Wanderings through unknown Austria

Hast thou seen that lordly castle,

That Castle by the Sea?

Golden and red above it

The clouds float gorgeously.

Longfellow.

I never read an account of any pile of stones, dignified by the name of "castle" and situated near the sea, that did not begin with these lines of Longfellow's. It is not the force of example, however, that makes me prefix them to this attempt at a description of one, but it is the fact that they really suit Duino.

It looks lordly and imposing enough standing out grand and massive on frowning cliffs two hundred feet above the sea, grim and gray, like some old sentinel keeping a constant watch over the blue waters of the Adriatic stretching at its feet.

DUINO FROM THE SEA

The view from it is magnificent: before you the open sea; on both sides, extending in graceful curves, the coast, amethyst-hued; far on the left the white houses of Trieste, and rather nearer, the Imperial Castle of Miramar; on the right, just on the horizon, the tower of Aquileia, famous in Roman times; and in the dim distance the snow-clad Alps.

From the land side the castle looks perhaps even more stern and severe, and like the fortress it was in old days. Not a window is to be seen, only the bare fortifications and the old walls clad with ivy, almost as old to all appearance as the walls themselves.

What appeals to one most is the restfulness and quiet of the place. The old castle, with its towers and battlements, its cloisters and courtyard, stands just as it has stood for centuries. You are out of the world here, the bustling, hurrying, work-a-day world of to-day, and back again in a world of two or three hundred years ago.

It is a nice, sad sort of feeling that comes over one: you think of your debts, of the friends of your youth that are dead and gone, of your elderly relation from whom you have expectations, and who will not die, and other melancholy things of a like nature; but your troubles seem far away, and are quite pleasant-"grateful and comforting."

DOOR-KNOCKER

The place seems peopled with ghosts-ghosts of a bygone age. There is a legend that on certain nights of the year a troop of phantom horsemen ride into the courtyard, and even in daylight you almost expect something of the sort to happen-you listen for the clank of arms and the ring of the horses' hoofs. Modern dress seems out of place, you feel you ought to be in armour yourself. Every nook and corner, every stone, seems to have a story to tell. What a pity they cannot speak and tell all they have seen!

The castle must have been well-nigh impregnable in the old days, and probably extended to the ruin one sees on the right, on entering it.

Between the two-the ruin and the inhabited part-there is a sort of half garden, half wilderness, known as the "Riviera"-a delightful spot. Ilex, cypresses, laurels, and olive-trees grow in luxuriant profusion. Little winding paths tempt you to explore them. There is a long, old, steep flight of steps with the trees meeting over them in a roof of green leaves, leading down to the sea. Old-fashioned flowers abound, and grow almost wild-purple irises, great blue periwinkles, honey-scented "dragons' mouths," and roses of every kind. Butterflies that are rare in England are common enough here-huge yellow swallow-tails, the graceful "White Admiral," glorious "Camberwell Beauties" flit from flower to flower. There are swarms of nightingales; and pigeons and starlings have formed a perfect colony in the cliff under the ruin; a pair of kestrels have their nest here too. There are snakes in the long grass, and bright-coloured lizards bask in the sunshine.

Notice the big doors as you enter the castle-there is "Salve!" on one of them. It is pleasant to know one is "welcome," but one always is in Austria-it is the land of hospitality.

BOREAS

On the other door is an ancient knocker-interesting if you have a passion for old things. That ugly face over the archway is a portrait of Mr. Boreas, the personification of the North Wind. He is represented as continually blowing. As a matter of fact he does blow rather strongly here, and in the spring almost perpetually.

One of the most picturesque parts of the castle is the old courtyard, with its big square tower, its glistening statues, its dark cloisters, its graceful balconies, and with the ivy entwining and creeping over everything. The tower is said to be Roman. There are rooms here that have been walled up for centuries and are so still-nobody knows why. It is said in the village too that somewhere in the tower is "the buried treasure." I should very much like to find that!

Those coats of arms in mosaic on the wall of the covered passage are the arms of some of the various owners of Duino. "Ditthalm, 1139," is the earliest date there. War was the principal amusement of those times, and these first "Lords of Duino" certainly had enough of it. It mattered little to them which side they were on. If there were a war, or a petty feud, or anything going on in which hard blows might be struck, there they were, on one side or the other. They must have been fine fellows in their way, these old warriors, and have kept the citizens of Trieste and the neighbouring little towns in a perpetual state of alarm.

· · · · ·

THE ROMAN TOWER

Here I had written some beautiful sentiments about the chivalry and loyalty and manliness of "the men of old." I felt rather pleased with my handiwork. It was full of nice poetic sentences, with a dash of enthusiasm, and here and there a fine contempt for our "degenerate time." So I went to my collaborator and wanted her appreciation. I cannot say she did appreciate my flight of eloquence-I did not find her quite so enthusiastic as I had expected.

"Don't be so ridiculous," she exclaimed. "What do we know about the men of old? I have not the slightest respect for them. I am sure they were exactly as men are now-if anything I think they were worse; but I don't know anything about it, and you don't either, so please stop that nonsense and stick to the present times-they may be 'degenerate,' but they are much more comfortable."

No, I decidedly think she was unsympathetic!

· · · · ·

Duino changed hands many times. In 1465 it was the property of the Emperor Frederick III., and in 1508 it belonged to the city of Venice. In 1669 it came into the possession of the Della Torre (the old Lords of Milan), and from them it descended to Prince Egon-Carl Hohenlohe, the father of the present owner, our host.

There is a portrait of Dante in the covered passage. He came to visit Pagano Della Torre here about the year 1320, and is said to have frequented the little island near the bathing place in the "Riviera." The neighbourhood of Duino was very different in his time from what it is now; tradition says the hills were covered with forests of red pine, and that the country generally was swarming with game. The game now is conspicuous by its absence; there is one solitary hare left, which inhabits Dante's island, by the way.

Poor old Dante! He looks very melancholy and unhappy, but we can most of us sympathise with him. There are not many of us, however easily the wheels of life may have run, who do not feel a pang of something like regret when now and then the thought of some one gone out of our lives comes over us. Fate plays tricks with us all. Death, the force of circumstances-it matters little what the cause of our separation was; we have drifted apart, and there is nothing left us but a memory-a dream of what might have been.

DUINO-continued

Full of long-sounding corridors it was,

That over-vaulted grateful gloom,

Thro' which the livelong day my soul did pass,

Well pleased, from room to room.

Tennyson.

The covered passage before mentioned leads one straight to the principal staircase. It is a graceful winding staircase, and rare and interesting prints cover the walls. On the first landing, after passing through two anterooms (the second of which contains a collection of fine old Viennese china), one enters the dining-room. It is a large room with a balcony, from which there is a beautiful view of Miramar and the sea. There are some most appropriate pictures of eatables by various Dutch masters on the walls. It was a curious taste of these gentlemen to paint things to eat. Perhaps they were on the verge of starvation-that might account for it. I should have thought they might have found more interesting studies, though, than "gralloched" hares and fishes with their necks broken. I know nothing of Art (this is constantly dinned into me), so can speak absolutely without prejudice. An old telescope that once belonged to Nelson, and was presented by him to Count Della Torre (Thurn), Admiral of the King of Naples, is in this room. It is a very good glass; one can see things through it almost as well as with the naked eye, but it requires some manipulation to get the focus right.

THE BALCONY

People dine well in Austria, but you get a superabundance of veal. Veal for lunch, veal for dinner, veal cooked in many ways and concealed under numerous devices, but always veal. There is a fearful invention called "Schnitzl" that is the worst form of all. Foreigners say we English live on beef and mutton, but in Austria they live on veal, so we have the pull over them in the way of variety. One never sees grown-up cattle here. Poor things! they don't get the chance of reaching years of maturity, they are always killed in the first spring of their youth.

Opening into the dining-room is a small drawing-room. This contains mostly family portraits. The most noticeable among them is the portrait of the late Princess Hohenlohe. She must have been very beautiful, and has a very English appearance. She was the last Della Torre.

There are two pictures here that I am convinced are by Morland. No one knew this before, so I am very proud at having made the discovery. Some other animal pictures are ascribed to a Venetian artist-Longhi-portraits of horses. They are extraordinary horses-very fat, and they appear to have been taught to beg, as they are almost all standing up on their hind legs. I am told this is a playful habit that Spanish steeds had.

You go up another flight of stairs and arrive at the door of the gallery. This is a long passage, especially designed for ghosts to walk in-not the sort of place one would care to be left alone in after dark. There are some very fine pictures of the Venetian and Dutch schools here. One of the best is the "Entrance of the Dogaressa Morosina Morosini into Venice," by Tintoretto-all the figures are said to be portraits. At the further end of the gallery is the great banqueting hall. There is a portrait here by Van Dyck of one Matthew Hofer, a former owner of Duino. An old chronicle calls him "a tempestuous and arrogant youth, who had always his hand on his sword, and whose whole life was a drama of blood." In his portrait he has a proud and handsome face, with dark melancholy eyes.

The other full-length portraits represent some of the Lords of Milan-Della Torre-who after many years of unending civil wars were vanquished by the rival family, the Visconti, and obliged to fly from Milan. They took refuge near their kinsman, Pagano IV., then Patriarch of Aquileia, and soon gained wealth and great power in their adopted country. They were a turbulent and overbearing race, and many are the tales still told by the people of their violent or heroic deeds.

PORTRAIT OF MATTHEW HOFER (Van Dyck)

Notice the painting of the gentleman on the ferocious-looking horse, that appears determined to jump on you whichever part of the room you retire to. He was quite a character, and had a special talent for eloping with other people's wives. On one occasion he was condemned to be beheaded, and the soldiers of the Emperor were sent to Duino to arrest him. He treated them with great hospitality, and gave them a splendid banquet-probably in this very room. After dinner he retired to his own apartment, and as all the entrances to the castle were securely guarded, the unsuspicious soldiers thought nothing of it. Suddenly they heard a shot from the sea, rushed to find out what it was, and perceived their former prisoner on board a ship in full sail. Our friend fired the shot to let his would-be captors know they need not wait for him-a proof of his kindly and considerate nature! There was an underground passage leading from the library (the entrance may still be seen) to the shore. The soldiers did not know this, and their host had omitted to inform them of the fact.

THE BANQUETING HALL

It is said that he was retaken years afterwards and deprived of his head; but there is another account that he made a compact with the devil and escaped again, this time on a black horse, one of His Satanic Majesty's own particular breed, that carried him safely over the sea to Aquileia, where horse and rider disappeared, and were seen no more.

The old man on the gray steed who is so cruelly trampling down four poor individuals very scantily clothed, is Napoleon I. Della Torre. One story says he rode over his own children in this way, but it is a base calumny; the children are four cities which he conquered for Milan, allegorically represented in the picture.

In the library I examined the entrance to the famous underground passage. You see a trap-door cleverly concealed in the wooden floor, and on lifting it, a small staircase leads you down to a very diminutive room, built in the thickness of the massive outer wall. On your left is the passage. It is very small-in fact, you have to proceed on your hands and knees, and after a few yards you are stopped by a quantity of stones and earth.

The father of "our host" wished to have the old passage reopened, and set people to work, but it seems they were so frightened at finding a number of human bones mixed with the soil and rubbish, that it was impossible to persuade them to work on. They said it would be dangerous to clear it, as the castle would inevitably fall in consequence-a mere excuse, of course. I think the mysterious passage must descend through the terrace tower which rises against the middle of the side of the castle that faces the sea, and come out somewhere in the "Riviera," meeting the old staircase spoken of in the preceding chapter.

THE RIVIERA

I must say this passage interested me much more than all the many books of the library, but I noticed an enormous old "missal," most elaborately painted by hand on parchment, a very valuable work of the fifteenth century.

There is a charming little recess in the library, where there are some beautiful miniatures, one or two fine old pastels, and some splendid old china; this corner would be a paradise for an antiquary.

A RECESS IN THE LIBRARY

A portrait of "Martin the Giant," a big man clad in armour, looks down threateningly from one of the dark corners of the room. He was a great warrior and statesman in his native Lombardy, but finally went off to the Crusades, and after showing great prowess, is said to have been taken and skinned alive by the Saracens (1147).

The walls of the drawing-room, next to the library, are covered with pictures, mostly of religious subjects. I suppose I ought to expatiate on them, but the artistic side of my nature is exhausted, and I should probably admire the wrong ones.

What I can safely speak of is the view from the large terrace over the afore-mentioned tower, where we used to have breakfast. It was charming to sit there in the early morning and look out upon that grand expanse of boundless sea, with the little wavelets dancing in the sunshine; it was almost cool too at that time of the morning.

· · · · ·

Here the "energetic lady" remarks in an undertone that at this early hour she believes I was generally in bed, and that she did not remember having once seen me at breakfast on the terrace. Fortunately I can allow such remarks to pass unnoticed.

· · · · ·

There is a mysterious charm about all these old rooms, they are so quiet, so restful, with their stained floors, their black oak carving, the tapestried hangings, and the old furniture. There are no bright colours, everything is subdued; no glare, always a sombre half-light. One feels inclined to walk softly in them, and speak in whispers, so as not to disturb their restfulness. There is something almost sad about their silence; they belong to a time long ago, not to the present day, and they seem to be waiting-waiting for the years that have passed to come again.

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.

· · · · ·

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 C?sars, 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."

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.