XTHE VILLAGGIO REGINA ELENA

OLIVE GROVE NEAR PALMI.Page 276.

CAPTAIN BELKNAP AND CARPENTER FAUST ON GROUND FLOOR OF HOTEL.Page 284.

AMERICAN VILLAGE, MESSINA. VIEW FROM THE HOTEL.Page 287.

reported every franc I gave away in Rome, till I caught on to what it meant. My poor Sanscrit professor had been promised substantial help. I reported the little money I gave him; after that he got nothing more. I was told never to give a single family more than fifty francs. How’s a man who has lost everything he has in the world going to start life again on ten dollars?

The situation of Bagnara recalls Amalfi; there is a fine smooth beach, where the fishing boats are drawn up on the shore. The nets are spread higher up on the sand. Above the lovely scallop of shore the little town perches on the hillside. At Gioia Tauro, just before Palmi, the semicircle of golden beach in the shape of a scimitar, the beryl green water, reminded us of Tangiers.

After we passed Bagnara the train went very slowly.

“At this rate we shall never reach Taormina tonight,” Patsy complained.

“Pazienza, Signorino! chi va piano va sano!” said the guard. “This is the first train that has gone through since the landslide.” This was the first we had heard of a landslide.

“A mere nothing, only the rocks came trundling down from the mountains and broke the track so badly that no trains have run for the past month,” the guard explained.

“Scylla!” We must have been dozing, for we all started when the guard called out the name of the station.

“Look!”

The tremendous rock of Scylla, with the strong castle on the top, springs from the sea like a great many-toned jewel of coral, shading from rose to yellow. The sun shone, the wind blew the surf in great green and white surges against the cliff. Further out the water was pale emerald, with sudden streaks of amethyst; everywhere on sea, shore and cloud lay shadows of sapphire.

Even Patsy was dumb, moved beyond words by that glimpse.

“Their Excellencies saw the castle?” chirruped the friendly guard. “The earthquake didn’t hurt it, more than to crack the outer wall a trifle. They knew how to build in those days!”

“The castle is a trumpery medieval affair,” remarked Patsy, “though it was standing whenRobert Guiscard came in 1060, but the rock! In the Odyssey it’s described as the home of a roaring sea monster, with six terrific heads, twelve deformed feet, and three rows of teeth. Look over there—the lighthouse! That marks the whirlpool! ‘Incidit in Scyllam qui vult vitare Charybdis!’”

Across the narrow strait lay the jewel of the south, Sicily! The old name, Trinacria, was given to the island on account of its shape, an irregular triangle with three great points or promontories. It was once a part of the Apennine range, but in some volcanic upheaval it was broken off—as a monarch breaks a link from his gold chain and tosses it to some henchman—and thrown into the Mediterranean, where it shines a brilliant in a sapphire setting, the most coveted, the most disputed of earth’s gems.

Patsy had not spoken for twenty minutes. His dancing eyes had grown grave and steady; the imp, the sprite, the creature of impulse, was gone; in his place was a stranger with grave eyes.

“Villa San Giovanni,” cried the guard. “Il ferryboat per Messina.”

“Ferryboat! Sounds familiar,” said Patsy. “Tumble out, we’re here!”

As Patsy made me comfortable on one of the wooden benches, I saw a familiar face that puzzled me in the crowd of passengers. Where had I met that pale girl with the mouth like a scarlet trumpet-creeper, the thin curved eyebrows like a crescent moon, the deep eyes that looked violet in the distance and were blue?

“I know her,” I said.

“She doesn’t appear to know you,” Patsy murmured. I was so sure I knew her that I began to burrow in my memory, searched pigeonhole after pigeonhole to find just where in a lifetime of impressions that arch face was tucked away.

“It’s Palladia!” I found her at last. “My milliner, lost to us in Rome for three painful years, ever since she went to Palermo to set up for herself.”

I spoke to the girl without more ado:

“Palladia, don’t you remember me?”

“Perfectly, Signora. I have not seen you since the morning I brought you the hat with the primole for Pasqua.”

“And you would not have spoken to me?”

“Pardon me, Signora, may I fasten your veil? I feared you would not recall me.” We were shaking hands warmly now; she was my milliner again, I her client.

“If I bent the hat a little, so? That is more becoming.”

“You have done well in Palermo?”

“Discreetly; I am returning from Naples, where I have been to buy the new shapes, look over the modes. I have some beautiful French straw—if the Signora should come to Palermo?”

“Of course I shall come, just to get one of your hats. I haven’t had a decent one since you left Rome.” Palladia produced her card and, wishing each otherbuon viaggio, we parted at the dock, Palladia to take the train for Palermo, we to look for a cab.

“No one to meet us! They can’t have received letter or telegram,” said Patsy. “Just as well, nothing like taking our friends unawares. Now they won’t have time to smarten up for us.”

“Will that old rabbit-hutch hold us all?” I asked, looking distrustfully at the onlyvehicle in sight. The driver understood; he seized the wheel of the battered old cab and shook it violently to show how strong it was.

“This is a most excellent and signorial carriage, Signorino. It needs paint; why should it not? I dug it out myself from the ruins, and the horse too. That blessed animal has cost me a lot of fatigue. It was nine days before I could get him out, nine dayssotto le macerie!”

“How much to the Case Americane?” asked Patsy.

“Two francs, Excellency, with a slight token for myself. The Comandante himself set the price. He drives with no other; I am the official coachman of the Americans.”

For a horse that had been nine days buried, the poor little rat of a pony drew the cab bravely through the Via San Martino, one smooth lake of yellow mud.

“There’s Old Glory!” shouted Patsy.

I had been so much taken up with looking back at the desolate streets, at the Tell Tale Tower, I did not know we had arrived at camp. Two Italian soldiers, on guard at the entrance, halted the cab.

“Stop, thou knowest thou canst go no

HOTEL REGINA ELENA AND CHURCH OF SANTA CROCE,AMERICAN VILLAGE, MESSINA.Page 284.

farther,” said the elder, evidently a friend of the driver’s.

“What dost thou say? I, who drive to the door of the barracks four times every day at least! Mayst thou die of an accident!”

“Never, unless there is an officer in thy cab. These be strangers, without a written pass from the Comandante; they cannot enter!”

“Archpriest, I say! Mayst thou be stricken with—“

“Oh, come now, officer,” Patsy interrupted persuasively, “you will not make the lady walk through this mud! We are friends of the American Comandante. He expects us.”

The soldier was firm; we could not pass.

“Peace, I will inform the Sor Comandante,” said a new voice. It was Gasperone; I recognized him from J.’s description. He put his finger to his lips and tapped gently at the door of the small neat wooden cottage nearest the flag.

“Behold a lady and two gentlemen, who have driven up in a cab,” said Gasperone through the half-opened door. “Shall they be sent away or allowed to enter the camp?”

J., standing at his drawing-board, looked from the window.

“Good Lord,” I heard him cry, “they’ve come!”

Our plan was to spend the afternoon at the camp and push on that night to Taormina, an hour and a half distant by train. Captain Belknap received us most kindly and showed us about the camp. What had been accomplished was a miracle; the place had already begun to look like a neat, well laid out American village.

“We save every tree we possibly can,” said Belknap. “Each lemon tree brings an income of at least ten francs, the mulberries even more.”

Belknap and J. fought hard for the life of every tree that did not actually interfere with the construction of the buildings. Some of the streets have long lines of lemon trees, with here and there a fig tree. They saved a double row of shade trees, for which the guests at Hotel Regina Elena will some day bless them.

As we were inspecting the site of the hotel, the heavens opened and the flood descended. We hurried to the office for shelter and admired the trim row of ledgers, the typewriter, the letter scales, the red, white and blue silk cordthat Uncle Sam makes for his own special service, all the tidy paraphernalia of the Chief’s workroom. I peeped into the drafting-room, partitioned off with a wooden screen from the office. It looked nice and professional, with sheets of architect’s paper, opaque white, semi-transparent blue, yellow tracing, compasses, T squares, all sorts of fascinating architectural tools. On the wall hung the neatly drawn plans of the hotel; on the drawing-board was the ground plan for the Queen’s hospital at Villaggio Regina Elena.

“May we look?” Patsy asked.

“If you will not touch,” J. glanced up from his work. “Mind that India ink!”

“I can’t let you go on to Taormina in such a tempest,” said Captain Belknap. “If you will put up with what we can offer, I should be glad to have you spend the night at the camp.” This was more than we had dared hope for; Patsy was in the seventh heaven.

“It’s a reward for bringing down the new recruit,” he whispered.

Brush, the “new recruit,” was sent almost immediately to Reggio, where Wilcox found him an invaluable assistant.

I was shown to my quarters—the room that had been Mr. Bicknell’s—in a small frame house, sixteen by sixteen. It was divided into two rooms by a wooden partition with a door; there was a well fitted window with a sash curtain in each room. Behind the house was the famous kitchen, of which we had heard so much. It is a tiny convenient place with a cement floor and walls, a stone table with little holes for the live charcoal, and grates to go over the fire. My room had a table, chair, washstand with jug, basin and pail. Gasperone brought me hot water and took my boots and dress to brush. In the corner of the room was a most ingenious and convenient bed. Some springy boards were nailed rather loosely to an upright head and footpiece; the boards were almost as good as a spring, the mattress and pillow of sea-moss were comfortable enough for anybody, not born in Sybaris.

I sat down and looked out of the window towards the tool house, the center of interest for the moment. The men had knocked off work, and were passing in file, very slowly, before the open window, where the paymaster sat, paying each man what was due him.

AMERICAN VILLAGE, MESSINA. THE PAY LINE.Page 286.

“THE FRONT OF THE PALACE HAD FALLEN INTO A HEAP OF RUINS.”Page 305.

SEMINARA. CHURCH OF OUR LADY OF THE POOR.

After our long journey, our harassing drive through ruined Messina—where the reality surpassed all descriptions—the exquisite neatness, the order, the comfort of the Zona Case Americane, brought a sense of well-being like oil poured on a burning wound. I sat for an hour in that fragrant little wooden room, while the rain drummed with soft fingers on the roof, and went over the history of our journey step by step, tested link by link the chain of chance circumstances that had drawn young Brush, the new recruit, from the garage in Florence to the camp by the Torrente Zaera.

The manner in which the whole American working party was brought together is well illustrated by the story. If Mr. Parrish had not been in Florence, if he had not hunted up Mr. Brush, if that letter from camp had not come the day we lunched at the Trattoria Aurora, we should not have had one of our most useful and faithful workers; and young Brush would have missed one of the great experiences of his life. Mr. Griscom felt that one of his practical difficulties was that all the help he could hope for must be drawn from the American colonies in Italy, the Government agents, consuls,artists and missionaries. If this was a difficulty—which I question—the way it was overcome both at the Embassy and the camp was magnificent. Whatever tool he had, Belknap worked with and found it a good tool. It may have been his nature—he is the kind of workman who never grumbles at his tools—but the character of the helpers surely counted for something. Our consuls were never found wanting. Bayard Cutting from Milan, though out of health at the time of the earthquake, went down to Messina with the first relief party, and from that time on he was faithful to the great work. Bishop at Palermo, Crowninshield at Naples, Smith at Genoa, did magnificent service, working day and night, without thought of sparing themselves. The spirit of the officials and volunteers was almost without exception altruistic. Every man was trying to help the other out; all were matched in the great race for service. Sailors, consuls, artists and missionaries have something in common surely; it was just that something that made them of so much use. They are not machines; they have not been warped and deformed by the commercial slavery that is sapping the life-blood of our people.Mammon, the slave-driver, may crack his whip; it does not frighten them. Their time is not money, it’s beyond price, so they spent it freely for their suffering brothers and never counted the cost.

J. had written that the nights were cold. I unpacked my hot-water bottle and my traveling rug; I was just on the point of calling Gasperone to fill the bottle, when J. looked in. His eyes brightened at the sight of the rubber bottle.

“Are you going to use this?” he asked.

“Oh, no! I always travel with it, in case of illness.”

“If you are sure, I will have it filled; Belknap’s taken cold. You brought the rug; will you need it?”

“No, no! There are plenty of blankets.”

“You think so? Then I will take this for him. Some of the men have been greedy about blankets; he has less than any man in the camp.”

“Take them, take them of course!” J. went off with bottle and rug; I piled every garment I had with me on my sea-moss bed and tucked myself up comfortably. What sort of man was this Chief who inspired such devotion?

It must have been after midnight, for the cocks were crowing, when I was awakened by the sound of gunshots, followed by loud shouts and the noise of hurrying footsteps. I listened, as I never listened before.

In the distance a dog bayed; some vagrant cur had escaped in spite of the stringent orders to shoot all dogs and cats on sight. The flash of a lantern next, the clank of a sword-belt as if one buckled on his weapon as he ran, more footsteps, at first light and hurrying, then slow and heavy,—the tread of men who carry a burthen: they passed the door, grew faint, were lost in the silence of the night. Through the upper uncurtained window-panes the haggard face of the gibbous moon looked from an angry sky.

I asked at breakfast what the commotion had been. No one had heard the noises of the night; it was suggested that I had been dreaming. Months after, Patsy told me what had happened.

“You remember the two soldiers who challenged us when we reached the camp? They had to keep a strict watch at night so that the building materials and tools should notbe stolen. The soldier on duty fell asleep at his post. He was wakened suddenly by the steps of his comrade, come to relieve him; before he was fully awake he caught up his gun and shot the poor fellow, who, as it happened, was his best friend. I had it from the cab-driver, never a word of it at camp of course!”

That morning Patsy hunted up the Avvocato Bonanno, and through him made several interesting acquaintances. He lunched with some officers, and recognized among the dishes served certain canned meats sent out from America for theprofughi.

“The Sicilian peasants simply won’t eat them; they’d rather starve,” Patsy explained. “The only thing to do with the quantities of tinned food we sent is to feed it to the army; they’re not so particular. Another time when we want to help such people in a plight like this, we should send flour and corn-meal and trust them to turn them into macaroni and polenta, their two staples of life. We’re so fond of change, so keen about new foods, that we give old standbys, like hominy and oatmeal, new fancy names every year, just to sell them. AnAmerican believes something new is better than anything old. An Italian only admits a thing good that has been so proven by the centuries. Have you room in your bag for this?” Patsy handed me a pound package of Salada Ceylon tea.

“Where did you get it?”

“Bought it! We sent these poor devils half a cargo of tea! They did not know what on earth it was good for, tried to smoke it, chew it, use it as snuff—no go! Finally they put it on sale; now foreigners in camp and on shipboard can buy it at a fair price! The money is put into coffee;thatis the very breath of life to a Sicilian.”

“Whatdid you think had happened?”

Caterina traced a cross with her bare brown toe in the dusty path of thecampo santo: “Per Dio, Signora, we thought it was the Day of Judgment. Mamma, babbo and I were dressed, ready to go to work—we live here, my father isguardiano. My two brothers were in bed; they were killed. One still remainssotto le macerie; there is no way to get the body out. After the 28th of April no more may be moved on account of infection; it is finished.”

Caterina, daughter of the porter at the cemetery, a lovely girl of sixteen, was our guide. Smiling, she welcomed us, standing under a sculptured “Genius of Grief.”

“A strange guide for such a place!” said Patsy.

Strange indeed! Coffins everywhere, and babies in grandams’ arms—the new life pushing aside the old, as the green oak leaves come out beneath the brown.

As Caterina led the way up the sunny slope,between cypresses and roses, she pointed out the tottering and broken monuments; the earthquake had wrought strange havoc here. The chapel of the Cavallieri di Messina with its fine Ionic colonnade was a ruin; some of the tombs were wrenched open.

“Perhaps these dead, like ourselves, thought that the last day had come,” said Caterina.

A wine cart loaded with casks of wine, with a coffin lashed at the back, passed us. It was followed by two women with grim set faces—no tears, they were all shed long ago. Caterina paused by the grave of the patriot, La Farina, picked a red rose and handed it to me with a shy smile. From the upper terrace we looked down on a plain, furrowed as if for planting. A long line of men were digging a trench. Piles of plain unmarked wooden boxes—there must have been several hundreds—were stacked on the ground.

“These might be packing cases for dry-goods,” said Patsy. “There’s not the faintest suggestion of the human form, not even the sloping line of the shoulders, to show what they are!”

“Will there be no service, no benediction?” I asked Caterina.

“God has already given them benediction enough,” she replied.

Messina is like a battle-field; there is too much haste for funeral pomp; nothing remains to be done but get the poor human remains out of sight, under ground as soon as possible. From time to time the Archbishop visits thecampo santo, blesses the deaden masse, and sprinkles holy water on the long brown mounds.

As we watched the men delving in the fosse, a gay little paintedcarrettopassed, driven by a blond lad with a roguish face and a rose behind his ear. He sat upon two coffins, whistling merrily.

“Buon giorno, Caterina; what a fine day, if the sun would only stay!” He flourished his whip and flicked a fly off the mule’s ear.

Caterina looked at him adoringly and echoed his wish:

“Perhaps the rains are over,” she said. “Thou art well, Carlino?”

While they talked about the weather, their eyes also spoke of secrets unspeakable. It was easy to see how things stood between them. In that dreadful indescribable atmosphere, hazel eyes caught fire from blue. Death had becomea commonplace to the lover and his lass; after so many months of familiarity they had grown callous to its ugliness. In the meeting of their eyes, life laughed at death.

In the upper, more aristocratic part of thecampo santo, the dead lay in separate graves. Caterina stopped near two grave-diggers at work.

“Two metres deep,” she said sagely.

A pair of stone-masons were working here, directed by a tall eagle-faced man and a youth, evidently his son. One mason marked on a small white headstone letters and a date in black; then with a chisel, which he knocked only with his hand, chipped out the letters from the stone. It must have been soft as cheese, for by the time the grave was a metre deep, the name Domenica was neatly carved. The second mason was smoothing a little white cross that had been roughed out of the same soft stone. When the grave was two metres deep, cross and headstone were ready. The plain wooden coffin had a rude cross nailed on the lid. Without a flower or a tear, it was lowered into the grave and the earth filled in.

“Thou hast done well and quickly,” said thegentleman to the elder mason. “Here is the money as agreed.”

“The others the Signore spoke of?”

“Gone—there was some mistake. We have found only this, the youngest. Perhaps another has buried them, thinking them his own. I return to Rome tonight.”

Then I remembered: this was the man I had met with the fair young woman going from one survivor to another, asking for news of Messina.

An Italian officer and an Englishman passed, and stood looking down at those men digging in the long trench.

“What do you advise?” asked the officer. “She is tormented; here is her last letter. Nothing will satisfy her unless I find him. I have tried every way; there is no trace, no record. He may have been among those burned or carried out to sea the first days; he may be in that trench. What would you do?”

“Find him,” said the Englishman, “or another in his place, and put up a stone to him. Then she can have a place to lay her flowers and to weep; it’s not his bones, but his memory—” They passed out of earshot.

We moved to another part of the upper terrace and watched half a dozen men take up the flat stone covers of a row of tombs, sunk under the marble pavement.

“What are they doing?” Patsy asked.

“We must make room here, there, everywhere, for these new ones,” Caterina answered. “No one could have expected such a calamity; how could we be prepared?” She spoke with the anxiety of a hostess, who has not beds enough for her guests to sleep in. “These poor dead, they too must lie in sanctified ground; it is their turn.”

“Those buried here before?”

“The people who died of the last cholera.”

“Let us go,” said Patsy, “we’ve seen enough.”

Did he remember the story they tell in Florence? When the ancient city wall was taken down fifty years ago, the workmen died like sheep of a mysterious disease. An investigation was ordered. It was found that the old wall crossed the cemetery, where the victims of the great plague were buried in the fourteenth century; the plague germs were still alive, and the workmen had died of the plague that in Boccaccio’s time decimated Florence.

“Would you like a new dress, Caterina?” said Patsy, as we paused at the gate. Her ragged gown clung to her with the grace of classic drapery; it seemed a pity to change it for a stiff new dress. “Come to the Case Americane at two o’clock and ask for the Signora.”

“Si, Signorino!” She watched us go with dancing eyes; she was to have a new dress.

Carlino was waiting outside the gate. His cart was empty now; we stopped to look at the pretty turnout. The mule’s harness was superb, with a high pommel and headstall of crimson velvet embroidered in tinsel. The wooden axle was beautifully carved with grotesque heads at either end. The panels in sides and back of the cart were painted with different scenes from Sicilian history or literature. Many of the old legends are preserved in this way. In spite of the painting being rather poor, certain classic details are observed. The subject of each scene is stated so that there can be no doubt as to what the painter wishes to portray. On one panel of Carlino’scarrettothe title is painted under a tragic mask:

“Eschylus gives a rehearsal of his play of Œdipus at Colonus at the Theatre of Dionysius.”

“That’s Eschylus,” Patsy pointed out, “you know him by the roll of manuscript in his hand—the play happens to be by Sophocles, a mere detail!”

The next panel represents English soldiers scouting in the desert.

“That’s an officer in khaki and a wide-awake hat on horseback, with an Arab in a bournous pointing out the way.”

“La prima lettera amorosa” occupies the third panel, a garden scene—a gentleman in Louis Quinze dress plays the harp to the heroine in pink satin, reading a letter; below the tail-board is a boldly carved dragon; in an under-panel a pair of sweethearts embracing. Carlino was proud of his cart, which was fresh, clean, and newly varnished.

“Not a badcarretto, is it?” he said, pleased at our attention. We left Carlino waiting, and singing as he waited an old song of the people:

“Mamma, mamma fò la preghieraTu non lo sai con quale ardorePrego Iddio mattina e seraChe dell’ amante mi serbi il core!”

We looked into the Giardino Mazzini, where the Calabresi family took refuge after the earthquake. The sign at the entrance was still intact: “The public is prayed not to touch the plants or to walk upon the grass.”

In the middle of the garden the calm face of Mazzini looks down upon a strange scene. Barracks and shanties have been knocked together anywhere, everywhere; one family is established in a gay little summer house. A clothes-line has been made fast to the pedestal that supports the patriot’s bust, a scarlet petticoat flaps behind his head; two women are washing at a tub; a man tends a fire in an open grate, built of stray bricks; in a gypsy kettle, hung on three sticks, something savory boils and bubbles. A swing has been put up across the broken iron railing; a tall girl is seated in the swing, her hair neatly tied with a green ribbon; with a bold foot she pushes the ground, and swings high, higher, under the palm trees where the dates are turning yellow. Three girls in an arbor are at work, making up a funeral wreath of laurel and pansies; one offers us flowers.

“Here,” said Patsy, giving the elder ten francs, “make a cross; take it to Caterina at thecampo santo, ask her to put it on thegrave where they buried Domenica an hour ago.”

“That’s the most encouraging sight that we have seen in Messina outside the Mosella,” he said, “people are beginning to buy flowers for their dead.”

Punctual to the minute, Caterina tapped on my door.

“Come in,cara mia, and choose your dress.”

Spread out on the sea-moss bed were several frocks; I hoped Caterina would like the blue dress, or the scarlet jacket and green skirt; she didn’t even look at them, but pointed to a black skirt and bodice, made by Sora Clara, seamstress late of Bagnara.

“Might it be this?” Then grown bold she asked for a dress for her mother’s sister.

“She has been more unfortunate than another, because she had more to lose! When Zia Maddalena went back to her house to get the money hidden in her mattress, it was gone.Poveretta!”

“Why didn’t Zia Maddalena keep her money in the bank, instead of that foolish place?”

“One must hide one’s money somewhere. Cousin Sofia had hers all in her pillow. Shenever forgot it but ran out with it under her arm.”

Immense sums of money were lost in this way. Sicilians distrust banks; the majority keep their money hidden in their houses. The thieves, knowing this habit, knew just where to look.

We chose a dress for Zia Maddalena and one for Cousin Sofia; then Caterina took us to call on her relations. We found them hard at work, building a little shack from what looked like American lumber. Zia Maddalena, a gay little old woman, with a load of boards on her back, scolded her two small grandsons.

“Do me the favor to work a little faster, Checco. The rain will begin before we have the roof on. Birbante! Are you not ashamed? You are slower than a sheep.”

Caterina made us known to aunt and cousin. Zia Maddalena welcomed us; Sofia, sitting on the ground, suckling her infant, smiled and nodded.

“I have lived on this spot for thirty-seven years,” the old woman began. “Shewas born here,” pointing to Sofia. “Do you think I would live anywhere else? Later we shallhave one of the American barracks. The Signore will speak to the Sor Comandante of us?”

Sofia handed the baby to her mother, picked up a stone for a hammer and began to nail down the roof.

“That’s the little scamp who steals the nails from camp,” said Patsy, “a handful at a time. Look at the size of his fist!”

I gave Zia Maddalena the garments we had brought.

“Good!” she said, “so we shall have something decent for Pasqua, black too; are we not both widows? She lost her husband, I mine, but she saved her money. Well, what’s to be done about it? We are alive, that’s always something.”

Zia Maddalena was stout of heart; she had nothing but smiles for us.

“I hope they can have one of the barracks,” I said as we walked back to camp.

Patsy of course knew all about it.

“When the houses are finished,” he explained, “Belknap will turn them over to the local authorities. He’s been pestered for them already, especially by Messinesi who claim to be American citizens. The allotment of the houses

MESSINA. AMERICAN COTTAGES, VILLAGGIO REGINA ELENA.Page 305.

won’t be an easy job for anybody; the municipality must tackle it. There’s a good fighting chance for our friends. The aunt of Caterina is the grandmother of Gasperone. She is officially connected with the camp, a person of influence!”

We were picking our way through almost impassable streets, climbing mountains of debris. At one place we found ourselves on a level with the second story of what had been a handsome bedroom. The front of the palace had fallen into the heap of ruins on which we were standing. Two white beds stood side by side. On the wall hung a costly mirror without even a crack. Near the door were two trunks and a valise with the labels of several fashionable continental hotels.

“The people who lived here?” I said.

“Under the ruins; they had just returned from their wedding journey,” said Caterina.

That afternoon J. took me to the Villaggio Regina Elena on the other side of Messina. Like our camp, it is beautifully situated on the edge of atorrente, facing the straits. As we drove over the fine road, I could hardly credit what J. told me, that both road and villagehad been built since the earthquake. We were met by two Italian officers; one carried J. off to look over the site for the American quarter here, the other offered to show me the Villaggio.

The butcher was just taking down his shutters, opening shop for the afternoon. The bakery stood opposite; the smell of fresh bread floated from the window. The baker’s wife sat sewing in the doorway; a baby, swaddled stiff as a papoose, lay in her lap.

“Enter, enter!” she said hospitably. “Will the Signora be pleased to see the oven?”

She threw open the iron door; a brushwood fire roared and crackled in the black cavern.

“He has made one baking already; see how light the bread is!” She broke a small loaf to show what good bread her husband made. The officer tasted a morsel.

“Va bene,” he nodded. “Tell Pietro I am content.”

As we walked about the village, the officer told me its brief history:

“Built for the Queen by the sailors of the battleship, Regina Elena, and the soldiers of the 19th Infantry. It has been an immense fatigue—that cannot be denied. O! the rain,rain, rain, that’s been the worst of it. The sailors had a change of clothes, it wasn’t so bad for them; our soldiers had but one uniform—when that was wet, there was no other to change. So many have died, some from exposure—they were poorly nourished, they gave half their rations to the starving women and children—some from blood-poisoning,poverini! If one had a little scratch, a mere nothing, on his hand when he went on duty, excavating the ruins, taking out the dead—bah! a pin-prick was enough!”

The houses are neat and comfortable, painted white and whitewashed over the paint, as double precaution against vermin. Each house has a porch and wooden steps. The village is under military control; a kindly control one saw that, as every man, woman, child we met had a smile for the Capitano.

“What is that building?” I asked; we were passing a small house with barred windows.

“Alas! Signora, it is a prison. Discipline is necessary—our men are good fellows but they are human—a firm hand is the kindest in the end.”

We passed through the Via PrincipessaMafalda and the Piazza Giovanna, named for the little princesses, to the Piazza Emanuele, the center of the village life. The tiny church stands here, a tall flagpole with the national flag of Italy directly before the door.

“It has cost us more trouble to build this than all the rest,” laughed the Capitano. The chapel contains an altar, a confessional and a cupboard for the vestments, books and mass vessels. There is no room for the congregation; they must stand or sit outside for the service.

“It has been a little hard—during the deluge; that must come to an end; in general, as the Signora has heard, this is a fine climate!”

As a child keeps the biggest plum for the last, my officer had kept the school, the crowning glory of the Villaggio, for the end.

“Opened on the 7th of March, Signora, nearly a month ago, at her Majesty’s desire. She did not wish the children to lose a year’s schooling—they have not lost much time, these little ones, have they?”

School was over, the children scattered; the captain sent a lad for the schoolhouse key.

“Her Majesty sent all the books and

ZIA MADDALENA AND HER FAMILY.Page 303.CAPTAIN BIGNAMI AND HIS STAFF.Page 310.

MESSINA. GASPERONE AND WATER BOYS IN HOTEL COURTYARD.Page 289.

MESSINA. ROAD-MAKING IN THE AMERICAN VILLAGE.Page 305.

furniture from Rome. See the nice little desks, the little chairs. Here are the copy-books. This belongs to the son of that woman you talked with, a fair hand for a nine-year-old,non è vero?”

He showed me the text-books, the maps, the teacher’s records, the sum in subtraction on the blackboard, the prancing horse a clever scholar had drawn below it.

“It’s one of the best equipped village schools I ever saw,” I exclaimed.

He glowed with pleasure—he loved the Villaggio as a man only loves the thing he has created. From the wall behind the teacher’s desk, the grave kind face of the young Queen looked down upon her school. We found J. still discussing the site of the American quarter with his officer.

“With respect, sir,” said J., “it’s my opinion that this is the best site—the view is incomparable.”

“Unquestionably true, but the ground slopes; to level it will cost immense trouble and fatigue. This other land behind here—“

“The trouble will not be counted, sir; for a hospital the higher ground, the better air, the prospect, surely are important. Her Majesty would, I feel sure, prefer the site that the Comandante Belknap finds most desirable—“

Both were earnest, polite, adamantine; but I knew that Captain Belknap’s site would carry the day!

I did not learn till later that my officer was Captain Bignami, an heroic figure in the drama of Messina. From first to last he was the staunch friend of the Americans. His name, like Captain Cagni’s at Reggio, is one that Italy will hear more of; it was never spoken in our camp without some word of praise.

It seems a poetical justice that sailors should have done so much for Messina, for it has always been a hospitable port for the ships of all nations, since the first Phoenician trader crept timidly along the African coast, made a dash across the straits, and felt his way into the harbor. It was one of the trysting places for the ships of the world. The sailors heard of its destruction with a shiver of regret; with a haunting memory of its lovely shores, splendid with pomegranates, golden oranges, dark glossy carob trees, silver olives; where the joyous notesof the tarantella echoed by day, the languid music of the serenade by night; where the air was cool with the kiss of snowy Etna; sweet with the perfume of many orange groves.

Itwas dark when we arrived at Giardini, a poor fishing village, the station for Taormina. After the stuffy smoking carriage, the fresh salt air on the cheek felt like a caress. Ciro, cousin of Gasperone, was recognized by his white horse, his yellow wheels; he adopted us on sight, tucked us, hold-all, camera and Gladstone bag, into his minute cab, sprang to the box, cracked his whip.

“Hotel Timeo?”

The white horse, blind of one eye, bravely began the stiff three-mile climb. Below us was the beach; we saw the pale tossing of the surf, heard the waves break with a roar, hiss across the sands, sigh as they slipped back to the sea. At each turn of the road the lights of the fishermen’s huts at Giardini shone dimmer, the twinkling lamps of Taormina brighter; the keen savor of the sea grew fainter, there came a whiff of mignonette.

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