[CHAPTER IV.]
A QUIET TIME AT TRIESTE.
On our return from India, Richard produced "Sind Revisited" (2 vols., 1877) and "Etruscan Bologna" (1 vol.), which had been some time in preparation, but had not found a publisher.
After this, Richard and I pursued a quiet, literary life, and I studied very hard. We began to translate Ariosto. It was summer, so we swam a great deal, and then we went up to the village inn at Opçina, of which I have already spoken. And we took a great interest in the Slav school-children—about two hundred and twenty boys and girls. We used to amuse ourselves with going in the evening to look at a Sagra (the peasants' dances at one or other of the villages in the Karso), where they dance, and sing, and drink, and play games. On the 1st of August I had a great sorrow, in which Richard participated. I had taken out to Syria a couple of Yarborough fox-terriers. "Nip" was one of their offspring (one of five, born on the 24th of June, 1871, in Syria). She accompanied me to England, and then through France, Italy, Germany, to Trieste; then again all over Italy and Germany, back to England, to Arabia, India, and Egypt. In India (in April, 1876) she suddenly lost her eyesight from the heat. We nursed her for over three months, and tried everything. She had four doctors, but she died on the 1st of August, 1876, and is buried in Mr. Brock's garden, Campagna Hill, viâ St. Vito, Trieste. She had to be chloroformed, as she was in such pain, and there was no hope for her. I put up a little tombstone to her memory, much to the rage of the peasants, who were also very angry at her little sealskin coat in winter, and her cradle to sleep in; they considering that I treated her like a Christian, which was true. The cradle had its mattress and pillow, sheets, blankets, and curtain; and God help anybody who ventured to touch that cradle, except to make it, like our beds, with the utmost respect.
During this month, while we were out swimming, there was a cry of "Shark!" We swam for our lives to the baths; but one young man had been drawn down by his foot, and either the shark was a small one, or the cries frightened it, and the swimmer was strong, for he managed to save himself with a mangled foot. But some time before there had been a man sitting, dangling his naked legs in the water at the edge of a boat lashed to the quay, close to the hotel windows, and a shark had wriggled itself up, and bit one leg off by the thigh. The poor fellow died in a couple of hours from the fright and loss of blood, so there is a "shark scare" every year, and swimming is not an unmitigated joy.
We also had a delightful habit of not dining, but all our intimates would appoint to meet at one café or another, where we supped out in the open air, at separate little tables—say each party of fifteen its own table—where, the garden being illuminated, we ordered the fare of the country, and the country wine, and smoked cigarettes. We would meet about nine, stay till eleven or twelve, and disperse to our homes. It was so sociable. There is nothing of this kind in England. There was, about a mile and a half from Trieste, a village on the shore, called San Bartolo, where we used to do the same thing on a larger scale. We would be thirty or forty, have a fiddle and a harp, and dance afterwards in the open by moonlight. About this time we had the great pleasure of a visit from Mrs. (now Lady) Kirby Green, and her sister; also Mr. Hamilton Aïdé, Mr. Matthews, our late Home Secretary, Miss Yule, so famous for military tactics; also the Stillmans. Richard was lucky enough to get an occasional trip with Baron Pino, our delightful Governor, on the Pelagosa, the Government yacht.
An amusing little incident happened in connection with my learning Italian. I wanted very much to go through the Italian classics with a professor. My professor was a Tuscan, a gentleman, a Christian, and a celebrated Dantesque scholar, but a priest who had unhappily fallen away from his vocation. He gained great fame and applause amongst litterati for his declamations of Dante. I used to read beforehand the canto for the night, in Bohn's English translation; then he would declaim it to me in Italian, acting it unconsciously all the while; then I used to read it aloud in Italian, to catch his pronunciation, and as I read he stopped me and explained every shade of Dante's thoughts and meaning. When he came to that part where the souls in hell are crying out and scratching themselves, he also kept crying out and scratching himself. It was evening, as he had only that time to spare. Richard had gone to bed, and I had left the door open between us. All of a sudden he called out loudly, "What the devil is that noise—what is the matter?" "Oh," I said in English, "it is only Rossi acting the damned souls in hell for me." Peals of laughter came from the bed. The master naturally asked what was the matter, and he was so shy after that, that it spoilt my lessons. I could never get him to act any more, as he had been doing it quite unconsciously.[1] Richard was also very fond of a good opera, and we often went if there was a new piece.
On the 15th of October, 1876, we had a delightful excursion to Salvore to see the new excavations and castellieri; Baron and Baroness Pino made a party in the Government yacht, and gave us a charming breakfast. Coming back, instead of getting in in early afternoon, we got lost in a fog, and did not get back till eleven o'clock, when we found ourselves grating against the lighthouse. I have a remembrance of that day in the shape of a marble paper-weight with its little history engraved on it, given to me by the excavator, Cav. Richetti, civil engineer.