1816: the Grandest Tour

Italy: Chapter 7

The road to Pordenone was as clear as the rare bright day that shone over them. A wide river called the Tagliamento forced them to take a detour to a suitable crossing point, but once they found a moving fly-bridge they made it over with little difficulty. The raft and rope structure of the moving bridge was much like those back in Switzerland, and they shared the raft with a couple of other carriages since crossings only happened on the hour.

With the lush Friulian countryside floating by them, George, Tobias, and Isaac allowed themselves to celebrate at last.

"We're free!" George sighed in relief.

"Just so, aye..." said Tobias. "D'you know, I hadn't reckoned at just how tense he was making us all. Now that the fellow's gone – it's just wonderful!"

"And he can't complain, with the pay packet you sent him home on," said Isaac.

"I think we were more than generous, indeed," Tobias said, nodding. "I gave special instructions to the hotelier to deliver Otto his pay, and dismissal letter. Did my best to make it sound like we were called away on urgent business to meet our friends. In any case it all seems like much ado about nothing! So much fuss over a simple guide..."

"Who was probably reporting on us to the police," George added.

"Quite so, quite so," said Tobias. "But now we can set our minds at rest and enjoy this wonderful country. Anyone for a game of draughts?"

They wiled away the rest of the journey in easy chatter, and arrived in Pordenone by the early evening. At first sight Pordenone seemed every bit as old as Udine, yet it was more of a large town compared to the latter's small city. Here they released Georg, their Austrian driver since Salzburg, along with pay back to his homeland like Otto. They found a new driver with little issue, and spent the next few days examining the treasures of their current abode.

Even more than Germany, Switzerland, or France, in Italy even the smallest towns seemed to hold a staggering abundance of fine art, fine churches, and fine ladies. These last were sadly out of reach, as the tourists had no entree into local society, such as it was. But George and co. found enjoyment all the same in discovering the work of cinquecento painter and local legend Antonio de' Sacchis – known to history as Il Pordenone for his hometown. With three marriages and a stabbing fight with his own brother, Il Pordenone had led a tempestuous life outside of the brush and canvas. Nevertheless, his productivity and fame in his day made him a rival of Venice's great Titian.

Contemplating the connection of an artist's life to his work sent George's mind back to that painter of his own acquaintance – monsieur Géricault in Paris. Having leisure enough at last, George sat down to pen his long-intended letter to the artist. Part of his reticence until now had been his own barren lack of inspiration for commission ideas. Yet a subject had now occurred to him – the direct result of entering Italy just as he'd hoped. A scene of history, legend, and layered symbols filled George's mind: Attila the Hun, "Scourge of God" and sacker of Rome, looking out on the burning pile of Roman Aquileia in the distance, brooding under his winged helmet while his faithful men go about their impossible task of erecting a hill from mere helmet-fulls of earth. Well, it was compelling to George at least.

He dashed the missive off in just a quarter of an hour, feeling quite accomplished. With an hour at least before bed, George's hand hovered near the quill to begin a new missive. But to whom? He would have tried writing to Hugh, but had little idea where he and Robert would be staying in Milan, let alone if they'd even arrived yet. There were his father and mother. But the thought of writing to them – carrying on the charade that Dr. Boxborough was still guiding them, mentioning only the details they might deem safe and responsible – made him feel so exhausted he put it off for another day. Then there was Susan.