Window-curtains, a table, lamp, and book, and a
bedstead toppling over the abyss; another one, carpeted and hung with
pictures and a large faded mirror, below which ran a row of shelves that
groaned under a multitudinous collection of phials and bottles.
The old man's embrocations. . . .
XXX
THE SKIRTS OF MONTALTO
After such sights of suffering humanity - back to the fields and
mountains! Aspromonte, the wild region behind Reggio, was famous, not
long ago, for Garibaldi's battle. But the exploits of this warrior have
lately been eclipsed by those of the brigand Musolino, who infested the
country up to a few years ago, defying the soldiery and police of all
Italy. He would still be safe and unharmed had he remained in these
fastnesses. But he wandered away, wishful to leave Italy for good and
all, and was captured far from his home by some policemen who were
looking for another man, and who nearly fainted when he pronounced his
name. After a sensational trial, they sentenced him to thirty odd years'
imprisonment; he is now languishing in the fortress of Porto Longone on
Elba. Whoever has looked into this Spanish citadel will not envy him. Of
the lovely little bay, of the loadstone mountain, of the romantic
pathway to the hermitage of Monserrato or the glittering beach at
Rio - of all the charms of Porto Longone he knows nothing, despite a
lengthy residence on the spot.
They say he has grown consumptive and witless during the long solitary
confinement which preceded his present punishment - an eternal night in a
narrow cell. No wonder. I have seen the condemned on their release from
these boxes of masonry at the island of Santo Stefano: dazed shadows,
tottering, with complexions the colour of parchment. These are the
survivors. But no one asks after the many who die in these dungeons
frenzied, or from battering their heads against the wall; no one knows
their number save the doctor and the governor, whose lips are sealed. . . .
I decided upon a rear attack of Aspromonte. I would go by rail as far as
Bagnara on the Tyrrhenian, the station beyond Scylla of old renown; and
thence afoot via Sant' Eufemia [Footnote: Not to be confounded with the
railway station on the gulf of that name, near Maida.] to Sinopoli,
pushing on, if day permitted, as far as Delianuova, at the foot of
the mountain. Early next morning I would climb the summit and descend to
the shores of the Ionian, to Bova. It seemed a reasonable programme.
All this Tyrrhenian coast-line is badly shattered; far more so than the
southern shore. But the scenery is finer. There is nothing on that side
to compare with the views from Nicastro, or Monte-leone, or Sant' Elia
near Palmi.
