PEASANT-GIRLS--NIGHTINGALES--ISOLA BELLA--SAN CARLO BORROMEO IN COPPER.
A lucky accident enabled us to get an inside view of some little
Swiss and Italian villages rarely seen by tourists. We missed a boat
through the fault of a servant, and were obliged to take a carriage
from Lugano, on the lake of that name, to Luino, on Lago Maggiore.
The day was beautiful, the team fresh, and the route not described in
the guide-books. The old post-road which we traveled is still kept in
good condition for local use. We did not pass a single carriage all
the way. The villages of Northern Italy are almost uniformly neat and
clean. The inhabitants are honest, industrious, and self-respecting. We
have not seen a beggar within the boundaries of the Italian lakes. The
scarcity of men in these out-of-the-way places is very noticeable. All
the young and strong fellows are at work in the larger towns along the
lakes, where there is plenty to do for willing hands in the “season.”
We saw no natives except old men, children, and women. The latter
do everything inside and outside of the houses, the shops, and the
taverns. They were gathering in a crop of hay from all the fields along
both sides of the road. The fragrance of the new-mown grass filled
the air. Except for the women with their rakes and forks the scene in
early June very closely resembled that of a New England meadow in a
later month. There are the same stone walls dividing the fields, only a
little better built than those in America. Daisies and butter-cups are
the wild flowers in greatest abundance, though there are many others
peculiar to this part of the world. The one object in the landscape
which, above every other, makes a difference, is the high square tower
of the Campanile. The traveler is never out of sight of that substitute
for the American steeple, and there is hardly an hour of the day when
he does not hear its sweet accord of bells ringing in the distance.
And the people of these little hamlets are never so busy that some of
them can not steal a few minutes from their day’s work to enter their
church and kneel in silent prayer. As we walk on tip-toe down the cold
stone aisles to look at some bit of painting or sculpture of surprising
excellence, we feel ashamed of disturbing the poor women at their
devotions. But they do not seem to mind it, showing far less curiosity
about strangers than the average congregation of a church in any small
American village would exhibit.
In this memorable ride we frequently met girls with large wicker
baskets strapped to their shoulders. The bearers were healthy and
strong, and did not appear to need the aid of the thick stick which
served as a cane. There are no tramps hereabout. But if one should
spring from the road-side and insult that muscular young creature, I
imagine that he would be sorry for it; for her stout staff is gripped
in a large hand and her arm is sinewy. She is just such an athlete
as the girl who rowed us all about the Bay of Lugano. That rower,
by-the-way, handled the oars more neatly than any boatman we have
seen on these lakes. Her stroke was faultless. And all the time that
she was cleaving the water with a powerful sweep she was talking with
feminine facility, divining by instinct the questions we were about to
ask, and giving us the very information we would have sought. If such a
girl--instead of a stupid boy--had been the driver of our carriage, I
might have learned more worth the mention between Lugano and Luino.
Returning to the lasses on the road, I would add that the monstrous
baskets were filled to the top with something that seemed heavy. The
girls may have been trudging home from market with goods obtained in
exchange for their own handy-work. For they are dexterous at spinning,
weaving, and lace-making, as well as in the manufacture of butter
and cheese. It is no wonder that the men confidingly leave all the
interests of home in their charge. Seeing how true and brave they are,
we can not help regretting that those straight, handsome forms should
so soon be bowed down by the excessive burdens thrust upon them. But
they would be the first to reject the traveler’s commiseration. Those
who are barefoot would tell him that they enjoy treading the earth
with their naked soles. Most of the girls whom we met, however, wear
bandages of white linen or other material wrapped around the feet and
wooden sandals lightly strapped to them. This arrangement gives more
play to the feet than the stockings and shoes of other countries. The
wearers would spurn with contempt the tight fits and high heels which
no fashionable woman of the period could do without.
The Lakes Lugano and Maggiore are less picturesque and interesting than
Como. The tourist ought, if convenient, to reverse the circuit we made.
Como should be kept for the last if possible, since all the rest pale
in comparison with it. But each of the other lakes has its separate
fascination, either of tint or of surrounding mountains, or something
else. For example, we saw on Lake Lugano no less than four cascades of
great height and fullness. They looked like fresh and foaming milk as
they streamed from precipices a thousand feet high. Any one of them
would make the fortune of a hotel-keeper in Switzerland, where such
objects are greatly in favor; but here they are too common to excite
much interest. As for Lake Maggiore, it enjoys the distinction of
being larger than any other of the group. This gives space for longer
steamboat trips, which some persons enjoy greatly, and I can certify to
the pleasure of them. But the same lake surpasses the rest in the glory
of the snow mountains, which, though miles away, seem to spring out of
its depths. These are the Simplon and its spotless associates. They
raise their sharp crests far above the snow-line, and show great masses
of gleaming white on which the sun has yet made little impression.
As we entered the Bay of Pallanza, the haze prevented our seeing the
lofty range. But next morning, when I flung open the shutters, there
stood the Simplon, cleaving the sky with its wedge. The rays from
the east struck it full in the breast and made it sparkle. One could
see without a glass all the divisions of rock and snow and ice that
compose its towering bulk. Somewhere beyond are the far sublimer
Matterhorn, Weisshorn, Monte Rosa, and others. But they are not needed
to enhance the picturesqueness of this part of Maggiore. Simplon and
his companions answer the purpose just as well.
That man must be very sleepy who would complain of being kept awake by
nightingales. These birds inhabit the thickets around my hotel. About
eleven o’clock, the first night of our arrival, one of them awoke me
from a sound sleep. A window stood ajar, and music flooded the chamber.
The singer was a soloist. Not a sound of any kind interrupted his
performance. Even the crickets stopped to listen. Somebody has taken
the trouble to jot down every note and trill of the nightingale’s song.
It may be reproduced, I believe, on the upper octaves of the piano. But
it can never be made to sound as ravishing as the “wood-notes wild”
of that bird in those bushes. Perhaps imagination has something to
do with the effect. Memory quickly recalls fugitive scraps of poetry
about nightingales, and one listens to them the more greedily. Suddenly
the music, which was so enchanting, woke echoes far and near. Other
nightingales, as if accepting a challenge, responded to the soloist. It
was too much of a good thing. The sweet sounds ran together and became
confused. What had been perfect as an air was discord as a chorus. In
the midst of it the chief singer ceased. A few minutes later, and all
was quiet.
“Napoleon the Great slept there,” said the guide, pointing to an
alcove-bed in the huge château on Isola Bella. There was room enough
in it for six little corporals. Fancy the conqueror curling himself
up into a ball and trying to hush to sleep the ambitious schemes that
seethed in his brain! Not long after his visit at Isola Bella he fought
the battle of Marengo. After one has wandered through the labyrinth
of rooms, he is turned over to the gardener. This man takes you to
a little gully hard by, and stops before an enormous laurel-tree.
“There,” says he, “Napoleon cut the word _battaglia_ with his own
hand.” Still fresh from the inspection of Napoleon’s bed, one gazes
almost with awe on a tree which he actually gashed in a moment of
abstraction. But nothing can be seen. The liveliest fancy can make out
nothing more than worm-holes in the bark. The gardener is then good
enough to explain that the highly prized inscription rotted away years
ago. This is too bad. He tries to make up for the loss by showing us
what wonderful things the beautiful island, as it is truly called, is
capable of producing.
It is not for an American to be astonished at anything in the
gardening line. So I suppressed any surprise I might have felt when
the cork-tree, the camphor-tree, the tea-plant, and bamboo in every
variety, growing comfortably side by side, were shown to me. It was
a happy family, whose members had been brought together from every
zone but the Arctic. Perhaps the gardener may have easily guessed our
nationality; for it is a fact that he spoke with the greatest pride
of all the different American trees in the collection. To resist such
delicate flattery was impossible. I hope I sustained the reputation of
our country by the size of the _pour boire_ which he received as we
left. The Borromean Islands, of which Isola Bella is the queen, would
well repay one for a visit to Lago Maggiore if there were no other
attractions.
The most illustrious member of the Borromean family in all its eventful
history--St. Charles--has been made the subject of a colossal statue.
It was erected about two hundred years ago at Arona. Its material is
copper, except the head, hands, and feet, which are bronze. Having
seen Bartholdi’s statue of Liberty in Paris, in 1883, I was impelled
to compare it with this old giant. Some people say that Bartholdi’s
masterpiece will easily become the prey of wind and weather--that the
thin copper sheets of which it is made will not last long, and that
the first stiff gale will blow it down. But San Carlo Borromeo is
perpetuated in just such copper for the most part. That metal does not
show the least trace of age, save that it has become of a darker and
richer tint with time. As for the wind, there could be no worse site
for a large statue than the high hill north of Arona, where the gusts
are frightful at times. I beg to cite this towering image--sixty-six
feet high and surmounting a pedestal of forty feet--as hopeful evidence
that the greater achievement of Bartholdi will be seen and admired in
its perfection centuries hence.
Art-critics, in their off-hand, dogmatic way, call the statue of San
Carlo “worthless.” They say that the hands--one of which holds a book,
while the other gives a blessing--are badly managed, that the pose of
the figure is ungraceful, and that the ears are too big. As to the
ears, I admit that they possibly do the saint much injustice. They seem
about the shape and size of meat-platters. But if one’s attention were
not called to them, they would not look so bad. This defect, if such it
is, might perhaps be remedied by turning the unfortunate ears upside
down or back side front. All the rest strikes me as dignified and
effective enough.