For the drawing of the Torre di Giovio at Stabio my thanks are due to Mrs. Heathcote of Sparsholt Rectory, Hants. While painfully conscious of the shortcomings of my essay, I have at least the satisfaction of sending it out as an honest attempt to supply a felt want. Mary's Lodge, Liverpool, The Conventional Round of the Lake op Como. Lakes op Iseo and Garda, and Brescia S, Maria Delle Grazie and its Neighbourhood Torre di Giovio and Wayside Shrine.
To face page 63 III. Carpoforo, Camerlata, Baptistery at Leuno. Sketches op Italian Life. Gottardo, Milan IX. Pulpit and Tomb of Meinulphus in S. We will make our entrance by the Northern portal, with that crowd of English people, who fly like the swallows to the sunny south with the first chill of winter at Pontresina, S.
Moritz, or the huge Maloja Caravanserai. The migration generally begins early in September, so that the autumnal or more popular season on the Lake of Como may be roughly stated as comprising September and the first half of October. There has already been a Spring season, fitfully honoured, in April, May and June. July and August are too hot for such active enjoy- ment as English people commonly demand. The drive of sixty miles between Pontresina and Yarenna, leading through the Upper Engadine, over the Maloja Pass, down the Yal Bregaglia and the lower part of the SplUgen, and along the eastern shore of the Lake of Corao, can scarcely be surpassed in Europe for sublimity, beauty, and va.
An Italian driver is mostly a picturesque, genial, plausible personage. He drives a hard bargain, game to the last, but sticks to it when made, except occasionally in the matter of time, when he always has an excellent excuse for unpunctu- ality. He directs his horses by sundry strange cries, and warns pedestrians by cracks of his long whip, volleyed out by a succession of clever jerks. In any emergency his re- pertory of oaths and ejaculations is voluminous. When calm, he swears by two personages only, Christ and Bacchus. When excited, he shows familiarity with the whole calendar of Christian saints and the entire heathen mythology.
He is most careful for the comfort of his passengers and the rest of his horses. He plies backwards and forwards over the Alps in summer, and then betakes himself to the Riviera or Naples for winter. He knows the legends of his locality, and will tell them very prettily and credulously, but his history is slight, and chronology never becomes more definite than " once upon a time.
It is true courtesy to be careful of other people's feelings. The humblest peasant in the north of Italy seems to be naturally gifted with such grace. This man was convinced of our Protestantism, because we were English, and are not English people proverbially ill at ease in the vicinity of Catholicism? Does it not seem to hurt and offend them?
So, in answer to an inquiry, he announced himself Catholic; yet, with a deprecatory gesture and soft tone of apology, hastened to add, " But, Signore, Campo Dolcino is Catholic. For our sakes, he was really sorry at the moment not to be Protestant himself. The feature which gives its characteristic charm to the whole of the noble scenery, through which the top of the Maloja pass is reached, is the series of lovely lakes, S.
Moritz, Silvaplana, Sils ; one, at least, of which is in view the entire distance, while for many miles the road skirts their shores. The sight that breaks upon the eye at the top of the pass is a startling one. Two thousand feet below us winds the road, so that to one leaning over the rocky battlements at the summit it seems easy to pitch a stone down upon it over the dark pines that hang upon the almost perpendicular wall.
How the road is carried into the deep valley down those precipices is not so clear. Indeed, the construction is a marvellous piece of engineering skill, which only reveals itself in the descent. Many miles of serpentine windings are traversed to accomplish this short distance from summit to foot of the Maloja precipices. Then, on we go by rock and torrent, forest and glen, ruined abbey and white village, until once more soft meadows spread their sleek carpets, embroidered with the autumn crocus, and the rich foliage of the chestnut begins to supplant the solemn pine.
Below the Maloja pass, the range of mountains which bounds the valley on the left, is remarkable for its gigantic buttresses of grey rock and for ridges splintered into needles sharp and fine, or set with long rows of jagged teeth, or shattered into a variety of fantastic shapes. Here we see the ingenious way in which the winter's supply of fuel is brought from the highest ledges on which the pine trees grow. A strong wire, perhaps a mile in length, is hung from the point where the wood is being cut, and tightly drawn to a convenient spot in the valley below.
The bundles of wood are slung upon it, and with great rapidity traverse the distance. At Stampa the castle and church of Promontogno come into view between the huge rocks and boulders which guard the Maira torrent. At this point the entire scene can scarcely be surpassed in picturesqueness. But it is at Promontogno that nature seems to have taxed all her wealth of resources to conjure up a scene of the rarest beauty.
We move among the colossal, the majestic, the overwhelming. Then we pass between two huge portals of rock, peer down at the swirling stream below, and, as we raise our heads again, before us lies a sunny, opalescent picture, full of warmth and grace and tender hues. It is another world than the one behind that frowning gateway ; it is Italy. The Hotel Bregaglia has a ravishing position. Each window is the frame of some enchanting picture. The rush of two great mountain torrents makes a tuneful lullaby all night for weary walkers, and crisps the air with a delicious coolness.
Sojourners in the Yal Bregaglia, who seek economy and fine air, will find in Soglio, an hour's walk above Promon- togno, all that they need. Returning through the tunnel from the hotel at Promontogno, we cross the bridge on the left, and following a steep cliif path, reach the village of ;Soglio, perched upon a lofty rock, and commanding a superb view of the Bondasca Valley, its white glacier and extra- ordinary amphitheatre of spiked summits.
Antique suits of armour line the hall ; the rooms are filled with furni- ture of three hundred years ago ; Damascene tapestry hangs upon the walls ; we sleep on bedsteads of quaint, archaic pattern and behind silken hangings of finest Oriental texture. It is a place to dream in.
The return to Promontogno is pleasantly varied by taking the carriage road, which leads through shady chestnut groves. In the Val Bregaglia the Engadiner's custom prevails of affixing inscriptions upon the houses. Racy proverbs and biblical quotations are to be found everywhere north of the Italian frontier, where they suddenly cease. At Vicosoprano we noted the following: Scirtazi il possessore, Pensa di te, poi di me dirai. Think of yourself, then you shall speak of me. Chi sprezza il suo prosimo e privo di senno; mai uorao prudente sene tace.
Grod, by thy loving kindness Preserve this house from pain and sorrow. La casa di giusti stara in pie. Upon going out you have to think that to return does not rest with you. The house of the just shall stand firm. Se il Signore non edifica la casa invano safaticano intorno ad essa quelli che ledeficano. II fine del ragionamente questo, teme iddio ed oserva i suoi commandamenti perche questo e il tutto del uomo.
The end of the argument is this, Fear God and keep his command- ments, for this is the whole of man. There are shapely mountain forms, a tumultuous river, luxuriant leafage, em- bowering vines, golden gourds trailing over the brown rocks, quaint houses with sunny balconies, where yellow Indian corn hangs bright against the rich-toned wood, great cataracts foaming over precipices, white graceful campaniles, soaring into the azure from every height ; and, embracing and transfiguring all, an atmosphere crystalline, radiant, prismatic ; to prodigal nature a glorifying medium ; to one- self an intoxicating nectar, reviving for a moment the old belief in a spell for the gift of eternal youth.
Si vende cattivo vi7io, Bad wine sold here. This is a favourite piece of irony, pre- sumably found by the trade to be an effective advertise- ment, if we may judge from the frequency of its use. The wide, gloomy, cavernous interior is empty now of all but a few bare tables and benches, but, before nightfall, it will be filled with peasants, who will never weary of playing Mora, and will always take care to go home sober.
One seldom passes an osteria at night without hearing the quick sharp cries of the players, as they shout out the numbers in their favourite and ancient game. Two take their stand at opposite sides of a small table, one of them places his hand upon it with a certain number of fingers extended, e.
His opponent must instantaneously place his hand upon the table with as many fingers extended as make up the difference between three and: When the number ten is called the term Mora is used instead of ten. The game is often played with sides, and a good deal of small coin changes hands over it. A black-eyed, bare-legged, sunny girl brings us some of the cattivo vino out of a grotto in the rock hard by. It might pass for nectar, so cool, so brilliant, so inspiring it is. The jug in whicli she bears it, witli a nozzle crnmpled into a trefoil, is just what has been used in Italy anytime these five and twenty centuries.
Do not say there is nothing in sentiment. One is drinking there with the old gods. Bacchus and Pan are not far away. Dryads and Naiads are peeping from wood and stream. There is a nymph in that fine, free form before us, so full of the grace that can be bred only of unfettered limbs and unpinched waist.
May she not be Hebe herself, come down in the world a little since Zeus broke up his establishment? There is something odd about Hebe's jug. Near the rim it is pierced with a small hole, through which is passed a bit of lead, flattened out on each side so as to secure it, and stamped with the cross and crown of the Italian kingdom. It is simply the official stamp, attesting the capacity of our pitcher, and safeguarding Hebe from the temptation to use a dishonest measure. We find ourselves face to face in a wineshop with an object, the like of which has played a mighty part in history.
The Pope's Bull gets its name from the leaden boss, or seal, bulla, which attests the genuineness of his edicts and gives them their authority. We find the same word in franco-hollo or postage- stamp. But there only the name remains. At Castasegna we cross the Italian frontier, a fact made known to us by the Dogana or Custom House, its barrier, guard, and examination. A frank demeanour exempts from vexatious search. The exigency of law requires the formality of opening at least one package.
But rarely does the investigation intrude beyond the surface of portman- teau or trunk. Should you, however, be unfoitunate in arousing suspicion, the most rigorous search will be instituted, and if you have packed tightly, the effect on your temper may be serious. Should you be found to carry any contraband article, it will be confiscated, and you will be fined in addition. For the most part you may carry what you please out of a country. But if you try to take old paintings, or even copies of them, out of Italy, without a due permit, they are liable to be detained on the frontier.
The Government wisely reserves to itself the right to purchase any old pictures which the owners wish to sell. They are alive to the folly of allowing their country to be impoverished in its treasures of art. At Prosto, shortly before reaching Chiavenna, a great white cliff rises at the head of the ravine, to the right of the road. Some two centuries ago part of the mountain fell and buried Piuro, a prosperous little town of two thousand people, beneath its rocks and debris.
The only house which escaped the general ruin was the small chateau of Vertemate Pranchi. A walk of fifteen minutes through chestnut woods brings us to its door. It is worth a visit for the sake of a beautiful ceiling of carved wood in a large room, frescoed with my- thological subjects by the Campi of Cremona. Por the ceil- ing alone forty thousand francs were recently offered to the owner, while the beauty of the situation and attractiveness of the house have from time to time provoked many offers of purchase.
But though the whole place is rapidly falling into decay, and is only occupied by a servant, who uses the principal rooms for storing farm produce, sale is barred by family jealousies. Prom Prosto Chiavenna can be reached most pleasantly on foot, by crossing the bridge near the church, and follow- ing the path by the side of the stream, which leads through shady woods and among rich brown rocks.
An impressive physical feature around Chiavenna consists in the combination of ferocity and softness. Vast blocks of rock have been dislodged from the precipitous and impend- ing mountains, and have strewn the whole valley with their colossal ruins. Ii in positions whicli a cliild's finger seems sufficient to disturb.
Chiavenna might have suffered bombardment at the hands of Titans. A wild torrent foams and roars in the midst. But groves of chestnut trees soften the savage face of the scene. Bright lawns smile among the grim, grey boulders. Here, a cottage nestles under one of the sheltering giants, and there a gay garden blooms upon a platform of fallen limestone. Chiavenna abounds in fascinating walks, and is full of work for the artist. There is a fine promenade under plane trees on the Piano Giano, just outside the town, and a remarkable scene of fantastically shaped rocks on the slope of Uscione, approached by a romantic staircase.
The view from the bridge in the centre of the town is almost with- out a rival in picturesqueness. The Hotel Conradi gives moderate 'pension and excellent accommodation. An hour's drive from Chiavenna brings us to the little Lake of Biva. It forms the centre of a scene of rare beauty, as we look back in the direction in which we have come. At one point a wonderfully mirrored precipice seems to carry the eye down into the mysterious depths of the lake.
This sheet of water was once comprised in the Lake of Como, but the river Adda, sweeping in from the Valtel- line, built up its deposits, so as to cut off the Lake of Riva from the main body. The marshy flat thus formed is known as the Pian di Spagna. We find our clue to the name in the ruins of the great Castle of Fuentes, so strongly planted on the rock of Montecchio in the midst of the valley. It owes both name and origin to the Count of Fuentes, the Spanish Governor of Milan, who built it in , to over- awe the Valtelline.
It must have been almost impregnable when the rocks on which it stood were washed by water on every side. One of the boys guides us through the tangled underwood to the ruins of the great fortress above. But little remains of this grim outpost of Spanish domain in Italy. That little, however, with its peeps into dismal dungeons, its thick walls and solid bastions, is enough to impress upon the beholder a sense of the iron grip of the Spaniard's hand.
Wordsworth's apt words come to mind: The juxtaposition of the tiny hamlet of Riva, the ruined Spanish fortress and the prosperous Valtelline, calls up one of those hideous tragedies of history born of religious hatred and unscrupulous statecraft. In the first quarter of the seven- teenth Century Calvinism was dominant in the Valtelline. No doubt there was truth in the complaint of the Catholics, that they suffered hardship at the hands of their heretical rulers, who certainly had not to go far to find teachers in intolerance.
The wily statesman fostered their discontent. He not only saw a good chance of striking a pious blow at heresy, but still better, of once more annex- ing the rich Valtelline to the Milanese Duchy. So he intrigued, until on the 19th of July, , the inhabitants of Tirano were early awakened by the clanging of the church bells. Alarmed at the sound, they rushed out to see what the signal portended, when all of the heretical party, of whatever age or sex, were surrounded and cut down by a band of armed men.
The head of one aged pastor was cut ojff and set up in his own pulpit. A little heroine of four- teen years received in her own bosom the blow aimed at her grandfather. Through the long hours of that awful day the red carnage rolled down the valley, and has ever since been known by the anomalous name of, 11 sacro macello, The Holy Butchery. The heretics sought aid from their co-religionists in Switzerland.
They held Chiavenna and fortified Riva. A war of passion and atrocity ensued. Spaniards and Austrians poured into the country. Mountains echoed to the shrieks of murdered people, and night was lit by blazing homes. Ranke's " Popes of Rome. Somnia sed faciunt ibi plura papavera nata. Hac in Valle fures intrant subtiliter hostes, Deprsedant villas, spoliant armentaque multa, Inde trahunt et ovesque boves, captas quoque vaccas.
It was rich in vinyards, gardens, and dairies. It boasted a wealth of nuts of various kinds. The poppy, too, was there, parent of sleep and dreams. Into this fruitful vale thievish foes crept stealthily, pillaging the farms, and carrying off the numerous flocks and herds. Among the many captives who languished in the great fortress, one is worth naming as having been the Mark Tapley of Italian unfortunates.
Anton Maria Stampa, of Gravedona, was a man of eccen- tric genius, and being on this account deemed dangerous, was shut up in the Castle of Fuentes. We are not surprised at this precaution, when we remember that the reason given by the Sardinian Grovernment for imprisoning Mazzini at Savona was, that " they were not fond of young men of talent, the subject of whose musings was unknown to them. He employed himself in writing an imaginary history of his illustrious native town in mock heroic style, full of amusing extrava- gancies and rank impossibilities. At the time of the French Revolution the fortress was no longer a military position.
In 1 General Rambaud and five-hundred French soldiers arrived, to find the castle occupied only by a few civilians, sick of slow fever, who of course offered no resistance. The besiegers blew up a portion of the building, but the greater part proved too strong for their powder.
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This gallant feat is described in certain chronicles of the time as one of the most signal successes ever achieved by the French arms. A railway is now open between Chiavenna and Colico. Instead of embarking on the steamboat at Colico, we drive forward to Yarenna by the splendid military road con- structed by the Austrians, and commanding some of the most enchanting vistas of the Lake. The Albergo Reale, or Pension Marclonni, built upon a terrace lapped bj tbe rippling water and bristling with cacti and the immemorial aloe, commands the most expansive view of the lake, looking across its widest part and down two of its three arms.
Here the accomplished and sparkling hostess seems to live only for the comfort, pleasure, and con- venience of her guests. Facing the south, Varenna might not be a desirable residence in the height of summer, but in spring and autumn, no place could be more charming. There is an Italian proverb which contrasts Bellano, swept by icy winds from the Val Sassina in winter, with Yarenna, exposed to the full blaze of the sun in summer.
These children of the sun seem to suffer intense physical discomfort and profound mental depression under the influence of a searching north wind or a period of sunless rain. It is quite comic to hear the shuddering despair with which they utter their wretched- ness in the pregnant commonplace, Bruto tempo, Horrid weather I " But with renewed calm and sunshine, gaiety and contentment return to their childish hearts.
When the lizard basks and the grasshopper trills, the air is sure to be full of human laughter and song. The Lake of Como can only be compared to some great master's poem, in which every scene is different from the one which went before, yet all sustain the same supreme level of grandeur and delight. Passion and pathos, energy and repose, light and shadow, the terrible and the tender, in their utmost intensity, enter into the composition, and by the force of their contrasts and the play of their variety give a ceaseless sense of life and beauty, and inspire the soul with indescribable feelings of wonder and of joy.
To-day the bluest of skies repeats itself in the shining mirror of the lake. The rocky peaks which frame it in, wear a robe of colour so tender and soft, that they seem to melt away into ether. Grieaming villages that stud the shores, gleam again in reflected whiteness upon the water. Skimming boats search out the shade of cliff or tree. To-morrow the sky has veiled itself with cloud splendour, which rises from the deep laboratory of the valleys to en- throne itself upon the mountain crests. The solemn purple shadows cast their pall around. The deep ravines grow dark and awful. The air is heavy and stifling.
An inky veil is drawn across the sky from east to west. There is a flash, a roll of artillery, and the demon of the storm is loose. Wilder grows the game. We count forty flashes to tlie minute. One moment there is night, the next, brilliant day, lit by the weirdest colours that nature's alchemy can mix. Again the dancing fork-gleams. It might be the flash from a cannon, for instantaneously follows a rush of wind, distinct and terrible ; it strikes the house like a powerful projectile, shakes it from roof to base ; and then succeeds the thunder- clap, that seems to rip and rend and rive the very frame- work of nature by its violence.
Hour after hour the spectacle lasts in unimagined sublimity. And then the storm fiend harnesses the wind and rides it forth in gleeful mischief. Soon the glassy lake is lashed into a surging sea of billow and foam. Ill-fated is the boat caught in such a gale. The great steamers can play hide and seek behind those rolling crests, but one of smaller build founders beneath them.
Piers and boat-houses go down before the violence of the storm. Or yet again, the hot scirocco blows, and heaven empties its reservoirs upon earth. It is the rain of the deluge. Down the steep sides of those vast gathering grounds the water rolls in sheets. Trickling rills grow into raging torrents.
Streams rise into rushing rivers. Out of every valley pours a flood. Trees, rocks, houses, bridges, roads are swept away like leaves. The swollen lake invades the land and lays towns and villages under its waters. And then once more the cloud rolls off", the sun shines in a blue sky, the lake smiles its old sweet smile, but the ethereal peaks are wrapped in an ermine mantle of snow, and the forests beneath have turned to crimson and gold.
Such may be the moods of the lake in one short week ; moods so delicately gradated that we see a thousand varieties of expression in the face of nature, a thousand vicissitudes of form, colour, and effect, all lifted into the realm of the superlatively beautiful and sublime.
In its short and steep descent to the lake it makes a series of cascades, and from tlie whiteness into wliicli its water is broken it is called Fiume di Latte, or the Milk Stream. Upon its banks a hamlet has been planted for centuries, and its channel lined by wheels, undershot by the brook and turning the machinery of certain poor marble cutters. On the morning of September 16th, , the stream rose beyond all precedent. In a few hours it was a raging flood, the more terrible from its precipitous fall, which added enormous force to its great volume.
It began its work of ruin by tearing away the two lines of mill wheels. Then it swiftly undermined the houses, which fell wall by wall, floor by floor into the torrent. Next it wrenched out ponderous blocks of stone, and sent them thundering down the stream, ominously shaking the strong bridge of the high road, as they ground against its piers. Then it went on to swallow up whole gardens and terraces ; but these depreda- tions soon widened the stream and diminished its power. As a house side or a piece of rock or a slice of vineyard fell into the current, the white water turned yellow for a second, a cloud of fresh spray flew upwards, the roar swelled, and then all went on as before.
All day long the poor peasants, half naked, were saving what they could of their small possessions, while out on the stormy lake were boats col- lecting the floating wreckage. The priest of the place appealed to the English visitors to raise a small fund for the sufferers among their compatriots on the lake. He promised to devote to the same purpose one hundred francs destined for music and decorations at the coming festival of the Blessed Virgin. He thought she would feel it no dishonour to have the money transferred to so charitable a use, and that more earnest prayers would compensate her for the loss of the ceremony to which she had been accustomed.
The beauty of the lower portion of the Fiume di Latte is now quite obliterated. It is curious that neither of the Plinies, both of whom took so much interest in the physicial peculiarities of the lake, mentions this phenomenon. He says that the water rises in spring, when the ice and snow begin to melt upon the mountains, and ceases to flow in winter, when all is frozen up. He might have added, that the volume is extremely sensitive to every fall of rain. He describes the stream as gushing from an aperture in the rock, resem- bling a large window, and lashed into foam so white as to give it the name which it bears, " The Torrent of Milk.
The shepherds of the district, he relates, accounted for the supply of the stream by the hypothesis of a vast hollow, resembling a huge amphitheatre, with the mountains for its walls, into which, as into a cup, the melting snows of spring were drained, and filtering through the porous soil into subterranean reservoirs, fed the torrent in question by a constant overflow.
He assigns peculiar properties to the water, which he makes out to be cold enough to keep dead fish fresh for three days. Live fish, however, though quite recently caught, quickly die in it, when it is low. The usual plan of " doing it " is to steam up to Bellagio or Cadenabbia, visit the Villas Carlotta and Melzi, buy a ] iece of olive wood or a silk dress, and then steam down again en route for Milan, Venice or Rome.
I once saw two men " do it " from the cabin of the steamer. Thej were working so hard at their sightseeing, that this was their sole chance of snatching a meal; so they ate their dinner onboard, and between the mouthfuls plunged to the cabin windows to see what they might of the Lake of Como. But the Queen of Lakes refuses to be so seen. She must be wooed, waited upon, known, to reveal her charms. There is no greater delight than to walk the entire circuit of the lake. What mistaken judgments may be formed, when they are based upon superficial knowledge, is illustrated by a remark of Mr.
Thomas Erskine's in his letters in , when the population on the Lake of Como was little less than it is now, and the communication by road or path between place and place almost as complete. There is not even a mule road on either side! And on one side the steepness of the rocks does not admit even of a footpath the whole way, or even for a considerable way. Many of them yield a wealth of pleasure and surprise to the lover of scenery, the artist, the botanist, the entomologist, and the geologist.
The great tongue of land which lies between the Como and Lecco arms of the lake is rich in romantic scenery of the highest order. Of high ascents there are enough to reward the efforts of experienced mountaineers. Monte Grona is an interesting expedition, especially in winter. Monte Generoso cannot be seen from the lake, but is one of the mountain excursions that may be made from it, by a good road and on horseback, and is unsurpassed in the magnificence of its views. For those who are unequal to long expeditions there are rambles of great beauty and little exertion upon the lower slopes contiguous to the lake.
There is na sweeter or more effective setting for a picture than the delicate silver grey foliage of the olive. The most generous freedom is granted by the tillers of the soil to those who use their fields and gardens for pleasure grounds. A copper or two makes us welcome to a feast of fat figs. He is seen watching us at a distance in statuesque stillness, or starts up behind us like some Elijah, we cannot tell whence or how. He climbs the fig tree like a squirrel, and picks for us the most luscious fruit, which is only eaten to perfection when fresh gathered.
Figs in proper condition are a wholesome fruit ; otherwise, they are dangerous, and to be avoided like poison. Shun them for a day or two after rainy or sunless weather, and in selecting them recall the axiom of Marcus Aurelius: Courtesy to these contadini receives not only courtesy, but devotion in return. A climb of a few yards more lands us in smooth pastures, green lawns under spreading chestnut trees, with still more extensive landscapes. We are surprised to find wide spaces stretching out between us and the mountains, which from below seem so imminent.
For these easy but enchanting rambles the lower slopes of Monte Crocione behind Cadenabbia have no rival, unless it be the spur of Monte Codeno to the east of Yarenna. Of driving there is practically none, but the cheap, safe, and comfortable boating provides a far more delightful alternative.
The boatmen are courteous and obliging, their boats clean and luxurious, but a plain understanding as to charges is desirable. They are singularly weatherwise, and will avoid exposing their passengers to the danger of those sudden squalls to which the lake is liable. Any deviation from this rule is a sure sign of change.
However fresh the Breva may blow, the native scorns the idea of its being wind. It is never more than the harmless, welcome Breva, a friend who may be implicitly trusted. Wind, on the contrary, is a malignant demon. The boating eiScursions are numberless. If you simply let your boatmen row you at will, you can drink in the most ravishing delight on every side. N'ow you float on the wide expanse of the glowing water, and embrace the whole wondrous vision of the Lake at a glance, the girdle of the dreamy peaks, precipice and forest, purple ravine and wooded headland, crag and castle, white villages and grace- ful bell-towers.
Should it be the hour of sunset, you may see a glory which would move the sternest spirit. You have seen, or you will see, the robes and wings of Angelico's angels. Their colours were no fancy of his own. His reverent eye marked those in which God steeped, for a brief five minutes in a day, cloud, mountain, air ; and these he thought the most fitting hues in which to dye the garments of God's incarnate messengers. You may see them all around you in the flames that blaze upon the crest of the Grigna, in the rose that blooms across the heavens, in the shades of amethyst that lie so tenderly upon the distant mountains, in the sapphire and the gold that burn upon the level lake, in the mist of violet that slowly veils them all.
Each slowly uttered cadence pauses, as though listening for the answer from some distant tower. No hindering walls check the full tide of the vibrations, since the bells hang almost as much outside the belfry windows as within. It is a daily confession of the Christian Faith.
At midday it is the same. Many a peasant raises his thoughts for a moment from sordid cares or hard labour, and realizes that there is an unseen world. We pause by great masses of crimson creeper, festooning rock and wall, climbing over the grey olives or streaming in bleeding rivers down the dark green sides of majestic cypresses ; or we round a little headland, crowned with the cactus and aloe, and trailing the long weepers of its willows in the wave.
Perhaps we reach the sunny island of Co- macina or San Giovanni, row round it to see some of the choicest views npon the lake, and sketch the picturesque old tower t of S. Maria Maddalena di Stabio upon the main- land. Then we may cross to the little grotto opposite the Villa Arconati on the Lavedo promontory, roofed with maidenhair fern, and in its weird effects of light and colour see a miniature of the famous cave at Capri, then saunter home by the rock-bound eastern shore, Grosgalli.
Then we may explore the neglected beauties of the Lecco arm. To skirt the southern shore as far as Onno, cross to Lierna and coast up to Varenna, forms a memorable expe- rience. Or we may seek the cool Bay of Menaggio, float under the grim precipice of the Sasso Rancio, picnic in the smiling gardens of Graeta near its foot, and drift along, as time permits, by rock and castle, ravines spanned by airy bridges, and shores laden with the wealth of corn, and wine, and silk. Ample sport can be had with the fly under the rocks during the day, but a merrier game is found in choosing a dark night, attracting large fish by means of fire suspended at the prow of the boat, and spearing them as their curiosity brings them to the surface.
A bad shot sometimes ends in a cool bath. It has not, however, been my fortune, nor that of anyone I have known, to hook, net, or spear a specimen of those royal fish which P. Giovio ascribes to the Lake of Como. Moret wonderful and exciting still, he tells of great caves in the rocky coast between San Griovanni and Lezzeno Grosgallia Saxa , where in the heat of summer great monsters hurhuri jpisces , as big as a man, might be descried cooling themselves in the glassy depths ; so strong that no net could hold them, and armed with a coat of mail gravique squamarum serie tlioracati which no arrow could pierce.
But possibly in three hundred and fifty years these species have become extinct, and P. Giovio would not be too scrupulous when he had undertaken to prove the excellence of the fish of his own lake above all others. His assurance that in his hrocliure upon the Lake of Como, no heed has been paid to hearsay nihil est trihutum fabulis , must be taken cum grano salis. The more sentimental will give the palm to the moon- light jpasseggiata al hatello or promenade au bateau, especi- ally should some fair nightingale choose to sing upon the lake that evening, or the world-famous violincellist, Signer Piatti, open the doors of his villa and wail forth his pathetic music to the panting stars.
Pragrant flowers launch their odours on the balmy air. The boat rocks to the liquid ripple. Voice or viol floats out its soul to the infinite silence. A spell lies upon each sense. The thoughts that are too deep for words begin to stir. And then suddenly a strident tongue from a gliding barque breaks the stillness ; — " Waal, I guess this is real slow.
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Why don't somebody boss a dance at the Bellevue, just to take the creases out of one's knees? Giovio, when he wrote his Descriptio Larii LacuSy to which re- peated reference will have to be made. He followed the coast line, visiting each point of interest and covering a distance of one hundred and twenty miles in six days sexto die complefo universce navigationis cursu, qui per oram centum et viginti millihus passuuin conficitur.
Nowadays, a small steamer may be hired at Como, which will achieve the same feat in twelve hours, but not with the same results of repose, observation and enjoyment. The vicinity of the Lake of Como is rich in shells. Jefferies, the eminent English conchologist, was engaged in investigating the mollusca of this region shortly before his death. But there is no need to be a scientific shell- hunter in order to enjoy the beauty and variety of these treasures, scattered so lavishly all around, and often carry- ing us in their quest into spots of untrodden seclusion and luxuriant loveliness.
The region is as rich in floraf as in shells, and the botanist will happily find the most prolific fields of his research among the noblest scenery of the district, as e. We begin with the conventional round. Our boat glides alongside the marble steps of Villa Carlotta, embosomed in a little paradise of tropical luxuriance.
Several treasures of modern sculpture are found in the entrance-hall, beyond which there is little of interest. The chief work is a frieze by Thorwaldsen, begun at the command of Napoleon I. The frieze, which por- trays the Triumph of Alexander of Macedon, makes the entire circuit of this large apartment, but its details are im- perfectly seen, for want of better light. The central figure is the youthful conqueror, who heads the victorious proces- sion in a chariot swiftly driven by the Groddess of Victory. His mien bespeaks the pride of conquest, but a touch of ennui is thrown into the expression, as befits the man who wept because there were no more fields for his warlike ambition to reap.
The other half of the frieze depicts the conqueror's welcome home. The Grenius of Peace meets him with an olive branch and horn of plenty. The people, headed by his own family, strew flowers or offer gifts. Balconies are crowded with eager spectators. A final panel shows the development of commerce through successful war. The many groups in this work deserve much longer study than is usually given to them. The two figures bringing up the rear of the pro- cession, on the left hand as we face the door, are said to be portraits of the artist and his patron. Canova's Psyche and Cupid is a more popular subject, since it appeals to humanity at large.
While few sympa- thize deeply with the ambition of Alexander, most of us know how the birth of passion transfigures life. There is an exquisite abandon about Pysche, who is lost in her beauti- ful lover. We almost hear her say, " I would die a hundred times rather than be deprived of thy sweet usage.
Psyche, so the old story goes, was a royal child, so lovely that men saw in her an incarnation of divine beauty, and began to desert the shrine of Venus to lay their offerings at the feet of this new goddess?. But Venus could brook no rival, and forthwith summoning her " winged bold boy of evil ways," she pointed out the maiden, and bade him make her the slave of an unworthy love. But he came only in the darkness of the night, and went again before the break of dawn, so that Psyche knew not the face of him she had learnt to love, and of whose sweet usage she could not bear to be deprived.
ISTor had she hope of seeing him, since he warned her that if ever in an evil hour curiosity mastered her, so that she espied his bodily form, she would feel his embrace no more. But the course of true love never ran smooth, and now came her jealous sisters, who contrived to work upon poor Psyche's feelings and credulity, until she believed herself the victim of a dread monster in her unseen lover, whom she resolved to slay.
But when, with lamp in one hand and knife in the other, she nerved herself for the fatal blow, the vision that met her eye disarmed her purpose, for there lay Cupid, golden-locked and dewy-pinioned, all soft and white and lovely. Then Pysche, catching sight of his bow and arrows, drew out a dart, and trying the temper of its point upon her thumb, drove in the barb, and so fell into the love of Love; and in her rapture a "drop of scalding oil fell from her lamp upon her lover's shoulder, who awoke, and seeing the failure of her faith, took flight and left her.
And now began many sorrows for Psyche, the bitter penalty of doubt and curiosity. Venus learnt the amour of her boy, and though Juno and Ceres received her overtures for help in the quest of Psyche coldly and with some spite- ful taunts, yet from Jupiter she obtained the use of Mercury, the god of speech, who soon tracked out for her the object of her persecution. With insults and hardships, many and cruel, did Venus ply her daughter-in-law, to whose help came in turn the ant, and the reed, and the eagle, and the very stones of the walls, all for the sake of Love.
And opening the casket on her way, that she might touch herself with some particle of the precious gift, to enhance her own fair beauty in the eyes of her truant lover and win him back again, she fell into a deadly sleep, until Cupid found her, and by the touch of his arrow awoke her once more to life.
Then Cupid, who had grown lovesick for his sweet bride, sought his father's sympathy; and Jupiter granted his son's desire, and bade Mercury bring Psyche to the court of Heaven, and there he gave her a draught of the immortal wine, saying, " Take it and live for ever ; nor shall Cupid ever depart from thee. On the first couch lay the bridegroom, and Psyche in his bosom. His rustic serving boy bore the wine to Jupiter ; and Bacchus to the rest. The seasons crimsoned all things with their roses. Apollo sang to the lyre, while little Pan prattled on his reeds, and Venus sweetly danced to the soft music.
Thus, with due rites, did Psyche pass into the power of Cupid ; and from them was born the daughter, whom men call Voluptas Pleasure. The romance of Appuleius, and its illustration by Canova's chisel, do not lose in interest, if it be true that they are the ultimate evolution of the germ of a solar myth, born in the far East, in times too remote for fancy, among the Aryan ancestry of Europe. It is the drama of sunrise and sunset played before our eyes every day.
It is the story of Eos Dawn or Evening and Phoibos the Sun , who are fated to part in the moment when they first look upon each other; yet after the day-long quest of Eos through all lands, among all dangers, against overwhelming difficulties, sustained by the deathless desire to see her lover once again, at eventide her faithful search is rewarded, and she is found face to face with the bright object of her devo- tion. She has sunk upon her knees, her face is full of desolate sorrow, her marble hands and arms are made to utter the physical weakness of grief, her whole attitude is eloquent of pain and penitence ; loss, loneliness and love.
In the centre of the room is a group of Mars and Yenus, by Acquisti, It may tell more tales than one. Certainly the woman pleads and the man stands irresolute. Perhaps he is caught between the rival claims of love and duty. Perhaps she would win him from the savage passion of war to the softer arts of peace. Anyhow her power is evident. She can inspire, restrain, unman. In an adjacent room are some designs in plaster for Napoleon's projected Arch of Triumph at Milan. They are singular trophies of the fickleness of fortune, as we shall presently see.
This villa has passed to the Diike of Saxe-Meiningen ; but the little chapel outside, under the broad-leaved plane- trees near the water's edge, still belongs to the Sommariva family. Over the altar is a fine Pieta in white marble. The lifeless form sometimes lies across the mother's knees, sometimes stands erect as a half-length figure.
A beautiful Nativity in relief decorates the front of the altar. The angles of the chapel contain figures representing Charity, a gracious woman tending an orphan child; Jus- tice, bearing sword and scales; Religion, carrying a cross and wearing a glory about the head ; The Love of God, a beautiful being, with footsteps guided by the Divine Will, wings for swiftness to perform it, and an upturned face of intense devotion.
Opposite the altar are the Angel of Bless- ing, holding a shell of Holy Water, and the Angel of Resurrection, whose face is bright and calm with trustful hope. More angels float upon the ceiling ; in their hands are the signs of the Redeemer's Passion, scourge, thorns, hand- kerchief of S. Veronica, nails, sponge, hyssop and spear. There is a monument to Count Sommariva by Marchesi. The angel of death leads him away, but in departing the father counsels his son to take to his bosom the arts which have enriched his own life.
The arts are represented by a fair woman, who holds a sculptor's mallet in her hand. Taking leave of the little chapel, we walk a few paces to Casa Cornelia, Tremezzo, where every one is sure of a cour- teous welcome in the studio of Mr. Happy they who carry off one of his bits of imprisoned sunshine! Re-embarking, we cross to the Villa Melzi. A portrait of the Emperor in his thirty-third year, by Appiani, hangs in one of the rooms. The face is strikingly handsome, and wears a look of deep abstraction.
In strange contrast is a bust of Michael Angelo by himself. There is a great charm in the frescoed walls of the rooms.
In one, groups of children play their various games. In another, we seem to be embowered in the depths of a forest. In a third, the eye is met by every flower that the gardens of the Villa produce. In a fourth, we are transported to Parnassus and have Muses for company. In the chapel is a very unconventional statue of Christ, by CornoUi. He is portrayed as a young man in meditation, embracing a cross with his right arm.
A fresco on the right wall has a portrait of Leonardo da Yinci teaching his pupil, Francesco Melzi, the art of designing, while another shows Leonardo on his death-bed, in the act of bequeathing his studio to Francesco. A beautiful friendship bound to- gether the old Leonardo and the young Francesco. The Melzi family had a lovely villa at Vaprio, to which the great master often fled from Milan for congenial repose, or to escape the inconvenience of a French occupation.
Francesco's fortunes were so linked with Leonardo's that he accompanied him into France, when, in , the old artist accepted the invitation of Francis to settle at Amboise. Three years later it was the pupil's sad duty to announce his master's death to the King. Francesco was appointed executor of Leonardo's will, and in writing to the Da Vinci family on the subject he says: It may best be studied from a cool pagoda, of which the doorway so exactly frames in the piece of statuary as to help us to concentrate our thought upon the subject.
The artist has contrived to throw into his work the feeling that the genius of Dante was quickened, inspired, and con- trolled by a lofty and pure ideal of womanhood. Quitting these lovely grounds, we stroll to Bellagio, beneath a shady avenue of planes, and pass the palatial Hotel Grande Bretagne, unrivalled for its magnificent dining- hall and luxurions salon and admirable management, under Herr Meier. Then we buy fruit under the arcades, silk at Poletti's, photographs at Bosetti's, olive-wood at Gilardoni's, change money at Greppi's, call at the old established Hotel Genazzini to see upon its terrace the record of the inunda- tions of the lake for a century past, visit the old parish church with its sloping floor and Lombard apse, stroll in the gardens of the sumptuous Grand Hotel, and then climb by the quaint, irregular stairways, which serve for streets, to the extensive grounds of the Villa Serbelloni, which is now a descendance of the Hotel Grande Bretagne.
Giovio unhesitatingly assumes that this promontory of Bellagio was the site of that Villa which Pliny called " Tragedy," because it was elevated upon lofty rocks, like the high shoes of a tragic actor. Certainly it is true that this point answers to Pliny's description of an outlook upon the lake, stretching out on either hand into two wide seas. At a glance we comprehend the derivation of the name Bellagio from its situation, Bi-lacus, between two lakes. In the fourteenth century this headland was not clothed by a wealth of trees, as at present, but was crowned by a fortress, notorious for the shelter which it had long given to the regenades of all the country round.
The Marquis Stanga, however, a prime favourite of Ludovico Sforza, got permission to build a princely mansion on the southern slope of the hill, but it was burnt down by the pirates of the lake soon after its completion. These marauders were the Cavargnoni, a clan which got their name from the Val Cavargna in the Val Menaggio, and were distinguished, according to P. Giovio, in his Lettere Lariane, recounts an amusing adventure which befell the natural philosopher, Lazzaro Spallanzani, in , when in the company of some friends he made an excursion into the Val Menaggio.
Here he fell in with some young girls, who no sooner saw a man surrounded by a group of comrades than they fired off a volley of pistol-shots. The familiar signal brought the Cavargnoni to the scene of action, armed to the teeth. For a moment the poor philosopher thought that the end had come to his researches ; but when the gentlemen of the valley discovered the peaceful and scientific equipment of the intruders, not not only was a free passage accorded, but every hospitality shown to them.
The sortie was due to the impression that the revenue officers were making a descent upon the neigh- bourhood to claim the salt tax. Upon the site of Stanga's mansion an inferior house was built towards the end of the sixteenth century by Ercole Sfondrate, who had commanded the Papal forces in France against Henry of Navarre. It was he who planted the pro- montory with its groves of trees, retiring to their peaceful shade for the close of his days. Giovio wrote his JDescriptio Larii Lacus. To what tune his pen was gilded for the work we have no means of judging, but from the deli- cate flatteries offered to his patron's wealth, discrimination and intellect, and our knowledge of the writer's principles, we may feel sure that Paolo was well paid.
Dionysio Somentio tells a pretty story of the publication of this famous pamphlet, in his preface to the first edition, dated He had gone to the Lake of Como to investigate a case of murder for his patron, Nicolo Sfondrate, and found himself enchanted by the unimagined beauty of its shores. Upon his return, having recounted to his patron the pleasure he had experienced, Nicolo expressed a wish to combine for him a repetition of the enjoyment with immunity from the fatigue of another journey, by conjuring up then and there before his eyes the very scenes he had just left behind ; and therewith begged him to fetch from the library P.
Giovio's little work, in which he so graphically describes the lake as to make every feature of it live before the reader. It was Somentio's first introduction to the book, and he at once conceived the idea of publishing it for the delectation of mankind and the glory of his patron.
From the Sfondrati the property passed into the famous Milanese family of the Serbelloni, second to none for the soldiers and statesmen whom it has given to its country. Near the top of the headland is a narrow perch on the edge of precipitous rocks, to which local tradition attaches a grim story. In the castle, which formerly stood close by, a woman once ruled, who set no bounds to her amours, and had her intrigues with all the gallants of the Lake.
But her pas- sions were surpassed by her jealousy, so that even when weary of her lovers she could brook no transfer of their affections elsewhere. Ampak was a young man who lived in a village. He became a king because of a cunning civet cat who stole the citrus fruit from his tree. Ampak had been working so hard to plant and nurture his citrus tree. When everybody in the village grew rice, he chose to plant the citrus tree. Every day he nurtured his tree and each day he counted the fruit.
But one day, one of the citrus fruit was missing. And when night came, he pretended to fall asleep but watched his tree carefully. It was the civet cat who stole his fruit! Soon, both of them made a deal that Ampak would not kill the civet cat and in return the civet cat would make him a king. For this Ampak had to give another up three citrus fruit. The civet cat continued to trick everyone and to guard the citrus tree.
She dreams of being adopted, but her notions of the perfect adoptive mother do not include the female gorilla who turns up at the home one autumn day. Gorilla is fat and hairy, wears hideous clothes, and drives a rusting wreck. When Gorilla heats up water for a bath, Jonna imagines she is about to be cooked for dinner. She is embarrassed by Gorilla's uncouth appearance and blithe unawareness of social convention.
Jonna and Gorilla make an unbeatable team when it comes to selling junk at inflated prices, though Gorilla's ultimate dream is to become a bookseller. The two acquire an ancient caravan, practise driving and shock the locals on an outing to a restaurant. But new trouble is on its way. The chairman of the local council, the evil Tord Fjordmark, is determined to force Gorilla out of her home so the authority can build a lucrative swimming complex on her land.
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He threatens to remove Jonna, blackmails Gorilla into signing away her home, then sends Jonna back to the orphanage anyway. Yet all is not lost. Despite her initial fears of abandonment, Jonna realises Gorilla is waiting for her not far away. Unlikely though the premise of this story may sound, it is absorbing, moving and very funny.
Jonna is a clear-sighted, sometimes painfully honest narrator who sees straight through selfish, mean or pretentious adults. Frida Nilsson writes with an irreverent, sometimes surreal humour which will delight not only six-to-nine-year-olds, but their parents too.
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The tale of Jonna and Gorilla is highly entertaining - but it also raises important questions about how much store we set by outward appearance, and what really matters in our relationships with others. The theme of feeling like an outsider, and being treated like one, recurs throughout The Ape Star and other books by Frida Nilsson, including Jag, Dante och miljonerna Me, Dante and the Millions , in which a disgraced bank manager is befriended by Dante, a rat living on a rubbish tip; and Jagger, Jagger, which revolves around the friendship between a boy bullied by his peers and Jagger, a stray dog.
It was serialised in the German Sunday broadsheet Die Zeit in and nominated for the prestigious Jugendliteraturpreis Youth Literature Prize in Sam Colam and Pico Pane penetrated the darkest forests, ate the most disgusting things, risked being devoured by wild beasts, skinned by savages, they listened to old tales for hours, without ever falling asleep.
And they brought back this exceptional document Come fuziona la maestra Come fuziona la maestra How Teachers Work Text Susanna Mattiangeli, ills Chiara Carrer Il Castoro, Picture Book "The teacher has a front side, which is what you usually see, and a back side, which you see when she turns around. Underneath her is the floor, or gravel, or the road. Around the teacher are the children, sometimes in a line, sometimes in a circle, standing up or sitting down. There are long teachers and short teachers.
Wide ones or thin ones. I giorni della Ruota Eligio S. The Days of Wheel Eligio S. Here, little Rosapineta gets to know and falls in love with Eligio, who was left by his mother shortly after his birth. With this novel the author confirms his narrative skills by weaving a highly detailed story that will intrigue even the most attentive reader, but which will also appeal to a wider audience thanks to its far-reaching and deeply involving sentimental elements.
Readers are engaged in strong feelings right from the first page, when the two young protagonists are introduced and immediately evoke strong feelings. Another extremely interesting element is the representation of Venice, which culminates in the historically-true collapse of the bell tower of San Marco. Hotel House is a crossroads of languages, cultures and children. Each one has its habits, its beliefs, its popular beliefs, its differences. Hotel House in Porto Recanati is just one example of how these long and twisted cohabitations continue to coexist and resist in spite of our fears.
The Shadows of Hemlock Valley Helka is an exciting, intricately woven adventure story replete with classic fairytale elements. It features a feisty modern heroine, a cruel power hungry witch, fantastic creatures, riddles and folk-lore, and deals with issues of hurt and loss, the desire for revenge and the power of friendship. What makes it unusual is its location in a concrete geographical area in Hungary: This is a landscape that is dear to the hearts of all Hungarians, but that few English speakers are familiar with.
It is painted vividly and fondly. It is not long before the machinations of the witch Bora and her allies, Horka the raven and Thuz the wild boar threaten to stir up the old passions. Kamor provides support through a magical diary that provides cryptic answers to their questions. The threads of narrative are brought together in a dramatic denouement in which bravery, loyalty and unity triumph over greed and vengeance.
After all, children read with their hearts, and want an adventure they can enter into, and live through. Born in to a very humble family in Laguna, a poor village in the south of Brazil, after the death of her father Anita is forced to marry an older man whom she does not love and who mistreats her. But a woman who can tame wild horses and shoot better than most men is not born to put up with the bullying of a drunken husband. When Giuseppe Garibaldi, the pirata, arrives in the village four years later to fight against the injustices of the Brazilian government and to win independence and better living conditions, she falls madly in love with him.
The love is mutual and they flee together. So she, too, becomes a rebel, determined to combat and risk her life with the farrapos, the down and outs, who want freedom and self-determination. But it is not her fate to remain in Brazil. In , after living and fighting with Garibaldi in Uruguay, she leaves for Italy with him and their children.
While Garibaldi fights, she is forced to stay behind with her mother-in-law in Nice to take care of the children. And so she dies, together with many friends, while attempting to escape from five pursuing armies along with the man she has always loved and a handful of other companions.
Though pregnant with their fifth child, she is still able to lead a fruitless last-ditch cavalry charge. For her capacity to fight like a warrior and to love totally and passionately, Anita has come down to us as the heroine of two worlds: Picture Book Recommended age: Nevertheless, he was constantly searching for the frightening monster. In fact he was so obsessed with his quest that he travelled to Scotland and China and to many other places in search of stories and legends about dragons. Undeterred the courageous knight goes in search of this fierce creature ready to fight it and live up to his reputation.
When he finally meets the dragon he discovers that things are not as bad as he originally thought and that the dragon has not got a tail to stamp on at all! This is a delightful tale by Italian author Guia Risari. She is a prolific writer, who as well as writing books for children and a series of academic titles is also a translator.
For more information on the author go to http: For information on the illustration go to http: She spends peaceful, lazy days in the company of her new friend Pepsi, walking along the banks of the stream together and thinking up ways to make a love match between their respective grandparents each of whom has lost their spouse. But actually, the Pudding Monster has horrifying powers: The large young woman looks dangerously like the Pudding Monster. One day, after quarreling with Pepsi, Annalisa angrily gobbles down a strawberry pudding and then is convinced she has eaten her friend.
All the more so because the boy seems to have suddenly disappeared into thin air. Did she really, unintentionally devour Pepsi? Il ricordo che non avevo Il ricordo che non avevo The memory I Never Had Alberto Melis Modadori, The memory I never had tells the story of Mattia and Angela, two eleven-year olds living in Rome, who find themselves at the centre of a mystery with its roots in the distant past of the Second World War and the mass exterminations of the Nazi regime. Before he is taken to hospital, where he slips into a deep coma, Nonno Gabriel saves a small boy named Kino from the flames, who is also seriously wounded.
Mattia, shocked by what has happened, has many questions. What on earth was his grandfather doing in that place at the time of the attack? How long had he been visiting the Roma? How did he come to speak their language Romanes?
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And, most perplexing of all, why, on the morning of the attack, before leaving the house, did he leave Mattia a mysterious and incomprehensible message? From that moment, the novel intertwines two parallel worlds: And at the same time, they learn about a tragedy that rarely appears in the history books: As a child, in his hometown of Lodz, Nonno Gabriel assisted in the deportation of 5, Austrian Lovara Roma people who were imprisoned in ghettos together with the Jews, and exterminated in the Chelmno concentration camp. In particular, in his memoirs, Nonno Gabriel tells the story of a Roma boy named Nanok, from the moment he is captured by the Nazis with his community, until his escape from the ghetto, after the death of all his loved ones.
Nanok, after his escape from the ghetto, was taken in by a Polish family who hid him from the Nazis, gave him a new name, and, at the end of the war, adopted him. Sixty years later, Nonno Gabriel, after a lifetime hiding his gypsy origins, feels the call of his roots: At the end of the novel, Nonno Gabriel dies, without ever having regained consciousness.
It is Mattia, in whose veins the Roma blood also runs, who must protect his memories, and the memories of all the unacceptable things that befell the Roma during the Second World War. The author has created three new versions to the question and readers are invited to participate by creating their own. Readers can choose any one of the endings, more attractive to them, or create new endings. The goat thinks that he is going to eat him. The wise bear however explains that he is vegetarian! The goat rejoices and starts singing. The shepherd and his watchdog, who think that the goat is in trouble and needs help, rush over and hit the bear.
So he went to the jungle, caught the goats, the rams and even the camels, who made up the funny stories about the stupid bears and through generations , and carried them away to a place far away from jungle. He disguised himself as a wounded bear and started to play the role of the stupid bear in a public play. After a while, people believed that those funny stories were not real, but just for fun. Ok, what is your guess? What Happens to the wise bear? He grew up in a big family with lots of exciting stories. Working as a as a journalist, he wrote critical essays and did research in children literature.
As a child, he decided to become an artist and spent most of his time reading and drawing. After finishing school, he continued in the field of Graphic Design, in he got his M. He has illustrated many books for children and young adults and has won many national and international awards. He lives and works in Tehran; in addition to illustration he is also a distinguished graphic artist with works displayed in numerous exhibitions and museums. And what if that tail sings crazy songs in Russian? What would you do? Call the fire brigade? Ask the baker for advice? They all come to the rescue and decide to pull off the tail believing that this will solve the problem.
But, alas, tails are rather unpredictable! Mad with excitement, the singing tail drags this odd bunch of adults around and around in a circle that leaves everyone happier and a bit wiser too. Pietro Corvo the clockmaker, a real master of his trade but afflicted by severe ugliness, takes on Giacomo, a new apprentice, an orphan educated at the Auberge of Virtue.
At first, Giacomo fears the ugly master, and plans to flee. But he soon realizes that Corvo is a man with a very good character, and a greatly respected craftsman. The nobleman, widowed with a daughter, a freethinker, and curiosity collector has a wunderkammer in which he keeps all kinds of different objects, from books to handcrafts, including a flying mechanical butterfly made by Pietro Corvo. The clockmaker, aiming to please, sets the pendulum to start playing its music upon his arrival in the Marquis bureau. Unfortunately, there is Irina playing the violin, and the contrast between the two instruments is immediately evident.
Irina insults the watchmaker and rudely sends him on his way. What a humiliation for Corvo, who admires Irina as if she were a work of art and loves her with a most pure and impossible love. A series of events brings Corvo in contact with the works of a Frenchman, Jaques Vaucanson, a great automaton maker. To bring his project to life, Corvo decides to go Paris to meet the famous mechanic.
The trip, as well as presenting a humorous encounter with some street robbers, is the occasion for Giacomo to fall madly in love with the daughter of an innkeeper near the town of Moncenesio. Corvo will never get to Paris, as he discovers that the famous duck built by Vaucanson, that is supposed to eat and digest its food is nothing by at mere trick. This to Corvo is unacceptable. Moreover in Lion he meets a mad scientist who nearly gets him arrested. Corvo decides to return to Turin where he completes the construction of his Woman with a violin.
Her real name is Philomela, which means nightingale in Greek, even though she is not good at singing. One day Philo decides to make a very special figure, a story-teller. To Philo it seems she can almost hear the stories told by Arina, stories about snow, about wicked step-sisters, about a certain Baba Yaga Arina is going to disappear! So with the help of her friends Aki and Aurora, Philo makes a plan to save her. Stories have no boundaries and when they come to a frontier, they cancel it.
Or, like birds, they pass over it. Stories are the safe space where we can meet one another. The tree itself represents everything that is honest and good for Tonino when he gets away from a sometimes difficult life in the city to stay with his quirky grandparents in the country. It also gives him a sense of life after death when his beloved grandfather passes away. The story is narrated by ten-year old Tonino as he looks back on his early childhood living in an apartment building in the city with his parents.
Life in the city seems to be a troubled one. All that changes when he escapes to the country. Ottaviano and Teodolinda are grandparents unlike any others.