[Illustration]
MIRAMAR
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.
E. A. Poe.
On Friday, 31st May, we all went to Miramar, eleven of us. We drove to
Nabresina, the nearest station to Duino, went from there to Miramar by
train (it gave some trouble to the engine-driver, as he had to stop the
train on purpose for us to get out), and then walked from the station
to the castle. It was a stupid way of getting there; it would have been
much better to have driven all the way, but the directress of our party
did not think so. I suppose she thought we should enjoy the various
modes of travelling. It was rather a pity we had not relays of
saddle-horses and bicycles to meet us somewhere--we should have had
still more variety. We might have crawled the last bit too on our hands
and knees, but I didn't think of it at the time. I used to like railway
travelling. When I was very small I could have no greater treat than to
be taken somewhere by train--now I don't. I still like to _see_ a train.
If I am in the country and feel lonely, I walk to the nearest railway
line and wait for an express to rush by. That cheers me. I don't wish
to be in it--the sight of it is enough. It must be an English express,
however; a Continental express merely irritates one, and deepens the
melancholy; I feel I can walk faster than it can travel.
We arrived at the Imperial Castle at last. The gardens are very pretty.
There are numbers of terraces, and flights of steps, and cedar-trees,
and little Italian gardens. There are big palm-trees, and strange
foreign-looking shrubs, and beautiful beds of old-fashioned monthly
roses.
* * * * *
I had written so far in this chapter when I thought I had better consult
my collaborator. I found her making a sketch in pen and ink. "That is
very nice," I said. "I really know those things are trees."
"I am glad you realise what they are," she answered with icy coldness.
"Won't you read what you have written?"
I did so, and then the storm burst.
"You call _that_ a description of those beautiful gardens!" she said.
"Have you no poetry in your nature? Have you no appreciation of the
beautiful? Why don't you say much more of the terraces, the marble
staircases? Why don't you speak of the funereal cypresses clear-cut
against the sky, the dark green of the ilex contrasting with the gray
of the olives? Why don't you write about the white starry blossom of the
jasmine, the sweet scent of the honeysuckle, the tea-roses creeping up
and festooning the rough stems of the towering palm-trees, and shedding
their perfume on the soft summer air, the glistening of the water in
the fountains, the azure blue of the sea, the whiteness of the marble
statues gleaming through the dark foliage, the mysterious appearance of
the Italian gardens with their staircases leading down to the deep-hued
waters of the Adriatic? Why don't you say something about the liquid
notes of the nightingale, the faint whispering of the trees overhead,
the 'Lovers' Walk?' Oh! you _are_ stupid."
Perhaps I am. I have written all I could remember of our conversation. I
hope she will be satisfied now.
* * * * *
[Illustration: MIRAMAR]
The castle was built about the middle of the present century by the
Emperor Maximilian. We saw the rooms that had been his. They are built
to exactly resemble the cabins on board his ship when he was Admiral of
the Austrian Fleet. Every one knows his tragic story: how he, persuaded
by the promise of French support, went off to be Emperor of Mexico; how
the French deserted him (France has done many things she may well be
ashamed of, but nothing more dastardly than this); how he was captured
by the rebel Mexicans, and finally shot by them. Poor fellow! one would
have thought that with all he had he might have been content without
being Emperor of Mexico. But who knows what dreams of glory and heroic
adventures passed through his brain! He was a poet and an enthusiast,
a man worshipped by the people, and in his veins flowed the blood of
Charles V., who once had been the master of those far countries where
his destiny called him. And what must have been his thoughts when he,
the son of the German Cæsars, stood forsaken and betrayed before the
handful of rebels who put an end to all his golden dreams? In any
case his end was worthy of his noble nature. There is an incident in
connection with it not generally known. One of the few Mexicans who
remained faithful to him was Mejia, one of his generals. He was also
captured by the rebels, and was condemned to be shot with the Emperor,
but with this difference: for the Emperor a company of picked shots had
been selected, and for Mejia they had chosen a number of raw and young
recruits, unaccustomed to the use of the rifle. The Emperor, whose
experienced eye had immediately remarked the cruel intention of the
Mexicans, ordered his companion, as the last boon he could grant him, to
exchange places with him. Mejia obeyed, and was killed instantaneously;
but the Emperor died a lingering and miserable death.
People say he was so disfigured that when his embalmed body arrived in
Vienna, no one, not even the Grand Master of the Court, could be quite
sure of his identity.
I do not admire the castle. It is new, and looks new, and is built in
no particular style, though the first intention was evidently to make
it Gothic. One sees the love of the unfortunate Emperor for Spanish and
Moorish things, by the way in which they are dotted here and there. The
interior too is rather tasteless. There are some fine things, but the
arrangement is bad. A beautiful cabinet that once belonged to Marie
Antoinette is in one of the rooms; it has some wonderful old Wedgwood
china on the doors.
We were shown round by the most melancholy attendant it has ever been my
lot to meet with. He seemed to find it a heartrending business, and his
voice sounded as if he were continually on the verge of tears. I was
quite glad when the inspection was over. I am tender-hearted myself, and
do not like to wantonly distress any one.
After viewing the castle we went out into the gardens again, and (I am
sorry to have to confess it) ate some provisions that we had brought
with us, on one of the flights of marble steps. Then we wandered about
in the gloaming till it was time for our train.
It was a lovely evening:--
Skies strewn with roses fading, fading slowly,
While one star, trembling, watched the daylight die.
The nightingale's rich music and the soft murmur of the waves were the
only sounds. All the clamour and bustle of the day were over. The moon
rose and flooded the calm sea with a pathway of melted silver; the stars
came out one by one, and seemed to smile on us. It was the time when all
evil thoughts go out of one's heart, when heaven itself seems nearer
in the dim light. On such an evening I always think of the old familiar
words of the "blessing" after the sermon, "The peace of God, which
passeth all understanding."
[Illustration: THE RISING MOON]
We had an exciting adventure during our return journey in the train. We
had started, and the conductor was just examining our tickets--having
carefully left the door open--when the Vienna "express" crawled by (I
almost said _tore_, but I cannot tell a lie). Some projecting portion of
it caught our carriage door, sent it to with a violent crash, smashing
the door and half tearing it from its hinges. The crash was like a
cannon-shot, and the explosion was followed by the tinkling of the
shower of broken glass that fell over and around us. For the moment
we could not understand what had happened, and all looked fearfully
around, expecting to see pieces of ourselves lying about the wrecked
compartment. Fortunately, we were all whole and unhurt, however. Of
course, there was the wildest excitement in our railway carriage. "The
Seal" kept congratulating himself on not having been nearer the broken
window, and explaining what dreadful injuries would have ensued for
him if he had been. The directress of our party--the "Energetic
Lady"--abused an unfortunate stationmaster, who came at the next
stoppage to inquire about the accident, in such a way that the poor man
shrank back terrified and in tears. The "Learned Fair Man" started a
scientific theory (in which he dragged in Darwin) to explain the matter;
but the "Learned Dark Man" (with Schopenhauer in the background) had
another scientific explanation exactly the reverse. The "Fat Boy"
thought Anarchists had an especial grudge against himself; the "Thin
Boy" profited by the occasion to bleed copiously from the nose--a
pastime he had indulged in at intervals throughout the whole day, and
the other boy lost immediately the one bag of the party. The two other
ladies, who had not been in the baneful compartment, explained at
great length all their misgivings, presentiments, and extraordinary
perceptions; whilst my collaborator shrieked excitedly--
"There! that's a beautiful incident for the book."
"Bother the book!" I answered with pensive grace.
After this the drive home was dull and uneventful. We were almost
smothered in dust, but that was merely a trifling inconvenience, which
the beauty of the night and the glorious moonlight quite made up for.
[Illustration]