lower
slopes covered with feathery trees tinged orange by the autumn
chills, their higher reaches bare and bleak and flecked with snow.
Then the sky narrowed to a ribbon of blue, as the road was caught
between sheer rock faces scored with tracks of ancient streams.
Sometimes the sky vanished altogether, as the road was swallowed up
in a mountain cavern, while overhead there came a deafening roar of
snow crashing down the cliff side At last they reached the summit of
the Simplon Pass, where Julian looked along a vast valley threaded by
a foaming stream, to a row of lofty peaks as white and pure as a
glimpse of Heaven.
Then
came the descent, zigzagging among stark cliffs and dizzying
waterfalls. The postillion had to dismount frequently to slip a skid
pan under the rear wheels, in order to keep the carriage from
overtaking the horses. At Iselle they crossed the frontier into
Piedmont, the north westernmost Italian state. There they spent the
night at an inn that clung to the side of a precipice and was
perpetually shrouded in fogs from the chasm below. Next day, the
ground grew flatter, the landscape greener, and Julian felt a thrill
of anticipation, as the balmier air caressed his face with the
promise of Italy.
Dipper,
who never brooded long over ills he could not remedy, soon regained
his usual cheerfulness and made friends with postillions, ostlers,
and waiters all along the way. There were gaps in his Italian, but
what he could not put into words, he conveyed with gestures as fluid
and expressive as the Italians' own.
The
road hugged the western shore of Lake Maggiore, winding between
wooded hills and dazzling deep-blue water. At the southern tip of
the lake, the Lombard frontier loomed up before them, marked by flags
bearing black imperial eagles, and by the shimmer of sunlight on
Austrian bayonets. Customs officials demanded Julian's and Dipper's
passports, and were duly bribed to return them after a brief
examination. Thereafter, all along the road to Milan, shabby police
clerks kept popping out of wooden boxes, inspecting passports and
extorting tips. Of course, the customs officials were mainly an
annoyance to legitimate travellers: smugglers and Carbonari knew how
to deceive or avoid them.
The
land was flat and fertile now, crisscrossed by rows of mulberry
trees, their branches gaily festooned with vines. Julian made out a
speck of brilliant gold in the mists on the horizon: the statue of
the Madonnina, protectress of Milan, atop the highest spire of the
cathedral. Then the cathedral roof came into view: a triangular hulk
that slowly, wondrously crystallized into a myriad of slender white
spires. The carriage entered Milan by the Simplon Gate, where a half
finished arch of triumph stood amid rough sheds and moss-grown blocks
of marble. The arch had been begun by Napoleon, and the Austrians
could not bring themselves either to complete it or to tear it down.
It
gave Julian a peculiar sensation, seeing Milan again. He had not
been here in so long not since his first journey to Italy. Yet it
all seemed startlingly familiar: the spacious thoroughfares flanked
by rabbit warrens of back alleys, the proud palaces cheek by jowl
with wretched shacks, the balconies with their delicate iron railings
and blowing linen, the gaudy array of blue, green, and yellow awnings
on shops and cafes. But it was chiefly the people who gave the
streets their charm and animation. Well-to-do young men showed off
their prowess on English horses; brightly clad peasants hawked
everything from chestnuts to cane chairs; Jesuits strutted like
ravens in their elegant, austere black cassocks; Austrian soldiers
stood about smoking cigars and conversing in German or Hungarian.
But the women drew Julian's notice most. They were remarkably
handsome, their eyes large, dark, and expressive, their movements
impetuous yet graceful.
Julian
put up at an inn called the Bella Venezia in Piazza San Fedele,
convenient to the cathedral, the Scala opera
slopes covered with feathery trees tinged orange by the autumn
chills, their higher reaches bare and bleak and flecked with snow.
Then the sky narrowed to a ribbon of blue, as the road was caught
between sheer rock faces scored with tracks of ancient streams.
Sometimes the sky vanished altogether, as the road was swallowed up
in a mountain cavern, while overhead there came a deafening roar of
snow crashing down the cliff side At last they reached the summit of
the Simplon Pass, where Julian looked along a vast valley threaded by
a foaming stream, to a row of lofty peaks as white and pure as a
glimpse of Heaven.
Then
came the descent, zigzagging among stark cliffs and dizzying
waterfalls. The postillion had to dismount frequently to slip a skid
pan under the rear wheels, in order to keep the carriage from
overtaking the horses. At Iselle they crossed the frontier into
Piedmont, the north westernmost Italian state. There they spent the
night at an inn that clung to the side of a precipice and was
perpetually shrouded in fogs from the chasm below. Next day, the
ground grew flatter, the landscape greener, and Julian felt a thrill
of anticipation, as the balmier air caressed his face with the
promise of Italy.
Dipper,
who never brooded long over ills he could not remedy, soon regained
his usual cheerfulness and made friends with postillions, ostlers,
and waiters all along the way. There were gaps in his Italian, but
what he could not put into words, he conveyed with gestures as fluid
and expressive as the Italians' own.
The
road hugged the western shore of Lake Maggiore, winding between
wooded hills and dazzling deep-blue water. At the southern tip of
the lake, the Lombard frontier loomed up before them, marked by flags
bearing black imperial eagles, and by the shimmer of sunlight on
Austrian bayonets. Customs officials demanded Julian's and Dipper's
passports, and were duly bribed to return them after a brief
examination. Thereafter, all along the road to Milan, shabby police
clerks kept popping out of wooden boxes, inspecting passports and
extorting tips. Of course, the customs officials were mainly an
annoyance to legitimate travellers: smugglers and Carbonari knew how
to deceive or avoid them.
The
land was flat and fertile now, crisscrossed by rows of mulberry
trees, their branches gaily festooned with vines. Julian made out a
speck of brilliant gold in the mists on the horizon: the statue of
the Madonnina, protectress of Milan, atop the highest spire of the
cathedral. Then the cathedral roof came into view: a triangular hulk
that slowly, wondrously crystallized into a myriad of slender white
spires. The carriage entered Milan by the Simplon Gate, where a half
finished arch of triumph stood amid rough sheds and moss-grown blocks
of marble. The arch had been begun by Napoleon, and the Austrians
could not bring themselves either to complete it or to tear it down.
It
gave Julian a peculiar sensation, seeing Milan again. He had not
been here in so long not since his first journey to Italy. Yet it
all seemed startlingly familiar: the spacious thoroughfares flanked
by rabbit warrens of back alleys, the proud palaces cheek by jowl
with wretched shacks, the balconies with their delicate iron railings
and blowing linen, the gaudy array of blue, green, and yellow awnings
on shops and cafes. But it was chiefly the people who gave the
streets their charm and animation. Well-to-do young men showed off
their prowess on English horses; brightly clad peasants hawked
everything from chestnuts to cane chairs; Jesuits strutted like
ravens in their elegant, austere black cassocks; Austrian soldiers
stood about smoking cigars and conversing in German or Hungarian.
But the women drew Julian's notice most. They were remarkably
handsome, their eyes large, dark, and expressive, their movements
impetuous yet graceful.
Julian
put up at an inn called the Bella Venezia in Piazza San Fedele,
convenient to the cathedral, the Scala opera
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