Part 10

We wandered joyously through the streets and squares of the old town this morning, for here one does not set forth to walk to a given point--one simply wanders at will. We generally cross the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele, with its heroic statue of Italy's soldier king, stroll along the Corso Vanucci, the main street of the town, and then go down steps, many steps, which descend into narrow winding streets and _viali_ with most alluring names, as Via Curiosa, Via Deliziosa, Via Bontempi, and the like. Angela says that the last sounds delightfully convivial and suggests no end of a good time; but it probably means nothing less prosaic than good weather.

After winding in and out of narrow streets and up and down steps, all exquisitely picturesque if somewhat fatiguing, we came out on the Piazza del Municipio and before a beautiful thirteenth-century fountain with three basins, which are richly decorated with scriptural and mythological figures. The many slender columns which support these basins give to the whole a charming lightness and grace. This lovely fountain of Fra Bevignate was without water for centuries until, in 1899, the new aqueduct, which comes directly from the springs of Nocera, was opened, whereupon it played gayly in the sunshine, as it does to-day. The Nocera water, for which, bottled, we paid a considerable price in Rome, is free as air on this favored hill-top.

Facing the fountain is the Cathedral of San Lorenzo. To the left of the doorway is a bronze statue of Pope Julian III., who restored some ancient privileges to the Perugians, and on the right is a handsome Gothic pulpit from which St. Bernardino once preached to the faithful in the square. Inside the cathedral we saw the beautiful tomb of Bishop Baglioni, a fine Deposition by Baroccio, and a miraculous picture of the Madonna delle Grazie by Manni.

San Lorenzo claims the distinction of being the burial-place of three popes, Innocent III., Urban IV., and Martin IV. Here, too, is the betrothal ring of the Virgin. This precious relic is preserved in a silver casket guarded by fifteen locks, the keys of which are entrusted to fifteen persons of distinction, and is only to be seen five times during the year. The mystery and exclusiveness with which this relic is guarded whetted Zelphine's curiosity, and she insisted that it was in a certain sense our right to see the precious ring, having been shown the hair of the Blessed Virgin in Rome. Angela said that as American travellers we had a right to see anything and everything, but, as the next date for the exhibition of the ring was the second Sunday in July, the real question at issue was, were we willing to stay in Perugia so long, and, even if the Perugians were disposed to make an earlier date for us, was it likely that the fifteen persons of distinction with their fifteen keys could be collected on short notice? From my own observations, I was inclined to doubt the existence of fifteen Perugians of distinction at any date. However, distinction is a descriptive quite as subject to variations as the clear or cloudy day of the scientific gentleman who arranges our weather for us in America, and some of the men whom we passed on the piazza this morning may be lineal descendants of the ancient lords of Perugia, and now in possession of the important keys.

The celebrated Sposalizio of Perugino--a unique conception of the Virgin's espousal--which should be here with the betrothal ring, has unfortunately been carried off to France; but there are still many more treasures in painting and sculpture in San Lorenzo than we could appreciate in one morning, among the latter a statue of Leo XIII., who was Archbishop of Perugia. Over across the piazza is the Episcopal Palace, where this Prince of the Church lived for many years, preparing himself by study and reflection for the great future in store for him. We passed from the church into the cloisters, which are ruinous, but charming, as are all the ruins here, with their bits of lovely sculpture and flowers growing in the "crannied walls" and on the little balconies above our heads.

Retracing our steps along the Via Bontempi, and losing ourselves several times, after the fashion of travellers who will not consent to have their pleasure interfered with by guides, we reached the quaint covered Via della Stalla and suddenly emerged upon a gay scene--the Piazza Garibaldi on a market-day. Here were flowers and fruits heaped upon wagons, and booths gay with colored prints, gorgeous kerchiefs, and endless lines of small stockings of all colors, which the Perugians doubtless buy even if the feet of their children are as guiltless of covering as those of the Venus and Adonis. The stockings are probably for Sundays and high holidays. Here above all were the peasants from the surrounding country, not wearing the elaborate, gayly colored costume of the Italian peasants of our childhood, but something more picturesque than the work-a-day costume that has disappointed us so much through Italy. The older women had brilliantly colored kerchiefs on their heads, while some of the younger women wore nothing upon theirs except their own glossy, luxuriant hair, which is always neatly and tastefully dressed.

We have often wondered why there are so many _old_ women in Italy. Is it because they live long in this favored clime, or, sadder thought, do the young grow old early under the heavy strain of bread-winning, where wages are low and the mouths to be filled numerous?

Angela, who is an enthusiastic shopper, suggested that we should stop and buy some of the native products, urging that a little shopping would be good for us all and relieve our minds from the strain of cathedrals, statues, and tombs. Indeed the fruit, flowers, and gay handkerchiefs displayed upon the booths were sufficiently alluring to detain us.

Most interesting were the color, movement, and chatter of the sunlit piazza against the gray background of the old Palazzo del Podestà, which is built on the ancient Etruscan wall. It is just such contrasts that make these old Italian towns so charming.

At one of the booths, presided over by a pretty young peasant girl with eyes of brown velvet, Angela found a gay red and yellow bandana which she insisted that the _contadina_ should try on. The effect was so charming that Zelphine took the girl's picture on the spot, to her evident delight. Nothing but a brush and colors, the latter well mixed with the atmospheric transparency of Perugia, could give you any idea of the lovely effect of the girl's soft, dark eyes and the peach-like bloom of her cheeks, both enhanced by the brilliant head-dress. Then the signorina must try on a kerchief. "Ecco! ecco!" Carefully selecting one of dark blue with a yellow border, with many exclamations and more gestures the deft peasant fingers removed Angela's hat, and adjusted the kerchief over her golden crescent of hair. I must confess that the bandana became Angela well enough to excuse the chorus of admiring expressions that arose from a circle of voluble crones gathered around us. "Bella donna! Bella signorina!" was heard on all sides. Some of the women pressed near Angela to kiss her hand, saying that she looked like the pictures of the Madonna over there in the cathedral. The child was a little frightened, and drew closer to me for protection. Zelphine cleverly diverted the attention of the group by taking Angela and the pretty young Rosa Maria across the piazza to the large door of the old Palazzo del Podestà, to take their photographs against this fine background. Nothing could have been more charming than the blonde and brunette heads and graceful girlish figures against the old palace gateway. After taking two or three pictures Zelphine thanked Rosa Maria, pressing a silver coin into her hand; upon which she, with charming ingenuousness, intimated that she would take it as a wedding-gift, and, beckoning to a handsome young peasant whom we had noticed standing over in the shadow of the statue of Giuseppe Garibaldi, she presented him to us with smiles, blushes, and courtesies. Then, as we gathered from the few words that we could understand and by the pair standing hand in hand before Zelphine, Umbrian etiquette demanded that she should take a photograph of the _fidanzati_ together, which congenial task Zelphine set about with alacrity before shyness should overcome the happy couple.

We all hope that the pictures may prove a success, as copies are to be sent to Rosa Maria and Battista, whose names we have in full, their address being the Central Post Office of Perugia, where they are always to be found on market-days.

The groom elect was so manly and gentle and the little bride so sweet and confiding that they both won our hearts. We left them with good wishes on our part and _molte, molte grazie_ on theirs. These expressions were in view of our small contributions toward a little household soon to be established over near Spello. Angela, in a sudden enthusiasm over this charming picture of young love, unfastened a pretty chain that she wears around her neck, and linked it about that of Rosa Maria. We shall long remember the lovers as we left them, standing hand in hand on the sunlit Piazza Garibaldi under the shadow of the ancient Gateway of Justice, and they, I am sure, will never forget the _forestieri_, above all the _bella signorina_. They will show their children the pictures and tell them they were taken on the old piazza; and, to be quite foreign in my prophecy, I am certain that they will name their first daughter Angela.

From this "charming bit of local color," as Zelphine catalogues our little adventure, we returned to Rosa Maria's booth, now presided over by her mother, and bought many other bits of local color in the form of kerchiefs--Angela more than any of us. As she succumbed to the temptation of each one, she excused herself by saying, "These people are so poor, Margaret!" or "That gay red one will make a fine bandana for old Susan!" or "This will cover the little table in my morning-room." As we are travelling with only dress-suit-cases, which are crowded with the bare necessities of life, I know not how we are to dispose of these new possessions, to which Zelphine has added a number of books about Perugia and Assisi. She is still lugging around the beloved Narcissus, from Pompeii, because she will trust him to no trunk.

After our delightfully vagrant forenoon and a substantial breakfast, for which we were quite ready, we decided to dedicate the afternoon to tombs. We had intended to visit the famous Etruscan tombs on our way to Assisi, driving thither after the conventional fashion of Perugian tourists, but, hearing from some of our countrymen who sit near us at the table d'hôte that there are two or three fairly good inns in Assisi, we have decided to go there by rail to-morrow, and thus have a Sunday in the good company of the blessed St. Francis.

Angela flatly refused to go on the afternoon expedition, saying that she had taken a full course on tombs in Rome and would have no more of them, so Zelphine and I drove alone to the ancient Etruscan Necropolis of Perugia, a drive of not over an hour from the Porta Romana. These tomb chambers of the Volumnii are most interesting, with their portrait figures in terra-cotta and carvings of sun-gods and dolphins, quite different from anything we have seen except in Orvieto, and, as Angela says, we have had experience in tombs. Zelphine and I were much impressed by the fact that these massive stone tombs of the third century B.C. should have been buried under the earth until the middle of the last century, when a peasant discovered them while ploughing. Another story is that the tombs were unearthed when the new road was being made, but Zelphine and I prefer the tale about the peasant ploughing. After all, it matters little which tradition we adopt; the wonder remains that these richly adorned sarcophagi still testify to the wealth and artistic ability of the Etruscans of more than twenty-five centuries ago.

So much history lies underground in this land of the past that we do well to tread softly lest we be, at any moment, walking over graves, pagan or Christian; and yet these devout Italians are far less jealous of the desecrating foot of the stranger than the "heathen Chinee."

When we returned from our drive we found Angela in the gayest of moods, having evidently enjoyed her respite from sight-seeing. She had met some American acquaintances, and had afternoon tea with Mrs. Allen and her fascinating children in the charming hall at the Brufani, where one may sit under the shade of palm-trees all the year round.

May 1st.

Our modest luggage is in the hall in charge of several porters and _facchini_, and while we wait for the cab that is to take us to the station, I jot down a few impressions before they are dimmed or quite swept away by the interests of our next stopping-place. One should really have two or three days in an absolutely dull and unattractive place, if such a spot is to be found in Italy, after each one of these entrancing cities and towns. Our minds are steeped with the beauties and associations of Perugia, and now Assisi will overwhelm us with its own charm.

Our way this morning was down the Via Marzia and the great stone steps of San Ercolano, by the church of the same name, which is built against the Etruscan wall. I wondered why Hercules should have been canonized; but we learned afterwards that this curious octagonal church was built in honor of Perugia's patron saint, the heroic Bishop Ercolano, who defended his city against the Goths thirteen hundred years ago. From the Church of San Ercolano we passed on to the Corso Cavour and the Church of San Domenico, which has the distinction of possessing the largest Gothic window in Italy. Here also is one of the most beautiful tombs we have seen anywhere, that of Pope Benedict XI. This fine monument, designed by Giovanni Pisano, represents Benedict asleep, guarded by two angels. Above the face and figure, which are lovely in their perfect repose, is a lofty canopy supported by graceful spiral columns. Bits of the fine mosaic with which this tomb was once enriched are to be found here and there, the greater part having been carried off by Napoleon's soldiers, who seem to have played much the same rôle in the destruction and sacking of Italian churches as that enacted by Cromwell's army in England. Indeed I never before realized the ruthless manner in which the French army ravaged this land of beauty and art; we hear so much less of its depredations than of those of the Roundheads.

Zelphine, who, for some unaccountable reason, includes the conqueror of Europe among her heroes, undertook to defend him, while Angela, who, perhaps with more justice, reckons Cromwell among hers, resented my mentioning the French and English soldiers in the same breath, which led to an animated discussion, in the midst of which we passed through the beautiful and richly decorated Porta San Pietro, and so on to the old Benedictine monastery, which is now used for a very practical purpose, that of an institute for experimental agriculture. Seeing large bunches of millet and other cereals over the fine old doors, we thought we had made a mistake, but some peasants at work on the road assured us that San Pietro was just beyond.

After passing through the agricultural school we crossed the courtyard, and entered the great doorway of beautiful carved stone-work, and so found ourselves in the basilica, which, with its flat, elaborately decorated ceiling, its high altar adorned with lapis lazuli, agate, and other colored stones, and its many columns of granite and marble, is wonderfully rich in depth and harmony of color. Around the sides of the church are a number of large paintings by Vassilacchi, two by Guido Reni, and some charming little paintings by Sassoferrato. But the crowning glory of the basilica, the great Perugino of the Assumption, has been carried off to France, although the five saints that once surrounded it still hover above the altar.

The exquisitely carved choir-stalls of San Pietro, attributed to Raphael, are the most beautiful that we have seen anywhere. The lovely traceries, the infinite variety of faces and figures, the quaint masks interspersed with carvings of beasts, birds, and flowers, could only have been designed by an artist of delicate fancy and marvellous genius.

The verger opened the great doors at the back of the church, thus disclosing a noble panorama of distant hills and fertile valleys.

On the opposite side of the road is the Giardino del Frontone, and beyond, the Porta San Costanzo, inside of which is a church of the same name, dedicated to the patron saint of all Perugian lovers. Here many happy couples are to be seen wending their way along the hillside park, to gain the blessing of the unlovely Byzantine Madonna who presides over the marble doorway of San Costanzo. Beyond the garden and the church lies the wide-spread Umbrian plain, girt about by the ample belt of the Apennines. Off to the north and west are Cortona and Siena, with Lago Trasimeno between, quite near, although shut off from us by a screen of green hills. To the south, following the windings of the Tiber, lies Rome, where our hearts still linger, and to the east, so near that we can see the twinkling of their lights at night, are Foligno and Spello and Assisi, which last, we are told, we shall end by loving more than any other spot in Italy.

XIII

A SUNDAY IN ASSISI

ASSISI, Saturday Evening, May 1st.

As we first beheld Assisi from the railroad station at sunset, the delicate mauve pink of her towers and walls glowed with a more rosy hue and it seemed as if the old town for a brief moment must have worn something of the grace of her long-vanished youth.

On one side of the station is the little village of the plain, Santa Maria degli Angeli, with the church from which it takes its name, so christened by St. Francis in memory of the angelic visions here granted him. On the other side of the road, across a sweep of green meadows, is the town, built upon terraces half-way up the hill, Mount Subasio towering beyond it to a height of over three thousand feet above the sea-level. The crowning glory of Assisi is the great basilica of San Francesco, with its remarkable substructure--a vast colonnaded monastery standing guard over the happy valley beneath.

Our approach was by winding roads bordered by hedges, with fields beyond green as England and bright as Italy alone, all abloom to-day with poppies and buttercups. Up and up the shining way climbed the shabby _vettura_ with its lean horse, until we seemed to be getting near the blue of the sky, so close does the arch of heaven lean to these hill towns of Italy.

We all felt that we had left the world of to-day far behind us when we drove through the ancient Porta San Francesco, so entirely does Assisi belong to the past. Here where everything is ancient one ceases to make comparisons, and it seemed no more remarkable to find a Temple of Minerva standing beside twelfth-century buildings, than that we three twentieth-century Americans should be driving about these old streets, hearing the _vetturino_ talk about St. Francis as if he had lived but yesterday.

You really must not expect an ordinary letter of to-day from this place, where we are so absolutely dominated by the twelfth century. Zelphine, who is in a state of rapture and quite lifted above the ordinary affairs of life, is probably writing a poem at this moment, having been incited thereto by the history of Assisi's celebrated poet, Propertius, which she has just read to us from a charming little book which she found in Perugia. The story runs thus: Propertius, who was a contemporary of Virgil and Horace, relinquished the congenial atmosphere of Rome and the friendly companionship of the author of the "Metamorphoses" for the love of his Umbrian birthplace, where the Muse had first visited him. Recognized in his own day as the leader of a new school of poetry, Propertius appreciated his own powers sufficiently to write of himself in connection with his native town: "Ancient Umbria gave thee birth, from a noted household. Do I mistake, or do I touch rightly the region of your home, where misty Mevania stands among the dews of the hill-girt plain, and the waters of the Umbrian lake grow warm the summer through, and where on the summit of mounting Asis rise the walls to which genius has added glory?" His own genius! And yet, to prove to us that he was not wanting in modesty, Propertius has placed this charming compliment in the mouth of a soothsayer. If this is all familiar to you, O most learned, it is so fresh to me that you must allow me to repeat it, because it reveals once more the truth of the Scriptures--that a prophet is not without honor save in his own country. Propertius would not have been forced to sing his own praises if his contemporaries had sung them in the right key.

The little inn at which we are stopping, with its bare, stone floors and whitewashed walls, is quite primitive enough to have suited St. Francis and his brothers. We are told that there is another and larger hotel, which is more modern in its appointments.

"The idea of caring for a modern hotel or anything modern in Assisi!" exclaimed Zelphine, walking with me toward the window of one of the rooms offered us.

A single glance out of that window decided us to stay. The Albergo Giotto is built on a cliff, and literally overhangs the valley. From our windows we look out upon green slopes billowing beneath us until they break away into the long reaches of the plain, where the dome of St. Mary of the Angels stands out against the sky.

HOTEL GIOTTO, ASSISI, Sunday, May 2d.

A May-day in Assisi!--could anything be more delightful?

Last night, after dinner, or supper, or whatever the nondescript meal is called which was served to us in the chilly _salle à manger_, a little lady, unmistakably American and evidently fresh from a study of the hotel register, joined us, and asked Zelphine if she were Miss Vernon, and did she happen to know Dr. Vernon of New York? Zelphine, who adores her brother, Dr. Vernon, and is immensely proud of him, was quite ready to fall upon the little lady's neck when she found that she was one of his admiring patients, and we all adopted her at once, she, Miss Horner by name, being alone and glad to be adopted, as lonely women usually are in remote places.

I spoke to a bright-faced girl who sat on my right at table, and after some conversation learned that she had come from an old Pennsylvania town in which we have many friends and acquaintances. Miss Morris is also alone, and we have adopted her. Angela says that our party is growing too rapidly, and that we really must stop attaching waifs and strays, even if their precious lives have been saved by our brothers, and their social status established by the most irreproachable visiting-lists. Angela may be right; but after all we found it so cheering to gather around the table in the reading-room and talk over friends at home that we quite forgot that we had intended to spend this evening in storing our minds with the history and traditions of Assisi.

As I was drifting away into dreamland to the sound of some sweet, distant bells (the bells are always ringing in Assisi), Zelphine called in to me from her room, "Do you think there is a spot on the habitable globe where one would not be likely to meet some person who had known some one who had met a friend of our friends?" With this puzzle floating through my mind, rather hazily I confess, I fell asleep, soothed by a pleasant sense of the smallness of the world and the friendliness of the inhabitants thereof.