Part 9

“January 15th: Left Messina about 6:30 and came over to Reggio. Stormy early, later cleared and day became splendid. Got well in and anchored near the shore, close to Italian cruiser ‘Napoli.’ The others went ashore and by ferry to Messina, but I had to see all stores brought up. Everything up by 11:30, and we put the lumber over in bundles to be towed ashore by boats and launch. Afternoon uneventful for me. Etna clear against the sky. Got all lumber over the side and had boatload of goods away, and left Reggio at seven P. M. for Messina. Accounts of condition of city from our people very sad. Persons said to have been taken alive from the ruins two days ago. Our people could hear the cries of a buried dog. The U. S. S. ‘Illinois’ had party of three hundred men digging for bodies at Consulate. At last succeeded in finding bodies of Consul and his wife. Five people taken out alive today at Messina. Two had food. Left Messina at 10:55 for Palermo.”

At Reggio the nurses, J., and another member of the expedition were having their lunch on the outskirts of the town close by the station. Near where they sat the railroad carriages, swept off the track and out to sea by the tidal wave, lay half submerged in the water, washing idly to and fro, one of the strangest sights of all that topsy-turvy world. The carriages were doubly lost, first to the railroad company for transporting passengers, second to the poor _profughi_ who used the railroad carriages as houses. Happy the family who could find shelter in one of them from rain and cold!

As the party from the “Bayern” were finishing lunch, an orderly from Captain Cagni brought an invitation to come to headquarters and have some hot coffee. The invitation was accepted with glee, and they waited while the coffee was made by one of the soldiers. It was hot, it was black, but, alas, it was salt. The supply of fresh water was so meagre that they used sea water to wash the dishes, and the orderly who made the coffee made the mistake of taking salt water instead of fresh. There were a thousand apologies, and the hospitable host begged the guests to wait till a fresh pot of coffee was brewed, but time pressed, and they were due on board the “Bayern.” One of the Americans, adding brandy to his coffee, tried to drink it with painful results. They gave the remains of their luncheon to some children; every crumb of food was precious, even at Reggio where the suffering from hunger was never so great as at Messina. Captain Cagni saw to that! First he commandeered all the cattle in the neighborhood and served them out in rations as beef. When the cattle gave out, the donkeys were gathered in and served out as beef, mind you, always beef. Finally the dogs and cats were served out in the same way. Captain Cagni said it was beef, so beef it was.

Captain Belknap had received several messages from Mr. Bishop, the American Consul at Palermo, asking that the “Bayern” visit that place, where the crowd of _profughi_ was so enormous that the Palermitans could not begin to feed and clothe them. It was decided to visit Palermo on the way from the Straits of Death back to Civitavecchia. The fifteenth of January was the last day of their stay in the ruined districts.

Mr. Thompson’s diary:

“January 16th: Gray morning early. Fine coast. Reached Palermo 9:30 and anchored outside breakwater. Some delay in getting permission from port authorities to land. Nurses and some of our party went ashore to buy clothing for the refugees. Then took drive about the city. Visited hurriedly royal palace and most interesting chapel with mosaics, one of the finest things of the kind I have ever seen. The cathedral inside quite uninteresting. Splendid view over the city and harbor and mountains from terrace of palace. Got back to lunch at two P.M. Visitors after lunch. Helped to make translation of flowery address to Captain. Warship ‘Garibaldi’ went to sea just before sunset, passing very close. We left at seven P.M. for Civitavecchia and Rome. At dinner our Captain made a speech, saying how well we had all worked under him. Other speeches followed; some of us stayed on deck till eleven P.M. At Palermo gave 30,000 francs and landed 1,200 mattresses and 1,300 kilos of food from ship stores.

“January 17th: At sea going to Civitavecchia. Fine day. Blue sea with white caps and more motion than any time since we left on this cruise. Took some snaps of old men and children, refugees, but they and all our Little Sisters of the Poor were seasick. Morning packed and handed over all my papers to Gay and wrote letters. After lunch busy till we landed, helping Flint and Elliott pay bills on ship. Reached Civitavecchia at about 3:30, but did not anchor for an hour. Finally got off in launch, towing two life-boats (the boats Belknap had commandeered before they left Civitavecchia; the third was lost by the clumsy sailors when they landed the goods at Messina the day of the dreadful storm). Ambassador and Mrs. Griscom and others waiting. After some delay we got off and reached Rome about eight. Have come back tired out but well. Very glad I went but glad to get back.”

Truly misery makes strange bedfellows! The misery of Messina had brought together an oddly assorted company of volunteers on board the “Bayern.” There was Mr. Gay, the Secretary of the Committee, a Fellow of Harvard College settled in Rome, who has devoted many years to the preparation of a History of the Italian Risorgimento; his splendid library at the Palazzo Orsini contains a remarkable collection of books and pamphlets on the subject. There was William Hooper of Boston, a man of affairs and a famous Harvard athlete, who had left the ease of his apartment opposite the Palazzo Margherita in Rome to act as treasurer to the expedition. There was Wilfred Thompson, the painter, who had left his studio and his little cat, to act as supercargo; Robert Hale, another painter, who in the list of assistants is set down as an assistant in the forward hold; the Avvocato Giordano, one of the most brilliant of the writers on the Tribuna. There was Weston Flint, the assistant treasurer, four Italian doctors, six nurses, and John Elliott (J.), who had left his studio to act “as interpreter and to assist in after holds and elsewhere.” These were the permanent members of the expedition. Now and then across this constellation of fixed stars flamed the meteor Chanler, a trail of glory behind him, and the indomitable Cutting, our Consul from Milan, who served in a thousand capacities beside inducing the German sailors to carry up the heavy cases to the temporary Consulate. They had some mishaps of course. The first day Mr. Gay fell down and broke a rib; the same day J. tumbled down an iron ladder into the hold and scraped the flesh off his lean shanks. Thompson, who had a cough, was drenched to the skin over and over again--that did not improve his health--and Cutting--alas and alas, that gallant soul who could never think of himself, had many a ducking besides the one Thompson describes, and endured endless discomforts at the “temporary Consulate” where he, Chanler and Major Landis lived during those first ghastly days. The only tie that bound together these men of varying tastes and habits, was the Red Cross each wore on his arm. In all the letters, reports, journals that tell the story of the “Bayern’s” cruise the most striking thing is the way these men speak of each other. Every man saw his comrades in a golden glow of enthusiasm; they were all good men and true in their fellows’ eyes!

As the “Bayern” steamed across the harbor of Civitavecchia J. looked into the blue brocade saloon. Sor Michaele, the old opera singer, sat at the white and gold piano, his stiff fingers surprisingly limbered up, striking the keys briskly, while his shrunken voice quavered out “Spirito Gentil,” the glorious aria from La Favorita that he had sung in his far off youth, now made familiar the world over by Caruso and the “Victor.” After he had struck the last chords, the old man’s head dropped on his breast and he began to sob.

“_Coraggio!_” cried J., “what is wrong with you? We’re almost there; your troubles are nearly over.”

“It is all finished,” sobbed the old man. “I have not been so happy for twenty years as I have been on board this ship. At the almshouse there is no piano; who knows if I shall ever see one again?”

* * * * *

Soon after the “Bayern’s” return, the Ambassador despatched a relief expedition under the leadership of Mr. Gay to the Calabrian mountain towns. Mr. Gay was accompanied by Captain Armando Mola of the Italian army, and Mr. W. Earl Dodge, who took with him his large automobile, thereby adding greatly to the effectiveness of the expedition. They had a wonderful trip, visiting forty villages, some of them almost inaccessible mountain hamlets. During the eleven days their trip lasted, they brought help to many a forlorn community that had heretofore received no outside assistance since the disaster. Mr. Gay has written an admirable report of the expedition, so full, so graphic, that it leaves nothing for me to say, save that I am thankful that this chapter of the romance of the American Relief Work has been told so well. The report should be read by all interested in knowing the full scope of the work. Mr. Gay’s letter to the Ambassador written from Palmi, gives a striking picture of what he saw and accomplished.

“PALMI, February 10th, 1909.

“AMERICAN AMBASSADOR, “Rome--Palazzo del Drago.

“Tuesday, after an hour and a half in the automobile on very bad roads, and three hours on mules, we arrived in a snowstorm at S. Cristina, with nine mules loaded with clothing, and were received like the Messiah. We bought on the spot, at a low figure, 12,500 _lire_ worth of standing timber, securing thus a triple benefit to the sufferers, namely, furnishing shelter to the homeless, saving the transport on the lumber which represents forty per cent. of the cost, and giving work to the unoccupied in cutting the wood. Today we are again visiting villages in the automobile. Tomorrow we shall start at daybreak in the automobile for Cittanova, Gerace, Melito, and Reggio. I am returning 5000 _lire_ to the Committee, left over from the letter of credit on Palmi. We should like, if possible, a new letter of credit on Reggio for whatever amount the Committee thinks advisable.

“We should also like for General Tarditi, addressed as before, a freight car of miscellaneous supplies as follows: 400 litres of benzine to replace what we have borrowed here; 400 blankets; 200 panes of glass 60 centimetres square; 100 locks, with ordinary keys but all different; together with the following supplies for use in the hospital which will be opened within a week: 50 white varnished chairs, with 6 arm-chairs for the sick, to match; 50 wrappers, 50 pair of slippers, and 50 caps for the sick; 6 wall washstands of white earthen ware; 6 alcohol stoves which can be had from Bianchelli for about 35 _lire_ each; 400 square metres of oil-cloth of a light color, to cover ceilings of the hospital wards; 200 square metres of the same of a dark color, to cover the wainscoting; 350 square metres of linoleum of a dark color for floors.

“Our telegraphic address tomorrow will be, Telegraph Office, Reggio.

“We shall telephone tonight. All well.

“GAY.”

V

ROYAL VISITORS

“Not a rose!” Vera scanned the sunny south wall where Ignazio, the gardener, has trained the hardy roses. It has been his boast that we can gather at least one rose every day of the year.

“What do you expect? The earthquake has turned the calendar topsy-turvy. Nena says this is the coldest winter she remembers; she must be nearly a hundred.”

It was the terrace hour; Vera had dropped in to help with the flowers. It was too cold to water them, so we “pottered about,” weeded, and hunted snails.

“That’s a brave flower! See, it has three blossoms; if the sun comes out tomorrow there may be more.” Vera counted the pretty trumpet-shaped blossoms of the freesia, growing in the old terra-cotta cinerary urn.

“This once held the ashes of a soldier of the Pretorian Guard,” said Vera. She had given us the urn. “Do you suppose a pinch of his dust remains in it? There’s your freesia’s courage accounted for. I wonder what he was called. Herminius, Spurius Lartius? There was neither name nor date when I bought it; they must have been on the missing cover. What noble action!” Vera’s thumb followed, with the sculptor’s gesture, the lines of the Pretorian, modelled in low relief on the urn. He wears a mantle, helmet and greaves; his spear is raised against a crouching barbarian. “He must have been a fine man, our Pretorian, though this isn’t a portrait, only a type. Oh, how civilized those old Romans were! No ugly bones, no grinning skulls. The worn-out body to the clean flame, the handful of ashes to this graceful urn, that two thousand years after the Pretorian’s death serves as a flower pot.”

“I believe his name was Philippus,” I said, “and that he looked like our Philippus. The regiment has returned from Messina without him. I fear something has happened to our handsome soldier.”

“Hush!” cried Vera. “The earthquake was a month ago; it still is the only thing we talk or think about.”

“Some of our friends begin to forget. The mother of a pretty girl was grumbling today because the Queen says there shall be no court balls, no more dancing this season. She does not forget; no one who has seen Messina forgets!”

“Come, let us walk!” There was a touch of tramontana in the air, and we began to pace up and down the terrace, Romulus, Vera’s uncouth puppy, shambling at her heel. The bells of St. Peter’s were ringing the Ave Maria; from the Pincio came little gusts of music,--the band was playing Cavalleria Rusticana. At either end of the terrace we lingered to feast on the beauty of the view; to the east the white road climbs zigzag from the Piazza del Popolo to the Pincio, with its crown of dark cypresses and stone pines, its wonderful clipped ilex walk that leads to the Villa Medici, home of nightingale and rose. To the west we looked down to the yellow Tiber, angry and swollen, hurrying to the sea. The river was higher than I ever saw it; the driftwood, caught by the piers of the Ponte Margherita, reached half-way to the level of the bridge.

“A thousand apologies!” said a voice behind us; “is not this the tortoise of your Excellency? The German maid found it on the terrace of the Princess.”

It was Ignazio, holding between scornful thumb and finger that yellow mottled vagrant, Jeremy Bentham, who clawed the air furiously with his ridiculous short legs and snapped fiercely at Ignazio.

“You are aware the tortoise is ours; you yourself carved that date upon his shell. If you had stopped the hole in the wall this would not have happened.”

“Excellency” (Ignazio’s bill was paid that morning; he will call me “Excellency” till the next is due, then it will be “Signora”), “Excellency, this is the most obstinate of all animals, the slowest, the idlest, the most useless.” Ignazio dipped the tortoise in the fountain, then laid him on the parapet out of reach of Romulus, who was making frantic efforts to get at him.

“You yourself tell me he eats the slugs and snails that destroy our flowers!”

“I repeat it, but he has embarrassed me extremely in regard to the Princess, who becomes ill at the sight of him. This is the third time he has invaded her terrace.”

“How about that boy from Messina you promised to employ?” asked Vera. “He is quite well again; it’s time he went to work. I can’t have him idling about my kitchen any longer.”

Ignazio would not have come up to the terrace had he known Vera was there. He nervously nibbled the yellow fibre he had brought to tie up the passion-flower vine.

“Excellency, no! I said I would _try_ to find him employment. I have done so. Capperi! I have asked an infinite number of persons--always the same answer. In Rome there is not work enough for the Romans, nor bread to spare. The Sicilians must go back to Sicily, or,” he waved his hand vaguely towards Ostia, “over there.” Over there meant to America.

“Where were you born, Ignazio?” I interrupted. “You do not speak like a Romano di Roma.” His glance was a reproach; I had betrayed him.

“It is true, I am from Siena--but there is a difference between an Umbrian and a Sicilian!”

“It is always the same story!” I said. “I have asked every plumber in Rome to employ Francesco Calabresi. They will give money, bread, clothes; to a man they refuse him work.”

“Self preservation! Oh, how worldly-wise the old race is! The man’s right though; there is not work enough to go round; one must consider one’s own interests or we should all go bankrupt. That’s what ‘mind your business’ means! If you don’t look out for yourself, some one else must.”

J. came up on the terrace at that moment; Vera waved her little hand gaily to him.

“What news from Messina?”

“No news; I wish I knew how they are getting on.”

“I have a letter from the Avvocato Bonanno, asking about the family of Count Q.”

“I have just come from there. I will write him. The Count can speak now, but he’s paralyzed, he will never walk again.”

“You’re fretting to get back to Sicily; so am I.”

It was true; since his return from the cruise of the “Bayern,” Rome, even his studio, seemed tame to J. How could he, and Vera too, long to go back to that place of death, when Rome, the Eternal City, wooed with the voice of her fountains, the perfumed breath of her villas, the beauty of her everlasting hills?

“I have had an inspiration,” Vera made the pretty insistent gesture of her finger that rules us all. “This is the psychological moment to exhibit your Diana. Rome is sick with grief! There’s nothing going on, not a reception, not even a dinner. Any invitation to do anything, besides give money and sew garments _pro Calabria e Sicilia_, will be a godsend. That’s the practical side of it; then there’s the other side. We have supped full on horrors; comfort us with a sight of the lovely lady.”

Most of her friends follow Vera’s advice, for her’s is a master spirit; when she takes hold of one’s affairs, somehow they always march.

The next week was a busy one. Vera decided that we must ask “all Rome” to the exhibition. In order to do this we borrowed lists from all sorts of people. A little white and gold book, the Roman social register, contains the names of all the Court people, the diplomats, and those who belong to the “smart set.” Then there were the lists of the San Lucca Academy and the Art Club. From the bankers and hotels we gathered as many names of the transient Americans as possible; all our friends helped us. When the long list was ready I sent to an employment bureau for some one to direct the envelopes.

She came, bringing her credentials, at five o’clock; as she was an English lady, and evidently very poor, we asked her to stay to tea. She sat in the Savonarola chair (it belonged to Giovanni Costa, the great artist--J. bought it after his death) and took her tea timidly, spilling a little on her poor faded dress, and crumbling the _pan-forte di Siena_ (sent us at Christmas from Milan) over the best Persian rug. That ought to have been a warning to me, but it wasn’t! We sent the envelopes and the lists to her and turned our minds to other things. The exhibition was to open Tuesday, February 2nd. The envelopes were promised for the previous Saturday, so that the cards might be put in, the stamps affixed, the invitations posted Saturday night. They would then be received on Sunday morning, a good leisure time when busy people have time to read their mail. Vera, Athol, and Wilfred Thompson came to dine Saturday to help us with the envelopes. It was our first social meeting since that fatal night of December 28th; we had all of us need of a little joy; the pain of the last month had left its mark.

Agnese herself bought the stamps; she would trust no other. I had meant to send the cards by hand--it costs no more, and would have given employment to Alessandro, a _poveraccio_ who has attached himself to us.

“These _biglietti_ are important?” asked Agnese when I consulted her about Alessandro.

“Of the greatest importance.”

“Listen to me, Signora. I would not destroy your confidence in Alessandro, no, nor in any other, but the distances are far, the Tiber is near--Alessandro might, by accident, let fall a bunch of these letters as he crosses the bridge. The _postino_ is obliged to make _his_ rounds, the _carabinieri_ keep an eye on him. No, it is safer to trust the post!”

Agnese’s dinners are not like Attilio’s (Vera’s great Neapolitan chef), but she has a way of cooking truffles in white wine and serving them in a napkin, to be eaten with fresh butter, that seems to please. Checco of the Concordia gets us the truffles from some mysterious unfailing source, when they are not to be had in the market. Agnese’s _fritta dorata_ of shrimps, cuttlefish and artichokes is fit for the King or the Pope, or Mr. Roosevelt--his sister once ate one of Agnese’s golden frys and liked it. After dinner the table was cleared, two white aprons were borrowed for Vera and me, and the big packages of envelopes were opened and laid out on the table.

“We had better look them over, don’t you think?” said Athol, the wise, taking up an envelope. “She has a good handwriting--but she makes queer work of these foreign titles. His Excellency the Count and the Countess Lutzow,--really now that won’t do!”

We looked at each other in despair; each had found the most egregious and impossible blunders. All the addresses except the English and Americans, it had been agreed, were to be written in French.

“They must all be done over again!” I cried.

“No, no, it’s not so bad as that. The English ones are all right. We must go over the whole lot, though, sort out the bad ones and redirect them.

“Who is going to do it?” I groaned. That was the question. Vera’s handwriting, though distinguished, is cryptic, owing to her having learned to write German and Russian before the Latin script. Athol’s tired hand had held the pen for eight hours that day, and could not be further taxed. J.’s handwriting is a work of art, and art is long; my own is frankly bad. Thompson had thrown himself into the work of putting in the cards and sticking up the envelopes.

“Handwriting is the only thing that does not improve with practice--the more a man writes, the worse he writes,” said Athol. Here the bell rang insistently; a minute later Agnese announced:

“_Quella Signora bella ed alta!_”

The beautiful and tall lady followed close upon her, Elinor Diederich, daughter of those gods of our youth, William and Louisa Hunt. Despair, dismay, doubt vanished before her; she blew them all away, as the fresh west wind blows vapors and fog and leaves the sun bright in the sky; that is what it is to inherit the temperament of genius.

“Of course,” said Elinor, picking up one of the badly directed envelopes, “I knew this would happen. That’s the reason I came. I have had an experience of that poor thing’s work myself. I brought my pen; my handwriting’s the best thing about me.” She was hard at it, directing invitations in a handsome hand, as if that had been her calling.

At ten o’clock the bell rang again; there was a parley in the anticamera; a faint odor of cigarette smoke floated into the room.

“It’s Emilio,” J. exclaimed. “Show the Signorino in!”