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
[Illustration: MESSINA. AMERICAN COTTAGES, VILLAGGIO REGINA ELENA.
_Page 305._]
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
[Illustration: ZIA MADDALENA AND HER FAMILY. _Page 303._]
[Illustration: CAPTAIN BIGNAMI AND HIS STAFF. _Page 310._]
[Illustration: MESSINA. GASPERONE AND WATER BOYS IN HOTEL COURTYARD.
_Page 289._]
[Illustration: MESSINA. ROAD-MAKING IN THE AMERICAN VILLAGE. _Page
305._]
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.
[Illustration: MESSINA. AMERICAN QUARTER. _Page 309._]
[Illustration: AN ERUPTION OF MT. ETNA. _Page 318._]
[Illustration: THE ROAD TO TAORMINA. _Page 312._]
“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.
“Come up to the little museum; it stands where the small temple over the
theatre used to be. There are some good architectural fragments--bits
of mosaics and inscriptions from the theatre, a good torso of Bacchus, a
head of Apollo.”
Patsy introduced the _custode_, one of the characters of the place, who
welcomed us and showed his few treasures with a fine pride. He spoke
Italian with chiseled care.
“To hear him talk, after the _dialetto_, is like listening to Beethoven
after rag-time!” said Patsy. “Do you realize how fortunate we are that
the tourist season is spoiled by the earthquake? We have the theatre and
the _custode_ all to ourselves? It’s too good to be true!”
The _custode_ sold him a green pamphlet, with the story of the theatre
in four languages. The pair of them clambered about, map in hand,
exploring the stage, the cunei, the proscenium, while I sat and tried to
imagine the captives and slaves at work here, hewing this vast theatre,
that could seat forty thousand people, out of the solid rock.
“The next time we want to build a new theatre,” Patsy exclaimed, we
should send the architect to Taormina. The man who planned this
understood theatre building. The Greeks didn’t write about scenery, but
they always put their theatres and temples where they got the best view.
See how simple, how practical, how grand, this must have been! There
went the stairs, leading to the seats of the nobility--look, here’s the
name of one cut in the pavement, Iopeia, supposed to have been a
priestess. She had a good seat at the play. Imagine--she sat here, heard
the Antigone of Sophocles, between the acts looked at Etna! Happy
Iopeia! I hope she deserved all she got. It must have been worth while
to be a stockholder in this concern. Listen to the repertory:
‘Tragedies, devoted to Dionysius, Comedies to Demeter, Satires,
Spectacles, Dances.’ The place was never shut like our theatres; it was
the social centre of the town. When there was no performance going on,
poets and philosophers met and discussed their theories, read aloud
their works; foreign ambassadors were received here. Down below is the
passage leading to the arena, where the wild beasts were driven through.
We don’t want to see that; it belongs to the coarser Romans, to the time
when they had gladiator shows like our prize fights.”
Here a party of English people came upon the scene, the first travelers
we had seen since we left Naples. They were evidently from the white
yacht that lay anchored near Naxos. They scrambled about the theatre for
a little, then went up to the museum.
A tall slight man, in a yachting cap, evidently the host, interested me.
He had the face of an American, the voice and manners of a Britisher.
“Do find out who they are,” I said to Patsy; “I am sure he is somebody.”
“Bother somebodies!” laughed Patsy. “We don’t want to hear about anybody
except Iopeia; and listen to what the _custode_ says--” he read from his
floppy green pamphlet: “‘The theatre was built in the time of
Andromachus. The foundations of most of Taormina’s monuments were laid
under his government, as for example, the theatre, the forum, the
temples, the aqueduct. He brought to this place the good taste and high
culture of the Greeks of Colchis.’”
“The lady with the pretty yellow hair--look at her, Patsy--haven’t we
seen the face before?”
He would not look, would only talk about Timæus, the son of
Andromachus, and what a fine historian he was.