There is a fine old palace in Gradisca that once belonged to the Della Torre. The whole of this part of the country seems to have belonged to them, and everywhere—in churches, on old houses, over doors—you see the tower with crossed lilies that was their coat of arms. In this particular house I was struck by a charming courtyard with graceful "loggia" and a flight of steps from both sides to the ground.
TOMB OF NICOLAO DELLA TORRE
We went to see two churches. The first contained nothing interesting, but the second is worth seeing. There is a tomb there erected to the memory of Nicolao Della Torre in a private burial-chapel. The monument is very large, with a recumbent figure of the gentleman lying in full armour. He must have been of unusual size, with a fine regular face and a long flowing beard, and is very much like the portraits of Martin the Giant. He, too, fought against the infidels, being General of the Imperial troops that protected the Hungarian frontier against the Turks. He was badly wounded in one of the battles, but his end was not so tragic as that of his ancestor, and he now lies peacefully in the little church of Gradisca, enjoying at last the strange old motto of his family—"Tranquillité."
The stuccoed ceiling of the chapel, which seems to be particularly fine, was pointed out to me, but somehow I had had too much of churches and monuments for one day, so I was not so appreciative as I suppose I ought to have been. In any case, I was again the victim of sundry abuse.
After all this sight-seeing it was a pleasure to wander quietly and aimlessly through the quaint little streets, meeting only an occasional donkey or dirty baby, who stared very much, whilst at the windows one would sometimes catch a glimpse of a pair of big black eyes following one curiously from behind a row of red carnations. We admired the old walls of the town, which was strongly fortified in ancient times—enormous black walls with battlements, and beneath them a sort of green lawn shadowed by numerous chestnut-trees, the fashionable promenade of the high life of Gradisca.
We drove back to Sagrado and had supper in the little inn. The "man with the wig" waited on us with a beaming face. I did not feel at all happy, for we had the most horrid wine it has ever been my lot to drink. It is the wine of the country, and said to be the pure juice of the grape (everything nasty seems to be "the pure juice of the grape"). One drinks it diluted with water, and it has a most extraordinary bitter taste. The ladies assured me that I should soon grow accustomed to it, and then I should never like any other wine as well. I had my own opinion on the subject, but I had to smile and look pleasant.
We drove home in the evening. I had foretold a thunderstorm all the afternoon, but had been laughed to scorn by everybody. My prophecies were correct, however, for we had hardly left Sagrado when the storm began. I never saw more vivid lightning—the whole sky was lighted up by it, and it was almost incessant. The weird effect was increased, too, by the fireflies—there must have been millions of them flitting hither and thither, like the lost souls of the departed. We had a great argument as to whether we should remain at Monfalcone till the storm had passed over. The ladies were in favour of waiting, the coachman and I were for going on, and the boy was neutral, being fast asleep. Our eloquence prevailed—we hurried on. It was a desperate race, but we had the satisfaction of beating the worst of the storm by some ten seconds.
After all, I did not think much of Sagrado and Gradisca, and I can only say I hope people will be as bored in reading this chapter as I have been in writing it.
