CAPODISTRIA
Happy star reign now!
Here comes Bohemia.
Shakespeare
(_The Winter's Tale_).
This chapter is remarkable, since it introduces a new and interesting
character to the public, to wit the "Gentle Lunatic," who rushed down
upon us from the wild and boundless forests of Bohemia.
We journeyed to Capodistria on Saturday, 22nd June, the "Gentle One"
filling the place of the "Other Boy" in the usual quartette.
We left Duino at 8 o'clock in the morning (another early start), and
drove to Nabresina; from thence we went to Trieste by train. Our train
was half an hour late, for which we abused the "Photographic Lady," as
she had made all the arrangements for the journey.
It is marvellous how our arrangements always go wrong! We have tried all
the ladies in turn as superintendent-in-chief: the "Energetic One,"
who did not want any railway guide or any advice, but knew everything
generally; the "Photographic Lady," who smothered herself and
everybody else with books, time-tables, etc., asked every one's opinion
collectively and singly, and made an elaborate plan beforehand; my
collaborator, who did not care a rap how things went, supposed they
would be sure to come right somehow, and when they did _not_, said it
was destiny; but none of them answered. We were always in a hopeless
muddle, either starting too soon, or too late, or not at all.
We were very much annoyed by the dilatory conduct of our train, even
when it arrived at Nabresina. It is extraordinary the length of time
it takes to start a continental train! A bell rings violently and then
tolls _one_. This is to inform the passengers that the train is in the
station. A long interval follows. The bell rings more violently than
before and then tolls _two_. This shows that in the course of time the
train will proceed. There is no hurry, however. You have plenty of time
still to make a substantial meal and pay calls on any friends you may
have in the neighbourhood of the station. The bell rings a third time
and tolls _three_. The conductor suggests the advisability of taking
your seat, the engine-driver and stoker go for their last drink, and the
stationmaster begins to play with a little horn he wears suspended round
his neck. The conductors--there are generally two or three of them on
each train--having ascertained that none of the passengers have any
particular wish to remain any longer, step out upon the platform, shout
_ready_, and blow whistles. The stationmaster, with an air of immense
importance, sounds his toy trumpet, the engine utters a scream of
defiance to the world generally, and after a decent interval, to avoid
the semblance of haste, the train crawls out of the station. It is an
imposing ceremony, but as it is repeated at every small station on the
line, it grows somewhat monotonous and makes railway-travelling rather
a formidable and lengthy business. At last, however, our train, having
rested sufficiently, proceeded slowly on its journey, and we arrived in
the course of time at Trieste.
We drove to the Hotel Delorme, and ordered lunch to be ready in an hour.
The "Gentle Lunatic" announced his intention of going to find some tame
turtles. He said he meant to buy a dozen, and we could take them home in
our pockets. He could dispose of six, and we three should have two each.
We argued and remonstrated, but it was of no use--he went.
Meanwhile the two ladies and I set out to see the Church of St. Just, a
very fine church--in fact, one of the oldest Christian basilicae. It is
a great pity that the beautiful old columns are covered with red damask.
They look like a forest of pillars, and divide the church into five
aisles. Two of the many altars are bright with very ancient Byzantine
gold-grounded mosaics.
The "Photographic Lady" took a photograph of the interior and carried
on a flirtation with a young verger, to whom she promised a photograph,
whether of herself or the church we were unable to discover. We were
then joined by the "Gentle One," who was quite heart-broken, as he had
not been able to find his turtles.
Trieste is a nice town. It is a pity it is not a pleasure resort instead
of a mercantile place, as it is beautifully situated on green hills
sloping quite gently down to the sea; the surroundings are pretty, and
brightened with villas and flower-covered cottages.
We went on to Capodistria by steamer. There was a very motley crowd of
passengers on board--peasants returning from market, business people
bound for an afternoon's pleasure-seeking, persons of all sorts
and conditions. The "Photographic Lady" was delighted that, in one
particular at least, her researches with regard to our arrangements were
correct--namely, that the steamer had left Trieste at one o'clock. To
prove her accuracy, she asked the "G. L." soon after starting to tell
her the time. But his answer was somewhat vague, and his method of
ascertaining the time appeared to us peculiar. He took out his watch,
looked at it for a long time, gazed fixedly at the sun, shut his eyes,
seemed by the contortion of his features to be going through some
abstruse calculation, and then said it was between one and two o'clock.
This nettled the lady, and she replied rather warmly that she wanted
to know the _exact time_. With a mournful smile he took out his watch
again, went through the previous programme, and gave the same answer.
At this we all insisted on seeing his watch for ourselves, and then the
mystery was explained. It had no glass! it had no hands! We suggested
that such a watch must be rather inconvenient, but he assured us it was
the best watch he had ever had in his life; for more than ten years
it had been in this state, during which time it had gone absolutely
perfectly, and had never needed the slightest attention beyond winding
up.
It took us three-quarters of an hour to reach Capodistria. It looks
very quaint and old-fashioned this little out-of-the-way town, with
its red-roofed houses, blue sky above, and blue sea all around, and the
great gaunt prison lighted up by the golden rays of the sun, and forming
a bright patch of yellow in the landscape. My collaborator says the
prison spoils the appearance of the town, but I maintain that it forms a
pleasing contrast to the old gray walls of the houses.
Capodistria was formerly Byzantine, but in 1278 it became Venetian.
Under the Republic of Venice it was a very flourishing place, and is
said to have been the richest town in Istria. There were many wealthy
patrician families, renowned for their luxurious living, inhabiting it.
With the fall of the Venetian Republic, Capodistria declined, and it is
now a small unimportant town. It was formerly known by the name of "the
Gentlewoman of Istria."
On arriving, we found that we had made a mistake of two hours in the
time of the return steamer, a discovery that threw all our plans out
of gear, but we comforted ourselves with the reflection that it gave
us more time to see the place. We engaged a chariot and drove off to
inspect the town. It was a remarkable conveyance. The "G. L." selected
it, and it appeared as if he had chosen the dirtiest he could find. It
was small too. We could only just squeeze in, and were very much cramped
for room; but any trifling defects in the carriage were amply made up
for by the horse. This was indeed a noble animal, and high spirited in
the extreme; the driver too was perfectly reckless, so we dashed off at
the rate of some sixty miles an hour, the chariot pitching and tossing
like a small boat in an angry sea.
The "piazza" is quite the sight of Capodistria, and is very picturesque.
A church stands on one side of it, and before one is an old Town Hall,
turreted on both sides, with graceful Venetian windows, innumerable
inscriptions, coats-of-arms, and other carvings, and the whole crowned
by the Venetian lion. A pretty outer staircase with little marble
columns runs along part of the front of the building, and under it there
is a deep and sombre archway, through which one sees a narrow street,
with great, high, irregularly built houses almost meeting above it.
[Illustration: THE TOWN HALL]
I believe we went to see three churches in this little town, but I have
seen such a superabundance of churches lately, that I cannot remember
the characteristic features of any of the three. I know that in one
there was a quantity of fine old silver, and that we were shown round
another by a most obsequious monk, clad in russet brown, who explained
its beauties to us in a confidential manner. I remember, too, that we
saw some pictures. In one church (the "G. L." says it was in the big
one on the piazza) there was a very fine one of Benedetto Carpaccio--the
Madonna in the company of some saints, and with two little angels
playing the banjo (it may be a guitar) at her feet. In the church
where we interviewed the monk there was a big altar-piece of Cima da
Conegliano, very much spoilt by having been restored, and a most curious
picture of Vittore Carpaccio, with a garland of angels' heads (hundreds
of them), some painted in natural colours and some bright _red_.
(Red-headed angels--this is art!)
By the way, I was told that in Venice there is a very old picture
attributed to the same Carpaccio, and said to represent the Lords of
Duino taking tribute from the town of Zara; the Lords of Duino, in
quaint armour, with their ladies and soldiers, on the one side of
the picture; on the other, the representatives of the vanquished town
bringing gold, etc., and in the background a turreted castle--Duino, and
a town near it--Trieste. As Carpaccio was a native of Capodistria, it is
very probable that he painted this triumph of some of the most powerful
barons of his country.
After this came more sight-seeing. We visited a funny old
drinking-fountain known as the "Bridge" (why, I know not), and watched
the women drawing water.
It is a sleepy and dull little town, with small streets and dark
forbidding-looking houses. There are hardly any shops, but in one
quaint sort of jeweller's stall the fashionable ornaments of Istria were
pointed out to me. These are ear-rings--little crowned negroes' heads in
black and white enamel, and the height of fashion among the fishermen is
to wear both in one ear.
One sees very few people in the streets. Here and there a dark-eyed
girl strolling along with the peculiar shuffling gait caused by the
"zoccoli"--the wooden slippers of the Venetian women.
[Illustration: DOOR-KNOCKER]
Everywhere are relics of Venice--the carved cisterns on the piazzas, the
winged lions on the houses, where you find inscriptions bearing some
of the most illustrious names of the Republic, but everywhere, too,
silence, abandonment, and decay. There are some fine old palaces,
but the windows are shut, and they seem deserted. On one we admired a
wonderful old bronze knocker of most refined workmanship, and as the
house with its arched windows and marble balconies looked particularly
nice, we explored the interior. There, too, we found the large Venetian
entrance-hall and an imposing-looking staircase, but no soul appeared.
Then we repaired to a _café_ on the piazza. It was formerly an open
"loggia," but between the stately marble columns some mean commercial
soul has put glass windows, and the interior is dishonoured by the usual
little marble tables and black leather seats. The ladies ordered coffee
and sponge-cakes, I drank beer, and the "Gentle Lunatic" asked for a cup
of hot water--his favourite drink.
[Illustration: CAFÉ AT CAPODISTRIA]
One of the "G. L.'s" passions is his liking for low acquaintances.
Hardly had we finished our repast and gone out, before he formed a
new friendship of this kind. An old beggar with a long gray beard
approached, and the two immediately fraternised. They sat down on a
stone bench together, and discussed politics and literature. In the
meantime another beggar came up, whom the first beggar introduced as
"the greatest poet of Capodistria." The poet was proud, however, and
evidently averse to becoming intimate with strangers; at any rate, after
having received with lofty condescension the "tip" diffidently offered
to him by the "G. L.," he went majestically off. It was with the
greatest difficulty that we finally separated the two friends, who
parted with mutual expressions of everlasting esteem.
We then once more mounted our chariot, and betook ourselves to the
steamer.
So good-bye to "the Gentlewoman of Istria," lying placidly asleep by the
blue waters of the Adriatic. Though changed and abandoned, you can still
distinguish some of the charms that won for her that poetic name. May
she dream of the glorious time long ago--the glorious time of her youth,
when she was growing and blooming in the shade of the mighty wings that
Saint Mark's lion was once spreading over land and sea!