for
we
"'on honey-dew have fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.'"
"Speak for yourself, Zelphine," said Angela. "Honey-dew and the milk of
Paradise may satisfy your delicate appetite, but mine needs something
more substantial to feed upon. A good slice of American roast beef
would be more to my taste."
"Oh, Angela!" exclaimed Zelphine. "And in such a spot as this!"
Evidently Angela's sentiment was not developing as rapidly as Zelphine
could wish.
"Yes," continued our practical youngest, "I would not turn away from a
slice of roast beef and a baked potato, even in this enchanting spot. I
really am almost hungry enough this moment to share with our driver the
crust of leathery bread that he is probably enjoying while he waits for
us."
"Poor child," said Zelphine, compassionately, delving into "Mrs.
Lecks," from which convenient receptacle she produced a cake of
chocolate.
"Zelphine, you certainly are a dear, and have a human heart," said
Angela, as she contentedly munched the chocolate, "even if you are as
romantic as--as----"
"As her own great-grandmother's portrait by Stuart," said I, helping
out Angela, who is not strong in the line of similes, "a beautiful
lady, chiefly composed of fine eyes and hair, with a marvellous
complexion and no anatomy to speak of."
Laughing and talking we sauntered on toward the entrance gate, near
which we found our _vetturino_. As Angela had predicted, he was eating
his dry crust, flavored, we were glad to notice, by a crisp bit of
fennel, which they use here as we do celery.
When we returned to Viterbo, it looked like a deserted village; the
picturesque peasants in their sheepskin suits were nowhere to be seen
on the streets, and shops and windows were closed. It appeared as if
some public calamity had befallen the beautiful old city. We afterwards
learned that the inhabitants of Viterbo, adhering to a time-honored
custom, retire for a siesta at mid-day, from which they emerge at
three or four in the afternoon to spend the evening gaily on the Corso,
thronging the shops, which are brilliantly lighted. Fortunately for us,
the employees of the hotel do not demand a mid-day rest, and a luncheon
was served us sufficiently substantial to satisfy appetites sharpened
by a long morning in this bracing mountain air.
Here at Orvieto we are lodged in a modern hotel, something of a
surprise in this ancient, isolated city, which is built upon a rock,
like the habitation of the wise man of the Scriptures. This morning
we spent some time in the Necropolis, which is under the precipitous
cliffs of red tufa that seem to buttress this old town. In the Campo
Santo, which is all that is left of the Etruscan city of Orvieto, we
found avenues lined with tomb chambers. The streets are like those of
a city, except that the houses are without windows, and no eager eyes
look forth from the doors that open upon the silent street. Within is
a square chamber containing stone couches at its sides for the repose
of the dead, all of the other furniture of an Etruscan tomb, vases,
bronzes, terra-cotta portrait busts and statues, having been carried
off for the enrichment of various museums. From the Necropolis we made
our way to the famous Well of San Patrizio, with its curious corkscrew
stairway leading down into the huge basin below.
We would gladly spend another day in Orvieto, in order to view the
cathedral's matchless façade once more by morning light, and at noon,
and again at sunset, and so allow its beauty to print itself upon our
minds, and also to study the Signorelli frescoes in the interior, the
Fate of the Wicked and the Saints in Heaven, which, with their muscular
devils and saints, are strangely suggestive of Michael Angelo.
"Why do you not stop another day?" I hear you ask. Because if we tarry
here longer, we shall be obliged to cut off a day in Perugia or Assisi
or some ancient city quite as interesting as Orvieto, and Katharine
Clarke is writing to us urging us to get to Florence early in May, if
we wish to see the City of Flowers in the exquisite freshness of its
spring beauty. The roses on the hillside garden near San Miniato are
budding and blowing, and she tells us that we must be there soon if we
would see them in their prime. No matter how charming a spot we may be
in, there is always some other delightful place beckoning us on and on!
We quite agree with the traveller, whose name I forget, but whose
advice is, "Whatever towns you neglect between Rome and Florence, do
not fail to see Orvieto." And yet we are filled with regret because we
must pass by so many of the interesting towns of this region, Terni
with its rushing waters, "rapid as the light," Bolsena on its lovely
lake, and Orte. Of this latter town we saw little from the window
of the railway carriage, except a line of hungry tourists struggling
to reach the buffet during the short stop at the station, a scene so
suggestive of our own land of rapid transit and hurried luncheons that,
for a moment, we almost felt that we were travelling in America.
XII
AN UMBRIAN IDYL
PERUGIA, April 28th.
The journey from Orvieto to Perugia is a short one, and we had our
first sight of this fine old town in the brilliancy of a spring
afternoon. We were fortunate in finding a cab at the station, and
a _vetturino_ who welcomed us to his coach with great cordiality,
we being the only arrivals by the afternoon train. Having with many
ejaculations disposed of us and our various pieces of hand-luggage,
large and small, he hospitably invited a comely peasant woman to a
seat by his side. Her luxuriant black hair was fashionably dressed and
guiltless of hat or kerchief; her black dress was coarse but tidy,
while a pair of kid gloves, which had evidently seen service, gave
a touch of elegance to the simple costume. A large kerchief, which
is the favorite shopping receptacle, marketing bag, and portmanteau
of the Italian peasant--this one as full as the proverbial horn of
plenty--occupied one gloved hand, while with the other she gesticulated
and accentuated her animated conversation, to the evident interest
and amusement of her host. With their heads close together, deep
in conversation, one talking, the other listening and occasionally
interjecting a comment, we wondered whether the pair were lovers or
only _bons camarades_ discussing the last bit of home news or village
gossip, for village gossip is said to flourish under the shadow of the
shrine of St. Francis, just as here the cheerful and apparently honest
_vetturino_ will cheat you out of a franc as cleverly as a cabby of
Naples or any other Sodom of the plain.
A cheerful town Perugia seemed to us, as we drove up the long hill and
saw the old fortress, with its weed-grown ramparts and many towers,
basking in the April sunshine. Like all of these hill towns Perugia is
gray, and yet with a difference: a dash of chrome in its stones gives
a warmer tone to the old palaces and walls, which seem to be all of
a piece with the rock from which they were hewn. This rock forms the
foundation, and was once the strength, of this "empress of hillside
Italian cities."
We had no hotel addresses for Perugia except the Brufani, and, as
we often find it more enlightening to our minds as well as more
advantageous to our purses to stop in small hotels or pensions, we
asked the driver if he knew of a good stopping-place. He seemed to
understand, shook his head as if in deep thought, then consulted his
companion; upon which they both looked us all over as if taking our
measure, and, evidently being agreed as to our status, he exclaimed,
reassuringly, "_Ecco, ecco_, we know the _albergo_ that will suit the
_società_!" Whipping his horse as we drew near the Porta Nuova, he
rattled through the gate, across the wide piazza, and down a long hill,
to a house on a narrow street, where we are comfortably lodged.
This pleasant little pension is kept by an English lady, with whom we
have already established relations, as some of our friends stopped here
last year, and we are all now basking in the genial atmosphere of good
will created by them.
April 29th.
This morning we found our way to the little Piazza delle Prome, on the
verge of the cliff, below which is a sheer fall of one hundred feet to
the ancient city wall of the Etruscans. Below us, as we stood in the
garden of the Prefettura, were the remains of Etruscan buildings, above
them massive blocks laid by the Romans, and spread before us was the
wide valley bordered by near and distant mountains. This marvellous
view from the Prefettura is second to none that we have seen, always
excepting the vast sweep of the green and fertile plain at Grenada as
we saw it from the heights of the Alhambra.
We afterwards wandered from street to street, across piazzas and
under arches, until we found ourselves in the Via Vecchia. Well named
indeed is this ancient street, for the Via Vecchia has been trodden
by the foot of man for three thousand years! This street, with its
high buildings of heavy Roman workmanship, more like fortresses than
dwelling-houses, leads to the great Arch of Augustus. The arch,
constructed of solid blocks of travertine and sustained by huge
buttresses, is adorned by a graceful pavilion and loggia, a noble
monument to the Roman Emperor who rebuilt Perugia and inscribed upon
its gateway "Augusta Perusia."
After we had revelled for a couple of hours in the delight of strolling
about in the open, we retraced our steps to the Via Vanucci, and
entered the Collegio del Cambio, in whose audience-chamber are many
Perugino frescoes, all lovely save a horribly realistic Beheading of
John the Baptist, from which we were glad to turn to a Nativity and
a Transfiguration and to the noble Sibyls and Prophets. The head of
Daniel is said to be a portrait of Perugino's greater pupil, Raphael.
Even if Perugino was lacking in breadth and sometimes in grace, there
is a depth and delicacy of color in his work and so much sweetness and
tenderness in the faces of the women and children that, as we stood
before these charming groups, we could well believe that this Umbrian
artist was, as his chronicler said, "possessed of a stainless purity of
soul," and that Raphael owed much to his early master.
Perugino was named after the town, not of his birth, but of his fame;
_mais, de grace_, monsieur, I do not intend to give you a disquisition
upon the Umbrian school of painting, of which there are many notable
examples in the churches here and in the Pinacoteca. This last, let me
explain, is the name, unpronounceable by English-speaking people, which
is given to the picture-galleries in some of these old towns. There are
really treasures of art in Perugia, with whose beauties I might fill
many letters, interesting paintings by Manni, by Bonfigli, the great
forerunner of Perugino, by Pinturicchio, his associate, and by many of
his pupils; and in the Sala del Fra Angelico are some of the exquisite
works of the idealist whose name it bears.
The Pinacoteca Vanucci is on the third floor of the Palazzo del
Municipio. The doorway of this palace, with its mediæval lions and
griffins--the emblem of Perugia--in exquisite Gothic carving all
dominated by three saints, presents a much more harmonious whole than
this confused grouping would lead one to suppose.
This afternoon we drove to Lake Thrasymene, passing the tower of San
Manno, with its Etruscan inscription, and castles and battle-grounds
of long ago, until we reached that most ancient one on the shores
of the beautiful lake where Hannibal and Flaminius fought until the
little stream ran red with blood, and so ever after has been named
"Sanguinetto." A grewsome association this, with a fair stream of
running water, and yet how much more euphonious, especially with the
soft Italian lingering over syllables, than our American equivalent
"Bloody Run!"
April 30th.
We wandered joyously through the streets and squares of the old town
this morning, for here one does not set forth to walk to a given
point--one simply wanders at will. We generally cross the Piazza
Vittorio Emanuele, with its heroic statue of Italy's soldier king,
stroll along the Corso Vanucci, the main street of the town, and
then go down steps, many steps, which descend into narrow winding
streets and _viali_ with most alluring names, as Via Curiosa, Via
Deliziosa, Via Bontempi, and the like. Angela says that the last sounds
delightfully convivial and suggests no end of a good time; but it
probably means nothing less prosaic than good weather.
After winding in and out of narrow streets and up and down steps,
all exquisitely picturesque if somewhat fatiguing, we came out on
the Piazza del Municipio and before a beautiful thirteenth-century
fountain with three basins, which are richly decorated with scriptural
and mythological figures. The many slender columns which support these
basins give to the whole a charming lightness and grace. This lovely
fountain of Fra Bevignate was without water for centuries until,
in 1899, the new aqueduct, which comes directly from the springs
of Nocera, was opened, whereupon it played gayly in the sunshine,
as it does to-day. The Nocera water, for which, bottled, we paid a
considerable price in Rome, is free as air on this favored hill-top.
Facing the fountain is the Cathedral of San Lorenzo. To the left of
the doorway is a bronze statue of Pope Julian III., who restored some
ancient privileges to the Perugians, and on the right is a handsome
Gothic pulpit from which St. Bernardino once preached to the faithful
in the square. Inside the cathedral we saw the beautiful tomb of Bishop
Baglioni, a fine Deposition by Baroccio, and a miraculous picture of
the Madonna delle Grazie by Manni.
San Lorenzo claims the distinction of being the burial-place of three
popes, Innocent III., Urban IV., and Martin IV. Here, too, is the
betrothal ring of the Virgin. This precious relic is preserved in a
silver casket guarded by fifteen locks, the keys of which are entrusted
to fifteen persons of distinction, and is only to be seen five times
during the year. The mystery and exclusiveness with which this relic
is guarded whetted Zelphine's curiosity, and she insisted that it was
in a certain sense our right to see the precious ring, having been
shown the hair of the Blessed Virgin in Rome. Angela said that as
American travellers we had a right to see anything and everything,
but, as the next date for the exhibition of the ring was the second
Sunday in July, the real question at issue was, were we willing to
stay in Perugia so long, and, even if the Perugians were disposed to
make an earlier date for us, was it likely that the fifteen persons of
distinction with their fifteen keys could be collected on short notice?
From my own observations, I was inclined to doubt the existence of
fifteen Perugians of distinction at any date. However, distinction is
a descriptive quite as subject to variations as the clear or cloudy
day of the scientific gentleman who arranges our weather for us in
America, and some of the men whom we passed on the piazza this morning
may be lineal descendants of the ancient lords of Perugia, and now in
possession of the important keys.
The celebrated Sposalizio of Perugino--a unique conception of the
Virgin's espousal--which should be here with the betrothal ring, has
unfortunately been carried off to France; but there are still many
more treasures in painting and sculpture in San Lorenzo than we could
appreciate in one morning, among the latter a statue of Leo XIII.,
who was Archbishop of Perugia. Over across the piazza is the Episcopal
Palace, where this Prince of the Church lived for many years, preparing
himself by study and reflection for the great future in store for
him. We passed from the church into the cloisters, which are ruinous,
but charming, as are all the ruins here, with their bits of lovely
sculpture and flowers growing in the "crannied walls" and on the little
balconies above our heads.
Retracing our steps along the Via Bontempi, and losing ourselves
several times, after the fashion of travellers who will not consent to
have their pleasure interfered with by guides, we reached the quaint
covered Via della Stalla and suddenly emerged upon a gay scene--the
Piazza Garibaldi on a market-day. Here were flowers and fruits heaped
upon wagons, and booths gay with colored prints, gorgeous kerchiefs,
and endless lines of small stockings of all colors, which the Perugians
doubtless buy even if the feet of their children are as guiltless of
covering as those of the Venus and Adonis. The stockings are probably
for Sundays and high holidays. Here above all were the peasants from
the surrounding country, not wearing the elaborate, gayly colored
costume of the Italian peasants of our childhood, but something more
picturesque than the work-a-day costume that has disappointed us so
much through Italy. The older women had brilliantly colored kerchiefs
on their heads, while some of the younger women wore nothing upon
theirs except their own glossy, luxuriant hair, which is always neatly
and tastefully dressed.
We have often wondered why there are so many _old_ women in Italy. Is
it because they live long in this favored clime, or, sadder thought, do
the young grow old early under the heavy strain of bread-winning, where
wages are low and the mouths to be filled numerous?
Angela, who is an enthusiastic shopper, suggested that we should stop
and buy some of the native products, urging that a little shopping
would be good for us all and relieve our minds from the strain of
cathedrals, statues, and tombs. Indeed the fruit, flowers, and gay
handkerchiefs displayed upon the booths were sufficiently alluring to
detain us.
Most interesting were the color, movement, and chatter of the sunlit
piazza against the gray background of the old Palazzo del Podestà,
which is built on the ancient Etruscan wall. It is just such contrasts
that make these old Italian towns so charming.