[Illustration]
GORITZ
In the greenest of our valleys.
E. A. Poe.
On Monday, 24th June, we went to Goritz--my collaborator, the "Gentle
Lunatic," and I. Our party had already broken up--the "Energetic Lady"
and the "Seal," Miss Umslopogaas, the two learned men, the Thin Boy,
the Other Boy, even "our host"--all had gone. And now we left too. My
collaborator was going on to Venice from Goritz, and the G. L. and I,
after picking up the Fat Boy at Nabresina, were going to Vienna by the
night train.
We drove to Monfalcone, and then went on by rail.
Goritz is charmingly situated in the smiling valley of the Isonzo.
I have spoken of the beauty of this valley before, but never does it
strike one so pleasantly as when one approaches Goritz. It is a forest
of vineyards surrounded by tier upon tier of majestic mountains, that
rise higher and higher, until they are lost to sight among the clouds,
and in the centre of the mass of greenery, on the banks of the blue
river, nestles the little town.
Not much is known of the early history of Goritz. From the twelfth
century, however, it seems to have played an important part in the
history of the country, and the Counts of Goritz stand out prominently
as a powerful and warlike family, second in importance only to the
Patriarchs of Aquileia. They were celebrated for their munificence and
for the splendour of the tournaments promoted by them. By the way,
an old chronicle says that in 1224 a great tournament, arranged by
Mainardo II., Count of Goritz, was held at Trieste. To this came Ulrich
of Lichtenstein, the German Minnesänger, who always went about dressed
as Venus. Unfortunately the details of his dress are wanting.
After the extinction of the family, Goritz came into the possession of
the Emperors. The Venetians attempted to conquer it, and indeed appear
to have held it for a short time. The town seems to have kept up
its reputation of gaiety, as later chronicles speak of the lavish
hospitality of the nobility residing there.
It is now quite a lively little place, with broad streets and good
shops, and its outskirts are one charming garden full of pretty villas.
There is not much to be seen in the way of antiquities--an old castle,
by no means beautiful, perched on a hill, and some churches.
It was a very hot day. It is all very well to talk poetically of the
sunny South, but for my part I wish it was not so confoundedly warm. We
were taken to an antiquary's shop by my collaborator, and spent most
of the morning there--she in looking over the things in a business-like
manner, the G. L. in wandering aimlessly around, and I in sitting on the
back stairs. (I found it the coolest place.)
We lunched with Count and Countess C., and, to speak truly, my
pleasantest recollections of Goritz are associated with that lunch. I
must say I had spent rather a miserable sort of morning, what with the
heat and the antiquary's shop, but these troubles were soon forgotten on
our arriving at their house.
It is an old-fashioned, rambling house, with low, dim rooms, furnished
with a charming disregard to all pretence at style--old carved furniture
side by side with little modern round tables, and valuable paintings of
the last century hanging by oleographs of to-day. Every room, too, is
a menagerie--dogs, cats, monkeys, snakes, birds of all sorts, are
everywhere. I like a house of this kind--there is an entire absence
of that bugbear _Art_ (art with a big capital "A," you know), and most
charming of all are its inhabitants. They are brother and sister,
and both on the verge of eighty, the Countess the personification of
goodness and the Lady Bountiful of the town, and the Count a curious
mixture of the beau of the beginning of the century, poet, artist,
and philosopher rolled into one. In spite of their age they both look
marvellously young, and are more gay and active than the majority of
young people I know.
We ate our lunch--which was excellent, by the way--in a little cool room
that opens into the garden. The latter is as quaint as the house--roses
and red currants grow together in luxuriant profusion. There is a
delightful little arbour overgrown with white jasmine, and an old flight
of steps that leads up to what was probably once a fortification, but
is now a fine bed of cabbages with a border of hollyhocks, and the whole
overshadowed by an enormous cherry-tree. Just outside the garden rises
a big modern building, and from this, every now and then, a chorus of
sweet girlish voices floated forth upon the still summer air. They were
factory girls spinning silk, I was told, and singing over their work.
[Illustration: A CAST]
After lunch we adjourned to the Count's study--the most remarkable
room in the house perhaps. It is lower than the street, very large and
vaulted, full of old furniture and curiosities of every kind; here and
there casts of famous sculptures, very white against the dark walls; on
the many tables a litter of books and papers, except on one, where we
were told to admire a collection of paper-knives.
It is an extraordinary thing that passion for collections. I knew a man
once who collected _pipes_. He had one hundred and sixty-three when I
saw him last, and he had stolen them all. I have no sympathy with this
sort of thing, and quite disapproved of his actions--in fact, I withdrew
from his acquaintance. I have too much affection for my own pipes
to know such people. The "Gentle One" told me that a friend of his
collected _old hats_. He labelled each hat with the name of its former
owner, and studied his character from his head-covering. He knew a
family too who collected buttons. They were accustomed to secretly steal
them from their visitors' overcoats, with a view to scientifical and
psychological research--of course!
Now I collect money. Do not think me a miser. I do not hoard it up--I
spend it. I shall be delighted to receive help with my collection. I
have no false pride--any contribution, however small, will be thankfully
received, and acknowledged by return of post.
In the afternoon the "Gentle Lunatic" and I drove round to inspect the
place. We made a sort of grand tour of the town, and then went out to a
little village from which there is a view. It is a lovely view, too. You
stand on a hill and look down into a valley, or rather glen; far below
one flows the Isonzo, bluer than any sea or any sky, winding along, with
a little cascade here and there, between banks thickly covered with oak
woods, whilst above everything tower the mountains. Another interesting
place near Goritz is the church and convent of Castagnavizza, not on
account of the buildings, which are nothing remarkable, but because the
last princes of the French Royal Family are buried there. They all lie
in a little chapel (a Della Torre burial-ground, by the way), in simple
coffins--Charles X. and his sons, the unfortunate Duchess of Angoulême,
and, last of all, the Count and Countess of Chambord. It is a very
gloomy vault, and one cannot help thinking of all the splendour and
glory of Versailles, of all the memories of that long lineage of kings,
and contrasting them with this their last resting-place, so humble and
forsaken in a strange land--the royal lilies withered in a foreign soil.
After this visit one is glad to get out into the sunshine again and to
ramble through the streets of the gay little town.
There are four languages generally spoken in Goritz--Italian, Slav,
Friulan, and German. Friulan is an extraordinary language, a sort of
Italian dialect, only spoken in the Friul, as the neighbourhood of
Goritz is called. German is, of course, the State language, but Italian
is universally spoken all over the Littoral. The lower classes do
not understand a word of German, and I have found that hardly any one
understands _my_ German. I had a forcible illustration of this not
long ago. I was lunching with the Gentle Lunatic at a hotel, when an
acquaintance of his came in and sat at our table. With my accustomed
modesty, I said little or nothing until the G. L. suggested that I might
air some of my German. I promptly opened conversation with a sentence
I had learned from an exercise book--"The dog is more faithful than the
cat." It was perhaps not the sort of remark one would as a rule make
to a stranger, but I thought he would in all probability agree with my
sentiments, and then it was one of the few complete German sentences I
knew. The reply, however, was not what I expected. Instead of answering,
"Yes, but have you seen the penknife of my grandmother's female
gardener?" or something of that sort, he turned to the Gentle One--"Tell
him," he said, "I am very sorry, but I have forgotten all my English."
It was a crushing blow--he had mistaken my best German sentence for
English!
[Illustration: GIRL FROM DUINO]
The people of the Littoral are of the Italian type. Many of the women
are very handsome, and they have almost all fine eyes, large and black,
and soft and velvety-looking. They hold themselves very well too,
probably from being accustomed to carry baskets and bundles on their
heads. Only the better class women wear hats. The peasants wear nothing
but their own luxuriant hair, or merely a coloured kerchief thrown
gracefully over their heads. The height of fashion at present is a black
kerchief with large red spots. The people generally are a good-natured,
cheerful race. "They are dirty, they are rough and ready, but they have
the heart in the right place," as the G. L.'s English butler says, and
his words exactly describe them.
[Illustration: CASTLE DUINO FROM THE RAILWAY]
We stopped at an open-air _café_ in driving back and drank some beer,
and then we returned to Count C.'s and ate ices. Beer and ices are _not_
a nice mixture. Don't try it if you have not already done so.
We saw my collaborator off, and then started ourselves for Vienna. The
railway line runs quite close to Duino, so we had one more glimpse of
the old castle from the train. There had been a thunder-storm in the
afternoon, and the sky was still covered with black clouds. The sea was
leaden-coloured and the far horizon blotted out by thick gray mist and
rain streaks, but as we flattened our noses against the window-pane
to "take a last fond look," one bright ray from the setting sun shone
through the darkness of the thunder-clouds. It brightened the old gray
walls of the castle, and bathed them in rosy light; it lingered lovingly
round the great Roman tower, and lit up the red and white Hohenlohe
banner that floated in the breeze.
And so I saw Duino for the last time.
[Illustration]