the burning sun by day, the bitter cold at night, while the gaily
dressed Syracusan ladies, scent bottle in hand, peeped over the
parapets, watching their agony curiously, is now a place of
extraordinary beauty. We climbed down a flight of a hundred stairs to
reach this subterranean garden, a solemn and romantic spot. The
primrose colored walls of the old quarry are hung with a splendid
tapestry, knotted ivy, and long trailing creepers of _madre selva_,
clematis, the mother of the wood. Here and there, from some cranny in
the dazzling limestone, a fig tree thrusts its strong green leaves up to
the sun, the flame of the pomegranate glows beside the gold of oranges
and lemons, long lines of lilies stand waiting to bloom for Easter. In
the midst of this sunken garden of delight stand the busts of two great
men the Syracusans of today delight to honor, Archimedes of Syracuse and
Mazzini of Genoa.
“Amerigo, behold! thy compatriots! _Piano_, _piano_, so; that was a good
_riverenza_!”
The father of Amerigo (porter at our hotel), a smart fellow dark as a
Moor, patted his son, as the child, tugging at his scarlet cap, made us
a deep bow.
“Americano, yes, born in Nuova Yorka! I was butler to a great
family--they paid me sixty _scudi_ a month--go back? oh, yes! We came to
see our parents once more, _ma come si fà_? The schools of Sicilia are
not like those of Nuova Yorka. We go back for the little ones, though I
myself am content here, _è un bel paese_!”
We were the only guests at the Villa Politi, a good inn near the
Latomia. I thought it melancholy to sit at meals alone in the big
dining-room; Patsy argued that we were better able to “reconstruct”
ancient Syracuse in solitude than if surrounded by a lot of interesting
people.
The Greek Theatre gave me my first overwhelming sense of really being in
Magna Grecia; the beauty of the lines of the semicircle, the tiers of
seats rising one above the other; the permanent feeling of the work hewn
from the bed rock, are all extraordinarily impressive. The _custode_, a
serious olive-colored man, was full of serviceable knowledge. As we
listened to his talk, some small creature ran over my foot.
“Have no fear, Signora, that little animal is the friend of man; I owe
him my life. Sitting here alone, I sometimes fall asleep in the sun,
there is danger--“
“Fever?” Patsy interrupted.
“_Ma che_, no fever here, vipers! This one, he runs before the viper and
makes a noise--zzzzz--like that to give warning. If I doze he wakes me,
yes, even if he has to touch my face.”
“You are a Syracusan?” I said.
“I? a Roman! Twelve long years I have served in Siracusa--an exile,
Signora, they have forgotten me! Oh! to see the _cupolone_ once
more--_tira, tira!_” He meant that the cupola of St. Peter’s drew him
back to Rome.
Patsy mentioned Commendatore Boni; the _custode_ was on fire. He begged
us to speak to the great capo at Rome, perhaps we could get him “moved
on?” He himself had a friend, a gentleman of influence, if we would see
him, something might come of it--one never knows.
“We have no influence, we are _forestieri_--” I began.
“_Si capisce_,” said the _custode_, “allow me at least to write the name
of the gentleman.”
We had not a scrap of paper among us; I found a card of J.’s however; on
the back of this the _custode_ wrote the name and address of the
gentleman with influence.
I asked the _custode_ to take us to the Roman amphitheatre.
“_Patienza_,” he said, “what haste? Imagine! in this place the plays of
Euripides were given, here Æschylus recited his own dramas!”
“Euripides again!” cried Patsy pulling out a book. “Listen to this:
‘Among the Athenian captives in the quarry, there were some who could
repeat long passages from Euripides’ plays. These men were favored far
above others; some were even freed for the poet’s sake, and long
afterwards went back and found him and thanked him, branded as they
were, for life and liberty.’”
The _custode_ waited patiently, then took up his thread:
“Over there,” he pointed to the Roman amphitheatre, “the Romans pitted
wild beasts against each other, sometimes against men. A Spanish priest,
a great _personaggio_ in the Church, had the arena excavated--you know
the fanaticism of that people--on account of the Christians martyred
there. The amphitheatre is not interesting--in comparison with the
theatre, one understands.”
“He’s heard students talk,” said Patsy; “he’s all for Greek antiquities,
has a proper scorn for Roman. Don’t you find it lonely here?” This last
to the _custode_, in whose life and character he was already deeply
interested.
“There are diversions,” the _custode_ told him; “in other seasons, many
visitors come; I have talked with almost all the sovereigns of Europe.
The learned too from all over the world--what questions they ask! For
this one I collect the weeds, for that one the butterflies. This year on
account of the disaster, you might say, nobody comes--behold my
companions!” He pointed to a white goat with curled horns cropping the
grass in the old theatre; two beautiful little black kids frisked and
butted each other at her side.
“The animals belong to you?”
“To my son; he has gone to Anapo for fish, also for papyrus; it grows
there as nowhere else; they say the Moros planted it. That goat is a
famous milker,--even after the young ones have fed she gives half a
brocca of milk!”
The ancient Via delle Tombe lies just above the Greek theatre; it led to
the city and must have served as a thoroughfare for the living as well
as a burial place for the dead. The road-bed is deeply furrowed with
ruts of ancient chariot wheels. On either side are the tombs, rifled
centuries ago; tombs, street, and theatre are all hewn out of the solid
rock; the race that made them, built as no race builds today, for all
time!
“Behold the depths of these ruts,” said the _custode_, “those narrow
ones were made by the funeral cars.”
“It’s like Pompeii,” said Patsy;--“those old tracks hit harder than all
the rest; they make the place alive as nothing else does.”
“_Ci rivedremo?_” said the _custode_ as we parted. “The Signori will
come again? They should see the sunset from here. The view of Syracuse,
the great harbor, the Ionian sea is famous.”
“O, yes, I shall come back,” said Patsy. “Lonely, poor old chap,” he
continued, as we drove off; “I shall have to make some photographs of
the theatre and the goats.”
* * * * *
All of ancient Syracuse is intensely interesting. It is filled with the
great shades of the past; we felt them all about us, just as we had felt
the presence of the birds in the tree-tops over the old quarry. Modern
Syracuse is disappointing; a little provincial town with narrow crooked
streets lighted by electricity. Could this ever have been “the largest
of Greek, the most beautiful of all cities?” The splendid capital of
Dionysius and Hiero, the home of Theocritus? Today Syracuse has shrunken
again to the size
[Illustration: SYRACUSE. FORT EURYELUS. _Page 353._]
[Illustration: SYRACUSE. EXAMPLE OF SICILIAN GOTHIC ARCHITECTURE. _Page
352._]
[Illustration: GIRGENTI. A WINE CART.]
[Illustration: GIRGENTI. A SICILIAN CART.]
of Ortygia, the island where the original Greek settlement was planted.
The five prosperous towns that once surrounded the central city have
disappeared; the magnificent harbor alone remains unchanged; it could
still hold a fleet of battleships.
“Where can we get the best view of Greater Syracuse?” Patsy wondered;
“it must have been very like Greater New York. The central city built on
an island in a magnificent harbor surrounded by five cities and
connected by a bridge to the mainland. You can see the remaining ruins
of the five cities on this map--see here they are, they correspond quite
well to Brooklyn, Hoboken, Jersey City, Staten Island and the Bronx!”
We had fixed Sunday afternoon, our last day, to deliver a letter of
introduction to a lady of Syracuse; our time was so short we could not
risk being tempted with hospitalities! When the hour for the visit
arrived Patsy “begged off!”
“That old Greek fort of Euryelus,” he began, “I didn’t half see it the
other day--the English officer I met in the catacombs says that
Archimedes invented the catapult for its defence. He says it’s still so
solid it could be repaired to stand a siege--an old-fashioned one of
course--like the siege of Troy!”
“_You_ more interested in an old ruin than a new acquaintance?” I cried.
No use, for once Patsy deserted me.
On the way to deliver the letter I stopped at the cathedral, formerly a
Pagan temple. The baroque façade is disappointing. Where are the remains
of the temple, of the costly treasures Verres carried off to Rome, and
got soundly scolded by Cicero for, in consequence? To get back to that
time you must go over step by step what has happened since then. In the
seventh century the temple was turned into a Christian church by Bishop
Zosimus, in the eighth it became a Mohammedan mosque; temple, mosque,
cathedral, it has served its purpose of worship well! When my guide, a
bright-eyed boy, rattled off his lesson, the place immediately grew
interesting. I found the temple’s superb Doric columns--they are
whitewashed now and hard to discover--imbedded in the cathedral walls;
at the sight of them the church vanishes, a splendid temple stands in
its place. Near this deep-fluted column, may have knelt Simaetha, the
deserted girl, imploring help of Artemis to win back false
Delphis--hark, her old cry echoes through the ages:
“Three times do I pour libation, and thrice, my Lady Moon, I speak this:
Be it with a friend he lingers, be it with a leman, may he clean forget
them, as Theseus of old forgot the fair-tressed Ariadne!”
“There will be a baptism,” said the boy, “if the lady cares to see the
font--“
I looked at the curious baptismal font, while the sacristan lighted his
candle in preparation for the rite. The font is a classic vase, resting
on twelve quaint Phoenician-looking lions of green bronze; an
inscription states it was a gift to Zosimus. Who was he? A god, as one
book says, or the Bishop, or a pagan historian, who criticizes Christian
emperors over much? Either way, it was strange to see the ancient vase
used as a baptismal font, to witness the casting out of the old Adam
from a new-born baby by a cross apoplectic archpriest, who so frightened
the infant that it roared horribly as Adam departed.
“You are the son of the _custode_?” I said to my guide, a lad perhaps
eleven years old.
“No, I am the _custode_!”
“And your father, what does he do?”
“Oh, he is a _custode_ too.”
The lady, to whom I had the letter, received me cordially. She lives in
an old palace, with large high rooms, and modern furniture. I pleased
her by saying how much we admired the dark Syracusan type; I did not see
one blonde in Syracuse.
“Your women have superb hair,” I said; “they dress it beautifully.”
“You noticed that? I have seen women without shoes, whose coiffures were
finer than those I saw in Paris. They are extravagant. Imagine! my
washerwoman has her hair dressed; she pays a franc and a half a month to
a hair-dresser--you should see her; her coiffure is almost as good as
mine.”
“That would be difficult; your hair is magnificent.”
“All my own--see, hardly a white hair, just two or three over the
temple. When I was young, it covered me like a cloak, but what can one
expect at sixty?”
“Sixty--it’s not possible!”
“Yes, my _festa_ was a week ago; how old should you have said?”
“Less than forty.”
It was true, she was the youngest person for her age I ever saw. A tall
shy man now came in followed by a brown lupetto dog.
My hostess introduced me. “An American lady--she brings a letter from
the Contessa Q.--she would be welcome without it--we know what the
Americani are doing, Signora. I myself saw the good warm clothes the
American Capitano landed here. O, the Prefetto was glad of those
garments and those medicines--what was the name of the ship, Arturo?”
“There were several; thou referest to the Celtico.”
“What a kind man was that captain--he spoke French like a Frenchman and
the young _biondino_ who kept the lists; _tanto simpatico!_”
It was pleasant to hear of the “Celtic’s” good work in this very foreign
house, of Captain Huse and of Paymaster Jordan ycleped il _biondino_!
“Did I tell thee,” said Arturo, addressing my hostess--he was too shy to
speak directly to me--“that the sailors of the American fleet made up a
purse of sixteen thousand francs for the families of our mariners
smitten by the disaster? It is a fact of piety and comradeship not to be
forgotten.”
“Thou sayest well. Hast thou not a glass of wine, a bit of cake to
offer?”
Poor Arturo, thankful for any excuse to escape, lurched out of the room
followed by the lupetto. He was one of those painfully shy men whose
greatest intimacies are with animals, as dumb as they themselves would
like to be.
“Your husband--” I began.
“No, no, my son!” she interrupted, laughing till the tears came to her
eyes.
“My son, the eldest; not a good son; he has married against my wishes.
Children are nothing but vexations; to be happy one must be childless!”
I tried to change the subject by asking Arturo’s profession.
“He has no profession, no ambitions. His father was in the Legislature,
as was my father. Arturo is satisfied to live in the country, to make
wine, to raise sheep, goats, swine. That is very well, but it is not
enough. He should see the world, pass a winter in Rome; but no, he
thinks only of his vineyards and his sheep, Madonna Santa, his
goats--_my son_!”
Arturo returned, followed by a servant bringing refreshments. He poured
the wine, held the glass to the light, handed it to me with a deep bow:
“Your health!”
“This is exquisite--so light--it’s like some Syracusan wine I had at
Taormina;” I mentioned the name.
“That is not an honest wine,” he was all alive now. “I should not advise
you to take it. This now is pure; be not afraid, it cannot hurt you!”
“It’s hard to get wine in Rome at any decent price nowadays,” I said.
“What do you pay a flask?”
“We are fortunate, we do not pay _forestieri_ prices, we have it from a
friend for two francs--“
“If this suits the Signora, we can make an arrangement to send her a
quantity, direct, not through the hands of an agent--they are all
robbers!”
When I thought I had stayed long enough, I rose to go.
“It is early,” said my hostess, surprised at my haste, though we had
talked for over an hour; there is more time in Syracuse than in some
places.
“My cab has come--“
“The Signora will drive in the Passeggiata Aretusa? Everybody goes there
Sunday afternoon; there is music, it is just the time. Shall I accompany
her?”
“It would be most kind.”
“No, no, a pleasure! Take my keys, Arturo, be sure you give them to none
but me.” She bustled about briskly; in a few minutes was ready for our
drive. “I will show you more people worth looking at in half an hour
than you would see alone in a week.”
Arturo helped us into the cab; as we drove off he bowed with a certain
rustic awkwardness not without its charm; he pleased in spite of his
plainness. He is not fitted for courts or capitals, but just for the
country life he likes; I am sure his flocks flourish, I know his wine is
good; even in Syracuse, mothers are not always the best judges of a
son’s capacity.
In the Passeggiata Aretusa the band was playing Cavalleria Rusticana.
The pleasant
[Illustration: SYRACUSE. CHURCH OF SAN GIOVANNI. _Page 354._]
[Illustration: THEATRE, PALERMO.]
[Illustration: ETRUSCAN SARCOPHAGUS, PALERMO MUSEUM.]
[Illustration: IN THE MUSEUM, PALERMO.]
promenade, facing the harbor front, was crowded with people dressed in
their best. The Syracusans walked up and down in family groups, father
and mother behind, children in front, or sat upon benches in threes,
young girl, young man, and the inevitable chaperon. There were few
carriages, only one with pretensions, an antique barouche lined with
mulberry cloth; coachman and footman wore liveries to match; horses and
harnesses were fresh and handsome, the whole turnout was of the style of
fifty years ago. The scene had a strong Spanish flavor. In Italy you
expect to find the population on a _festa_ afternoon assembled in a
piazza, the proper social center of every Italian community; in Spain
the social center is the alameda, a long shaded promenade with seats and
space for people to pace and talk. In the interval “between the
selections,” we paced slowly up and down. My friend was a person of
distinction; all the best-dressed people bowed very low to her. At one
end of the Passeggiata the crowd was so great that we halted near a
pool, enclosed by an iron railing.
“_Ecco la fontana Aretusa_,” said the lady; she had been so busy bowing
to right and to left, that she had hardly spoken since we entered the
drive. The Fountain of Arethusa! Another of Sicily’s delicious
surprises; in this fairy-land you meet old friends every moment.
Arethusa! At her very name, the opening words of Shelley’s poem ring
through the memory:--
“Arethusa arose
From her couch of snows
In the Acroceraunian mountains;
From cloud and from crag
With many a jag,
Shepherding her bright fountains.”
Arethusa, you remember? the lovely maiden of Elis, who was seen bathing
and pursued by the river god, Alpheus. The maid, appealing to Artemis,
was changed to a fountain, whereupon Alpheus mingled his stream with
hers, and they both sank into the earth, passed under the sea, and rose
again in Ortygia:
“Like friends once parted,
Grown single-hearted
* * * * *
Like spirits that lie
In the azure sky
When they love, but live no more!”
Would you know how she looks to an artist? The next time you are at the
Metropolitan Museum in New York, look at George Fuller’s lovely picture
of Arethusa, and you will learn.
The fountain rises from an arch in the rock and spreads into a wide
picturesque pool, where papyrus and water lilies grow.
The concert was over, the band put up their instruments, the crowd began
to disperse; it was time to leave the Passeggiata Aretusa. As we drove
back to the lady’s house she pointed out a large building.
“See, they have nearly finished that labor--who knows when it would have
been done if it had not been for the earthquake? The American Mees Davis
had a hand in that.”
“You know Miss Davis?” I asked.
“If I know her? Per Bacco, who does not? I tell you that woman is a
marvel! You have heard what she accomplished after the earthquake, she
and the German Dr. Colmers? We had three thousand of those poor
creatures to feed, house and clothe. Magari! it would have gone hard
without the help of that woman--and what influence, what power she
possessed! She had but to ask, no matter what, it was granted--money,
but thousands of _scudi_; work-rooms, the Sindaco gave her three in the
Palazzo Municipale.”
Miss Davis! That is another story; it has been told elsewhere, will, I
hope, be more fully told by Miss Davis herself. She had come to Sicily
for a vacation, having so overworked herself that the trustees of her
Woman’s Prison at Bedford insisted she should take a few months’ rest.
The day after the earthquake she offered her services for relief work.
Syracuse was fortunate in having a good Prefect, a good Mayor, doubly
fortunate in having two women of power among the volunteers--Miss Davis
and the Marchesa di Rudini, daughter of Mr. Labouchere, the editor of
Truth. Miss Davis had with her just six hundred dollars; this she
promptly spent for the relief work. Her first purchase was two hundred
francs’ worth of pocket handkerchiefs. She had besides, what the
American Committee in Rome had, faith unlimited in the heart of America;
that is better than a bank account.
“From the point of view of actual achievement,” writes Mr. Cutting, “and
also of example, Miss Davis’ feat at Syracuse seems to me the most
important single contribution to the problem of rehabilitating the
sufferers from the earthquake.”
This praise was borne out by all we saw and heard at Syracuse.
Miss Davis opened a hospital for the wounded; and work-rooms where all,
who could sew, were employed to make clothes and bedding for the horde
of almost naked refugees the Russian, English, German as well as the
Italian ships brought to slumbrous Syracuse. She was one of the prime
movers in the relief work at Syracuse, that the Duke of Genoa said was
the best organized of all he saw. Each man was set to work at the thing
he could do; the tailors made clothes, the cobblers made boots, the
masons, carpenters and painters were employed to finish a large public
building that stood half completed. So these poor people were enabled
from the first to earn their own living, to escape the dreadful
pauperization that in Rome, and almost everywhere else, confronted them.
There remained the “poor things,” the men who had no skill, no trade;
what work could be invented for them? Miss Davis was now entrusted with
large sums of money, the spending of it was left to her judgment. From
the first she maintained that among the able bodied, only those who
worked could be fed. It would have been far easier to issue rations, or
so much money a day to the _profughi_: those methods did not suit the
“Angel of Mercy.” She looked about her, found the roads in a bad
condition; organized and kept at work a road gang, mending the roads of
Syracuse.
The tributes Miss Davis received are wonderfully touching. A poor
organist from Messina composed a song in her honor, dedicated to the
Tortorella (turtle dove); the Sindaco sent her a diploma of honor,
beautifully engrossed with the coat-of-arms of the city; most precious
of all is the address, signed by a long list of her _profughi_,
addressed to the “_Gentile Miss_,” the sublime “Heroine of Charity,” who
is saluted “in the name of the great heart of Ortygia, the center of the
ancient world!”
* * * * *
“After Taormina, Girgenti is the most beautiful place in Sicily,” Patsy
declared.
“Some people say Taormina is the most beautiful place on earth; if you
like to measure--“
“I don’t--I couldn’t--so many places seem best! Wait till you see the
temples though; there’s nothing to compare with them outside Athens.”
We had arrived at the port of Empedocles at sunset, and driven through
the violet dusk up to the town, glowing like a jewelled city on the
heights overlooking river and harbor. I had gone direct to the
comfortable Hotel des Temples, a mile outside Girgente, where again as
at Syracuse we were the only guests. When we met at breakfast, Patsy had
already explored the place.
“We ought to have kept more time for this,” he said; “for us it’s even
more interesting than Syracuse.”
“Girgenti--” I began.
“Call it Acragas, the Greek name, or at least Agrigentum, the Roman,”
Patsy interrupted. “I’ve made friends with the _custode_ of the Temple
of Zeus; he’s like the others, a superior man--here in Sicily they all
seem a cut above the same sort on the mainland.”
Breakfast over, I was hurried to see the Temple of Zeus and Patsy’s new
friend. He welcomed us with effusion and lamented the scarcity of
tourists. Patsy asked him to what nationality the larger part of his
traveling public belonged.
“German,” he said. “I always know them because they walk.”
“They are economical?”
“In part for that reason, also because they see more on foot than
driving.”
“Americans all come in cabs?”
“It is true, but they are mostly ladies. Touching those Germans, before
1870 they traveled very little; now they come in crowds. The Kaiser sets
the fashion; he comes every spring to Syracuse, often to Girgenti. What
a lot of German architects and men of science were here this time last
year! They study, they measure, they make drawings, they return, they
measure again--oh, intelligent! One cannot deny it, if not so
sympathetic as others--Americani for example.”