REGGIO
By its natural situation Reggio is marked for an unquiet history. It
was a gateway of Magna Graecia; it lay straight in the track of
conquering Rome when she moved towards Sicily; it offered points of
strategic importance to every invader or defender of the peninsula
throughout the mediaeval wars. Goth and Saracen, Norman, Teuton and
Turk, seized, pillaged, and abandoned, each in turn, this stronghold
overlooking the narrow sea. Then the earthquakes, ever menacing between
Vesuvius and Etna; that of 1783, which wrought destruction throughout
Calabria, laid Reggio in ruins, so that to-day it has the aspect of a
newly-built city, curving its regular streets, amphitheatre-wise, upon
the slope that rises between shore and mountain. Of Rhegium little is
discernible above ground; of the ages that followed scarce anything
remains but the Norman fortress, so shaken by that century-old disaster
that huge gaps show where its rent wall sank to a lower level upon the
hillside.
At first, one has eyes and thoughts for nothing but the landscape. From
the terrace road along the shore, Via Plutino, beauties and glories
indescribable lie before one at every turn of the head. Aspromonte,
with its forests and crags; the shining straits, sail-dotted, opening
to a sea-horizon north and south; and, on the other side, the
mountain-island, crowned with snow. Hours long I stood and walked here,
marvelling delightedly at all I saw, but in the end ever fixing my gaze
on Sicily. Clouds passed across the blue sky, and their shadows upon
the Sicilian panorama made ceaseless change of hue and outline. At
early morning I saw the crest of Etna glistening as the first sun-ray
smote upon its white ridges; at fall of day, the summit hidden by heavy
clouds, and western beams darting from behind the mountain, those far,
cold heights glimmered with a hue of palest emerald, seeming but a
vision of the sunset heaven, translucent, ever about to vanish. Night
transformed but did not all conceal. Yonder, a few miles away, shone
the harbour and the streets of Messina, and many a gleaming point along
the island coast, strand-touching or high above, signalled the homes of
men. Calm, warm, and clear, this first night at Reggio; I could not
turn away from the siren-voice of the waves; hearing scarce a footstep
but my own, I paced hither and thither by the sea-wall, alone with
memories.
The rebuilding of Reggio has made it clean and sweet; its air is
blended from that of mountain and sea, ever renewed, delicate and
inspiriting. But, apart from the harbour, one notes few signs of
activity; the one long street, Corso Garibaldi, has little traffic;
most of the shops close shortly after nightfall, and then there is no
sound of wheels; all would be perfectly still but for the occasional
cry of lads who sell newspapers. Indeed, the town is strangely quiet,
considering its size and aspect of importance; one has to search for a
restaurant, and I doubt if more than one cafe exists. At my hotel the
dining-room was a public _trattoria_, opening upon the street, but only
two or three military men--the eternal officers--made use of it, and I
felt a less cheery social atmosphere than at Taranto or at Catanzaro.
One recurring incident did not tend to exhilarate. Sitting in view of a
closed door, I saw children's faces pressed against the glass, peering
little faces, which sought a favourable moment; suddenly the door would
open, and there sounded a thin voice, begging for _un pezzo di pane_--a
bit of bread. Whenever the waiter caught sight of these little
mendicants, he rushed out with simulated fury, and pursued them along
the pavement. I have no happy recollection of my Reggian meals.
An interesting feature of the streets is the frequency of carved
inscriptions, commemorating citizens who died in their struggle for
liberty. Amid quiet by-ways, for instance, I discovered a tablet with
the name of a young soldier who fell at that spot, fighting against the
Bourbon, in 1860: "_offerse per l'unita della patria sua vita
quadrilustre_." The very insignificance of this young life makes the
fact more touching; one thinks of the unnumbered lives sacrificed upon
this soil, age after age, to the wild-beast instinct of mankind, and
how pathetic the attempt to preserve the memory of one boy, so soon to
become a meaningless name! His own voice seems to plead with us for a
regretful thought, to speak from the stone in sad arraignment of
tyranny and bloodshed. A voice which has no accent of hope. In the days
to come, as through all time that is past, man will lord it over his
fellow, and earth will be stained red from veins of young and old. That
sweet and sounding name of _patria_ becomes an illusion and a curse;
linked with the pretentious modernism, _civilization_, it serves as
plea to the latter-day barbarian, ravening and reckless under his civil
garb. How can one greatly wish for the consolidation and prosperity of
Italy, knowing that national vigour tends more and more to
international fear and hatred? They who perished that Italy might be
born again, dreamt of other things than old savagery clanging in new
weapons. In our day there is but one Italian patriot; he who tills the
soil, and sows, and reaps, ignorant or careless of all beyond his
furrowed field.
Whilst I was still thinking of that memorial tablet, I found myself in
front of the Cathedral. As a structure it makes small appeal, dating
only from the seventeenth century, and heavily restored in times more
recent; but the first sight of the facade is strangely stirring. For
across the whole front, in great letters which one who runs may read,
is carved a line from the Acts of the Apostles:--
"Circumlegentes devenimus Rhegium."
Save only those sonorous words which circle the dome of S. Peter's, I
have seen no inscription on Christian temple which seemed to me so
impressive. "We fetched a compass, and came to Rhegium." Paul was on
his voyage from Caesarea to Rome, and here his ship touched, here at
the haven beneath Aspromonte. The fact is familiar enough, but,
occupied as I was with other thoughts, it had not yet occurred to me;
the most pious pilgrim of an earlier day could not have felt himself
more strongly arrested than I when I caught sight of these words. Were
I to inhabit Reggio, I should never pass the Cathedral without stopping
to read and think; the carving would never lose its power over my
imagination. It unites for me two elements of moving interest: a vivid
fact from the ancient world, recorded in the music of the ancient
tongue. All day the words rang in my head, even as at Rome I have gone
about murmuring to myself: "_Aedificabo ecclesiam meam_." What a noble
solemnity in this Latin speech! And how vast the historic significance
of such monumental words! Moralize who will; enough for me to hear with
delight that deep-toned harmony, and to thrill with the strangeness of
old things made new.
It was Sunday, which at Reggio is a day or market. Crowds of
country-folk had come into the town with the produce of field and
garden; all the open spaces were occupied with temporary stalls; at
hand stood innumerable donkeys, tethered till business should be over.
The produce exhibited was of very fine quality, especially the
vegetables; I noticed cauliflowers measuring more than a foot across
the white. Of costume there was little to be observed--though the long
soft cap worn by most of the men, hanging bag-like over one ear almost
to the shoulder, is picturesque. The female water-carriers, a long slim
cask resting lengthwise upon their padded heads, hold attention as they
go to and from the fountains. Good-looking people, grave of manner, and
doing their business without noise. It was my last sight of the
Calabrian hillsmen; to the end they held my interest and my respect.
When towns have sucked dry their population of strength and virtue, it
is such folk as these, hardy from the free breath of heaven and the
scent of earth, who will renew a flaccid race.
Walking beyond the town in the southern direction, where the shape of
Etna shows more clearly amid the lower mountains, I found myself
approaching what looked like a handsome public edifice, a museum or
gallery of art. It was a long building, graced with a portico, and
coloured effectively in dull red; all about it stood lemon trees, and
behind, overtopping the roof, several fine palms. Moved by curiosity I
quickened my steps, and as I drew nearer I felt sure that this must be
some interesting institution of which I had not heard. Presently I
observed along the facade a row of heads of oxen carved in stone--an
ornament decidedly puzzling. Last of all my eyes perceived, over the
stately entrance, the word "Macello," and with astonishment I became
aware that this fine structure, so agreeably situated, was nothing else
than the town slaughter-house. Does the like exist elsewhere? It was a
singular bit of advanced civilization, curiously out of keeping with
the thoughts which had occupied me on my walk. Why, I wonder, has
Reggio paid such exceptional attention to this department of its daily
life? One did not quite know whether to approve this frank exhibition
of carnivorous zeal; obviously something can be said in its favour,
yet, on the other hand, a man who troubles himself with finer scruples
would perhaps choose not to be reminded of pole-axe and butcher's
knife, preferring that such things should shun the light of day. It
gave me, for the moment, an odd sense of having strayed into the world
of those romancers who forecast the future; a slaughter-house of
tasteful architecture, set in a grove of lemon trees and date palms,
suggested the dreamy ideal of some reformer whose palate shrinks from
vegetarianism. To my mind this had no place amid the landscape which
spread about me. It checked my progress; I turned abruptly, to lose the
impression as soon as possible.
No such trouble has been taken to provide comely housing for the
collection of antiquities which the town possesses. The curator who led
me through the museum (of course I was the sole visitor) lamented that
it was only communal, the Italian Government not having yet cared to
take it under control; he was an enthusiast, and spoke with feeling of
the time and care he had spent upon these precious relics--_sedici anni
di vita_--sixteen years of life, and, after all, who cared for them?
There was a little library of archaeological works, which contained two
volumes only of the _Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum_; who, asked the
curator sadly, would supply money to purchase the rest? Place had been
found on the walls for certain modern pictures of local interest. One
represented a pasture on the heights of Aspromonte, shepherds and their
cattle amid rich herbage, under a summer sky, with purple summits
enclosing them on every side; the other, also a Calabrian mountain
scene, but sternly grand in the light of storm; a dark tarn, a rushing
torrent, the lonely wilderness. Naming the painter, my despondent
companion shook his head, and sighed "_Morto! Morto!_"
Ere I left, the visitors' book was opened for my signature. Some twenty
pages only had been covered since the founding of the museum, and most
of the names were German. Fortunately, I glanced at the beginning, and
there, on the first page, was written "Francois Lenormant, Membre de
l'Institut de France"--the date, 1882. The small, delicate character
was very suggestive of the man as I conceived him; to come upon his
name thus unexpectedly gave me a thrill of pleasure; it was like being
brought of a sudden into the very presence of him whose spirit had
guided, instructed, borne me delightful company throughout my
wanderings. When I turned to the curator, and spoke of this discovery,
sympathy at once lighted up his face. Yes, yes! He remembered the
visit; he had the clearest recollection of Lenormant--"_un bravo
giovane_!" Thereupon, he directed my attention to a little slip of
paper pasted into the inner cover of the book, on which were written in
pencil a few Greek letters; they were from the hand of Lenormant
himself, who had taken out his pencil to illustrate something he was
saying about a Greek inscription in the museum. Carefully had this
scrap been preserved by the good curator; his piety touched and
delighted me.
I could have desired no happier incident for the close of my journey;
by lucky chance this visit to the museum had been postponed till the
last morning, and, as I idled through the afternoon about the Via
Plutino, my farewell mood was in full harmony with that in which I had
landed from Naples upon the Calabrian shore. So hard a thing to catch
and to retain, the mood corresponding perfectly to an intellectual
bias--hard, at all events, for him who cannot shape his life as he
will, and whom circumstance ever menaces with dreary harassment. Alone
and quiet, I heard the washing of the waves; I saw the evening fall on
cloud-wreathed Etna, the twinkling lights come forth on Scylla and
Charybdis; and, as I looked my last towards the Ionian Sea, I wished it
were mine to wander endlessly amid the silence of the ancient world,
to-day and all its sounds forgotten.
THE END.