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We
My friend3 and I have just come back from a
week up in the Apennines4 where we have had
some wonderful long walks visiting some old forgotten monestaries where there are only one or two monks left. In one splendid old building
we found but one lonely monk. It is high on a mountain top and very few people ever
take that terrific climb over a ruined mountain road. We found some wonderful latin
manuscripts in his crumbling library. In another monestary, the famous Benedictine abbey of La Trinitá della Cava, we found the
original code of the Lombard League. The place was founded by a Lombard king in
1030. It is a great rambling white building built against the side of a
perpendicular cliff and below it is a dreadfully deep wooded ravine to which you can
decend by a flights of steps cut in the cliff.
Down there the angry little river Bornea[?] leaps along under its stone arches and turns the wheels of
half-a-dozen little stone flower[?] flour-mills set here and there
down the narrow, winding valley.
I spent two long days in Pompeii5, which is
so much more wonderful than anyone can ever imagine, and have returned here spend some time looking over the great Pompeiian collection in the Naples
Museum. I love Naples and am living in a most delightful hotel situated right on the
Bay of Naples6 which, I am convinced, is
the most enchantingly beautiful body of water in the world. I have marked my balcony
in the picture at the head of this note paper. I sit there every afternoon and watch
Vesuvius change from violet to lilac and then to purple. I could almost throw a
stone over to the tiny island of Megaris7 where Lucullus8 had his
gardens and where Brutus9 met Cicero10 after the murder of Caesar11. The street singers sing all the old
Neapolitan airs under my window every night, and every
morning I go out and buy roses and camelias on the Spanish Stairs. The gardens in
Naples are beautiful, and the Royal Museum is the richest I have in portrait sculpture I have ever
seen—the
Brittish
Museum seems quite poor in comparison. The portrait sculpture of the Roman
Emperors, particularly of the Antoinine house, leave nothing to be desired. The
royal families were appear appear in youth and age, and I feel as if I had
known every member personally. I have rubbed up my Latin enough to get through
Tacitus12 and Suetonius13 quite carefully. This is the place to read those detailed
historians, for details cannot mean much unless you are in the place where it has
a
physical and concrete reality.
There was a photograph of the wonderful head of Caesar14 at the Naples museum in the copy of Allen & Greenough’s “Gallic War”15 which I read in Red Cloud16 under Mr. Goudy17. I always knew I should see the original some day, and I thought of Mr. Goudy when I came across that great head the other day in its lofty marble gallery. Of all the statues of Caesar I have seen it is the most wonderful. Such a head! Napoleons18 is a wooden block compared to it. I go back and back to it and I doubt whether the world has produced another such head in all the centuries since.
We spent a good deal of time in the vineyards and fields last week. The oranges and
lemons are ripe in their orchards and the peach and cherry trees are in bloom. The
vines are in little new leaf and the olive groves all along the Mediterranean19 are so soft and gray. All the
country folk are in the fields [illegible] digging and planting the fall crop, and they do it just as Virgil20 describes in the Georgics21: the same heavy hoes, the same white saplings for the vines,
the same old songs as the husbandmen toil along the furrows and work this old, old
earth which has produced most of the beautiful things in the world.
Next week we go to Rome22, but I shall leave Naples and the soft Companian country with tears, I am afraid. Such a ravishing world and such a short life to see it in!
Lovingly Willa