1816: the Grandest Tour

Italy: Chapter 5

Schloss Porcia was just as tasteful within as without. It was now September, and a bit over four months since George and company had made the fateful crossing from Dover. The milestone occurred to George because in this beautiful residence they seemed at last on the very cusp of Italy, the object of their tour, the great treasures of art and history, and his own heart's designs. The castle may have been built for a 16th century Hapsburg courtier, but its palazzo-style architectural was as redolent of the warm south as a glass of Italian Sangiovese. The double-galleried courtyard was a particular highlight, and it with definite regret George pulled himself away to seek out the ancient monastery of Molzbichl.

"Now as for the 'Prince Regent,'" Tobias said to George as they walked through the monastery's ruins, "should we part company with him in the next town, Villach? Or should we wait until Udine in Italy proper."

It was not that the ancient site of Molzbichl was unimpressive. The place was reputed to be the oldest monastery in Austria, and had a fascinating late-Roman tombstone to attest it. But with such a sticky matter hanging in the balance it was impossible for either young man to focus, even on something that would have engrossed them otherwise.

"Not in Villach," said George. "Easier to lose him over the border I'll wager. Besides, he's only supposed to accompany us that far anyway. Let's hold him to his word, and see what answer he gives."

After lunch they set out for Villach, which they were able to reach by dusk. On the way they passed through another border post, but it was a much more lax affair than previous frontiers. This time they didn't even have to get out of the carriage.

"We are entering a new kingdom, yes," Otto explained, "but it is the Kingdom of Illyria, which was proclaimed this very year. It was founded for the efficient running of the Habsburg Kaiserreich (by which he meant Empire). So it is not so very different a country, since it is also ruled by our good Emperor Franz."

Anything to bring up his dear Emperor Franz, George thought. Still, it was always worth noting when they passed into a new territory – even one clearly under Austria's heavy boot. The new land's name struck something at the back of his mind, a long forgotten line of Shakespeare:

"What country, friends, is this?"

"This is Illyria, lady."

George chuckled, then annoyed himself by thinking of Susan. A passion for the Bard was one of the many they'd shared since childhood; she would have appreciated the moment. At least he could file the thought away to put in a letter – to be posted he knew not where, nor when.

Like Spittal before it, Villach lay on the banks of the river Drau. Nestled among innumerable Alpine peaks, it had as picturesque a situation as any they'd yet seen. Its streets and homes had a striking regularity as well, with buildings distinguished only by bright contrasting colors. From a cursory glance there seemed little enough for their purposes, but this was just as well. George was well and truly sick of the German-speaking lands. He couldn't decide if this was bigoted prejudice on his part, or a rational reaction to barbaric local customs. It was entirely true that Goethe had been a marvelous host. The sights of Weimar, Munich, Nuremberg, and Salzburg had been well worth the travel, and their party had even enjoyed much unlooked-for hospitality, such as with Karl Sand or the villagers of Bischofshofen. All of that was true. But now that he realized this would be the last quaint Alpine town, the last uniform little houses and steeples, heavy food, and forbidding women, George allowed himself a great wave of relief.