Chapter XVI: Messina (ave Atque Vale!) 466 (7)

“I am in the automobile business now,” the young man said, “but that’s only temporary. When I go back to America I shall study law. I have been trying to get to Sicily all winter; do fix it up for me!”

It was “fixed up.” Belknap telegraphed us to send Brush, and we all returned to Rome.

“Why don’t you end up your trip by all coming down here?” The question was repeated several times in J.’s letters. As a result, on the 24th of March, Patsy, Gerome Brush and I left Rome for Sicily. We traveled as far as Naples with Mr. Parrish and his niece, who were to sail in a few days for home and could not come with us. The trip from Rome to Naples was a pleasant one, though the spring was very backward. Only a few quince and apricot trees were in blossom; the beautiful vineyards were still dark, without a sign of promise. Hanging from tree to tree in the old classic fashion, the vines made a lovely pattern of delicate black tracery against the fervent blue sky.

At Naples we regretfully parted with Mr. Parrish and Miss Lee. Patsy laid in a stock of sandwiches, milk chocolate and newspapers, and we set our faces to the south, prepared for any fate.

Soon after leaving Naples our train broke down.

“_E rotto il Westinghouse_,” the guard said to each separate traveler in turn.

“Look at Vesuvius, or what’s left of it!” cried Patsy. We had halted within sight of the great volcano. Patsy had not seen it since the eruption of 1906, when one of the twin cones sank out of sight and the whole outline of the mountain was altered, losing much of its distinction. “I never thought to see the everlasting hills change their very shape before my eyes--that gives you an idea of volcanic force!”

On the 25th of March we woke to a wet world. Through the blurred windows of the sleeping-car we looked out upon emerald fields and fruit orchards, between stretches of rough uncultivated land. The way passed through lemon groves, where the trees were covered thick with pale gold lemons, the air was sweet with the fragrance of their blossoms; through vast plantations of blue-green cactus, like those of Morocco; through orange groves where the branches bent beneath the weight of red-gold fruit. Everywhere was that splendid contrast of the red and yellow golds, mixed with the gorgeous dark green foliage of the nespoli, whose fruit ripens much later--now there were only hard little green balls between bunches of long graceful leaves. Here and there the green was softened by rosy peach blossoms, the intenser pink of the apricot, or the queer gray sprawling limbs of fig trees covered with silvery bloom, though not a leaf had yet unfolded.

“How can we be such fools as to linger in a city when the miracle of Spring has begun!” Patsy exclaimed; we all agreed never again to commit that folly of follies. At every station we passed cars loaded with piles of newly sawed American lumber, shipped from Naples and distributed at various points on the Calabrian coast. At Palmi we saw the first ruins. Some little wooden huts had been built on the lower slopes of the hill; on the side-tracks were rows of extra railway carriages, turned into shelters for the poor homeless people. It had been raining desperately until we reached Palmi, where fortunately it held up long enough for us to have a good look at the magnificent olive trees, the finest I ever saw. A whole forest of olives goes climbing up the mountainside, like hoary giants with wild arms tossed to heaven. The trees in Dante’s Inferno, that bled when their limbs were broken, must have looked like these ancient olives of Palmi, centuries old, still the main support of the peasants on whose land they grow. The chestnuts were as fine in their way, sturdy umbrageous monarchs of the wood, but lacking the mystery that above all other trees the olive, Athena’s gift, possesses.

Patsy had an errand at Bagnara. From the midst of a group of sad, listless looking women, who stood watching our train as if it were the one important event of the day, a tall girl in black pushed her way to the front. There must have been some signal agreed upon; how else could Patsy have found the sister of Sora Clara the moment he stepped on the platform at Bagnara? They talked together until our train started, when Patsy slipped something into the girl’s hand and sprang into the car.

“Don’t report me,” he said. “I have turned over a new leaf; I don’t let my right hand know what my left hand does. I

reported every franc I gave away in Rome, till I caught on to what it meant. My poor Sanscrit professor had been promised substantial help. I reported the little money I gave him; after that he got nothing more. I was told never to give a single family more than fifty francs. How’s a man who has lost everything he has in the world going to start life again on ten dollars?

The situation of Bagnara recalls Amalfi; there is a fine smooth beach, where the fishing boats are drawn up on the shore. The nets are spread higher up on the sand. Above the lovely scallop of shore the little town perches on the hillside. At Gioia Tauro, just before Palmi, the semicircle of golden beach in the shape of a scimitar, the beryl green water, reminded us of Tangiers.

After we passed Bagnara the train went very slowly.

“At this rate we shall never reach Taormina tonight,” Patsy complained.

“_Pazienza, Signorino! chi va piano va sano!_” said the guard. “This is the first train that has gone through since the landslide.” This was the first we had heard of a landslide.

“A mere nothing, only the rocks came trundling down from the mountains and broke the track so badly that no trains have run for the past month,” the guard explained.

“Scylla!” We must have been dozing, for we all started when the guard called out the name of the station.

“Look!”

The tremendous rock of Scylla, with the strong castle on the top, springs from the sea like a great many-toned jewel of coral, shading from rose to yellow. The sun shone, the wind blew the surf in great green and white surges against the cliff. Further out the water was pale emerald, with sudden streaks of amethyst; everywhere on sea, shore and cloud lay shadows of sapphire.

Even Patsy was dumb, moved beyond words by that glimpse.

“Their Excellencies saw the castle?” chirruped the friendly guard. “The earthquake didn’t hurt it, more than to crack the outer wall a trifle. They knew how to build in those days!”

“The castle is a trumpery medieval affair,” remarked Patsy, “though it was standing when Robert Guiscard came in 1060, but the rock! In the Odyssey it’s described as the home of a roaring sea monster, with six terrific heads, twelve deformed feet, and three rows of teeth. Look over there--the lighthouse! That marks the whirlpool! ‘_Incidit in Scyllam qui vult vitare Charybdis!_’”

Across the narrow strait lay the jewel of the south, Sicily! The old name, Trinacria, was given to the island on account of its shape, an irregular triangle with three great points or promontories. It was once a part of the Apennine range, but in some volcanic upheaval it was broken off--as a monarch breaks a link from his gold chain and tosses it to some henchman--and thrown into the Mediterranean, where it shines a brilliant in a sapphire setting, the most coveted, the most disputed of earth’s gems.

Patsy had not spoken for twenty minutes. His dancing eyes had grown grave and steady; the imp, the sprite, the creature of impulse, was gone; in his place was a stranger with grave eyes.

“Villa San Giovanni,” cried the guard. “Il ferryboat per Messina.”

“Ferryboat! Sounds familiar,” said Patsy. “Tumble out, we’re here!”

As Patsy made me comfortable on one of the wooden benches, I saw a familiar face that puzzled me in the crowd of passengers. Where had I met that pale girl with the mouth like a scarlet trumpet-creeper, the thin curved eyebrows like a crescent moon, the deep eyes that looked violet in the distance and were blue?

“I know her,” I said.

“She doesn’t appear to know you,” Patsy murmured. I was so sure I knew her that I began to burrow in my memory, searched pigeonhole after pigeonhole to find just where in a lifetime of impressions that arch face was tucked away.

“It’s Palladia!” I found her at last. “My milliner, lost to us in Rome for three painful years, ever since she went to Palermo to set up for herself.”

I spoke to the girl without more ado:

“Palladia, don’t you remember me?”

“Perfectly, Signora. I have not seen you since the morning I brought you the hat with the primole for Pasqua.”

“And you would not have spoken to me?”

“Pardon me, Signora, may I fasten your veil? I feared you would not recall me.” We were shaking hands warmly now; she was my milliner again, I her client.

“If I bent the hat a little, so? That is more becoming.”

“You have done well in Palermo?”

“Discreetly; I am returning from Naples, where I have been to buy the new shapes, look over the modes. I have some beautiful French straw--if the Signora should come to Palermo?”

“Of course I shall come, just to get one of your hats. I haven’t had a decent one since you left Rome.” Palladia produced her card and, wishing each other _buon viaggio_, we parted at the dock, Palladia to take the train for Palermo, we to look for a cab.

“No one to meet us! They can’t have received letter or telegram,” said Patsy. “Just as well, nothing like taking our friends unawares. Now they won’t have time to smarten up for us.”

“Will that old rabbit-hutch hold us all?” I asked, looking distrustfully at the only vehicle in sight. The driver understood; he seized the wheel of the battered old cab and shook it violently to show how strong it was.

“This is a most excellent and signorial carriage, Signorino. It needs paint; why should it not? I dug it out myself from the ruins, and the horse too. That blessed animal has cost me a lot of fatigue. It was nine days before I could get him out, nine days _sotto le macerie_!”

“How much to the Case Americane?” asked Patsy.

“Two francs, Excellency, with a slight token for myself. The Comandante himself set the price. He drives with no other; I am the official coachman of the Americans.”

For a horse that had been nine days buried, the poor little rat of a pony drew the cab bravely through the Via San Martino, one smooth lake of yellow mud.

“There’s Old Glory!” shouted Patsy.

I had been so much taken up with looking back at the desolate streets, at the Tell Tale Tower, I did not know we had arrived at camp. Two Italian soldiers, on guard at the entrance, halted the cab.

“Stop, thou knowest thou canst go no

farther,” said the elder, evidently a friend of the driver’s.

“What dost thou say? I, who drive to the door of the barracks four times every day at least! Mayst thou die of an accident!”

“Never, unless there is an officer in thy cab. These be strangers, without a written pass from the Comandante; they cannot enter!”

“Archpriest, I say! Mayst thou be stricken with--“

“Oh, come now, officer,” Patsy interrupted persuasively, “you will not make the lady walk through this mud! We are friends of the American Comandante. He expects us.”

The soldier was firm; we could not pass.

“Peace, I will inform the Sor Comandante,” said a new voice. It was Gasperone; I recognized him from J.’s description. He put his finger to his lips and tapped gently at the door of the small neat wooden cottage nearest the flag.

“Behold a lady and two gentlemen, who have driven up in a cab,” said Gasperone through the half-opened door. “Shall they be sent away or allowed to enter the camp?”

J., standing at his drawing-board, looked from the window.

“Good Lord,” I heard him cry, “they’ve come!”

Our plan was to spend the afternoon at the camp and push on that night to Taormina, an hour and a half distant by train. Captain Belknap received us most kindly and showed us about the camp. What had been accomplished was a miracle; the place had already begun to look like a neat, well laid out American village.

“We save every tree we possibly can,” said Belknap. “Each lemon tree brings an income of at least ten francs, the mulberries even more.”

Belknap and J. fought hard for the life of every tree that did not actually interfere with the construction of the buildings. Some of the streets have long lines of lemon trees, with here and there a fig tree. They saved a double row of shade trees, for which the guests at Hotel Regina Elena will some day bless them.

As we were inspecting the site of the hotel, the heavens opened and the flood descended. We hurried to the office for shelter and admired the trim row of ledgers, the typewriter, the letter scales, the red, white and blue silk cord that Uncle Sam makes for his own special service, all the tidy paraphernalia of the Chief’s workroom. I peeped into the drafting-room, partitioned off with a wooden screen from the office. It looked nice and professional, with sheets of architect’s paper, opaque white, semi-transparent blue, yellow tracing, compasses, T squares, all sorts of fascinating architectural tools. On the wall hung the neatly drawn plans of the hotel; on the drawing-board was the ground plan for the Queen’s hospital at Villaggio Regina Elena.

“May we look?” Patsy asked.

“If you will not touch,” J. glanced up from his work. “Mind that India ink!”

“I can’t let you go on to Taormina in such a tempest,” said Captain Belknap. “If you will put up with what we can offer, I should be glad to have you spend the night at the camp.” This was more than we had dared hope for; Patsy was in the seventh heaven.

“It’s a reward for bringing down the new recruit,” he whispered.

Brush, the “new recruit,” was sent almost immediately to Reggio, where Wilcox found him an invaluable assistant.

I was shown to my quarters--the room that had been Mr. Bicknell’s--in a small frame house, sixteen by sixteen. It was divided into two rooms by a wooden partition with a door; there was a well fitted window with a sash curtain in each room. Behind the house was the famous kitchen, of which we had heard so much. It is a tiny convenient place with a cement floor and walls, a stone table with little holes for the live charcoal, and grates to go over the fire. My room had a table, chair, washstand with jug, basin and pail. Gasperone brought me hot water and took my boots and dress to brush. In the corner of the room was a most ingenious and convenient bed. Some springy boards were nailed rather loosely to an upright head and footpiece; the boards were almost as good as a spring, the mattress and pillow of sea-moss were comfortable enough for anybody, not born in Sybaris.

I sat down and looked out of the window towards the tool house, the center of interest for the moment. The men had knocked off work, and were passing in file, very slowly, before the open window, where the paymaster sat, paying each man what was due him.

After our long journey, our harassing drive through ruined Messina--where the reality surpassed all descriptions--the exquisite neatness, the order, the comfort of the Zona Case Americane, brought a sense of well-being like oil poured on a burning wound. I sat for an hour in that fragrant little wooden room, while the rain drummed with soft fingers on the roof, and went over the history of our journey step by step, tested link by link the chain of chance circumstances that had drawn young Brush, the new recruit, from the garage in Florence to the camp by the Torrente Zaera.

The manner in which the whole American working party was brought together is well illustrated by the story. If Mr. Parrish had not been in Florence, if he had not hunted up Mr. Brush, if that letter from camp had not come the day we lunched at the Trattoria Aurora, we should not have had one of our most useful and faithful workers; and young Brush would have missed one of the great experiences of his life. Mr. Griscom felt that one of his practical difficulties was that all the help he could hope for must be drawn from the American colonies in Italy, the Government agents, consuls, artists and missionaries. If this was a difficulty--which I question--the way it was overcome both at the Embassy and the camp was magnificent. Whatever tool he had, Belknap worked with and found it a good tool. It may have been his nature--he is the kind of workman who never grumbles at his tools--but the character of the helpers surely counted for something. Our consuls were never found wanting. Bayard Cutting from Milan, though out of health at the time of the earthquake, went down to Messina with the first relief party, and from that time on he was faithful to the great work. Bishop at Palermo, Crowninshield at Naples, Smith at Genoa, did magnificent service, working day and night, without thought of sparing themselves. The spirit of the officials and volunteers was almost without exception altruistic. Every man was trying to help the other out; all were matched in the great race for service. Sailors, consuls, artists and missionaries have something in common surely; it was just that something that made them of so much use. They are not machines; they have not been warped and deformed by the commercial slavery that is sapping the life-blood of our people. Mammon, the slave-driver, may crack his whip; it does not frighten them. Their time is not money, it’s beyond price, so they spent it freely for their suffering brothers and never counted the cost.

J. had written that the nights were cold. I unpacked my hot-water bottle and my traveling rug; I was just on the point of calling Gasperone to fill the bottle, when J. looked in. His eyes brightened at the sight of the rubber bottle.

“Are you going to use this?” he asked.

“Oh, no! I always travel with it, in case of illness.”

“If you are sure, I will have it filled; Belknap’s taken cold. You brought the rug; will you need it?”

“No, no! There are plenty of blankets.”

“You think so? Then I will take this for him. Some of the men have been greedy about blankets; he has less than any man in the camp.”

“Take them, take them of course!” J. went off with bottle and rug; I piled every garment I had with me on my sea-moss bed and tucked myself up comfortably. What sort of man was this Chief who inspired such devotion?

It must have been after midnight, for the cocks were crowing, when I was awakened by the sound of gunshots, followed by loud shouts and the noise of hurrying footsteps. I listened, as I never listened before.

In the distance a dog bayed; some vagrant cur had escaped in spite of the stringent orders to shoot all dogs and cats on sight. The flash of a lantern next, the clank of a sword-belt as if one buckled on his weapon as he ran, more footsteps, at first light and hurrying, then slow and heavy,--the tread of men who carry a burthen: they passed the door, grew faint, were lost in the silence of the night. Through the upper uncurtained window-panes the haggard face of the gibbous moon looked from an angry sky.

I asked at breakfast what the commotion had been. No one had heard the noises of the night; it was suggested that I had been dreaming. Months after, Patsy told me what had happened.

“You remember the two soldiers who challenged us when we reached the camp? They had to keep a strict watch at night so that the building materials and tools should not be stolen. The soldier on duty fell asleep at his post. He was wakened suddenly by the steps of his comrade, come to relieve him; before he was fully awake he caught up his gun and shot the poor fellow, who, as it happened, was his best friend. I had it from the cab-driver, never a word of it at camp of course!”

That morning Patsy hunted up the Avvocato Bonanno, and through him made several interesting acquaintances. He lunched with some officers, and recognized among the dishes served certain canned meats sent out from America for the _profughi_.

“The Sicilian peasants simply won’t eat them; they’d rather starve,” Patsy explained. “The only thing to do with the quantities of tinned food we sent is to feed it to the army; they’re not so particular. Another time when we want to help such people in a plight like this, we should send flour and corn-meal and trust them to turn them into macaroni and polenta, their two staples of life. We’re so fond of change, so keen about new foods, that we give old standbys, like hominy and oatmeal, new fancy names every year, just to sell them. An American believes something new is better than anything old. An Italian only admits a thing good that has been so proven by the centuries. Have you room in your bag for this?” Patsy handed me a pound package of Salada Ceylon tea.

“Where did you get it?”

“Bought it! We sent these poor devils half a cargo of tea! They did not know what on earth it was good for, tried to smoke it, chew it, use it as snuff--no go! Finally they put it on sale; now foreigners in camp and on shipboard can buy it at a fair price! The money is put into coffee; _that_ is the very breath of life to a Sicilian.”

X

THE VILLAGGIO REGINA ELENA

“What did you think had happened?”

Caterina traced a cross with her bare brown toe in the dusty path of the _campo santo_: “Per Dio, Signora, we thought it was the Day of Judgment. Mamma, babbo and I were dressed, ready to go to work--we live here, my father is _guardiano_. My two brothers were in bed; they were killed. One still remains _sotto le macerie_; there is no way to get the body out. After the 28th of April no more may be moved on account of infection; it is finished.”

Caterina, daughter of the porter at the cemetery, a lovely girl of sixteen, was our guide. Smiling, she welcomed us, standing under a sculptured “Genius of Grief.”

“A strange guide for such a place!” said Patsy.

Strange indeed! Coffins everywhere, and babies in grandams’ arms--the new life pushing aside the old, as the green oak leaves come out beneath the brown.

As Caterina led the way up the sunny slope, between cypresses and roses, she pointed out the tottering and broken monuments; the earthquake had wrought strange havoc here. The chapel of the Cavallieri di Messina with its fine Ionic colonnade was a ruin; some of the tombs were wrenched open.

“Perhaps these dead, like ourselves, thought that the last day had come,” said Caterina.

A wine cart loaded with casks of wine, with a coffin lashed at the back, passed us. It was followed by two women with grim set faces--no tears, they were all shed long ago. Caterina paused by the grave of the patriot, La Farina, picked a red rose and handed it to me with a shy smile. From the upper terrace we looked down on a plain, furrowed as if for planting. A long line of men were digging a trench. Piles of plain unmarked wooden boxes--there must have been several hundreds--were stacked on the ground.

“These might be packing cases for dry-goods,” said Patsy. “There’s not the faintest suggestion of the human form, not even the sloping line of the shoulders, to show what they are!”

“Will there be no service, no benediction?” I asked Caterina.

“God has already given them benediction enough,” she replied.

Messina is like a battle-field; there is too much haste for funeral pomp; nothing remains to be done but get the poor human remains out of sight, under ground as soon as possible. From time to time the Archbishop visits the _campo santo_, blesses the dead _en masse_, and sprinkles holy water on the long brown mounds.

As we watched the men delving in the fosse, a gay little painted _carretto_ passed, driven by a blond lad with a roguish face and a rose behind his ear. He sat upon two coffins, whistling merrily.

“_Buon giorno_, Caterina; what a fine day, if the sun would only stay!” He flourished his whip and flicked a fly off the mule’s ear.

Caterina looked at him adoringly and echoed his wish:

“Perhaps the rains are over,” she said. “Thou art well, Carlino?”

While they talked about the weather, their eyes also spoke of secrets unspeakable. It was easy to see how things stood between them. In that dreadful indescribable atmosphere, hazel eyes caught fire from blue. Death had become a commonplace to the lover and his lass; after so many months of familiarity they had grown callous to its ugliness. In the meeting of their eyes, life laughed at death.

In the upper, more aristocratic part of the _campo santo_, the dead lay in separate graves. Caterina stopped near two grave-diggers at work.

“Two metres deep,” she said sagely.

A pair of stone-masons were working here, directed by a tall eagle-faced man and a youth, evidently his son. One mason marked on a small white headstone letters and a date in black; then with a chisel, which he knocked only with his hand, chipped out the letters from the stone. It must have been soft as cheese, for by the time the grave was a metre deep, the name Domenica was neatly carved. The second mason was smoothing a little white cross that had been roughed out of the same soft stone. When the grave was two metres deep, cross and headstone were ready. The plain wooden coffin had a rude cross nailed on the lid. Without a flower or a tear, it was lowered into the grave and the earth filled in.

“Thou hast done well and quickly,” said the gentleman to the elder mason. “Here is the money as agreed.”

“The others the Signore spoke of?”

“Gone--there was some mistake. We have found only this, the youngest. Perhaps another has buried them, thinking them his own. I return to Rome tonight.”

Then I remembered: this was the man I had met with the fair young woman going from one survivor to another, asking for news of Messina.

An Italian officer and an Englishman passed, and stood looking down at those men digging in the long trench.

“What do you advise?” asked the officer. “She is tormented; here is her last letter. Nothing will satisfy her unless I find him. I have tried every way; there is no trace, no record. He may have been among those burned or carried out to sea the first days; he may be in that trench. What would you do?”

“Find him,” said the Englishman, “or another in his place, and put up a stone to him. Then she can have a place to lay her flowers and to weep; it’s not his bones, but his memory--” They passed out of earshot.

We moved to another part of the upper terrace and watched half a dozen men take up the flat stone covers of a row of tombs, sunk under the marble pavement.

“What are they doing?” Patsy asked.

“We must make room here, there, everywhere, for these new ones,” Caterina answered. “No one could have expected such a calamity; how could we be prepared?” She spoke with the anxiety of a hostess, who has not beds enough for her guests to sleep in. “These poor dead, they too must lie in sanctified ground; it is their turn.”

“Those buried here before?”

“The people who died of the last cholera.”

“Let us go,” said Patsy, “we’ve seen enough.”

Did he remember the story they tell in Florence? When the ancient city wall was taken down fifty years ago, the workmen died like sheep of a mysterious disease. An investigation was ordered. It was found that the old wall crossed the cemetery, where the victims of the great plague were buried in the fourteenth century; the plague germs were still alive, and the workmen had died of the plague that in Boccaccio’s time decimated Florence.

“Would you like a new dress, Caterina?” said Patsy, as we paused at the gate. Her ragged gown clung to her with the grace of classic drapery; it seemed a pity to change it for a stiff new dress. “Come to the Case Americane at two o’clock and ask for the Signora.”

“_Si, Signorino!_” She watched us go with dancing eyes; she was to have a new dress.

Carlino was waiting outside the gate. His cart was empty now; we stopped to look at the pretty turnout. The mule’s harness was superb, with a high pommel and headstall of crimson velvet embroidered in tinsel. The wooden axle was beautifully carved with grotesque heads at either end. The panels in sides and back of the cart were painted with different scenes from Sicilian history or literature. Many of the old legends are preserved in this way. In spite of the painting being rather poor, certain classic details are observed. The subject of each scene is stated so that there can be no doubt as to what the painter wishes to portray. On one panel of Carlino’s _carretto_ the title is painted under a tragic mask:

“Eschylus gives a rehearsal of his play of Œdipus at Colonus at the Theatre of Dionysius.”

“That’s Eschylus,” Patsy pointed out, “you know him by the roll of manuscript in his hand--the play happens to be by Sophocles, a mere detail!”

The next panel represents English soldiers scouting in the desert.

“That’s an officer in khaki and a wide-awake hat on horseback, with an Arab in a bournous pointing out the way.”

“_La prima lettera amorosa_” occupies the third panel, a garden scene--a gentleman in Louis Quinze dress plays the harp to the heroine in pink satin, reading a letter; below the tail-board is a boldly carved dragon; in an under-panel a pair of sweethearts embracing. Carlino was proud of his cart, which was fresh, clean, and newly varnished.

“Not a bad _carretto_, is it?” he said, pleased at our attention. We left Carlino waiting, and singing as he waited an old song of the people:

“Mamma, mamma fò la preghiera
Tu non lo sai con quale ardore
Prego Iddio mattina e sera
Che dell’ amante mi serbi il core!”

We looked into the Giardino Mazzini, where the Calabresi family took refuge after the earthquake. The sign at the entrance was still intact: “The public is prayed not to touch the plants or to walk upon the grass.”

In the middle of the garden the calm face of Mazzini looks down upon a strange scene. Barracks and shanties have been knocked together anywhere, everywhere; one family is established in a gay little summer house. A clothes-line has been made fast to the pedestal that supports the patriot’s bust, a scarlet petticoat flaps behind his head; two women are washing at a tub; a man tends a fire in an open grate, built of stray bricks; in a gypsy kettle, hung on three sticks, something savory boils and bubbles. A swing has been put up across the broken iron railing; a tall girl is seated in the swing, her hair neatly tied with a green ribbon; with a bold foot she pushes the ground, and swings high, higher, under the palm trees where the dates are turning yellow. Three girls in an arbor are at work, making up a funeral wreath of laurel and pansies; one offers us flowers.

“Here,” said Patsy, giving the elder ten francs, “make a cross; take it to Caterina at the _campo santo_, ask her to put it on the grave where they buried Domenica an hour ago.”

“That’s the most encouraging sight that we have seen in Messina outside the Mosella,” he said, “people are beginning to buy flowers for their dead.”

Punctual to the minute, Caterina tapped on my door.

“Come in, _cara mia_, and choose your dress.”

Spread out on the sea-moss bed were several frocks; I hoped Caterina would like the blue dress, or the scarlet jacket and green skirt; she didn’t even look at them, but pointed to a black skirt and bodice, made by Sora Clara, seamstress late of Bagnara.

“Might it be this?” Then grown bold she asked for a dress for her mother’s sister.

“She has been more unfortunate than another, because she had more to lose! When Zia Maddalena went back to her house to get the money hidden in her mattress, it was gone. _Poveretta!_”

“Why didn’t Zia Maddalena keep her money in the bank, instead of that foolish place?”

“One must hide one’s money somewhere. Cousin Sofia had hers all in her pillow. She never forgot it but ran out with it under her arm.”

Immense sums of money were lost in this way. Sicilians distrust banks; the majority keep their money hidden in their houses. The thieves, knowing this habit, knew just where to look.

We chose a dress for Zia Maddalena and one for Cousin Sofia; then Caterina took us to call on her relations. We found them hard at work, building a little shack from what looked like American lumber. Zia Maddalena, a gay little old woman, with a load of boards on her back, scolded her two small grandsons.

“Do me the favor to work a little faster, Checco. The rain will begin before we have the roof on. Birbante! Are you not ashamed? You are slower than a sheep.”

Caterina made us known to aunt and cousin. Zia Maddalena welcomed us; Sofia, sitting on the ground, suckling her infant, smiled and nodded.

“I have lived on this spot for thirty-seven years,” the old woman began. “_She_ was born here,” pointing to Sofia. “Do you think I would live anywhere else? Later we shall have one of the American barracks. The Signore will speak to the Sor Comandante of us?”

Sofia handed the baby to her mother, picked up a stone for a hammer and began to nail down the roof.

“That’s the little scamp who steals the nails from camp,” said Patsy, “a handful at a time. Look at the size of his fist!”

I gave Zia Maddalena the garments we had brought.

“Good!” she said, “so we shall have something decent for Pasqua, black too; are we not both widows? She lost her husband, I mine, but she saved her money. Well, what’s to be done about it? We are alive, that’s always something.”

Zia Maddalena was stout of heart; she had nothing but smiles for us.

“I hope they can have one of the barracks,” I said as we walked back to camp.

Patsy of course knew all about it.

“When the houses are finished,” he explained, “Belknap will turn them over to the local authorities. He’s been pestered for them already, especially by Messinesi who claim to be American citizens. The allotment of the houses

won’t be an easy job for anybody; the municipality must tackle it. There’s a good fighting chance for our friends. The aunt of Caterina is the grandmother of Gasperone. She is officially connected with the camp, a person of influence!”

We were picking our way through almost impassable streets, climbing mountains of debris. At one place we found ourselves on a level with the second story of what had been a handsome bedroom. The front of the palace had fallen into the heap of ruins on which we were standing. Two white beds stood side by side. On the wall hung a costly mirror without even a crack. Near the door were two trunks and a valise with the labels of several fashionable continental hotels.

“The people who lived here?” I said.

“Under the ruins; they had just returned from their wedding journey,” said Caterina.

That afternoon J. took me to the Villaggio Regina Elena on the other side of Messina. Like our camp, it is beautifully situated on the edge of a _torrente_, facing the straits. As we drove over the fine road, I could hardly credit what J. told me, that both road and village had been built since the earthquake. We were met by two Italian officers; one carried J. off to look over the site for the American quarter here, the other offered to show me the Villaggio.

The butcher was just taking down his shutters, opening shop for the afternoon. The bakery stood opposite; the smell of fresh bread floated from the window. The baker’s wife sat sewing in the doorway; a baby, swaddled stiff as a papoose, lay in her lap.

“Enter, enter!” she said hospitably. “Will the Signora be pleased to see the oven?”

She threw open the iron door; a brushwood fire roared and crackled in the black cavern.

“He has made one baking already; see how light the bread is!” She broke a small loaf to show what good bread her husband made. The officer tasted a morsel.

“_Va bene_,” he nodded. “Tell Pietro I am content.”

As we walked about the village, the officer told me its brief history:

“Built for the Queen by the sailors of the battleship, Regina Elena, and the soldiers of the 19th Infantry. It has been an immense fatigue--that cannot be denied. O! the rain, rain, rain, that’s been the worst of it. The sailors had a change of clothes, it wasn’t so bad for them; our soldiers had but one uniform--when that was wet, there was no other to change. So many have died, some from exposure--they were poorly nourished, they gave half their rations to the starving women and children--some from blood-poisoning, _poverini_! If one had a little scratch, a mere nothing, on his hand when he went on duty, excavating the ruins, taking out the dead--bah! a pin-prick was enough!”

The houses are neat and comfortable, painted white and whitewashed over the paint, as double precaution against vermin. Each house has a porch and wooden steps. The village is under military control; a kindly control one saw that, as every man, woman, child we met had a smile for the Capitano.

“What is that building?” I asked; we were passing a small house with barred windows.

“Alas! Signora, it is a prison. Discipline is necessary--our men are good fellows but they are human--a firm hand is the kindest in the end.”

We passed through the Via Principessa Mafalda and the Piazza Giovanna, named for the little princesses, to the Piazza Emanuele, the center of the village life. The tiny church stands here, a tall flagpole with the national flag of Italy directly before the door.

“It has cost us more trouble to build this than all the rest,” laughed the Capitano. The chapel contains an altar, a confessional and a cupboard for the vestments, books and mass vessels. There is no room for the congregation; they must stand or sit outside for the service.

* * * * *

“It has been a little hard--during the deluge; that must come to an end; in general, as the Signora has heard, this is a fine climate!”

As a child keeps the biggest plum for the last, my officer had kept the school, the crowning glory of the Villaggio, for the end.

“Opened on the 7th of March, Signora, nearly a month ago, at her Majesty’s desire. She did not wish the children to lose a year’s schooling--they have not lost much time, these little ones, have they?”

School was over, the children scattered; the captain sent a lad for the schoolhouse key.

“Her Majesty sent all the books and

furniture from Rome. See the nice little desks, the little chairs. Here are the copy-books. This belongs to the son of that woman you talked with, a fair hand for a nine-year-old, _non è vero_?”

He showed me the text-books, the maps, the teacher’s records, the sum in subtraction on the blackboard, the prancing horse a clever scholar had drawn below it.

“It’s one of the best equipped village schools I ever saw,” I exclaimed.

He glowed with pleasure--he loved the Villaggio as a man only loves the thing he has created. From the wall behind the teacher’s desk, the grave kind face of the young Queen looked down upon her school. We found J. still discussing the site of the American quarter with his officer.

“With respect, sir,” said J., “it’s my opinion that this is the best site--the view is incomparable.”

“Unquestionably true, but the ground slopes; to level it will cost immense trouble and fatigue. This other land behind here--“

“The trouble will not be counted, sir; for a hospital the higher ground, the better air, the prospect, surely are important. Her Majesty would, I feel sure, prefer the site that the Comandante Belknap finds most desirable--“

Both were earnest, polite, adamantine; but I knew that Captain Belknap’s site would carry the day!

* * * * *

I did not learn till later that my officer was Captain Bignami, an heroic figure in the drama of Messina. From first to last he was the staunch friend of the Americans. His name, like Captain Cagni’s at Reggio, is one that Italy will hear more of; it was never spoken in our camp without some word of praise.

It seems a poetical justice that sailors should have done so much for Messina, for it has always been a hospitable port for the ships of all nations, since the first Phoenician trader crept timidly along the African coast, made a dash across the straits, and felt his way into the harbor. It was one of the trysting places for the ships of the world. The sailors heard of its destruction with a shiver of regret; with a haunting memory of its lovely shores, splendid with pomegranates, golden oranges, dark glossy carob trees, silver olives; where the joyous notes of the tarantella echoed by day, the languid music of the serenade by night; where the air was cool with the kiss of snowy Etna; sweet with the perfume of many orange groves.

XI

TAORMINA

It was dark when we arrived at Giardini, a poor fishing village, the station for Taormina. After the stuffy smoking carriage, the fresh salt air on the cheek felt like a caress. Ciro, cousin of Gasperone, was recognized by his white horse, his yellow wheels; he adopted us on sight, tucked us, hold-all, camera and Gladstone bag, into his minute cab, sprang to the box, cracked his whip.

“Hotel Timeo?”

The white horse, blind of one eye, bravely began the stiff three-mile climb. Below us was the beach; we saw the pale tossing of the surf, heard the waves break with a roar, hiss across the sands, sigh as they slipped back to the sea. At each turn of the road the lights of the fishermen’s huts at Giardini shone dimmer, the twinkling lamps of Taormina brighter; the keen savor of the sea grew fainter, there came a whiff of mignonette.

“Behold the garden of his Excellency the Duca di Bronté,” Ciro pointed to a row of white columns, glimmering in the darkness.

Bronté, the name of the old Sicilian Titan, means thunder; a good title for that modern Titan, Lord Nelson, the great admiral, the friend of Italy. History repeats itself; his descendant, the present Duke, leader of the British relief work here, has proved the hereditary friendship. In 1799 the estate of Maniace and Bronté with the title, Duca di Bronté, were conferred in perpetuity upon Lord Nelson and his descendants. The present Duke, the second son of the house, inherited the title because he devoted his life to the care of this valuable estate, famous for its vineyards, almond and olive groves. I have heard Marion Crawford tell of a visit to Maniace, of the picturesque old house, the moat, the Norman church, the regiment of armed retainers, the feudal state the Duke maintains. When you meet the Duke in London, he is the Honorable A. Nelson Hood. Isn’t that a splendid pose? An English “Honorable” is worth more than a foreign title of Duke. Ah, that’s the grand spirit that makes England what she is, that makes us what we are today! Later I found out the history of that garden. The Duke bought the land, meaning to build a house and make a garden at Taormina. It was found that the soil was not firm enough; it lay too thinly over the great rock. The architect could not guarantee that the whole hillside would not come sliding down into the sea--at least this was the gossip of Taormina. The Duke, therefore, had to be content with his garden. It is a perpetual joy to all who pass up the long hill; by day you see its white columns shining in the sun, its flowers spread like a rich Persian carpet; by night you catch the glimmer of the pillars, the scent of mignonette.

Hotel Timeo (named for Timæus, the great historian of the place) is a creature-comfortable house where the guests dress for dinner. Two fashionable American ladies sat at a table near ours, a family of Sicilians in deep mourning farther away. At a glance we saw that the guests were all men and women of the world.

“Quite a contrast to the camp,” said Patsy, as the French waiter brought our consommé. “Don’t you miss Gasperone, the Africano, the carpenters sitting below the salt?”

Early next morning nightingales and blackbirds called and called me to the window. I stepped on the balcony and saw Etna at dawn, clear against a pearl-gray sky. The mountain rises out of the sea to an enormous height; it is snow-covered at this season a third of the way down. In the crystal clearness of early morning the summit was unclouded; the smoke was blown from the cone like a gray feather.

Two hours later Assunta, the Sicilian beauty, who brought the breakfast tray with honey, white bread and golden butter, threw wide the shutters.

“The Signora will eat outside? It is the habit of the strangers.”

* * * * *

In the South spring comes with one stride, as night in the tropics. It was here. A jessamine clambered up from the garden, bringing its starry blossoms, its delicate perfume; a tall lemon tree in full blossom, a rose tree touched the balcony--I leaned down and picked a blush rose. Beyond was a feathery mimosa, covered with fine yellow flowers; splendid savage cactus plants raised their armed spikes like spears; a pergola was lost under an amethystine rain of wistaria, an arbor hidden by the harsh glory of bourganvillia; a row of amphoræ, that once held wine or oil, overflowed with purple heliotrope. On a wall stood a jewelled bird, the prince of peacocks, sunning himself, his long tail sweeping the path. Below lay the turquoise sea, the scalloped shore, the long point of Naxos, tawny sand, rimmed with white foam; in the lovely bay a fishing boat slipped before the wind. Beyond Naxos the sloping line of Etna begins, rising grandly from the blue sea; the flanks are covered with white villages, shining in the sun. Slowly, smoothly, the line mounts and mounts, broken here and there with little mounds. The color is smoky blue to the snow-line. Now the smoke, instead of blowing aside, hangs above the cone in two snowy rings. On the shore glisten the white houses of Giardini; close at hand is Taormina--the old city wall, the flame-shaped battlements of the Badia, the clock on the cathedral. The hum of bees as they delve in the flower-cups, rifling honey for their hive--honey that Assunta will in turn ravish for some stranger, fills the air; the ceaseless chirrup of the tree-toads makes a soft alto to the bees’ treble; the fragrance of the flowers floats up like incense, that delights yet does not stupefy; every sense is fed on beauty. Is not this the one perfect hour to which one might say “stay”?

A sense of terror comes after I have watched the cone of Etna for an hour. Sometimes when the little white puffs of smoke stop, my heart stands still. While the great monster blows out his rings of smoke, I feel safe; in those moments of suspended breathing there is terror. It is as if I were listening to the long breaths of a sleeping giant, who, when he stops breathing, may awake and destroy me. The tension is over, he breathes again; his breath goes up in a white feather, like the souls of dying saints as the Italian primitives painted them, coming out of the mouth in a white scroll. This is a place of fearsome beauty; to choose it out of the wide earth for a home, to establish one’s house here, shows a gambler’s nature. What if that great monster should awake, pour out his deadly floods of scorching lava on farm, villa, town? Etna must have counted for much in forming the fiery Sicilian nature. The Swiss, from looking on the iron calm of their dead snow-capped mountains, have caught something of their steadfastness. The Sicilian has before him day and night this splendid savage creature, sleeping now but sure to wake again, whose sleep means life and safety, whose waking means death and torture; how can it but affect his character? The very grapes grown on its flanks make potent inflaming wine; if its fever is in the blood of the grape, a thousand times more is it in the hot blood of its men and women.

The earthquake? It is as if the giant had turned over in his bed, shaken his great shoulders, brought down town and city, destroyed a district, snapped ancient temple columns like pipestems, crushed cathedral and hut alike in one awful blood-curdling welter of pain, that has darkened the earth, made the whole world mourn.

These words--I copy them exactly--were hardly jotted down in my diary, when I was startled by a violent barking of dogs, a terrified braying of donkeys, the groan of cattle, then--the earth heaved like the sea, once, twice, thrice! Next complete silence; for a long moment Nature held her breath. Men, beasts, tree-toads, were silent; not a leaf stirred, the very winds were stilled.

The shocks were light; we had felt far worse at Messina, but there we had expected them.

“There has never been a severe _terramoto_ in Taormina,” said Alessandro, the porter of the Timeo. “That is why the _forestieri_ have settled here. The town stands on solid rock and cannot be shaken. There is nothing to fear.”

Every person I met said the same thing. As the day wore on, the strange faintness born of the earth tremors passed away, yet during all the weeks we stayed at Taormina the memory of it lingered. The giant who sleeps below Etna had but turned in his sleep; if he should awake and roar at us as he had roared at those others!

We spent much of our first day in the old theatre; Patsy had been there since dawn.

“The larks were singing when the sun leaped over the Calabrian mountains,” he said; “with their help and the _custode’s_, I have reconstructed the theatre as it was in the Greek time, before the Romans made it over. The stage is better preserved than any I have seen; the arena is finer at Italica--you remember?”

Italica, Italica by Seville, the song of the bees, the scent of wild thyme--unforgettable!

“Look at that pretty girl perched up there! She is posing for a picture of Sappho. Lucky you can’t see the artist, a fellow with a beard and pipe!”

Yellow blossoming sage, asphodel, mint, lavender, glossy acanthus with its exquisite leaves, its lilac spikes of flowers, grow in the old theatre. I gathered a small acanthus leaf, and smoothed it between the leaves of a book for comfort in the days to come. Do you know why the Greeks plucked out the very heart of Beauty? Because they lived with beauty. Their minds were formed, perhaps their very bodies were affected by the beauty that surrounded the race from its beginning. The lines of their hills and coasts; the colors of their sea and sky are the most beautiful on earth. Their eyes were trained by these things, their imagination roused, their minds exalted. Like Greece, Sicily is noble in its very foundation. Strip it of trees, of flowers, of grass, the beauty of its lines remains indestructible.