Chapter V: Part 5

We would gladly spend another day in Orvieto, in order to view the cathedral's matchless façade once more by morning light, and at noon, and again at sunset, and so allow its beauty to print itself upon our minds, and also to study the Signorelli frescoes in the interior, the Fate of the Wicked and the Saints in Heaven, which, with their muscular devils and saints, are strangely suggestive of Michael Angelo.

"Why do you not stop another day?" I hear you ask. Because if we tarry here longer, we shall be obliged to cut off a day in Perugia or Assisi or some ancient city quite as interesting as Orvieto, and Katharine Clarke is writing to us urging us to get to Florence early in May, if we wish to see the City of Flowers in the exquisite freshness of its spring beauty. The roses on the hillside garden near San Miniato are budding and blowing, and she tells us that we must be there soon if we would see them in their prime. No matter how charming a spot we may be in, there is always some other delightful place beckoning us on and on!

We quite agree with the traveller, whose name I forget, but whose advice is, "Whatever towns you neglect between Rome and Florence, do not fail to see Orvieto." And yet we are filled with regret because we must pass by so many of the interesting towns of this region, Terni with its rushing waters, "rapid as the light," Bolsena on its lovely lake, and Orte. Of this latter town we saw little from the window of the railway carriage, except a line of hungry tourists struggling to reach the buffet during the short stop at the station, a scene so suggestive of our own land of rapid transit and hurried luncheons that, for a moment, we almost felt that we were travelling in America.

XII

AN UMBRIAN IDYL

PERUGIA, April 28th.

The journey from Orvieto to Perugia is a short one, and we had our first sight of this fine old town in the brilliancy of a spring afternoon. We were fortunate in finding a cab at the station, and a _vetturino_ who welcomed us to his coach with great cordiality, we being the only arrivals by the afternoon train. Having with many ejaculations disposed of us and our various pieces of hand-luggage, large and small, he hospitably invited a comely peasant woman to a seat by his side. Her luxuriant black hair was fashionably dressed and guiltless of hat or kerchief; her black dress was coarse but tidy, while a pair of kid gloves, which had evidently seen service, gave a touch of elegance to the simple costume. A large kerchief, which is the favorite shopping receptacle, marketing bag, and portmanteau of the Italian peasant--this one as full as the proverbial horn of plenty--occupied one gloved hand, while with the other she gesticulated and accentuated her animated conversation, to the evident interest and amusement of her host. With their heads close together, deep in conversation, one talking, the other listening and occasionally interjecting a comment, we wondered whether the pair were lovers or only _bons camarades_ discussing the last bit of home news or village gossip, for village gossip is said to flourish under the shadow of the shrine of St. Francis, just as here the cheerful and apparently honest _vetturino_ will cheat you out of a franc as cleverly as a cabby of Naples or any other Sodom of the plain.

A cheerful town Perugia seemed to us, as we drove up the long hill and saw the old fortress, with its weed-grown ramparts and many towers, basking in the April sunshine. Like all of these hill towns Perugia is gray, and yet with a difference: a dash of chrome in its stones gives a warmer tone to the old palaces and walls, which seem to be all of a piece with the rock from which they were hewn. This rock forms the foundation, and was once the strength, of this "empress of hillside Italian cities."

We had no hotel addresses for Perugia except the Brufani, and, as we often find it more enlightening to our minds as well as more advantageous to our purses to stop in small hotels or pensions, we asked the driver if he knew of a good stopping-place. He seemed to understand, shook his head as if in deep thought, then consulted his companion; upon which they both looked us all over as if taking our measure, and, evidently being agreed as to our status, he exclaimed, reassuringly, "_Ecco, ecco_, we know the _albergo_ that will suit the _società_!" Whipping his horse as we drew near the Porta Nuova, he rattled through the gate, across the wide piazza, and down a long hill, to a house on a narrow street, where we are comfortably lodged.

This pleasant little pension is kept by an English lady, with whom we have already established relations, as some of our friends stopped here last year, and we are all now basking in the genial atmosphere of good will created by them.

April 29th.

This morning we found our way to the little Piazza delle Prome, on the verge of the cliff, below which is a sheer fall of one hundred feet to the ancient city wall of the Etruscans. Below us, as we stood in the garden of the Prefettura, were the remains of Etruscan buildings, above them massive blocks laid by the Romans, and spread before us was the wide valley bordered by near and distant mountains. This marvellous view from the Prefettura is second to none that we have seen, always excepting the vast sweep of the green and fertile plain at Grenada as we saw it from the heights of the Alhambra.

We afterwards wandered from street to street, across piazzas and under arches, until we found ourselves in the Via Vecchia. Well named indeed is this ancient street, for the Via Vecchia has been trodden by the foot of man for three thousand years! This street, with its high buildings of heavy Roman workmanship, more like fortresses than dwelling-houses, leads to the great Arch of Augustus. The arch, constructed of solid blocks of travertine and sustained by huge buttresses, is adorned by a graceful pavilion and loggia, a noble monument to the Roman Emperor who rebuilt Perugia and inscribed upon its gateway "Augusta Perusia."

After we had revelled for a couple of hours in the delight of strolling about in the open, we retraced our steps to the Via Vanucci, and entered the Collegio del Cambio, in whose audience-chamber are many Perugino frescoes, all lovely save a horribly realistic Beheading of John the Baptist, from which we were glad to turn to a Nativity and a Transfiguration and to the noble Sibyls and Prophets. The head of Daniel is said to be a portrait of Perugino's greater pupil, Raphael. Even if Perugino was lacking in breadth and sometimes in grace, there is a depth and delicacy of color in his work and so much sweetness and tenderness in the faces of the women and children that, as we stood before these charming groups, we could well believe that this Umbrian artist was, as his chronicler said, "possessed of a stainless purity of soul," and that Raphael owed much to his early master.

Perugino was named after the town, not of his birth, but of his fame; _mais, de grace_, monsieur, I do not intend to give you a disquisition upon the Umbrian school of painting, of which there are many notable examples in the churches here and in the Pinacoteca. This last, let me explain, is the name, unpronounceable by English-speaking people, which is given to the picture-galleries in some of these old towns. There are really treasures of art in Perugia, with whose beauties I might fill many letters, interesting paintings by Manni, by Bonfigli, the great forerunner of Perugino, by Pinturicchio, his associate, and by many of his pupils; and in the Sala del Fra Angelico are some of the exquisite works of the idealist whose name it bears.

The Pinacoteca Vanucci is on the third floor of the Palazzo del Municipio. The doorway of this palace, with its mediæval lions and griffins--the emblem of Perugia--in exquisite Gothic carving all dominated by three saints, presents a much more harmonious whole than this confused grouping would lead one to suppose.

This afternoon we drove to Lake Thrasymene, passing the tower of San Manno, with its Etruscan inscription, and castles and battle-grounds of long ago, until we reached that most ancient one on the shores of the beautiful lake where Hannibal and Flaminius fought until the little stream ran red with blood, and so ever after has been named "Sanguinetto." A grewsome association this, with a fair stream of running water, and yet how much more euphonious, especially with the soft Italian lingering over syllables, than our American equivalent "Bloody Run!"

April 30th.

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.

This morning we banished from our minds all irrelevant present-century associations, and have spent our Sunday in the goodly company of the early Franciscans. An enthusiastic party of five, for even Angela has succumbed to the influences of Assisi, we made our way to the Church of San Francesco, which we approached across a wide piazza framed on both sides by long arcades. Through the great Gothic portal, with its rich carvings, we passed into the twilight beauty of the lower church, for even on a bright May morning the light in this vast basilica is "dim and religious." The arches of the nave and chapel are richly decorated, as you will see from the pictures that I send you; but it was not until we reached the south end of the eastern transept that we realized the full beauty of these decorations, whose color glowed like jewels in the light that reached them from three windows in the far apse. Over the vaulting above the high altar are the wonderful frescoes of Giotto. In one of the most beautiful of these paintings the artist has represented the marriage of Francis with Lady Poverty. The cold, pale bride, her white robe torn by the acacia thorns around her, draws away from her lover as if to warn him of the trials and hardships that are in store for him who links his life with hers. She, who, as Dante says,

"slighted and obscure,
Thousand and hundred years and more remain'd
Without a single suitor, till he came,"

is now crowned with love and honor by the adoring Francis. Dante's face appears among the many representative and mythological spectators who are gathered around the altar, where Christ himself gives the hand of the saint to the Lady Poverty, while the angels above rejoice over the holy marriage. A wonderful conception is this, rich in color and in devotional feeling, worthy of the hand and mind of the realistic and imaginative Giotto.

After studying the four symbolic compositions above the high altar we turned to Cimabue's work in the western transept, of which in many places only the lovely lines remain, as much of the color has faded out. If only something could be done to save the noble, sincere work of those who are now recognized as early masters and regenerators of art! The colors are fading so fast from the walls of San Francesco that very soon these valuable frescoes will be lost to the world.

As we turned to enter the sacristy, from which a stairway leads to the upper church, Miss Morris called our attention to a very interesting fresco of the Madonna and Child near the door of the sacristy. In this charming little painting the Madonna, instead of gazing upon the Child with adoring love or placid content, as in so many pictures, looks into his uplifted face with a wondering, questioning look in her eyes. Miss Morris, who is not only an artist of some merit but an investigator of no mean order, stood before the painting and looked her questions, upon which our guide explained, partly in English and more in Italian, that in this picture, by Lorenzetti, the Bambino is represented as speaking for the first time. The figures are a bit stiff and wooden, but the face of St. Francis, on the left, is full of devotional feeling, and there is something indescribably touching in the attitude of the Child as he turns lovingly and confidingly toward his mother, with words upon his baby lips that all Christendom would gladly hear. We missed Miss Morris an hour later, when we were crossing the piazza, and found that she had returned to the little fresco, drawn to it by an irresistible fascination.

From a narrow winding stairway we stepped into the lofty, spacious upper church, lighted by large, three-storied Gothic windows which flood the interior with sunshine. Here in twenty-eight great frescoes, executed by the pupils of Giotto, more or less faded and in some places badly restored, we followed the life of St. Francis from the early days when he is represented as giving his cloak to a beggar to his final parting with his brothers.

When we at last emerged from the upper church and made our way down the outside stairway to the piazza, the scene which met our eyes seemed strangely modern and bizarre to us whose minds were filled with thoughts of St. Francis and his holy life. All along the side of the piazza were long tables filled with relics, rosaries, and the ubiquitous postal-card, which represents everything, real or imaginable, that has been seen or could be seen in Assisi. Old women and little girls were spreading out their wares under the very shadow of the sanctuary, and we, noticing the pinched, careworn faces of the women and the poor, scanty clothing of the pretty little girls who helped them, could not grudge them the limited revenue that comes to them from their Sunday sales. The little money that reaches these Assisian peasants is chiefly from tourists, and from a lace-making industry that has recently been established here. Miss Morris says that these old women were intoxicated with delight over the brilliancy of their financial prospects when they were told that they could make ten cents a day by lacework, if they plied their needles and shuttles industriously. Does not everything in life depend upon the point of view?

When we finally turned from the piazza, we accepted the eagerly offered guidance of a lad of fourteen or fifteen, who led us through steep, narrow streets and under heavy stone arches to the Chiesa Nuova. Within the walls of this so-called new church is the house of the once prosperous cloth-merchant Pietro Bernardone, the home in which St. Francis spent his early years. A peasant woman unlocked a heavy wooden door and showed us with reverent pride the stable in which St. Francis was born, and our young guide spelled out with care the inscription upon one side of the church wall which records that here the Madonna Pica, the mother of Francis, had a vision of the future greatness of her long-desired son. The sacristan opened the door of a cell in the wall where Francis was confined by his father in the hope of disenchanting his son with his chosen bride, the Lady Poverty, and perhaps, as Angela suggested, to punish him for having taken good cloth from the paternal storehouse and given it to the Church. Zelphine was shocked at the idea of any one thinking that St. Francis could ever have done anything wrong; but as the gift of cloth figures quite prominently in the narrative and involves a nice question in ethics, we discussed the question, with some warmth, on our way to the Church of Santa Chiara, which is at the eastern end of the town.

This church, handsome as it is, with its pink and white stone, vast flying buttresses, and beautiful rose-window, interested us far less than Santa Chiara's convent, the San Damiano, which we visited later in the morning. We all regretted that we had gone down into the crypt at Santa Chiara to see the tomb of the founder of the Poor Clares and the friend of St. Francis. We would so much rather think of the gentle abbess at San Damiano than lying under a glass case in the dark crypt, the once beautiful face, which is quite clearly outlined against her veil, darkened by time and no longer beautiful. We turned hastily from the crypt, and were glad to be again in the open air and under the blue sky wending our way to Clare's hillside convent, which is only second in interest to the basilica of San Francesco.

It was after Clare, the daughter of Count Favorino Scifi, had listened to the preaching of St. Francis, and decided to devote her life to works of love and mercy, that he prepared the San Damiano as a retreat for her and other noble ladies who desired to accompany her. From the hour when the high-born maiden, Clare Scifi, yielded to the burning eloquence of Francis Bernardone, to the day of her death, her story is surrounded by all the charm of mediæval romance. The door of the Palazzo Scifi is still shown through which Clare escaped at night and made her way to the Portiuncula, where, in the presence of her aunt Bianca Guelfucci and several companions, she took upon herself the vows of poverty and obedience. The picture of the beautiful girl kneeling before the altar in the dim light of the Portiuncula, while the golden glory of her fair hair is shorn from her head, is one that has captivated the artist as it does the traveller. Every part of the Convent of San Damiano is associated with the lovely young abbess. Standing in the tiny terrace garden, with its few straggling wallflowers, we imagined Clare taking the air in the bloom of the lilies, surrounded by her nuns. Here is the cell where she lay ill, when tidings reached the quiet convent that a detachment of Saracen troops was advancing toward Assisi. The sisters gathered around the abbess like so many frightened doves; the bold invaders were already scaling the walls, when Clare, who was endowed with the high courage of her race, appeared at an upper window, holding aloft the chalice containing the Blessed Sacrament, which she was allowed to keep in a little chapel near her cell. At the sight of the holy and beautiful vision, so runs the legend, the soldiers upon the walls dropped to the ground and fled across the plain. As we saw the little convent, peaceful and bathed in the bright sunshine of May, it was difficult to imagine the confusion and terror that reigned there seven hundred years ago.

Still under the spell of Francis and Clare, whose story seems to be on the lips of all Assisi, young and old, we spent the long spring afternoon in the basilica of St. Mary of the Angels. The brother who showed us about the church, a namesake of Assisi's saint, spoke fairly good English, of which he was as proud as a Franciscan could venture to be, and took pleasure in relating to us some quaint and homely tales of the early days of the order. More especially did the good brother delight in speaking of the love of his Father Francis for the wild creatures of the wood, which instinctively turned to him for protection. One day a leveret hid itself in the folds of his gown, and upon another a timid hare sought shelter in his breast, still returning into the father's bosom, he said, "as if it had some hidden sense of the pitifulness of his heart."

When Angela spoke of the story that we had just been reading of Brother Juniper and the chickens, the brother laughed heartily, and said: "Chickens is goot; but Brother Juniper spoiled his by cooking the two weeks' portion of chickens in one day, and with the feathers on, to save much time for prayer; but it was not goot, and the brothers was angry."

Do you remember the story, Allan?--how Brother Juniper set the stew upon the table, "crying up his wares to find a customer for his unsavory dish, when," as the chronicler quaintly added, "there was not a pig in all the land of Rome so famished as to have eaten it."

"But he was goot," said our guide, "Brother Juniper was goot, and the guardian forgive him, and he was goot when he cut off the pig's foot and cooked it for to make the sick man well, and the herdsman forgive him this time and brought the maimed pig all killed and roasted for the brothers at St. Mary of the Little Portion to eat of it."

"This must have been the occasion," said Miss Morris, "when St. Francis exclaimed, 'Would to God, my brothers, that I had a whole forest of such Junipers!'"

"Yes, yes," said the brother, "roast pig is goot," leading us, as he talked, from the modern pictures that adorn the many chapels of this large church to the most interesting object within its walls, the Portiuncula. Here, surrounded by much that is too modern to be in harmony with the old, is the simple little Portiuncula, within whose walls many pilgrims, Protestant and Catholic, kneel feeling that this is a holy spot, for here were born the high purposes and noble aspirations that led to a great movement for purer religion in the Christian world. Near the Portiuncula, under the same roof, is the rude hut in which St. Francis spent his last days, and here, opening out from the cloisters, is the little rose-garden which witnessed his earlier struggles with the powers of darkness. The rose-bushes are still free from thorns, a miracle, the good brother tells us, and spotted with blood. The green leaves _are_ covered with brown spots, the stems are thornless. We look at them as we listen to the earnest words of our guide; the spell is still upon us, we offer no word of dissent; for whether the thornless rose-tree is natural or miraculous, whether the spots on the leaves are from blood or rust, the truth remains that this little garden witnessed the struggle of a human soul, and from its soil there arose something more wonderful than the greatest miracle over material forces ever recorded--a soul born from clouds and darkness into life and light eternal.

An overwhelming sense of Italy, of what it means to be in this old hill town, with its remains of Etruscan occupation and pagan Roman and Christian Roman life, has possessed my mind to-day. You will never quite understand what Mr. Emerson means by the oversoul until you stroll through Italian highways and by-ways, knowing that what you tread upon is only common earth and stone, well worn by many feet, and yet among the many feet there were some whose footsteps seem to have turned the common earth ways into paths that lead to the stars. But why should I try to explain that which is unexplainable, and to you, who have read more books about Italy than I shall ever read, and yet, here I triumph over you, no books, no, nor even letters of mine, can make you understand the compelling charm of this

"Woman-country, wooed not wed,
Loved all the more by earth's male lands."

Some day you must come here, Allan, and see and feel it all, while I, off in some prosaic spot, will envy you the penetrating joy of first impressions, the grace of a day that can never quite come back again.

The long twilight had deepened, the shadows of the hills had lengthened upon the wide-spread plain, when we turned from the church and the little town to retrace our steps along the hillside road. Upon the stillness of the evening air, seldom disturbed except by the ringing of church-bells, there broke forth a sound like a fog-horn, and a large red object suddenly appeared upon the crest of the hill. There followed a whizz and a whirr, a rush through the air, and a flutter of blue and white veils, as a great automobile sped past us along the white windings of the road.

"Is there any spot too sacred for the intrusion of an automobile?" asked Zelphine.

"No," exclaimed Miss Horner, "not even the tomb of St. Francis!"

"And yet," said Angela, her eyes wistfully following the brilliant auto car and its gay company, "I should like to be in it, this moment, speeding along these perfect roads."

"Of course," said Miss Morris, "everything depends upon the point of view, and the only one from which an automobile is entirely unobjectionable is when you are in it, with all its machinery in perfect order."

HOTEL GIOTTO, ASSISI, May 4th.

You will be surprised to learn that we are still in Assisi. Yesterday afternoon, on our way to the station with our adopted companions, we spent an hour at St. Mary of the Angels to take a last look at the Portiuncula, the rose-garden, and Della Robbia's fine terra-cotta, and then repaired to a little tea-house near by for a parting love-feast, as we were all about to start for different places. Miss Morris was on her way to Perugia, Miss Horner was bound for Florence, and we three for Siena. In the midst of an exchange of cards, addresses, and quite sincere hopes of meeting again, Bertha Linn and Mrs. Robins surprised us by walking in, having driven over from Perugia.

You will laugh at me, I am sure, when I tell you that those two women persuaded us, three in number, with our luggage at the station, to go back with them to Assisi and stay over another day. In justice to our steadfastness of purpose I must tell you that we only yielded when we learned, what the _padrone_ had not been clever enough to tell us, that on the following day the feast of the Holy Cross was to be celebrated, and the great basilica lighted with scores of wax candles.

We are truly glad that we yielded to Bertha's persuasions. Consistency in adhering to a schedule is not always a jewel in one's crown, especially when one is rewarded by such a view of the frescoes in San Francesco as can only be had by the light of many long candles and tapers.

It is just such incidents by the way, such turning back and retracing of steps at one's pleasure, that make for the happiness of the freeborn American traveller who carries her luggage with her and is not dominated by trunks--I say _her_ instead of _him_, because most of the travellers we meet are women; and, as if to give weight to my reasoning, Bertha adds, "In a land where one reckons time by hundreds of years, what difference does one day more or less make?"

"Especially," said Angela, "if you are not hampered by a hard and fast schedule, or a conscience about disappointing our landlady at the Pension Riccoli in Florence."

"She will not be disappointed," said Mrs. Robins, oracularly, and Mrs. Robins, having travelled much, knows the ways of Italian landladies.

XIV

THE CITY OF FLOWERS

LUNG' ARNO DELLE GRAZIE,
FLORENCE, May 6th.

Do you realize that your letter in answer to mine of March 18th from Rome was not quite within the pact? I found it awaiting me at Siena, with a number of others. I thought my explanation quite clear and eminently sane, but you seem to have strangely perverted my meaning; then you revert to an earlier letter from La Cava, and are pleased to imagine that we are taking risks all the time and leading a reckless life generally. I shall really hesitate to tell you again of any of our adventures such as that drive home from Pæstum, which I merely related as an amusing incident. There is no danger of brigands in these days and we did not "need a protector," especially as kind Providence looked after us. That drunken driver would not have surrendered his reins to you or to any one except the _padrone_; and then "all's well that ends well," and we returned from our excursion with nothing worse than a grievance.