On the highest point stands a
figure of the Redeemer. It was dragged up in pieces from Delianuova some
seven years ago, but soon injured by frosts; it has lately been
refashioned. The original structure may be due to the same pious
stimulus as that which placed the crosses on Monte Vulture and other
peaks throughout the country - a counterblast to the rationalistic
congress at Rome in 1904, when Giordano Bruno became, for a while, the
hero of the country. This statue does not lack dignity. The Saviour's
regard turns towards Reggio, the capital of the province; and one hand
is upraised in calm and godlike benediction.
Passing through magnificent groves of fir, we descended rapidly into
anothsr climate, into realms of golden sunshine. Among these trees I
espied what has become quite a rare bird in Italy - the common
wood-pigeon. The few that remain have been driven into the most secluded
recesses of the mountains; it was different in the days of Theocritus,
who sang of this amiable fowl when the climate was colder and the
woodlands reached as far as the now barren seashore. To the firs
succeeded long stretches of odorous pines interspersed with
Mediterranean heath (brayere), which here grows to a height of twelve
feet; one thinks of the number of briar pipes that could be cut out of
its knotty roots. A British Vice-Consul at Reggio, Mr. Kerrich, started
this industry about the year 1899; he collected the roots, which were
sawn into blocks and then sent to France and America to be made into
pipes. This Calabrian briar was considered superior to the French kind,
and Mr. Kerrich had large sales on both sides of the Atlantic; his chief
difficulty was want of labour owing to emigration.
We passed, by the wayside, several rude crosses marking the site of
accidents or murders, as well as a large heap of stones, where-under lie
the bones of a man who attempted to traverse these mountains in
winter-time and was frozen to death.
"They found him," the guide told me, "in spring, when the snow melted
from off his body. There he lay, all fresh and comely! It looked as if
he would presently wake up and continue his march; but he neither spoke
nor stirred. Then they knew he was dead. And they piled all these stones
over him, to prevent the wolves, you understand - - "
Aspromonte deserves its name. It is an incredibly harsh agglomeration of
hill and dale, and the geology of the district, as I learned long ago
from my friend Professor Cortese, reveals a perfect chaos of rocks of
every age, torn into gullies by earthquakes and other cataclysms of the
past - at one place, near Scido, is an old stream of lava. Once the
higher ground, the nucleus of the group, is left behind, the wanderer
finds himself lost in a maze of contorted ravines, winding about without
any apparent system of watershed. Does the liquid flow north or south?
Who can tell! The track crawls in and out of valleys, mounts upwards to
heights of sun-scorched bracken and cistus, descends once more into dewy
glades hemmed in by precipices and overhung by drooping fernery. It
crosses streams of crystal clearness, rises afresh in endless gyrations
under the pines only to vanish, yet again, into the twilight of deeper
abysses, where it skirts the rivulet along precarious ledges, until some
new obstruction blocks the way - so it writhes about for long, long
hours. . . .
Here, on the spot, one can understand how an outlaw like Musolino was
enabled to defy justice, helped, as he was, by the fact that the vast
majority of the inhabitants were favourable to him, and that the officer
in charge of his pursuers was paid a fixed sum for every day he spent in
the chase and presumably found it convenient not to discover his
whereabouts. [Footnote: See next chapter.]
We rested awhile, during these interminable meanderings, under the
shadow of a group of pines.
"Do you see that square patch yonder?" said my man. "It is a cornfield.
There Musolino shot one of his enemies, whom he suspected of giving
information to the police. It was well done."
"How many did he shoot, altogether?"
"Only eighteen. And three of them recovered, more or less; enough to
limp about, at all events. Ah, if you could have seen him, sir! He was
young, with curly fair hair, and a face like a rose. God alone can tell
how many poor people he helped in their distress. And any young girl he
met in the mountains he would help with her load and accompany as far as
her home, right into her father's house, which none of us would have
risked, however much we might have liked it. But every one knew that he
was pure as an angel."
"And there was a young fellow here," he went on, "who thought he could
profit by pretending to be Musolino. So one day he challenged a
proprietor with his gun, and took all his money. When it came to
Musolino's ears, he was furious - furious! He lay in wait for him, caught
him, and said: 'How dare you touch fathers of children? Where's that
money you took from Don Antonio?' Then the boy began to cry and tremble
for his life. 'Bring it,' said Musolino, 'every penny, at midday next
Monday, to such and such a spot, or else - - ' Of course he brought it.
Then he marched him straight into the proprietor's house. 'Here's this
wretched boy, who robbed you in my name. And here's the money: please
count it. Now, what shall we do with him?' So Don Antonio counted the
money.
