Letter to Chapter X.

108 The Town Hall 115 Door-knocker 118 Café at Capodistria 119 Initial Letter to Chapter XI. 121 A Cast 125 Girl from Duino 129 Castle Duino from the Railway 130 Tailpiece to Chapter XI. 131 Initial Letter to Chapter XII. 132 Lawn-tennis Ground 138 Entrance to the Village of Duino 139 Initial Letter to Conclusion 141 Tailpiece to Conclusion 143

INTRODUCTION

We were talking the other day of the many and interesting books of travel that have been written lately, books so full of valuable information and precise descriptions that you almost feel that Inner Africa and the North Pole are as familiar to you as Piccadilly and Oxford Street.

"It is a blessing that such books exist," said our host, who has rather a philosophical turn of mind. "Of course, I never read them; personally, I think that reading and writing are decidedly a mistake; but if I wanted to know anything about these countries there would not be the slightest necessity to travel about; other people have done that for me. To speak the truth, I do not want to know anything about foreign parts. One book of Stanley, for instance, is enough to make me hate the very idea of Inner Africa; and as to the North Pole, I cannot describe my feelings with regard to the raving lunatics who imagine they have anything to do there. I am all for a quiet life, you know. I stick to my principles—the summer in Cairo, the winter in bed."

This speech was received with icy coldness. We are not philosophically inclined, I am sorry to say, and though I should not much like Inner Africa on account of the heat, I have always cherished the idea of some day making a trip to the North Pole.

This I said with my usual diffidence and modesty, but of course I was hooted by the rest of the company, and one energetic lady explained at great length that the North Pole is a "humbug." Another lady (the one who is my collaborator now) confessed a great partiality for travelling. "Only," she said, "it is not at all necessary to go so far; there are many wonderful countries in Europe which are very little known. For instance," she added, turning to me, "I always wonder how very little you English know of Austria. The fact that Vienna is a pretty town, where everything English is particularly liked; that Prague is a fine old city, and that here and there we have first-rate shooting, is about all that is known of Austria by foreigners. And it is a pity! Who really has seen the wonderful mountains of the Tyrol, mountains that are just as fine as any in Switzerland; the charming lakes of the Salzkammergut; the green valleys of that greenest of lands, Styria? Who has spoken of the mysterious charm of the great Bohemian forests of oak and pine, the quaint little towns of Carinthia, the beautiful banks of the blue Danube? How very few people know the puzsta, the immense plains of Hungary; and who has explored the wildernesses of Galicia and Transylvania, or the wonderful beauty of the Dalmatian coasts from the Bocche di Cattaro up to here, where we are on the shores of the Adriatic Sea? And just here—this little spot so full of memories and classic associations—who has ever heard even the names of Istria and the Littoral? And yet how pretty and interesting the scenery is in this unknown part of Austria. The azure waters of the Adriatic, the wonderful southern sky, the Italian landscapes, the many relics of old Roman life and grandeur, everything combines to make this country worthy to be seen and admired. Do you know," she concluded, "you ought to write a book about it."

"Write a book!" I exclaimed, duly horrified,—"I, who hate even to write a letter of ten lines!"

"Writing a book is quite different, I am sure," was the answer; "and I don't mean a learned, scientific work. Write a simple sketch of this part of the country. Begin with Duino, where we are now. Then we will make excursions to other places near here, and you can write about them. If you will do it, I will try to make the illustrations."

This was another thing; and though our host looked rather gloomy at the idea of having any book-writing going on under his roof (a thing decidedly against his principles), I promised I would think about it. At first I felt very much as an unhappy being feels who is about to make his first speech; he knows there are lots of things to be said, but for the life of him he cannot remember what they are.

Now, however, I have written the Introduction and made the first plunge. I am writing the