SAGRADO AND GRADISCA
Blossoms of grape-vines scent the sunny air.
Longfellow.
The usual quartette went to Sagrado and Gradisca--two little
Italian-like towns--on Saturday, 15th June.
There is one great drawback about Duino--there are only two roads. One
goes to Trieste and the other doesn't. It is rather monotonous always
driving along the same road. Familiarity breeds contempt, and even
poplar-trees and marshes pall on one in time. However, "what can't be
cured must be endured," and if you do not want to go to Trieste you must
go the other way, even if it has grown almost too familiar. We branched
off on a new road after passing through Monfalcone, and soon came to
Sagrado. It is quite a little place, more of a village than a town, but
there is an old villa standing in a large park, which was the attraction
here. Two magnificent cypresses stand at the entrance-gate, one on each
side, and the park is beautiful, full of fine trees, especially oaks
overgrown with ivy. It forms a great contrast to the surrounding
country, which towards Duino is barren and stony in the extreme. One has
a magnificent view from the villa. It stands on a hill, and the valley
of the Isonzo stretches below it. Far on the left one catches a glimpse
of the sea. Before one, far as the eye can reach, is the plain, covered
with vineyards, like waves of a billowy sea of emerald green, with tiny
villages nestling here and there (the "Photographic Lady" says you can
count two thousand of them, but I am afraid some untruthful person has
imposed on her credulity), and the blue river winding through it, like
some giant snake; and on the right, rising higher and higher as they
fade away into the shadowy distance, are the snow-capped Alps.
The house is an old villa of the Italian style, with stuccoed walls, and
on the floor the pretty Italian "terrazzi." In the hall, just when you
enter, one is struck by four quaint old pictures of four men almost
life-size; they are dressed in the peasant's costume of the country, of
last century, and each holds a little money-bag in his hand. It seems
that these worthy people were four farmers, who, when a former owner of
the property (one of the Della Torre) was in financial difficulties and
on the verge of ruin, came forward and paid off his debts. In gratitude
to them he had their portraits painted and put in his entrance-hall.
What a pity it is that people don't do this sort of thing nowadays! If
any one feels inclined to follow the example of the four farmers and pay
off _my_ debts, I will faithfully promise to have his photograph
taken and placed on my writing-table. I am only sorry I cannot rise to
oil-paintings and entrance-halls.
From the pretty marble staircase you enter a charming drawing-room
in the Italian Louis XVI. style. The walls are green marmorino, with
ornaments of white stucco, and big mirrors let into them. There is
a very large dining-hall of great height, with its walls and ceiling
painted in fresco. No one lives in the villa at present.
The gardens must have been very pretty--all terraces and
staircases--when they were kept in the style of the time. They are
rather neglected now, and seem to be only inhabited by a perfect army
of nightingales. A queer little red house is at the farther end of
the garden, with a crypt under it and an imitation tomb. The walls are
covered with mottoes--Greek, Latin, French, etc., and there is one in
English: "Happiness is of a retired nature, and an enemy of pomp and
noise." The individual who built the house must have been very much
struck by this last motto, for it seems that he used to live in this
little dismal-looking place all alone, in the one room over the crypt,
leaving his smiling villa untenanted at the top of the hill.
We had tea in the park. It is a great mistake to wander about to find
a suitable spot for tea--you are sure to pick out the worst possible
place. It is much better to stop under the first shady tree one comes
to, and to sit down there. On this occasion the ladies chose the
situation, and when tea was about half over we found we were sitting on
an ant-heap. It was hardly worth moving then, though, so we stayed where
we were, and pretended to be very much interested in the movements of
the ants. I made the tea. I have a way of my own for making it, which
is, I believe, sometimes practised by homeless wanderers in foreign
countries--it is very superior to civilised methods. I am not selfish,
and I have not taken out a patent for it, so I have no objection to
presenting my method to the world, free, gratis, and for nothing. This
is my recipe. Boil the water in the kettle, and when fiercely boiling
put in your tea (one teaspoonful for each person and one for the kettle)
and stir up the mixture. Let it go on boiling for a few seconds, and
then pour out and drink. You will find you have excellent tea in this
way. _N.B._--It is as well to have a strainer with you to get rid of the
tea-leaves.
My collaborator had often stayed at the villa as a child, and had hosts
of acquaintances. I was interested to know who the various ladies and
gentlemen who kept addressing her were, but her explanations were so
confusing that I soon gave up inquiring. I remember that one lady was
"the sister-in-law of a gardener, who was the step-brother of a cousin
of the late wife of the man with the wig, who was the old butler." I
cannot grasp such involved relationships--they are too much for _my_
intellect. I made the acquaintance of the "man with the wig" afterwards.
We called to ask him to order supper to be ready for us at the little
inn when we came back from Gradisca. Then we drove on to Gradisca.
You cross the Isonzo to get there, and there is a lovely view from
the bridge, of the blue river and the distant Alps. Gradisca is a nice
little old-fashioned town. The inhabitants are evidently not accustomed
to visitors, and we caused an immense sensation. The "Photographic Lady"
took several photographs, and she was always the centre of an admiring
crowd. They were rather disappointed, I fancy, not to see any results
then and there. They caused the lady great annoyance by going and
standing before the camera to get a better view of the performance--in
fact, she got quite angry, and abused them in all the four languages of
the country.
[Illustration: PALAZZO FINETTI]
[Illustration: HOUSE AT GRADISCA]
There is a fine old palace in Gradisca that once belonged to the Della
Torre. The whole of this part of the country seems to have belonged to
them, and everywhere--in churches, on old houses, over doors--you see
the tower with crossed lilies that was their coat of arms. In this
particular house I was struck by a charming courtyard with graceful
"loggia" and a flight of steps from both sides to the ground.
[Illustration: TOMB OF NICOLAO DELLA TORRE]
We went to see two churches. The first contained nothing interesting,
but the second is worth seeing. There is a tomb there erected to the
memory of Nicolao Della Torre in a private burial-chapel. The monument
is very large, with a recumbent figure of the gentleman lying in full
armour. He must have been of unusual size, with a fine regular face and
a long flowing beard, and is very much like the portraits of Martin
the Giant. He, too, fought against the infidels, being General of the
Imperial troops that protected the Hungarian frontier against the Turks.
He was badly wounded in one of the battles, but his end was not so
tragic as that of his ancestor, and he now lies peacefully in the
little church of Gradisca, enjoying at last the strange old motto of his
family--"Tranquillité."
The stuccoed ceiling of the chapel, which seems to be particularly fine,
was pointed out to me, but somehow I had had too much of churches and
monuments for one day, so I was not so appreciative as I suppose I ought
to have been. In any case, I was again the victim of sundry abuse.
After all this sight-seeing it was a pleasure to wander quietly and
aimlessly through the quaint little streets, meeting only an occasional
donkey or dirty baby, who stared very much, whilst at the windows one
would sometimes catch a glimpse of a pair of big black eyes following
one curiously from behind a row of red carnations. We admired the
old walls of the town, which was strongly fortified in ancient
times--enormous black walls with battlements, and beneath them a sort
of green lawn shadowed by numerous chestnut-trees, the fashionable
promenade of the high life of Gradisca.
We drove back to Sagrado and had supper in the little inn. The "man with
the wig" waited on us with a beaming face. I did not feel at all happy,
for we had the most horrid wine it has ever been my lot to drink. It
is the wine of the country, and said to be the pure juice of the grape
(everything nasty seems to be "the pure juice of the grape"). One drinks
it diluted with water, and it has a most extraordinary bitter taste. The
ladies assured me that I should soon grow accustomed to it, and then I
should never like any other wine as well. I had my own opinion on the
subject, but I had to smile and look pleasant.
We drove home in the evening. I had foretold a thunderstorm all the
afternoon, but had been laughed to scorn by everybody. My prophecies
were correct, however, for we had hardly left Sagrado when the storm
began. I never saw more vivid lightning--the whole sky was lighted up by
it, and it was almost incessant. The weird effect was increased, too, by
the fireflies--there must have been millions of them flitting hither and
thither, like the lost souls of the departed. We had a great argument
as to whether we should remain at Monfalcone till the storm had passed
over. The ladies were in favour of waiting, the coachman and I were
for going on, and the boy was neutral, being fast asleep. Our eloquence
prevailed--we hurried on. It was a desperate race, but we had the
satisfaction of beating the worst of the storm by some ten seconds.
After all, I did not think much of Sagrado and Gradisca, and I can only
say I hope people will be as bored in reading this chapter as I have
been in writing it.
[Illustration]