Wanderings through unknown Austria

by Randolph Llewellyn Hodgson

It was not quite so bad as all that. I did not go out in the rain, and at present I am neither deaf nor blind. I cannot be sure about the madness. It was very wet, though, but it cleared up before the evening.

A really wet day may be dreary, but still it is rather pleasant to have one sometimes. The rain affords such a grand excuse to be idle and do nothing. One can lounge about, and smoke, and read the newspapers or a novel all day, and justly feel it is quite impossible to be energetic. I am often told that my besetting sin is laziness. I am not sure whether it is true, but all I can say is, it is very pleasant to spend a lazy day occasionally. One must have piles of work waiting to be done, or it loses its charm. If there is really nothing to do, one is bored, and wants something to fill up the time.

On this particular day, however, I was not lazy—far from it. We explored the castle thoroughly from dungeon to attic, with a view to discovering new beauties for "the book."

I must say that occasionally I almost repent of my rashness in promising to write this book; my collaborator is so intensely business-like, and keeps me at it from early morn till dewy eve. I never have a moment's rest. It somewhat detracts too from the pleasure of going anywhere to know that you have to write an account of everything you see afterwards.

THE GROTTO ROOM

We began with the "grotto room." This is a summer drawing-room that we usually sit in. It is a big room, with a tiled floor and an arched roof; the latter and the walls are of cement, thickly studded with little bits of stalactite, that glisten and gleam when the place is lighted up, and give a fairy-like appearance to it. Birds of paradise and sea-gulls, suspended by invisible wires, swing from the vaulted roof and appear to be hovering about the room. Enormous shells, quaint Venetian lamps and mirrors, funny old china, are scattered all about. There is a curious old sedan chair standing in one corner, and near it are two pianos. I never made out the mystery of those two pianos. I believe they are near relations, and that they would be heart- (or string-) broken if they were to be separated. There is a massive marble mantelpiece at the farther end, surmounted by two shields, one bearing the Hohenlohe leopards, and the other the tower and crossed lilies of the Della Torre. Altogether it is a quaint room, without any particular order or style, but very comfortable, and it has one great advantage in being cool. I have spent many a weary hour here, labouring over these sketches, or gazing out through the coloured glass at the sea and the glorious sunsets.

The sunsets at Duino are magnificent—the whole western sky is one flaming blaze of colour, of every tint, from the deepest crimson to the faintest daffodil. The most beautiful moment is, I think, when the sun has sunk to rest behind the distant Alps, that stand out pearly-gray against the rose-coloured sky, and the sea in the foreground glows like a huge bowl of melted gold.

We went next to see the dungeons. They are by no means cheerful—two little damp and musty rooms, destitute of furniture, with grated windows and enormously thick walls—you see their immense thickness when you enter. The last man who was confined here (it was not so very long ago) hung himself. He is now said to haunt them. Poor fellow! one cannot wonder that he should have availed himself of the only possible way of escape open to him.

We then penetrated a little room where the family archives are kept. It has a massive iron door, and shelves full of dusty, musty old parchments. We unearthed a grand treasure here—an old manuscript diary of a tour through France and Italy at the beginning of this century, written by an Englishman of the name of Cockburn. Fired by this discovery we rushed up the tower stairs to another little room, formerly used as a study by an old priest who had once belonged to the household. We found it just as he had left it: the chair, the pens, the old ink-bottle, and he, poor old man, dead years ago! He wrote a book in Italian about Duino and the neighbourhood. It has been very useful to us in some respects, though it is very confused.