[Transcriber's Note: Underscores are used as delimiter for _italics_]
TRAVELS IN UNKNOWN AUSTRIA
[Illustration]
[Illustration: MARY THURN-TAXIS]
WANDERINGS
THROUGH
UNKNOWN AUSTRIA
BY
RANDOLPH Ll. HODGSON
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
MARY, PRINCESS OF THURN AND TAXIS
London
MACMILLAN AND CO. Limited
NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1896
_All rights reserved_
CONTENTS
PAGE
INTRODUCTION 1
CHAPTER I
Duino 7
CHAPTER II
Duino--_continued_ 17
CHAPTER III
Miramar 29
CHAPTER IV
The Timavo and San Giovanni 39
CHAPTER V
A Rainy Day 51
CHAPTER VI
Aquileia 62
CHAPTER VII
Villa Vicentina 76
CHAPTER VIII
Sagrado and Gradisca 85
CHAPTER IX
On Ghosts 96
CHAPTER X
Capodistria 108
CHAPTER XI
Goritz 121
CHAPTER XII
On Nothing at all 132
CONCLUSION 141
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
Mary Thurn-Taxis _Frontispiece_
Headpiece to Introduction 1
Tailpiece to Introduction 5
Castle Duino 6
Headpiece to Chapter I. 7
Duino from the Sea 8
Door-knocker 10
Boreas 12
The Roman Tower 14
Tailpiece to Chapter I. 16
The Balcony 18
Portrait of Matthew Hofer (Van Dyck) 21
The Banqueting Hall 22
The Riviera 25
A Recess in the Library 26
Tailpiece to Chapter II. 28
Initial Letter to Chapter III. 29
Miramar 32
The Rising Moon 36
Tailpiece to Chapter III. 38
Initial Letter to Chapter IV. 39
Springs of the Timavo 41
Castle Duino from the Roman Road 48
Tailpiece to Chapter IV. 50
Initial Letter to Chapter V. 51
The Grotto Room 53
Castle Duino from the Moat 57
The Ruin 59
Tailpiece to Chapter V. 61
Initial Letter to Chapter VI. 62
Fishing Boat (Bragozzo) 66
Grado--the Harbour 67
The Church at Grado 68
Entrance to Castle Duino 74
Tailpiece to Chapter VI. 75
Initial Letter to Chapter VII. 76
Little River near Villa Vicentina 78
Villa Vicentina 79
Tailpiece to Chapter VII. 84
Initial Letter to Chapter VIII. 85
Palazzo Finetti 90
House at Gradisca 91
Tomb of Nicolao della Torre 92
Tailpiece to Chapter VIII. 95
Initial Letter to Chapter IX. 96
The White Lady 98
The White Lady 99
Tin-ho--First-class Mandarin 101
Tailpiece to Chapter IX. 107
Initial Letter to Chapter X. 108
The Town Hall 115
Door-knocker 118
Café at Capodistria 119
Initial Letter to Chapter XI. 121
A Cast 125
Girl from Duino 129
Castle Duino from the Railway 130
Tailpiece to Chapter XI. 131
Initial Letter to Chapter XII. 132
Lawn-tennis Ground 138
Entrance to the Village of Duino 139
Initial Letter to Conclusion 141
Tailpiece to Conclusion 143
[Illustration: Wanderings through unknown Austria]
INTRODUCTION
Here where the world is quiet.
Swinburne.
We were talking the other day of the many and interesting books
of travel that have been written lately, books so full of valuable
information and precise descriptions that you almost feel that Inner
Africa and the North Pole are as familiar to you as Piccadilly and
Oxford Street.
"It is a blessing that such books exist," said our host, who has rather
a philosophical turn of mind. "Of course, I never read them; personally,
I think that reading and writing are decidedly a mistake; but if I
_wanted_ to know anything about these countries there would not be the
slightest necessity to travel about; other people have done that for
me. To speak the truth, I do _not_ want to know anything about foreign
parts. One book of Stanley, for instance, is enough to make me hate the
very idea of Inner Africa; and as to the North Pole, I cannot describe
my feelings with regard to the raving lunatics who imagine they have
anything to do there. I am all for a quiet life, you know. I stick to my
principles--the summer in Cairo, the winter in bed."
This speech was received with icy coldness. We are not philosophically
inclined, I am sorry to say, and though I should not much like Inner
Africa on account of the heat, I have always cherished the idea of some
day making a trip to the North Pole.
This I said with my usual diffidence and modesty, but of course I was
hooted by the rest of the company, and one energetic lady explained at
great length that the North Pole is a "humbug." Another lady (the one
who is my collaborator now) confessed a great partiality for travelling.
"Only," she said, "it is not at all necessary to go so far; there are
many wonderful countries in Europe which are very little known. For
instance," she added, turning to me, "I always wonder how very little
you English know of Austria. The fact that Vienna is a pretty town,
where everything English is particularly liked; that Prague is a fine
old city, and that here and there we have first-rate shooting, is about
all that is known of Austria by foreigners. And it is a pity! Who really
has seen the wonderful mountains of the Tyrol, mountains that are just
as fine as any in Switzerland; the charming lakes of the Salzkammergut;
the green valleys of that greenest of lands, Styria? Who has spoken of
the mysterious charm of the great Bohemian forests of oak and pine,
the quaint little towns of Carinthia, the beautiful banks of the blue
Danube? How very few people know the _puzsta_, the immense plains
of Hungary; and who has explored the wildernesses of Galicia and
Transylvania, or the wonderful beauty of the Dalmatian coasts from the
Bocche di Cattaro up to here, where we are on the shores of the Adriatic
Sea? And just here--this little spot so full of memories and classic
associations--who has ever heard even the names of Istria and the
Littoral? And yet how pretty and interesting the scenery is in this
unknown part of Austria. The azure waters of the Adriatic, the wonderful
southern sky, the Italian landscapes, the many relics of old Roman life
and grandeur, everything combines to make this country worthy to be seen
and admired. Do you know," she concluded, "you ought to write a book
about it."
"Write a book!" I exclaimed, duly horrified,--"I, who hate even to write
a letter of ten lines!"
"Writing a book is quite different, I am sure," was the answer; "and
I don't mean a learned, scientific work. Write a simple sketch of this
part of the country. Begin with Duino, where we are now. Then we will
make excursions to other places near here, and you can write about them.
If you will do it, I will try to make the illustrations."
This was another thing; and though our host looked rather gloomy at
the idea of having any book-writing going on under his roof (a thing
decidedly against his principles), I promised I would think about it.
At first I felt very much as an unhappy being feels who is about to make
his first speech; he knows there are lots of things to be said, but for
the life of him he cannot remember what they are.
Now, however, I have written the Introduction and made the first plunge.
I am writing the rest to please my collaborator and myself. I do not
intend to be apologetic. If other people like this scribble, all well
and good; if they do _not_, they should not read it.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: CASTLE DUINO]
CHAPTER I
DUINO
Hast thou seen that lordly castle,
That Castle by the Sea?
Golden and red above it
The clouds float gorgeously.
Longfellow.
[Illustration]
I never read an account of any pile of stones, dignified by the name of
"castle" and situated near the sea, that did not begin with these lines
of Longfellow's. It is not the force of example, however, that makes me
prefix them to this attempt at a description of one, but it is the fact
that they really suit Duino.
It looks lordly and imposing enough standing out grand and massive on
frowning cliffs two hundred feet above the sea, grim and gray, like
some old sentinel keeping a constant watch over the blue waters of the
Adriatic stretching at its feet.
[Illustration: DUINO FROM THE SEA]
The view from it is magnificent: before you the open sea; on both sides,
extending in graceful curves, the coast, amethyst-hued; far on the left
the white houses of Trieste, and rather nearer, the Imperial Castle
of Miramar; on the right, just on the horizon, the tower of Aquileia,
famous in Roman times; and in the dim distance the snow-clad Alps.
From the land side the castle looks perhaps even more stern and severe,
and like the fortress it was in old days. Not a window is to be seen,
only the bare fortifications and the old walls clad with ivy, almost as
old to all appearance as the walls themselves.
What appeals to one most is the restfulness and quiet of the place.
The old castle, with its towers and battlements, its cloisters and
courtyard, stands just as it has stood for centuries. You are out of the
world here, the bustling, hurrying, work-a-day world of to-day, and back
again in a world of two or three hundred years ago.
It is a nice, sad sort of feeling that comes over one: you think of
your debts, of the friends of your youth that are dead and gone, of your
elderly relation from whom you have expectations, and who will _not_
die, and other melancholy things of a like nature; but your troubles
seem far away, and are quite pleasant--"grateful and comforting."
[Illustration: DOOR-KNOCKER]
The place seems peopled with ghosts--ghosts of a bygone age. There is
a legend that on certain nights of the year a troop of phantom horsemen
ride into the courtyard, and even in daylight you almost expect
something of the sort to happen--you listen for the clank of arms and
the ring of the horses' hoofs. Modern dress seems out of place, you feel
you ought to be in armour yourself. Every nook and corner, every stone,
seems to have a story to tell. What a pity they cannot speak and tell
all they have seen!
The castle must have been well-nigh impregnable in the old days, and
probably extended to the ruin one sees on the right, on entering it.
Between the two--the ruin and the inhabited part--there is a sort of
half garden, half wilderness, known as the "Riviera"--a delightful spot.
Ilex, cypresses, laurels, and olive-trees grow in luxuriant profusion.
Little winding paths tempt you to explore them. There is a long, old,
steep flight of steps with the trees meeting over them in a roof of
green leaves, leading down to the sea. Old-fashioned flowers abound, and
grow almost wild--purple irises, great blue periwinkles, honey-scented
"dragons' mouths," and roses of every kind. Butterflies that are rare in
England are common enough here--huge yellow swallow-tails, the graceful
"White Admiral," glorious "Camberwell Beauties" flit from flower to
flower. There are swarms of nightingales; and pigeons and starlings have
formed a perfect colony in the cliff under the ruin; a pair of kestrels
have their nest here too. There are snakes in the long grass, and
bright-coloured lizards bask in the sunshine.
Notice the big doors as you enter the castle--there is "Salve!" on one
of them. It is pleasant to know one is "welcome," but one always is in
Austria--it is the land of hospitality.
[Illustration: BOREAS]
On the other door is an ancient knocker--interesting if you have a
passion for old things. That ugly face over the archway is a portrait of
Mr. Boreas, the personification of the North Wind. He is represented as
continually blowing. As a matter of fact he does blow rather strongly
here, and in the spring almost perpetually.
One of the most picturesque parts of the castle is the old courtyard,
with its big square tower, its glistening statues, its dark cloisters,
its graceful balconies, and with the ivy entwining and creeping over
everything. The tower is said to be Roman. There are rooms here that
have been walled up for centuries and are so still--nobody knows why.
It is said in the village too that somewhere in the tower is "the buried
treasure." I should very much like to find _that_!
Those coats of arms in mosaic on the wall of the covered passage are the
arms of some of the various owners of Duino. "Ditthalm, 1139," is the
earliest date there. War was the principal amusement of those times,
and these first "Lords of Duino" certainly had enough of it. It mattered
little to them which side they were on. If there were a war, or a petty
feud, or anything going on in which hard blows might be struck, there
they were, on one side or the other. They must have been fine fellows in
their way, these old warriors, and have kept the citizens of Trieste and
the neighbouring little towns in a perpetual state of alarm.
[Illustration: THE ROMAN TOWER]
* * * * *
Here I had written some beautiful sentiments about the chivalry and
loyalty and manliness of "the men of old." I felt rather pleased with
my handiwork. It was full of nice poetic sentences, with a dash of
enthusiasm, and here and there a fine contempt for our "degenerate
time." So I went to my collaborator and wanted her appreciation. I
cannot say she _did_ appreciate my flight of eloquence--I did not find
her quite so enthusiastic as I had expected.
"Don't be so ridiculous," she exclaimed. "What do we know about the men
of old? I have not the slightest respect for them. I am sure they were
exactly as men are now--if anything I think they were worse; but I
don't know anything about it, and you don't either, so please stop that
nonsense and stick to the present times--they may be 'degenerate,' but
they are much more comfortable."
No, I decidedly think she was _un_sympathetic!
* * * * *
Duino changed hands many times. In 1465 it was the property of the
Emperor Frederick III., and in 1508 it belonged to the city of Venice.
In 1669 it came into the possession of the Della Torre (the old Lords
of Milan), and from them it descended to Prince Egon-Carl Hohenlohe, the
father of the present owner, our host.
There is a portrait of Dante in the covered passage. He came to visit
Pagano Della Torre here about the year 1320, and is said to have
frequented the little island near the bathing place in the "Riviera."
The neighbourhood of Duino was very different in his time from what it
is now; tradition says the hills were covered with forests of red pine,
and that the country generally was swarming with game. The game now
is conspicuous by its absence; there is one solitary hare left, which
inhabits Dante's island, by the way.
Poor old Dante! He looks very melancholy and unhappy, but we can most
of us sympathise with him. There are not many of us, however easily the
wheels of life may have run, who do not feel a pang of something like
regret when now and then the thought of some one gone out of our lives
comes over us. Fate plays tricks with us all. Death, the force of
circumstances--it matters little what the cause of our separation was;
we have drifted apart, and there is nothing left us but a memory--a
dream of what might have been.
[Illustration]