In The Carriage Sat A School-Boy, A Book Open Upon His Knee.
When
our eyes had met twice or thrice, and an ingenuous smile rose to his
handsome face, I opened
Conversation, and he told me that he came
every day to school from a little place called San Sostene to
Catanzaro, there being no nearer instruction above the elementary; a
journey of some sixteen miles each way, and not to be reckoned by
English standards, for it meant changing at the Marina for the
valley train, and finally going up the mountain side by diligenza.
The lad flushed with delight in his adventure - a real adventure
for him to meet with some one from far-off England. Just before we
stopped at San Sostene, he presented me with his card - why had he
a card? - which bore the name, De Luca Fedele. A bright and
spirited lad, who seemed to have the best qualities of his nation; I
wish I might live to hear him spoken of as a man doing honour to
Italy.
At this station another travelling companion took the school-boy's
place; a priest, who soon addressed me in courteous talk. He
journeyed only for a short way, and, when alighting, pointed skyward
through the dark (night had fallen) to indicate his mountain parish
miles inland. He, too, offered me his card, adding a genial
invitation; I found he was Parroco (parish priest) of San Nicola at
Badolato. I would ask nothing better than to visit him, some
autumn-tide, when grapes are ripening above the Ionian Sea.
It was a wild night. When the rain at length ceased, lightning
flashed ceaselessly about the dark heights of Aspromonte; later, the
moon rose, and, sailing amid grandly illumined clouds, showed white
waves rolling in upon the beach. Wherever the train stopped, that
sea-music was in my ears - now seeming to echo a verse of Homer,
now the softer rhythm of Theocritus. Think of what one may in
day-time on this far southern shore, its nights are sacred to the
poets of Hellas. In rounding Cape Spartivento, I strained my eyes
through the moonlight - unhappily a waning moon, which had shone
with full orb the evening I ascended to Catanzaro - to see the
Sicilian mountains; at length they stood up darkly against the paler
night. There came back to my memory a voyage at glorious sunrise,
years ago, when I passed through the Straits of Messina, and all day
long gazed at Etna, until its cone, solitary upon the horizon, shone
faint and far in the glow of evening - the morrow to bring me a
first sight of Greece.
CHAPTER XVIII
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.
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