It was not quite so bad as all that. I did not go out in the rain, and at present I am neither deaf nor blind. I cannot be sure about the madness. It was very wet, though, but it cleared up before the evening.

A really wet day may be dreary, but still it is rather pleasant to have one sometimes. The rain affords such a grand excuse to be idle and do nothing. One can lounge about, and smoke, and read the newspapers or a novel all day, and justly feel it is quite impossible to be energetic. I am often told that my besetting sin is laziness. I am not sure whether it is true, but all I can say is, it is very pleasant to spend a lazy day occasionally. One must have piles of work waiting to be done, or it loses its charm. If there is really nothing to do, one is bored, and wants something to fill up the time.

On this particular day, however, I was not lazy—far from it. We explored the castle thoroughly from dungeon to attic, with a view to discovering new beauties for "the book."

I must say that occasionally I almost repent of my rashness in promising to write this book; my collaborator is so intensely business-like, and keeps me at it from early morn till dewy eve. I never have a moment's rest. It somewhat detracts too from the pleasure of going anywhere to know that you have to write an account of everything you see afterwards.

We began with the "grotto room." This is a summer drawing-room that we usually sit in. It is a big room, with a tiled floor and an arched roof; the latter and the walls are of cement, thickly studded with little bits of stalactite, that glisten and gleam when the place is lighted up, and give a fairy-like appearance to it. Birds of paradise and sea-gulls, suspended by invisible wires, swing from the vaulted roof and appear to be hovering about the room. Enormous shells, quaint Venetian lamps and mirrors, funny old china, are scattered all about. There is a curious old sedan chair standing in one corner, and near it are two pianos. I never made out the mystery of those two pianos. I believe they are near relations, and that they would be heart- (or string-) broken if they were to be separated. There is a massive marble mantelpiece at the farther end, surmounted by two shields, one bearing the Hohenlohe leopards, and the other the tower and crossed lilies of the Della Torre. Altogether it is a quaint room, without any particular order or style, but very comfortable, and it has one great advantage in being cool. I have spent many a weary hour here, labouring over these sketches, or gazing out through the coloured glass at the sea and the glorious sunsets.

The sunsets at Duino are magnificent—the whole western sky is one flaming blaze of colour, of every tint, from the deepest crimson to the faintest daffodil. The most beautiful moment is, I think, when the sun has sunk to rest behind the distant Alps, that stand out pearly-gray against the rose-coloured sky, and the sea in the foreground glows like a huge bowl of melted gold.

We went next to see the dungeons. They are by no means cheerful—two little damp and musty rooms, destitute of furniture, with grated windows and enormously thick walls—you see their immense thickness when you enter. The last man who was confined here (it was not so very long ago) hung himself. He is now said to haunt them. Poor fellow! one cannot wonder that he should have availed himself of the only possible way of escape open to him. We then penetrated a little room where the family archives are kept. It has a massive iron door, and shelves full of dusty, musty old parchments. We unearthed a grand treasure here—an old manuscript diary of a tour through France and Italy at the beginning of this century, written by an Englishman of the name of Cockburn. Fired by this discovery we rushed up the tower stairs to another little room, formerly used as a study by an old priest who had once belonged to the household. We found it just as he had left it: the chair, the pens, the old ink-bottle, and he, poor old man, dead years ago! He wrote a book in Italian about Duino and the neighbourhood. It has been very useful to us in some respects, though it is very confused.

We came down the tower stairs again, and I was shown the door of the walled-up rooms; it has been carefully built up flush with the wall, and recently whitewashed over, so as to conceal it. Then we explored all the funny little staircases and passages that are everywhere about the castle, and form a perfect labyrinth.

The rain had cleared off by this time, and the sun was struggling to show himself through the clouds, so we went out, the "Other Boy" accompanying us. First we went down into the old moat, long dry and overgrown with grass and nettles, but in one corner some white lilies rise pure and stately, and bloom unseen in this neglected spot. Some fragments of Roman columns have been built into the wall of the castle—one sees them from the moat. Then we explored some terraces that are round the outside walls, where enormous yellow roses cling to the crumbling stones and lemon-scented verbenas grow wild. We made another interesting discovery here—at least it would be interesting if the general opinion about it is correct. We found a hole in the wall of the tower under the terrace. My collaborator maintains it is the beginning of a ventilating shaft that communicates with the underground passage, but I am afraid it is nothing but a rat-hole.

We descended some rickety stairs, and after inspecting a sculptured Madonna, who, half overgrown with ivy, looks down on the occasional passers-by (people admire her; I do not, as she has her nose on one side), proceeded to the battlements. There are two old field-pieces here that formerly belonged to the French Republic. They have the fasces engraved upon them and the inscription, "An VII. RÉpublique francaise 6 Fructidor." I could not discover the history of these guns. I was told a hazy story about Duino being in the hands of the French in the beginning of this century; of its being stormed, taken, and partially burnt by the English, and that the English captain was always drunk; but the story lacks confirmation—particularly the last part of it.

In any case, the French were here, and took away all the contents of the armoury. In 1813, too, Trieste being in the possession of the French, Admiral Freemantle sailed up the Adriatic with some English men-of-war, whilst General Nugent advanced on the land side with the Austrian troops. The French commander retired into the citadel, and was there besieged by the English and Austrians. On October 24th the French surrendered.

This being so, it is quite possible that there was a siege of Duino, as it is very strongly situated and has always been an object for attack. Even as recently as 1866, in the war between Austria and Italy, the Italians had intended to land at Duino, had not their fleet been destroyed in the battle of Lissa.

We went down the old staircase to the little bathing-place near Dante's island. There is a strong wire net in the water to guard against the sharks. "Our host" disapproves of this net. He maintains that if any one bathing at Duino is unfortunate enough to be eaten by the one solitary shark that cruises in the Adriatic, he or she is the victim of such extraordinary bad luck that it is much better for him or her to be finished off at once. Then we wandered through the "Riviera" to the old ruin and the little sombre wood "sacred to Diana." The ruined castle rises dark and threatening on a massive and perpendicular rock, which is on three sides surrounded by the sea. The position is immensely strong—one can only approach by one little narrow path that could easily have been held in the old days by two or three resolute men. There is not much to be seen in the ruin. It is all crumbling to pieces and is half-smothered with creepers and grass. In one vaulted arch, probably once part of the chapel, there are faint traces of fresco-painting; and there are one or two enormous stone bullets lying about that must have been thrown from some kind of catapult. Every provision was made for a siege. One sees the old well, which still holds water.

Just under the old ruined castle the ground sinks and forms a hollow, and there a little wood of ilex-trees has grown, through whose dark and thick evergreen foliage no ray of sunlight seems ever to penetrate. It is a weird and uncanny sort of place: the trees seem black, the ground is black, and no grass or flowers grow there. Only on some bit of old crumbling masonry the ivy has extended a funereal pall. No birds seem to nestle in this solitary spot, and the earth smells damp, whilst you shiver a little in the cool shade of the sacred trees. It is peculiarly quiet and silent under the ilex; and if, sitting there in the long summer afternoons, you get drowsy and dreamy, thinking perhaps of times long, long ago, you would not wonder very much if, through the dark green of the melancholy trees that make a dome of shade over your head, a white form should glide, swift and silent—glide down from the golden light beyond into the darkness and gloom of the ilex wood.

Dream or reality, what does it matter, since both pass away in the night of time, and after a while are remembered no more?

How many may have come under the old, old ilex-trees in drowsy hot summer afternoons, or later, when the silver moon tried with her trembling rays to pierce the dark gloom of the wood! how many, each with his burden of joy or sorrow—gone—forgotten—faded away!

Dream or reality, what does it matter?