The Place of Honeymoons

There is a heavenly terrace, flanked by marvelous trees. To the left, far

down below, is a curving, dark-shaded, turquoise body of water called

Lecco; to the right there lies the queen of lakes, the crown of Italy, a

corn-flower sapphire known as Como. Over and about it--this terrace--poets

have raved and tousled their neglected locks in vain to find the perfect

phrasing; novelists have come and gone and have carried away peace and

inspiration; and painters have painted it from a thousand points of view,

and perhaps are painting it from another thousand this very minute. It is

the Place of Honeymoons. Rich lovers come and idle there; and lovers of

modest means rush up to it and down from it to catch the next steamer to

Menaggio. Eros was not born in Greece: of all barren mountains,

unstirring, Hymettus, or Olympus, or whatever they called it in the days

of the junketing gods, is completest. No; Venus went a-touring and abode a

while upon this same gracious spot, once dear to Pliny the younger.

Between the blessed ledge and the towering mountains over the way, rolls a

small valley, caressed on either side by the lakes. There are flower

gardens, from which in summer rises the spicy perfume of lavender; there

are rows upon rows of grape-vines, terraced downward; there are purple

figs and white and ruby mulberries. Around and about, rising sheer from

the waters, wherever the eye may rove, heaven-touching, salmon-tinted

mountains abound, with scarfs of filmy cloud aslant their rugged profiles,

and beauty-patches of snow. And everywhere the dark and brooding cypress,

the copper beech, the green pine accentuate the pink and blue and white

stucco of the villas, the rich and the humble.

Behind the terrace is a promontory, three or four hundred feet above the

waters. Upon the crest is a cultivated forest of all known evergreens.

There are ten miles of cool and fragrant paths, well trodden by the

devoteés of Eros. The call of love is heard here; the echoes to-day

reverberate with the impassioned declarations of yesterday. The

Englishman's reserve melts, the American forgets his coupons, the German

puts his arm around the robust waist of his frau or fräulein. (This is

nothing for him; he does it unconcernedly up and down the great urban

highways of the world.) Again, between the terrace ledge and the forest lies a square of velvet

green, abounding in four-leaf clover. Buona fortuna! In the center there

is a fountain. The water tinkles in drops. One hears its soft music at all

times. Along the terrace parapet are tea-tables; a monster oak protects

one from the sun. If one (or two) lingers over tea and cakes, one may

witness the fiery lances of the setting sun burn across one arm of water

while the silver spars of the rising moon shimmer across the other. Nature

is whole-souled here; she gives often and freely and all she has.