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.
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