Italian Days and Ways

XI

SHORT JOURNEYS

We have been travelling so fast, in the last days, that there has been no time for writing, which is my excuse for not sending you a letter from Viterbo, whose middle-age charms might fill many pages. Now I am writing with the brilliant colors of the façade of Orvieto's great cathedral still dazzling my eyes. We saw it first at sunset, when its exquisite colors were intensified, and glowed in harmony with the delicate rose and rich golden glory of the sky. With its vast mosaic front and exquisite Gothic arches and spires, the Cathedral of Orvieto is the central point of shining light in the old gray-brown town which it crowns. This evening it was like a jewel with a thousand facets gleaming in the sunset light, and, as many travellers have asserted, its immense rose-window above the cathedral portal is in itself worth a journey to Orvieto. This window with the lovely mosaic above it of Christ and the Virgin Mary enthroned and surrounded by angels, all in the softest blue, crimson, and gold, quite enthralled us, and we lingered so long before the cathedral that the sunset colors faded, the delicate hues of the mosaic grew dim, and darkness fell upon the huge mass, wrapping it about as with a garment. "We shall never again see anything so beautiful in this world," said Zelphine, solemnly, as we walked back to our hotel through the narrow, dark streets. And indeed I doubt if we ever shall; to behold a sunset of such brilliancy illuminating a building of beauty so entrancing is something that one need not expect to have repeated in a lifetime.

We intended to come here directly from Rome, a journey of only a few hours; a detour to Montefiascone and Viterbo was decided upon, on the spur of the moment, just before leaving Rome. Zelphine came across some notes about Montefiascone in her Baedeker that reminded her of Mr. Longfellow's description of his visit to the tomb of Johannes Fugger of Augsburg, upon which she insisted that we linger a day and night on our journey hither, in order to visit the sacred city of the Etruscans.

You probably recall the story in "Outre-Mer," and will be laughing at us for going many miles to do honor to the memory of a wine-loving old bishop; but I was glad that we had listened to Zelphine's words of wisdom, as the place itself, quite aside from the strange tomb, is so interesting—a little gray town towering above the green plain, with narrow streets and high stone houses, plastered, to be sure, but still ancient and impressive. Just outside the gate is a small inn, the Aquila Nera, which is said to occupy the site of the shrine of Voltumna, the tutelary goddess of the Etruscans, where the princes of the nation once gathered in council. Here we discharged our vetturino, as this hill town is not adapted to the luxuries of modern transportation, and made our way on foot to the Church of San Flaviano.

We did not, like Mr. Longfellow, make a midnight pilgrimage to Bishop Fugger's tomb; our visit was at high noon. The eleventh-century Church of San Flaviano is unique and imposing, with its huge Romanesque columns, Gothic doorways, and upper and lower buildings. Here before the high altar is a well-worn gravestone with a relief of a bishop in his robes, a goblet on each side of his head, and at his feet the cabalistic words "Est, Est, Est." The remainder of the inscription we could not decipher, but we afterwards learned that it ran thus:

The strange inscription and the two goblets confirmed the story of the convivial bishop, who, in order to secure good wine at each inn, while travelling through Etruria, sent his servant a day's journey in advance of him, instructing him to write "Est" in some agreed place if he found the wine good. When the taster came to Montefiascone, he was so charmed with the native wine that he wrote "Est, Est, Est," on the wall. Bishop Fugger arrived in due time, thoroughly endorsed the opinion of his servant, and drank of the "Est" wine so freely that in a short time he himself was non est. With his last breath the bishop dictated a will, by which he bequeathed a considerable sum of money to the town upon condition that a cask of the "Est" wine be annually poured over his grave. This, they tell us, was actually done until within a few years, when the wine became too precious to be poured forth in libations so generous. Now you will surely come to Montefiascone—"mountain of the flask," as everything has a vinous association here—and drink to the peace of his soul who drank "not wisely but too well."

From San Flaviano we strolled back to the Aquila Nera, where, if the bread was of the color and consistency of leather, the eggs were fresh and the fried artichokes delicious, while the wine—well, the wine, like dear Charles Lamb's sublimated roast pig and many other delectable things, must be tasted to be understood. No words of mine can convey to you any idea of its sweetness and fragrance and general deliciousness, cooled as it is with snow from the surrounding mountains, after the fashion of the ancient Romans. After tasting of the "Est, Est, Est," we were more ready to shed a tear over the tomb of the bishop than we had been before luncheon, and we can also better understand how the peasants of this region live on their poor fare when it is accompanied by nectar of the gods—a wine which does not seem to intoxicate, as they drink it, but is an article of diet like coffee or tea or cocoa or oil. Another characteristic of the "Est, Est, Est," is that it must be drunk here, as it will not bear transportation even to Rome.

After luncheon we climbed up the steep street which leads to the cathedral. This great building, with its gigantic dome, richly colored marbles, and its many statues and frescoes, in a little out-of-the-way town whose history is all over and done with, affords one of the striking contrasts that add so much to the charm of Italy. A brilliant gem in a dull setting is this old church, and yet with its many points of light the jewel irradiates the sombre setting, instead of making it seem darker by contrast. We left the beautiful cathedral reluctantly to take an afternoon train to Viterbo, where we were told that we should find a much more comfortable inn than at Montefiascone.

Zelphine, living over again the glorious past of the great Etruscan city which we were about to visit, scorned all thought of creature comfort, yet Angela and I noticed that she seemed to enjoy the unexpected luxuries of the really good hotel in Viterbo as much as we more mundane beings. Angela was in her element in a brilliantly lighted hotel, with a large, bright dining-room and well-appointed tables, and began at once to wish that we had better gowns in which to grace the festive scene than the light silk waists which we had brought with us to wear with our travelling-skirts. And yet, this very morning, we had all been congratulating ourselves upon our small amount of luggage, declaring that we were only free women when we had sent our trunks in advance of us and could hold our worldly goods in our two hands. Zelphine and I still rejoice in our freedom; but we are not Angelas, with youth and all its possibilities.

Viterbo is the oldest-looking place that we have seen except Pompeii. In the most ancient portions of the city, in the little dark streets with their high walls, tunnels, and archways, one may go back a thousand years to the ninth and tenth centuries. Here are many towers for defence, and massive fortified dwellings with richly carved porticos, balustrades, and balconies; and in keeping with the antique architecture are the peasants, in their wide-brimmed hats and sheepskin breeches with the hair outside, still wearing their cloaks like the ancient Romans, one end thrown over the left shoulder. The storm-cloaks of the peasants of this region are heirlooms, descending from father to son, often more than a hundred years old. The walls of Viterbo are almost as perfect as in the twelfth century, when, like Troy of old, it stood a long siege for the sake of a woman's beauty and charm. Galiana, for whose possession two powerful families of Rome and Viterbo waged war, must have been a far nobler creature than the lady of Trojan fame. When the Romans outside the walls promised to end the war if Galiana would but grant them a sight of her fair face upon the town walls, she promptly yielded to the request, and appeared upon a tower which still bears her name. Here Galiana fell, pierced by the arrow of a treacherous Roman. We saw the tomb and an inscription to the heroic Galiana on the façade of the Church of St. Angelo, which stands on the Piazza del Plebiscito.

"I wonder if women are beautiful enough nowadays to lead men to war for their sakes," said Angela. As she stood there, her perfect outline silhouetted against the gray background of Galiana's old tower, the slanting sunbeams lighting up her fair hair, I wondered whether Helen of Troy or Galiana of Viterbo had either of them been more beautiful than our American Angela. Then, suddenly recalling the little scene at the railroad station in Rome, I answered so emphatically, "I hope not," that Zelphine started, and came back from the past long enough to look at me questioningly.

"How seriously you take it all, Margaret," said Angela, with her light laugh. "Even if we are not as beautiful as those old-time ladies, we are certainly much happier, travelling about to please ourselves, as we are doing, instead of being carried off to some castle to please somebody else, and then having a long war about it all. I do wonder, though, that some great poem has not been written about Galiana on her tower."

"No doubt Italian poets have written about her again and again," said Zelphine.

"Oh yes, of course, but I mean in some language that people can understand. Mr. Browning, for instance, could have written a great poem about Galiana."

I doubt if Mr. Browning ever found his way here; few English-speaking people came to Viterbo before the railroad from Rome was built. But was not Angela's explanation sufficiently original to please you or Zelphine or any other ardent admirer of Mr. Browning?

Zelphine was delighted, and said, as she linked her arm in mine to descend the narrow, steep street that leads towards the hotel, that under her tutelage and mine Angela was really beginning to develop some sentiment. Angela's sentiment did not impress me as much as her linguistic perspective, which made me think of the Scotchwoman who said that the Lord would not listen to the prayers of the French, because they were "sic jabberin budies."—You remember the story; was it before the battle of Agincourt? How one forgets English history, here in towns that so long antedate the Norman conquest!

This morning we drove to Bagnaja, only a short distance north-east of Viterbo and built upon one of the slopes of the Ciminian Hills. From an eminence near Bagnaja we had a noble view of Montefiascone ten miles away, a little, gray town dominated by the dome of the vast cathedral, while much nearer lay Viterbo, with its lofty campanile and one hundred towers, dark, formidable, and majestic. We stopped at Bagnaja to see the great mediæval castle, with its huge machicolated tower; and then driving to the south of the main piazza over a fine macadamized road, if one may venture to use a term so modern in describing this land of the ancients, we were soon face to face with one of the most beautiful of the Italian villas, that of the Duca di Lante. We were admitted to fairyland by a very conventional method, the presentation of visiting-cards, and were then conducted by a most obsequious servant, evidently with generous expectations, who unlocked gates that led to the more secluded precincts of this garden of delight. Rest and refreshment for body and spirit we found in the loveliness and harmony of our surroundings. Surely the queen of the fairies, Titania herself, must have presided over the laying out of these grounds. Zelphine and I ignored the lore of guides and guide-books, not caring to learn that any mortal man had had a hand in producing such beauty as this. The great basin in front of the house, with its central fountain bordered by blooming plants, glittered in the sunshine. Beyond were the terraces, with their tiers of fairy cascades and fountains, where ilexes as large as those in the Borghese Gardens cast a shade so deep that nymphs and sprites might dance under them, as freely as in Corot's pictures, unseen by loiterers on the adjacent parterres.

Sitting under the shade of a huge ilex, while a bird sang to us from its sheltering branches, we all breathed a deep sigh of content, and congratulated ourselves, in Jeffersonian phrase, upon life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, after our own vagrant fashion. We might suffer from cold and even from hunger in some wretched inn to-night, but to-day we drank from a full cup of delight; the largess of the gods was ours, in a wealth of Italian sunshine and an air as intoxicating as the muscatel wine for which this region is famous. For the moment we possessed all the glories of the dead and gone Dukes of Lante, with neither their sorrows nor their crimes to deepen the shadows upon those gay parterres and sparkling fountains.

"It matters little whether or not we lunch to-day," said Zelphine, "for we

"Speak for yourself, Zelphine," said Angela. "Honey-dew and the milk of Paradise may satisfy your delicate appetite, but mine needs something more substantial to feed upon. A good slice of American roast beef would be more to my taste."

"Oh, Angela!" exclaimed Zelphine. "And in such a spot as this!"

Evidently Angela's sentiment was not developing as rapidly as Zelphine could wish.

"Yes," continued our practical youngest, "I would not turn away from a slice of roast beef and a baked potato, even in this enchanting spot. I really am almost hungry enough this moment to share with our driver the crust of leathery bread that he is probably enjoying while he waits for us."

"Poor child," said Zelphine, compassionately, delving into "Mrs. Lecks," from which convenient receptacle she produced a cake of chocolate.

"Zelphine, you certainly are a dear, and have a human heart," said Angela, as she contentedly munched the chocolate, "even if you are as romantic as—as–"

"As her own great-grandmother's portrait by Stuart," said I, helping out Angela, who is not strong in the line of similes, "a beautiful lady, chiefly composed of fine eyes and hair, with a marvellous complexion and no anatomy to speak of."

Laughing and talking we sauntered on toward the entrance gate, near which we found our vetturino. As Angela had predicted, he was eating his dry crust, flavored, we were glad to notice, by a crisp bit of fennel, which they use here as we do celery.

When we returned to Viterbo, it looked like a deserted village; the picturesque peasants in their sheepskin suits were nowhere to be seen on the streets, and shops and windows were closed. It appeared as if some public calamity had befallen the beautiful old city. We afterwards learned that the inhabitants of Viterbo, adhering to a time-honored custom, retire for a siesta at mid-day, from which they emerge at three or four in the afternoon to spend the evening gaily on the Corso, thronging the shops, which are brilliantly lighted. Fortunately for us, the employees of the hotel do not demand a mid-day rest, and a luncheon was served us sufficiently substantial to satisfy appetites sharpened by a long morning in this bracing mountain air.