House and Garden 
long enough in Ti¬ 
voli. Let us leave 
lower Italy and come 
up into the High¬ 
lands, as Dr. Robert¬ 
son calls them, of this 
sunny land. 
We have grown 
used by now to the 
flat bareness of the 
Italian architecture, to 
the sparsity of win¬ 
dows and to the vast 
surfaces of plain wall 
that made us think at 
first (yes, confess it) 
of barracks and prisons 
and factories. By 
now we are able to 
realize that whereas in 
England or Scotland a castle wall does 
literally “ frown,” here in the land of the 
sun the walls and towers beam upon us. 
There is a placid look of indulgence about 
them akin to that, shall we say, of the 
superior priesthood contemplating the trail- 
ties of the laity. It is all the same, what¬ 
soever gloomy or tragic interior history 
may lurk behind these smiling villas— 
what skeletons in the closet, so to speak, 
the walls may hide—what matters it to 
the walls! 
Come with me up into the little mountain 
town of Asolo, which the poet Browning 
“discovered” in one of his gypsy wander¬ 
ings and which he has made famous forever 
by the story of how Pippa passed that 
way. 
Long ago someone else, we do not know 
whom, discovered the tiny hill town for Queen 
Caterina Cornaro. Here the exiled queen 
held a miniature court in imitation of the 
court in Cyprus that should have been hers, 
and here she solaced herself for the loss of 
sham glories by the gain of some true 
pleasures, and here, like all Italian grand 
dames, she patronized arts and letters. 
Today what is left of Caterina’s royal 
palace has been turned into an artist’s studio 
by Barrett Browning. The veritable old 
tower up which the courtiers used to pass 
has lent itself admirablv to modernity, and in 
marked contrast to the rich gloom of typical 
Italian villas the lightsomeness of the color 
scheme is startling. Yet when all is said, 
though few people would have dared leave 
the walls of a room so white and bare, the 
result of just this whiteness that gleams in 
the sunlight and reflects here and there the 
rich gold of draperies and window hangings 
could hardly be bettered. 
But here in this pleasant villa garden 
man and money, and best of all, Nature 
have worked together. And the result— 
fascination—hypnotism, if you like. 
If you will spare another five minutes to 
walk in the shade of the pergola with me 
and watch the play of light on the marble 
columns and the gleaming statues, if you 
will note how even the steps are a study in 
light and shade, how the whole picture is set 
in a dark frame of ivy-draped wall,—perhaps 
if you linger long enough you will need no 
converting to my belief that chief among the 
various elements that go to make up our 
pleasure in the wonderful Italian gardens is 
Nature’s chiaroscuro. 
Esther Matson 
247 
