P^- IfldL vhyufk 
 
THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 PRESENTED BY 
 
 PROF. CHARLES A. KOFOID AND 
 
 MRS. PRUDENCE W. KOFOID 
 
New Six Shilling Novels 
 
 CONCERNING A VOW Rhoda Broughton 
 
 THE HOUR OP CONFLICT A. Hamilton Gibbs 
 
 A NEW NOVEL » Rene Milan 
 
 THE SINS OP HER IDOLS .. .. Coralie Stanton and Heath Hosken 
 
 THE PRICE OF DELUSION Sir William Magnay 
 
 THAT STRANGE AFFAIR Walter Brugge- Vallon 
 
 UNDER THE INCENSE TREES Cecil Adair 
 
 THE CRIMSON MASCOT Charles E. Pearce 
 
 THE WOMAN WHO LOOKED BACK M.Hamilton 
 
 THE SPLIT PEAS Headon Hill 
 
 THE PRICELESS THING Mrs. Stepney Rawson 
 
 THE ORANGE LILT .. L.T.Meade 
 
 THE WATER-FLY Annesley Kenealy 
 
 FRIVOLE Kate Horn 
 
 BARBED WIRE .. .. - E.Everett-Green 
 
 TAINTED GOLD H. Noel Williams 
 
 THE SDLENT CAPTADf May Wynne 
 
 THE GATES OF DOOM Rafael Sabatini 
 
 CUPID'S CATERERS Ward Muir 
 
 ELIZABETH'S PRISONER # L. T. Meade 
 
 THE TWW-SOUL OF O'TAKE SAN .. .. Baroness Albert d'Anethan 
 
 OPAL OF OCTOBER Joy Shirley 
 
 A GENTLEWOMAN OF FRANCE Rene Boylesve 
 
 JILL— ALL-ALONE "Rita" 
 
 THE WATERS OF LETHE (and edition) Dorothea Gerard 
 
 A FLUTE OF ARCADY Kate Horn 
 
 RODING RECTORY Archibald Marshall 
 
 THE FOUR FACES (5th edition) William Le Queux 
 
 GABRIEL'S GARDEN (and edition) .. .. ... .. Cecil Adair 
 
 A WD7E OUT OF EGYPT (6th edition) Norma Lorimer 
 
 YOUTH WILL BE SERVED (6th edition) Dolf Wyllarde 
 
 MARCELLE THE LOVABLE Aoguste Maquet 
 
 TIME'S HOUR GLASS A.E.Carey 
 
 LOVE AND A TITLE (and edition) . . Flowerdew 
 
 THE PRLNCE'S PREDICAMENT R.A.Dillon 
 
 CONSCIENCE MONEY .. .. Sidney Warwick 
 
 THE BIDDEN MASK C. Guise Mitford 
 
 WHEN SATAN RULED (and edition) .. .. ... .. C. Ranger-Gull 
 
 CHILDREN OF THE ZODIAC Anthony Hamilton 
 
 THE SECRET OF THE ZENANA May Wynne 
 
 BEB3ND THE VEDL (2s. net) Geo. R. Sims 
 
 THE LOVE TIDES Capt. Frank Shaw 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE .. ..A Novel founded on Shakesperc's Comedy 
 MACBETH A Novel founded on Shakespere's Tragedy 
 
 STANLEY PAUL & CO., 31 Essex Street, LONDON 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
BOOKS BY NORMA LORIMER 
 
 ON DESERT Crown Sv0t c i oth giUt 6/ _ 
 ALTARS 
 
 ** Miss Lorimer, with characteristic courage and delicacy, 
 has tackled another elemental problem. A woman finds 
 that the only way to get the husband whom she adores out 
 of the swamps of the Gold Coast, which are killing him 
 with fever, and to find him work by her side in London, is 
 to receive the visits for a few weeks of a great financier, 
 who is passionately fond of her, but whom she detests. 
 The husband comes home and recovers his health, but 
 eventually discovers what his wife has done. The torture 
 of the husband which ensues is as finely treated as the 
 earlier torture of the wife while she was resisting and finally 
 allowing herself to be humiliated by the importunities of the 
 financier." 
 
 BY THE WATERS 2E2&2W , 
 
 fully illustrated, 12/6 net. 
 
 OF GERMANY sec.odEdw.o 
 
 "A really delightful book. We cordially commend it." 
 
 Western Mail. 
 " No more charming, interesting and informative book con- 
 cerning the old towns of the Black Forest could be perused." 
 
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 " Delightful, practical and attractive." — Bookseller. 
 
 A WlrE (JUl Crown Svo, cloth gilt, 6/- 
 
 OF EGYPT Seventh Edition 
 
 "A sound, strong, and really absorbing story." 
 
 Daily Telegraph. 
 M The book is extremely interesting, and, apart from its 
 literary qualities and its excellent pictures of the highly 
 coloured life of the nearer East, it gives us a very clear idea 
 of the social conditions of Egypt to-day." — Standard. 
 
 "A fascinating novel." — Daily Chronicle. 
 
 LONDON: STANLEY PAUL & CO., 31 Essex Street, Strand, W.O. 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2008 with funding from 
 
 Microsoft Corporation 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/bywatersofsicilyOOIoririch 
 
New Edition 1914 
 

 Vf, 
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 S. Giovanni Degli Eremiti - - -Frontispiece 
 
 To faee page 
 
 11 It looks a delightful prison now," she said - 12 
 
 44 A Sicilian cart " 44 
 
 44 Once a fortified monastery .... to-day a 
 
 wretched shelter " - - - - ' - 60 
 
 41 One old woman, her head encased in a yellow 
 
 'kerchief " 88 
 
 44 In Sicily everything is intense " - - - 100 
 
 44 We made a trip up the famous river 
 
 Anapo M 104 
 
 44 One little cave maiden .... had brought 
 
 Doris a bunch of flowers M - - - 124 
 
 44 A city .... set upon a hill three thousand 
 
 feet in height " - - - - 130 
 
 44 Mighty olive-trees " 138 
 
 A Temple at Girgenti - - - - - 164 
 
 44 The Temple of Castor and Pollux at 
 
 Girgenti" ------ 172 
 
 44 Viewed from the height of the little town of 
 
 Monreale " 192 
 
 44 The Cappella Palatina .... the jewel of 
 
 Sicily " 206 
 
 44 The most curiously Southern thing in 
 
 Palermo is its Saracenic Cathedral " - 216 
 
 44 The cloister of Eremiti " - - - - 220 
 
 44 In the cathedral of Monreale " - - - 244 
 
 M3091.33 
 
BY THE WATERS OF 
 SICILY 
 
 Villa Politi, Syracuse, 
 
 February 2nd, 1900. 
 
 My dear Louise, — 
 
 A girl, a real live girl, just rid of her teens, I 
 should say, has taken this hotel by storm ! — a girl 
 of dimples and magic laughter, who has brought all 
 the way from England the freshness of springtime 
 in her eyes and her cool cheeks ! The ancient visi- 
 tors in this establishment cannot well account for 
 the appearance in their midst of anything so full of 
 youth, so essentially a part of the present day, — the 
 present day of England, I mean, for here in Sicily 
 the present day has nothing in common with the 
 present day of the English-speaking world. 
 
 It is really surprising to find what ancient speci- 
 mens of humanity travel across the world to see 
 ancient Greek remains. But indeed, after all, it is 
 not so surprising, perhaps; for youth clings to 
 youth, and is ever living in the expectant future, 
 while old age is always looking back. Youth's 
 " unconquerable hope," old age's winters of 
 regret ! 
 
 I cannot imagine this girl spending one single 
 day of her glorious girlhood seeking after the tomb 
 
6 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 of Archimedes, or studying the original plan of the 
 five cities of Syracuse. The present is much too 
 engrossing, — life for her has better things to offer. 
 
 When she took her seat at the breakfast-table 
 there was a quickening in the pulses of thirty odd 
 and old tourists seated there — just a little breath of 
 emotion amongst them, like the fluttering of 
 withered leaves when the summer has left the trees ; 
 a little flutter in the women's hearts for their lost 
 springtime ; a little flutter of regret in the hearts of 
 the men for the old, quick blood of their youth. 
 The many " Good-mornings " offered to the girl 
 by the busy Germans and the stolen glances from 
 the cautious English were answered with a smile, 
 a smile which suggested something between the 
 blinking archness of a kitten and the rounded 
 beauty of Donatello's singing cherubs. She seemed 
 to think it was a good morning and a very pleasant 
 thing to be alive and young. Her pretty skirts 
 were arranged with a dignity not untouched with 
 vanity. (Personal vanity has become almost a vir- 
 tue in my eyes since I have been cast among women 
 who study Greek remains in the remains of German 
 fashions.) She settled herself behind the would-be 
 silver coffee-pot and jug of steaming goat's-milk. 
 
 Two old eyes from behind a stale copy of the 
 Weekly Times watched her rounded wrists lift the 
 coffee-pot and milk-jug, and pour the contents of 
 the two vessels into her cup. She looked more than 
 ever like a contented kitten as she licked the line of 
 milk left on her upper lip. 
 
 I cannot express what a strong atmosphere of 
 vigour and activity the girl had suddenly brought 
 into the room — a feeling that something still grow- 
 ing, a thing of quick emotion and ready sympathy, 
 had come among us. There was a look in her eyes 
 which seemed to say, M Is there nothing younger 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 7 
 
 than all these — nothing really in keeping with this 
 big white southern hotel? Must I play alone?" 
 Her slender back stiffened as if in self-defence, as a 
 silent protest against Time and its effects. At her 
 call the waiter came eagerly forward. Sicilians, like 
 all Latin races, are easily influenced by beauty, and 
 it was many months since this poor fellow had 
 attended to the wants of any such feminine fairness. 
 
 February is the German season in Sicily, March 
 is the English one, and in April and May America 
 sends over her fair daughters to sample the island 
 and carry away specimens of its antiquities. There 
 is nothing either youthful or beautiful in the 
 German and English contingents who winter in 
 Sicily. 
 
 The willing waiter bowed. 
 
 " Fresh eggs?" she asked in English, not even 
 hesitating for a second in her choice of language or 
 attempting poor French. 
 
 " Yes, very good eggs," the man answered in 
 pat English. 
 
 " Then bring two; but be quick, for the day is 
 too fine to delay over breakfast." 
 
 Two dim blue eyes looked up, and over the stale 
 Times, and their owner reached out his hand for a 
 glass dish full of very brown honey, and handed it 
 to the girl, who looked at it suspiciously. 
 
 " Thanks, but it's not very inviting," she said, 
 with questioning eyes ; " it's such an extraordinary 
 colour." 
 
 " It's pure Hyblaean honey; we never eat any- 
 thing else for breakfast here." 
 
 The voice was burdened with reproach, and the 
 old eyes glared at the girl. 
 
 " What is Hyblaean honey?" she asked. " I 
 never heard of it before." 
 
 " I suppose not," he answered. " It is honey 
 
8 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 made famous by the ancients; it is mentioned in 
 the classics, and extolled for its beauty and purity." 
 
 " I'm very sorry," she said meekly, with a glint 
 of laughter in her eyes, " but I prefer honey made 
 by the bees of to-day. I will taste this, however, 
 and give it a chance. Oh ! it's horrid !" she said, 
 making a wry face ; " it tastes like sweet vinegar." 
 
 " You prefer honey made in London, where the 
 bees are fed on beer and sugar, and where none of 
 them have ever seen a flower in their lives, no 
 doubt?" 
 
 " I suppose I do," she said. " Anyhow, I 
 don't like this ; it smells like pomade and tastes like 
 vinegar." 
 
 66 The smell is the scent of the asphodels, that 
 have always grown on the Hyblsean hills ; both the 
 flower and the honey are classical." 
 
 " Everything is classical here," she said, with a 
 sigh. M I can't even eat a modern breakfast. 
 Did Socrates mention fresh eggs ? I hope he did." 
 
 When the fresh eggs at last arrived, she opened 
 one with avidity. That she enjoyed her breakfast 
 there was not the slightest doubt. How quickly 
 she munched the hard crusts, which had to be 
 induced to soften in most of the coffee-cups round 
 the table! How soon the small pats of white 
 goat's-butter disappeared from her plate! A 
 pleased smile hovered round her mouth while she 
 ate. Suddenly her eyes were lifted to meet my 
 stolen glance. A blush that reminded you of the 
 pink spread over an English apple-orchard in April 
 made me somehow ashamed of myself. 
 
 " Two eggs look greedy, I suppose?" Her 
 eyes swept the honeyed plates of the economical 
 Germans. " You see, I can't help being hungry, 
 and breakfast at home was such a nice meal. I 
 must get gradually accustomed to a breakfast of 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 9 
 
 coffee and rolls. I could never get used to that 
 honey!" 
 
 "Why try?" I said. " There is nothing like 
 making a good beginning. Look after your break- 
 fast ; the dinner will look after itself. " 
 
 I thought I caught a touch of sadness in her 
 words " breakfast at home," and my mind pictured 
 a fair English home, approached, I know not how, 
 by green lanes; a house gay with young people 
 starting a new day — a day full of the excitement of 
 young living. The girl looked as if she had played 
 as a child under the spreading trees which give an 
 English lawn its dignity. She was no product of 
 the parched South — the South which knows no 
 green hedges, but white plastered walls, defended 
 by prickly cacti, or some blue-green southern 
 plant, which only serves to increase the impression 
 of dryness, and does not refresh the eyes. 
 
 The girl had been reared in a land where young 
 things fatten and grow kind on the sweet moisture 
 of air and earth. Here, in the South, youth is 
 lean and pallid ; here there is no lingering 'twixt 
 bud and bloom, no wondering-time of sweet 
 maidenhood. On the same stems both blossom 
 and fruit are to be seen together. 
 
 I had been caught looking, and yet I must look 
 again, just to steal one more memory of wild roses 
 in an English hedge. I confess myself foolish 
 about this English girl, but she is the first link 
 with England in my exile. I must try to find out 
 her name ; I hope that it is a suitable one. 
 
 I will not date my letters, as they are so seldom 
 posted on the day they are finished, and very seldom 
 written all in one day. I have always a letter 
 begun to you lying on my writing pad, and it 
 grows in snatches, until I think it is about time for 
 you to have another ; then it is finished abruptly, 
 
10 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 and hastily addressed. After that, it may or may 
 not be posted, according to the facchino's feelings 
 on the subject. The Jacchlno in a Sicilian hotel 
 plays a much more important part than the Prime 
 Minister does in the Italian Cabinet. 
 
 Yours affectionately, 
 
 J. C. 
 
Villa Pouti, Syracuse, 
 
 February, 1900. 
 
 My dear Louise, — 
 
 It is astonishing how quickly vegetation 
 buds, blooms, and fades here. You know it is only 
 three weeks since I came to this hotel of the 
 wonderful garden, which Theocritus haunted when 
 Hiero was king; and everything then, owing to 
 the long drought, was very backward. The 
 almond-trees were only in bud, and there were 
 practically no flowers of any kind to be seen. To- 
 day the almond-trees have lost their pink blossoms, 
 for a strong wind, following last night's brilliant 
 sunset (Syracuse is famous for its sunsets), has 
 scattered their delicate blossoms like a fall of snow 
 over the land, and now their spreading branches 
 are covered with tender leaves. The stocks, too, 
 have sprung into being with magic growth. Why 
 the scent of a stock should be peculiarly associated 
 with old English gardens I don't know, when they 
 grow here with far greater beauty and luxury than 
 in England ; yet every evening, when their scent 
 steals over the garden, I find my thoughts leaving 
 the present, and an English garden, not a Sicilian 
 one, is before my eyes. Whom should I come 
 across to-day, doing a little botanising on her own 
 account, but the English girl, her young brows 
 puckered, over the difficulty of distinguishing the 
 famous asphodel. Two weeks ago there was not 
 even a trace of their slender green shafts ; to-day 
 
 I thanked beneficent Nature for all her southern 
 
 11 
 
12 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 wonders, for I was able to point out to her a patch 
 of these delicate pink hyacinth-like blossoms, 
 growing apparently out of a bare white rock. 
 With charming candour she confessed that the 
 classical flower had no deeper associations for her 
 mind than the name of one of Rhoda Broughton's 
 early novels, but that she had determined to see 
 the flower itself, after the general's remarks upon 
 the honey. 
 
 I must post myself up in a few classical legends, 
 the sort women like, for she has taken it into her 
 head that I can tell her all about this wonderful 
 Syracuse. I can see that I am to be her source of 
 information. To-day she was persistent in her 
 desire to know something about the lives led * y 
 the seven thousand Athenian prisoners in the 
 ancient quarries which form the crypt, as it were, 
 of this mysterious garden. 
 
 I told her the main facts of the case : how the 
 ancient Syracusans used their latomias, the 
 enormous quarries, out of which the white stones 
 for the building of their five cities had been hewn, 
 as a prison in which to keep their Athenian cap- 
 tives after Demosthenes had surrendered. But, 
 woman-like, she wished for more practical details. 
 Couldn't I tell her how they lived — if they had 
 sentries and guards stationed up above, on the 
 edge of the precipice (where we ourselves were 
 standing), to watch that none of the prisoners tried 
 to scale the white walls ? She said : 
 
 " Surely a man desperate for freedom would 
 venture to climb these latomias by swinging him- 
 self up and onwards with the help of the various 
 plants which hang from the cliffs !" 
 
 Curtains of ivy, strong and tree-like in growth, 
 mingled here and there with shimmering vermouth- 
 bushes and the weird limbs of the prickly pears, 
 
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BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 18 
 
 which take such tortured shapes in their old age, 
 covered the dazzling white cliffs of the quarries. 
 I reminded her, however, that probably all this 
 rich green, which makes this ancient prison a 
 modern Garden of Eden, was not there in the days 
 when the precipices confined the prisoners. 
 
 " It looks a delightful prison now," she said, 
 bending her well-shaped neck over the parapet 
 wall, which protects the edge of the precipice. 
 " Fancy a prison with orange and almond and 
 citron-trees growing in its yard! What a cool 
 shade they make as you look down upon them! 
 Everything up here is so white and dazzling. Can 
 you smell the scent of the violets ? A little breath 
 of them came up to me just now; they are like 
 carpets spread beneath the orange-groves." 
 
 I pointed out an early orange-tree in full bloom. 
 
 II Was there marrying and giving in marriage, 
 do you think, amongst the prisoners? Did the 
 Greek women ever follow their men into battle? 
 I wonder," she went on, "if the fine ladies of 
 Syracuse used to come and look down upon the 
 prisoners just as we are peering down now ? When 
 the poor captives turned up their eyes to the sky 
 and to freedom, and then looked at these wonderful 
 rocks, so impossibly high, they must have felt that 
 the blue heavens were mocking them. How were 
 they fed ? — like the beasts in the Zoo at home ? or 
 had they a village within the high walls, and shops, 
 and the inevitable flocks of goats?" 
 
 I found it difficult to answer all these questions, 
 though I was able to tell her what history has told 
 us, — that the prisoners had in time to be removed 
 from the quarries, but that the greater portion of 
 them dragged out a weary existence there for eight 
 months. There is a sentimental tale told that not 
 a few of them were set at liberty on account of their 
 
14 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 skill in reciting the verses of Euripides ; but I think 
 the truth is that, the sanitary arrangements being 
 nil, a pestilence broke out in their midst, and the 
 natives of Syracuse became alarmed. Knowing 
 that the modern Sicilian is not what we should 
 consider sensitive on the subject of sanitation 
 generally, we agreed that things must have been 
 pretty bad in that way before they attracted the 
 attention of the public. 
 
 Just to give you some idea of this wonderful 
 garden, I must try to describe it. It has been 
 made by carting soil and filling up the crevices in 
 the flat, rock surface which winds round the top of 
 the precipice. There are, of course, many curves 
 and turns in the outline of the garden, and in no 
 place is there any flat piece of rock of a dignified 
 size, for a precipice invariably breaks up the 
 cleverly designed landscape. Still, your passage 
 through the rock-garden is never stopped, for if 
 you follow the edge of the precipice, which is 
 guarded by a low wall out of which pours a flood of 
 snapdragons (b6cca-di-Le6ne, as the Sicilians call 
 them), wild stocks, and the host of other Sicilian 
 plants which enjoy dry food, you will presently 
 come to a little black bridge which spans the preci- 
 pice at some narrow neck. As you stand upon 
 one of these little bridges you cannot help shudder- 
 ing, for the day will probably come when the wood 
 will rot — and Sicilians are casual about such 
 matters ! But it is from these black bridges that 
 yon can best grasp the wonderful beauty and 
 mystery of the place. Enough soil has been 
 lovingly carted to this rock-garden to allow almond- 
 trees and other southern fruit-trees, including the 
 ntspoli, to find depths for their roots. 
 
 The diligence of a Syracusan gardener does 
 wonders; as the English girl says, a Sicilian can 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 15 
 
 make a garden out of a kerosene-tin. The garden 
 is always gay with flowers, chief among which are 
 the scarlet geranium and deep blue iris; their 
 brilliance of colour contrasts markedly with the 
 white rock and the deep green, far down in the 
 depths of the quarries. 
 
 The gardener is a good-looking fellow, who seems 
 to live on excellent terms with Nature, and to 
 understand her wants and peculiarities. From my 
 window in the hotel, which is situated on the 
 highest piece of ground on the quarry edge, you 
 can always catch a glimpse of his blue cotton blouse 
 showing through the early foliage of the almond- 
 trees. He seems to spend his days carrying water 
 or soil to some fresh bed he has made out of a 
 neglected promontory. His blue blouse is so 
 exactly the same colour as the sea, which forms a 
 background to all things Syracusan, that he looks 
 as though he had been dropped into its blue depths 
 and caught its colour. 
 
 The English girl greatly admires the colour of 
 his blouse, and, I think, the man himself, although 
 she declares it is his untiring industry. " I shall 
 make my gardener wear a blue blouse," she said. 
 11 He will give a bit of colour to the garden in the 
 long, long winter." 
 
 There is a German staying here who wears a 
 black mackintosh : most Germans do wear mackin- 
 toshes away from home, — it saves carrying two 
 coats ; and the Germans are masters in the economy 
 of travel, — but this particular German has never 
 been seen out of his. He eats in it, and it is now 
 agreed that he sleeps in it ; so that the mackintosh 
 serves as a topcoat, an ordinary coat, a nightshirt, 
 and what else only he himself can tell ! 
 
 You made me promise that I was not to devote 
 any of the time which I am to give to you in Sicily 
 
16 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 by answering your letters in detail. But I must 
 tell you how glad I am that you are really better. 
 I constantly think how strange it is that you, to 
 whom fresh air and sunshine are so necessary, 
 should be a prisoner in London this winter, and 
 that I, of all persons, should be here. As soon as 
 there is no risk attendant on the journey, do 
 endeavour to get to Sicily. London never suited 
 you. In the meantime I will try to transplant 
 your spirit as often as I can from your dull little 
 room in William Street to Syracuse. I write to 
 you in snatches throughout the day, and often far 
 into the night, so I am constantly with you, dear 
 Louise ; and my hope is, that while you are reading 
 my letters you are with me in the magic South. 
 Just tell me if my letters bring a little sunshine 
 into your room, and if they are as womanish as you 
 wish them to be. I hoard up every item which I 
 think will interest you, and will refrain from dis- 
 cussing foreign views on our policy in South Africa. 
 I always post any letters which require a direct 
 answer under separate cover. 
 
 Yours affectionately, 
 
 J. C. 
 
Villa Politi, Syracuse, 
 
 February, igoo. 
 
 My dear Louise, — 
 
 I am afraid I make very little use of my 
 time here. So far as methodical sight-seeing is 
 concerned, I am idle. One can, I admit, sit in a 
 garden in Surrey, and spend the remainder of one's 
 days in romancing over an English girl with a 
 pretty face, but not, I say, in such a garden as this, 
 and not in brilliant sunshine on a February after- 
 noon. Nor can I, from my garden at home, see a 
 city, once the most famous in the world, stretched 
 out in a blue sea which bounds the horizon of the 
 garden. The city of Syracuse looks so safe and 
 defiant, encircled by its antique walls, which have 
 their foundations in the Mediterranean Sea. If 
 you look at it in the morning it sparkles like a city 
 carved out of white marble, so fair and clean it is, 
 with no trace of smoke rising from the flat roofs 
 to dim the blue overhead. This absence of smoke 
 in a large city seems to suggest, as you look at it 
 from a distance, an unreality. Surely no starving 
 figures walk about the cold narrow streets which 
 one knows lie within these sea-girt walls ! 
 Stretched out, a long white neck in the blue waters, 
 the white city seems as if it had been part of the 
 natural landscape ever since Sicily began. It is 
 a dream-city, too good to be true. By day a tide- 
 less sea laps its ancient walls; and when night 
 
 17 
 
18 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 comes and darkness drops like a curtain on its fair- 
 ness, the ramparts twinkle with a thousand lights. 
 From the garden every evening I watch these city 
 lights flash out upon the water, quickly, one after 
 the other, like early evening stars; and soon the 
 phantom Syracuse lies like a golden snake in the 
 deep blue of night, sky, and sea. 
 
 Have I told you that between this garden of rich 
 southern scent and sound and the sea there is one 
 field's width of land and a fine white Government 
 road ? The road is a favourite drill-ground of some 
 poor young army recruits, who make a pretence of 
 marching out from the city to this point every 
 morning and evening. At the same spot they 
 always halt and go through their drill. In the 
 evening the same place is chosen by some monks 
 from the monastery of San Giovanni for their 
 evening walk. Their brown-clad figures, tied with 
 white girdles, stand out strangely against the sky- 
 line as they slowly wander by the edge of the cliffs, 
 watching the raw recruits go through their drill. 
 In Sicily, as in Italy, it is always the Army versus 
 the Church. From the windows of ancient monas- 
 teries you now see a soldier's uniform, not a monk's 
 hood ; and while you linger in the cloisters, instead 
 of the chanting of the brothers at evensong, you 
 hear the everlasting bugle-march of Italy. 
 
 Yesterday, in the field which lies between the 
 white road and the sea on ore side and this garden 
 on the other, quiet oxen were ploughing, while a 
 woman walked behind-, sowing the grain. There 
 was little in choice of dignity between the grey 
 oxen, with their high wooden collars and their slow, 
 continuous tread, and the woman, whose bright 
 green head-towel made a pleasant note of colour. 
 The wide sweep of her arm was free and strong. 
 The scene was like one of Millet's pictures. To- 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 19 
 
 day, however, the idyll is broken, there is a stir and 
 excitement in the field : the labourers have dis- 
 covered, while ploughing, some ancient tombs ; so 
 the director of the museum has arrived with some 
 excavators. 
 
 I hope the tombs will prove worthy of having 
 disturbed so pretty a pastoral study. Nothing 
 later than Pagan will suffice me, for Syracuse is so 
 well off for early Christian tombs. Now, surely, 
 if I can see all this from my garden, I may be 
 excused going farther? 
 
 The old general went out for a walk with the 
 English girl to-day ; he often monopolises her for 
 hours, recounting the romances and incidents of 
 his early days. It is rather amusing the way he 
 classes himself with me in point of age; he talks 
 about " we two old fogies," when as a matter of 
 fact there is nearly twenty years' difference be- 
 tween us ! Doris (that is the English girl's name) 
 came to me in great urgency, asking me to write 
 out the romance the general had been telling her. 
 It was merely the oft-told story of an old man's 
 love for a beautiful girl. 
 
 The girl was romantic and a bit of a hero- 
 worshipper, as all women are, God bless them ! 
 The old man's iron cross and the deeds of his hero- 
 ism appealed to her imaginative nature. She was 
 visiting an uncle out in India, and was thrown into 
 daily companionship with the illustrious soldier. 
 The old man behaved as old age is often tempted 
 to do : he mistook the young girl's admiration and 
 esteem for love ; he proposed to her, and she 
 accepted him, nothing disturbing the happiness of 
 their engagement until the arrival in their midst of 
 a young fellow whom the old soldier had adopted. 
 He was the son of a brother officer who had fallen 
 at his side in battle, leaving a young wife with an 
 
20 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 unborn child. The news of the husband's death 
 hastened the birth of the child and killed the wife. 
 The baby was left to the mercy of the father's old 
 friend. 
 
 Youth is magnetic and attracts youth : the girl 
 and the old man's adopted son fell in love with 
 each other. The old man saw their love and re- 
 signed the girl, making a pretence of his own 
 inability to bring his mind to matrimony. 
 
 The old general who told her this romance fought 
 with Garibaldi, and Doris is immensely taken with 
 a picture of him in the Garibaldi uniform with the 
 fine wide sash and scarlet tunic. 
 
 Tobacco here is vile, and what I brought with me 
 is almost finished. I know that there is a brand 
 sold in Naples which is moderately good, — the old 
 general is getting some. I mean to try it ; but if 
 it is not to my taste I will ask you to send me out 
 some, upon which, however, I shall have to pay a 
 most exorbitant duty — but I cannot manage the 
 rank stuff they sell here. 
 
 Your letters are invariably over-weight, and I 
 have to pay the extra postage. I wish you would 
 be careful in the weight of your paper, but do not 
 curtail the quantity of your letters. 
 
 Yours affectionately, 
 
 J. C. 
 
Villa Politi, Syracuse, 
 
 February, igoo. 
 
 My dear Louise, — 
 
 Your letter about the latomia as the 
 quarries are called, was capital ; it gave me the key 
 of many things which I had forgotten. Doris and 
 I had a long walk in their green depths this morn- 
 ing, and I managed to use some of your information 
 as if it were first-hand. You asked me to tell you 
 what the lentisk is like, which J. A. Symonds 
 mentions in his charming essay on these ancient 
 quarries. It is a little shrub, not unlike barberry 
 in appearance, which now and again shows pleasant 
 tints of colour ; compared, however, to the silver 
 shimmering vermouth, which also kindly decorates 
 the cliffs, it is nothing in point of beauty. The 
 word lentisk makes a fine sound in essay- writing. 
 Mr. Symonds could not have derived much pleasure 
 from looking at the real plant. The vermouth is 
 like the English southern- wood glorified. All old 
 English plants and flowers growing here are glori- 
 fied ; they are so rich is size and brilliance of colour. 
 The vermouth plant is sensitive of the least breath 
 of wind; when it moves, a thousand pale moon- 
 light shades float over it. In some parts, as far as 
 the eye can reach, it has the monoply of the white 
 walls; it sways and moves, like a sea swollen at 
 high-tide. 
 
 You asked if the quarries are used for any 
 practical purposes to-day. In one of the deep dry 
 caves I found crab-baskets stored, and an old 
 
 21 
 
22 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 Sicilian spending his days there making new ones 
 and mending broken ones. A very fine picture he 
 looked, standing in the shadow, in his blue stocking- 
 cap and sunburnt clothes, which had taken rich 
 tones in their old age, worn under fierce suns. 
 Close to where he was seated (almost inside a crab- 
 pot of huge dimensions) a fine stretch of even white 
 wall is utilised as a rope-factory. A child of seven 
 or eight years was busy making the ropes ; his little 
 face was an example of southern patience and un- 
 complaining submission to the laws of fate. I was 
 touched by the child-philosopher. Birds were 
 twittering in the curtain of ivy, hanging from the 
 cliffs. There were nests, certainly, within a 
 stone's throw of the little figure, who walked back- 
 ward and forward with the precise tread of a sentry 
 on guard, moistening the rope or freeing the 
 strands from knots, I don't know which. Another 
 old man, who in point of age was as far past work 
 as the child was too young for it, was lying in the 
 sun watching this large-eyed breadwinner make the 
 ropes. Familiarity, I suppose, breeds contempt 
 even for such things as the oranges and lemons, 
 which hung golden and ripe from the tree near the 
 old man and the child, for no longing eyes were 
 turned to them ; and when, later on, the little rope- 
 maker ceased his work for his midday siesta and 
 lunch, he shared with his aged parent a piece of 
 cool fennel and a hunch of brown bread, and drank 
 his share of strong new wine from the grape-stained 
 gourd like a man. I expected and hoped to see 
 him pull down some oranges from a low tree near 
 him, but his tastes did not incline that way; 
 instead, he stretched himself out on his seven-year- 
 old spine, raised his patient young face to the deep 
 blue overhead, and slept. 
 
 This particular latomia, which is rented from the 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 28 
 
 Italian Government by Madame Politi, is a verit- 
 able aviary of wild birds; they sing and nest here 
 in a " peace which passeth all understanding " to 
 their less fortunate brethren. One of our hostess's 
 strictest rules, which she enforces in a way not 
 usual in casual Italy, is the protection of all living 
 things in her garden and latomia. No cat prowls 
 here to disturb the domestic calm of the gold- 
 finches' or yellow canaries' home-life; the very 
 walls seem alive with the chirping and twittering 
 of thousands of busy birds. Stonechats are natur- 
 ally very much to the fore in the bird society of the 
 latomia, the vast wall affording a safe shelter for 
 all the feathered kinds who find their way there. 
 In Sicily generally the slaughter of wild birds is 
 heartrending; their sweetest songsters are not 
 spared, a lark adds a festa-day dainty to the work- 
 a-day pot of macaroni. 
 
 Doris and I did a little sight-seeing to-day, of 
 which we are very proud. We " did," as the 
 tourists say, the Greek theatre, which is only half 
 an hour's walk from the hotel, and if you do not 
 object to a rough journey you can go most of the 
 way over the ancient city of Achradina, which 
 which looks like a sea of flat rocks. As you know, 
 the Greeks, when they desired to build themselves 
 a city, dig a tomb, cut a road, make a theatre, or 
 raise a fine fortress, went to the mother rock. 
 They met Nature half-way ; they saw that she was 
 willing to supply their needs, — they were the 
 master-hewers of rock, these Greek builders; so 
 they quickly supplied their city with a theatre 
 which would hold twenty-four thousand people, 
 without borrowing one cart-load of stone from half 
 a mile distant, or touching it with mortar; these 
 twenty-four thousand were provided with luxurious 
 seats hewn out of the virgin rock. A theatre, not 
 
24 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 built up in a crowded city, but dug out, open to 
 the clear blue sky — a glorious idea for a glorious 
 climate ! 
 
 The theatre is wonderful, so perfect, so undis- 
 turbed from the fifth century before the Christian 
 era. Doris says it is impossible to realise that we 
 are actually sitting in the same seats as men and 
 women sat in when they enjoyed plays and dramas, 
 acted four hundred years before the world heard of 
 the great life and tragedy of Jesus Christ. She 
 will not accept the theory that the Greek actors 
 wore masks and moved about the stage on stilts, 
 and that women never took part in Greek plays; 
 this last certainly would rob the drama of the 
 salt which is the better half of its flavour now- 
 adays. 
 
 Whilst we were " doing " the theatre, the Ger- 
 man, in his mackintosh, studying his Baedeker 
 bound in brown paper, seated himself on one of the 
 white-rock seats directly facing the stage. He 
 looked like some evil black bird which had suddenly 
 alighted on the scene, and I can assure you he 
 contrived to spoil the idyllic beauty of the place for 
 us. He used the theatre merely as an illustration 
 and verification of his guide-book ; just glanced at 
 it occasionally through his German smoke-goggles 
 — which, by the way, are necessary in a sun like 
 this, when the near world is composed of flat white 
 rocks, while the sky and sea are still spring-blue. 
 When the really warm weather comes, the blue 
 will turn to a leaden grey. An hour later we 
 passed the theatre on our return journey; the 
 mackintosh made in Germany was still seated in 
 that immense, silent, sunken theatre, reading its 
 Baedeker. 
 
 " I must do the correct thing too," said Doris, 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 25 
 
 " and sit in that fine chair with the carved arms. 
 Who, did you say, used to occupy that chair?" 
 
 I told her that it was the seat reserved for Diony- 
 sius when he came to see his dramas represented ; 
 not the author's throne of honour, but the throne 
 of a tyrant who is quite sufficiently interesting, 
 apart from the fact that he was an author. She 
 ran down the flat seats until she reached what we 
 should call the front row of the dress-circle, and 
 without more ado seated herself on the white 
 marble chair. 
 
 II Come and sit beside me," she called out, 
 u and tell me all about it ; no, not out of Baedeker 
 — I'm sick and tired of Baedeker's Epoca Greca : 
 out of your own head — I won't know the 
 mistakes." 
 
 She put her hand on my arm, and left it there 
 with the confidence youth places in middle age. 
 After sitting in silence together for some time, she 
 said : 
 
 " What a splendid idea the primitive one was to 
 dig out a theatre, not build one up ! But I like 
 the cheap top seats best, don't you? The view is 
 so much finer. Down here we lose all the back- 
 ground of the blue sea and Syracuse lying basking 
 in the sun. We must pay a visit to the city soon." 
 
 " To-morrow, if you like," I said : "lam 
 agreeable." 
 
 She gave a little sigh. " lam half afraid to go," 
 she said. " Looking at it from here it is the fairest 
 thing I have ever seen, a sort of dream-city. I 
 know the pleasant visions will never be the same 
 again when I have seen the poverty and darkness 
 in its streets." 
 
 We had risen, and were ascending the crescent of 
 flat seats. 
 
26 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 " Am I going too quickly for you?" she asked, 
 as she sprang from seat to seat. 
 
 I did not answer : it was the second time this 
 afternoon she had unconsciously reminded me of 
 what I am a fool ever to forget. When we reached 
 the highest seat, she declared again that she would 
 have always chosen to sit with the "people." 
 
 " But you would not have been able to hear what 
 the actors said," I rejoined. " Just look at the 
 immense size of the theatre : the German in his 
 mackintosh looks quite small from here!" 
 
 " I don't suppose he feels it," she said, and 
 smiled in a way which showed her best dimple and 
 made me feel a rare old fool. 
 
 " I don't think I should have minded much if I 
 hadn't heard. Greek plays must have been awfully 
 dull. Up here, when you got bored, you could 
 always look at the ships in the harbour, and see 
 what was going on in the town." 
 
 " It was here, from these very seats," I said, 
 " that the ancient Syracusans watched the famous 
 fight at sea between the fleets of Athens and their 
 city." 
 
 " I can't imagine those famous fleets," she said, 
 " if they were only galleys rowed by oars. I'm 
 really too modern to throw my imagination so far 
 back into the past. How much of our story have 
 you written?" she asked in the same breath. " I 
 think I am tired of Epoca Greca for to-day. Have 
 you ^got it in your pocket ? Read it to me while I 
 try to take in the beauty of this wonderful world. 
 My ignorance of all things classical is positively 
 bewildering; beyond the mere beauty of the 
 scenery, which is amazing enough to northern eyes, 
 seen for the first time, everything has a thousand 
 meanings which I don't understand. It is like 
 throwing pearls before swine, for I can only see the 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 27 
 
 things and feel their beauty with purely modern 
 eyes. Just think of the poor scholars who are 
 steeped in classics, who know the past, and under- 
 stand it much better than they do their own day — 
 think that they must live and die, only imagining 
 all those scenes that ignorant I am living amongst 
 and taking for granted every day !" 
 
 " I believe those students prefer studying Greek 
 remains and the footprints of the Sikelians is, Sicily, 
 under the cover of the British Museum roof ; they 
 would not be moved by the blue sky or the southern 
 atmosphere as you are ; they search after facts, you 
 illuminate facts with sentiment." 
 
 11 Don't try to excuse my ignorance," she said ; 
 " it's disgraceful the way English girls are edu- 
 cated, except the ones who aren't like me." 
 
 " Don't bother your head about such things," 
 I said. 
 
 She looked at me in surprise. 
 
 " Leave it all to Germans in mackintoshes and 
 to old men like myself." 
 
 " You prefer a pretty fool," she said, " to an 
 intelligent woman ? ' ' 
 
 u Intelligence has nothing to do with book learn- 
 ing," I said. " Some of the most intelligent men 
 I have ever known have not been able to read." 
 
 * But I can read — that's just what's the matter 
 with my education. I can read, but I only enjoy 
 reading modern fiction. Reading has killed my 
 power for either original thought, or the best 
 thoughts of other people. Children lose most of 
 their originality and quaint ideas after they have 
 learned to read." 
 
 " Will you not permit your children to read?" 
 I asked. 
 
 % I don't know what I shall do," she replied. 
 w With reading comes the desire to read; with 
 
28 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 womanhood comes the desire to peep further into 
 human nature. You think that novels teach you 
 what you want to know ; you read, and read, and 
 read, until real life becomes awfully tame compared 
 with books. Then you grow old enough to know 
 that novels are not true. Ah, that is a horrible 
 time ! You are thrown back upon yourself, your 
 mind has lost its power of original thought, it is 
 saturated in the sentiment of modern fiction, and 
 too disturbed and unbalanced to study deeper 
 things. A thousand girls will tell you the same 
 thing." 
 
 " And yet, after all this, you would have me try 
 my hand at writing a love romance; you are 
 actually waiting for me to begin." 
 
 " It's like morphia," she said ; " you must break 
 the patient gradually of the habit. I haven't 
 looked at a novel since I came here." 
 
 When I had finished reading my poor attempt, 
 there was silence between us for a few minutes. 
 
 "Will it do?" I asked. 
 
 " I don't know," she said. " I hadn't pictured 
 the girl like that ; she's too — too . . . Oh, I don't 
 know how to express it — too English, too un- 
 romantic, not individual enough." 
 
 " I think probably that it was her naturalness 
 and her English fairness that were her chief charms 
 in the soldier's eyes." 
 
 u I pictured her " She paused to think, 
 
 with dark and mysterious-looking eyes. " Not 
 such a girlish girl as that. The sort of girl who is 
 always a woman — a woman with a temperament, I 
 think novelists say." 
 
 " But this one was to be a true girl ; I thought 
 you had enough of the conventional heroine in 
 fiction." 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 29 
 
 " Perhaps," she said doubtfully; " but I can't 
 imagine a clever man, a man who had done so much 
 and seen so much, falling in love with a simple, 
 ordinary sort of a girl like that. I like the old 
 man ; he's far, far too good for her." 
 
 " Nothing is too good for youth," I said ; ** it is 
 the magic of the world." 
 
 " If it is," she said, " it is too cruel that you 
 cannot realise the value of what you possess for 
 such a short time in life." 
 
 u The very fact of realising it would be to tinge 
 its gold with grey. Youth takes everything for 
 granted ; it has not learnt to bow the knee. When 
 reverence, gratitude, and meekness creep in, youth 
 with its golden wings takes flight." 
 
 " Why is youth so charming, then, if it knows 
 none of these fine virtues?" 
 
 M Charm never waits for cold description or 
 analysis," I said. " What you can describe does 
 not charm ; what charms comes under the heading 
 of no moral virtue." 
 
 As we walked home I remarked that the romance 
 was utterly unnatural. 
 
 u Why so?" she said. " I think the girl was a 
 fool to choose the young man ; he was totally un- 
 interesting, just like every other University thing 
 in well-cut clothes." 
 
 Call me a fool, if you like, Louise, but her last 
 remark pleased me mightily, although I know there 
 is not a grain of real human nature in it. It's just 
 a girl's sentimental theory. 
 
 We have but little news of the war here. One 
 German lady with whom Doris and I have enjoyed 
 many hours of pleasant conversation, but with 
 whom we had carefully avoided the subject of the 
 war, amused us very much to-night. Some more 
 than usually untactful ancient Americans brought 
 
 3 
 
80 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 the subject forward. The German lady looked at 
 Doris and smiled. 
 
 " Slid Africa, I think taboo. We have been 
 good friends while we have been together in this 
 hotel ; I would prefer to part the same, so Slid 
 Africa taboo." 
 
 We took her sound advice, and Slid Africa has 
 been tabooed during the whole of our visit. 
 
 She is a granddaughter of Mendelssohn, and has 
 some capital stories to tell. She can speak seven 
 or eight languages with great rapidity and with an 
 extravagant German accent. One of her stories 
 about Heine I know will amuse you — I had never 
 heard it before. He was staying in a hotel in some 
 German watering-place when he heard some 
 English ladies, whom he knew, complaining of the 
 bad tea which was invariably served in German and 
 French hotels. Heine told them that he could not 
 understand the cause of their complaint — that the 
 tea he got in that hotel was excellent, as good as 
 any one could get in England. To prove it he 
 invited them to tea in his rooms. The ladies 
 arrived punctual to the moment, but no tea was 
 forthcoming. Their host for the third time rang 
 the bell and demanded the reason. The waiter 
 looked uncomfortable, and hesitated to explain. 
 Heine insisted. 
 
 " The English ladies have had no tea this after- 
 noon," he said, " so you cannot have any either; 
 you always have their tea after they have finished." 
 
 There was a great laugh at Heine's expense, for 
 the English ladies had brought their tea out from 
 England with them. 
 
 This same German lady has lent Doris a copy 
 of Cicero's impeachment of Verres. Cicero spent 
 some time in Sicily examining witnesses and col- 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 81 
 
 lecting facts in support of his charges in the 
 prosecution he had undertaken to conduct against 
 Verres. His description of Syracuse is, I believe, 
 world-famous; but if, like myself, you are not 
 familiar with it, please read it at once. It is the 
 most beautiful piece of word-painting you have 
 ever read. It seems impossible that it was written 
 seventy years before the Christian era, for it is 
 much more sympathetic and infinitely more realistic 
 than anything that has been written on the subject 
 since. Read the orations against Verres right 
 through ; you will not be bored with them, I assure 
 you, for he works you up as he worked up the feel- 
 ings of the people of Rome when he told them how 
 he had seen with his own eyes the glorious temples 
 of Syracuse, of Segesta, and of Enna robbed of 
 their gods, and the beautiful cities of Sicily 
 despoiled of their ancient splendour by the greed of 
 Verres. He gives a description of each town he 
 visited, which makes this volume much the best 
 handbook to ancient Sicily. 
 
 Yours, 
 J. C. 
 
Villa Politi, Syracuse, 
 
 February, 1900. 
 
 Dear Louise, — 
 
 Inspired by Cicero, Doris and I made a 
 pilgrimage into the city of Syracuse to-day. She 
 has asked me to call her Doris; she is getting 
 home-sick for the sound of her Christian name, she 
 says. She wanted to worship in the cathedral. 
 Think of her! that fair English girl kneeling 
 devoutly on the marble floor of that vast Pagan 
 temple ; for, although certain forms of the service 
 have been altered, the Latin Church in Sicily is 
 wonderfully Pagan still. First we examined the 
 outside of the building, where the big white 
 columns of the ancient temple of Minerva have 
 been built right into the structure of the modern 
 walls, or, rather, the modern walls have been built 
 round these columns. Seen from the outside, 
 these pillars are almost flush with the wall, but 
 inside they stand out amazingly big, a stately re- 
 minder of the greatness of the past. Where, one 
 asks oneself, will the present wall be when the same 
 length of time has passed over its standing-ground ? 
 I believe when all this is past and gone these Pagan 
 pillars will still remain giants of the primitive past, 
 when man worshipped the forces of nature which 
 produced the necessaries of life. Beyond these 
 pillars is the ancient font, which is now used for 
 the baptism of infants into the Church of Christ ; 
 it once came in for libations in the temple of 
 
 Bacchus. 
 
 3* 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 83 
 
 The organ lofts are fine examples of Renaissance 
 art ; their gold tracery makes a rich splash of light 
 in the colourless building. We had barely time 
 for a hurried glance at these things before the ser- 
 vice commenced. I think if you had seen Doris 
 kneeling there, her English sailor-hat balanced on 
 her coils of fair hair, praying amongst a gathering 
 of dark, sunburnt country peasants, and pale frail 
 old people, dwellers in the dark streets which Doris 
 had so dreaded seeing — streets whose houses know 
 neither fires nor sun — if you had been there to see 
 the contrast I think even you would have experi- 
 enced the difficulty I had in keeping my throat in 
 its normal swallowing condition. I agree with 
 her in discouraging the habit which our country- 
 men adopt abroad of " doing " the cathedrals and 
 churches during divine service. 
 
 To-day a monk was preaching, and I much re- 
 gretted that I could not understand his undoubted 
 eloquence; for never before, with the exception 
 of a service I attended in the Jesuit Church in 
 Palermo, have I listened to such an uninterrupted 
 flow of language. A fine figure he looked, stand- 
 at the chancel steps, dressed in his brown robe and 
 immense white girdle and rosary. I noticed that 
 the better-off Syracusans in the congregation, 
 those who could afford to pay a sou for the luxury 
 of a chair, appeared to be totally lacking in 
 reverence; but to make up for the irreverence of 
 those who were in a position to wear hats and cheap 
 feathers there was the behaviour of the simple 
 country peasants and the humbler residents in the 
 city. They were indeed a striking example of good 
 breeding; their devout demeanour commanded 
 respect. The dignity of bearing among these poor 
 Sicilians is marvellous. Some of the old men had 
 faces so finely featured that they might have been 
 
34 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 carved out of marble, only that their skins were a 
 warm brown from exposure to the sun. Sicilian 
 repose is a thing undreamt of until you have seen 
 these old men, dressed in their native costume, 
 their limbs unhampered with " Sunday blacks," 
 their slim ankles bound round with thongs of rough 
 goat's hide, their bright blue-cotton knee-breeches 
 fitting closely, while their brown coats of many 
 shades hang with time-worn ease from slightly 
 bent shoulders. 
 
 Doris said that a group of such men kneeling in 
 front of some popular side-chapel was exactly like 
 the Italian pictures of the wise men worshipping 
 the Magi. She loved to see the little children 
 playing about the vast building quite fearlessly; 
 they did not disturb the worshippers in the least, 
 she said, and as it is their Father's House, why 
 should little ones be made to keep a painful silence, 
 and be forced into pretending to enter into the 
 service which they do not understand ? 
 
 There were two little ones whom I watched ; the 
 elder was not four years old. They toddled about 
 the great building, hand in hand, visiting all the 
 side-chapels, but never forgetting to bow their baby 
 heads before the pictures of Our Lady and her 
 crucified Son after they had admired all the bright 
 ornaments on the gaily draped altars, and gazed 
 with young and wondering eyes on the hundreds 
 of silver hands and hearts which had been hung up 
 as tokens of gratitude and faith for the recovery of 
 some loved one who had been prayed for and re- 
 lieved. No doubt these two mites had known some 
 poor woman who had saved her cents and deprived 
 herself of bread to be able to purchase a silver heart 
 to leave in the chapel of Our Blessed Lady. In 
 course of time they found their way to the chancel 
 steps. Not in the least afraid, they stood close to 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 35 
 
 the eloquent monk ; nor was he put out by their 
 presence, for the next few moments he addressed 
 his congregation with his hand stroking the small 
 dark head of the little girl, while both children 
 were busy fingering and counting the beads of his 
 fine rosary. When they grew tired of standing 
 still, and the crucifix and the beads had lost their 
 charm, they wandered, still hand in hand, in and 
 out of the kneeling congregation, until at last they 
 came across their mother, who smiled to them with 
 the gentle smile of the Italian mother. As we 
 looked at that young mother we recognised how 
 simple a matter it was for the old Italian painters, 
 such as Bellini and Francia, to find models for 
 their sweetly divine women. They had only to go 
 into the meanest street, and they could find a 
 dozen to choose from. This particular mother had 
 her slender figure veiled in the soft black shawl 
 which serves the modest poor Sicilian woman for 
 Sunday bonnet and cloak ; it was folded closely 
 over her head, and covered half her cheeks like a 
 nun's coif, and then fell out in loose long lines to 
 her knees. The art of getting a shawl to hang like 
 that is still a puzzle to Doris, for no pin is ever 
 given the chance of tearing the ancient fabric. 
 This woman's mother had no doubt worshipped in 
 the same shawl, and probably her mother before 
 her. 
 
 " She is so proud of the little man-child in her 
 arms," Doris said in a whisper. " Look! such a 
 precious joy fills her that she is not even troubled 
 by the fact that there is so little to eat at home, now 
 that this last dear one has come to share it, that she 
 herself is almost always hungry. But I suppose 
 true mothers almost enjoy that sort of hunger, 
 don't they? Her home is a basement, no doubt, 
 cold and damp ; but it is her home, the house where 
 
36 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 her children were born." Ad ogni uccello suo nido 
 h bello, — To every bird its nest is fair. 
 
 Syracuse is just as deceitful as Doris feared. 
 Who could ever Imagine, as he looked at it from 
 the garden that we both love, the darkness, the 
 smells, and the sorrow that her outward fairness 
 hides, the poverty and hunger that now fill her 
 streets? How, indeed, are the mighty fallen as 
 regards Syracuse, first of all cities in the days when 
 the greatness of the world centred round the blue 
 African waters ! 
 
 For one so young and full of vigorous girlhood, 
 Doris has a very tender heart for all things poor and 
 suffering, and a gentle heart is the true definition of 
 a gentlewoman or man, I think ; for a gentle heart 
 could never dictate a vulgar or coarse action. I 
 have often known women who appeared on a slight 
 acquaintance to be well bred, but on further inti- 
 macy they have betrayed what is generally known 
 as the " cloven hoof," and, without one exception, 
 the action that betrayed that lack of breeding has 
 always come from the absence of a gentle heart, a 
 want of tenderness for others' feelings. 
 
 You must remember that this very cathedral 
 about which I have been writing is the actual 
 fabric of the temple of Minerva, so gloriously de- 
 scribed by Cicero in his impeachment of Verres. 
 While speaking of a series of cavalry pictures, 
 which once adorned the walls of the temple, he 
 says : u Nothing could be more noble than those 
 paintings ; there was nothing at Syracuse that was 
 thought more worthy going to see. These pic- 
 tures Marcus Marcellus, though by that victory of 
 his he had divested everything of its sacred inviola- 
 bility of character, out of respect for religion, never 
 touched. Verres, though, in consequence of the 
 long peace and loyalty of the Syracusan people, he 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 37 
 
 had received them as sacred and under the protec- 
 tion of religion, took away all these pictures, and 
 left naked and unsightly those walls, whose decora- 
 tions had remained inviolate for so many ages, and 
 had escaped so many wars. Marcellus, who had 
 vowed that if he took Syracuse he would erect two 
 temples at Rome, was unwilling to adorn the tem- 
 ple which he was going to build with these treasures 
 which were his by right of capture. Verres, who 
 was bound by no vows to Honour or Virtue, as 
 Marcellus was, but only to Venus and to Cupid, 
 attempted to plunder the Temple of Minerva. 
 The one was unwilling to adorn gods in the spoil 
 taken from gods, the other transferred the decora- 
 tions of the Virgin Minerva to the house of a 
 prostitute." 
 
 He next goes on to extol the wonders of the fold- 
 ing-doors of the temple. 
 
 11 But now what shall I say of the folding doors 
 of that temple? I am afraid that those who have 
 not seen these things may think that I am speaking 
 too highly of, and exaggerating everything .... I 
 am able to prove this distinctly, O judges, that no 
 more magnificent doors, none more beautifully 
 wrought of gold and ivory, ever existed in any 
 temple. It is incredible how many Greeks have 
 left written accounts of the beauty of these doors." 
 
 With biting sarcasm he passes on, after having 
 given a detailed account of the treasures Verres 
 took from the temple, to his desecration of the city. 
 
 M For the Sappho which was taken away out of 
 the town-hall, affords you so reasonable an excuse, 
 that it may seem almost allowable and pardonable. 
 That work of Silanion, so perfect, so elegant, so 
 elaborate (I will not say what private man), but 
 what nation could be so worthy to possess, as the 
 most elegant and learned Verres? Certainly, 
 
38 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 nothing can be said against it. If any one of us, 
 who are not as happy, who cannot be as refined as 
 that man, should wish to behold anything of the 
 sort, let him go to the Temple of Good Fortune, 
 to the Monument of Catulus, to the Portico of 
 Metellus ; let him take pains to get admittance into 
 the Tusculan Villa of any one of these men ; let him 
 see the forum when decorated, if Verres is ever so 
 kind as to lend any of his treasures to the aediles. 
 Shall Verres have all these things at home? Shall 
 Verres have his house full of, his villas crammed 
 with, the ornaments of temples and cities? Will 
 you still, O judges, bear with the hobby, as he calls 
 it, and pleasures of this vile artisan? a man who was 
 born in such a rank, educated in such a way, and 
 who is so formed both in his mind and body, that 
 he appears a much fitter person to take down 
 statues than to appropriate them." 
 
 Then he goes on working up the indignation of 
 the people with his vehemence and masterly 
 eloquence, and at the same time handing down to 
 us a faithful account of the riches and magnificence 
 of Pagan Sicily. 
 
 Doris and I are constantly in Cicero's company 
 now. We cannot be too grateful to the German 
 lady for the introduction. He is so enthusiastic, 
 so deliciously modern. By this time, however, I 
 expect you will also have made his acquaintance, so 
 I will not again give myself the trouble of quoting 
 him at length. Cardinal Newman in Sicily is 
 pleasant reading, but thin and unsatisfying after 
 Cicero. 
 
 Newman speaks of the island very tenderly; it 
 seems to have taken hold of him and affected him 
 just in the way it does affect every one who spends 
 more than a day or two on its shores. He was 
 terribly ill during his journey through the island, 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 89 
 
 and alludes repeatedly to the horrible discomforts 
 he underwent from dirt and fleas. 
 
 I wish that the Villa Politi had been in existence 
 when he was in Syracuse : what rest and peace he 
 would have found in the clean white hotel, and the 
 sunny rock garden, with the deep green of the cool 
 latomia, Theocritus 's latomia — to wander in, when 
 his mind sought silence and the repose of deep 
 shadows! I wish he had written " Lead, kindly 
 Light," from this lovely garden : the evening light 
 on Syracuse might have inspired it; but it was 
 composed, I believe, on board an orange boat on 
 his return journey from the island to Marseilles. 
 
 Yours affectionately, 
 
 J. C. 
 
Villa Politi, Syracuse, 
 
 February 19th, 1900. 
 
 Dear Louise, — 
 
 This has been a day of happy idleness ; in- 
 deed, our hearts were too full of rejoicing to think 
 of Greek remains, for the Catania paper (the one 
 we rely on here for the truest account of the war) 
 this evening contained the news that Kimberley is 
 relieved, and now we are, as you can imagine, all 
 impatience for the arrival of the English news- 
 papers of the 16th. The German in the mackin- 
 tosh and the other waterproofed sons of the Father- 
 land are not prepared to accept the news; their 
 general attitude towards South Africa forbids us 
 questioning them on the subject. Doris thanks 
 God she cannot understand German, for she de- 
 clares she would have poisoned some of them long 
 ago. Their language sounds ugly enough at any 
 time, she says, but when it is used for laughing at 
 the reverses to our brave troops it is outside the 
 limit of civilised tongues. It is hard indeed to put 
 up with it, knowing that those very Germans will 
 not be near us to see our rejoicing when the victory 
 is ours. The old general's Italian manservant, who 
 accompanies his master everywhere and stands be- 
 hind his chair at dinner, was very amusing when 
 the good news- came. The master and servant 
 fought together with Garibaldi, I believe, so there 
 is a bond of sympathy between them. The servant 
 was born in Trieste, and looks a first-class villain ; 
 
 Doris declares he is one. Like all north Italians, 
 
 40 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 41 
 
 he has the greatest contempt for Southern Italy. 
 Well, he announced to his master to-day that as 
 he had not been drunk for sixteen years (a brave 
 lie !) he intended to get royally drunk on the days 
 Kimberley and Lady smith were relieved. Whilst 
 Doris and I were walking past the small albergo, 
 near the Greek amphitheatre, Rumanio, as he is 
 called, appeared at the door. Recognising us as 
 friends of his master and guests at the same hotel, 
 he dashed out to meet us, and in voluble Italian 
 told us that he had just heard that Kimberley was 
 relieved. And there was a look in his eyes as much 
 as to say, u So you can tell my master that my 
 great drunk has begun." 
 
 We listened to the conversation which followed 
 between the pretty daughter of the house and the 
 villain of Trieste. 
 
 " What have you got to eat?" he asked, looking 
 round at the nakedness of the poor little inn with 
 the scorn of the rich North for the starving South. 
 
 The girl shrugged her shapely shoulders, and 
 told him, " Bread and cheese and fennel." 
 
 He expressed his fine disdain by the mere raising 
 of his eyebrows. 
 
 " What do you want more?" she said, — " roast 
 Christian? There is none ready now, but if you 
 will return in two hours I will go to the amphi- 
 theatre and fetch some." 
 
 There was a roar of laughter at the fine " gentle- 
 man's gentleman," and we heard no more ; but the 
 fellow being a fine figure of a man and the girl a 
 pretty flirt, you may be sure it did not end there. 
 During the interview the old mother, with her head 
 wrapped up in an orange-coloured handkerchief, 
 had been standing in the shadow of the doorway. 
 The virtue of even the poorest maiden in Sicily is 
 strictly guarded. 
 
42 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 I can think of nothing else but Kimberley, and 
 how to find means of verifying the good news. 
 England has never seemed so far off. 
 
 Your affectionate brother, 
 
 J. C. 
 
 P.S. — Yes, Madame Politi is German by birth, 
 which accounts for the cleanliness of her hotel ; but 
 her love for Sicily is greater than for the Father- 
 land. A warm climate is more enjoyable when 
 your bedroom is under the supervision of a German 
 housekeeper. Doris says Madame Politi is a 
 Sicilian when she is working in her garden, and a 
 German when she is putting her house linen in 
 order. 
 
Villa Politi, Syracuse, 
 
 February, 1900. 
 
 Dear Louise, — 
 
 To-day was market day in Syracuse, so we 
 idled along the Catania road in order to meet the 
 country people coming in on their good mules and 
 donkeys, laden with their farm produce. What 
 pleased us most was the dignified appearance of the 
 old ladies mounted on their black donkeys. Those 
 slender, sure-footed beasts are well burdened, I can 
 tell you, for the Sicilian housewife places across the 
 beast's back a copious saddlebag, which reaches 
 within a foot or so of the ground on either side. 
 The entire weekly produce of her farm she contrives 
 to stow into the capacious pockets, while she her- 
 self, with a fine dignity, sits perched up between 
 them. Her legs, finding no place to hang them- 
 selves on either side of the donkey, cling comfort- 
 ably round its neck; but even this extraordinary 
 mode of riding is not sufficient to upset the 
 composure or complacent expression of an aged 
 Sicilian. When the woman returns in the evening 
 from market, the saddlebags will be just as uncom- 
 fortably full, but polenta and brown bread will then 
 be substituted for the lean chickens and green 
 fennel. 
 
 The slow, even pace at which these beasts of 
 burden travel is amazing! Their gentle-faced 
 riders, who generally go to market in their best 
 black shawls, know no such disturbing element as 
 impatience ; the great enemy unrest has not entered 
 into their philosophic existence. 
 
 43 
 
44 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 Doris wondered why we never saw a young girl 
 riding into market — why old women were left to 
 travel the long white dusty roads alone. " The 
 busy housewives should send the girls into the city 
 to sell the fennel. Look ! that is the same woman 
 we met early this morning ; she is only this distance 
 on her homeward way, and it is now four o'clock." 
 In the morning we had been driving to the famous 
 castle of Euryalus, and for Sicilian horses our pair 
 were travelling at a good pace. We passed the 
 woman riding her slender-legged, fine-haired, black 
 donkey four or five times, for Doris had insisted on 
 our coachman stopping his horses at brief intervals 
 while she climbed the white stone wall which 
 separated the dusty highroad from the fields full of 
 flowers and ancient olive-trees. 
 
 " Look!" she cried, holding up a big bunch of 
 wild anemones, M did you ever see such a lovely 
 colour?" 
 
 Held so close to her violet eyes, the lie I told was 
 a brave one ; but I knew she loved no personal flat- 
 tery and adored the wild winter flowers. We had 
 bought some fine Greek-shaped vases made of the 
 rough Sicilian pottery ; the soft buff of their lightly 
 baked clay went well with the brilliant pink of the 
 small campion which spreads itself like a carpet 
 over the flat country at this time of the year. Just 
 as Doris was climbing the wall to reach the high- 
 road the woman on the quiet-footed ass passed us 
 again. She bowed, and said with a smile — a 
 gentle smile of tolerance for our ignorance — 
 " They are only wild flowers, signorina ; they grow 
 everywhere." 
 
 " But they are beautiful, are they not?" 
 
 " Gia, gia," she said, looking admiringly at the 
 pretty flushed face, " good enough in their way." 
 She meant, " Not good enough for you, who should 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 45 
 
 have a lover more gallant than to let you gather 
 wild flowers." 
 
 " Isn't it curious," Doris said, " that the loveli- 
 est wild flowers which grow in their lovely land are 
 in their eyes worth nothing? They cost nothing, 
 so they are worth nothing. It is all in keeping, I 
 suppose, with their childish inability to understand 
 why we should vex ourselves over the suffering of 
 soulless animals. ' They have no souls, signorina ; 
 what does it matter? it is the soul that suffers.' " 
 
 As we were speaking a cart passed, laden with 
 young people ; we counted eleven in it altogether, 
 and the donkey drawing it was not much bigger 
 than a sheep. Such a riot of colour as that small 
 cart contained it would be impossible to convey to 
 you, for colour is never colour until seen under a 
 southern sun and on a snow-white road. 
 
 A Sicilian cart itself, you must know, is like no 
 other work-a-day cart on God's earth, but rather 
 like some gaudy curio, some well-preserved relic 
 of the Middle Ages. It is shaped like a servant's 
 box and made of the toughest oak. The box is 
 poised high in the air on the top of so elaborately 
 carved and painted an axletree that it is well worth 
 your while to kneel on the dusty road and get under 
 the box part to study the workmanship, and the 
 intricate beauty of the design. The wheels of the 
 cart, from the wretched condition of the country 
 roads, require to be of enormous height ; this gives 
 the vehicle a most absurd appearance; but if you 
 journey long in Sicily you will find that the highest 
 wheels can get buried in mud. The four sides of 
 the cart are painted to represent famous biblical 
 and historical incidents. Tell shooting at the 
 apple, and the Crucifixion, are the most popular 
 subjects. These gorgeous carts cost a great deal 
 of money, and are objects of rivalry in families; 
 
 4 
 
46 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 the elaborate brass-mounted harness of the mules, 
 with its truly exquisite embossed trappings, to- 
 gether with the cart, form a farmer's most precious 
 family heirloom. I am not sure that the mules are 
 not heirlooms as well, for I am convinced that 
 mules are far too clever and obstinate ever to die ! 
 The life of a Sicilian mule should be a very interest- 
 ing subject if it ever comes to be written. 
 
 As we watched the fantastic cart, piled high with 
 gay young people, driving slowly along the sunny 
 southern road, Doris, divining somehow that my 
 thoughts had fled to green England, cried : 
 
 M Not a bit of real green anywhere to temper the 
 scene ; only the blue-green cactus leering at us from 
 over the plastered walls, and the silver-grey olive- 
 trees shimmering in the sun in the white, rock- 
 strewn fields ! The glory of the pink campion, the 
 blue of the blue anemone, that cart full to bursting 
 with red and yellow head-towels, are bits of the 
 South. Even that woman, far on ahead on her 
 donkey, in her softly falling mantle of black, creep- 
 ing along between the white walls, does nothing to 
 sober the scene ; it is all one blaze of southern light, 
 a light which lays bare every grain of colour hidden 
 under duller skies." 
 
 " If I were the girls in that overladen cart," she 
 went on, " I would prefer riding a nice donkey. 
 The old lady on ahead has much the best of it, I 
 think." 
 
 11 Don't you see," I answered, " that the cart 
 holds the mother and father as well as the pretty 
 daughters? The Sicilian signorina is always safely 
 guarded, even when she rides a black donkey from 
 the hills into Syracuse to sell two francs '-worth of 
 farm produce. Her mother or her grandmother 
 always sits on the same beast behind her ; the lover 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 47 
 
 gets the smile from his sweetheart first, and the 
 scowl from her chaperon the second after." 
 
 " How absurd it is ! Just as if anything would 
 happen to her ! What a dreadful life they lead in 
 spite of their air of sweet complaisance ! I believe 
 they are too well-bred to complain. I wish I could 
 look as near an ideal princess as some of those 
 girls!" 
 
 u They do not complain because they know no 
 better. After all, most people have to be told they 
 are actually unhappy or happy before they are 
 quite aware of it. A husband in Sicily amongst 
 the working classes is often in the habit of locking 
 his womenfolk in the house and taking the key in 
 his pocket out into the fields." 
 
 " Perhaps that is why there is always a face at a 
 window in Sicily?" 
 
 " Yes," I said, " undoubtedly that is the reason. 
 Sometimes it is the wistful, tragic face of a neg- 
 lected wife, at others it is the smiling glance of 
 some young girl eager to anticipate the excitement 
 of her first romance ; the breath of intrigue is the 
 first a Sicilian male or female infant breathes, it is 
 the last that takes leave of him." 
 
 In a field, a little farther on, Doris spied some 
 fine blooms of the double red Sicilian wild rose. It 
 is not by any means common round Syracuse, and 
 we were delighted with our new prize ; it is a deep 
 red rose, not at all unlike the crimson rambler. 
 While we were praising its beauty and thinking 
 ourselves mighty clever, the black-cloaked figure on 
 the donkey passed us once again. With exactly 
 the same dignity of greeting, she said something 
 to the effect that it was the tortoise that won the 
 race, after all; although we had two fast horses, 
 she would be home first if we lingered so long on 
 the road. M But it is of no consequence to the 
 
48 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 signorina," she said. " She is only out for pleasure. 
 I have much business to attend to." 
 
 11 Wouldn't I love to know the nature of her 
 business!" Doris said with laughing eyes. " No 
 doubt that pretty gracious head so elegantly poised 
 under the soft black shawl and those gentle tragic 
 eyes are rilled with nothing deeper than the best 
 way to spend her few soldi, or how to get the better 
 of the shopman to whom she will sell her weary 
 hens." 
 
 I am afraid you will think Doris and I are not 
 serious enough about our Sicily, and Sicily is very 
 serious. Sicily is like a woman with a frivolous 
 face and tragic eyes .... There is sunshine and 
 beauty all over the land, and a burden of hunger 
 and woe on her children. 
 
 We talk of laughter-loving Italy; it may have 
 been even so once in Sicily, but to-day it is other- 
 wise. The beauty of the women and the dignity 
 of the men are always intensified by the veiled 
 sorrow in their eyes. If one could, without spoiling 
 the beauty and simplicity of the island, lift the yoke 
 of poverty from off the shoulders of these poor 
 creatures, what a home of laughter and sunshine 
 Sicily might be, a veritable land " with milk and 
 honey blessed" ! But then, again, this cruel 
 poverty is the mother of native ingenuity, and her 
 offspring is beautiful Simplicity ; remove the one 
 and you kill the others, and so, from the artistic 
 point of view, let us keep dear Sicily as it is, and 
 reverence the poverty which with her is so seldom 
 depravity, and thank God there is still one little 
 corner of Europe where the thumb of progress has 
 not left its vulgar mark. So you see, there are two 
 Sicilies to write about, read about, and dream 
 about, aye indeed, and to weep about, too : the 
 ancient Sicily which the German M does " with a 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 49 
 
 Baedeker in a mackintosh, and the other Sicily — I 
 cannot call it modern, for that were a rank heresy, 
 for nothing in Sicily is modern or common — the 
 Sicily Doris and I love and understand best — the 
 Sicily of beauty and tragedy and flowers and sun- 
 shine. 
 
 The tobacco I told you of, which the general was 
 to persuade me into smoking, is vile stuff. I will 
 look to you to send me some, any decent sort, the 
 next time you are in the neighbourhood of the 
 Army and Navy Stores. 
 
 Your affectionate brother, 
 
 J. C. 
 
Villa Politi, Syracuse, 
 
 February, 1900. 
 
 Dear Louise, — 
 
 I should have written some days ago to thank 
 you for the tobacco, which is excellent and cheap 
 at the price, but my lengthy letter-writing is not 
 so easy now as I am really very busy doing nothing. 
 And doing nothing is a very exacting occupation. 
 The more you give in to it the more it expects of 
 you, and where one half-hour's smoke in the sun 
 after lunch sufficed me a month ago, I now find 
 myself seated in the same chair watching the same 
 two lizards disporting themselves on the white wall 
 of the front portico when Madame Politi calls out 
 from her little room that our tea is ready. Besides, 
 Doris is urging me to^finish her story. 
 
 You agree with me, of course, that it was quite 
 unnatural for the young girl of my small romance 
 to love the elderly soldier in the way that we all 
 like to be loved. Doris declares that if the young 
 man had never turned up they would have lived 
 happily ever afterwards. She does not seem to 
 recollect that although a wife may promise to love, 
 honour, and obey her husband, she cannot answer 
 for the behaviour of her own heart. So many 
 wives, as you know, recognise that it is safer for 
 their own peace of mind to live in the country; 
 there are fewer temptations for their husbands and 
 they are less likely to notice when their wives lose 
 their youthful attractiveness. They do not run the 
 gauntlet of comparison with fairer women every 
 
 50 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 51 
 
 day. Wives who consider themselves the pos- 
 sessors of good and true husbands have told me this. 
 The same women have refused to have a young 
 governess live in the house to teach their children. 
 M I will not put temptation in John's way," 
 declared one. " If you are satisfied with your 
 prisoner, keep him, madam," I said; " but I 
 should prefer letting the goat wander who wished 
 to wander. Tethered beasts strangle themselves 
 in their own ropes. Besides, is he worth the 
 effort?" 
 
 " Do you like our heroine the better," I asked 
 Doris, " now that the story is developing?" 
 
 11 Yes," she said, " much better. Still, she is 
 not worthy of him. The sweet courtesy with which 
 he treats her, his tenderness for her youth and 
 ignorance ! Just fancy a chit of a girl deserving 
 and keeping the love of a man like that ! — a man 
 whom any beautiful woman must have flattered 
 and spoilt. She was incapable of giving him the 
 love affected by a boy who was busy growing a 
 moustache." 
 
 " But men who have seen the world and have 
 known flattery are the very ones who appreciate 
 the direct simplicity of an unspoilt girl. It is the 
 boys who admire the rouge-pot and brilliance of a 
 woman of the world. In your old age you return 
 to the simple things of life, bread and Irish stew 
 for lunch. Youth must have a full menu to tickle 
 his vanity. His love for her was perfectly natural, 
 her treatment of him was natural, too; it was 
 human nature, my dear. Put yourself in her place. 
 Could you marry an old man?" 
 
 Her eyes evaded mine and her breath came 
 quickly for a moment. 
 
 " I think I am rather like her," she said . ..." I 
 
52 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 am rather that type of girl, but I am perfectly 
 certain I would never have jilted the V.C." 
 
 " He gave her up," I said. 
 
 u She made him do it. She knew he loved her 
 with a father's and lover's love in one. A father 
 will sacrifice himself for the happiness of his child, 
 a lover thinks only of himself." 
 
 Do you notice how she evaded with a woman's 
 quickness my question, u Would she herself marry 
 an old man?" 
 
 In my next letter I will tell you about the famous 
 catacombs of San Giovanni, which are quite close 
 to this hotel. You will be asking what is there not 
 quite close to this hotel, but that is more than I 
 can tell you, for every day brings forth some fresh 
 wonder. Yet there is one thing missing. Each 
 morning we go up to the roof of the house and 
 come down shaking our heads. " No, it is not 
 there. Mother Etna means to cheat us," Doris 
 said ; " she is hiding herself, like De Wet, close by, 
 over the house. When she does come out it will 
 seem so absurd to think that Etna has been there 
 all this time while we were living in sublime ignor- 
 ance of her whereabouts." 
 
 It is the fault of the sirocco, Madame Politi says. 
 The sirocco does and undoes wonders in Sicily; it 
 seems to be always blowing. 
 
 Doris asked the facchino who cleans her boots, 
 about which she is fastidiously neat, why he had 
 neglected them for three days. 
 
 " It does not matter much in Syracuse," she 
 said ; " but still, I have got into the habit of wear- 
 ing them black. I should like them cleaned." 
 
 The facchino shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " Why have you not cleaned them?" she asked 
 impatiently. 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 53 
 
 " The sirocco, signorina ; I cannot clean boots in 
 the sirocco." 
 
 11 I certainly can't walk far in a sirocco," Doris 
 said to me afterwards. " I feel as limp as a wet 
 chamois leather; but as this particular hot wind 
 blows almost every day in the year, we must, I 
 suppose, remain content with dirty boots." 
 
 Very few fresh visitors have come to the hotel, 
 and we are getting to know the habits of the ones 
 who have been with us remarkably well. There is 
 one rather more than usually hungry German, who 
 finds the best food which Madame Politi can pro- 
 cure in unambitious Syracuse not enough to satisfy 
 his Teutonic system. He has now adopted a plan 
 at table which amuses Doris very much. If he 
 has been eating from some dish which he has 
 more or less enjoyed, — tough beef, for instance, — 
 he holds on to his plate when the waiter comes to 
 remove it, and refuses to part with it until he has 
 seen the contents of the next dish. If it is kid — 
 which, you must know, tastes uncommonly like 
 stewed gloves — he tells the waiter to bring him 
 back the last course. If it is degenerate grey 
 mullet — which is not the grey mullet of England, 
 I beg to state — he helps himself liberally on his 
 beefy plate. He has a partiality for grey mullet, 
 and sucks the bones. To excuse himself for his 
 cunning, he invariably tells the amused waiter, who 
 quite well sees through his little plan, that he likes 
 his beef and fish, " Tutf insieme." (If he had 
 parted with his plate the grey mullet would have 
 been a very mutilated one before he saw it again.) 
 There are three uncertain-aged Boston ladies here 
 whom Doris has christened the " ladies of Cran- 
 ford " ; but although she pokes a little harmless fun 
 at them, nothing is prettier than her manner to- 
 wards them. There cannot be more than eighteen 
 
54 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 years between the age of the eldest and that of the 
 youngest, yet Doris says that Miss Rosina always 
 speaks as if her eldest sister was much too old to 
 care about expeditions. 
 
 The three sisters have a habit of disagreeing, and 
 contradicting each other's statements. An amus- 
 ing instance occurred when Miss Rosina told Doris 
 about her mother's death. 
 
 " We are orphans now," she said. " Mother 
 died last fall." 
 
 Doris asked me afterwards if there was no limit 
 in the Statesman's Year-booh to the age of orphans. 
 There certainly should be. Aged people may have 
 no parents, but only the young are orphans. 
 
 Miss Rosina went on to say that her mother's 
 death was quite beautiful. 
 
 Miss Persephine Biggs contradicted her : 
 M Rosina, you shouldn't say that. You suggest 
 that her death was more beautiful than her life. It 
 was just as she would have wished, peaceful and 
 calm ; but I think ' beautiful ' is scarcely the word 
 to use upon such an occasion — it sounds theatrical." 
 
 The second sister broke in : 
 
 11 I don't see how you think it was just as she 
 would have wished it, Persephine. She died on 
 washing day, in her bonnet, and she was a woman 
 that liked to fix things up to the minute. It must 
 have been very embarrassing to her to die all in a 
 hurry like that." 
 
 Miss Rosina, who has a faded romance and smiles 
 accordingly, meekly replied : 
 
 " I don't suppose the Lord takes much account 
 of the Biggs' washing-day, anyhow." Here Miss 
 Persephine handed Doris a peppermint. " They 
 are opera peppermints," she said, " and I find 
 them an excellent digestive ; the food here is very 
 obstinate." 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 55 
 
 " You don't suppose young folks' digestion is as 
 cranky as yours. I'm sure that complexion don't 
 look as if it had ever known any stomach trouble. 
 Peppermints are considered very vulgar in Eng- 
 land : isn't that so?" It was Adonaey who spoke, 
 the middle sister ; her name is the female American 
 corruption of Adonais. 
 
 Doris confessed that in some English circles 
 peppermints might be considered a little loud, but 
 that here in Sicily, where anything sweet is as 
 precious as pearls, she would love to have one. The 
 peppermints in question were the soft, fat, self- 
 important, presidential peppermints of America. 
 
 In spite of all the gentle bickering which goes on 
 between the three old maids, they love each other 
 very dearly in their tender old hearts. They have 
 one and all lost their hearts to Doris. Doris took 
 the eldest sister out for a walk the other day ; a high 
 wind was blowing, the wind which always is blow- 
 ing here when it is not a sirocco. Well, the frail 
 old lady ventured out, more, I think, for the sake 
 of Doris' company than anything else. 
 
 " It was so funny to see her popping in and out 
 of the family vaults in the street of tombs. Why 
 do very old people find Greek tombs so interesting, 
 I wonder?" 
 
 " Because living humanity has ceased to take 
 much interest in them," I said. " Young people 
 find mankind more interesting in the pink living 
 flesh than in the dry bones preserved in these 
 ancient rock tombs." 
 
 " I fear you will give my classical education up 
 as a bad business," she said; "but I'm really 
 awfully tired of ancient aqueducts and streets of 
 tombs. The ancient Greeks seemed to bury their 
 dead all over the place — whenever they found a 
 convenient rock to hack a hole in, and I believe the 
 
56 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 Greeks and Romans always turned their slaves on 
 to aqueducts when there wasn't anything else for 
 them to do." 
 
 The German in the mackintosh improves on 
 acquaintance ; he lent me Freeman's Sicily to-day, 
 which he apparently knows inside out. I am not 
 prepared to follow him in this matter, as I prefer 
 my own Sicily even to Freeman's. Besides, Free- 
 man makes you feel such a fool, which is always an 
 uncomfortable sensation for one of my age. Doris 
 is still the only young thing in the hotel, and we 
 are one and all her willing slaves. The waiters 
 reserve the best cuts off the joint for her, if Sicilian 
 animals have such things. Their anatomy is never 
 divulged by the waiter, whose one idea is to get 
 something on to each plate somehow, as equally 
 apportioned as possbile. Even the old general pro- 
 duced a pot of clean, white, lardy-looking honey, 
 which had come all the way from Milan, as a 
 present for Doris. 
 
 Yours in haste, 
 
 J. C. 
 
Villa Politi, Syracuse, 
 
 February 21s t, 1900. 
 
 Dear Louise, — 
 
 I would amazingly have liked to know and 
 see how London behaved when the news came that 
 Methuen had entered Kimberley without firing a 
 shot, and that the first train ran through from the 
 Cape last night. We drank a bottle of Madame 
 Politi 's best Marsala on the strength of it, and the 
 general let himself go on the Indian Mutiny. He 
 was struggling over the announcement of the relief 
 in the Catania paper when Doris came up the 
 front portico steps. He called to her to come and 
 listen. 
 
 The old boy read till tears blinded his eyes and 
 his glasses were too dim to see through. Without a 
 word, Doris took the paper gently from his hand 
 and gave it to me, and I took up the good news 
 where he left off. Doris stood with her" two hands 
 clasped through the general's arm. Rumanio was 
 listening at a respectful distance. The general 
 beckoned to him. 
 
 " Come and hear, Rumanio, come and hear." 
 
 "It is also reported," I continued, M that 
 General Cronje has been taken prisoner with 
 twelve thousand men, but the report is not con- 
 firmed at the seat of war." 
 
 " Mio Dio, Rumanio, Mio Dio ! I wish I could 
 live in England." The words broke from the 
 general's lips like a cry of pent-up years. " It's 
 
 57 
 
58 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 better to live but one more year in England in times 
 like these than to drag out ten here." 
 
 Rumanio stepped up to him and took his arm. 
 
 " I think I'll go to my room," he said. 
 M Thank you, sir, thank you, for reading. My 
 dear," he said, touching Doris' hand gently, " I'm 
 a silly old man, who has outlived his day. If they 
 would only let me die in England instead of 
 existing here all alone !" 
 
 I looked at Doris : her eyes were full of tears. 
 
 " Dear old general !" she said, when he had left, 
 leaning on Rumanio 's arm. " How cruel old age 
 is ! In spite of the Hyblaean honey and the sun- 
 shine, apparently London is better than Sicily." 
 She turned her eyes to the garden, green and gay, 
 summer reigning over the land while it was still 
 only the second month in the year. " To be a 
 soldier at heart and to have outlived your physical 
 energies must be so humiliating; his heart is just 
 as fresh as ever. Now he is going away upstairs to 
 talk to Rumanio of the old Garibaldian days, or to 
 imagine himself one of the gay crowd in his club 
 in London. Old age is cruel, cruel !" 
 
 " Dear child," I said, " don't imagine he feels 
 half as keenly about it as you do. Old age has its 
 blessings. Our senses for sorrow, pain, pleasure 
 are not so poignant ; gradually, gradually our pulses 
 weaken and our feelings grow less keen." 
 
 " You say our," she said, " just as if you were 
 the general's age ; he is a very kind old man, while 
 you are " She paused. " You are " 
 
 " Are what?" I asked. " Just a middling old 
 one?" 
 
 " Yes, just half and half," she said, with mis- 
 chievous eyes. " The half that is old gives you 
 some pleasant privileges, while the half that is 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 59 
 
 young makes you good company for a girl like 
 me." 
 
 " What sort of a girl are you?" I said. " Tell 
 me, what do you imagine you are like?" 
 
 u I don't know," she said; M I never thought 
 about anything so silly, but evidently you have, 
 sir." 
 
 " Why do you think that?" 
 
 " Because you have drawn a me-ish sort of girl 
 in your story. Do you know," she said suddenly, 
 leading our steps towards the bridge in the garden 
 which faces the old monastery, now a poor-house, 
 " I want you, when you come to the part of the 
 story where the old man sees that Phyllis loves the 
 younger one, — I want you to make her fall really 
 in love with the old hero, just because he is willing 
 to give her up. Most women would, you know; 
 they hate being given up too easily." 
 
 M But the other is the true version," I said; 
 u our story was one taken from real life." 
 
 " Never mind about that," she said u let's make 
 a nice romance of our own. Just make her a 
 grander sort of girl, one who would appreciate the 
 deeper love of an older man." 
 
 " Where shall I find my model?" I said. " I 
 don't believe any woman I ever knew would have 
 behaved as you wish this one to." 
 
 "I'm certain there are lots. I never liked her. 
 I wish you would change her." 
 
 u No," I said, so determinedly that she looked 
 at me in surprise. " No, I am quite satisfied with 
 her. I refuse to change her one bit." 
 
 11 After all, it is my story," she said, with pre- 
 tended dignity ; u I only asked you to write it." 
 
 u I think he was a selfish old fool," I said. 
 " He took advantage of the girl's lonely position. 
 She was almost dependent upon him for society. 
 
60 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 Besides, he saved her life upon one occasion, and 
 then proceeded to ruin it by asking her to marry 
 him ; it was taking a mean advantage of her youth 
 and gratitude." 
 
 11 That's all you know about women and girls," 
 she said. " Let me tell you, sir, the part of you 
 that is young, what the half of you that is old ought 
 to have known already, that a woman never for- 
 gives a man for not asking her to marry him when 
 he has deliberately led her to expect it." 
 
 " Did his attention lead her to expect it?" 
 
 " Haven't you made him seek her society from 
 morning till night? First he appealed to her by 
 teaching her the curious native customs, and ex- 
 plaining their meanings, and educating her 
 generally. There are men who attack a woman's 
 heart through her intellect; he was one of them. 
 I think he showed her very plainly that he cared for 
 her. A man of his age doesn't generally spend his 
 entire time with a young girl unless he cares for her 
 a good deal." 
 
 There was an awkward silence between us for a 
 few minutes ; I was thinking of many things both 
 wise and foolish. 
 
 The old monastery at the end of the garden, 
 built up sheer with chips of the quarries, looked 
 grim and strong in the evening light, a very fortress 
 of Mediaeval impregnability. I turned my eyes 
 from the picture of its fallen greatness. Once a 
 fortified monastery, commanding a wide view of the 
 sea from its fine battlements, to-day a wretched 
 shelter for the starving poor of Syracuse. I stole a 
 glance at the girl by my side ; it may have been my 
 fancy, or a trick played by the radiance of the set- 
 ting sun, but I thought I detected a blush lingering 
 there. The next moment I knew I was mistaken, 
 for in the most casual voice in the world, she said : 
 
T3 • 
 <V C 
 
 * 8 
 
 6 L— ' 
 
 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 61 
 
 " AXbirgo dei Pdveri is a much nicer name than 
 our poor-house. It is not so insulting. Come 
 with me : I want to examine the courtyard. We 
 have gazed with admiring eyes at the building for 
 weeks now, and have never been energetic enough 
 to look at its courtyard." 
 
 " Cloisters," I said, correcting her. " Cloisters, 
 where the monks used to walk and meditate." 
 
 " I beg their pardons," she said, M but somehow 
 in my mind monasteries are connected with soldiers, 
 not monks, and soldiers drill in courtyards, not 
 cloisters." 
 
 As we stood in front of the AlbSrgo dei Poveri, 
 Doris said : 
 
 " This is one of the buildings I like best in all 
 Syracuse. I don't care what its date is — I'm tired 
 of dates B.C. I like grim, Mediaeval a.d. things 
 best. That dear little Idggia perched up there in 
 the left-hand top corner ! You can see the blue 
 sky right through its arches! And that old 
 woman, too, is dignified, sitting there against the 
 grey stone; even paupers do the right thing in 
 Sicily, they never spoil a picturesque scene. It is 
 strange that such a high building should have no 
 windows except at the top, isn't it?" 
 
 " It was a fortified monastery," I said; " that 
 was for safety. That little stone bracket, as you 
 describe it, was a watch-tower ; from that point the 
 soldier-monks could command a view of the whole 
 bay. It was a splendid position." 
 
 " Ppor monks!" said Doris. " To-day their 
 cloisters are filled with slowly starving poor, while 
 their barbican and watch-towers are used as drying- 
 lines for the State paupers' rags. Poor proud 
 Sicily ! Poor proud monks ! How has your great- 
 ness fallen!" 
 
 5 
 
62 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 " The poverty and philosophy of Sicily are mar- 
 vellous," I said. " They have learnt to do with- 
 out so much that they expect too little of life. It 
 is their philosophy of doing without which has 
 killed ambition. In England life is scarcely bear- 
 able unless a man has a certain amount of bodily 
 comforts, and he has to work to get them. But 
 you do not feel the pangs of hunger so keenly in the 
 sunshine of Sicily. If there is no work for you to 
 do, you sleep in the warm places and forget your 
 troubles. A Sicilian peasant can live like a prince 
 upon what an English workman starves or throws 
 away. I verily believe that what the poor of Eng- 
 land waste would support in plenty all the paupers 
 in Italy." 
 
 One pound of goat's flesh boiled down into soup 
 forms an appetising and pleasant accompaniment 
 to a few soldis' worth of polenta for three days in a 
 Sicilian's housekeeper's economy. How far would 
 a pound of beef go in a poor London home? 
 Polenta they despise, and macaroni they never eat. 
 They are conservative in tastes, however socialistic 
 their views in politics may be. Beef is an English- 
 man's proper food, without which he must starve, 
 in his own estimation. In many people's minds 
 I believe this beef -eating quality is considered 
 rather a fine one. The Englishman is a fighting 
 beast — he requires animal meat to support him. 
 It is all very well for the Italians, who live in the 
 sun and play cards, to live on macaroni; but a 
 Briton requires something more. And yet it has 
 been proved that the French, for instance, who eat 
 almost as little meat as the Italians, and are models 
 of domestic economy, find that it is possible to 
 endure the fatigues of long marches without a beef- 
 fed system. 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 63 
 
 The English newspapers have come very ir- 
 regularly for the last few days, which is most 
 annoying, for we have never wanted them more. 
 The one paper [The Standard] which this hotel 
 supports is worn to a rag before ever I see it. 
 
 Yours ever, 
 
 J. C. 
 
Villa Politi, Syracuse, 
 
 February, 1900. 
 
 My dear Louise, — 
 
 Thanks for your last letter ; it was satisfying 
 and to the point. We were hungry for a personal 
 description of our national rejoicings over Kimber- 
 ley. I read your letter to Doris. She has grown 
 to expect that I should share them all with her. 
 Poor child! her letters are few and far between. 
 
 " Do let us read it together," she said, " on the 
 seat sheltered by the lavender-hedge." When I 
 had finished she sighed : 
 
 " I suppose we can't have everything, but I'd 
 have loved to see you behaving like a lunatic in 
 London. But then," she added, " we shouldn't 
 be sitting here in this glorious sunshine, watching 
 Madame Politi 's delightfully German sheets drying 
 on the rosemary-bushes." 
 
 We have had to take refuge from the sun under 
 a pink geranium-hedge! Doris says that she 
 means to write a book called " Doris and her 
 Sicilian Garden!" " It won't be so clever as the 
 1 German Garden,' but the flowers will be much 
 prettier." " ' Elizabeth ' has made all England 
 grow rockets and plant rosebeds with pansy carpets. 
 Every one expected great things of these rockets, 
 but they have turned out to be the most wretched 
 frauds, not worth a wild purple scabious or a self- 
 respecting marigold. Elizabeth simply used the 
 word for fun or for effect." 
 
 64 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 65 
 
 We have actually done a little more methodical 
 sight-seeing since I last wrote. We visited yester- 
 day the catacombs of San Giovanni, which are not 
 ten minutes' walk from here. Doris says every- 
 thing is not ten minutes' walk from here when you 
 start out ! 
 
 There is a small monastery containing monks, 
 not soldiers, attached to the church, which is one 
 of the oldest and most beautiful in Sicily. 
 
 We were charmed with the building from the 
 pure beauty of the ensemble. The church faces 
 you with surprising elegance as you walk up a 
 straight, white road, white-walled and dusty. 
 
 Knowing nothing beforehand of its architectural 
 merits or of its exceedingly ancient foundations, we 
 both loved it from the first moment we saw it. It 
 is one of those objects of beauty which even the 
 ignorant must recognise and admire. 
 
 The lower church, which is built in the form of a 
 Greek cross, holds the tomb of St. Marcian, who- 
 ever he may be. 
 
 Doris says : " When you begin doing early 
 Christian Sicily you feel as hopeless about the minor 
 saints as you do about the Pagan gods in the Epoca 
 Greca; you never get away from your ignorance." 
 
 She was well pleased that a villainous-looking 
 monk escorted us over the catacombs. He looked 
 as if he had been born and bred there and had never 
 known God's air. He carried a fine swinging iron 
 lamp, which gave forth more smoke than light. 
 The catacombs are very large, and more imposing, 
 I think, than any in Rome. They are cut out of 
 rock, which is rather superior for catacombs, I 
 fancy, and have three stories. I should not have 
 cared to reside in the bottom flats of these man- 
 sions ; they are much too difficult of access to visit 
 
66 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 to-day, and seem to extend an unnecessary way 
 into the bowels of the earth. 
 
 Doris, as usual, wanted to know much more than 
 the ignorant monk could tell us. He had only the 
 vaguest knowledge of the place, and did little else 
 than point out " tombs of the noble families.' ' 
 
 "I'm tired to death of tombs, especially of noble 
 families; it is tombs, tombs, everywhere. Show 
 me where the people lived when they sought refuge 
 here. Had they no place apart from these awful 
 passages lined with their dead, no rooms of any 
 kind?" 
 
 " I don't believe it," she said. " If all these 
 Christians were buried here in the times of the 
 persecution, they couldn't possibly have lived all 
 together in these narrow passages ; it wasn't proper 
 for saints and martyrs." 
 
 The monk shook his wicked head and blinked 
 an evil eye, then snuffed the candle with his fat 
 fingers. He had lived above the catacombs all his 
 life, he was entrusted to show tourists over them, 
 but he did not consider it necessary to know any- 
 thing about them. He had never given half an 
 hour's thought to them in his life. 
 
 When we were in the crypt of St. Marcian an 
 exquisite chanting suddenly began. Doris left me 
 and hurried up the steps back into the church, 
 which she found completely empty. The monk 
 scuttled after her. 
 
 " You have not seen the tomb of St. Marcian, 
 signorina," he said. " The blessed martyr was 
 bound to one of these granite columns, and " 
 
 " Piano ! Piano I" exclaimed Doris impatiently. 
 " That chanting is lovelv. Where is it coming 
 from?" 
 
 " It is only the brothers singing," he said. " St. 
 Marcian, in his youth " 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 67 
 
 " Piano I" Doris urged. " Show me where 
 your brothers are singing. I have no use for St. 
 Marcian, but I love music." 
 
 We passed through the empty and deserted 
 church to a little door on the right, which led into 
 a charming monastery garden, full of overgrown 
 flowers. The monk pointed to a tiny chapel almost 
 hidden by the high garden steps and the masses of 
 flowers. He motioned us to enter, himself instantly 
 kneeling down and dropping into prayer. If these 
 monks have nothing to do, they mutter with their 
 red lips unintelligible Latin prayers, with about as 
 much meaning in the action as a goat puts into 
 chewing its cud. 
 
 The chapel was a whitewashed building, not 
 much bigger than a cottage room. There were 
 two cheaply draped altars, one with a brightly 
 coloured print of our Saviour hanging over it. 
 The other, and more popular of the two, had a fine 
 wax figure of our Lady on it ; these were the only 
 objects in the chapel to relieve its pauper bareness. 
 There were no lights, no flowers, no votive offer- 
 ings, and no priest or monk officiating at the altars, 
 although the chapel was full of poor worshippers. 
 But I have never heard such a marvellous effect of 
 sound as filled that little church. It came from a 
 chamber overhead where the monks were singing. 
 It was wonderful Latin chanting, full of music and 
 rich in harmony. It was solely vocal. The simple 
 congregation was so interested in Doris, whose 
 pretty hat and dainty dress were affairs of un- 
 expected novelty in their midst, that they made no 
 pretence at praying any more. The women smiled 
 pleasantly at her, while the children stood on the 
 seats open-mouthed in admiration. 
 
 It is pleasant to see Doris inspire these gentle 
 people with admiration; she takes their homage 
 
68 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 quite naturally and understands them admirably. 
 If they wish to look at her chain, loaded with foolish 
 charms, it gives her great pleasure to show it to 
 them. Their childish curiosity never annoys her. 
 
 " ' Let 'em all come,' " she said, smiling as they 
 trooped out of the church after her. " If such 
 little things give them pleasure, surely we can be 
 patient. I can't understand people resenting the 
 native simplicity and love of beauty in these people. 
 We look at the shop windows in Bond Street ; they 
 look at me. What is the difference?" 
 
 From the high steps in the garden we saw the 
 monks in their brown frocks standing in the low 
 upper chamber, singing with very wide-open 
 mouths. I was glad to see the ecclesiastical 
 brethren; those with the clean-shaven patch on 
 their heads of strong hair were undoubtedly men of 
 superior mental calibre to the dirty lay-brother who 
 showed us the catacombs. At the end of the 
 garden there is an outside staircase which leads to a 
 picturesque stone belfry. As we entered the 
 church early in the afternoon an old monk was 
 ascending it. After taking a good look at us, he 
 commenced clapping the bell for service. Church 
 bells in Sicily are not rung, they are beaten on the 
 outside with a stick — which is not musical. The 
 rose window of the church is well worthy of inspec- 
 tion. Doris and I have often admired it from the 
 point where you can see it best — across the orange 
 grove on a far white road ; you are too close stand- 
 ing under it to get its full beauty. 
 
 On our way home Doris again remarked upon 
 the total absence in Sicily of rural cottages. The 
 inhabitants, even the small farmers, live in the cities 
 on the plains, or on the tops of the mountains in 
 the ancient hill-towns. You very rarely see a snug 
 little homestead, or, indeed, any form of domestic 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 69 
 
 building even in the highly cultivated plains. 
 This arises from two causes : first, the fear of 
 malaria attaching to the plain ; and, secondly, the 
 ancient custom of herding together in cities for 
 safety from raiding brigands. 
 
 " If these two dangers have given us the lovely 
 mountain cities, I can't be sorry," Doris said. M I 
 must live in one before I quit Sicily. I think, to 
 look out in the morning and find yourself perched 
 up in a little town flirting with the clouds, would 
 be perfect. Besides, if the people lived scattered 
 about the country on their farms or in small villages 
 we shouldn't see them in their great blue-hooded 
 cloaks, riding on their black donkeys up to their 
 hill-cities every evening, should we ? There would 
 be fewer fifteenth-century pictures in the landscape 
 for us to gush and ' Oh ! ' over. Fancy all this 
 lovely country, sacred every inch of it, spoilt by an 
 ugly nineteenth-century prosaic people, instead of 
 the dear delightful creatures who aren't the least 
 aware that whatever they do or don't do is a 
 pleasure for an artist to look at, except when they 
 have a little money and buy a hat in Catania ; then 
 they are perfectly certain to be quite wrong!" 
 
 While the men are busy working in the fields the 
 donkey lies down with the dog and helps to guard 
 the wine gourd and the scanty food. For even a 
 donkey in Sicily can't expect to eat thistles all day 
 long, he, too, must " do without." The men, as 
 well as the women, I notice, prefer riding sideways 
 on their beasts, all of which, of course, have no 
 saddles; perhaps that is the reason. The young 
 boys sit right out on the stern of the animal, after 
 the fashion of the human boy at Happy Margate. 
 Every country grows the same sort of boys, I 
 fancy ; only here in Sicily they are beautiful as well 
 as human. 
 
70 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 The sirocco is clearing; to-morrow we may see 
 Etna. It has almost become a phantom mountain 
 to us ; we do not believe it really exists, or that it 
 can be seen from Syracuse. But Madame Politi 
 says that it will soon seem so near that we shall 
 want to climb it every morning before breakfast. 
 
 I must thank you for reminding me of Lang's 
 Theocritus. Theocritus is supposed to have had a 
 garden in the latomia under the hotel. It is the 
 coolest place in Syracuse during the summer heats, 
 so Doris will enjoy it immensely. Will you ask 
 your London bookseller to post it me here ? Syra- 
 cuse does not support a regular bookshop. When 
 I reach Palermo I will send you a case of Ingham 
 & Whitaker's best " Marsala "; a fair exchange, 
 I think. 
 
 Yours 
 J. C. 
 
Villa Politi, near Syracuse. 
 
 My dear Louise, — 
 
 A terrible storm of wind and rain has kept 
 us prisoners in the hotel to-day, with the result 
 that I have heard a good deal of gossip one way 
 and another. 
 
 You will remember my mentioning the three 
 ladies of Cranf ord ? Doris told me that Miss Perse- 
 phine confided in her to-day that they had come to 
 Sicily on account of her youngest sister's health. 
 
 " Is she an invalid?" Doris asked. u I hope I 
 have not tired her when I have taken her out with 
 me. I am a good walker." 
 
 " She is gradually recovering from a great 
 shock." 
 
 " Your mother's sudden death, I suppose?" 
 
 " Oh no, my dear — we all accepted that as God's 
 will; we have learnt to say, ' Thy will be done.' 
 It was a much more cruel blow. None of us 
 approved of the affair from the very first. He 
 treated our poor darling shamefully. My father 
 would never let us see anything of men afterwards." 
 
 " Then it happened when your father was alive ?" 
 Doris said, remembering how they had mentioned 
 once that their father had been dead almost twenty 
 years. 
 
 " Yes, it almost killed him, my dear, the slight 
 put upon his favourite child. Two weeks before 
 the marriage a girl who was to have been one of 
 Rosina's bridesmaids, a pretty child of eighteen, 
 whom Rosina loved very dearly, came to pay us a 
 
 71 
 
72 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 visit. She had only been our guest ten days when 
 she eloped with Rosina's lover. The cake was 
 ordered, my dear, and I had twice been fitted for 
 my bridesmaid's suit. We had to pay for every- 
 thing." 
 
 " Poor Miss Rosina!" Doris said. M And al- 
 though this happened eighteen years ago, she has 
 not got over it yet, poor heart." 
 
 " It may seem a very long time to you, my 
 dear," Miss Persephine replied hotly, " but I as- 
 sure you my sister's pain and humiliation are just as 
 keen as ever. We do all we can to make her forget 
 him." 
 
 " Perhaps she does not want to forget him : 
 women often prefer nursing a dead passion to liv- 
 ing without one entirely." 
 
 Miss Persephine sighed. 
 
 " There's a good deal of truth in that. And it 
 is hard to believe that all men are bad, my dear ; 
 for surely the Lord would have known and made 
 some suitable substitutes for good women. ' ' 
 
 " There are curates," Doris said. 
 
 " In the States we don't reckon them as you do 
 in England, my child." 
 
 u Isn't this pathetic? These women's hearts are 
 terrible things to interfere with. Men break them 
 and mend them, but never understand them." 
 
 Doris says that Miss Rosina has merely eaten 
 and slept and lived under protest for almost twenty 
 years. She has lived because physically she can't 
 die. There is something very frail and feminine 
 about her appearance. And really, compared with 
 the Germans and her sisters, she manages to convey 
 a certain impression of youth — until Doris sits down 
 beside her. But Doris, with her April freshness of 
 limb and elastic pose, makes the contrast cruel. 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 73 
 
 If age is pathetic sometimes, I think so is youth, 
 in its sublime ignorance of its power. 
 
 Miss Rosina's hands, so finely lined, look like 
 bird's claws in the girl's slim, firm, pink-tipped 
 fingers. It was unkind to look at the two hands 
 clasped together. 
 
 But, to continue my gossip, this evening, when 
 the two elder sisters were sleeping after dinner, 
 Miss Rosina found her way to Doris's room and 
 showed her, very shyly, a painted miniature of the 
 man who had broken her heart — the miniature of 
 the man who had filled her life with an undying 
 romance. 
 
 " You must promise not to tell my sister," she 
 said anxiously, as she unwrapped the picture from 
 its soft silk covering. 
 
 u But do you mean to say that neither of them 
 knows you have his portrait ?" 
 
 u No, oh no," she said, blushing like a girl ; " I 
 have kept it hidden away all these years. They are 
 so hard on him, my dear, and I, for their sakes, have 
 to pretend that I hate his very name. But when I 
 am alone with him," and she touched the picture 
 lovingly, " I can live again in the old days ; he is 
 then to me the man I loved and trusted, the man 
 I never doubted." 
 
 " Dear Miss Rosina!" Doris said. " I could 
 never love like that." 
 
 " Dear heart ! Every moment of the day except 
 those which I can steal alone with him is a weariness 
 and an effort. I try to take an interest in things, 
 indeed I do, but the whole world is empty. I 
 thought perhaps if I got stronger I might forget. 
 But I can't — I never shall; he is with me every 
 day." 
 
 " Forget !" Doris cried to me. M Fancy having 
 kept her youthful love warm and tender for almost 
 
74 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 twenty years ! Fancy any one loving and feeling 
 like that! And I dared to laugh at her. How 
 hard women can be, even nice ones, like me! I 
 used to say that the undamaged parts of the whole 
 three wouldn't make one healthy woman. I hate 
 myself for saying such things, but sometimes I can't 
 help it; they just come." 
 
 There was this excuse, that one of the three is 
 lame, another blind in one eye, and the youngest 
 is generally shattered. 
 
 " And the sentiment of Miss Rosina's dress," 
 Doris continued, " isn't it touching? The short 
 bodices and the flower-sprigged skirts which he 
 used to like, no doubt. Quite ladylike and un- 
 obtrusive, but so youthful and so remembering." 
 
 I'm afraid that you will say that this is a short 
 letter all about nothing, yet it is merely a part of 
 our life here. For even the garden and the lavender 
 walk are subtly connected in our minds with the 
 figures of the three sisters. And the garden is so 
 much a part of our daily life, that if you are to 
 understand the one you must be introduced to the 
 others. I have noticed that Herr Mackintosh has 
 accompanied the sisters more than once in their 
 walks farther than the lavender groves. Miss 
 Adonaey is very interested in tracing out the 
 boundaries of the five divisions of Syracuse. Ach- 
 radina spreads itself out to the right of our garden, 
 where the sun sets, and where the goats make 
 music with their hundred bells all day long. 
 Epipolae is a desert of rocks, full of the remains 
 of ancient Greek houses, and lies directly behind 
 our house. Doris and I have made many pleasant 
 excursions to Epipolae in search of the short blue 
 iris which seems to delight in seeking soil for its 
 roots in the crevices of the white rocks. It 
 flourishes best in mid-February. While we have 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 75 
 
 been seeking for this brightest of blue flowers, we 
 have stumbled against many scores of rock founda- 
 tions of houses, and, not very intelligently, I'm 
 afraid, we have tried to trace out their ground plans. 
 The front entrance is always very clear, also the 
 dimensions of the building, but little else. Never 
 in any case have we found a house with one stone 
 upon the top of another. No walls of the rudest 
 kind are left standing. Ortygia is a beautiful rock- 
 girt island, and, I believe, is the most ancient settle- 
 ment of the five cities. Ortygia was the original 
 Syracuse out of which the others sprang. Neapolis 
 and Tyche I feel rather vague about, although I 
 have heard Miss Adonaey and Herr Mackintosh 
 laying down their plans to their own entire satis- 
 faction. 
 
 Herr Mackintosh has a German admiration for 
 Miss Adonaey 's intelligence, but the man in him 
 hankers after Miss Rosina. 
 
 Modern Syracuse — modern in the comparative 
 sense of the word — lies, I think I have said, on the 
 island of Ortygia, which is connected by draw- 
 bridges with the ancient rotdndo on the borders of 
 Achradina. This is highly satisfactory to the two 
 eldest American sisters, who are as keen after 
 ancient remains as a dachshund after truffles. 
 
 Yours affectionately, 
 
 J. C. 
 
Villa Politi, 
 
 February, 1900. 
 
 Dear Louise, — 
 
 Heaven grant it is true that the Catania 
 paper reports that Ladysmith is relieved. I can 
 scarcely believe it is correct. It is the way with 
 Italian journalists to make the tide of victory run 
 strong on either side. A few weeks ago the Boers 
 were driving us into the sea ; to-day, because Kim- 
 berley is relieved, and we have had — thank God ! — 
 some few important victories, they are confident 
 that Ladysmith is relieved, and that Cronje has 
 completely surrendered. I am afraid it is all too 
 good to be true. The Germans still keep Slid 
 Africa tabooed, and smile with all the superiority 
 of the Fatherland at our successes. The clever 
 German woman who told such good stories has 
 gone ; we miss her very much. I wish you could 
 have known her. She was as like a cook as any real 
 princess, and as amusing as Dr. Johnson's Table- 
 talk. 
 
 Doris was vastly excited to-day, and dragged me 
 off from my writing to see how our excavations 
 were proceeding in the field where the oxen were 
 ploughing. Alas ! the gentle oxen will never again 
 tread that sea-girt field, for the excavators have 
 laid bare a vast area of tombs. 
 
 " I thought you were tired of ancient tombs," I 
 said. 
 
 " Oh, it's different when they are your own 
 tombs," she answered laughingly. " Besides, 
 
 76 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 77 
 
 look what the men have given me — three lovely 
 coins and a terra-cotta lamp ! No one can say 
 that these antiques were made in Birmingham, 
 buried in Syracuse, and dug up by an American 
 tourist. They have been buried all these centuries 
 and centuries ! My hands are the next to touch 
 this little lamp since some Greek girl used it, and 
 had it buried with her, as a sort of night-light, I 
 suppose. The moment is sacred when you and I 
 only look for the first time upon things which have 
 been hidden all these centuries from the world. 
 Things grow vulgarised under the eyes of tourists 
 in museums." 
 
 By the time we arrived on the scene of action, 
 Signor Orsi, the director of the Syracuse Museum, 
 was there in person, supervising the excavation. 
 
 Doris pocketed her coins and concealed her lamp 
 under a bushel ; she had no mind to get the work- 
 man into trouble. But it was quite unnecessary, 
 for one of the men immediately went up to Signor 
 Orsi and told him that the English lady, who had 
 come on the forbidden ground, would like to know 
 the correct date of the coins that she had just 
 picked up, if he would kindly tell her. 
 
 One proved to be about the third century B.C., 
 the time of the thirty tyrants, and the other Signor 
 Orsi assigned to the Byzantine epoch. Signor Orsi 
 wasn't in the least annoyed at the men for having 
 sold the coins, although it is strictly forbidden. 
 Many things are strictly forbidden in Sicily, but 
 few things are strictly punished. They were not 
 coins which the Museum wanted. 
 
 Signor Orsi is a mighty fine-looking fellow, and 
 was most correctly and suitably dressed for his 
 interesting occupation. In my own mind, I fancy 
 he greatly preferred escorting this smiling English 
 girl, whose eyes responded eagerly to his words of 
 
 6 
 
78 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 wisdom, over the excavations, to his famous guest 
 of yesterday, no less a personage than Sir Marma- 
 duke Wise, trustee of the British Museum and lots 
 of other things besides. Although I'll be bound 
 that Doris has none but the vaguest idea of what 
 post a tyrant held in the third century B.C. A 
 tyrant means a bully to her, in ancient or modern 
 history, and perhaps, after all, she is not so very far 
 amiss. 
 
 Signor Orsi must have thought, judging from her 
 modern appearance, that she was scarcely a likely 
 subject to take an intelligent interest in what she 
 was at the moment examining; but he seemed to 
 enjoy her unintelligent interest amazingly. He 
 spoke English. 
 
 Doris was very vexed, and told him so, that the 
 tombs cannot honestly be ascribed to an earlier date 
 than late Christian. 
 
 " I prefer the oxen ploughing in the field; 
 I do despise anything later than ' Pagan ' in 
 tombs. I'd almost as soon have the Brompton 
 Cemetery." 
 
 Some of the tombs were quite amusing, all the 
 same. They were cut out of the rock, of course ; 
 for fields in Syracuse consist of rock, with a surface 
 of light soil like a top-dressing, except in the vol- 
 canic districts. There the earth is as dark and as 
 rich as velvet, a beautiful contrast to the grey-green 
 of the olive-trees growing on it. These tombs 
 looked snug and sensible. In one cave or vault 
 there were six rock coffins lying side by side, which 
 resembled nothing so much as a pound of fat 
 sausages laid in a row ; this was a family vault. One 
 fine tomb had an inscription over it to the ' ' Eorene 
 Nymphi." 
 
 This of course had a human interest attached to 
 it for Doris, and therefore brought forth many 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 79 
 
 questions which I felt glad the learned signor was 
 asked to answer and not myself. 
 
 What strange things women are for leaving the 
 main facts and wandering off into abstract ques- 
 tions : they can't be satisfied with tombs, they must 
 have the spirits which haunt them ! 
 
 In Sicily prickly pears (Fichi d'India), as the 
 natives call them, (the English jobbing-gardener 
 designates them cacti of sorts) are to the walls what 
 glass is in England. 
 
 Indeed, I would sooner rob an orchard by climb- 
 ing over a glass-topped wall than one protected by 
 prickly pears. The sharp hairs, which cover the 
 big, succulent plant-shaped leaves of the plant, are 
 very poisonous. In Sicily the thief would in all 
 probability carry a fine pair of tweezers in his pocket 
 to draw out the thorns with if he attempted to scale 
 the wall. These thorns, when once they have 
 worked into the flesh, create blood-poisoning. 
 
 " What magnificent cover they would make for 
 fighting behind !" Doris said ; " nothing could find 
 its way through these awful leaves." 
 
 Prickly pears, which greet you everywhere in 
 Sicily, are, as one of the American sisters said, 
 " The Wicked Animals of Vegetation." They 
 came from America. 
 
 Doris says stones in Sicily are like flowers, and 
 so they are, for the warm hues they take lend plenty 
 of colour to the landscape. 
 
 M And they grow like weeds," she said, looking 
 over the great stretch of rock-strewn Achradina. 
 " I believe if a thousand men worked for a thousand 
 days removing the stones from the fields in Sicily, 
 the stones would grow up more quickly than the 
 men could cart them away." 
 
 It is surprising to see the fine green blades of corn 
 and wheat springing up between the rocks. I for- 
 
80 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 get what happened to the wheat which was sown 
 upon stony ground, but evidently the Sicilians don't 
 believe it, and have proved the parable wrong, for 
 everywhere there is green wheat and grey stones. 
 
 Some of the ancient olive-trees growing out of 
 these rocky fields look the very embodiment of time. 
 Their appearance is prehistoric compared with other 
 trees which never turn grey. The landscape some- 
 times seems to me strikingly like a fine silver-point 
 drawing. 
 
 The gigantic boulders of limestone and the 
 gnarled grey trunks of these monarch trees are so 
 much alike in tone that it is almost possible to be- 
 lieve that the trees themselves were hewn by the 
 Greeks out of the rocks. They are not like our 
 trees ; they are totally un-British. 
 
 But these grey scenes are not for all time ; often 
 the landscape in Sicily is a riot of colour, as, for 
 instance, when the daring pig's-face is in bloom, 
 Barba di Giove, as the Sicilians call this ostenta- 
 tiously vulgar flower, which hangs like a curtain 
 from villa walls and railway banks. 
 
 I have given Doris Lang's Theocritus to read, 
 and every moment she begs my pardon and inter- 
 rupts my writing. It is, u Tell me this," or 
 " Explain that." She remarked that the land- 
 scape must have changed since Theocritus 's day, 
 like the climate of England since the time of paint 
 and feathers. For where to-day are the fresh green 
 pastoral scenes Theocritus loved to linger over? 
 Why does he so often mention kine and calves? 
 To-day it is goats and kids. Where is the grass to 
 feed the kine? Goats can live on herbs alone, and 
 on every scrap that proceedeth out of the ash- 
 barrels of the poor, but cows must have grass or 
 turnips. The one cow of Achradina looks as if it 
 had lived on wild sage, and had never known the 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 81 
 
 succulent juice of turnips; but the people are 
 strangely proud of the honour of possessing it, all 
 the same, and the watch-dog treats it with silent 
 respect. 
 
 I thought pink campions might be good to eat ; 
 they look as tempting to the human eye as English 
 buttercups and are far more numerous here, so I 
 watched that lonely cow of Achradina. It brushed 
 the delicate pink petals with its warm breath while 
 it kept an eager watchful eye on the few blades of 
 grass which were growing close to where I was 
 sitting. I wanted to tell that cow all about the one 
 horse in Venice, just to let it know that other 
 animals have their trials too, but I remembered that 
 it was a Sicilian cow, and therefore a philosopher. 
 In youth it had learnt to " do without." 
 
 This is how Doris runs on, and then expects me 
 to get on with my writing. I have stuck to my 
 story, but it is no pleasant work letting the old hero 
 see what a fool he has made of himself ; that sort of 
 thing strikes nearer home than one fancies some- 
 times. 
 
 It is strange how we can look at old age and at 
 death as grim evils that come to others and that 
 we evade. Death is a natural circumstance when 
 it does not threaten me or those near to me. 
 
 Do you know the carob-tree by sight? It 
 supplies Sicily with the long brown beans which 
 Doris and I have so often discussed, as to where 
 they grew. They are the size of a good broad bean, 
 but with a pod as strong and polished as old 
 mahogany. The tree they grow on is a magnificent 
 evergreen, with fine glossy leaves. They are very 
 plentiful, these carob-beans, and are for sale here 
 in all the country shops M where fodder for beasts 
 sells itself." 
 
82 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 I fancy this particular fodder, however, in times 
 of need " sells itself also for men." Broad-beans, 
 carob-beans, polenta, and fennel are, I think, the 
 cheapest popular articles of food in Sicily ; macaroni 
 only comes into the domestic economy of those who 
 are a little removed from actual poverty. 
 
 When Doris complained about a horse which was 
 vainly trying to drag our insecurely patched cab 
 along a rough road the other day, the driver, who 
 is a good fellow and honest, shrugged his shoulders, 
 and remarked : 
 
 " When I am hungry, signorina, of course my 
 beast is hungry. When I have something to eat, 
 it has something; but my children must come 
 first." 
 
 There was a little pause, for the argument seemed 
 final, and so far as his children were concerned 
 we knew he was speaking the truth, for Sicilian 
 gentleness to children and their kindness to those 
 poorer than themselves are beyond the denial of 
 their enemies. 
 
 M Is that not just, signorina?" he said. " If I 
 had always plenty of food, my beast would have 
 plenty. He keeps me and my family ; I have no 
 desire to kill him." 
 
 " Let me buy his horse some food," Doris said, 
 " or else have the poor thing shot, and get him a 
 new one; we come to Sicily and enjoy ourselves 
 and do nothing for the people." 
 
 u My dear little one," I said, " a kind impulse 
 is good, but not always wise. You could not 
 support all the poor in Syracuse. If you bought 
 this man a new horse, you would have every diseased 
 horse in Sicily brought up to the hotel in cabs 
 to-morrow morning. An Englishwoman, as 
 kind-hearted as yourself, and as anxious to do 
 something for the wretched cab-horses, began 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 83 
 
 buying up all the old horses which were past work, 
 and giving a little extra money to the owner to 
 purchase a good one. The number of scabbed, 
 miserable beasts increased in Palermo at an astound- 
 ing rate. The unsuspecting lady was at last 
 informed by a knowing Italian that an enormous 
 trade in diseased and lame horses had started 
 between Sicily and the mainland since she had 
 begun buying the disabled beasts for charity. 
 Believe me, the only way to do any good is to pay 
 the cabman an honest fare — not an exorbitant one, 
 for what the Sicilian makes too easily he gambles 
 away, and a good deal else besides — and always 
 stoutly refuse to get into a cab if the horse has a 
 sore or is past work. It will be the survival of the 
 fittest cabby, of course, which, although seemingly 
 cruel, is the only remedy. If a cabman cannot 
 afford to hire a good sound horse from the cab- 
 owner, then he must take to begging, or even 
 worse; any profession will be better than driving 
 a miserable horse, harnessed by a rope to a dis- 
 reputable cab." 
 
 " At least I may buy this one horse a bunch of 
 fresh carrots? Oh, think," she said, — " think of 
 the horses in England that get their lumps of sugar 
 and two fresh carrots every Sunday when their 
 masters visit the stable, and their fresh bedding, 
 and — and unsalted hay, and old grain every day ! 
 This poor beast has never seen a bed of dry straw, 
 or licked a lump of sugar from a loving hand since 
 it was foaled." 
 
 We purchased some carrots, and for the rest of 
 the way, as we drove along the narrow road with 
 white plastered walls topped with golden oranges 
 and green leaves, the happy cabman and the sur- 
 prised horse devoured the juicy carrots with fine 
 faultless teeth. 
 
84 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 " Listen!" Doris said; " he crunches them as 
 eagerly as his horse." 
 
 " Hunger makes primitive men of even poets," 
 I said, u let alone cabmen. At the present 
 moment he is not far removed from the level of his 
 beast; hunger dominates them both." 
 
 " I wonder," she said, " if real hunger would 
 give Miss Rosina a healthy appetite? Perhaps at 
 Ladysmith even stewed kid might have had a 
 relish." 
 
 Miss Rosina has become conscious of the Ger- 
 man's attention to her, and is very much perturbed. 
 He has got so far as to look after her comfort at 
 table, and this for a German is saying a good deal. 
 For they eat in the same methodical, unemotional 
 manner as they study. Nothing diverts their 
 attention from the main idea. A German stomach 
 is capable of holding as much as a German brain, 
 without becoming disturbed or giving in. 
 
 Every day Theocritus's garden becomes more 
 wonderful ; but I must refrain, or you will complain 
 that my letter, as usual, is very disconnected. 
 But then, am I not writing about Sicily? 
 and nothing in Sicily is connected, nothing is 
 methodical. It is a land where even Nature is 
 surprised at herself, and the big people have the 
 simplicity of little children. If my letters were to 
 express my every-day life here, they would be a 
 stranger mixture still of sunshine and flowers and 
 antique remains, and the unending study of the 
 beauties and horrors of poverty. The evenings are 
 warm enough now for glowworms, which shine in 
 the narrow paths, where the tall blue lavender and 
 the pink rose-hedges wind, like stars dropped down 
 from the sweet southern night to taste the fragrance 
 of the flowers. 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 85 
 
 Name me any old homely English flowers — love 
 in a mist, eye-bright, traveller's-joy, lad's-love, or 
 any you will — and Doris will send you a piece 
 from this garden, and they grow, mind you, hob- 
 nobbing with semi-tropical plants — the wild short 
 palm, for instance, which serves the Sicilian house- 
 wife for her kitchen brooms, or the trailing caper 
 plant, or a near relation of our simple English 
 comfrey, that almost takes upon itself the airs of 
 an orchid, so brilliant is its colour and glorified its 
 blossom. Before the hour for the glowworms, 
 when the evening primroses and other flowers are 
 opening their eyes, hundreds of chattering jack- 
 daws return to their homes in the white cliffs. 
 
 Doris and her Sicilian garden make my life here 
 a thing which I thought could not have come to 
 any man outside Heaven. No, the snake has not 
 appeared in it yet; when it does I will not put 
 the blame on the woman. 
 
 Yours, 
 
 J. C. 
 
Villa Politi, Syracuse, 
 
 February, 1900. 
 
 Dear Louise, — 
 
 Etna has appeared at last; she has shaken 
 off her megrims, and now stands out like a 
 debutante in her first evening dress, waiting to be 
 admired. And we do admire her, and esteem her, 
 and venerate her, as all Sicily does. Her fairness is 
 bewildering, her contour the most enchanting, and 
 she has it all her own way too, for there is no other 
 snow-crowned height near. Etna rises alone from 
 the plains. The famous Hyblsean Hills — which are 
 only hills, not imperial mountains — are in the far 
 distance, whereas Etna is always near, whatever her 
 distance may be. Etna mothers the Sicilian land- 
 scape as a minister does a city. Doris has insisted 
 upon having an Etna festival, to commemorate our 
 first view of the most important thing in Sicily. 
 We are to do nothing else but worship at the shrine 
 of this queen of snow mountains. This phantom, 
 opalescent vision, which floats somewhere betwixt 
 blue heaven and earth, is a thing so unreal in its 
 delicate beauty that it seems as if no tired feet had 
 ever trodden its glittering heights. As you watch 
 it growing in beauty and mystery with every change 
 of light, it seems as if you could float through it 
 with the clouds, like a bird ; it is too spiritual to be 
 solid. 
 
 An American lady, who has " done " Syracuse 
 in a day, described Mother Etna as " cunning." 
 
 86 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 87 
 
 " Why," she said, comparing the delicate pink 
 flush on the snow with the human flesh, " it's 
 mighty like a fine American woman's pair of 
 rounded shoulders slipping out of an evening bodice 
 made of gauze!" 
 
 The clouds which float round the mountain are 
 the gauze, you must know, and although the simile 
 is an extraordinary one, it is uncommonly clever 
 when you see the reality. Etna has the impudence 
 and self-assurance of the Anglo-Saxon woman, who 
 has gone one better than being born English. For 
 what woman living would not say, " If I am to be 
 born again, let me be born an American"? 
 
 Herr Mackintosh has been up to the flat roof of 
 the hotel every morning for the last week to catch 
 a glimpse of Etna by sunrise. She is reported to 
 be almost clear of clouds at that uncomfortable 
 hour; but, as usual, the freakish beauty has dis- 
 appointed him. 
 
 We paid a short visit to the field of tombs to-day, 
 and as we were wandering over it at some distance 
 from the excavations, we came across a fresh dis- 
 covery and a most unexpected sight, and this last 
 is also within a stone's-throw of our garden. We 
 idly followed a little goat-track cut out of the rock, 
 which eventually led us down by a flight of stone 
 steps to the lower level of the field. When we had 
 picked our way down the primitive staircase, we 
 were suddenly confronted by a large family, living 
 in an immense ancient cave-tomb. We could not 
 believe at first that the group of people busy about 
 the entrance of the tomb actually slept and lived in 
 it, until one pleasant-faced woman, who was nursing 
 a fine specimen of a tomb-reared child, invited us 
 to enter. 
 
 The tomb, as Doris said, had evidently once be- 
 longed to a u noble family," for it extended for a 
 
88 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 considerable distance back into the rock, and was 
 divided into two portions. On the rough rock- 
 wall, hanging over a primitive bed which consisted 
 of planks, laid on the shelves which had in past 
 centuries been reserved for the ashes of the great 
 departed, and covered with two natural goat-skms, 
 was a brightly coloured print of Our Lady. A 
 night-light in a glass dish was feebly burning below 
 it, and a wreath of pink cotton roses, sadly faded, 
 surrounded the dear picture. This was the one 
 elevating, tender touch in that poorest of homes. 
 
 Yes, even in their miserable poverty they had 
 spared sous enough to keep bright the memory of 
 that Mother who gave her only Son to save all those 
 who are " weary and heavy-laden." Two wooden 
 benches formed the entire furniture of the house. 
 That little light in the darkness," Doris said, 
 " I shall never forget it, nor will Our Lady, I am 
 sure. Its light will travel farther than the fine wax 
 candles in the cathedral." 
 
 Our hostess, I can assure you, had the dignity and 
 graciousness of a housewife who had little to blush 
 for. It was her home, and she lent it a homely 
 dignity and grace. 
 
 We paid a visit to her larder, which consisted of 
 the smaller portion of the noble tomb. It was, as 
 you can imagine, a fine cool place wherein to set 
 cheeses. 
 
 The cheeses, it is needless to say, were made of 
 goat's milk, and very fresh and tempting they 
 looked, laid out in their baskets of fresh green rush 
 in all the various stages of maturing, balanced on 
 end or on side according to their age. 
 
 " Do you live in the Villa Politi?" the woman 
 asked. M Madame Politi is a very good customer 
 of mine," she added; " I sell her all my best 
 cheeses." 
 
One old woman, with her head encased in a fine yellow 'kerchief.' 
 
 [To face p. 88. 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 89 
 
 u Just fancy," Doris said: " we actually have 
 been eating cheese made in ancient Greek tombs 
 not a quarter of a mile from our very door. What 
 will we find out next? I told you everything in 
 Sicily was classical, but the Hyblaean honey and the 
 tomb cheeses are the limit." 
 
 " Perhaps the food generally would be better if 
 it were more modern," I said, " although it might 
 not be so picturesque." 
 
 One old woman, with her head encased in a fine 
 yellow kerchief, was seated on the floor watching 
 a cauldron of boiling milk, which was hanging from 
 a hook fastened in the rock-roof over some charcoal 
 ashes ; while a small boy, with a perfect profile and 
 imperfect goatskin trousers, was fanning the embers 
 with a wild-palm leaf. 
 
 The moment the old crone spied us she left the 
 pot and tottered to Doris's side, and with trembling 
 hands and eager eyes examined all the girl's finery 
 — first her bangles, then her rings, and last of all 
 the elegant beaded slippers which, I must confess, 
 were ill suited to the rough ground. The hostess 
 quietly apologised. 
 
 " Would the signorina please excuse her grand- 
 mother? she was very old, she was a child again." 
 
 " Of course," Doris said; " I am so glad the 
 trinkets please her. We wear these things to be 
 admired, you know, so it is quite right." Some 
 coppers were slipped into the old hand, and a franc 
 was presented to the baby ; then we left, with an 
 invitation from our charming hostess to come as 
 often as we liked; " our visit had been kind and 
 beautiful." 
 
 11 Could Theocritus have beaten this?" Doris 
 said. " Look at the poor young kids hanging out- 
 side on the wall of the tomb, waiting to be skinned 
 and eaten ! What a picture of sacrificial innocence 
 
90 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 they look! And there is the cool green fennel 
 just dug out of the patch of precious soil, which has 
 to grow so many crops in one year." 
 
 It is a comfort to think that in a climate like 
 this the family need only sleep in the tomb. They 
 can sing and gamble and half starve in the sun. 
 " And wine is a beggar's drink in Sicily." 
 
 Goats make Sicily, and Sicily makes goats. Like 
 all wicked things, they can thrive on very little, and 
 pick up a precarious living somehow. Goats are 
 the Chinese of the animal world. I can almost 
 imagine them playing fan-tan and enjoying opium. 
 
 But this little home, mind you, Louise, does not 
 represent real poverty, not as Sicily knows it, not 
 as you can see it in the cities. 
 
 In Syracuse, the other day, we met a man with a 
 long narrow cart filled with slender casks. 
 
 " Those don't look like wine barrels," Doris 
 said; " let's ask the man what they contain." 
 
 " Signorina, they are full of water, not wine." 
 
 M What are they for?" 
 
 M To supply the poor houses." 
 
 " Have they no water in their houses at all?" 
 
 " Very few of the houses have cisterns. I am 
 employed to go to the city cistern and fill these 
 barrels with water. Each house is allowed one 
 barrel of water a day, for which they pay one 
 soldo." 
 
 " When shall we come to an end of what Sicily 
 does without?" Doris said to me. " That is the 
 reason, I suppose, why the women carry out their 
 own and other people's household washing to the 
 roadside stream which we pass every day. Have 
 you noticed that the flow of water in it is much 
 greater in the forenoon, and that all the washing is 
 done early in the day ? Is it nature or the ingenious 
 Sicilian who adjusts the supply to the demand?" 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 91 
 
 66 I fancy it is an aqueduct/' I said, M although 
 it looks like a country stream ; water is too precious 
 in Sicily to be allowed to be quite natural." 
 
 It is a fine sight to see these sunburnt women, 
 standing knee-deep, washing their clothes in the 
 narrow stream which flows even with the road, or 
 kneeling by the side of it, beating their poor frag- 
 ments, so rich in colour, against the limestone. 
 
 It is always washing-day in Sicily, and the whole 
 city washes by this stream. Wizened old women, 
 bright young girls, with carefully dressed heads 
 held so haughtily, and young mothers, all chatter 
 and wash and wring and souse, while the warm sun 
 shines down upon them, and gives their skin a 
 deeper tint and their laughter a fuller note. A 
 hedge of prickly-pear behind them forms a fine 
 drying-line. Sometimes you see a handsome 
 knitted quilt spread on the hedge, the envy of every 
 housewife, or a richly embroidered skirt ; but as a 
 rule the things washed are too poor to be worth 
 stealing. 
 
 Soon after midday every stitch is dry, and you 
 will see the same bevy of women walking across the 
 ancient rotdndo back to the city, carrying their 
 clothes, sun-dried and river- washed, balanced 
 lightly on their heads. 
 
 Some of the bundles are of enormous size, but 
 nothing is heavy enough to silence the busy tongue 
 of a Sicilian woman. So you see again this charm- 
 ing simplicity is the outcome of dire necessity, for 
 if your Syracusan housewife had water in her house, 
 and money to buy coals, she would not bother to 
 carry her household washing all the way out to this 
 country stream. 
 
 It is so often from necessity, and not from choice, 
 that Sicilian habits are picturesque and healthy. 
 
 These women live in the basements of decayed 
 
92 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 palaces ; picturesque, with ancient coats of arms, and 
 high Gothic windows, which look down grimly upon 
 the humble dwellers in the basements. It is only 
 when you pass under the ancient and outer doorway 
 of one of these palaces, and enter the spacious 
 courtyard, that you realise their size and ancient 
 splendour, their magnificent columns, fine windows, 
 and sun galleries. These palaces were built in the 
 days when a man fortified his home, and knew that 
 it was safer to keep his windows well above the 
 reach of men. The absence of low windows gives 
 a prison-like appearance to the street front of the 
 finest palaces. 
 
 Romance dies hard, Louise, even with nine- 
 teenth-century tourists. Doris told me to-day of 
 a little incident relating to the German which will 
 amuse you. 
 
 As I told you, Herr Mackintosh has been accom- 
 panying the three sisters round ancient Syracuse. 
 On leaving her room this morning, Doris met the 
 head-waiter carrying up the stairs a flat rush-basket 
 full of violets. " Beautiful pale mauve double 
 ones," she said. " Of course I thought they were 
 for me ; it made me feel quite frivolous again. I 
 stopped the man." 
 
 " ' No, no, signorina,' he said, ' they are not for 
 you; the Signor Tedesco has sent them to the 
 Signorina Americana.' 
 
 " I looked so surprised and disappointed that the 
 waiter felt sorry. Sicilians are sympathetic, even 
 the waiters. 
 
 " ■ Perhaps the Signore Inglese thinks you do 
 not care for flowers, signorina.' " 
 
 " How foolish of me ! " I said ; " I never thought 
 that you would care to have any, there are so many 
 growing wild in the latomia." 
 
 " It was the thought," she said, with a pro- 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 93 
 
 voking blush, " the pretty attention. They do 
 not grow wild in the latomia. Don't you know 
 that we women love to be made a lot of, to be fussed 
 over, and thought about? We'd exchange, any 
 one of us, a worthy man for the villain who 
 remembered to bring us home a box of chocolate ! 
 
 " Besides," she said, " the violets the German 
 sent Miss Rosina were pale mauve violets, very, 
 very double, and very, very sweet." She sighed. 
 " How I should have liked to see Miss Rosina 
 receive them!" 
 
 " You shall have some of the same, just as mauve 
 and just as sweet," I said. " I will go into the 
 city this afternoon, and I will wire to Milan, if 
 necessary, for even the violets come from Milan, I 
 suppose." 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 " Please don't trouble; it is very kind of you, 
 but a little dull. There isn't the same excitement 
 about an attention you have suggested yourself, 
 especially if the idea was made in Germany. And 
 it won't alter the fact that Miss Rosina has inspired 
 her — her lover with a sentiment which I have failed 
 to arouse in you." 
 
 This evening, Miss Rosina, looking younger and 
 brighter than we have yet seen her, adorned herself 
 with the violets of Signor Tedesco, which accorded 
 well with the delicate grey of her gown. Miss 
 Rosina is always compelled to drive with her back 
 to the sun, and a thin brown gossamer protects her 
 fine American skin from the wind. In the kindlier 
 light of the lamp she looked a fragile, dainty figure. 
 The German is teaching her some new games of 
 patience, so we look for them now in the evening 
 to be seated at a little table in the window of the 
 salon de lecture — Miss Rosina blushing, and timidly 
 apologetic for her stupidity, the German, half 
 
 7 
 
94 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 schoolmaster, half gallant, and very moist, while 
 Miss Persephine blinks with her one business eye 
 from a distant part of the room, eyeing her darling 
 with growing pleasure. 
 
 Even before your last letter came to hand our 
 hopes of the relief of Ladysmith were dashed. 
 However, as you say that you are steeped both in 
 war-gloom and snow in London, I am to refrain 
 from discoursing on unpleasant topics and trans- 
 plant you to Sicily. Doris sends her kind regards. 
 I am your affectionate brother, 
 
 J. C. 
 
Villa Politi, Syracuse, 
 
 February, 1900. 
 
 Dear Louise, — 
 
 It seems as if Etna had been with us always ; 
 I cannot now imagine the landscape without the 
 presence of the most characteristic thing in it. 
 
 Since the sirocco has gone the clearness of the 
 atmosphere is amazing. If you were to sit down 
 and paint Syracuse as it is to-day, all Sicily would 
 crowd and tumble itself on to your canvas; your 
 foreground would be driven out. 
 
 As our cabman said to-day, when we were driving 
 along the road which lies behind the ancient fortress 
 of Euryalus : 
 
 11 Etna goes with us all the way, she is only 
 about a kilometre and a half away. " (Her distance 
 from Syracuse is about fifty miles.) 
 
 Doris, who has been deep in Marcellus for the 
 last few days (he is her latest local hero), was bent 
 upon trying to follow up his footsteps. From this 
 road you get an excellent view of his camp, which 
 lies below the heights of the Greek fortress of 
 Euryalus. 
 
 We had hoped to cross over to the Thapsus, but 
 the narrow passage which connects the island with 
 the mainland is much farther than this clear 
 atmosphere, which foreshortens everything, would 
 have you believe. And distance is always to a 
 Sicilian cabman what his customers wish it to be ; 
 he is too polite or too'wise to contradict in a matter 
 
 95 
 
96 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 of this kind. If you wish it to be ten miles, it is 
 ten miles, or five should you prefer it. 
 
 A carriage-drive along this road is certainly one 
 of the most enjoyable excursions in the neighbour- 
 hood. On your right is the bluest of blue seas, 
 with snow-covered Etna floating in the horizon. 
 In the foreground lies Thapsus, always near, yet 
 never within driving distance ; while on your right 
 towers the fortress of Euryalus, one of the most 
 impressive monuments of the Greeks, looking down 
 upon Marcellus's camp and Epipolae. A short 
 distance farther and you come to the " Scala 
 Greca," the most picturesque object in this wonder- 
 ful group of antiquities. 
 
 The ancient Greek stair, like everything else that 
 is Greek, is hewn out of the hillside, which, of 
 course, is composed of rock. The wide steps — so 
 beautifully proportioned — are shaded here and 
 there by olive-trees which look as old as eternity, 
 or as our poor conception of it. The stair is quite 
 perfect in some parts, and can easily be followed 
 from the sea up to the fortress. It is a long, stiff 
 climb, but every step is worth the effort. 
 
 While you are driving along this sea-road, the 
 blue Hyblsean hills are always before you in the 
 distance. But in this clear weather nothing is 
 distant; there is absolutely no atmosphere. The 
 artist is brave who paints Sicily under such 
 an aspect. It made Miss Persephine tell us a 
 story : 
 
 An Englishman in Calgary, Alberta, was stand- 
 ing on the doorstep of his hotel one morning. The 
 atmosphere, which is as clear there as it is here, 
 brought a mountain in the distance right up to the 
 front door. The tenderfoot turned to the landlord 
 and told him that he was going to climb the 
 mountain before lunch. It looked so inviting. 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 97 
 
 " That's right, sonny," the man said, laughing; 
 " mind you don't keep the bacon and beans 
 waiting." 
 
 Late afternoon came and the Englishman did not 
 return. A search-party was sent in quest of him. 
 After riding many miles they at last saw the 
 unhappy man standing by the edge of a narrow 
 stream, a mere ditch. He was naked, and his 
 clothes were tied round his neck with a string. 
 
 Going cautiously up to him, the men asked him 
 the reason of his extraordinary behaviour. They 
 were afraid between themselves that the strange 
 desolation of the country had affected his brain. 
 The Englishman turned to them, however, and 
 answered in the calmest tone of voice : 
 
 " I mean to swim that stream, gentlemen, in 
 case it plays me the same trick as the mountain has 
 done. I started out early this morning to reach 
 the top of it and be home again before lunch. The 
 mountain is just as far off now as it was when I left 
 the inn. So I'm prepared to swim, in case that 
 stream plays me the same abominable trick." 
 
 She also told us the following fact, which, I 
 believe, is perfectly true. It should be a warning 
 to lovers not to visit Canada in the cold season. 
 In some parts the air is so charged with electricity 
 in the winter that kissing is quite painful. Miss 
 Persephine said she knew a young mother who 
 refrained from kissing her children for more than a 
 month for this very reason. The concussion of 
 their lips caused sparks, which could be plainly 
 seen. She said that as a child she had often amused 
 herself by lighting the gas from her finger-tips, 
 after having held hands with her little sister and 
 shuffled her feet along the floor. 
 
 It is marvellous how rapidly the god of Spring 
 
98 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 does his work in a land like this. Already the 
 green almonds are well formed on the trees, and the 
 short blue iris and the asphodels are over ; the late 
 spring flowers now take their place in our daily lives. 
 Doris found a piece of wild laburnum growing 
 out of the stones of the fortress of Euryalus the 
 other day; this we considered a rather superior 
 find. 
 
 The little rock-daisy covers the country for miles 
 around. It is so white and grows so close to the 
 ground that it seems like a light fall of snow. We 
 cannot even yet work up any enthusiasm for the 
 " pig's-face," which becomes more and more un- 
 controlled in its luxuriance every day. There is 
 nothing this most vulgar flower will not cover with 
 its artificial-looking magenta blossoms. 
 
 Doris says it is a kitchen Christmas-tree flower, 
 and that she would do better herself with a pair 
 of scissors and a sheet of magenta paper in five 
 minutes. 
 
 However, there is more in pig's face, or Barba 
 di Giove, than meets the tourist's eye, for the 
 curious leaves of the plant, which hang like fat 
 green fingers over the walls, are as succulent and 
 refreshing as the leaves of the prickly pear. These 
 two plants serve the beasts of the fields with the 
 only drop of moisture they get during the long 
 summer drought. Nature is marvellously provi- 
 dent. But how these uncanny plants become 
 succulent on white sand and limestone rock is one 
 of her secrets. The tunny fish is another example 
 of her foresight. It is, you know, one of the main 
 industries of the island. The fishing and canning 
 and preserving of this monster fish gives employ- 
 ment to many thousands. In the warm weather, 
 when every other kind of fish is unfit for human 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 99 
 
 food one hour after it is dead, the kindly tunny 
 keeps fresh and sweet. 
 
 The day the tunny fishing commences in the 
 island there is a great jollification. It has become 
 quite a national festival. I think you might say 
 that tunny fish, sulphur, grapes, almonds, and 
 lemons, are the most valuable objects of commerce 
 in this poor little island. Then the fig-tree is 
 another of Nature's providences. It leafs later 
 than almost any other tree, and remains green and 
 shade-giving when the tenderer-leaved trees are 
 burnt dry. 
 
 It is a curious thing that in the landscape it is 
 the trees only which remind a Northerner that these 
 warm days are spring and not summer. For 
 although the English summer wild-flowers are in 
 blossom and the pig's-face is dirty with dust, the 
 trees are still skeletons in armour. 
 
 Doris says she frequently thinks that some leafless 
 tree has been blighted, it seems so out of keeping 
 with the flowers and the hot sunshine. I do not 
 know a barren fig-tree when I see it, but all fig-trees 
 without their leaves look naked. Madame Politi 
 it was who first made the remark, and it is a 
 fact. 
 
 " There is something immodest to me about 
 their bareness," she said. " I cannot explain why, 
 but fig-trees always seem humanly naked to me." 
 Certainly the one fig-tree in her garden looks a most 
 uncovered creature ; perhaps it is the sharp contrast 
 to the glorious green of the almond-trees. 
 
 Most of the guests in the hotel are beginning to 
 arrange their plans for visiting the other show- 
 places of the island. Taormina is on every one's 
 lips. It is one of those things upon which you are 
 allowed no individual opinion. It has been called 
 
100 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 the most beautiful place in Sicily since tourists first 
 began to explore, and woe to the person who denies 
 it, even Professor Freeman ! 
 
 Another scholarly visitor has honoured our hotel 
 to-day — the provost of an Oxford college. Poor 
 Miss Persephine, perceiving nothing more in him 
 than a reserved Englishman, started telling him a 
 few facts about the history of Syracuse. Dear 
 lady, she got hopelessly mixed over the Greek and 
 Latin names of her twelve gods. She told him 
 " she didn't know now whether it was Artemis or 
 Diana who metamorphosed the nymph Arethusa 
 into the fountain of that name, for one writer 
 seemed to say it was Diana and another that it was 
 Artemis. But as Professor Freeman writes about 
 Sicily as if it belonged to him she had determined 
 to follow him." 
 
 What that poor provost endured I cannot 
 conceive, but never by a look or a sign did he let 
 out that he knew the maiden by both her Greek and 
 Latin names. It is astonishing what a very long 
 way a little knowledge goes with an American. 
 They utilise it like their dollars — to the best advan- 
 tage, and thrash it out like chewing-gum. Miss 
 Persephine goes in for being a bit of a geologist, 
 and her plate at lunch and dinner is surrounded by 
 small pieces of stone. 
 
 " She is gradually removing Achradina," Doris 
 said. " The Government shouldn't allow it." 
 I wonder how much she will remember of the 
 history of Syracuse when she gets to Taormina. 
 How delightfully fogged she will be by the time 
 she reaches New Boston over Hephaestus and 
 Vulcan, and Poseidon and Neptune ! Dear, kind 
 lady, she has offered to take the provost over the 
 fortress of Euryalus to-morrow and point him out 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 101 
 
 the famous wall of Dionysius. " Americans may 
 know enough to come in when it rains," Doris says, 
 " but they seldom know enough to hold their 
 tongues." 
 
 I wish you would send me by parcels post a box 
 of good sweets — not opera peppermints. Ask 
 Fullers to make you up a popular selection of their 
 most popular candies. Doris is craving for some- 
 thing really sweet. The sugar here, which costs 
 as much as a franc a pound, has no more sweetness 
 in it than the rocks of Achradina, and not so much 
 nourishment, judging by the pig's-face. 
 
 It was the old general who gave me the idea. 
 
 " How is your little friend?" he said. " I have 
 not seen her for two days ; I have been confined to 
 my room. But I have got the Catania paper with 
 excellent war news ; I should like to read it to her." 
 The old beggar looked at me quizzically as he spoke. 
 
 I said she was very well. 
 
 M My man has been trying all over Syracuse to 
 get me some French sweets for her. She looks as 
 if she ought to be fed on sweets. But there isn't 
 one to begot." 
 
 I almost said, '* Confound your impudence!" 
 but refrained. " I fancy you underrate her intel- 
 lectual appetite," I replied coldly. 
 
 " Oh no," he said, " I don't; but I should like 
 to give her the sweets she is pining for. I know she 
 is, because I have seen her eating lumps of sugar on 
 the sly, and you know you don't get much 
 * forrarder ' on Syracusan sugar." 
 
 To-day we saw a most painful sight, and one 
 which you will scarcely credit as possible. A 
 wretched skeleton of a horse, which was drawing a 
 cart, full of lemon refuse, had a deep wound in its 
 
102 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 side literally plastered up with red sealing-wax! 
 The wound had been caused by the chafing of the 
 shaft against the beast's side. 
 
 Doris caught my hand in hers while we were 
 passing it. I saw her eyes fill with tears. 
 
 " Do let us go back to our garden, dear friend ; 
 this is one of my black days, when I see all the halt 
 and maimed and suffering things in Sicily. There 
 are days when you seem to have eyes for what is 
 wholly distressing. In London it is the drunken 
 men and women, and evil-faced little children whom 
 I see ; here it is starving men and women, and ill- 
 used animals. There are other days when all these 
 things disappear, and I see only the Madonna-faced 
 mothers and the tenderly loved children. On these 
 days Sicily is so beautiful that it is a joy and a 
 privilege to know her." 
 
 We were silent for a moment. I did not know 
 how to answer. A man so often wounds the fine 
 sensibilities of a woman when he least means it, and 
 is most desirous of comforting. 
 
 " Please don't say it is 'liver,' " she said, with- 
 drawing her eloquent hand, " or think it without 
 saying it, for it isn't. Surely every one has those 
 days of sharp contrast, even in England. Here in 
 Sicily of course everything is intense. It is 
 brilliant sunshine or deep shade, there are no half- 
 tones even in life. The people are gay or sad. 
 While the luxury of the rich is a foolish, wanton 
 luxury, self-indulgent and sensual, the poverty of 
 the poor is naked and appalling." 
 
 " But even in Sicily," I said, " there is not more 
 night than day. You must have your black clouds, 
 or your simple joy of living in the golden sunshine 
 would lose its keenness. To enjoy things intensely 
 you must suffer in proportion. Carlyle, I think it 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 103 
 
 is who says ' The quantity of sorrow he has, does it 
 not mean withal the quantity of sympathy he has, 
 the quantity of faculty and victory he shall yet 
 have?' Our sorrow is the inverted image of our 
 nobleness. The depth of our despair measures the 
 capability and height of claims we have to hope." 
 
 " How full of understanding!" she said. " I 
 must read Carlyle. Where does that come 
 from?" 
 
 " He is referring especially to Cromwell in his 
 times of mental depression, — in the early days of 
 inaction, when blackness assailed his great soul, 
 and melancholia was a more dreaded enemy to fight 
 and conquer than all the king's men." 
 
 Doris and I have travelled together so far on the 
 winding road of friendship that we often enjoy 
 walking without speaking, more than chattering 
 without feeling. Francesco, our cabman, turns 
 round and smiles to us if we are silent too long. 
 He fancies the signorina is dull : her companion is 
 too old ; he has not the sentiment or the gaiety of 
 an Italian on such an occasion. 
 
 Suddenly, while we were driving home, a flock of 
 goats, which seemed evil enough to have been the 
 actual beasts put on the left side in the Book of the 
 Revelation, surrounded our low victoria and literally 
 covered the road. Black goats, brown goats, and 
 white goats, all with leering, fiendish faces, stormed 
 our way like a company of the " Devil's Own." 
 
 There was a fine tinkling of copper bells, cool to 
 the ear as the babbling of a Scotch burn, and some 
 of the animals wore immense wooden collars gaily 
 painted. Their colouring reminded me of the 
 painted wooden household gods and horse-collars 
 of Norway. 
 
 M I suppose these cumbersome collars are worn 
 
104 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 as a punishment by the goats who steal their own 
 milk?" Doris said. 
 
 The goatherd was one of those beautiful boys 
 whom you find now and again in Sicily in the most 
 unlikely surroundings. His clothes were simple 
 goatskin, and his feet were bound with thongs 
 made of their hide. Hanging from his back was a 
 flageolet of green reeds. Doris asked him to make 
 music on it, which he did uncommonly well. He 
 had fashioned it himself out of a donax reed. 
 
 He was a charming piece of rustic beauty and as 
 happy-souled as a lizard. His goats knew his voice 
 so well that one word from him would make them 
 halt or march. This company of the Evil One was 
 well trained. Doris was of course perfectly en- 
 chanted with the boy; he had successfully 
 obliterated the memory of the wounded horse. 
 
 " I want to buy him," she said, " and to keep 
 him at that age for ever. Look at his grey-blue, 
 inscrutable Sicilian eyes ; his short, crisp curls, and 
 that nose as straight and perfect as any they 
 chiselled in ancient marble ! He is one of Sicily's 
 perfect human things of fresh air and sun, one of 
 her most successful efforts. But what a mask a 
 face is, after all ! With those classic brows and 
 those deep mysterious eyes one would expect to 
 find a delicate mind, a shepherd poet ; but I suppose 
 he is a universal human boy in disguise, after 
 all." 
 
 I pointed to a piece of rough brown bread and the 
 bunch of green-leaved white-rooted fennel in one 
 pocket, and to a small native earthenware flask 
 which showed its grape-stained nose out of the other 
 slit in the goatskin coat. 
 
 " If that is his entire food for the day, he is a 
 most aesthetic person. I suppose, when he is not 
 
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BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 105 
 
 composing sweet music to the winds and sky, he 
 lies about on the hot white rocks in a blessed state 
 of dolce far niente. One day he will be called upon 
 to serve his country, and for two years those fresh 
 young limbs will be deformed by ill-shaped, baggy 
 trousers, and the poor classical feet will be forced 
 into boots either too large or too small. Yet, I 
 suppose, the army is Italy's national civiliser." 
 
 Our days in Syracuse are drawing to a close. 
 Doris is going to Palermo, and I am permitted to 
 act as her escort for a few days, at Girgenti, en 
 route. She is also quite determined to sleep for 
 one night in the wonderful mountain-town of 
 Castrogiovanni. This her guardian has not per- 
 mitted her to do, as the city is in the centre of the 
 brigand country. However, if she means going, 
 I must see her safely to Palermo, and take in a 
 glimpse of Castrogiovanni by the way. 
 
 As you may surmise, I do not look forward with 
 any degree of pleasure to this trip to Palermo. I 
 dread anything that may disturb the happiness of 
 our companionship. We are going because every 
 one else in the hotel is going somewhere. It is 
 warm enough now to visit Taormina and Girgenti, 
 so the tourists are like the swallows, gathering to- 
 gether in their companies for flight. In England 
 this mustering of the swallows in the late summer 
 is always a sudden and unpleasant reminder to me 
 of grey skies and cold winds. A little chill creeps 
 through your bones, although the day is fine, as 
 you watch their numbers increase, while they swoop 
 and circle in the air, as it does when a funeral passes 
 through some gay thoroughfare. You have not 
 yet thought of the winter, the summer which you 
 waited for so patiently has been too short ; often it 
 has never come at all. The flowers in the garden, 
 
106 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 which cost you many cold months of toil and care, 
 seem only to have blossomed for a day. Yet the 
 swallows knell the hour of parting summer; that 
 they are well advised you may be sure. 
 
 Yours, 
 
 J. C. 
 
Villa Politi, Syracuse, 
 
 February , 1900. 
 
 Dear Louise, — 
 
 We made a trip up the famous river Anapo 
 yesterday. Herr Mackintosh and the three sisters 
 accompanied us. The heads of the papyrus-plants 
 which are the things you really go to see and try to 
 steal, are very like glorified cyperus, the feathery- 
 headed rush which men cart round our London 
 streets in barrows in the autumn. The papyrus 
 grows as high as twenty feet, and groves of it border 
 either side of the river, which is so narrow in some 
 parts that our boat passed under a continuous arch 
 of green for about half a mile. On a warm Sicilian 
 day, when our eyes had grown weary of the glitter- 
 ing white country, the cool shade afforded by these 
 semi-tropical plants was most gracious. The swish- 
 swish of our oars as the boatmen dragged them 
 through the green reeds, and the moving of the 
 light feathery heads in the breeze, did wonders to 
 revive us, for the early part of the journey had been 
 dull and uninteresting. 
 
 This is the only place in Europe, I believe, where 
 the papyrus-plant grows wild ; there may be some 
 few beds planted in fountains, or in garden lakes, 
 but the papyrus of the Anapo was brought to Sicily 
 by the Arabs when it was used by the ancients for 
 making paper. It is even attributed to Philistis, 
 the lovely Egyptian wife of Hiero II., whose 
 beauty is immortalised on her husband's coins. I 
 was glad to see that it is most carefully guarded 
 
 107 
 
108 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 now ; not more than one head is allowed to be cut 
 for each boat-load of visitors. 
 
 Miss Adonaey was greatly distressed over this, as 
 she had promised to take a twenty-foot-high reed, 
 with a fine head on it, back to the Professor of 
 Greek in the Lynn University, Mass. But the 
 boatmen were not to be bribed ; I fancy the heavy 
 fine they have to pay if they are found out makes 
 their morals incorruptible. On the banks of the 
 stream where the plants are most luxurious, 
 watchers are hidden in the thickets to spy upon the 
 boats passing up the stream. 
 
 The river ends in the beautiful " Fountain of 
 Cyane," which is really only a thirty-foot-deep 
 natural round basin surrounded with papyrus, into 
 which a clear spring bubbles up from beneath. It 
 is a most romantic spot, and the clearness of the 
 water is amazing. Big grey-mullet play round 
 about and inspect the bottom of the boats in the 
 most fearless fashion. 
 
 The German decided that we should have lunch 
 here so that the fish might benefit by our crumbs. 
 
 He was most attentive to Miss Rosina and 
 untiring in his efforts to capture a chameleon for 
 her. We had seen a great number of these strange 
 little creatures darting about among the stems of 
 the papyrus. Herr Mackintosh is greatly amazed 
 at Miss Rosina's lack of appetite. He pressed her 
 to try some beef which was cut in slices and folded 
 in some cool lettuce leaves. 
 
 M But you must eat!" he exclaimed. " Dis is 
 very goot ; I haf tasted it mineself . It is zee fillet, 
 zee most sumptuous part of zee animal." 
 
 Doris could not refrain from laughing. 
 
 " Fancy any Sicilian animal being sumptuous !" 
 she said ; " but it is a good description of an English 
 fillet." 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 109 
 
 Miss Rosina followed the example of Doris and 
 let her frail fingers play in the warm water as our 
 boat moved slowly home. As if by accident Herr 
 Mackintosh let his hand also slip into the water on 
 Miss Rosina 's side of the boat. She did not with- 
 draw hers, but her delicate face became so suffused 
 with blushes that Miss Persephine, perceiving her 
 heightened colour, exclaimed : 
 
 " Rosina, my dear, you are feeling the sun : 
 change sides with me — it will make you quite sick ! " 
 
 " No, thank you, sister," replied Miss Rosina 
 with some spirit, " I like it ; it will not do me any 
 harm ; it will do me good." 
 
 Doris of course kept her head turned decently to 
 the other side of the boat. 
 
 " It seems so absurd to be spoony in a black 
 German mackintosh on a bright sunny day," she 
 said afterwards. " It quite spoilt the sentiment. 
 But it would be pleasanter to let him hold your 
 hand in the water than out of it. Which shows 
 that Miss Rosina knows something about 
 Germans." 
 
 To keep our minds diverted from the matter 
 in hand, Herr Mackintosh explained to us most 
 clearly and simply the classical legend about the 
 Fountain of Cyane. The nymph Cyane was trying 
 to prevent Pluto from eloping with Proserpine to 
 the infernal regions, when she was metamorphosed 
 into that azure spring. This is the second fountain 
 in Syracuse which owes it birth to the meta- 
 morphosis of a nymph. You remember my telling 
 you that the Fountain of Arethusa bears a similar 
 legend. But what interests us English more is the 
 fact that it was at the fountain of Arethusa that 
 Nelson watered his ships before the battle of the 
 Nile. Since Nelson's time, however, an earth- 
 
 8 
 
110 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 quake has seen fit to change the fresh spring into 
 salt water; and as the simple days of nymphs are 
 over, I fear it must remain salt, although Sicily 
 cannot well spare her fresh water. It was careless 
 of the earthquake, as the sea is everywhere, while 
 the river beds are dry and dusty. Doris said the 
 earthquake might have turned its attention to the 
 sea, and done some good by changing that into 
 fresh water. For your benefit I will quote what 
 Lord Nelson wrote to Sir William and Lady 
 Hamilton, after he left Syracuse on his way 
 south : — " My dear friends, thanks to your exer- 
 tions, we have victualled and watered ; and surely, 
 watering at the fountain of Arethusa, we must have 
 victory." 
 
 We are lazy sightseers, too lazy to leave our boat 
 and the cool shelter of the rustling reeds to visit the 
 two solitary columns which we saw in the distance 
 on the gently rising hill to the left of the stream. 
 Two broken columns are all that to-day remain of 
 the temple of the Olympian Zeus, which belongs 
 to the greatest chapter in Syracusan history. 
 
 Doris insisted upon Herr Mackintosh telling us 
 all about it while we listened comfortably in the 
 boat. 
 
 ** It is much too late in the day to begin doing 
 methodical sight-seeing,' 9 she said. "If we let 
 ourselves think of all the things we haven't ' done ' 
 in Syracuse we should be utterly miserable. We 
 have lived amongst classical fragments and got far 
 too used to seeing them in the landscape to 
 remember to * do ' them. What you see very 
 often you are so apt to forget." 
 
 I could give you a list, Louise, long enough to 
 frighten an American, of " sights " which I have 
 not even mentioned in my letters. But how can 
 we exhaust in one bright spring what it took 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 111 
 
 centuries of ancient history to create? It seems 
 presumptuous to try. 
 
 However, Herr Mackintosh has " done " it, 
 although I doubt if he has made acquaintance with 
 our little friends the blue irises, or the happy family 
 who live in the tomb. He knows, of course, all 
 about the disputed tomb of Archimedes, and the 
 tomb of Timoleon, and the lost tomb of Gelon, 
 and all the other tombs of the ancient Syracusan 
 swells. But Doris and I prefer to keep our 
 acquaintance with the goat-cheese family strictly 
 private. There are some things that one grows 
 jealous of a third person seeing as well as hearing. 
 
 Great Scott! While I was writing just now, 
 Doris almost threw her arms round my neck with 
 the news that Cronje has surrendered uncon- 
 ditionally. He has thrown up the sponge. How 
 strangely the news came ! The captain of H. M.S. 
 Royal Sovereign is staying in this hotel with his 
 wife. He went into the city of Syracuse this 
 morning, and the news was signalled ashore to him 
 from his ship, which is riding at anchor in the 
 Great Harbour; the information had been tele- 
 graphed from Malta. So for once we have had 
 our war news from a definite and sure source. 
 
 The captain met Doris on his way through the 
 garden to the hotel and told her the good news. 
 
 How will Rumanio behave to-night, I wonder? 
 The attractions of Miss Rosina have tempered the 
 feelings of Herr Mackintosh on the subject of siid 
 Africa. Miss Rosina is all with the English, of 
 course, and is as jealous of our honour as the most 
 ardent Britisher born. How differently people 
 take the news of our losses or success ! 
 
 One old gentleman made Doris feel very foolish. 
 She did not know him, but having good news to 
 
112 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 tell made her feel that all English exiled as we are 
 should be friends at such moments. 
 
 Coming on her way through the garden to tell 
 me, she passed him seated at a little table examining 
 some pieces of " rubbish," as she called them. 
 
 " Have you heard the news?" she asked gaily, 
 and in almost breathless excitement. 
 
 " What news?" he replied, lifting his cold eyes 
 for one moment from the magnifying-glass he held 
 in his hand. 
 
 " Cronje has surrendered," she told him, u un- 
 conditionally ! Isn't it splendid?" 
 
 Doris looks delightful when things are 
 11 splendid," but this did not affect him. 
 
 " Has he?" he said laconically, turning his eyes 
 once more on the stones. " I suppose it was 
 expected eventually." 
 
 • I wanted," Doris said to me, " to sweep my 
 hand across the table and throw over the walls of 
 the latomia all the horrid pieces of dry bones and 
 ancient skulls. Why should decayed bones of 
 forgotten Greeks be more interesting to an English- 
 man than the lives of his living countrymen? In 
 a thousand years from now I suppose he would 
 think even an English Tommy's skull interesting ! 
 I am not sure, but I think I put my tongue out at 
 him and fled ! His back was turned, of course." 
 
 " Oh, Doris!" I rejoined, " and I thought you 
 were growing up ! But I know now that you steal 
 Madame Politi's sugar and put your tongue out !" 
 
 " I eat sugar because nobody gives me any 
 sweets," she replied; " and some old men make 
 you put your tongue out. The lizards do it so 
 often that I have caught their trick." 
 
 She held her provoking face so close to mine 
 while she spoke, that if by chance I had turned my 
 head our faces must have met ; but I remembered 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 113 
 
 the many privileges which a little exercise of will 
 had blessed me with, and my face remained turned 
 to my letter. 
 
 "lam getting so tired of human fossils, aren't 
 you?" she said with a sigh. 
 
 " Little one," I replied, " if it weren't for you 
 I expect I should be just the same as all the rest." 
 
 " No, you wouldn't," she said. " However old 
 you are you will die young, and however young 
 these people are in years they were born old. They 
 have all such long noses ! I know long noses are 
 considered intellectual, but I always think a woman 
 with a long nose looks disappointed. There is 
 something cheerful about a short nose, and it keeps 
 its youth better, and gets through the world with- 
 out showing which way the wind blows, doesn't 
 it?" 
 
 " Some short noses," I replied, M were made to 
 tempt mankind. They have a provoking im- 
 pudence about them which inspires us to teach 
 their owners how to behave — to tame the shrew." 
 
 M Yes," she said, " long noses are always tame, 
 even in their cradles." 
 
 Our few precious days are flying past on golden^ 
 wings, and there is an astonishing amount to do in 
 a place like this if once the charm of it gets hold 
 of you. 
 
 How hours pass unnoticed at open windows, 
 watching the south, or listening to the cathedral 
 bells as they float to us up here, mellowed to a 
 silver sweetness by their passage across the blue 
 water ! The sound of those evening bells travelling 
 through the vaulted garden unconsciously com- 
 mands at least a moment's silence, a little sense of 
 aloofness from others as the day departs, a hush of 
 thankfulness for things received. Then there is 
 Etna to bow the knee to, not too hurriedly, every 
 
114 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 night and morning. And, alas ! at 12 noon and 6 
 p.m. the table d 9 hdte meals use up three precious 
 hours of each day. 
 
 After that your golden day goes no further than 
 a guinea when a sixpence has been taken out of it 
 to buy stamps. 
 
 Yours, 
 
 J. C. 
 
Villa Politi, Syracuse, 
 
 Ash Wednesday. 
 
 Dear Louise, — 
 
 To us this is the first day of summer, for 
 Etna has lost her covering of snow and therefore 
 the air is warm even in the shade. While the snow 
 lies well over the mountain there is a fresh coolness 
 in the air which makes you seek the sun rather than 
 the shade. But to the Sicilians this is only the first 
 day of spring, and a grand holiday they are making 
 of it. Last night King Carnival died in Syracuse, 
 and whether Ash Wednesday is reckoned a Church 
 festival or secular, I do not know; but the whole 
 world is enjoying itself in Sicily. Every cave along 
 rocky Achradina is filled with happy family parties 
 having their first picnic out of the city. Grand- 
 fathers, grandmothers, young husbands and wives, 
 and lovers, all are there, while the babies play about 
 the sunny rocks like young kids. 
 
 In England too often the old people are left at 
 home on such outings, and the lovers take their 
 pleasures sadly if they are not permitted to spend 
 the day by themselves. Here in simple Sicily they 
 all sit in a family circle round the midday meal, 
 happier because of the family gathering. You 
 would be surprised at the elegance of the coiffured 
 heads of the young women. They are as glossy and 
 dark as a raven's wing, and in many cases gaily 
 ornamented with would-be tortoiseshell pins. 
 
 Doris wonders how these girls, living in the 
 humblest parts of a forgotten city, gain their know- 
 
 "5 
 
116 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 ledge of hair-dressing. They are always abreast of 
 the latest mode. They all carry a bright scarf of 
 silk and wool to throw over their heads at sundown. 
 Hats, of course, find no place in their wardrobes, 
 although their dresses are pretty and tastefully 
 made. These holiday-makers of Achradina have 
 little in common, I can assure you, with the August 
 Bank Holiday picnic-makers of Hampstead Heath. 
 
 In one of the latomias called the Latomia de 
 Paradiso, is contained the Ear of Dionysius, so 
 called because of the legend related of Dionysius 
 that he had the walls of this quarry cut in such a 
 remarkable manner that the slightest sound in any 
 part of the grotto can be heard by a person seated 
 in the aperture at the upper end. Dionysius is 
 supposed to have hidden himself there and listened 
 unobserved to all that the prisoners said down 
 below. On account of this rather trumped-up 
 story this particular latomia is highly popular, — 
 Sicilians love a trick or 'cute invention, — but it is 
 not nearly so beautiful as the Latomia di S. Venera, 
 which abounds in glorious vegetation. There is a 
 curious and lovely lagoon, however, in it, and of 
 course a piece d'eau is always popular with people 
 who live in a dry land where no water is. 
 
 In this latomia a dance was taking place under 
 the shelter of an immense overhanging rock. The 
 young men formed one half of the circle, while the 
 girls with their chaperons formed the other. As 
 we passed to pay our respects to the cool lagoon 
 and to the popular Ear, a musician started a favour- 
 ite Neapolitan air, and the dance opened. No one 
 can ever stand quite still in blood or body when a 
 Neapolitan tune is being well played, — it makes the 
 nerves tingle like new wine. 
 
 " Look !" Doris said, " the men are all dancing 
 together, and the girls are doing the same. How 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 117 
 
 very dull ! The lovers can only make eyes at each 
 other and hope for better things." 
 
 " It is one of the customs introduced from the 
 East," I said, " which has never died out. In the 
 East such a thing as a waltz, or any dance where 
 a man and woman dance together, would be deemed 
 shocking. In Italy, amongst the lower orders the 
 tarentella is, I believe, one of the few dances where 
 two people of opposite sex dance alone and 
 together. In it, of course, the girl and the man 
 dance either a few feet apart, facing each other, or 
 back to back." 
 
 " Poor dears!" Doris said; M what a lot they 
 miss by being so particular ! I'm glad I'm only a 
 middle-class Englishwoman, and not an exclusive 
 Sicilian pauper." 
 
 As a rule, there is very little music to be heard 
 in Sicily, no singing or playing in the streets ; but 
 to-day there's a sound of music and revelry in the 
 air, and along the dusty highroad which leads from 
 the city to the Greek theatre there is an endless 
 stream of high-wheeled Sicilian carts bearing their 
 full complement of Sicilian families. How happy 
 they all look ! how simple ! how picturesque ! Not 
 a bit of shade from cap or unbrella to save men or 
 children's heads from the blazing sun, and not an 
 inch of free room to release a still limb. The old 
 men amuse themselves playing with the boys as if 
 they were frolicsome puppies, while the young 
 mothers, for this one day at least, are free from 
 care. Happy lovers sit behind, speaking with their 
 eyes as only Sicilians can. 
 
 The whole aspect of the thing pleased Doris ex- 
 ceedingly — this emptying of the city into the 
 country to spend the first warm day in perfect 
 happiness, asking nothing better of God and man 
 than the joy of living in a beautiful land. 
 
118 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 There were no Aunt Sallys erected in Neapolis, 
 nor noisy merry-go-rounds. The people, like our- 
 selves, had no desire for such things. They had 
 journeyed to enjoy the country. 
 
 I noticed that the authorities of Syracuse were 
 careful to protect their ancient monuments from 
 any harm which might befall them on a general 
 holiday. Two mounted policemen, very grand 
 fellows in Sunday plumes, patrolled the Greek 
 theatre and watched the road to the amphitheatre. 
 Not that I think it was the least necessary, for I do 
 not believe that even a Syracusan " hooligan M 
 would abuse the relics of which the country is so 
 justly proud. He is not the London arab, who is 
 born with an instinct for flinging a stone at any 
 object he has never seen before. 
 
 Here in Sicily a hundred generations of boys have 
 lived and played amongst these favourite ruins, 
 until the Castle of Euryalus, the Ear of Dionysius, 
 and the National monuments generally have become 
 as familiar to them as the lions of Trafalgar Square 
 are to their cousins at home. . . . 
 
 While we are here in Sicily unconsciously study- 
 ing ancient history, how quickly modern history is 
 making in South Africa! Before the English 
 papers have reached us to confirm the news that 
 Cronje has indeed surrendered, word comes that 
 Lord Dundonald has entered Ladysmith. The 
 Catania paper reports that " London is delirious 
 with excitement. The ladies of high society are 
 dancing in all the streets, and the men and women 
 throw about oranges and fruit and flowers at 
 Covent Garden. Ladies do not object to police- 
 men kissing them in the streets. For once Eng- 
 land has become mad with joy." 
 
 This is not bad for a Catania paper, is it now ? 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 119 
 
 Miss Rosina fell to weeping on Doris's neck to- 
 night, half from excitement over the good news and 
 half out of alarm for her own feelings. She is 
 ashamed to acknowledge to herself that her life has 
 been a little more interesting since she has become 
 interesting to the German. I believe she considers 
 it a want of fine feeling to feel her sorrow less 
 keenly. I wonder if a German will ever quite 
 understand such delicate sensibilities? 
 
 But Doris says it doesn't signify. 
 
 " Women don't expect men to understand 
 them ; when they do, they are generally bad, and 
 to be avoided as husbands. The simple, direct, 
 manly men who can do no more than love and 
 wonder are safer. When a man ceases to wonder 
 he begins to be bored." 
 
 Doris asked Miss Rosina if the German had 
 already proposed to her, for if he had not there was 
 no reason to vex herself. No woman over twenty 
 need have a proposal if she would rather not. 
 
 " He has not actually offered me his hand, my 
 dear," she said timidly. 
 
 " But he took it in the water," Doris said, M and 
 you did not withdraw it." 
 
 Miss Rosina blushed. 
 
 " Oh, my dear, did every one see it? How 
 dreadful! But he has very powerful wrists." 
 
 " All lovers have," Doris said; M German or 
 English — the nationality doesn't matter." 
 
 " What shall I do?" Miss Rosina asked, in 
 blushing trepidation. She liked the idea of 
 strength. " He has not actually said anything 
 which could be taken seriously ; but once you have 
 a knowledge of men, my dear, you always know 
 when they are in earnest. He is so thoughtful, so 
 careful that I should not sit in draughts." 
 
 " Then I'm sure he would make you a good 
 
120 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 husband," Doris said. " Do accept him, Miss 
 Rosina; you really ought to." 
 
 " He is lonely, my dear, and if I thought I could 
 make his life a little brighter, I would." 
 
 M Fm sure you could, and although a German 
 might not be a very exciting lover, a German hus- 
 band would be very orthodox. You could be a 
 useful companion to him, and you could help him 
 in his work." ("I don't know what his work is," 
 Doris said to me, laughing; " but I know the 
 German Government does not permit men or 
 women of leisure.") " You really ought to try to 
 forget the other one." 
 
 " Don't ask me to forget him, my dear, for I 
 never could do that. He was a — a glorious lover ! 
 Herr Mackintosh is only a man whom I can respect 
 enough to marry." 
 
 And then she fell to weeping again over her lost 
 lover. 
 
 " Dear child," she cried to Doris, " dear child, 
 the emptiness of these years — the emptiness! 
 Sometimes I have felt the touch of his hand, and 
 such a wave of delicious emotion has filled me that 
 my very * cheeks ' have burnt. Then sister would 
 say, g Rosina, you are flushed : has the wind been 
 too much for you?' And back would come the 
 emptiness and the dragging, useless hours." 
 
 " I took the old dear in my arms," Doris said, 
 with a sob in her voice as she told me, u and loved 
 her a great deal. Poor, frail, little sentimental 
 Miss Rosina ! Once she is married to the German 
 it will be all right ; but she will have many a cry 
 before she can make up her mind to desecrate the 
 memory of her glorious lover. . . . 
 
 " Miss Persephine has made a great mistake," 
 she went on musingly. " She has spent twenty 
 years of her life in sheltering Miss Rosina from 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 121 
 
 mankind, and in loving and taking sweet care of 
 her ; what the poor thing really wanted was some- 
 thing or some one to take care of. Women are 
 born to take care of things, and their lives go wrong 
 when that want is denied. We are given dolls to 
 make mock babies of, and dolls' houses to represent 
 real homes; and when we are married we have 
 husbands whom we love all the more if they are 
 helpless. If women are refused husbands and 
 children they fly to county councils and school 
 boards. But most of us prefer husbands and 
 babies; they require more considerate manage- 
 ment." 
 
 " And have you no thought for the poor men 
 who have no women to take care of them?" I said 
 — M the helpless ones you spoke of?" 
 
 " No man need want one," she said; " there is 
 always a woman somewhere longing to mother a 
 lonely man. A villain has only to look helpless, 
 and a good woman will forgive him enough to 
 marry him." 
 
 " I see," I said : " I must act the villain and 
 wear a helpless look. The worst of it is, my life 
 has been so self-reliant about matters that usually 
 appeal to a woman's pity, and my features are cast 
 in a homely mould not suited to a villain's." 
 
 " Some men," she said, " prefer remaining 
 unmarried. They forget their duty to women." 
 
 Yours, in the late hours of a warm Sicilian night, 
 
 J. C. 
 
Villa Politi, Syracuse, 
 
 February 28th, 1900. 
 
 My dear Louise, — 
 
 Doris and I have said good-bye to our 
 garden this morning, the saddest, for I knew that 
 nothing again can take its place in my heart at 
 least. 
 
 " How unhappy the old American lady would 
 be," Doris said — the one with the pretty maid and 
 the manservant, who made love together all day 
 long in the latomia while their mistress was study- 
 ing Italian — if she had left undone as many things 
 as we have!" 
 
 M And done as many things as we ought not to 
 have done?" I inquired. 
 
 I got no answer. 
 
 " I suppose a pretty girl only ought to do what 
 she wants to do," I said presently, returning to the 
 charge. " You need have nothing on your con- 
 
 science." 
 
 " Are the things that you have done troubling 
 you?" she asked. 
 
 " No," I said, "it is something which I have 
 left undone which annoys me most." 
 
 " The old lady," she went on, not regarding my 
 remark, " makes a point of repeating to herself 
 every night before she goes to sleep all that she has 
 seen since she came to Europe. For the first three 
 nights it was comparatively easy, but as the things 
 multiplied into hundreds and hundreds it almost 
 drove her crazy. It makes her dread starting out 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 123 
 
 for a long day's sight-seeing. Just fancy, after a 
 day spent in doing ancient Syracuse, having to 
 repeat to yourself before you went to sleep all that 
 you had seen on that day added to all that you had 
 seen in Rome and Florence. I would rather be her 
 maid, and allow myself to be fed on golden oranges 
 down in the green latomia." 
 
 Etna is still with us, but her ethereal beauty is 
 now a thing of the past. Her spotless virginity is 
 tarnished. You can see the black lava fields and 
 the rocky foothills of her mighty foundations. Her 
 mystery has vanished. 
 
 " You feel when you look at her," Doris said, 
 " like a young man who suddenly realises that his 
 lady-love is not an angel, that her hair is waved 
 with < Hinde's.' " 
 
 So far, snow-dazzling Etna, smiling a million 
 enchanting moods caught from sun and clouds, has 
 been an ideal. You have never pictured her to 
 yourself as a vast hiding-place for hundreds of poor 
 villages, where men and women and children drive 
 out starvation by patient industry and grim phil- 
 osophy. You do not remember the deadly streams 
 of engulfing lava she has vomited out on such poor 
 homes. To you her beautiful mouth, kissing the 
 high heavens, was made for something fairer. No, 
 we have never thought of the dark side of Mother 
 Etna ; her beauty has blinded us. 
 
 But to-day, dear friend, she is a perfectly human 
 mountain. You find yourself for the first time 
 asking practical questions about her length, 
 breadth, height, and her possibilities for accommo- 
 dating tourists. Her circumference is one hundred 
 and eighty miles ; she is most easily ascended from 
 the Taormina district, and there is a railway which 
 completes the circle of her base ! 
 
 In bidding Syracuse good-bye, I believe we are 
 
124 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 leaving one of the most simple spots in Europe. 
 Where else can you find, so closely blended 
 together, the historical interest of an ancient city, 
 which is still an important city to-day, the primitive 
 life of an agricultural country, and the tale of the 
 toilers of the sea? Here heavy oxen plough the 
 fields right down to the blue sea's edge, while the 
 tunny fishers, busy with their nets, are within 
 hailing distance on the sea. 
 
 The goats feed on the rocks, near enough to the 
 city to be milked in the streets every night and 
 mornings for the Sicilian wisely prefers seeing his 
 milk drawn from the goat rather than from a can, 
 and the goatherd thinks that the beast might as 
 well carry the milk to the city as himself. 
 
 Doris says she would prefer this method of receiv- 
 ing her milk in London, but she is afraid that the 
 county council might object to the herds of cows 
 going from door to door in the busy streets. Sicily 
 is unvexed by the lordship of county councils, and 
 therefore the fine flocks of goats, sounding their 
 low-tongued bells up the narrow streets every morn- 
 ing, are one of Doris's girlish pleasures. But then, 
 as she has often remarked, " Great countries are so 
 very unpicturesque — they are too great to have 
 simple beauties. You are proud of belonging to 
 the greatest, but you prefer living in one that is less 
 great." 
 
 We have said good-bye to all our friends. The 
 old general kissed Doris's hands, and kissed and 
 kissed them again. " You are taking all the sun- 
 shine with you," he said ; " even Sicily will be dull 
 to-day." All the retainers who could by the 
 thinnest blood-tie call themselves relatives to the 
 servants in the hotel gathered themselves together 
 at the foot of the portico steps to bid us adieu. A 
 servant in Sicily always expects his situation to 
 
One little cave maiden 
 
 had brought Doris a bunch of wild flowers 
 as a parting gift." [To face p. 124. 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 125 
 
 support at least half a dozen of his relatives. This 
 makes it sometimes difficult for a stranger to know 
 how many servants a gentleman's house or an hotel 
 really keeps. It is a relic of the old days, I suppose, 
 when a man's army was composed of his servants. 
 
 The three sisters gave us a very tender parting. 
 Herr Mackintosh stood close to Miss Rosina's side. 
 He has assumed for the last two days an air of great 
 proprietorship ; he held a German newspaper over 
 her head to protect her from the really fierce sun. 
 One little cave-maiden had slipped through the 
 private door of the garden which opens on to Achra- 
 dina, and had brought Doris a bunch of wild-flowers 
 as a parting gift. And one of the goatherds 
 brought a baby kid, a blunt-nosed little leggy mite 
 not many days old, and offered it to the signorina. 
 
 Doris, it appears, without my knowledge, had 
 paid a parting visit to the tomb of the cheese- 
 makers, and had distributed among the women 
 some of her bodices, what she calls blouses. A 
 little washing we had seen one day, held down to 
 the white rocks with stones, had so touched her 
 heart that she had planned this visit. 
 
 There were four little garments, the like of which 
 you have never seen; only a Sicilian would have 
 deemed them worthy of washing. The poor little 
 tattered shift and faded shirt would scarcely hang 
 together ; they were long past sewing. Such little 
 baby garments, too, made out of the queerest 
 fragments ! 
 
 While we were looking at the washing, a small 
 scrap of brown humanity darted out from behind a 
 big rock ; it was the naked owner of the little shirt. 
 Did he think we were going to steal it, I wonder? 
 Wise little philosopher, he was making use of God's 
 warm sunshine while his washing was being dried. 
 
 To-day I understood why Doris spent so much 
 
 9 
 
126 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 time last week in a draper's shop in Syracuse — and 
 such a draper's ! She was buying cotton material 
 to fashion into cool blouses, so she told me later. 
 But I did not understand at the time that the 
 blouses were for the goodly row of women who were 
 standing, full of pride in their new finery, waiting 
 to bid us farewell to-day. The wee cutty sark, 
 whom we had discovered from behind the rock, 
 was dressed as comfortably as a child could be. 
 
 " It was like their good taste," Doris said, M to 
 wear the presents I had given to them, to show 
 their gratitude." And would you believe it, that 
 all these fine, new bodices have been effected by 
 their own ingenuity out of one pound's worth of 
 material. Cotton-prints are so cheap in Sicily, it 
 is sad that a little baby's clothes should be made of 
 patched rags. 
 
 11 Let us get away quickly," she went on, " or I 
 shall cry like anything. I can't bear their grati- 
 tude, their sad faces, their lovely eyes and smiles. 
 What have I done to deserve it? — only spent one 
 pound between them all. It makes me ashamed. 
 Avdntil avdntil" she cried to the patient coach- 
 man; and with a mighty cracking of whips, and 
 oft-repeated addios to our waving friends, we dashed 
 down the narrow white-walled road, past our field 
 of tombs, on to the road which borders the sea, 
 down to the ferry, and past the washing stream, 
 until at last we were out on the dusty Catania road 
 which leads to the railway station. 
 
 "Is it possible that we are passing all these 
 familiar sights for the last time?" Doris whispered. 
 " Our friends, our garden, the dear white hotel and 
 Syracuse are all slipping behind us. Only Etna is 
 journeying with us, still smiling and serene, coldly 
 unconscious of the pain at our hearts." 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 127 
 
 A little silence stole between us ; in such moments 
 there is a barrier between even the dearest friends. 
 
 I fell to wondering if the unspoken fear which 
 hung like a summer cloud upon my horizon had 
 touched the blue of the girl's. Did she foresee the 
 possibility of the end of our Eden in Sicily? We 
 had not been driven out of our garden, but it was 
 behind us, nevertheless. 
 
 Half tears, half smiles, she turned her dear, dear 
 eyes to mine. 
 
 " Isn't it absurd?" she said. u We are on 
 pleasure bound, we are starting out to explore fresh 
 fields of beauty, and yet, and yet we are too sad to 
 speak ! Saying good-bye is always horrid* One 
 can't help looking back, and back, and back. How 
 we disliked them all at first ! Miss Rosina with her 
 faded femininity, the German with his German 
 mackintosh, the dear old general with his horrid 
 Hybhean honey." 
 
 " And me?" I said. 
 
 " Yes, and you," she replied; " with your pre- 
 occupied air, looking at me as if I were a silly 
 schoolgirl not worth considering. When I asked 
 you to hand me the milk for my tea, you offered me 
 the mustard. When I told you I didn't take mus- 
 tard in my tea, I half expected you to tell me that 
 a mustard of Syracuse was mentioned in Theocritus, 
 — that you never took anything else with your tea 
 in Sicily." 
 
 " I was too amazed to think," I said. " I never 
 expected — none of us ever expected — we had grown 
 so accustomed " 
 
 " You never expected to see a mere girl, in a 
 sailor-hat and a self-respecting blouse ; a girl who 
 wasn't so overcome by the greatness of Syracuse, 
 or the burden of ' doing ' it, that she could not eat 
 two eggs for breakfast and boldly refuse Hyblaean 
 
128 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 honey. Oh, that honey! the very thought of it 
 reminds me of the golden syrup you buy in post- 
 office shops in English villages. The syrup is so 
 thick that it has to be urged out of the tin with the 
 knife which divides its time between the American 
 cheese and the rasher-bacon." 
 
 And so with heavy hearts we talked lightly, 
 talked over our happy days in Syracuse, as if we 
 were already many years older than the memories 
 recalled. 
 
 " Whenever I think of Syracuse in after years," 
 Doris said, " I shall always see a world of white 
 rocks, white-plastered walls, and white roads 
 touched here and there with the blue-green of the 
 prickly pears : a white desolate scene made more 
 desolate by the black-draped figure of a woman 
 riding a gentle-footed ass." 
 
 Yours ever, 
 
 J. C. 
 
Castrogiovanni, 
 March 2nd, 1900. 
 
 It is strange to think, dear Louise, that this letter, 
 written in a city ancient and grey, set upon a hill 
 three thousand feet in height, right in the centre of 
 Sicily, will be opened and read by you in a sheltered 
 nook in green Surrey. Will it carry any of the 
 spirit of this place with it, I wonder? Castro- 
 giovanni is cold, and grey, and clean, wind-blown 
 from corner to corner. This is surely not Sicily, 
 we say to each other a hundred times a day; and 
 yet, in the distance, Etna towers over all and checks 
 the words on our lips. Indeed, we feel as if we 
 were in no country named in a cold-blooded matter- 
 of-fact geography which deals with maps and plans. 
 It is all very well to climb the Rigi and spend one 
 night at the top in a modern hotel, waiting for a 
 modern sunrise along with twenty dozen other 
 modern tourists, who are only anxious to be in 
 Lucerne by the next evening. But here are we 
 two, limited to one another for the understanding 
 of speech, quietly playing our part in the daily lives 
 of a people who think nothing strange of the fact 
 that they are the descendants of generations of men 
 and women who have lived up in the clouds and 
 looked down on the plains as we gaze up at the 
 clouds. They have lived cut off from the world by 
 an impregnable height, where only eagles love to 
 soar. Can we, in our modern London, imagine 
 
 how a city can continue to prosper or even exist 
 
 129 
 
130 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 with no traffic in its streets except that of the long 
 trains of handsomely harnessed mules, which carry 
 the olives and grapes to and from the surrounding 
 country ; a city with no hotels and no daily papers ; 
 in fact, a city which possesses none of the attributes 
 of a city; a city which to modern eyes looks as 
 if it had been abandoned since the Middle Ages? 
 What has such a city, with its natural walls of 
 precipitous rocks, to do with nineteenth-century 
 men and women? Doris says that the twenty 
 thousand odd souls who live up here among the 
 wild, scudding clouds have nothing to do with 
 nineteenth-century men and women of our world. 
 But they are men and women, with their tragedies 
 and their sorrows. I can see that, for even here 
 balconies and willing servants play a large share in 
 Sicilian love affairs. 
 
 We left Syracuse in summer warmth, grudging 
 the burden of providing ourselves with warm wraps, 
 which Madame Politi assured us we shpuld require. 
 Here it is mid-winter, with everj r drop of water 
 frozen to the breath on my moustache. It is surely 
 the survival of the fittest with the inhabitants, who 
 live to man or womanhood in high Castrogiovanni ; 
 for, with no fires and very little food, children must 
 have a hardy rearing. Certainly the magnificent 
 physique of the men proves such to be the case. I 
 have never seen finer specimens of manhood than 
 the inhabitants of Castrogiovanni ; of the women- 
 folk I cannot speak, for it is not comme il faut for 
 women to walk abroad in this ancient city, even 
 little girls being kept carefully guarded indoors. 
 Wherefore the necessity of balconies and willing 
 servants ! 
 
 Nevertheless this is a wonderful city, the most 
 wonderful thing in Sicily, I think ; for these fine 
 
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BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 131 
 
 Montesi do not dream that their city, built like an 
 eagle's nest, is not quite abreast with the times. 
 
 They point proudly to their electric light : 
 Sicilians love electric light, as they love all new and 
 ingenious mechanical tricks ; and, after all, electric 
 light does look very clever up here, where you 
 expect flares from the ancient palace torches to 
 light you on your way. 
 
 From the highest point of the city the whole of 
 the mountainous world seems to lie spread before 
 you ; that is, of course, when the hurrying clouds 
 have rolled off our city, and have stormed some 
 other height, for there are moments and even half- 
 hours in Castrogiovanni when we look at each other 
 dimly through the clouds, as Londoners do through 
 a white fog. But when the clouds lift, a world of 
 Alps, not snow-covered as in Switzerland, but green 
 with carob and almond-trees right up to the top, 
 looks greener and more tranquil even than before. 
 
 The vegetation is wonderful. Mountains higher 
 than Skiddaw are rich in semi-tropical plants, such 
 as the cactus (prickly-pear) and wild-palms. Olives 
 and vines, it would seem, do not require heat so 
 much as sunshine and dryness, for this bitter frosty 
 weather is usual up here until the late spring. On 
 the summit of this particular mountain there is a 
 famous vineyard, and everywhere the blue-green of 
 the cacti casts a bloom over the distant landscape. 
 
 The cloud effects and the varying lights and 
 shades are amazing. If you don't look quickly you 
 are sure to miss some wonder revealed by a rolling 
 body of clouds. Calascibetta, a sister mountain 
 city to Castrogiovanni, was discovered by us in this 
 way. We had not previously dreamt of its 
 existence. 
 
 We keep " oh "-ing to each other a great deal, 
 and expressing a wish that we had our friends here 
 
132 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 to share the amazing beauty with us, and yet in our 
 hearts I believe the dearest beauty and wonder is 
 that we are here in this cloud-world by our two 
 selves. 
 
 I can't tell you what age Doris ascribed to me 
 when she sought and gained permission of her 
 guardian to allow me to take care of her as far as 
 Palermo. But it is of myself I have to take such 
 very great care, in case she guesses a secret which, 
 if she knew, would rob me of her company. 
 
 Before going further I should tell you that 
 Castrogiovanni is the historical Enna, or Henna. 
 We have taken it for granted that what Freeman 
 says is true, that M not a vestige is left of the famous 
 temples of Demeter (Ceres) and Proserpine," and 
 therefore we have not troubled our unclassical 
 minds about them. This is shocking, I know, but 
 nevertheless true. We have read, instead, Cicero's 
 account of the city which he visited shortly after 
 Verres had robbed it of sacred treasures. Doris 
 will dictate it to me while I write it out for your 
 edification, as you tell me you have failed to get a 
 copy of Cicero's Orations from the library. It 
 gives you a better idea of the classical importance of 
 Enna than anything Freeman has to say on the 
 subject. 
 
 " For thoughts of that temple, of that place, of 
 that holy religion came into my mind. Everything 
 seems present before my eyes, — the day on which, 
 when I had arrived at Enna, the priests of Ceres 
 came to meet me with garlands of vervain, and with 
 fillets; the concourse of citizens, among whom, 
 while I was addressing them, there was such weep- 
 ing and groaning that the most bitter grief seemed 
 to have taken possession of the whole. 
 
 " They did not complain of the absolute way in 
 which the tenths were levied, nor of the plunder 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 133 
 
 of property, nor of the iniquity of tribunals, nor of 
 that man's unhallowed lusts, nor of his violence, 
 nor of the insults by which they had been oppressed 
 and overwhelmed. It was the divinity of Ceres, 
 the antiquity of their sacred observances, the holy 
 veneration due to their temples, which they wished 
 should have atonement made to them by the punish- 
 ment of that atrocious and audacious man. This 
 indignation of theirs was so great, that you might 
 suppose that Verres, like another king of hell, had 
 come to Enna and had carried off not Proserpine, 
 but Ceres herself. And in truth the city does not 
 appear to be a city, but a shrine of Ceres. The 
 people of Enna think that Ceres dwells among 
 them, so that they appear to me not to be citizens 
 of that city, but to be all priests, to be all ministers 
 and officers of Ceres." 
 
 Cicero, of all people, gives us the desired explana- 
 tion why Sicily is no longer a corn-growing country. 
 He says : " Although there are many and various 
 injuries done by that man to which these things are 
 owing, still this one cause, in the opinion of the 
 Sicilians, is the most weighty of all ; for, because of 
 the insults offered to Ceres, they believe that all the 
 crops and gifts of Ceres have perished in these 
 districts." 
 
 The brute Verres did not take the actual statue 
 of Ceres; it was too large, the difficulty of trans- 
 portation from such a city was too great. " But in 
 the right hand of Ceres there stood a beautifully 
 wrought image of Victory; and this he wrenched 
 out of the hand of Ceres and carried off." 
 
 Doris does not entirely flout the idea that this 
 insult of Verres to the goddess of corn may have 
 entirely altered the agricultural character of Sicily. 
 How else can we account for the marvellous 
 change ? Cicero asks the Roman people how Sicily 
 
184 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 was entitled to so much honour and respect from 
 them. " And therefore we have always so 
 esteemed the Island of Sicily for every purpose, as 
 to think whatever she could produce was not so 
 much raised among the Sicilians as stored up in our 
 own homes. When did she not deliver the corn 
 which she was bound to deliver by the proper day ? 
 When did she fail to promise us, of her own 
 accord, whatever she thought we stood in need of? 
 When did she ever refuse anything that was exacted 
 of her? Therefore that illustrious Marcus Cato, 
 the wise, called Sicily a storehouse of provisions for 
 our republic — the nurse of the Roman people." 
 
 At one end of the city there is a very ancient 
 citadel, called La Rocca, which was repaired by 
 King Manfred. At the opposite end of the town 
 there is a castle which was built by Frederick the 
 Second of Aragon. You can imagine that these 
 two ruinous buildings, rising up sheer from the rock 
 on which the city is perched, make two striking 
 features in the general view. 
 
 The classical fields of Enna, where Prosperine 
 and her maidens stopped to pick the hundred- 
 headed narcissus, lie in the plains below. On our 
 journey here, from the railway train, we saw 
 hundreds of these delicate spring flowers (I cannot 
 vouch if any one of them were hundred-headed) 
 blowing in the fields. We have brought " Free- 
 man M with us here, as we no longer have Herr 
 Mackintosh to tell us more simply and directly the 
 classical legends of the place. But to tell you the 
 truth, we have been compelled to leave guide-books 
 alone. For such a place as this — " The holiest 
 place of Pagan Sicily," as Freeman calls it — is quite 
 beyond our poor classical understanding. 
 
 We must be content to take Castrogiovanni for 
 what it is worth in our blind eyes, and walk gently, 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 135 
 
 for the place whereon we tread is holy ground — so 
 holy, indeed, that, even blindly ignorant as we are, 
 we can feel the spirit of the past in the hurrying 
 clouds, in the wild sulphurous country, and in this 
 strangest of mediaeval cities. The famous Lake 
 Pergusa, so elaborately extolled in the classics, is 
 distinctly disappointing. It is a solitary object 
 made barren of surrounding vegetation by its 
 volcanic nature. You can see it from the outer rim 
 of the city. Perhaps its very desolation gives an 
 air of greater mystery and impressiveness to the 
 scene. 
 
 But, as I have often told you, there are ever two 
 Sicilies for us — the one which we love and under- 
 stand, the beautiful mediaeval Sicily in which we 
 two nineteenth-century individuals are privileged 
 to live, and the other, the ancient and classical 
 Sicily, for scholars and archaeologists, who know 
 little or nothing of our Sicily. 
 
 u Only to open Freeman on a subject like Castro- 
 giovanni makes you shudder," Doris said : 
 u shudder at your own colossal cheek in venturing 
 to come to such a place. But I did so long to sleep 
 for one night, at least, like an eagle up on the rocks. 
 Its no use my reading anything about the ancient 
 Sikel religion of the place, for I should forget it all 
 in an hour after we had left the town. It is surely 
 better to see and enjoy the things we do under- 
 stand and shall never forget." 
 
 I quite agreed with her, and so we have resolved 
 to enjoy Castrogiovanni in our own unpretentious 
 way. 
 
 After Syracuse it seemed such a green, green 
 world, and the twin hill cities look like two fantastic 
 castles in a German opera. It is hard to believe, 
 when you look at these mystical cities soaring to 
 high heaven, that twenty-five thousand human souls 
 
136 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 find a meagre living in them to-day, and yet a living 
 not so meagre after all, although what they make 
 their incomes off it is hard to say — selling grapes 
 and olives to each other, I suppose. But this clean 
 city does not strike the stranger as poverty-ridden, 
 and, strange to say, we have scarcely seen a beggar 
 in the streets. The licensed church poor, of course, 
 do not count ; they have the Government hall-mark 
 upon their profession, and are one of the clever 
 contrivances of a pauper country for supporting its 
 paupers by voluntary contribution. The Govern- 
 ment license a certain number of poor, who are sup- 
 posed to be supported by the pittance of the faith- 
 ful as they visit the church daily to pray. And 
 truly no one is too poor to give to a beggar in Sicily. 
 I have seen touching sights to illustrate this fact. 
 The blind may not lead the blind, but the starving 
 certainly feed the starving. 
 
 The men here, even in the day-time, wear fine 
 dark blue cloaks, with high-peaked hood, which they 
 pull on over an inner cap of stockingette, which is 
 worn well over the ears in true Canadian fashion. 
 The cloaks are much larger and handsomer than any 
 we have seen hitherto. Doris is greatly delighted 
 with the sight of these tall mountaineers standing 
 in the wind-blown public squares, top-booted and 
 high-hooded, fine, erect fellows, a strange mixture 
 of prince and mountain-brigand. 
 
 When we left the station on our way here — 
 which, although it lies in the plains, is really at an 
 elevation of many hundreds of feet above the sea- 
 level — we were met by the Regie Poste, an anti- 
 quated stage-coach even for Sicily, with only three 
 seats outside and an uninviting interior seated for 
 six. The driver, who was as goodly a fellow to 
 look at as ever you saw, and as perfectly limbed as 
 the statue of a Grecian athlete, at once took us 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 137 
 
 under his protection, and was very urgent that 
 Doris should go inside. 
 
 After popping her head in, and sniffing the 
 garlic-scented atmosphere with her unintellectual 
 nose, she said resolutely : 
 
 " No, not for worlds ! If I freeze I can't go 
 inside. It is better to be frozen than eaten up 
 alive." 
 
 Our host was distressed. The signorina would 
 be very ill. She had no idea how cold it would be 
 driving up the mountain to the city. 
 
 We unfastened our hold-all, and Doris consented 
 to be wrapped up in my Scotch Inverness cloak as 
 well as in her own fur coat. And so, with our feet 
 well protected by some suspicious-looking rugs 
 which were drawn from the garlic-smelling interior 
 of the Regie Poste, we started for the city-crowned 
 height. What a cracking of whips ! what a jingling 
 of bells ! what a clear crisp air ! Each of the four 
 worn-out horses wore a fine necklace of brass bells. 
 
 The flash pace at which we left the station, where 
 we parted from the porters and station-master as if 
 from old friends, soon slackened off after the first 
 mile or so, and the rest of the long and bitterly cold 
 journey was accomplished at a walking rate. 
 
 In Syracuse the almond-trees were in leaf and 
 had lost their pink bloom; here every valley and 
 hillside reminds one of a Kentish orchard in full 
 flower. Vegetation is much more backward, 
 although it is wonderfully luxurious. Mighty 
 olive-trees and carobs climb the hills like stately 
 giants. 
 
 All the way Doris kept exclaiming, u Oh! oh! 
 oh !" Each burst of delight from her smiling lips 
 brought a bow or an answering smile from our fine 
 driver. His native curiosity was easily aroused in 
 a lovely woman; he was anxious to know what 
 
138 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 relation we were to one another. At last he was 
 out with it : 
 
 " Are you his daughter?" he asked, pointing to 
 me. 
 
 " No," Doris answered with dignity. 
 
 " The beautiful signora is perhaps his wife?" 
 
 I hated the little smile he gave as he asked the 
 question. 
 
 " No," Doris said, " lam not his wife." 
 
 II Ah, he is your uncle?" 
 
 " Leave him at that," Doris said ; M for a Sicilian 
 would never understand. 
 
 And so for the rest of the journey he alluded to 
 me as the " Signore, your uncle." He chattered 
 to us all the way, supplying us with a great deal of 
 interesting information and showing throughout a 
 certain amount of intelligence. Doris kept him 
 smiling by her side, for he walked at a brisk pace 
 and let the horses drive themselves. 
 
 He evidently thought it was his duty to entertain 
 us, for when he was not talking he sang in a most 
 dramatic manner snatches from well-known operas. 
 
 " You can't help flirting just a little bit with such 
 a man," Doris said. " Listen to him singing that 
 song. How can I help answering his eyes ? They 
 are full of laughter and romance and tragedy. If I 
 express my admiration for a certain flower, he 
 manages somehow with very little trouble to him- 
 self to find one, and he gives it to me in a way 
 which would put even Miss Rosina's glorious lover 
 to shame." 
 
 Our admiration received a rude shock, however, 
 at the end of our journey. Our handsome cavalier 
 had made us feel that the paying of our fare would 
 be a delicate moment ; but his fine velvet suit, his 
 slender-footed top-boots gave him the appearance 
 of a good sportsman rather than the driver of the 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 139 
 
 Royal Mail from the station to the city. But when 
 he demanded twenty-five francs as our fare, instead 
 of the three which was the proper tariff, the 
 romance fled ! 
 
 I pointed to the tariff, written precisely on a 
 card inside the coach. 
 
 M Yes," he said, " you are quite right. One and 
 a half francs per head is the fare on any ordinary 
 occasion to convey people to and from the station 
 to the city. But you wrote to the landlord of 
 your hotel and told him you wished a carriage to 
 meet you at the station. I have met you with the 
 Regie Poste ; you must pay me twenty-five francs, 
 the price of a carriage hire." 
 
 " But you were compelled to meet the train in 
 any case," I said; " you have to carry the mail. 
 We have a right to a seat in the coach at tariff 
 price." 
 
 " That has nothing to do with you," he said; 
 " you desired a conveyance, and you have had one. 
 A private carriage would have cost you twenty-five 
 francs, so you must pay me the same." 
 
 " No, I will not," I said; " not although I am 
 the only stranger in the country for a hundred 
 miles. I will not be bullied into paying you a cent 
 more than the tariff." 
 
 The padrdne of our inn came to our rescue, and 
 told the fellow to be off ; but in a not very summary 
 manner, which argued ill for our chance of being 
 treated with decent honesty by him when the time 
 came for paying our hotel bill. 
 
 " A man who can wear a cloak like a draped 
 statue, and speak as if he were singing, and sings 
 like an angel, to end by bullying strangers for six 
 times the amount of their fare ; What a blow to 
 my romance !" Doris said. " Is no one in Sicily 
 above begging? For in manner and bearing the 
 
140 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 meanest beggar is a born prince, while in bearing 
 and manner the born prince is a beggar." 
 
 I must close this letter abruptly if it is to catch 
 the Regie Poste, for the villain of whom I have 
 just been writing has come to my room in the most 
 gracious and friendly way to ask me if I have any 
 telegrams or letters to send to the station. He 
 entered, cap in hand, and addressed me as the most 
 illustrious signore. Truly Sicily is a law unto it- 
 self, and a wonderful revelation in the gentle art 
 of manners. 
 
 Yours, 
 
 J. C. 
 
Castrogiovanni, 
 
 March yrd, igoo. 
 
 Dear Louise, — 
 
 Our Inn ! I wish you could see it. I bitterly 
 repented having let the child stay the night in this 
 terrible place, but we were so taken up with the 
 wonder and beauty of it that we delayed looking at 
 our rooms until it was too late to return to the 
 station by the Regie Poste. We were ushered into 
 the dilapidated old monastery (where we were told 
 that rooms were prepared for us) by an old man, 
 who was so completely wrapped up in cloaks and 
 shawls that there was little to be seen of him but his 
 wicked black eyes and snuff-discoloured nose. We 
 stumbled along a dark and wet-smelling passage, 
 and felt our way up a frail staircase not two feet in 
 width, and turned along a still darker passage. The 
 trembling old man in the shawl called out to us to 
 beware of a hole in the floor of the passage, and 
 also of the Greek-water jugs which were lying in 
 the way. Suddenly he stopped, and put a heavy 
 key into a heavy lock in a very frail and foolish door. 
 Like all Sicilian locks, the key turned twice and in 
 the opposite direction to ours. It groaned and 
 reluctantly unlocked. The huge room into which 
 we were asked contained one small bed, with the 
 mattress and bed-clothing rolled in a bundle ; the 
 wooden boards in place of springs did not look 
 sympathetic. There was also a small camp wash- 
 ing-stand and a window. 
 
 Doris ran and inspected the bed. 
 
 141 
 
 10 
 
142 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 " It's quite clean," she said, with happy eyes. 
 " This place is too cold for fleas, so nothing else 
 matters. Tell the man we will stay. Is your room 
 next door? I hope so." 
 
 " I will sleep on your mat if it isn't," I said. 
 " We ought never to have come to such a place." 
 
 " I think it is great fun. I'm not a bit afraid . . . 
 at least, not now." 
 
 " Not now," I thought. " That is true enough ; 
 but what of the night, when all children and 
 feminine things see fear and avoid corners?" 
 
 There is no front door to the wretched hovel, and 
 any fool with a good push could thrust his body 
 through the thin panel of the bedroom doors. The 
 heavy lock was a grim jest. 
 
 " Will you tell the old ruffian that we will stay?" 
 she repeated. " I want to get out into the sun- 
 shine again. These rooms are so cold, they make 
 one nervous." 
 
 " I want to ask his price," I said, " or he will 
 demand six times the just price when we leave." 
 
 " Even six times the just price won't be much 
 in a place like this. He can't ask more than five 
 francs a day even at that rate." 
 
 M Remember your cavalier, the coachman," I 
 said, " and let him be a lesson. A Sicilian can ask 
 anything." 
 
 u I don't like lessons," she said. " I never 
 learnt them ; and when I did I always forgot them." 
 
 Out in the street it was bitterly cold, but the 
 evening was bright and clear. We soon found our- 
 selves escorted about the city by some nicely 
 mannered boys who constituted themselves our 
 guides. 
 
 They belonged to the seminary of Castrogiovanni, 
 and were well up in the classical history of the 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 143 
 
 place. They at once offered to show us the sup- 
 posed site of the Temple of Ceres. They were very 
 proud of their knowledge of French, which was the 
 French of Castrogiovanni and not much easier to 
 understand than their local Sicilian. These boys 
 acted as a sort of bodyguard, and helped to keep off 
 the too-inquisitive inhabitants, who stared at us as 
 if we had been strange objects let out from a show. 
 The whole city followed us about with unabating 
 interest. But Doris and I have grown accustomed 
 to this sort of thing. We have often gathered 
 together a following of people in the narrow streets 
 of Syracuse that any Salvation Army band would 
 be proud of. These followers do not molest 
 strangers in any way, but their presence sometimes 
 gets embarrassing, especially when you meet a 
 fellow-countryman. On such occasions you feel a 
 fool and look one. 
 
 You must know that we are now in the heart of 
 the brigand country, and this has been a very 
 brigandy year. Before coming here our consul in 
 Syracuse warned us not to make any excursions 
 from Castrogiovanni into the surrounding country. 
 We were to keep to the Government road ; which 
 is heavily garrisoned, and commands an extensive 
 view of the country. Doris is rather disappointed, 
 I think, that so far we have not to our knowledge 
 even seen a brigand ; and yet, as she says, if brigands 
 are, as we are told, only farmers fallen upon evil 
 days, we probably have seen many. These courtly- 
 looking old gentlemen riding their fine mules up the 
 steep road to the city have probably turned their 
 hands to brigandage in their day, as their sons will 
 do in theirs! If the olive crop is good and the 
 vintage is rich, they are glad enough, no doubt, to 
 remain peaceful citizens; if times are bad, then 
 
144 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 their deeds will be likewise ; the mountain fastnesses 
 are then their homes. 
 
 Only the other day, if you would believe it, a 
 beautiful girl was kidnapped in broad daylight in 
 Palermo, while out walking with her mother, and 
 was driven off into the country by her daring lover. 
 She was waiting to cross the corso, when suddenly 
 her arms were pinioned behind her, and she was 
 lifted into a closed carriage, a handkerchief being 
 flung over the mother's eyes at the same moment. 
 
 If this sort of thing can still take place in the 
 main thoroughfare of their capital, what ho for the 
 brigands of Castrogiovanni ! 
 
 The green fields and the flowing waters in the 
 rich valleys of this region of Sicily bring to mind 
 the scenery described by Theocritus much more 
 than the rocky wastes round Syracuse. This indeed 
 seems a poet's ideal country, and you can well 
 imagine it as the site chosen for the centre of the 
 ancient Sikelian religion. It was naturally to the 
 hills they lifted their eyes, and, having lifted them, 
 they chose this crowning height for the foundation 
 of their Mother Temple. 
 
 It is hard to convey to you the true atmosphere 
 of the place, which is indeed heavy with the spirit 
 of the past. You have sometimes felt that the 
 ghosts of the Middle Ages haunt and linger in some 
 quaint old-fashioned town. Here we are actually 
 in the Middle Ages, haunted by the ghosts of Pagan 
 nymphs and deities. 
 
 When seven o'clock came we mentioned to our 
 student friends that we were anxious to discover the 
 restaurant where our landlord had told us we could 
 find our meals. They gladly escorted us to a house 
 in the public square — the " only restaurant suitable 
 for the signorina." It was almost opposite the 
 dilapidated monastery. The fine pale-green bronze 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 145 
 
 grills in front of the monastery windows gave the 
 exterior of the building quite a handsome appear- 
 ance. The boys left us with a request that they 
 might be allowed to act as our guides again next 
 morning. Doris, of course, consented. She can- 
 not refuse these gentle-mannered Sicilian boys. 
 They are always her most devoted slaves, and these 
 boys, of course, desire no fees. 
 
 The entrance to our restaurant was blocked by 
 a flock of white goats. A gipsy-looking woman 
 was seated on the lowest step of the stone stairs 
 which we had to mount to reach the dining-room. 
 She was busy milking a magnificently horned 
 animal ; she made way for us to pass up the stairs, 
 while the goat inspected us suspiciously. On reach- 
 ing the top we looked down upon the typical 
 Sicilian scene. The goat was still watching us with 
 evil, blinking eyes. Truly goats are Sicily, and 
 Sicily is goats. " Temples and tombs and goats,' ' 
 Doris said. u These are the three things which 
 linger in the mind, and whose memory never deserts 
 one." 
 
 On our way upstairs we passed the kitchen. It 
 had the usual solid brick stove, as high as a kitchen 
 table, covered with white china tiles. On the top 
 there were five or six small holes, about as large as 
 would be made by the removal of one brick. These 
 holes were full of hot charcoal, and a handsome 
 copper saucepan was steaming on each. A Sicilian 
 kitchen-maid requires no coal-cellar. She keeps a 
 small straw basket full of broken pieces of fresh 
 charcoal near her stove. When the charcoal 
 embers in the holes absolutely refuse to emit any 
 more heat, a fresh piece, which would not weigh 
 one ounce, is taken from the basket and popped 
 into the hole to renew the fire. 
 
 " When you look at their stoves do you wonder 
 
146 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 that you are asked to bathe in a teacup?" Doris 
 said. " But the miracle of miracles is, how do they 
 contrive to bake exquisite pastry and delicious 
 messes over two ounces of hot charcoal in a small 
 hole? But I have never tasted a roasted joint in 
 Sicily; a chicken is the largest thing they can 
 achieve, all else is stewed." 
 
 An inviting smell greeted us as we passed the 
 open door, and an enormous woman, who was dish- 
 ing a copper pot full of macaroni called out " Good- 
 evening," and told us to mount still higher. A 
 smart captain of the carabinieri was standing beside 
 the woman. A striking figure he looked in that 
 dark little kitchen, hot with many steams and 
 smells. He wore a bright blue coat, and dangled 
 a very long sword. 
 
 " Perhaps he is dressing the salad," Doris said. 
 " Men always take the green food and the fish 
 under their special protection at home. I suppose 
 it is the same thing here." 
 
 After we had been seated at the table for a few 
 minutes in a little stuffy room, adorned with a fine 
 picture of Re Umberto and Queen Margherita — a 
 dirty little room without one redeeming feature — 
 the spry captain made his appearance, and with 
 a magnificent salute he swung himself out of his 
 cloak, cap, and sword. 
 
 A few boon companions came in and took their 
 places beside him. 
 
 M The captain thinks it is his impertinent mous- 
 tache I am admiring," Doris said ; " he has twirled 
 it and turned it a hundred times for my benefit. If 
 he only knew that I am magnetised by the way the 
 macaroni crawls down his throat ! It is like some 
 gigantic worm stretching from his plate to his 
 mouth." 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 147 
 
 He was eating macaroni in the approved fashion. 
 The fork is placed in the centre of a plate piled high 
 with the stuff. You turn the fork round and round 
 slowly, like the handle of a mill, bend your mouth 
 to it, and draw it in ! The Sicilian never stops till 
 the long coil has disappeared, and I believe that the 
 connoisseurs would tell you that it is as wrong to 
 chew macaroni as it is to bite an oyster. No one 
 speaks to the man at the macaroni mill. 
 
 Considering the place, our dinner was fairly good. 
 Sicilians are born cooks when they can get anything 
 worth cooking, and they can make as much out of 
 nothing as most frugal nations. 
 
 The children of the landlady played cards with 
 the captain and his friends during dinner. I fancy 
 the handsome young fool enjoyed showing Doris 
 how fond the little girl was of him. But, as Doris 
 said, " In Sicily every feminine thing in petticoats 
 is a woman and a flirt." This six-year-old child 
 displayed as much knowledge of her femininity as 
 a woman of thirty. Her dramatic gestures and her 
 flashing almond eyes were woman's wiles. At six 
 years old she had passed through babyhood and 
 childhood. 
 
 After dinner our landlady asked us if we were 
 satisfied, thinking that her charges would be very 
 moderate, we could not but say yes. We wished 
 her good-night, and received another gracious salute 
 from the captain. I could almost excuse his 
 languishing look at Doris as she smiled good-night 
 in return. She stood so clean and fair in the smoke- 
 begrimed little room ; her very presence there was 
 an absurdity. I am sure she is the first pretty 
 Englishwoman who has graced this poor inn. We 
 found our way down the dark stairs and across the 
 cold, clean town square, where the men, in their 
 
148 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 wind-blown high-peaked cloaks, looked like giant 
 bats in the dark night. The sharp air caught our 
 breath after the heat of the small restaurant, and 
 we shivered ; the thought of the cold dark monas- 
 tery was not inviting. 
 
 We found our way along the narrow passage to 
 the side door, where we expected to find a light to 
 lighten our darkness ; but none had been provided. 
 In Castrogiovanni they do not consider it necessary 
 to look after the comfort of their visitors. 
 
 I struck a match. It was the last, the last I 
 possessed of that noble race of u Bryant & May's." 
 
 When the flame burnt out and left us in a more 
 baffling darkness than before, we felt completely 
 cut off from the civilised world. The death of that 
 sturdy English match was the parting knell. We 
 stumbled along the dark passages, feeling our way 
 carefully, mindful of the Greek water-pitchers, and 
 of the hole in the floor. 
 
 Somewhere in the darkness a Sicilian match was 
 struck, and feebly spluttered into being. Doris in- 
 stantly caught my arm. A hand from under a 
 heavy cloak lit a sludge lamp, and a voice whined 
 for money. 
 
 " If we give him any," she said, he might call 
 again for some more in the middle of the night, 
 and although the locks unlock twice, you need only 
 kick once at the door to get your body through. 
 Front doors are a convenience to a house, after 
 all." 
 
 The whining voice still whined : u Fdme, signor- 
 ina, molto fdme." 
 
 When I refused the man money and told him to 
 be off, the tone of his voice suddenly altered. He 
 was a porter. " Might he come for our baggage 
 next morning?" He was evidently convinced that 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 149 
 
 one night in such a place would be sufficient for us. 
 I promised him our patronage and told him to 
 go. 
 
 " I suppose the Greek pitchers are his pillows 
 and his cloak is his blanket," Doris said, u for he 
 has no intention of leaving the building." 
 
 The wind was blowing through a dilapidated roof, 
 and the whole place was inconceivably desolate. 
 
 1 ' Are you afraid ? ' ' I said. * ' We could go back 
 to the restaurant and sit up all night. At least 
 there is warmth there. ' ' 
 
 " No, I'm not exactly frightened," she said, 
 " but it is rather draughty. It would never do to 
 go back to the restaurant, for the landlady told me 
 that these two rooms had been prepared especially 
 for us, because we were English, and therefore 
 would not care to share the common sleeping-room 
 in the restaurant. She has one room there with 
 twenty beds in it. Germans like it very much, she 
 said, but the English are more difficult — they are 
 less sociable." 
 
 " Castrogiovanni is cold," I said. " That is one 
 thing to be argued in favour of the plan, and for 
 another there is safety in numbers." 
 
 " Don't say such horrid things ! We will be 
 perfectly safe here; there is nothing to be afraid 
 of." 
 
 The voice did not sound as brave as the words. 
 
 " I will lie awake all night," I said, " in any case. 
 So try to sleep, and don't be nervous." 
 
 " Oh, I'm not nervous," she replied, a little 
 haughtily, " only anxious. It would be very 
 awkward to be kidnapped without one's clothes. 
 It's so cold up here." 
 
 " I quite understand," I said. " But even a 
 brigand in Sicily would give a lady time enough to 
 
150 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 dress in cold weather. They have perfect man- 
 
 ners." 
 
 The long day spent in the keen air got the better 
 of my romantic determination to remain awake for 
 her sake, and it seemed only a few minutes from 
 the hour of our parting in the dark passage at ten 
 o'clock at night till eight o'clock next morning, 
 w r hen I heard a fresh young voice, full of the courage 
 and assurance of bright daylight, call out behind 
 my door — 
 
 " No fleas and no brigands. I feel as fit as a 
 fiddle. I have slept so soundly. You must be 
 tired, poor thing, after having lain awake all night." 
 
 " Oh, I slept beautifully!" I said, forgetting 
 altogether my promise of the night before. I 
 heard a smothered laugh. 
 
 " Did you really ? I wonder if Herr Mackintosh 
 would have kept awake if Miss Rosina had been 
 sleeping next door? I'm afraid you are not to be 
 depended upon." 
 
 I was out qf my room by this time, and I saw the 
 laughter in her eyes. 
 
 " Supposing I had been too nervous to sleep," 
 she said, u wouldn't it have been most ungallant of 
 you to have been fast asleep next door?" 
 
 " You would never have known," I said. " I 
 should not have been foolish enough to tell you." 
 
 " But I should have known all the same," she 
 said, with quiet assurance. M You couldn't have 
 deceived me." 
 
 " Have I such a very honest face?" I said. 
 " Can you always read the truth in my eyes?" 
 
 A little blush warmed her cheeks. 
 
 M About your eyes I don't know," she said — " I 
 never tried to read them ; but I have been compelled 
 to listen to your snores." 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 151 
 
 " Oh, Doris!" I said; " I'm certain that's not 
 true. I never snore." 
 
 " No man or woman was ever yet honest enough 
 to own that he or she snored," she said; " they'd 
 rather confess to a murder. I wonder why?" 
 
 u Because it is difficult to love a person who 
 snores," I said. " It is not a criminal offence, but 
 it is very unromantic. Try to picture any great 
 hero snoring, and he becomes commonplace at 
 once." 
 
 " Napoleon must have snored," she said; " he 
 had a snoring neck." 
 
 " Napoleon was a law unto himself," I said. 
 " Even fatness and snoring could not have dimmed 
 the halo of romance which surrounds him. When 
 I hear people trying to define genius I simply say 
 6 Napoleon.' " ' 
 
 " Snoring may not be romantic," she said, " but 
 it sounds contented." 
 
 We hurried across the square to the restaurant. 
 How welcome a cup of hot coffee would be ! We 
 took our seats at the table, which still retained the 
 crumbs and tobacco-ash of the night before. The 
 landlady appeared and placed two scaldini full of 
 hot charcoal, on the table in front of us. We held 
 our hands over the grated lids to thaw our benumbed 
 fingers. 
 
 " It was a brave person who washed much this 
 morning," Doris said. " I don't think I ever 
 bathed my face in really cold water before. But 
 what fun it all is!" 
 
 The scaldini were beautiful old copper goblets 
 with four crossed brass handles over the top. After 
 the coffee was served, the landlady brought her two 
 children and stood watching us drink it. The little 
 flirt of the night before was really a lovely child, the 
 other was pale and heavy-eyed. 
 
152 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 Doris invited the woman to sit down. 
 
 " She has already asked me a whole list of the 
 usual questions," she said, with an amused smile. 
 " The coach-driver has informed her of our relation- 
 ship to each other. But now she wishes to know, 
 How long have I been away from home? When 
 am I going back? If I live in England? — which, 
 in her mind, of course, means London. Are you 
 married? Have you any children of your own? 
 We can answer the questions just as we like, and 
 she will repeat them to the fine captain to-night at 
 dinner. It never seems to enter her head that we 
 should tell her anything but the truth. But I will 
 forgive her many things, for the coffee is excellent 
 and fresh-made. It is a true saying about restau- 
 rants : that where a few men are gathered together 
 there will the food be excellent, but where only a 
 few women are to be found there will be no food at 
 all. Women may dress to annoy other women, 
 but they cook to please men. If a party of school- 
 mistresses dined here every night in place of that 
 long-sworded police captain and his subordinates, 
 I should have been sorry for our chance of a 
 dinner." 
 
 When we had finished our coffee we were not 
 allowed to linger, for, punctual to the moment, our 
 young friends showed themselves at the door. It 
 was Sunday, a thing one is rather apt to overlook 
 in a little town with no shops, and where the church 
 bells do not wait for Sunday to ring. But the 
 students had honoured the day by wearing gloves. 
 We spent the morning in inspecting the ruins of 
 the two ancient castles, and in admiring one or two 
 fine palaces. But the sight which pleased us most 
 was a pack of sleek black mules, harnessed in their 
 Sunday-best. The straps and trappings were 
 made of soft leather, richly embroidered and em- 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 158 
 
 bossed with red and yellow cloth ; the saddle-bags 
 were quite rich enough for drawing-room cushions. 
 The faces of the animals were almost hidden in the 
 elaborate wool harness and scarlet fringes ; a copper 
 bell rested on the forehead of each mule. In the 
 cold, grey, silent streets this long procession of 
 richly trapped mules made a strangely mediaeval 
 sight. They looked as though they had been cut 
 out of Benozzo Gozzoli's frescoes. Doris was dis- 
 appointed not to see a monkey seated on the hind- 
 quarters of one mule and a nigger page following 
 another, and the young Medici dominating the 
 picture. The man in charge of the mules was 
 equally pleased with our openly expressed admira- 
 tion of the beasts and their harness. I don't know 
 what they were going to carry, or where they were 
 going to, but I suppose there was some purpose in 
 their picturesqueness. They certainly gave us a 
 good deal of pleasure, and they suited the place 
 uncommonly well. 
 
 Carts and horses there are none in Castro- 
 giovanni. But there are dogs, and the dogs of 
 Castrogiovanni are like no mortal dogs you have 
 ever seen. There can be no tax on dogs in Sicily, 
 which is a pity ; for even a tax of a soldo a head 
 would put out of existence hundreds of these lank, 
 cowering beasts. They belong to no known breed 
 or kind, these shivering, starving mongrels, so 
 debilitated through starvation or in breeding that 
 they have not the pluck to run away if they are 
 kicked. In a dirty town there is always some refuse 
 for a dog to devour, but here there is no need for 
 such street scavengers, for the wind carries all before 
 it. Not the most vigilant microbe could find a 
 hiding-place in this city in the clouds. These 
 empty, meek-eyed dogs have neither guts enough 
 
156 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 mafia is, in short, a king of terror, which governs 
 Sicily with a despotic hand. No man's soul is his 
 own ; it belongs to the mafia. If he is told to com- 
 mit a crime, he must commit a crime. And yet, 
 by no means confuse it with anarchism ; for these 
 two evils are distinct, and work, I believe, on differ- 
 ent methods. Both, however, unfortunately 
 flourish. I do not believe that Sicily wishes to be 
 wicked; it would be good if circumstances would 
 allow it. The evil that it does is the result of wild 
 desperation and misery. 
 
 Taken individually they are simple, lovable 
 people, with the inherited good breeding of gener- 
 ations of men and women of gentle manners. I 
 have not seen a brutalised woman in Sicily, but I 
 have seen a desperate mother, who would murder 
 a stranger to give food to her starving child. This 
 is not brutality, but the wonderful thing God plants 
 in the hearts of mothers at the birth of their first- 
 born. Nor have I seen a drunken woman, nor 
 heard a mother's voice raised in abusive anger. 
 Can this be said of countries which are considered 
 more civilised and advanced because they are free 
 of brigands and the mafia? 
 
 But I have left Castrogiovanni. Living in the 
 centre of the brigand country brought me to the 
 subject of the mafia, which is of course subtly con- 
 nected with brigandage, as it is with everything else 
 that is worst in Sicily. 
 
 There is a museum in Castrogiovanni, which 
 keeps its doors open all day long, and is guarded by 
 no custodian or curator. This, I think, speaks well 
 for the honesty of the citizens, as the room (which 
 is dignified by the term museum) contains one 
 object at least of great money value. It is a reredos 
 of enormous size made of solid silver. 
 
 It represents the interior of a basilica, and the 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 157 
 
 vista of the high altar with the priest elevating the 
 host is magnificently achieved. The ingenious way 
 in which the pillars of the basilica stand out from 
 the background gives the desired effect of distance 
 to the high altar. The workmanship is, I fancy, 
 sixteenth century. It is a pity it is not used in the 
 cathedral now, for the effect would be magnificent 
 with hundreds of candles lighting it up. 
 
 This enormous mass of silver stands in this 
 solitary room, forgotten and totally unguarded. 
 Perhaps you scarcely realise what the sight of so 
 much silver means to a Sicilian, until you live in a 
 country where a larger coin than a franc is not often 
 passed in silver, and where a gold coin is never seen 
 except in the hands of a foreigner. This reminds 
 me of rather an interesting fact — the reason why 
 there is so much difficulty in buying any of the 
 beautiful old Italian jewellery — the delicate neck- 
 laces or long earrings threaded with real pearls 
 which form part of the dowry of the Italian or 
 Sicilian peasant-girl. There is so little gold in the 
 Kingdom of Italy that the Government, anxious to 
 retain all that there is, are wise enough to offer a 
 very fair value in paper money for all the second- 
 hand gold jewellery which comes into the market. 
 
 The peasant does not, therefore, sell his trinkets 
 to the ordinary pawnbroker or dealer in antiques. 
 He goes to the Government Mont-de-piete and de- 
 posits them there. Of course he does not get the 
 real value of the article he is selling, taken from the 
 point of view of what a Jew dealer would charge a 
 stranger for the same article; but then, neither 
 would he if he took it to the Jew dealer. There are 
 always two prices for an article — the one you pay 
 for it, and the one you sell it for. No doubt the 
 Government treats the man as well, if not better, 
 than the dealer would. 
 
 ii 
 
158 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 This jewellery is wonderfully beautiful. Doris 
 priced a pair of earrings wrought in delicate gold 
 tracery and threaded with fine seed pearls; some 
 chips of rubies and emeralds formed a charming 
 design in the centre. The pair were £15, nor would 
 the dealer be persuaded to break the pair. Doris 
 told him that English ladies would buy them 
 separately, to be worn as pendants. He scoffed at 
 this idea, and said that some poor Sicilian woman 
 would save up the money and purchase the pair 
 for her daughter's dowry. 
 
 On market days it is amusing to watch the 
 country-women going into some small jeweller's 
 shop to spend their hard-earned money on some 
 piece of solid jewellery. I have seen earrings in 
 Sicily quite large enough for Doris to wear on her 
 wrists as bangles. Gold mixed with a little copper 
 alloy is much thought of ; the Sicilian does not care 
 for the new Calif ornian yellow gold. But the 
 modern jewellery is very ugly. Heavy gold neck- 
 laces of inferior workmanship and poor designs have 
 taken the place of the delicate gold tracery studded 
 with uncut jewels and fringed with seed pearls. 
 These old ornaments were things of such artistic 
 beauty that it is difficult to imagine how the people 
 of the present day can choose in preference the 
 vulgar trinkets one sees displayed in the shop win- 
 dows on market days. Why has their taste so 
 degenerated ? 
 
 It is a touching sight, this purchasing of the 
 wedding jewellery. I have more than once seen a 
 little family conclave, lasting the greater part of the 
 day, taking place in some quiet jeweller's shop. A 
 table is placed in the middle of the floor, and the 
 family — which usually consists of three generations 
 at least — take their places at it with an air of digni- 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 159 
 
 fied importance. The mother of the bride is draped 
 in the usual fine black cashmere shawl, but the 
 glossy head of her pretty daughter is of course hat- 
 less ; her parents can afford to buy her some fine 
 gold trinkets for her dowry, but she has not risen 
 to the social position of wearing a hat. A bright 
 scarf of many colours will be worn over her hair on 
 the journey home. 
 
 The jeweller does not expect the party to hurry 
 over their purchase ; what has taken so long to save 
 must not be spent too quickly. The whole shop 
 is turned out for them to examine, although the 
 article of their choice has been decided upon at 
 home for some months past. Dear, simple people, 
 no one is left out upon this important occasion. 
 The old family servant is there, and so are one or 
 two good neighbours. I can imagine the bare little 
 Sicilian home made bright that night by the 
 presence of the wonderful necklace. 
 
 Only too soon the hour came for us to say fare- 
 well to Castrogiovanni. It is sad to say good-bye 
 to a beautiful place which you feel almost certain 
 you will never visit again. Something in your life 
 is slipping into the past, and one more memory is 
 being added to the sanctuary. How many yester- 
 days there are, although to-morrow never comes ! 
 The disagreeable moment was upon us of paying 
 the landlady. She had intentionally kept out of 
 our sight until the very last moment. She brought 
 no written bill, but asked u eight francs fifty " 
 each per day. 
 
 Doris looked crestfallen, not on account of the 
 eight francs, but that again our trust in these 
 primitive people had been misplaced. We told her 
 that she had refused to fix her price per day when 
 
160 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 we arrived, and as we had eaten her food and slept 
 in her comfortless rooms, we had no choice left but 
 to pay the fee she demanded ; but that five francs 
 would have rewarded her liberally. She became 
 aggressive, and whined for even more than eight 
 francs. We must pay extra for the scrap of bread 
 and cheese she had given us to eat on our journey. 
 We were quite determined that we should not pay 
 one cent more than the eight-and-a-half francs, and 
 when she found that she could get nothing more 
 out of us, she bowed and smiled and joined in the 
 chorus ojf good wishes for our journey. We might 
 have been her welcome guests instead of her over- 
 charged customers. We were pleased to learn from 
 the coachman that this woman was not a Sicilian, 
 but a North Italian. He had apparently quite for- 
 gotten his own overcharge of the day before, for he 
 explained that the North Italians are the Jews of 
 Sicily. 
 
 " They despise the South," he said, " and laugh 
 at our poverty ; but they come here, nevertheless, 
 and take the food out of our mouths. That woman 
 married the old man who showed you over the 
 monastery when you arrived yesterday, for his 
 money, and, mio Dio ! what a life she leads him. 
 But an old man is a fool who marries a young 
 woman. Is that not so, signore? He deserves all 
 he gets." 
 
 When we laughingly reminded him of his own 
 attempt to cheat us the day before, he shrugged his 
 shoulders. 
 
 " At least I was not rude, signore," he said; 
 " and we must all try and make what money we 
 can. He that is afraid of the devil does not grow 
 rich." 
 
 The day being warmer, he had thrown off his 
 dark blue cloak, which seemed to hang on the outer 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 161 
 
 rim of his shoulders as if it were gummed there, as 
 he strode down the mountain at a swinging pace. 
 The horses had to go cautiously, for the hard frost 
 of the night before had made travelling dangerous. 
 We had, therefore, a fine opportunity of admiring 
 his magnificent physique. Every nerve in his body 
 seemed alert, and his figure was beautifully pro- 
 portioned. He conveyed an impression of manli- 
 ness and courage, which are not the attributes you 
 would apply to the elegant loungers who decorate 
 so picturesquely the cities in the plains. 
 
 As we were steaming out of the station rather a 
 touching thing happened. A young soldier, who 
 had his entire kit with him and was apparently 
 going to join his regiment in some distant part of 
 the island, was reading the Giorndle. Doris had, 
 I fancy, cast longing eyes at the paper for some 
 news of the war. The young fellow looked up and 
 caught the longing. He saluted gracefully and 
 very diffidently offered her the paper. 
 
 - It contains good news of your war," he said. 
 " Please keep it to read on your journey." He 
 was a North-countryman from Bologna, and was 
 greatly interested in South Africa. He was 
 entirely in sympathy with the English. Of course 
 we had to bear in rnind that nothing succeeds like 
 success. I wondered if six weeks ago he would 
 have looked at it from the same point of view. 
 However, the spirit of kindliness which prompted 
 the action was not lost upon Doris, and I think the 
 young man was well repaid, for she has a way of 
 smiling her thanks which nothing in uniform can 
 resist, especially when the heart that beats below it 
 is Italian. 
 
 I forgot to mention that in the centre of Castro- 
 giovanni, which is the centre of Sicily and was the 
 centre of the ancient worship of the Corn Goddess, 
 
162 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 there is to-day a famous vineyard, which, as far as 
 we could gather from Freeman, is the site of the 
 renowned Temple of Proserpine. The site of the 
 temple of her mother Ceres (for want of better 
 evidence, as Freeman says) is accepted to be the big 
 white rock which rises sheer from the plains outside 
 the town beyond the Castle of Manfred. " From 
 such a point Demeter (Ceres) could indeed look 
 forth over her Island, and her Island could look up 
 to its goddess. In the absence of all direct evi- 
 dence, we may provisionally accept this site as that 
 of the holiest place of pagan Sicily." 
 
 Speaking of Ceres and her child reminds me that 
 in the small municipal museum spoken of, there was 
 an interesting example of the tact and adaptability 
 shown by the early Christians. There is an antique 
 statue of the pagan mother and her child, Ceres with 
 the infant Proserpine in her arms. The Christians, 
 not wishing to upset local customs too quickly, used 
 the same statue for Mary and the child Christ. 
 There was both common-sense and economy in this 
 simple transformation. The ancients no doubt had 
 inherited from many, many generations a reverence 
 and devotion for this statue. It had been made 
 sacred by the prayers of thousands, and therefore 
 what had served as the emblem of the holiest of 
 pagan deities was wisely utilised to represent the 
 mother and infant-founder of the new religion. 
 This adaptation of pagan customs and pagan 
 belongings enters into everything. The pagan 
 festivals became the Christian saint-days ; the pagan 
 temples were used as Christian churches. It even 
 went so far in Castrogiovanni that, to appease the 
 people — because, no doubt through the worship of 
 the old religion being thrown aside, the importance 
 of Enna was considerably lessened — the local 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 163 
 
 leaders of the new religion invented the astounding 
 theory that the Immaculate Conception of Our 
 Lady took place in Enna. Visitors are shown a 
 curious little stove in an ancient room which Mary 
 is said to have inhabited. They even go so far as to 
 say that Mary was engaged in cooking at this very 
 stove when the announcing angel appeared to her. 
 In robbing Enna of the worship of the pagan 
 mother it seemed only just to make the handsomest 
 compensation possible. 
 
 Freeman says : " There is no spot of an historic 
 fame so ancient and so abiding as Enna which kept 
 so few memorials of its earlier history. . . . Here 
 and there we mark a wheel-track or a cutting in 
 the rock, but it is disappointing that in a place so 
 full of memories, Sikel, Greek, Roman, Saracen, 
 and Norman, we can find nothing, no wall or temple 
 or church or palace, older than the kings of the 
 house of Aragon." 
 
 This of course to classical scholars must be a 
 grievous fault in Castrogiovanni, but with Doris 
 and myself it would be affectation to pretend that 
 we felt very deeply upon the subject. The Aragon 
 memories are good enough for us, Doris says ; and 
 the Castrogiovanni of to-day is so picturesque and 
 romantic that we can console ourselves for the loss 
 of Epoca Greca. It is rather a relief to think that 
 we have not seen one ancient tomb of a noble family 
 in Castrogiovanni. 
 
 Doris was gaily chattering to our young student 
 guides as they were toiling up to the vineyard, when 
 two brown-frocked monks scuttled down the hill 
 with upraised hands. They spoke so rapidly and 
 so urgently that both the need and meaning of their 
 eloquence was lost upon us. With crestfallen faces 
 and polite apologies for the conduct of the monks, 
 
164 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 the boys told Doris that she was on forbidden 
 ground. No woman — not even Queen Margherita 
 herself — was permitted to visit this vineyard or 
 monastery. 
 
 " Then ask them why they have dared to plant 
 their vineyard on one of the most sacred spots in 
 pagan Sicily ? Why may a woman not visit the 
 ground ' famous among the sanctuaries of the 
 earth,' when it was a woman who gave us her Son 
 for the redemption of mankind?" 
 
 The monks gazed at her. 
 
 " Tell them to go away," she continued, " and 
 they are not to look at me. If it is wrong for a 
 woman to walk in their beautiful vineyard it is 
 wrong for them to stare at one just outside the 
 gate." 
 
 Of course I refused to enter. I did not feel 
 inclined to put my hand in my pocket to purchase 
 a bottle pf wine, which would be expected of me, 
 when Doris was refused admittance. 
 
 Doris had progressed so far in her acquaintance 
 with the students of the university of Castro- 
 giovanni that she had promised to send them a 
 letter from Girgenti as a souvenir. 
 
 " They can't read English and I can't write 
 Italian ; my grammar is too shaky. I have learnt 
 to do half my speaking with my hands and eyes, 
 and you can't put that down on paper; but it 
 doesn't matter in the least. They can imagine I 
 have written just what they would like me to feel. 
 What dear lads they are ! One of them asked me 
 if I liked poetry. He at once began reciting what 
 I fancied might be a quotation from Dante which 
 he had learnt at school. The other three boys 
 clapped their hands, and told me that it was his own 
 composition. No doubt it was rubbish, but even 
 
H 
 
 C3 
 
 v 
 
 5- 
 E 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 165 
 
 Italian prose sounds like poetry, and the boy had a 
 charming voice. Can you imagine an English 
 schoolboy striking an attitude on a rock and burst- 
 ing into poetry?" 
 
 It was evidently Doris who had inspired his 
 muse, for the poem was only composed the night 
 before. 
 
 As there are no women of even the humblest 
 order to be seen in the streets of Castrogiovanni, 
 and these boys had never been in any other city, 
 you can imagine how their young hearts were fired 
 by the pretty English girl, who walked and smiled 
 and talked to them in a way which the girls of their 
 country do not understand. How doubly cold and 
 cheerless their university would be when the 
 wonderful lady had gone ! Their hearts had been 
 surprised and stolen in one sunlit ajfternoon and a 
 gay morning of blue skies and mountain heights, 
 but all the years of a long life will not efface the 
 vivid impressions of youth. You may be quite sure 
 that in the days to come, when these bright-eyed 
 boys are taking their places with the patriarchs of 
 the grey old wind-blown city, in the memory of each 
 of them there will be a green spot for the English 
 girl with cheeks like their almond blossom. 
 
 When the bellisssima signorina was mounted high 
 on the top of the Regie Poste, and the horses were 
 ringing an impatient peal with their fine necklaces 
 of bells, four boys' hearts were very heavy, and 
 eight dark eyes were full of sentiment and longing. 
 
 Their little souvenir at parting was a pretty collec- 
 tion of the wild-flowers of Castrogiovanni, exqui- 
 sitely pressed and mounted on large sheets of exer- 
 cise paper. They were flowers they had gathered for 
 their botany lectures at the seminary. These little 
 attentions, which are very usual in Sicily, have en- 
 deared the people very much to us. 
 
166 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 I hope I do not gush to you over Sicily, and I 
 am glad that my journal helps to beguile the weari- 
 ness of your enforced idleness. You should come 
 to Sicily to learn how to do nothing on no income. 
 Here idleness becomes a dignified profession. 
 
 Yours affectionately, 
 
 J. C. 
 
Girgenti, Sicily, 
 
 March, 1900. 
 
 Dear Louise, — 
 
 Girgenti, the ancient Acragas, is marvel- 
 lous : it soars above description. From our terrace 
 of this most pleasing hotel, which is the strangest 
 mixture of electric light and mediaeval darkness, we 
 look down upon a scene which suddenly brings you 
 to your level. But to give you even the faintest 
 idea of the view I have before me at this moment, 
 I must tell you that Girgenti, the city, is built upon 
 a hill; but, speaking broadly, the Girgenti which 
 visitors come to see consists of the Greek temples 
 which he down on the plain. Our hotel is up in 
 the city, which has adapted its outlines to the 
 natural formation of a long line of rock which runs 
 along the crest of the hill. Our hotel is almost the 
 last house on the outermost rim of the city, so that 
 nothing interrupts our view of the wide, fertile 
 plain which runs down to the sea — a plain literally 
 flowing with wine and oil, although the vegetation 
 which shows up most impressively here, and which 
 casts a veil of misty blue over the landscape, con- 
 sists of the inevitable artichokes and the prickly- 
 pears. 
 
 On well-chosen sites of considerable elevation, 
 midway between the sea and the line of mountains, 
 lie the famous temples of Girgenti. 
 
 Strangers should time their arrival in Girgenti 
 
 so that their eyes may first fall upon these eternal 
 
 167 
 
168 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 monuments when they are bathed in the warmth of 
 the setting sun. The sun seems to rejoice in the 
 part it is called upon to play in enhancing the 
 beauty of these proofs of Sicily's pagan greatness. 
 
 It would have been rude if it had set behind the 
 great city rock and left the temples out in the cold. 
 As Doris says, " All you can do is to conquer tears 
 and bow your head in meek humility when you 
 first see these temples. There is nothing else to 
 be done." There are some kinds of architectural 
 scenery which you can speak about and rave over, 
 but these mighty monarchs of the plain command 
 the respect of silence. 
 
 Even a fool's tongue could not wag when the 
 light which brings long shadows falls upon the 
 place 2 and pours its evening blesssing upon the 
 temples. These temples are the saddest things I 
 have ever seen. Alone in their strength, they have 
 outlived the history of their time. They represent 
 a religion of which we know nothing and have but 
 the merest suppositions. The innumerable images 
 and Tamps and votive offerings found in their pre- 
 cincts do not help us. There they stand — these 
 sanctuaries of the pagan world — dominating the 
 plain in their simple greatness, forgotten by Time, 
 the ravager, like some lonely souls passed over in 
 the day o(f judgment. And yet in their day they 
 were the focus in the life of a people — a people who 
 were counted amongst the great, a people who were 
 busy colonising the desirable Mediterranean shores. 
 
 One cannot help being thankful that there are 
 
 cathedral archives to record the history of the 
 
 Christian belief, so that when another twenty 
 
 centuries have effected their ruthless changes, 
 
 Canterbury will not be a monument to an unknown 
 
 religion. 
 
 ****** 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 169 
 
 We are the only strangers in this wonderful hotel, 
 and our host (the maitre d'hdtel) is a Sicilian edition 
 of Corney Grain. He walks with the same elephan- 
 tine gentleness, and besides having a unique re- 
 semblance in figure and features, he has something 
 of the late lamented's grace of wit. It would be 
 useless to attempt to describe this hotel, for sur- 
 prises greet you at every turn. Sufficient that it 
 gives you a happy impression of white-tiled terraces, 
 gaily adorned with green pots full of red carnations 
 in a riot of bloom, tangles of cacti and Fichi 
 d' India, and has elevations of every conceivable 
 height and construction. When a Sicilian requires 
 another room or a terrace, he builds it on. His 
 native ingenuity always defies impossibility, and 
 never a spot is wasted where a flower or a green 
 thing will flourish. 
 
 On our arrival, after introducing us to his wife, 
 who, poor creature, is one of those yellow objects 
 devastated by fever which one sometimes sees in 
 Sicily, our host escorted us to the terrace which 
 overlooks the plains. He is a giant of few words, 
 and as we followed him up the tiled staircase, cool 
 and dark, and across the light, white halls, brightly 
 tiled, we felt that we had dropped down upon some- 
 thing good. After Castrogiovanni it seems luxur- 
 ious. Without a word spoken we seemed to 
 journey on through an endless succession of dark 
 passages and Spanish tiled halls, when quite sud- 
 denly he opened a door and bowed Doris out on to 
 the sunny terrace. I watched his pleased face while 
 the girl took in her first impression of the view. 
 
 Doris leaned her elbows on the parapet of highly 
 glazed china tiles, and shaded her eyes from the 
 evening sun. 
 
 " I am finding the temples," she said ; " I know 
 they are down on the plain." 
 
170 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 Our gentle giant did not speak, but with a soft 
 white hand he pointed out their situation with his 
 eyes still fixed on the girl's eloquent face. After a 
 moment's looking, she raised her elbows from the 
 white tiles, and her hands dropped at her side. 
 She had seen them ! We stood in devout silence. 
 A tired sigh came from full heart to lips. She left 
 us and walked to the end of the terrace. It was as 
 if some gorgeous music, which had held her spell- 
 bound and as physically taut as the strings of a 
 fiddle, had suddenly ceased. 
 
 Our host gave an approving smile of sympathy. 
 I could see he was pleased, and that it was here as 
 it is everywhere, — Love me, love my Sicily. Scorn 
 my Sicily, and you may sleep in north rooms and 
 eat poor food for all I care. 
 
 " The signorina is affected," he said. " She is 
 very sensitive. The English are not often so." 
 
 I nodded my head. 
 
 M I often wonder why it is that the signor Inglese 
 travels so far from the country which is the best 
 in the world?" 
 
 I smiled at his implied sarcasm. 
 
 M For something to do," I said ; " and in search 
 of sunshine." 
 
 He laughed. " Gia, gia. We are all sun- 
 worshippers whatever our creed may be ; that is the 
 touch of nature which makes us all kin. Is not 
 that so? The English are so powerful that they 
 take whatever they wish, but they cannot rob Italy 
 of her sunshine. It is like the rich man who can 
 buy everything but love, and love is the salt of 
 life. A country without sunshine requires all its 
 riches." And then he went on to point out the 
 different temples by their names. 
 
 The Temple of Juno Lacinia, the Temple of 
 Concord, the Temple of Hercules, the Temple of 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 171 
 
 Jupiter, the Temple of Castor and Pollux, these are 
 the most important of the group of nine, and fine- 
 sounding names they were when they rolled from 
 the lips of Orestes de' Angelis. The ancient Porto 
 Empedocle, which carried on such a wealthy trade 
 with Carthage when the inhabitants of Acragas 
 numbered eight hundred thousand (including 
 slaves), lies stretched out in the blue sea. The boats 
 swaying in the harbour, he explained, were now 
 almost entirely confined to the sulphur trade. One- 
 sixth of the Sicilian sulphur is exported from this 
 little port. 
 
 " Signor de' Angelis," Doris said suddenly, 
 " will you order a carriage now, at this very 
 moment, before the sun goes away? for we must 
 go to the temples. I want to sit in one this very 
 evening. They can never be so beautiful again." 
 
 14 While you drink your coffee, signorina, on the 
 terrace, I will do what you command." 
 
 The coffee appeared, and also some tangerine 
 oranges, half-hidden in their dark green leaves. I 
 think you have to go to Sicily to see these rich- 
 coloured oranges. I have never found them else- 
 where. 
 
 " We have not inspected our rooms yet," I said, 
 " or made any arrangements." 
 
 11 I don't care the least bit where I sleep. I feel 
 as if to sleep here would be a waste of time, a want 
 of proper appreciation. Let us forget all the little 
 bothers of travelling and go to the temples. You 
 can order your rooms any time, but you can't order 
 that light." 
 
 Once in the carriage we dashed with a fine reck- 
 lessness through the long c6rso 9 sending the hordes 
 of idle loungers flying hither and thither. If a 
 coachman in Sicily waited for the populace to move 
 out of the horses' way, you would never reach your 
 
172 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 destination. You have to run over them to make 
 them move. The road to the temple skirts the foot 
 of the Rock of Athene, where the temple of Athene 
 is supposed to have stood, and passes the fashionable 
 Hotel des Temples, and later the dilapidated but 
 picturesque Convent of St. Nicola. 
 
 Girgenti and its surroundings are red — as red as 
 Devonshire ; Syracuse and its neighbourhood were 
 dazzlingly white, and Castrogiovanni was grey. In 
 Girgenti rich travertine walls take the place of the 
 white plastered walls so general in Syracuse. On 
 this long road to the temples these orange-walls 
 have undoubtedly been built mainly from blocks 
 stolen from the ruined temples. On this road we 
 met our first flock of Girgenti goats, which are the 
 aristocracy of their race in Sicily, and do a great 
 deal to impress upon you the magnificence of the 
 animal at its best. 
 
 They are enormous beasts with long and very fine 
 snow-white hair; their immense horns stand out 
 from their heads like the antlers of a stag. Under 
 the shade of an ancient prickly-pear, which had 
 grown so strong that its trunk was as thick and as 
 straight as a tree, a sunburnt old man was busily 
 feeding half a dozen of these fine goats. Their 
 eager, pert heads seemed almost human in their 
 intelligence as they waited for him to cut a slice off 
 a succulent leaf of the prickly-pear which he held 
 in his hand. Before the slice had left the pocket- 
 knife or had been quite severed from the leaf, a 
 sharp mouth seized it and a blunt nose was poked 
 into the air ; then another and another mouth was 
 fed in just the same manner. The man was a 
 beautiful old country fellow, dressed in the light- 
 blue cotton knee-breeches and loose coat, the 
 costume of a generation which is fast dying out. 
 
 The group made a charming picture. Girgenti 
 
The Temple of Castor and Pollux at Girgenti." 
 
 [To face p. 172. 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 178 
 
 is full of colour. The little black-and-white goats 
 of Syracuse are very insignificant animals compared 
 with these white ones. 
 
 Here, as everywhere, we have goats and prickly- 
 pears. The tombs, I am quite sure, we are coming 
 to. 
 
 The prickly-pears are the camels of Sicily. They 
 carry water during the drought for the beasts in 
 their fleshy leaves, and absorb moisture out of the 
 barren soil. The human boy and foolish lovers do 
 not carve their names or cut entwined hearts on the 
 bark of trees in Sicily, but on the broad plate- 
 shaped leaves of the prickly-pear. I have seen 
 poems and amusing mottoes cut on these ubiquitous 
 plants, and not infrequently caricatures of local 
 celebrities are cleverly scratched on them. 
 
 Here in Girgenti there are fields and mountain- 
 sides covered with this weird plant. The prickly- 
 pear is green-blue, while the aloe is blue-green, and 
 yet neither of them is really green at all when it 
 takes its place beside the true spring-green of the 
 almond-trees or the tender sprouting grain, the 
 green which England knows and loves. The charm 
 of the vegetation in the south is, I think, due to the 
 mixtures of these different greens. Here the 
 asphodels are still in bloom. Syracuse is much 
 earlier in the arrival of her seasons. 
 
 When we reached the temples they were still 
 warm with the sun. They are built of a shell-stone 
 or travertine, which never could have withstood the 
 ravages of the sirocco if they had not been originally 
 covered with an imperishable white cement, which 
 can be seen to this day in parts. 
 
 If these temples had been built of marble or of 
 any valuable stone, it is doubtful if they would have 
 withstood the ravages of Hannibal, the son of Gisco, 
 who plundered the city in 406 and shipped off its 
 
 12 
 
174 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 works of art to Carthage. Even the temples were 
 burnt. Poor Juno still carries her scars. 
 
 Doris refuses to picture them as they were in 
 their original state, cemented white to represent 
 marble and decorated in bright colours. They are 
 so much more beautiful now. It was the desire of 
 the Greeks, no doubt, to reproduce in their colonies 
 the white marble temples of their beloved Athens 
 which led them into this grievous error of imitation. 
 
 Out of the nine temples, two remain almost com- 
 plete — the Temple of Juno Lacinia, and the Tem- 
 ple of Concord, which is one of the most perfect 
 ancient temples in existence. Its preservation may 
 be partly due to the fact that it was used as a 
 Christian church throughout the Middle Ages. 
 In the evening, when the hasty tourists have fled, 
 and the Americans are dressing for their table 
 d'hote at the Hotel des Temples, it is sublime to sit 
 almost hidden from sight in a sweet-scented sea of 
 asphodels and gaze on these wonderful works of 
 mankind. As you look, you grow amazed that 
 human hands, and not divine, raised them. The 
 huge fallen blocks impress you almost as much as 
 the exquisite proportion and symmetry of the 
 buildings. The scene envelops you. You find 
 your mind battling to find out something of their 
 past, battling to reconstruct them ; your imagina- 
 tion, filled with classically draped figures, going 
 through a form of ceremony, which is the stone wall 
 against which your brain kicks, and it falls back to 
 take refuge in the eye-worship of the present. 
 
 Why, you ask yourself, are all these ghosts of the 
 past here to-day? They are little in keeping with 
 the present city of Girgenti. Their simplicity and 
 purity of style have served nothing as an example to 
 the architects who built the cathedral. 
 
 The town, however, I must leave for another 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 175 
 
 time. To-night we have eyes only for the temples 
 on the plains. 
 
 Have I told you that I have had news of Alice's 
 boy ? I am to expect a visit from him in Palermo. 
 His ship is now at Malta. He has six months' 
 leave, and speaks in his letter as if he intended 
 spending the first three months in Sicily and 
 Southern Italy. I cannot believe that Alice's boy 
 is old enough to be writing in this manner. It 
 seems impossible, when one looks back upon the 
 pleasure and pain of those days, that the years have 
 slipped by unnoticed so easily. 
 
 In youth we imagine each year and day will drag 
 on in longing and loneliness. If there is anything 
 of his mother in the lad, you may be sure, for old 
 memories' sake, he will be welcome. 
 
 Yours, 
 
 J. C. 
 
GlRGENTI, 
 
 March, 1900. 
 
 My dear Louise, — 
 
 We are longing for English letters and 
 London newspapers. It seems months since we 
 left Syracuse. Our journey here took us through 
 the heart of the sulphur-mining country, the Black 
 country of Sicily, so to speak, although it is in 
 reality yellow. As the train laboured through the 
 mountains, the very air was thick with sulphur 
 fumes, and for many miles the wild beauty of the 
 scenery was ruined by the ever-present sulphur 
 mines. I have not the slightest idea how these 
 mines are worked, but their appearance is like the 
 throwing up of gigantic mole-hills discoloured with 
 sulphur. Everywhere on the winding goat-tracks 
 through the mountainous mining country, you can 
 see pack-trains of mules laden with gigantic blocks 
 of yellow-green sulphur. Two blocks of, I should 
 say, 50 lbs. each go to a mule. 
 
 The railway stations on the line are very numer- 
 ous and close together, and it was always the same 
 thing — a great deal of shunting and waste of time 
 for us, spent in the hitching on or off of waggons 
 full of sulphur. All the stations were busy with 
 sulphur-coloured people taking the blocks from the 
 mules and putting them into the waggons. When 
 the sulphur arrives at Girgenti it is taken straight 
 down by a special railway to Porto Empedocle. 
 This busy, mining Sicily is a very ugly one, I must 
 
 admit ; and the people connected with it, the men, 
 
 176 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 177 
 
 women, and even the children, are as lawless and 
 depraved a class of people as miners everywhere 
 are. Yet the prosperity of Sicily depends on her 
 sulphur. When sulphur is up, Sicily is peaceful, 
 and socialism is inactive; when sulphur is down, 
 Sicily is one vast home of paupers, and the terror 
 of brigandage reigns. 
 
 It has come as an unpleasant shock in our travels 
 through this idle island, this busy region of brim- 
 stone and sulphur. And yet to fully understand 
 Girgenti and the undercurrent of discontent and 
 the revolutionary spirit of the people, you must 
 first grasp the magnitude of the sulphur trade, and 
 see this extraordinary country where the daily life 
 of the people is a thing undreamt ojf in its hideous- 
 ness. 
 
 The wealth, and the poverty, and the horrible 
 degradation of Girgenti are all the outcome of 
 sulphur. The busy shipping, down at the little 
 port in the blue African sea, is, as I told you, totally 
 confined to sulphur. The railway which takes it 
 down from the height of the city-on-the-hills to the 
 sea-level — as fine a piece of engineering as there is 
 of the kind — was constructed out of the profits of 
 sulphur. The handsome corso, with its excellent 
 shops and fine public buildings, is the outcome of 
 sulphur ; so, too, are the filthy depravity and bestial 
 types of the men and women living in the foul- 
 smelling streets behind the corso. 
 
 There is a sense of evil and wickedness, mingled 
 with the poverty, in the dark streets of Girgenti 
 which, thank God, is unusual amongst the poor of 
 Sicily. 
 
 Doris could not walk alone through even the 
 openest part of this wild city, whereas in Syracuse 
 or Castrogiovanni she would have been as safe in 
 the darkest corner as in her English village. 
 
178 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 Our first experience of Sicilian drunkenness, too, 
 has been at Girgenti. Our coachman who drove us 
 to the temples on the night of our arrival was just 
 drunk enough to be unpleasantly obstinate, and the 
 noise in the streets here at night sounds more like 
 the noise one hears when closing hour comes in 
 London than the usual midnight talk and laughter 
 in a Southern city. Sicily never goes to bed, and 
 if you want to see the streets at their gayest, put 
 your head out of your bedroom window some night 
 after you have been asleep for many hours, and you 
 will see the nation at play. I believe the beggars 
 sleep when they have nothing to eat, but the shop- 
 keepers, who are busy in their shops during the 
 daytime, play dominoes or cards all night long, and 
 it is a well-known fact that no Italian or Sicilian 
 officer requires a night-shirt. His bright blue cloak 
 and gleamings of scarlet and steel decorate the pub- 
 lic squares and streets from dawn until dawn. 
 Doris says she supposes that the reason why Italians 
 have no word for home is that they used to live in 
 their palaces and now live in their streets. No one 
 could ever call a palace a home, were it ever so 
 palatial. 
 
 Speaking of palaces reminds me that I have never 
 told you anything about the interior of this hotel, 
 which, it is needless to say, was once a palace. In 
 days gone by there seems to have been literally no 
 merchant class in Sicily; a man either lived in a 
 palace or a basso, which is really the basement of 
 a palace. Our gentle giant attends to our wants 
 himself during meals ; he keeps a waiter to run his 
 messages. His manner is a subtle mixture of the 
 dignity of a host and a humble anxiety for our 
 comfort, and his cooking is superb ; even the beef 
 and mutton have here redeemed their fallen charac- 
 ter. The decorations of the rooms are a ludicrous 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 179 
 
 mixture of ancient splendour and modern trash; 
 the high vaulted roofs in the original palace rooms 
 are handsomely painted, and there are some fine 
 specimens of old Italian furniture scattered about 
 the place. The immense sofas, covered in Genoese 
 gold-brocade, seem dwarfed by the vastness of the 
 rooms. Contrasted with these relics of bygone 
 splendour are the most modern and rickety of ward- 
 robes and make-shift washstands. The floors are 
 covered with old Spanish tiles in yellow and blue. 
 As many as thirty tiles go to form one design. In 
 the new rooms, which the landlord has added on to 
 the palace at his own sweet will, the walls are 
 roughly distempered, and bold shafts of flowers and 
 fruit are dashed across the white walls. These 
 shafts of colour fly out from the cornice and dis- 
 appear into the skirt-board. They are not the most 
 original form of decoration I have ever seen, but the 
 whole effect is delightfully Southern. 
 
 Four priests dined with us to-night, and although 
 it is Lent they treated themselves well. Doris says 
 that Lent is the only time when men are willing to 
 own that they are over sixty — Catholics over sixty 
 and under sixteen are exempt from fasting in Lent ; 
 so are all school-teachers, I believe, which is a very 
 wise rule. The priests, like ourselves, are pilgrims 
 in Girgenti, and are anticipating their first visit to 
 the temples to-morrow morning. They are very 
 clean in their persons, and polished men of the 
 world in their manners. I wonder what country 
 produced them. 
 
 This morning we paid a visit to the cathedral. 
 In the Middle Ages Girgenti was the most richly 
 endowed bishopric in Sicily, but there is little to 
 remind you of the fact to-day in the tawdry modern 
 building, the very acme of bad taste. The decora- 
 tions of the interior remind one of a box covered 
 
180 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 with shells, such as you see for sale on the pier at 
 Brighton. It is impossible to get over the fact 
 that the people who built this monument of vulgar- 
 ity must have lived all their lives within sight of the 
 Greek temples. The only part of the original 
 building which remains is the elegant unfinished 
 campanile and one pillar in the interior.. Every- 
 thing is squalor and disorder in Girgenti when once 
 you leave the fine corso. 
 
 On the wide flight of steps leading up to the 
 cathedral front, an entire household's washing was 
 spread out to dry; some splendid coarse linen 
 sheets, hand-spun and as warm as blankets in tex- 
 ture, were actually steaming on the hot red 
 sandstone steps. This washing so completely 
 usurped the main entrance to the building that two 
 priests, who were scuttling to midday service, were 
 compelled to go round to the side doors. In 
 Girgenti it is impossible to enjoy a quiet moment. 
 Sight-seeing is almost dangerous, for the people 
 are both rough and rude. If a stranger appears in 
 their streets most quietly and unnoticeably dressed, 
 the human boy spots him at once, and he becomes 
 a laughing-stock and an object of prey to the whole 
 neighbourhood. Ugly little faces, covered with 
 scars, turn their evil eyes up to yours, a general 
 whine for money begins and increases in persistence 
 as the string of followers gathers and gathers. No 
 one is ashamed to beg in Girgenti. Sometimes I 
 think they do it for fun and to annoy the stranger. 
 
 An old woman, whose features were wasted and 
 distorted with disease, was actually laid out on a 
 rough chaff -mattress in the narrow dark street to 
 beg. As her bed took up the whole width of the 
 street, we had to retrace our steps ; we had no time 
 to risk the army of microbes we might have dis- 
 turbed by treading on that mattress. Her daughter 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 181 
 
 — a fine-featured, well-dressed woman — followed us 
 with the endless cry, u Fame, signore, fame, molto 
 fame, piccola moneta." I wonder if the sulphur 
 kings of Sicily do anything for Girgenti. It is 
 certainly a disgrace to their country, a blister on 
 the side of the island. The ordinary tourist, who 
 spends one night at the Hotel des Temples, which 
 is more than a mile from the city, never sees this 
 degradation and poverty, for the cathedral in the 
 city is scarcely worth a visit in a country where there 
 is so much to see, although it contains a celebrated 
 sarcophagus, which is a thing of rare and exquisite 
 beauty, but not unique enough to tempt the ordin- 
 ary sightseer out of his course. For, after a few 
 months spent in Sicily, one begins to class sar- 
 cophagi in the same category as aqueducts and 
 tombs of noble families. The only other object of 
 interest in the town itself is what remains of the 
 oldest temple of Girgenti, Jupiter Polieus. There 
 are six columns still to be seen under the foundation 
 of the church of S. Maria dei Greci. 
 
 But I have no intention of spending another hour 
 of our valuable time in the city of Girgenti. You 
 can so easily turn your back upon all that is evil and 
 hideous by walking as far as the popular Passeggi- 
 ata, which is at the extreme end of the town, just 
 under the Rupe Atenea. This promenade com- 
 mands a lovely view. We saw the distant island of 
 Pantellaria an hour before sunset as we were sitting 
 there listening to the town band. Sicilians live for 
 their Passeggiata ; it is the one event of excitement 
 in their empty day. Girgenti does not boast of 
 many " carriage folk," so we had a near view of the 
 beauty and fashion of this sulphur city, and we 
 came to the conclusion that the merchant, or mine- 
 owner, who is even moderately well off, does not 
 live in Girgenti. It is strange what characters 
 
182 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 cities have ! I wonder more has not been made of 
 the subject in literature. Girgenti has as much 
 individuality as any " cussed vixen " in fiction. 
 If you were a blind person, and had been suddenly 
 transported from Castrogiovanni to Girgenti the 
 characteristics of the city would affect you at once. 
 You could never imagine you were in sea-bound 
 Syracuse, lovely white Syracuse, or wind-swept 
 Castrogiovanni, with her silent streets and hurrying 
 clouds. And yet here in Girgenti the cloud effects 
 are magnificent. They tear and scud across the 
 sky, casting deep shadows on the endless expanse of 
 sea, which reaches as far from right to left, when 
 you are facing the south, as the eye can see. There 
 is something tragic about the scenery of Girgenti, 
 something mysterious in the effect it has upon one. 
 " You would always stand in awe of its beauty," 
 Doris says, M even if you had played as a baby 
 around its temples ; it is not a place to love and 
 grow fond of. Some places, like some people, 
 command respect, while others beget love." Sicily 
 is all gold and grey, all sunshine and shadow, but I 
 think the shadows rest longest on Girgenti. 
 
 We wished to walk to the temples yesterday, 
 having had not too pleasant an experience with our 
 driver ; and, to vary the route, we decided to follow 
 the ancient Greek road which leads down to Porto 
 Empedocle. We engaged the services of a small 
 boy to act as guide. He was about twelve years of 
 age, and as pretty a character as you ever saw ; it 
 was his extraordinary appearance which first 
 attracted Doris. Not a garment he wore had 
 originally been made or bought to fit his slender 
 person. The boots on his small, well-shaped feet, 
 which were stockingless, were women's boots, so 
 many sizes too large for him that over and over 
 again, as we picked our way through the ancient 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 183 
 
 rock-strewn street, one or both boots would be left 
 lodged between the sharp stones. His trousers had 
 literally no legs, they were all seat, and had origin- 
 ally been wore by some man as big as our gentle 
 giant at the hotel; the upper portions reached 
 almost to the child's ankles, so legs were not 
 required. A coat of many colours, which had been 
 made smaller round the tails and left in its original 
 baggy state at the shoulders, was set off by a glaring 
 knitted waistcoat, which came down almost to the 
 knees. The cap, the faded ghost of what had once 
 been fine green plush, was the only article of dress 
 which, in a manner, fitted this grotesque little 
 human ragbag. The boy's natural grace of limb 
 and Greek cast of features made him look like a 
 Greek mounteback playing at being a man, a thing 
 all tatters and remnants, but graced with the beauty 
 of the South. His hair had faded with the sun from 
 nut-brown to tawny gold ; the long ends were full 
 of colour. But it was the eyes, full of the gravity 
 of Sicily, and the eloquent languor of his race, 
 which gave the real beauty to the face. 
 
 When we met him, his arms were full of fresh 
 dandelions, which he told us he was taking home to 
 his mother for a salad. Sicilians love green food, 
 and Providence has been kind in supplying them 
 with a plentiful variety of hedge salads, as any price, 
 however low, would be more than they could afford 
 to pay for garden-grown food. This says a good 
 deal for their poverty : a landlady once told me that 
 she could buy enough lettuces to serve a party of 
 thirty for twopence. 
 
 We offered the boy twenty cents if he would act 
 as our guide for the afternoon ; he was delighted. 
 Without a moment's thought, his fine salad was 
 stowed inside his waistcoat ; he was not the proud 
 
182 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 cities have ! I wonder more has not been made of 
 the subject in literature. Girgenti has as much 
 individuality as any " cussed vixen " in fiction. 
 If you were a blind person, and had been suddenly 
 transported from Castrogiovanni to Girgenti the 
 characteristics of the city would affect you at once. 
 You could never imagine you were in sea-bound 
 Syracuse, lovely white Syracuse, or wind-swept 
 Castrogiovanni, with her silent streets and hurrying 
 clouds. And yet here in Girgenti the cloud effects 
 are magnificent. They tear and scud across the 
 sky, casting deep shadows on the endless expanse of 
 sea, which reaches as far from right to left, when 
 you are facing the south, as the eye can see. There 
 is something tragic about the scenery of Girgenti, 
 something mysterious in the effect it has upon one. 
 " You would always stand in awe of its beauty," 
 Doris says, M even if you had played as a baby 
 around its temples ; it is not a place to love and 
 grow fond of. Some places, like some people, 
 command respect, while others beget love." Sicily 
 is all gold and grey, all sunshine and shadow, but I 
 think the shadows rest longest on Girgenti. 
 
 We wished to walk to the temples yesterday, 
 having had not too pleasant an experience with our 
 driver ; and, to vary the route, we decided to follow 
 the ancient Greek road which leads down to Porto 
 Empedocle. We engaged the services of a small 
 boy to act as guide. He was about twelve years of 
 age, and as pretty a character as you ever saw ; it 
 was his extraordinary appearance which first 
 attracted Doris. Not a garment he wore had 
 originally been made or bought to fit his slender 
 person. The boots on his small, well-shaped feet, 
 which were stockingless, were women's boots, so 
 many sizes too large for him that over and over 
 again, as we picked our way through the ancient 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 183 
 
 rock-strewn street, one or both boots would be left 
 lodged between the sharp stones. His trousers had 
 literally no legs, they were all seat, and had origin- 
 ally been wore by some man as big as our gentle 
 giant at the hotel; the upper portions reached 
 almost to the child's ankles, so legs were not 
 required. A coat of many colours, which had been 
 made smaller round the tails and left in its original 
 baggy state at the shoulders, was set off by a glaring 
 knitted waistcoat, which came down almost to the 
 knees. The cap, the faded ghost of what had once 
 been fine green plush, was the only article of dress 
 which, in a manner, fitted this grotesque little 
 human ragbag. The boy's natural grace of limb 
 and Greek cast of features made him look like a 
 Greek mounteback playing at being a man, a thing 
 all tatters and remnants, but graced with the beauty 
 of the South. His hair had faded with the sun from 
 nut-brown to tawny gold ; the long ends were full 
 of colour. But it was the eyes, full of the gravity 
 of Sicily, and the eloquent languor of his race, 
 which gave the real beauty to the face. 
 
 When we met him, his arms were full of fresh 
 dandelions, which he told us he was taking home to 
 his mother for a salad. Sicilians love green food, 
 and Providence has been kind in supplying them 
 with a plentiful variety of hedge salads, as any price, 
 however low, would be more than they could afford 
 to pay for garden-grown food. This says a good 
 deal for their poverty : a landlady once told me that 
 she could buy enough lettuces to serve a party of 
 thirty for twopence. 
 
 We offered the boy twenty cents if he would act 
 as our guide for the afternoon ; he was delighted. 
 Without a moment's thought, his fine salad was 
 stowed inside his waistcoat ; he was not the proud 
 
184 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 possessor of a shirt, so the evening salad lay for two 
 long hours pressed close to his proud breast. 
 
 " His costume, made up of other people's rags," 
 Doris said, " reminds me of a little dressmaker I 
 employ at home. She dresses herself entirely on 
 the old clothes her customers give her. I met her 
 one day in deep mourning, and, as she was looking 
 very pensive, I expressed my hopes that she had 
 not lost any near relative. 
 
 " ' Oh no, miss, thank you,' she said. ■ Mrs. 
 Johnes has just gone out of crape and I am making 
 her second mourning ; these were the weeds she 
 wore for her husband.' 
 
 " I suppose that others people's crape is very 
 depressing, which accounted for the pensive ex- 
 pression, or perhaps she thought a widow's weeds 
 demanded a suitable sorrow." 
 
 As the boy ran on in front of us, shuffling in and 
 out of his shoes, and carrying Doris' heavy cloak in 
 his young arms, he turned round to smile a smile of 
 grateful thanks at short intervals. After a toilsome 
 walk, we left the ancient road and rejoined the 
 modern carriage-road. When we reached the con- 
 vent of St. Nicola, the woman in charge of the 
 place, who acts as a guide, refused the boy admit- 
 tance ; indeed, she looked upon us as very doubtful 
 visitors for having permitted this little street Arab 
 to escort us. 
 
 " He is a fresh-air Arab, at any rate," Doris 
 said, " and he doesn't smell a bit; that sunburnt 
 skin and bleached hair are not suggestive of dark 
 streets and stuffy rooms." 
 
 The convent is desolate and picturesque. The 
 very bad oranges, of which we partook while seated 
 on the high terrace, which commands a beautiful 
 view of the temples, grow in wanton waste in the 
 neglected garden. The heavy scent of freesias and 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 185 
 
 heliotrope filled the air, and an immense stone-pine 
 threw a shadow over the garden like a wide-spread 
 umbrella. These magnificent trees stand like 
 sentinels in the lonely Sicilian landscape ; they be- 
 come irrevocably a part of the country in one's 
 memory. 
 
 There is a beautiful white marble frieze of Greek 
 workmanship, which acts as a cornice to the high 
 white terrace in the garden. No one knows its 
 history, where it came from, or why it is there now. 
 The ruined chapel is now a night-shelter for some 
 fine peacocks and guinea-fowls; the former kept 
 whisking open their tails for our pleasure, like a 
 lady opening and shutting her fan. Doris said, " I 
 wonder if they expect a tip, like everything else in 
 Girgenti? Perhaps it is their form of begging/ ' 
 Outside the convent, sitting on the steps under the 
 fine old Norman doorway, were the ubiquitous 
 vendors of antiques. 
 
 Here it is Antichita, Antichita, all day long, for 
 Girgenti is a paradise for the eager collector. At 
 every step you are molested by beggars, who draw 
 from their pockets small packets of much-defaced 
 coins wrapped up in alarmingly dirty paper; the 
 greater portion of these coins are valueless, and of 
 no beauty, although they are undoubtedly genuine. 
 But there are grades of coin vendors and sellers 
 of antichita. 
 
 There are three dignified brothers, for instance, 
 alike as three peas in a pod, who are licensed exca- 
 vators. They are as tall and thin and as dark-haired 
 and sunburnt as Arabs, and as gentle- voiced as 
 women. The Government, being too poor to do 
 much excavating in Sicily, and there being so much 
 excavating still to be done, has devised the plan of 
 permitting these fellows to search for antiquities by 
 themselves in certain parts round Girgenti, under 
 
188 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 cauliflowers, embedded in their green leaves, are 
 even more charming. It seems as if the South 
 could not get enough colour into her landscape, but 
 she must needs give her vegetables rich purples and 
 blues. Artichokes never grow to a great height in 
 Sicily, but their leaves are much finer and have 
 more colour in them than they have in England ; 
 they have usurped the place in the landscape which 
 a few weeks ago was given over to fennel. Fennel 
 is the Sicilian celery, and is even more an article of 
 common food in every household in Sicily than 
 potatoes are at home. I think, to fully appreciate 
 Sicily, you must enjoy her fennel and delicious 
 artichokes ; the latter are cooked in every conceiv- 
 able way, and for some months of the year no 
 dinner is complete without them. 
 
 This afternoon Doris received a letter from the 
 young students in Castrogiovanni. It Is most 
 amusing and untranslatable. What is graceful 
 and pretty in Italian sounds absurd in English, 
 especially when you associate it with a schoolboy of 
 fifteen. 
 
 This is the last I shall write to you from Girgenti. 
 We leave for Palermo the day after to-morrow. 
 Our little world — Doris' and mine — will be shared 
 by others then. We have not seen a fellow- 
 countryman or woman since we left Syracuse, for 
 we have chosen the hour for enjoying the temples 
 when the occupants of the Hotel des Temples are 
 in their rooms dressing for dinner, and of course the 
 one-day tourist to Girgenti has no time for other 
 sights. 
 
 It is a mistake to go to the principal hotel in any 
 place. You pay the top price and receive the 
 cheapest courtesy. The native inn, unfrequented 
 by foreigners, reveals another Sicily to you. The 
 landlord, who is your host a.nd cook, is unfailing 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 189 
 
 in his efforts to please you, while the waiters and 
 servants smile on you and bless you for a quarter of 
 the tip you would dare to give their more exalted 
 brothers at the Hotel des Temples. In all the 
 excursions we have made, we have invariably chosen 
 to take our meals at native restaurants in preference 
 to those patronised by our fellow-countrymen. 
 
 Yours, 
 
 J. C. 
 
 13 
 
Palermo, 
 
 March, 1900. 
 
 Dear Louise, — 
 
 Alas ! we are back in a city of flats, plate- 
 glass windows, and electric cars, and an opera-house 
 large enough to meet the requirements of New 
 York. Palermo is sheltered, or thinks itself shel- 
 tered (we have already felt its hot wind), by the 
 beautiful pink Monte Pellegrino, which holds the 
 shrine of Santa Rosalia, the patron girl-saint of the 
 city. 
 
 The famous grotto of Santa Rosalia, where the 
 youthful devotee (the niece of the good Norman 
 king, William the Second) is supposed to have per- 
 formed her devotions when she fled from the gay 
 world to the mountains, is a popular pilgrimage 
 place ; it is visited by thousands of devout worship- 
 pers throughout the year. 
 
 It is difficult to give you a correct impression of 
 Palermo. It is woefully disappointing at first 
 sight, so altogether different from what we had 
 expected it to be. Perhaps we have been too 
 quickly transported from the Epoca Greca of 
 Girgenti to have found our feet as yet in modern 
 noisy Palermo, for so far we have not shaken off 
 our first impression that Palermo is a little capital 
 trying its best to keep pace with the big capitals of 
 
 Europe. 
 
 190 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 191 
 
 If it were not an ambitious capital, Palermo 
 would be enchanting; but, being a capital, the 
 narrow old streets, with their glorious Sicilian 
 Gothic palaces and cool courtyards, are thrust into 
 the background by the wide modern boulevards, 
 open to the merciless sun and wind, with these 
 ambitious blocks of mansions which contain many 
 flats. 
 
 How have the mighty fallen in Palermo, when 
 to-day Sicilian princes, whose Norman palaces were 
 once fortresses, garrisoned by private retainers, cast 
 longing eyes at the five-roomed flats, with sleeping 
 accommodation for one servant ! When hundreds 
 of fine palaces are standing empty in the city, it 
 seems a little difficult for the ordinary stranger to 
 find a reason or the necessity for erecting these flats 
 in Palermo. But the Sicilian would dearly love to 
 have his capital considered a gay, giddy, go-ahead- 
 dog of a city. 
 
 And, indeed, Palermo is quite a city (as Miss 
 Rosina would say), with fashionable streets, where 
 goats would not dare to tread. In the new boule- 
 vards and in the noisy Via Macqueda, where you 
 cannot hear yourself for the clang, clang, clanging 
 of the electric-car bells and the rattling of the cabs 
 over the cobble-paved streets, you are indeed far 
 removed in spirit and atmosphere from the poetry 
 and mystery of Sicily. 
 
 Two main streets, the Via Macqueda and the 
 Corso Vittorio Emanuele, divide the city into four 
 quarters. At the meeting of the four half -streets 
 there is a small octagonal-shaped piazza. It is 
 called the Quattro Canti, and has four elaborate 
 Spanish fountains to decorate its corners. This 
 piazza is the very centre of Palermo, and, I think, 
 
192 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 it might be called the heart of Sicily. I am sure it 
 is the incubator of most of her iniquities. From 
 morning till night, and during the night more than 
 at any other time, this piazza is crowded with idle 
 loafers, over-dressed young men, scowling socialists, 
 excited politicians, and anxious financiers. The 
 noise of the gay splashing fountains is drowned by 
 the ever-increasing babel of voices. 
 
 I do not like the Quattro Canti, or the Via 
 Macqueda, or the Corso Vittorio Emanuele, or the 
 Via Cavour, for they are typical of the Sicily of 
 to-day, which does not inspire you with a respect 
 or admiration for the nation. How detestable the 
 black-coated young men, with their degenerated 
 physiques, are to us after the splendid fellows of 
 the mountains! and the hats, decked with cheap 
 feathers and cotton flowers, on the heads of the 
 young girls tell their story only too plainly. 
 
 In these gay streets, where the impertinently 
 moustached youths hustle you off the narrow foot- 
 paths if you are old, and openly ogle you if you 
 are young and fair, you have to devote your atten- 
 tion so entirely to the task of keeping your footing 
 and edging your way through the struggling 
 crowds, that you dare scarcely lift your eyes from 
 the ground. This is a pity, for at the end of almost 
 every street in Palermo you can see blue mountains 
 soaring into a bluer sky. These beautifully out- 
 lined mountains ring themselves round and shelter 
 the famous Conca d'Oro. This " golden shell," 
 as the fertile plain is so poetically called, is one of 
 the Edens of Sicily. 
 
 Viewed from the height of the little town of 
 Monreale, famous the world over for its mosaic- 
 lined cathedral, It is easy to understand why the 
 term La fellce was given to Palermo. The shel- 
 
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BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 193 
 
 tered city stretches its arms from the blue sea to 
 the fruitful golden shell ; it is to be hoped that it 
 will not open its arms too far, for the Conca d'Oro 
 is the golden setting of this jewel city. 
 
 The Sicilian capital has undoubtedly an unrivalled 
 situation; the Bay of Palermo is a professional 
 beauty, like Sydney Harbour ; it is considered by 
 many to be as beautiful as the Bay of Naples, but 
 in a less dramatic fashion. Of course Pellegrino 
 is not Vesuvius, but this pilgrim mountain has a 
 strange beauty of its own, and an important historic 
 interest attaching to it which casts a shadow of 
 romance over the bay. It was here that Hamilcar, 
 nicknamed the Thunderbolt (father of the great 
 Hannibal), settled with his soldiers and held out 
 against the Romans for three years ; nor in the end 
 was he starved out, but he left his precipice of his 
 own free will to drop his thunderbolt on Eryx, 
 another of the rock cities of Sicily. The colossal 
 pink rock of Pellegrino does not look to-day as if it 
 were capable of having raised corn sufficient to 
 supply the garrison of Hamilcar for three years, 
 but history relates that it nobly rose to the occasion, 
 and Cicero, in his impeachment of Verres con- 
 stantly refers to Sicily being the granary of Europe. 
 On the opposite side of the bay is Monte Catalfano, 
 a long, low line of hills gently stretching far out to 
 sea. 
 
 The view from the Marina is beautiful. Doris 
 and I love to turn our backs on the busy streets and 
 idle there, anticipating the appearance of Etna, 
 which is promised to us on the first clear day ; for 
 Sicily without Etna is not Sicily, when once you 
 have lived under that dominating presence. 
 
 The Marina in the warm summer nights is the 
 popular rendezvous of all Palermitans. Great 
 
194 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 stories we are told of the gay scenes which take 
 place there in the languorous warmth ojt* June and 
 July. Ices and cool drinks of every variety are sold 
 on the Marina from sundown until the day breaks, 
 and eaten and drunk in alarming numbers by the 
 parched citizens who sit on their white Marina close 
 to the sea, longing for the cooler hours which come 
 between the fading of the stars and the rising of 
 the sun. 
 
 Of course the town band plays while the lovers 
 linger and the midnight ices are eaten. Where the 
 poor fellows get their wind from I do not know, but 
 a town band must play in Sicily even if it is too 
 hot for a cricket to sing. Night in a Southern city 
 is a wonderful thing ; soft air and softer glances play 
 the mischief with a man's morals, and there are so 
 many idle hands to keep Satan busy that one feels 
 quite sorry for the poor devil. 
 
 At this time of the year the popular Passeggiata 
 is on the Corso Vittorio Emanuele which ends at 
 the Marina, so that if the day is unusually warm the 
 drive may be continued along the sea front ; but it 
 must be very warm to tempt a man or woman of 
 fashion at Palermo to leave the crush of carriages 
 and the noise and excitement of the busy street for 
 the quiet of the Marina. This Passeggiata is a 
 wonderful thing ; for stupidity and dulness it beats 
 our church parade in the park hollow. For the 
 young man in London who stands with his compan- 
 ions on the social climb, pinned with his back 
 against the railings, very much resembling a spar- 
 row on a spit, has at least the chance of speaking 
 to a girl of his acquaintance should he see her in the 
 crowd; but the Sicilian young man can only bow 
 either from the obscure distance of a very closed 
 carriage or from the crowded footpath. 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 195 
 
 But " carriage folk " do not often bow to foot 
 folk in Sicily, they look the other way ; for if you 
 are too poor to hire a carriage when a corso only 
 costs fifty cents, or to keep a conveyance, of a sort, 
 of your own, you must indeed have come to the 
 point of starvation. " I cannot afford to drive, 
 and to walk I am ashamed " keeps many descend- 
 ants of bygone Palermitan princes from joining in 
 this social event of their day. Poor, proud Sicily, 
 starving within her despoiled palaces ! since her 
 sons are not men enough to see the nobility of work. 
 In England the first thing a man in reduced circum- 
 stances parts with is, as a rule, his carriages and 
 horses; it is his natural idea of retrenching the 
 expenses of his establishment. A Sicilian will sell 
 almost everything, and often come near going with- 
 out food itself, before he will part with his carriage 
 and horses. It is not that he loves his horses better 
 than an Englishman, but that his foolish pride will 
 not let him shake off the yoke of custom. Society 
 expects him to keep up this pitiful appearance of 
 luxury, just as it expects his hands to be above work 
 and his brains beneath intelligence? 
 
 Up and down this noisy, crowded street the occu- 
 pants of the various carriages pass and repass each 
 other a dozen times in an afternoon. Even in the 
 finest weather the carriages are for the most part 
 closed, and all you catch sight of is rich furs, and 
 dark eyes gleaming eloquent answers to some ar- 
 dent glance from some other carriage. This 
 wonderful drive does not begin till sundown even in 
 the winter. I cannot explain why, unless Sicilians 
 dine at four o'clock in the afternoon as people used 
 to in Scotland. 
 
 At this time the narrow side-walk is crowded 
 with overdressed men and women of the well-to-do 
 
196 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 lower classes, and undersized boys, with bold star- 
 ing eyes, twirling cheap gaily headed walking-sticks. 
 These wretched boys hang about the pavements, 
 ogling and criticising every woman who passes. I 
 have seen nothing so degenerate, or so wholly offen- 
 sive, as these cheaply dressed, idle youths of 
 Palermo, who make a sort of outdoor club of the 
 Quattro Canti, and who spend their days in 
 smoking cigarettes — or the ends of cigarettes. 
 Moving along in the stream of carriages you will 
 see cavalry officers in their pale blue cloth cloaks, 
 and darker uniforms gleaming with silver braid, 
 their legs elegantly crossed and stretched well across 
 the small, badly constructed cabs, for which they 
 pay the large sum of fourpence-halfpenny for a 
 corso. Next comes the young Sicilian man-about- 
 town, who has a little money and knows well how 
 to get rid of it ; he will be driving in a smart little 
 dog-cart with a hog-maned mare, looking as Eng- 
 lish as possible, considering the natural obstacles in 
 his way. It is curious, I think, how the men of all 
 nations wish to appear English, while a woman is 
 never so pleased as when you tell her that a bonnet 
 or a gown is " very French." I believe an English- 
 man could make a man his enemy for life if he told 
 him he looked just like a Frenchman, even if he 
 said it in the most flattering tone. It may be one 
 thing for a Frenchman to feel French, but it is 
 another thing for him to look it. Can patriotism 
 go so far ? 
 
 Some of the carriages — those belonging to the 
 very wealthy nobles — are exquisitely appointed, 
 and the absurdly high-stepping horses have a showy 
 beauty dear to the hearts of their owners. Italian 
 horse-dealers go over the British Isles and buy up 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 197 
 
 every showy, high-stepping brute they can lay their 
 hands on — horses which would scarcely fetch a song 
 in England, where a man looks for something 
 better in his beast than a circus action. Contrasted 
 with these smart carriages are the antiquated old 
 family barouches, which look as if they had been 
 painted and upholstered at home for many genera- 
 tions, and are drawn by horses as woefully depressed 
 and humble in appearance. A horse that has seen 
 better days feels his position keenly when he is made 
 to join in a parade of this sort ; I have often grieved 
 for these poor brutes, whose feelings are apparently 
 so much more sensitive than their masters'. 
 
 And now I must tell you about Doris and my- 
 self, and after that perhaps you will say that you 
 now know the reason for the note of discord which 
 has arisen in Sicily. It may be so, but I think not. 
 
 This morning Doris came to me looking a little 
 distressed. She wished to say something and did 
 not know how to begin. 
 
 " Palermo is horribly civilised, isn't it?" she said. 
 
 " Horribly," I answered; " but there is the 
 beautiful mediaeval Palermo, with its Arabo-Nor- 
 man palaces and churches, which we haven't yet 
 seen. I think we shall find it less civilised than you 
 imagine — its civilisation is probably only skin- 
 deep." 
 
 " I didn't mean civilised quite in that way; I 
 mean that one cannot do just quite what one likes 
 in Palermo. One must be a little more conven- 
 tional " 
 
 The words were spoken in a way which told me 
 there was more to follow. 
 
 u You must wear gloves, I suppose, and perhaps 
 
198 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 you will buy a veil; but I don't think we need 
 bother about the fashionable Palermo.' * 
 
 We were silent for a moment, when she said 
 abruptly : 
 
 " I hate old women, don't you? They can 
 think such horrid things about such nice people." 
 
 " What have they been thinking about you?" I 
 asked. I could hear by the tone of her voice that 
 anything rather than sympathy from me was politic 
 at the moment. 
 
 " Oh, idiotic, absurd things that nobody but old 
 maids would think of. I know such an idea never 
 entered into your head." 
 
 " Tell me what idea," I said. " I am sure it is 
 not worth troubling about, whether it is true or 
 not." 
 
 " Oh, I can't tell you," she replied, her quiver- 
 ing face distressed with blushes. " It is so absurd 
 and so vulgar." 
 
 " If it is vulgar and connected with you, I never 
 entertained it for one moment. But can't you tell 
 me? — it does one good to be out with things." 
 
 " Well, I mean . . . it is vulgar and unladylike 
 and . . . Oh ! . . . just like old women, to think 
 that people can't be just friends, because one is a 
 man and the other is a girl ! " After the hesitation 
 at the beginning of this rather vague explanation, 
 the words were got out with a rush. 
 
 M Have they been busy over our friendship?" 
 I asked. " I suppose in the big salon last night 
 they put you through a cross-examination?" 
 
 " Yes ; and they are not so easily satisfied as the 
 driver at Castrogiovanni. I can't leave them with 
 the simple fact that I am your niece, for I can see 
 that they are interested in us; that the lie would 
 not stop there."- 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 199 
 
 M What have they been worrying you about?" 
 I said. " Why tell them anything ? They are the 
 usual human rats which infest any cheap hotel or 
 boarding-house in Europe. You can't get away 
 from them ; no climate will kill them, and they live 
 forever." 
 
 " I had to tell them something, so I told them 
 that .... you were quite old enough . . . no, I 
 mean that I was young enough to be " 
 
 " My daughter," I said, finishing her sentence. 
 " So you are, little one; quite young enough." 
 
 " I wish I was your daughter," she replied. 
 " But perhaps . . . perhaps you aren't old enough 
 to be my father — that is what they mean, I 
 suppose?" 
 
 " Quite old enough," I said. 
 
 " ' A woman is as old as she looks,' they told me ; 
 ' and a man as old as he feels.' . . . How old do you 
 feel?" She asked the question a little sadly. 
 
 " Young enough to wring their necks," I said 
 savagely. 
 
 " But you do feel old enough to be my father, 
 don't you? I have not been foolish?" 
 
 " If your father had lived," I said, " how old 
 would he have been to-day?" 
 
 " I was born when he was only twenty-four," 
 she said, with a little smile, " and that was in the 
 year " 
 
 " Yes," I said, with a ring of sincerity in my 
 voice ; " I feel quite old enough to have been your 
 father." 
 
 " I know you do, dear friend. Surely even a girl 
 knows when a man treats her like a father. You 
 would have been silly and sentimental before now 
 if you had ever thought of me in any other way. 
 They— they " she hesitated,—" they don't 
 
200 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 know that we have been to Castrogiovanni or 
 Girgenti." 
 
 " Then they never shall know, and please forget 
 all that they have said," I urged, taking her hand 
 in mine. " Remember, that people with small 
 lives of their own are always busy about other 
 people's." 
 
 " I'll try to forget," she answered, not raising 
 her usually frank sweet eyes to mine, M but these 
 things stick to one. They are not like famous dates 
 in history which one tries to remember and always 
 forgets." 
 
 The upshot of it all is that I am going to remain 
 in this old palace and Doris is going to the Hotel 
 des Palmes. She has taken a dislike to this place 
 and to the class of people in it, so she says ; but I 
 can clearly see that the old gossips have been hint- 
 ing that there is something more than platonic 
 affection in my attitude towards her. 
 
 They have taken it upon themselves after only 
 two evenings' acquaintance to give her some wise 
 advice. I am, it appears, a foolish old man, who 
 has fallen in love with a girl who is too young and 
 too innocent to grasp the situation. 
 
 " No man who isn't your father can ever feel old 
 enough to be so, if you are a woman and pretty," 
 they told her, " no matter what your age may be. 
 But a woman often feels young enough to be the 
 daughter of the man she marries." 
 
 Poor little Doris ! I know that she is distressed at 
 the idea that she may have caused me pain. So far 
 she has taken everything for granted delightfully ; 
 she has been so confident that I feel as old as she 
 evidently thinks I am. There is a new look in her 
 face to-day of something discovered, there is even 
 a hint of shyness in her manner towards me. 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 201 
 
 She had a letter from her guardian to-day, and 
 she is to join him in Malta in a month's time. Poor 
 child, she dreads her life there with her new 
 guardianess; but if this marriage had not taken 
 place Doris would not have been sent to Syracuse. 
 The cunning old fox knew the Villa Politi pretty 
 well ; Malta is but a night's sail from Syracuse, and 
 he was sure that he had nothing to fear in the way 
 of penniless suitors for his pretty ward there, and 
 Madame Politi is the kindest and best of women. 
 
 Of course we will continue to do sight-seeing, 
 Doris and I, but the we two-ness of it is finished. 
 
 Yours affectionately, 
 
 J. C. 
 
Palermo, The Happy City (In urbe felici Panorma), 
 
 Palazza Monteleone, 
 
 March lyth. 
 
 Dearest Louise, — 
 
 The Palermo newsboys are making the 
 streets echo with the " Capture of Bloernfontein." 
 What voices they have got, to be sure ! more 
 musical than our newspaper boys at home, and 
 pitched many notes higher. 
 
 The Palazzo Monteleone is served by a newspaper 
 man, not a boy; at each meal he comes into the 
 sala and salutes the crowd. If there is good news 
 of the war he goes first to the Englishpeople seated 
 at the table and offers them his different papers 
 with a complacent smile ; if there is a reverse, or 
 the rumour of one, which is not unusual, he apolo- 
 gises and goes to every one in their turn. He seems 
 to consider himself personally responsible for the 
 contents of the various papers, and thinks it is rude 
 to offer you bad news. He is really most enter- 
 taining. As most people can read newspaper 
 Italian upon subjects like the war in South Africa, 
 he has a very good sale for his wares. Sicilians 
 love newspapers, I think, next to lotteries; they 
 are more universally bought by the very poor in 
 Sicily than they are in England. 
 
 But the newspaper boys are nowhere with the 
 ordinary street hawker, who suddenly startles the 
 whole community by shouting out his wares. Until 
 your ears have heard a Sicilian calling out that his 
 purple cauliflowers are fresh and cheap, you have 
 
 aoa 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 203 
 
 not fully recognised what the Latin tongue can do. 
 He begins his cry with great clearness and dramatic 
 eloquence. When the end comes he simply opens 
 his mouth and lets go. Although it startles you 
 almost off the footpath you cannot help admiring 
 the music of his voice and the cadence of the cry. 
 
 But what the street hawker has to sell is even 
 more amusing than the way he sells it. The 
 sponge-seller, with his person literally hung in 
 wreaths and covered in every conceivable way with 
 bleached- white sponges, yellow sponges, dark 
 sponges, little sponges, big sponges, monster 
 sponges, would give you the impression that bath- 
 ing was a popular amusement in Palermo. As a 
 matter of fact, it is doubtful if any of the inhabit- 
 ants of these dark, mediaeval streets, where the 
 hawkers cry their wares, have ever been under 
 water in their lives. The next man who carries his 
 shop on his back, and so saves his rent, is the fur- 
 seller. He is perhaps the most unique figure of 
 them all. I have not the slightest idea for what 
 purpose he sells cat-skins of every variety, dyed 
 and undyed, roughly cured and left in their natural 
 state, or what is the living nature of the beast, 
 whose skin so resembles a 'possum . This particular 
 skin is always sewn up and inflated with wind to 
 resemble the living beast as nearly as possible. You 
 can buy one of these inflated skins for two francs, 
 and the villain tells you the fact often enough. 
 Why he should think that poor people who live in 
 the dark basements of high palaces desire to pur- 
 chase an unlimited supply of wild foxes just 
 emptied and roughly cured, I do not know ; but he 
 assures them in every tone of voice that they are 
 genuine bargains and very rare. Rough goat-skins 
 and sheep-skins, white and black, hang from his 
 
204 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 shoulders down to his feet ; and on his arms, which 
 are extended as wide as possible, there are puppies' 
 skins, rabbit-skins, rat-skins, and every conceivable 
 kind of inferior skin, hanging like clothes on a line 
 to dry. There is, as in Syracuse, no carriage traffic 
 of any kind in these dark streets, so that these 
 human shops have the right to the middle of the 
 road. Dark heads are thrust out inquisitively from 
 high windows, and the idle women sitting at the 
 open fronts of the dark bassi bandy words with the 
 pedler as he passes. He is quite a wit. 
 
 But it is the water-seller whom we know best, for 
 he alone cries his simple trade in the fashionable 
 streets as well as in the dark places. Acqua fresca, 
 acqual acqua, is a familiar street cry on a warm 
 sunny day in Palermo. The water is carried about 
 in terra-cotta pitchers of immense size and of per- 
 fect Greek form, and gaily painted wooden tables 
 with fine brass covers, fitted like cruet-stands, hold 
 the drinking-glasses and small bottles of aniseed and 
 sweet syrups, which the wealthy customers can 
 afford to indulge in. The tenth part of a penny 
 will purchase a glass of cold water, which on the 
 hottest day is beautifully cool, for in the South all 
 water pitchers are made of porous pottery, and the 
 constant sweating of the water through the earth- 
 enware keeps the contents of the pitcher wonder- 
 fully cool. But even in Palermo let me advise the 
 parched stranger to reserve his thirst for a glass of 
 wine ; it is safer, and will be less expensive in the 
 end. 
 
 These ac qua-sellers are delightfully picturesque 
 features in the streets. The gaily painted tables, 
 with their brass tops glittering and flashing in the 
 sun, are carried easily in one hand, while the Greek 
 pitcher is held in the other, and the surprising thing 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 205 
 
 is that the man does such a roaring trade by simply 
 selling water. He puts down his table every minute 
 and pours some of the water out of the Greek 
 pitcher into a queer glass tumbler ; then to well-off 
 customers a drop or two is shaken out of a narrow- 
 necked bottle, with a brass top, into the tumbler, 
 and the water at once becomes cloudy, just as if 
 ammonia had been put into it. This uninviting 
 beverage is handed to the customer on a little brass 
 tray, just large enough to hold the blown-glass 
 tumbler, and in return one soldo is deposited in a 
 little drawer of the table. The glass is quickly 
 returned to its stand, and in another minute Acqua, 
 acqua, acqua fresca ! is shouted up the street once 
 more. 
 
 The numerous public fountains, which are the 
 features of any Sicilian town, do not spoil the man's 
 trade. People do not come to the fountains to 
 drink water, but to gossip. Both churches and 
 fountains are accountable for a deal of love-making 
 and scandal in Sicily, and they are also the happy 
 playgrounds for little children. The water which 
 is drawn from the public fountains by bevies of 
 comely women, who come to chaperone each other, 
 is drawn only for household purposes, not for cook- 
 ing or drinking. I have often noticed how fond 
 babies are of playing with water and coal ; there is 
 not an infant born in the purple of any land, I 
 believe, who would not find his way to the coal- 
 scuttle if he were left alone in a drawing-room for 
 five minutes, and in any country a puddle of in- 
 different water appeals to every child. I have 
 noticed this over and over again. Water and coal 
 must be primitive tastes, for babies infinitely prefer 
 a lump of good honest coal to the finest silver rattle 
 ever presented by a dutiful godparent. 
 
 *4 
 
206 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 I must confess that both the beauty and romance 
 of Palermo develop day by day. It is a city which 
 unfolds its beauty to loving eyes. " Palermo, the 
 happy city " (In urbe felici Panorma), the great 
 Emperor Frederick the Second wrote of it on his 
 royal charters. The Royal Chapel, or the Cappella 
 Palatina as it is called, built by King Roger the 
 Second in 1132, is the jewel of Sicily. Even St. 
 Mark's, in Venice, I think, has not quite the same 
 poetic quality in its beauty. St. Mark's is grander, 
 but when your memory compares the two rivals 
 together, it is this little Arabo-Norman chapel, the 
 casket of mosaics, which appeals to your emotions. 
 
 It is indeed a king's chapel, all glorious within. 
 To attempt to describe it would show how vulgar 
 my estimate had been of its rare beauty. Can you 
 suggest in mere words the rich glow of ancient 
 undulating walls, encrusted with golden mosaics, 
 softened in tone since King Roger's time, and 
 illustrated with portraits and scenes of important 
 Biblical personages and events, wrought by people 
 whose one idea it was to teach the Bible simply and 
 forcibly to those who could not read. King Roger 
 made the walls of his chapel the Bible of the people : 
 here is the beginning of the world and the creation 
 of man, and there, above the high altar, sits the 
 enthroned Christ. Generations upon generations 
 of devout worshippers have learned their Bible from 
 these imperishable mosaics. Columns of porphyry 
 and cipollino seem to drop down like lovely sta- 
 lactites from the golden Saracenic arches; every- 
 thing is soft and bathed in warm tones, for, though 
 no windows are visible, soft gleams of sunshine do 
 pierce their way through narrow shafts in the 
 ancient walls to wake the mosaics into a golden 
 glory. 
 
" The Cappclla Palatina . . the jewel of Sicily. Even St. Mark's, in 
 Venice, I think, has not quite the same poetic quality in its beauty." 
 
 [To face p. 206. 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 207 
 
 But there! I am daring to describe one of the 
 wonders of mediaeval art, making you see in your 
 mind's eye, no doubt, some garish chapel, a mass 
 of new gold, glass, and offensive marble, which 
 might serve for the Lord Mayor's antechamber at 
 a City Company's banquet. 
 
 If I told you that the beauty of the famous Easter 
 candlestick, which stands fourteen feet high and 
 came from Constantinople, although it was carved 
 by Norman workmen, almost brought tears to my 
 eyes, you would say I had been reading Ruskin, 
 and undermining my constitution by a prolonged 
 diet of slaughtered kid; and I wonder what idea 
 you would carry away of the marble pulpit if I were 
 fool enough to tell you the truth : that it is one of 
 the pulpits built by these earnest men of long ago, 
 who thought that no stone was too rare or priceless, 
 no time too long, no money too much to devote 
 to the beautifying of a throne from which the word 
 of God was to be preached. These mediaeval artists 
 seem to me to have been men sent by God to 
 beautify His sanctuaries on earth. They were 
 divinely inspired for divine art. The chapel is 
 small, and it is full of such priceless marbles that I 
 should not have been surprised if it had been 
 guarded night and day by a picquet of soldiers, for 
 if such a glorious thing as the priceless Easter 
 candlestick was ever mutilated and carried off, the 
 jewel of Sicily would be despoiled. In such a 
 country I would have such a treasure guarded night 
 and day. 
 
 Palermo, besides containing such marvels of 
 architectural beauty as the Cappella Palatina and 
 the five-domed church of San Giovanni degli Ere- 
 miti, which is one of the earliest existing Arabo- 
 Norman churches (founded in 1132) and the most 
 
208 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 Oriental building in Palermo, and the Saracenic 
 palaces of La Cuba and La Zisa, has an individual 
 beauty of its own. It is the city par excellence of 
 palm gardens, and it is after visiting its gardens 
 that you forget your first unfavourable impression 
 of the city, and own that Palermo is beautiful. 
 The gardens of Palermo satisfy your wildest 
 imagination of luxurious Southern vegetation and 
 beauty. Indeed, they are typical of the magic 
 word south. The Palermitan calls his garden a 
 villa, which is a little confusing to the uninitiated 
 stranger, who naturally does not associate a villa in 
 Palermo with anything very wonderful or romantic. 
 When a cab-driver urges you to visit the Villa Bel- 
 monte or the Villa Tusca, or insists upon your get- 
 ting out of your cab and walking through the Villa 
 Giulia, he does not mean you to inspect a modern 
 house on the outskirts of the city, but a famous 
 garden, not the least bit German, or like Eliza- 
 beth's, but deliciously Sicilian and picturesque — 
 a garden whose herbaceous border was full a hun- 
 dred years ago. In the old days, the Sicilian 
 nobles, who lived in the dark, fortress-like palaces 
 in the city, always made themselves spacious 
 gardens on the borders of the city, where they 
 carried out their princely ideas of landscape effects 
 in a truly princely style. The city of Palermo has 
 grown since these old gardens were made, but they 
 have not been touched. The jerry-builder has not 
 laid his hands upon the beautiful villas of Palermo. 
 In a climate like this, where things grow for the 
 asking, and where there is so much to ask, vegeta- 
 tion assumes a magnificence undreamt of in the 
 North. Indeed, you feel a little overwhelmed by 
 the absolute abandonment of nature when you first 
 visit these villas. Things don't seem to know how 
 to grow big enough, or what new depth of colour 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 209 
 
 to add to the brilliance of their flowers. Nothing 
 can flower or grow in Northern moderation ; a hun- 
 dred gardeners might cut and prune and nip off 
 buds all day long, but nature would outgrow them. 
 
 Rare palms soar into the blue sky, endeavouring 
 to shake themselves free of some gay creeper which 
 has festooned itself to the heavy leaves and does not 
 mean to stop there ; it will throw itself on to the 
 coral-tree and the spreading aloe, and wreathe the 
 garden with a cataract of gold. Even the Judas- 
 tree will not escape its embraces. This creeper, 
 the honey-flower (Fiore di Miele) — for the Sicilian 
 gardener calls every heavily scented flower which 
 feeds the bees a honey-flower — is one of the most 
 typical features in a Sicilian villa. As you approach 
 the gate, a breath of air laden with the perfume of 
 freesias and honey-flowers greets you, and you may 
 be perfectly certain that, however dry and flowerless 
 the season may be, the Fiore di Miele will be in 
 bloom. 
 
 I think these private gardens, of immense size 
 and romantic beauty, detached from any house, 
 have a touch of silent sentiment about them which 
 is very pleasant. The long walks under the orange 
 groves, and the old white marble moss-covered seats 
 with carved arms, secluded from observation by the 
 shower of purple bougainvillaea, which falls in a gay 
 cascade over a rustic belvedere, suggest stolen meet- 
 ings and pretty lovers' greetings. The gay flower- 
 beds, the deep green palms, and the long rose- walk, 
 where the bees hum, form a suitable setting to a 
 Sicilian romance, and the beauty of it all is that 
 there are no windows in a high house to overlook 
 the prince's pleasure, as he sees the flutter of a 
 white dress hurrying across the flower garden to find 
 refuge under a kind screen of roses. Nor can 
 gardeners carry gossip to a parcel of idle house- 
 
210 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 servants. The villa is so large that the carriage 
 which dropped the lady will take a good half -hour 
 before it reaches the north gate. Oh, what a place 
 for lovers to wander on a warm Sicilian day ! 
 
 The formal Italian garden, with its grey-stone 
 basins of flowers and its splashing fountains, is a 
 little to exposed to the sun ; the palm grove, where 
 the shadows rest, is cooler and more restful. There 
 you can sit in the deep green and conjure up 
 romances, which could never be so impossible as the 
 romances of Sicilian high life. 
 
 Picture what you like, the dramatic Sicilian can 
 always go one better. But be sure you make the 
 princess pretty, for Sicilian princesses are the 
 prettiest in the world. They are as pretty as the 
 peasants, which is saying a good deal for a real live 
 princess, for the peasants in Sicily all look like un- 
 real princesses in fairy tales. It is the commercial 
 classes in Sicily who are plain and vulgar, and 
 utterly devoid of even their national birthright — 
 the art of walking divinely. 
 
 As I think I have mentioned before, there is no 
 real middle class in Sicily; there are the proud 
 aristocracy and the people. The people, roughly 
 speaking, includes every one who works for his 
 living; this fact alone gives a touch of mediaeval 
 romance to society and deprives the country of her 
 backbone. A backbone may be a very useful thing, 
 but sometimes it is a little stiff. Sicily is not stiff, 
 it is elegant and refined. Of course the ordinary 
 middle-class English tourist, who spends a winter 
 there, sums Sicily up as immoral ; does he ask him- 
 self what England would be like deprived of her 
 backbone? Mrs. Grundy is the patron saint of the 
 English middle classes, just as San Giuseppe is the 
 people's popular saint in Sicily; but then San 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 211 
 
 Giuseppe is a good sort ! There is no reason why 
 the English middle classes should be immoral — it 
 would be wholly unpardonable in them if they 
 were ; but you have only to come to Sicily to see 
 that there is every reason why the aristocracy should 
 be shown some leniency in that respect. An un- 
 natural life is asked of them which leads to natural 
 sins. They adore intrigue and scorn scandal. Mrs. 
 Grundy would die from sheer neglect in a country 
 where no one is shocked at their neighbour's morals 
 and no wife expects fidelity. 
 
 I spend the greater part of my time in wandering 
 about these glorious gardens; they are to me the 
 most enchanting thing in the city, and the surprise 
 is to find them in a busy, noisy city. Quite one of 
 the most beautiful, in spite of the fact that too 
 much space of latter years has been given over to 
 orange and lemon groves, belongs to the Due 
 d'Orleans. There is a house in this villa — which 
 sounds a little confusing until you remember that 
 the villa is not a villa, but a garden. It is a tall 
 white chateau, with green jalousies and a wide brick 
 terrace in front of it on a level with the front rooms. 
 A beautiful view of the extensive garden is obtained 
 from this charming terrace, which has a fascinating 
 rose arbour at each end, for the house is on a much 
 higher elevation than the garden. 
 
 I chanced upon this villa quite by accident. I 
 had never even heard of it from a cabman, and from 
 the street-front the tall chateau looks like a barrack ; 
 but, as good luck would have it, as I was idling 
 along the rather uninteresting street, the door of 
 the outer courtyard stood open, and, as I have 
 learnt that it is unwise to pass an open door in Sicily 
 without looking to see what is behind it, I stopped 
 and looked in. The things of real beauty in these 
 
212 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 ancient cities mostly lie hidden behind uninviting 
 walls. A cold, narrow, dark street, for instance, 
 may have smiling orange gardens on either side of 
 it, blocked from your view by Arabo-Norman 
 palaces. 
 
 The lodge-keeper was standing at the open door 
 of the duke's garden as I peeped across the thres- 
 hold, and graciously gave me permission to enter ; 
 the duke was not in Palermo, and although the 
 garden was not generally shown to visitors he would 
 make an exception in my favour. These excep- 
 tions are so well acted in Sicily that you do feel 
 yourself a person of distinction. 
 
 He was a fine, big fellow, dressed in smart 
 hunter's green, and I felt that I would be compelled 
 to give him a fine big tip — of 4£d., for that is how 
 tips run in Palermo — for granting me the favour. 
 I could not help smiling to myself as I thought of 
 how it would be in England if a stranger in London 
 stepped across the threshold of a prince's home and 
 expected to be allowed to wander about unattended, 
 as I did, for two long hours in that amazing 
 Southern garden. Nor had I seen the half of its 
 beauties at the end of that time, for one avenue 
 alone, in the centre of the garden, of pollard acacias 
 was a quarter of a mile in length, and the rose-walk, 
 gay with crimson ramblers, led me on and on, 
 holding out at discreet intervals inviting seats of 
 white carved marble sheltered by roses and Fiore di 
 Miele. But I was not tempted. The seats were 
 made for two, and I was alone ! 
 
 Then the mazes, which Sicilians are so fond of in 
 their gardens, often kept me imprisoned for an 
 endless time. These mazes contain hundreds of 
 hidden jets of water, and woe betide the lady 
 dressed in chiffon who gets caught in the trap ! At 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 213 
 
 every turn, as you fly angrily hither and thither, 
 vainly endeavouring to get out of the maze, fine 
 sprays of water cover you. It is no use attempting 
 to avoid them, for the ground is literally under- 
 mined with fine pipes, and wherever you put your 
 foot you are certain to start another jet into action. 
 These mazes are very amusing when another man's 
 best hat is being spoilt, or when a pretty girl flies 
 about like a chicken frightened by a dog, but 
 personally I get tired of being drenched even in 
 summer. They are so typically Sicilian that no 
 well-laid-out garden is complete without its maze. 
 
 In the South people are simple and easily amused. 
 I can imagine a prince's garden-party gay with 
 laughter over this childish sport, nor would they 
 look foolish in the trying situation, but like happy 
 grown-up children enjoying the fun. I can imagine 
 them all going out in the wind and playing at 
 having their hats blown off ; they would scream and 
 laugh and rush about and continue to look charm- 
 ing. 
 
 When I passed the porter's lodge at the end of 
 the two hours, the fine fellow in green presented 
 me with a Sicilian bouquet of flowers, which was 
 as formal and trim in its ingenuity as their gardens 
 are natural and artistic. In return I presented 
 him with fourpence-half penny. He was delighted, 
 and told me that if I had come two days later I 
 could not have seen the garden, for the duke was 
 expected. The housekeeper was busy preparing 
 the rooms. 
 
 Now do not imagine that this garden was a 
 dilapidated old affair, where there was nothing 
 much to steal or destroy. It was very much the 
 reverse. Although the place was luxurious in its 
 vegetation, it was kept in perfect order — the artistic 
 order of the South — and rare flowers tempted one 
 
214 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 at every turn. It was difficult not to steal. The 
 blue-f rocked under-gardeners, who were busy stack- 
 ing the oranges in golden heaps beneath the groves, 
 wished me a smiling good-day as I passed them. 
 Of course, the patient mule, harnessed to the gaily 
 painted cart, was waiting to carry the oranges to 
 the packing-house. If this beautiful chateau was 
 ever converted into a hotel I can imagine Palermo 
 becoming as popular as Nice ; at the present time I 
 do not think that Palermo has a hotel worthy of the 
 city. 
 
 Visitors to the South wish to be immediately 
 surrounded by the magic of the South, and you 
 have it here in the duke's garden, as you have it at 
 the Villa Politi at Syracuse. And the fine broad 
 terrace leading out from the lofty rooms, what a 
 place to wander on after meals ! so dry, so graciously 
 bathed in sunshine, with the dark green orange and 
 lemon groves lying down below to tempt idle lovers 
 to wander. In this villa, with its moss-grown paths 
 and wonderful flowers, making a gay June of cold 
 March, you are so far removed from the atmosphere 
 of a city that the shock is a rude one when you find 
 yourself suddenly let out into the street which leads 
 up to the Royal Palace. It is true you had gone 
 in from the street, but you had forgotten that ! 
 
 One other feature of the dark streets in old 
 Palermo which I have not mentioned, and which is 
 most worthy of notice, is the fruit-stalls. The 
 arrangement of them is most ingenious and amus- 
 ing ; a splendid mass of colour is obtained most 
 artistically, for the stalls are invariably placed under 
 little arches or old doorways, which are thickly 
 wreathed with branches of freshly-gathered oranges, 
 gleaming in their glossy leaves ; these wreaths are 
 again festooned with strings and bunches of small, 
 very red tomatoes, and snow-white onions. On the 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 215 
 
 stall beneath are immense lemons and pale shad- 
 docks, purple cauliflowers, and curious vegetables 
 of unknown names. Far back in the dark archway, 
 piled up high, tier upon tier, are flat baskets gaily 
 fringed with tissue paper and filled with strange 
 bright fruits. Even the lettuces are most cleverly 
 arranged, and so much use is made of the fine flam- 
 ing carrots for decorative purposes that it seems a 
 pity to buy any and so spoil the clever design. 
 Heavy, blue-rooted onions, which have been 
 allowed to sprout and throw up pale green shafts, 
 play an important part in the general effect ; and I 
 must not forget the handsome copper cauldrons, 
 deposited on the ground, full of hot artichokes, 
 boiled with a slice of lemon, ready for the busy 
 housewife, who comes along and takes her choice 
 out of the tempting pot. She has only to cross the 
 streets to the public cookery to buy some fried fish, 
 steaming hot and very savoury, spluttering out 
 boiling oil from a flat copper pan on a vast white 
 porcelain stove. Even if she spends but a few sous 
 there, she can buy a good variety of Sicilian 
 dainties. A cuttle fish, for instance, baked in 
 batter ; or the juicy legs of a frog ; or, better still, 
 a slice of hot blood-cake. These and one soldo 9 s 
 worth of new wine from the humble trattoria 
 (public house), which never forgets to sport its 
 branch of olive over the door, will make a tasty 
 meal for a household which has no fire. 
 
 These public cookeries are capital institutions; 
 the food is excellent, and costs incredibly little, for 
 it is all, of course, composed of the cheapest edibles 
 imaginable, things which the poor of vulgar nations 
 would turn up their proud noses at, and throw out 
 to the pigs with their " beefy hands." You can 
 watch the preparation of the food and the cooking 
 of it from the street, for the immense white stove 
 
216 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 forms the front wall of the shops. Even the poor- 
 est food is cleanly and delicately cooked, in oil, no 
 doubt, judging from the smell, which is not pleasant 
 to English noses; but the difference between hot 
 oil and hot lard is surely a matter of taste and 
 prejudice. 
 
 I hope I have managed to convey to you a little 
 of the character of Palermo ; it is much more diffi- 
 cult to give you a word-picture of Sicilian Palermo 
 than Sicilian Syracuse or Girgenti, for Palermo is 
 in touch with the world and has taken on worldly 
 ways. Here you only come across Sicily in vivid 
 flashes, which are thrown out of one's memory 
 when the time for letter-writing comes by the 
 every-day sights and sounds which one can hear and 
 see in any Continental city. I have tried so far 
 only to give you glimpses of real Sicily, so please 
 don't expect me to tell you in detail about the end- 
 less beautiful things which there are in and round 
 about this city. Guide-book reading is, I know, 
 dull stuff for an invalid, and if I were to write you 
 descriptions by the score of Norman chapels and 
 Saracen ruins, I should end, I know, by cribbing 
 from Baedeker. If there have been any gross in- 
 accuracies in my letters it is because I carefully 
 remembered your instruction : u Write me long 
 letters, and as womanish ones as ever you can. 
 Tell me things about the people and all sorts of 
 every-day Sicilian things. I don't care about aque- 
 ducts and coliseums. I want to imagine I am 
 seeing Sicily myself, and I never do sights." That 
 is what you said in your first letter when you begged 
 for this journal. 
 
 Doris goes to the Hotel des Palmes to-morrow. 
 We have only met at early coffee and at dinner 
 at six for the last two days. Some friends of her 
 guardian, who are staying at the Hotel des Palmes, 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 217 
 
 having called upon her and carried her off with 
 them to see the sights of Palermo. I was not 
 invited to join the party. 
 
 Now that I have no companion to tempt me to 
 idle my time away in these scented gardens of 
 Palermo, I may, to please you, take up my manu- 
 script again, for it is extraordinary how much 
 further time goes, and how .the days spin out, when 
 you have them all to yourself. With Doris it 
 seemed as if we never had more than five minutes 
 anywhere for pleasant idling; when I am alone, 
 although I may sit in the morning thinking and 
 dreaming in the Cappella Palatina for long hours, 
 when I come out into the brilliant sunshine again 
 it is not yet midday; the workmen are still busy, 
 they have not flung aside their tools on the stroke 
 of twelve to sleep below the shade of the pepper 
 trees for one happy hour. And if I go out in the 
 afternoon, I somehow find more than abundant 
 time to see the cathedral, which was built by an 
 Englishman, named Walter of the Mill, in 1169. 
 To me its only beauties are its glorious Arabo- 
 Norman doorway and the fascinating white square 
 which runs the whole length of the rather low, 
 long building. On the wall which encloses this 
 square there are some pleasing old statues of card- 
 inals and archbishops and other stately mitred 
 things of the Catholic Church, and in the square 
 itself there are dark palm-trees, tall and waving, 
 which give the place a truly Southern aspect. 
 When a priest's school of some twenty pale youths, 
 dressed in long purple tunics faced with scarlet, 
 passes across the white square, and lingers under 
 the shadow of a Moorish doorway, or when a 
 cardinal-bishop, followed by some dignitaries of the 
 Church, steps out of the ancient archiepiscopal 
 palace, which faces the piazza, and quickly dis- 
 
218 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 appears through the west door of the cathedral, 
 which has been opened for his special benefit, you 
 feel that you are indeed in the very South and that 
 the most curiously Southern thing in Palermo is its 
 Saracenic cathedral built by the Englishman, 
 Walter of the Mill. 
 
 Palermo must have been full of Arab masons 
 during the Norman period in Sicily ; you can trace 
 their delicate handiwork everywhere. The five- 
 domed church of the Eremiti, which I have men- 
 tioned already, is nothing more or less than an 
 Oriental mosque, and the church of the Martorana 
 is another. After I had examined all these build- 
 ings as well as I cared to in one afternoon, I still 
 found some time on my hands before dinner ; so I 
 sat myself down in the quiet little cloisters of the 
 Eremiti, and let the custodian who looks after the 
 building talk to me to his heart's content. He is 
 old, and sells new antiques in a little shop across the 
 road, and is one half villain and the other half a very 
 good fellow who loves his flowers and who has made 
 the cloister of the Eremiti one of the most beautiful 
 spots in all Palermo. He watches his garden as 
 tenderly as a mother tends her child, and for that 
 reason how patiently I listened to his long-winded 
 story of an orange-tree on which there are growing 
 fourteen different kinds of fruit — all of them ojf 
 course citrons! I did not buy any of his new 
 antiques, but I admired his garden, which pleased 
 him equally as well. The old Norman arches, with 
 their slender columns wreathed with pink roses and 
 hanging with pale wistaria tassels, and the fine old 
 well-head in the centre of the small cloister-yard, 
 have been painted by thousands of admiring artists 
 of all nations, and in every photographer's shop in 
 Sicily you can buy beautiful pictures of the famous 
 cloisters of San Giovanni degli Eremiti. 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 219 
 
 But these luxurious gardens and the beautiful 
 Norman ruins are not very satisfying when you sit 
 in them all by yourself. I miss the magic laughter 
 of blue eyes and the enthusiasm of youth, which 
 have been with me in Sicily until now. 
 
 Yours, 
 
 J. C. 
 
Palermo, Palazzo Monteleone. 
 
 March 19th. 
 
 Dear Louise, — 
 
 Alice's boy has arrived. Yesterday, while 
 we were seated at lunch in the grand sala under the 
 Judgment of Paris, awaiting the arrival of the 
 most sumptuous part of the ox, in Jack walked, 
 just as if he had lived in Palermo all his life, and as 
 if he owned it too, by Jove! The young Swiss 
 clerk who sits next to Doris at table d'hdte, and 
 who has been improving his English at the expense 
 of her good-nature, — he is wonderfully like a shaved 
 pink pig (the Swiss, I mean, not Alice's boy, who 
 is just what Alice's son should be like), — seemed 
 to think that any one as correctly dressed and well 
 built had a perfect right to look as if he owned the 
 whole world. Even a Swiss may look at an Eng- 
 lishman, and how that Swiss did look at Jack! 
 Doris was in the middle of explaining to him in 
 English something about London fogs at the 
 moment of Jack's arrival. The word fog had 
 puzzled the shaved pig completely. 
 
 " No, mademoiselle," he said, " do not speak it 
 in French, if you please, but smell it in English, 
 and I will understand." 
 
 Doris thought for a moment. 
 
 11 You can smell a fog when it is very bad," she 
 said laughingly to me. " But what can he mean? 
 Ah ! I know. He means spell , of course." 
 
 ■M 
 
The cloister of the Eremiti, one of the most beautiful spots in all 
 
 Palermo." [To face p. 220. 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 221 
 
 " You mean spell," she said, trying not. to smile 
 and speaking very distinctly. 
 
 " Aw ! yes, smell, if you please. I can read, but 
 not speak zee English. If you smell zee words I 
 will know it." 
 
 "Spell," Doris said again, slowly emphasis- 
 ing each letter — " not smell." 
 
 " Excuse me, I do not understand what zee word 
 s p e 1 1 iss. To smell zee word is to make it more 
 understanding, for I smell all zee words when I 
 read." 
 
 "Fog," Doris spelt the word very slowly. 
 
 " Foog," he said, shaking his pink head slowly. 
 " Not at all. I have not yet smelt zee word fog in 
 my English grammeer " 
 
 He stopped suddenly, for there was Jack stand- 
 ing right in front of him, in the most immaculate 
 suit of dark blue flannel you ever saw. The Swiss 
 had on grey bicycling flannels made in Switzerland. 
 How Jack's suit ever accomplished the journey to 
 Sicily I don't know, nor do I know how an English 
 youth who is really quite undistinguished in cast of 
 features can manage to look so distinguished ! 
 That was the question I asked myself as Jack stood 
 there amongst a room full of Italians, Germans, 
 Swiss, and one or two odd English. The salon and 
 the people, with the exception of Doris, looked old 
 and dilapidated and horribly shoddy, but Jack 
 looked as if he had just had a bath before leaving 
 his chambers in St. James's Street, Piccadilly. 
 
 One other thought entered my head. 
 
 " I wonder what Doris will think of him? — he is 
 the first male person of her own age she has met 
 since she came to Sicily." 
 
 15 
 
222 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 " I've dropped down from the clouds rather 
 suddenly," he began; " I only arrived last night. 
 I thought I'd look you up first thing. I didn't 
 know you lunched so early." 
 
 I shook hands, and I managed to get out some- 
 thing about being delighted to see him, and invited 
 him to have some lunch with us. The Swiss caught 
 his cold eyes after much hard staring, and bowed 
 elaborately. Jack inclined his head a fractional part 
 of an inch. He had in one quick glance taken in 
 the ill-made flannel suit, the shirt which was laced 
 up the front with a green silk cord, and the collar- 
 less neck. " Some Swiss thing," he said to him- 
 self. M How can that nice-looking English girl 
 talk to him?" I saw his eyes fall on Doris, so I 
 introduced him. 
 
 Doris was frank and charming ; Jack was lofty 
 and apparently indifferent. 
 
 " Have you been in Sicily long?" he asked. " I 
 can't find anything decent to eat. Do they do you 
 well here?" 
 
 " Not very," I said, noting the amused smile in 
 Doris's eyes. " I don't think the food would suit 
 you . It 's a little goaty . ' ' 
 
 "I'm staying at the Hotel de France," he said, 
 casting a hurried glance round the occupants of the 
 room. M I don't much fancy the kind of people 
 you get in these old palaces, somehow; but I'm 
 going to move to the Hotel des Palmes to-morrow. 
 I want a south room, and there's none vacant in the 
 Hotel de France." 
 
 " Doris goes to the Hotel des Palmes to- 
 morrow," I said to myself, " and I am to remain 
 here." 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 223 
 
 The Swiss, to make room for Jack, had pushed 
 his chair a little nearer to the lady of forty, who 
 wears orange-blossom in her hair every night at 
 dinner, as a protest against the gay widow who has 
 dyed her hair orange gold. The shaved Swiss does 
 not approve of these two ladies, for he confided to 
 Doris that they spoke American, and he wished 
 to learn English. Pietro, the waiter, was so much 
 agitated by Jack's pale mauve shirt, that he 
 promptly spilt a cup of black coffee over Doris's 
 white skirt and Jack's brown boots. 
 
 " Pietro is eager, but not able," I said, " and 
 his apologies are profuse." 
 
 66 Basta, bastal" Jack said impatiently, while 
 Pietro rubbed the polish off his boots. " I've only 
 been twenty-four hours in Sicily, and I'm sick to 
 death already of their fine excuses and eloquent 
 apologies. When English servants do things badly, 
 they aren't allowed to make excuses; they must 
 take scoldings." 
 
 " Oh, please don't begin comparing Sicilians 
 with the English ! " Doris said ; " they are as differ- 
 ent as English and Hindoos." 
 
 " That's just what they are," he said eagerly. 
 " Now you've hit it. They are natives, in the 
 Eastern sense of the word, playing at being Europ- 
 eans. Graceful, cringing, apologetic liars; every 
 man-Jack of them would let you kick him if you 
 paid him well enough. I hope you aren't one of 
 the people who think it is right to admire every- 
 thing and anything because it is Italian?" he said, 
 addressing Doris. 
 
 M Oh! I don't know about admiring Italy and 
 Sicily," Doris said coldly; " I love them both. 
 
224 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 Italy is like a beautiful child. When you go away 
 from it, you are afraid it will have grown up and 
 have lost its charm before you see it again." 
 
 u I see I've said the wrong thing," Jack said, 
 laughing in a natural, boyish fashion, which made 
 you like him. " But, you know, I don't under- 
 stand anything about pictures, and Italy is one vast 
 picture-gallery, isn't it? And- I hate statues; 
 they're so cold." 
 
 " There are few pictures in Sicily worth bother- 
 ing about," I said ; " and there is only one Sicilian 
 sculptor worthy of the name." 
 
 "Oh! but I love Gagini!" Doris said hastily; 
 " and I do so want you to come to the museum 
 with me. The courtyard is the loveliest thing in 
 Palermo." She looked at me almost reproachfully. 
 " Don't you think so?" 
 
 " Of course I'll come," I said ; " and I, too, like 
 Gagini's work amazingly. I think his benitier in 
 the cathedral is the most beautiful thing in the 
 building. I prefer it to the famous porphyry 
 tombs of the kings. Porphyry is unfortunately 
 very like chocolate in my eyes, and King Roger's 
 tomb reminds me of Cadbury's Christmas advertise- 
 ments. The courtyard of the museum is fascinat- 
 ing; you would never imagine it was a museum," 
 I said, turning to Jack, " for the priceless old 
 statues and antiques of every kind are arranged in 
 the most artistic manner round and about the 
 columned courtyard of an old convent; bright 
 creepers and prickly-pears hang down from the 
 Arabesqued trellis above the arches, and a cool, 
 splashing fountain, with one graceful antique figure 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 225 
 
 in the centre, sets off the open court. It is a 
 pleasure, and not a toil, spending a warm morning 
 in that cool green museum ; aloes and cacti and 
 showers of wistaria light up the old grey stones. 
 Of course, it is not every climate which will allow 
 of an open-air museum." 
 
 " You don't ■ do ' the museums in Palermo," 
 Doris said; " you just sit in the most beautiful 
 convent-cloisters, as I call them, and let your eyes 
 linger on rare and curious things of all ages. The 
 flowers and the butterflies and the sunshine are all 
 a part of it. It's not a bit museumic or glass-casey. 
 I ate four oranges there this morning while I was 
 looking at Gagini's Madonna and studying all sorts 
 of things that I don't remember now." 
 
 " That's just the worst of it," Jack said. " I 
 never do remember what's inside a museum once I 
 get out of it." 
 
 " Neither do I," Doris said; " but being there 
 must do you good. The very fact of it making you 
 feel a fool when you are in it must have a beneficial 
 effect, I think." 
 
 Jack laughed. 
 
 " I'm sure you needn't feel a fool," he said. 
 " But I'm blessed if I know who Gagini is or any- 
 thing about him." 
 
 " I didn't till I came to Palermo," Doris said; 
 " nobody does. But they are so proud of him here, 
 you will soon know. Gagini is Sicily's great 
 sculptor." 
 
 " May I come to the museum and see his 
 Madonna with you?" he asked. M I don't know 
 what to do with myself here." 
 
226 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 " Of course you may," I said. " Let's go after 
 lunch. The museum-convent is just next door." 
 
 So we went to the museum, and Doris showed 
 Jack the beautiful Madonna, which is one of the 
 few painted marble statues I ever really liked, and 
 a good many other things as well. They seem 
 to understand each other amazingly well, although 
 Doris is all enthusiasm and simplicity, while Jack 
 never allows himself to unbend enough for actual 
 admiration. " Not bad," is the highest praise I 
 have heard him bestow upon ancient well-heads, 
 Roman mosaic pavements, or the famous metopes 
 of Selinunte ; but Doris seems to think it is quite 
 enough, and youth needs no understanding. Youth 
 is a law unto itself. 
 
 If I did not admire these things more than Jack 
 does, or did not help her to understand them a little 
 bit, my word ! I'd catch it. But to-day Doris was 
 helping Jack to understand things, and he didn't 
 care two straws about them. But looking at 
 ancient statues and Renaissance doorways was a 
 fine excuse for lingering in the company of a charm- 
 ing girl, under the shade of a curtain of wistaria 
 blossoms falling over the colonnaded cortile and 
 within the sound of trickling water. 
 
 Jack lit a cigarette, and sat himself down upon a 
 heap of old cannon-balls overgrown with ivy and 
 moss. 
 
 " This place is good enough for me," he said. 
 " I don't want to see the things in the museum 
 rooms; if I remember the half of what's in the 
 courtyard, I'll do very well. By the way, are there 
 any chocolates to be had in a town like this? 
 Wouldn't you like some? I suppose you don't 
 smoke?" 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 227 
 
 " No, I don't smoke," Doris said. " But I do 
 eat chocolates ; and after we have sat here long 
 enough, let us go and have some black coffee and 
 cakes at Guli's — a lovely confectioner's ! It is very 
 amusing to go there at about eleven in the morn- 
 ings, and see all the smart young men come to 
 drink sweet syrup and eat fresh strawberry short- 
 cakes. They are in season just now, and so good ; 
 but Caflisch has the best chocolates. What 
 wouldn't we have given for one of those shops in 
 Syracuse!" 
 
 " And my poor sweets are still on the way from 
 England," I thought. M They would have been 
 appreciated in Syracuse, but here " 
 
 " I'm off now," J^ick said, getting up quickly. 
 " Please let's go to Cat-fish, or whatever you called 
 this ' confectioner,' — the one where you get the 
 coffee and cakes." 
 
 Doris smiled a willing acceptance. 
 
 " Won't you come too?" she said, turning to 
 me. 
 
 I had assumed to be vastly interested for the 
 moment in the slender column entwined with ivy, 
 which was erected in 1737 in the Piazza de' Vesperi, 
 in memory of the French who were buried there 
 after the famous massacre of the Sicilian Vespers, 
 which began on the evening of March 31st, 1282. 
 While this bloody massacre of all the French in 
 Palermo was taking place, the bells of the churches 
 were tolled, which gave the massacre the pictur- 
 esque name of the Sicilian Vespers. 
 
 " Have you seen enough of the museum 
 already?" I said, turning to Jack. " There are 
 some magnificent things in the inner courtyard, 
 worthy of a few minutes of your time." 
 
228 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 " I can do the museum any time," he said ; " but 
 you can't always be sure of having the right appetite 
 on for cakes and coffee." 
 
 And Doris actually agreed with him, although 
 I know her appetite for such things has never failed 
 her. But what is born of a hen will scrape, and 
 Doris is a true woman ; and who could blame her 
 for being willing to suit her tastes to the pleasure of 
 so attractive a companion ? 
 
 Jack has Alice's old trick of winning forgiveness 
 with a smile : all his assumed indifference, his 
 national conceit and youthful egotism vanish, and 
 you see right into the heart of a generous, manly 
 nature when his eyes soften with laughter and the 
 stern young face breaks into smiles. Any girl 
 would be glad enough to keep that light in his eyes 
 and to soften the expression on his mouth into 
 tenderness. 
 
 " Ah!" I thought; " if youth knew and age 
 could!" 
 
 As we passed through the town almost every 
 other person we met was carrying a parcel wrapped 
 up in white paper and tied with string of the 
 national colours — red, white, and green. There 
 was an air of general festivity in the streets, and 
 almost all the shops were closed. Two cabs dashed 
 past with a great cracking of whips. In one was 
 seated a very, very old woman with an enormous 
 cake on her lap, — a regular Sicilian cake, covered 
 with white sugar and candied fruits, and elaborately 
 trimmed with chocolate pipings. Sicilian cakes are 
 even richer and more elaborate than German ones, 
 and a spoon is quite necessary when eating one, for 
 they are soft and moist with rum and custard. The 
 other cab was crowded with little children, — 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 229 
 
 crowded as only a Sicilian cab can be crowded, — 
 and each happy child was eating a cake of many 
 colours. It was soon very apparent that all the 
 many parcels tied up in white paper contained cakes 
 of various descriptions, for the only shops open were 
 the confectioners' and small cafes, where cakes and 
 wine " sell themselves." There is a saying in 
 Sicily that three geese and three women make a 
 market : Tre ocche e tre donne fanno un mercato. 
 I'm quite certain that two chairs and a table make 
 a cafe. 
 
 M It seems to me we have chosen the right day 
 to come and eat cakes," Jack said, as a small boy, 
 carrying a very large cake, much taller than himself, 
 on a beaten brass tray, pushed us off the side- walk, 
 M for every one is either eating cakes or carrying 
 cakes. I wonder if there is going to be a cake 
 procession anywhere? I never saw anything quite 
 so mad, or such elaborate cakes. Some of them 
 must have cost a lot of money." 
 
 Doris had taken a little Italian calendar from her 
 pocket and was studying it. 
 
 " I'll tell you what it all means," she said sud- 
 denly. " This is the feast of San Giuseppe, the 
 people's friend. San Giuseppe cared for the poor, 
 and fed and looked after the little children ; these 
 people are all carrying presents to their poor friends 
 in memory of San Giuseppe." 
 
 M Good old Giuseppe!" Jack said. " Now, he 
 was a decent sort of a saint. No lofty ideas of 
 fasting and resisting the good things of this life." 
 
 " San Pasquale was another ' good sort,' as you 
 would call him," Doris said laughingly. " He is 
 the patron saint of women, for he helps poor home- 
 less girls to find good husbands. On the feast of 
 San Pasquale all the hard-working girls pray that 
 
280 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 he will send them as good and kind a man as he was 
 himself. At some of the institutions for motherless 
 girls, young men who wish wives are allowed to go 
 there on the feast of San Pasquale and choose them- 
 selves wives. The nuns are always willing to give 
 the girls a good character, and they are sure to 
 have been well trained and carefully instructed in 
 the art of housekeeping by these u little sisters of 
 the poor." They make their husbands excellent 
 wives, and San Pasquale often sends the girls as 
 good a husband as an Italian or Sicilian wife ever 
 expects. They are willing to take their chance, 
 for they say to themselves, ' I matrimoni sono non 
 come si fanno, ma comme riescono,' which literally 
 means, ' Marriages are not as they are made, but 
 as they turn out.' " 
 
 When we arrived at Guli's, the shop was quite 
 full; but it was filled, not with the fashionable 
 crowd who usually frequent it at eleven o'clock in 
 the morning and at six o'clock in the evening, but 
 with large families of poor people dressed in their 
 holiday best. The shawls on some of the young 
 married women were very fine ; I think they must 
 be like the Cashmere shawls which Queen Victoria 
 presented to each of her ladies-in-waiting on the 
 occasion of their marriage. These old Sicilian 
 shawls are much sought after nowadays by artists, 
 and it is exceedingly difficult to find one for sale. 
 Some years ago a cunning dealer in artists' proper- 
 ties bought up every one that he could lay his hands 
 upon, and gave the people in exchange gaudy new 
 Paisley shawls of the vilest dyes and designs. If 
 you go into a draper's shop now in Syracuse or 
 Palermo and ask to see some Sicilian coloured 
 shawls, you are shown things made in Paisley or 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 231 
 
 Milan, for the people, after they had once seen the 
 cheap, gaudy, foreign shawls, no longer were 
 willing to save up their scarce sous to buy the 
 genuine Sicilian one, which was costly as well as 
 exquisitely beautiful. The elaborate designs are, 
 as a rule, woven on a white or dull-orange back- 
 ground. One of these shawls draped over the head 
 of a graceful Sicilian woman, and flowing down to 
 the hem of her black skirt, makes a wonderful note 
 of colour in a dark street. 
 
 As there was no chance of our being served with 
 a cup of coffee, or of getting near enough to the 
 counter to buy any cakes, we determined to give it 
 up, and take a drive out to the Favorita. 
 
 The Favorita is a mad-looking Chinese chateau, 
 which was built in the time of the Bourbons, by 
 Ferdinand the Fourth, I think, under the shadow 
 of Monte Pellegrino. 
 
 For a royal chateau it is as poor and shoddy a 
 thing as ever you saw, but its situation is simply 
 perfect. The mountain towers up above the lovely 
 grounds, which are laid out very pleasantly for 
 driving in, though they are not equal to the Pare 
 d' Orleans in vegetation. On our way there we 
 passed some very handsome new houses, belonging 
 to the aristocracy of Palermo, who no longer live 
 in the city in their dark Spanish palaces ; in fact, 
 to-day every one but a prince lives in a palace in 
 Sicily. The Favorita is very charming, but not to 
 be compared to many of the villas which have not 
 so bewitching a name. 
 
 We parted with Jack just in time for dinner, 
 which was an unusually good one to-night, in 
 honour of San Giuseppe. Pietro was very proud 
 of the elaborate cake, which was served instead of 
 pudding; and our table, to please Doris, was 
 literally covered with scarlet adonis. This little 
 
232 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 feathery-leafed, bright-eyed flower, is called San 
 Giuseppe's flower, because it is always in full bloom 
 all over the country on his feast-day, and, as I have 
 often remarked before, when a flower blooms in 
 Sicily it knows how to bloom. There are no half 
 measures with Southern vegetation, as there are 
 none with the people. They both go the " whole 
 hog," to use the vulgar expression. 
 
 So out at the Favorita to-day the sunny world 
 was all scarlet adonis; under the orange-trees we 
 walked ankle-deep in San Giuseppe's dear little red 
 flower, and in the distant landscape there was a 
 carpet of adonis spread beneath the bluest of skies. 
 No painter could exaggerate the colour of the South 
 on a day like this, with its sparkling atmosphere, 
 its azure blue sky and sea, its scarlet adonis, and its 
 soft blue-greens of aloe and agave, showing like 
 gigantic flowers against the deep greens of the tall 
 palms and New Zealand fern-trees. And over it 
 all there was the great pink crown of Pellegrino, 
 with its white zigzag pilgrims' road winding up and 
 up its precipitous heights until it reached the little 
 dark grotto of the girl-saint. I should like to be in 
 Palermo on the festival of St. Rosalia, which falls 
 on July 15th. At dinner Pietro waxed eloquent 
 over the magnificence of the procession and the 
 grand triumphal car of St. Rosalia. Horse-races, 
 regattas and illuminations are kept up at a high 
 pitch during the holiday week. It is curious that 
 the saints' days of the Church are now the race-days 
 of the people. The feast of the Annunciation is 
 oddly chosen for the first grand race-meeting of the 
 season. It is on the 25th of this month, so I will 
 tell you all about it, even if I don't go to see it, 
 for one can be so much more vivid when one has not 
 actually seen things ; facts hinder realism. To be 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 233 
 
 realistic you must write from your own armchair, 
 and make your readers go to see the things you 
 describe. 
 
 When I said good-night to Doris I was tempted 
 to ask her what she thought of Jack ; but to get 
 the truth from a woman you should never ask for 
 it, so I refrained. 
 
 M I am rather sorry to leave this — this Judgment 
 of Paris," she said, looking up to the vaulted and 
 grandly painted ceiling of the vast salon. u To- 
 morrow I go to the Hotel des Palmes, you know." 
 
 " Yes, I know," I said a little coldly. " But it 
 was your own wish. I would have gone there and 
 left you here, but you wished to go." 
 
 " I sha'n't feel the least bit as if I was in Sicily," 
 she said ; " I know I sha'n't. My friends there go 
 about with a horrid German dragoman; we do 
 about six things every morning, and pay calls all 
 the afternoon." 
 
 " Jack will be there," I said; " he will amuse 
 you. He won't go to see things or pay calls, I'll 
 be bound." 
 
 " I want to see things," she said regretfully; 
 " but not in that way. Oh, I wish we were back 
 in Syracuse !" There was a little worried sigh. 
 
 " You won't to-morrow," I said. " And it will 
 do you a world of good to have some of your own 
 age to talk to — and to " 
 
 " I thought you said a woman could make a man 
 any age she liked. Boys are horrid ! they are 
 always old." 
 
 " Good-night," I said; and while her hand 
 rested in mine I looked into her eyes. They were 
 little blue wells of sadness. " And remember, 
 dear, that a tender woman can always make a fool 
 of an old man." 
 
234 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 " Good-night," she answered, withdrawing her 
 hand; and as she vanished down the long dark 
 passage she said laughingly over her shoulder : " It 
 entirely depends what being an old fool means, 
 don't you think?" 
 
 Yours, 
 
 J. C. 
 
Palermo, 
 
 March 26th> 1900. 
 
 My dear Louise, — 
 
 In this old palace which once belonged to the 
 proud ducal family of Pignatelli-Cortez, descend- 
 ants of the great Cortez, there are many paying 
 guests. In Sicily " Not all those who go to church 
 say their prayers " (Non tutti quelli che vanno in 
 chiesa fanno orazione), neither are all who live in 
 palaces princes. Indeed, to live in a palace 
 generally signifies that you are not a prince, but an 
 innkeeper, or one of his guests. There is a draw- 
 back to this making of inns out of palaces which is 
 not at first obvious, but when you reflect that only 
 one side of any square courtyard can face the south, 
 it is obvious that there are three sides which cannot 
 get the morning sun, and, as palace dimensions 
 are vast, there are not many rooms on the first 
 floor facing the south. After many years of inn- 
 keeping, the Sicilian landlord has learnt that even 
 Germans will pay a few francs more per week to 
 purchase the precious sun. This being the case, 
 I am writing to you in the smallest of rooms, which 
 is very apparently the third portion of an original 
 large one. With native ingenuity the landlord has 
 made three small rooms out of every large one on 
 the south side of the courtyard; the walls which 
 
 divide the paying guests are scarcely in keeping in 
 
 235 
 
236 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 point of thickness with the original palace walls, 
 but this does not signify so much as the fact that 
 the elaborately painted hunting-scene on the ceiling 
 has also been cut into three portions and each guest 
 has got a piece. On my portion of the ceiling I 
 have the head and fore-legs of a fine white horse, 
 also a few trees, a distant castle, and a tempting 
 glimpse of the short velvet tunic and pointed hose 
 of a youthful page. The middle portion of the 
 white horse I suppose I shall never see, for the room 
 next to mine is occupied by the lady who wears 
 orange-blossom in her faded hair ; but I have seen 
 the beast's tail and the falcon-bearers, for the third 
 room is the property of an old Englishman who has 
 lived in this palace for more years than he cares to 
 admit. He is in a chronic state of packing up his 
 belongings to go back to England. He is only 
 here for his health, so he says ; the rest of the palace 
 paying guests seem to think that there may be other 
 reasons which prevent him from returning to his 
 native land. 
 
 He asked Doris, a day or so after our arrival here, 
 to help him to choose some Oriental draperies from 
 two Singalese traders, who bring their trashy stock 
 into the big salon and spread the things about the 
 room every day at lunch and never sell anything. 
 Doris was good-naturedly consenting to help him in 
 his choice, for he had, he said, " the worst taste in 
 the world, and would never trust himself to choose 
 anything for any one, and as these things were for 
 his sister who was getting up a bazaar for the war 
 fund in England he would be very grateful for 
 Doris's advice." 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 237 
 
 " Don't you give it," the widow with the 
 orange-coloured hair whispered to Doris. M He 
 gets that off every fresh woman under fifty who 
 comes here, and there aren't many. He asked me 
 to choose these things for him six months before 
 the war broke out, and that bazaar hasn't come off 
 yet. He'll ask you to look at the painted roof in 
 his room if you do. He's a horrid old man." 
 
 But Doris, with her gentle nature, could not 
 refuse the polite request, so the Oriental rubbish 
 was duly chosen, but not paid for. I have seen 
 two people choose the same things for him since, 
 but the draperies are still in the possession of the 
 Singalese, who have become indifferent in the 
 matter. 
 
 After choosing the vulgar Eastern things, he at 
 once asked Doris if she would care to see the most 
 extraordinary painting on the roof of his room. 
 She was on the point of refusing when I said, 
 " Yes, do, for I will accompany you. I want to 
 see the tail end of the hunting-scene. I have 
 studied the first part of it for hours every morning 
 in bed, and I feel curious to see how it ends." 
 
 M If it is anything like the Judgment of Paris," 
 she said hesitatingly, " I think I'd better not." 
 
 " No, it's not a bit," I said. " It is a painting 
 after the school of Pinturicchio, who loved gay 
 doublets and hose ; the Judgment of Paris is after 
 the school of Rubens — only more so. Rubens did 
 not love hose or doublets." 
 
 This Judgment of Paris, which covers the whole 
 of the vaulted roof of the vast salon in which the 
 guests feed, is, I confess, rather an alarming 
 picture. The nude figures of the anxious Graces 
 are quite life-size and very generously developed. 
 
 16 
 
238 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 They are, however, so high overhead that to be 
 really shocked the pale spinsters in their neat black 
 evening gowns would find it necessary to lie down 
 on their backs on the floor ; and this I am sure they 
 will never do, for the floor is tiled and very cold. 
 
 In the large courtyard of the palace there is a 
 stone fountain raised from the ground by a flight of 
 red marble steps. A white marble cupid gushes 
 out water into the basin from his mouth. Stand- 
 ing by the fountain there is at this moment an old 
 woman with a black Sicilian shawl drawn closely 
 over her head. She is washing some poor garments 
 in a fine beaten-brass basin which I mean to try to 
 purchase, so I will watch what part of the palace 
 bassi she goes into. The palace only goes round 
 three sides of this outer courtyard, for on the oppo- 
 site side to the south wing there is a white-tiled 
 terrace which is high enough to be on a level with 
 the salon floor. Its walls are suitably ornamented 
 with little pitchers, which are the meaning of the 
 word Pignatelli, and the crest of the family of 
 Cortez. These little pitchers of terra-cotta are 
 filled with all sorts of Southern plants, such as small 
 yuccas and flaming lilies. Behind this broad white- 
 tiled terrace there is an ancient orange-garden 
 which is dominated by two immense stone-pines. 
 From my window these two softly spreading trees 
 seem to grow right out of the white terrace, and the 
 mossy branches cast deep shadows on the sunny 
 scene. I cannot tell you how romantic and delight- 
 ful the effect is, for the palace is white and very tall, 
 with pale green shutters, and the terrace is white, 
 and so is the splashing fountain ; the flaming lily is 
 the only note of colour. The two dark sentinels 
 of pines stretch out their long arms from our 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 239 
 
 orange-garden, and soften and break the dazzling 
 south. 
 
 The general effect from my window is dark green, 
 almost to blackness, dazzling white, and cloudless 
 blue ; the woman in her black frock, busy with the 
 brass dish, seems to be the one touch of human 
 nature in the scene, which is always right in Sicily. 
 
 One of the many trades, or professions, I should 
 say, which is carried on in the bassi of the palace is 
 a fencing-school. I can hear from my bedroom 
 window from early morning until late at night, first 
 the cat-like spring, with the dull thud, thud on the 
 floor, and then the rapid sparring and clashing of 
 the rapiers. All sorts and conditions of people 
 come to this fencing-school : smart officers in pale- 
 blue cloaks, and dandies wearing American ties and 
 Monte Carlo hats ; but the pupil I take most inter- 
 est in is a young girl who steps out of a big carriage, 
 closely veiled and jealously enveloped in a black 
 cloak. When her lesson is going on the green 
 jalousies are closed, and no other pupils are ad- 
 mitted; but I can picture to myself the slender 
 figure in the short fencing-skirt standing erect and 
 alert, the first quick movement forward, the lighter 
 thud, thud on the floor, the exciting clashing of the 
 steel, then silence again. 
 
 In the large hall on the ground-floor, below the 
 white terrace, there is an Italian kindergarten, 
 which used to interest Doris immensely, for the 
 baby-scholars arrive in roomy omnibuses, built for 
 the purpose, as early as half-past eight o'clock in 
 the morning, and they do not go home until after 
 four o'clock in the evening. A man-servant or a 
 nurse always brings each child to school, but they 
 do not all return for them in the evening. This 
 
240 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 leads me to suppose that they are not sent for the 
 safe-conduct of the child, but to see that it actually 
 goes to school. It is a very happy school, I think, 
 for I hear plenty of laughter and singing, and the 
 young girls who teach in it are pretty, gentle- 
 looking creatures. The wee babies, who are cer- 
 tainly beginning their education very early, have 
 their first meal of the day at eleven, which they 
 bring with them in little baskets. Doris says this 
 is very bad for little children ; they should have a 
 hot milky mid-day meal, and a breakfast at eight ; 
 but these nut-brown things seem to grow up into 
 very pretty women, in spite of the absence of break- 
 fast, and lunches ojf salad and cold meat. It is 
 amusing to see them all bundling into the omnibus 
 at four o'clock, so eager to get home. The driver 
 goes from house to house, like a parcels postman, 
 dropping each weary little child, with an empty 
 basket, at their different doors; like all Sicilians, 
 he has an abundant patience with children. In the 
 inner courtyard of the palace there are a book- 
 binder, a working goldsmith, a shoemaker, and a 
 happy hatter, who scrubs and remodels cheap straw 
 hats for ten cents, and a tailor body who mends old 
 clothes, besides a carriage-builder who repairs old 
 cabs with glue and tacks. 
 
 So, you see, there is a remnant of the patriarchal 
 system still within the high walls of the palace of the 
 Pignatelli-Cortez. All this is very Sicilian, and so 
 is the exterior of the vast old palace, with its 
 remnants of departed splendour. It is managed — 
 or, rather, it manages itself — as no other pension- 
 hotel ever was managed before or ever will be again : 
 two little men- waiters, who have the instinctive 
 sense of a woman and the physical endurance of a 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 241 
 
 Samson, and two very old women, who have been 
 past work for many years, run the entire concern. 
 The young padrone and his pretty wife live in a 
 wing of the palace, entirely shut off from their 
 guests. They have a pretty way of greeting you 
 on your arrival, and of speeding the parting guest 
 when the bill is paid, but in the interval — be it a 
 week or a year — they are never within sight. 
 Domestic work knows no distinction of sex in 
 Sicily, so the old women are merely the drudges of 
 the youthful waiters, who look after your entire 
 wants, at least as entirely as you can expect for 
 seven francs a day including wine. Pietro is really 
 unique. I am afraid he must be a knave, for he is 
 certainly no fool, and any man-servant is neces- 
 sarily either the one or the other. A knave makes 
 you comfortable and allows no one to cheat you but 
 himself ; a fool makes you uncomfortable and allows 
 every one to rob you while he himself is honest. 
 In Sicily you live and learn ; a little experience 
 teaches you that therd are more reasons than one 
 why the ancients built their houses so high and 
 made their streets so narrow. To exclude the sun 
 was not the only reason ; indeed, one often wonders 
 if a little more warmth from the sun in the winter 
 would not make up for the heat endured in August 
 if the streets were a little wider ; they are so bitterly 
 cold all the winter. But the other enemy these 
 narrow streets were built to keep out, is the sirocco. 
 Last night it blew with all the abandonment of a 
 Southern fury. Plants were uprooted in the old 
 orange-garden and hurled into the high terraces. 
 Trees were blown over like ninepins, and big 
 windows completely shattered. All night long 
 
242 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 there was a noise of glass falling and of doors being 
 blown in ; the poor old palace seemed to be devast- 
 ated from the roof to basso. I was thankful that 
 in a Sicilian palace there are no chimney-pots, and 
 that the original walls of the building are very 
 strong. 
 
 While the wind lasts the air is hot and enervating, 
 and the noise is hopelessly bewildering. It is the 
 sort of wind that makes you lose your head. Every 
 one in the palace was flying wildly about, in vain 
 endeavours to keep old windows closed, or shut 
 rebellious doors. For twelve hours, and more, this 
 horrible storm made the gentle life of Sicily a 
 hideous pantomime. 
 
 It is up in the high heavens that the sirocco howls 
 and roars ; you can almost see it curling and writh- 
 ing in the leaden sky. It has more evil in its 
 character than any other wind I have experienced ; 
 the blizzards of Canada are bad enough, and so is the 
 mistral of the Riviera, but safe under the bedclothes 
 you can get away from them both. In a sirocco, 
 wherever you may be, you are part and parcel of 
 the wind. You are twisted and torn and gathered 
 up on high ; you are in the white dust which tears 
 down the wide streets like the very smoke of hell ; 
 you are, with the tall yuccas, laid low ; and you can 
 feel the leaves of the date palms being tattered and 
 torn like a shivering beggar's rags. The head 
 grows giddy with the continual rising and falling 
 of the bamboos and the swinging of the tall donax 
 reeds. They are like the heaving and sinking of a 
 ship on a stormy sea. Your nerves are reduced to 
 such a state of exhaustion that you become the 
 smallest atom of dust, caught up and carried high 
 into the horrible storm. 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 243 
 
 In the wide boulevards the devastation is com- 
 plete, and the dust is blinding. When you see, in 
 the distance, a white company of it charging down 
 to envelope you and bruise you with the violence of 
 its stones and grit, make a rush for the first narrow 
 street, dash down any side alley. There is perfect 
 safety there, although the air is still laden with the 
 fevered breath of the sirocco, for the old builders 
 of the city knew that the wind-god requires scope 
 and freedom for the gathering up of his forces. 
 The little slit of low, inky sky, showing between 
 the high walls, is a different matter from the wide, 
 terrifying heavens over the modern city; and the 
 stone-paved streets, which will scarcely admit of the 
 smallest donkey-carts passing, do not gather and 
 keep the white dust. To-day things look tired and 
 parched, and a cry goes up from all things living 
 and growing for rain. Flowers are choked with 
 dust, and the palm leaves are white ; but nature 
 recovers itself so quickly in the South that there 
 will be no trace of this storm after one day's good 
 rain. 
 
 I am rather overpowered by the number of ex- 
 cursions which one ought to take from Palermo, 
 but at last I have seen beggarly Bagheria, the little 
 village where all the big neglected country palaces 
 belonging to Sicilian nobles are grouped. It is well 
 worth seeing from a romantic and sentimental point 
 of view, for these extraordinary palaces were built 
 in the days when it was the mode for fashionable 
 ladies to play at being milkmaids. Maria Caroline 
 had no doubt introduced into far Sicily at Bagheria 
 many of her ill-fated sister's picturesque fads and 
 fancies. Twenty years earlier, Marie Antoinette, 
 
244 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 weary of royal functions, had endeavoured to amuse 
 herself by assuming the role of rustic simplicity. 
 In the Little Trianon at Versailles, the royal milk- 
 maid set the fashion in butter-making and pastoral 
 flirtations. Proud princesses, in flowered muslins 
 and floating ribbons, visited the pigs and drank milk 
 in the daintiest of royal dairies. 
 
 But to-day everything in Bagheria is melancholy 
 and depressing. The spacious grounds round these 
 rapidly decaying mansions are neglected, and given 
 over to weeds ; each palace, as you view it in the 
 distance from the high terrace of some lonely 
 garden, seems more forlorn and forgotten than the 
 last ; and yet how gay they must have been in the 
 heyday of their frivolity and grandeur ! The pretty 
 princesses and the courtly princes played at Arcadia 
 not so many miles from their beloved city but that 
 they could bring the town with them into the 
 country. There is an absurdity about the architec- 
 ture and decorations of some of these dilapidated 
 buildings which quickly brings before you the 
 frivolous and artificial life which was led by the 
 people to whom they belonged — silly people, if you 
 like, but highly romantic and happily picturesque. 
 
 Yesterday's storm was gathering in the skies 
 when I drove on that lonely road to Bagheria. On 
 the way I passed the little ruined church of San 
 Giovanni dei Leprosi, founded by Roger the Great 
 Count in 1071. A sad name and a melancholy little 
 building it is to-day ; the excursion generally left 
 one depressed and lonely. Bagheria might look 
 beautiful under a blue sky and in the clear bright 
 Sicilian air; under a storm-laden sky and in the 
 stifling atmosphere it breathed of decay and desola- 
 tion. * 
 
tn the cathedral of Monreale. " The most beautiful cloister in Europe. 
 
 [To face p. 244. 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 245 
 
 How strikingly different is all the stucco 
 splendour of Bagheria, which belongs to the de- 
 cadence of Sicily, from the stately magnificence of 
 the Stanza di Ruggero, as the Norman room in the 
 Palazzo Reale is called ! There may be in the 
 Saracenic world some golden room which resembles 
 this one of Roger the King in the Palazzo Reale, 
 but I have not seen it ; it is certainly the only one 
 in Europe. Hitherto, when I have intended doing 
 the royal palace I have failed to get farther than the 
 Cappella Palatina. I cannot pass its doors. If I 
 vow just one peep, it extends itself into delightful 
 hours. But for once, I don't know how, I found 
 myself in the hands of a licensed guide, who 
 positively insisted upon my seeing the famous 
 Stanza di Ruggero; and I'm glad he did insist, 
 for I think that Norman room, with its walls en- 
 crusted with gold and green mosaics, and its 
 dripping columns of rare marbles, placed more 
 vividly before me the solid magnificence of the 
 Arabo-Norman period in Sicily than anything else 
 has done. This room of Roger the King is almost 
 as glorious as his chapel, and more unique. You 
 could not say it was a comfy or a homely room ; but 
 then, was there anything comfy in the days when 
 your shirts were made of chain mail, and did these 
 old Norman swells ever know the meaning of the 
 dear word home, or the luxury of an armchair? 
 When you are in this strange, Saracen-looking 
 room, which reminds you more of a retired corner 
 of a mosque than of a sitting-room, you cannot help 
 hoping that Roger the King had some quiet little 
 den in the palace, where alone with himself he 
 could be a simple human man; for even he must 
 have had those moments in his life when the 
 
246 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 sympathy of snug surroundings and soft chairs is 
 more desirable than the dignity of halls and marble 
 benches inlaid with ivory. 
 
 For artists who make a study of mosaics there is 
 plenty to keep them busy and interested in and 
 around Palermo. Besides the world-famed mosaics 
 in the cathedral off Monreale, which Baedeker says 
 cover an area of 70,700 square feet and date from 
 the twelfth century, there is the cathedral at Cefalu, 
 which boasts of the most perfect and ancient mosaics 
 in Sicily. The Christ of Cefalu is so often referred 
 to by authorities on mosaic art that I suppose I 
 must go and see it. It was finished in the year 
 1148, and is universally agreed to be one of the most 
 imposing and impressive representations of our 
 Lord ever executed in mosaic. 
 
 But if this hot wind lasts much longer I shall 
 leave all these sights, which it seems so necessary to 
 visit when you are living in a pension where guide- 
 books are the only form of literature. When I get 
 back to England it won't matter very much if I 
 have seen the Cefalu Christ or not, or the famous 
 Greek temple of Segesta, which stands all alone in 
 the heart of the mountains. These things will not 
 seem of such vital importance as they do to-day. 
 I shall take refuge perhaps in the little mountain 
 town of Taormina, which I once told you is the 
 undisputed beauty of Sicily, or I shall get aboard 
 the first good steamer bound straight for Marseilles. 
 
 In the absence of all war -news, the local papers 
 are busy over the glories of the forthcoming Paris 
 exhibition. As Italians dote on exhibitions, this 
 latest news is even more popular than South Africa. 
 
 Yours, 
 
 J. C. 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 247 
 
 P.S. — I must tell you that while the storm lasted 
 the shaved Swiss walked about the palace wringing 
 his hands and ejaculating at intervals, M Ach, 
 terrible-ness ! " This is his persistent adjective at 
 the present moment. When I told him I had 
 visited Bagheria, and alluded to its decayed 
 splendour, he responded with, " Ach, terrible- 
 ness ! terrible-ness ! " The toughness of the ubiqui- 
 tous kid at lunch is u terrible-ness," and so is the 
 noise of the church bells which never stop clanging 
 in Palermo. 
 
 Your affectionate brother, 
 
 J. C. 
 
Palermo, 
 
 March 302/1. 
 
 My dear Louise, — 
 
 You want to hear more about Alice's boy, 
 perhaps more than I can tell you, for my intimacy 
 with him does not ripen as quickly as his has done 
 with Doris, who has mitigated her first rather severe 
 criticism upon him. He is, she now declares, much 
 more sensible than the ordinary young man of his 
 age, and really quite interesting when you get him 
 on the subjects that interest him. With a woman's 
 quickness she has, of course, discovered these sub- 
 jects. I have not. The things he seems to be 
 most interested in in Palermo are the Saints'-day 
 and race-meetings, and the eating of ices in the Cafe 
 Trinacria. Nothing seems to shock his stomach or 
 impress his imagination. He has attached himself 
 to Doris and her friends, who seem willing enough 
 to fall in with his ideas of the proper way to see 
 Palermo. 
 
 Poor little Doris ! When I have passed their 
 gay company once or twice, she has tried to look as 
 if she was not enjoying herself, as if her gaiety was 
 only assumed; but I have noted the new pretty 
 white dress, and the dainty shade hat, which only 
 partly conceals the bright flush on her cheeks ; the 
 instinctive feminine desire to preen her feathers to 
 please the male bird is noticeable. There is a well- 
 known Italian saying, La donna savia h alV impen- 
 
 sata, alia pensata e matta (Women are wise off- 
 
 248 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 249 
 
 hand, but fools on reflection), which seems to me 
 applicable to the subject. 
 
 This morning I went round to the Hotel des 
 Palmes to invite Doris to spend the morning with 
 me in the Botanical Gardens. I was met by Jack, 
 who told me, without mincing matters, that Doris 
 couldn't possibly come, as they were all on the point 
 of starting off to visit some old church out in the 
 country, the name of which he couldn't pronounce. 
 It turned out to be S. Maria di Gesu, one of the 
 particular places I wished to show Doris. It was 
 formerly a Minorite monastery, and is to-day one 
 of the most picturesque things in Sicily. " Great 
 Caesar's ghost !" I said to myself, " fancy this gay 
 company of fashionable sight-seers, headed by a 
 German dragoman, going to disturb the repose of 
 that quiet little cemetery, nestling under a hill, 
 which is a veritable garden of wild-flowers ! ' ' Some 
 brown-f rocked monks are always busy, training the 
 roses and tending the graves in their ancient 
 cemetery, where many of the great of Palermo lie 
 buried, or conducting a funeral service, when the 
 tall candles burn steadily in that sheltered corner, 
 but show a foolish light in the brilliant sunshine. 
 On the flat roof of the whitewashed monastery one 
 afternoon two contented brothers were seated 
 watching a family of lately-hatched chickens take 
 in their first impression of the world — a kindly 
 world, and, viewed from this old-world spot, so 
 beautiful, so quaintly picturesque, these chirping 
 chickens must have been very favourably impressed 
 concerning their hitherto very limited view. S. 
 Maria di Gesu, with its wealth of wild-flowers and 
 its glorious view of pink Pellegrino and its peaceful 
 little monastery, which has a sunny white terrace 
 
250 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 in front of it, paved with the ancient tombstones of 
 departed Minorite monks, and a fountain with 
 seven beasts, is just the sort of place where you lose 
 all count of time, and think nothing matters so 
 much as the beauty of Sicily. 
 
 As I passed back through the flower-scented 
 cemetery, where the busy bees from the monastery 
 hives were improving the shining hours, one of the 
 brown-frocked monks presented me with a magnifi- 
 cent bouquet of roses. My arms were full of wild- 
 flowers of the most interesting varieties, which I 
 had gathered on the slope of the mountain. The 
 monk shook his hairy head and pointed scornfully 
 at them. " Salvaggio, signore," he said ; " salvag- 
 gio, throw them away ; they are not worth taking 
 home." I was sure that Doris would prefer the 
 new specimens of wild-flowers, gathered from the 
 mountain, to the deep orange-coloured roses grown 
 upon cherished graves, so, although I thanked him 
 and accepted the roses, I did not throw away the 
 crimsonest of wild anemones, or the pale feathery 
 mauve flower which would have added glory to any 
 English hothouse. 
 
 But I have been wandering, for I meant to tell 
 you about the Botanical Gardens, where I found 
 myself half an hour after Jack's party had started 
 off in their fine two-horsed carriages on their visit to 
 the Gesu. Jack had arranged things very nicely, 
 and Doris blushed a little as I watched her take her 
 seat by his side, chaperoned only by the German 
 dragoman, who was, of course, posted on the box- 
 seat beside the coachman. 
 
 M I wish you were coming," Doris said to me; 
 " but you've been there, haven't you? You've 
 seen the Gesu, and my friends arrange things all so 
 pat that I haven't a word to say in the matter." 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 251 
 
 " Don't bother about me," I said ; " I can find 
 lots to do in Palermo." 
 
 " Yes, but you are all alone ; it must be so dull 
 
 " She paused for a moment, and then almost 
 
 in a whisper said : " Don't think me horrid." 
 
 6 I never could," I replied. " In my eyes you 
 will always be charming." 
 
 " Now you're unkind, and you do think me 
 horrid," she said. M That's the sort of pat little 
 speech you make to nasty people whom you wish 
 to say nice things to. Won't you come with us ? — 
 we could easily make room for you in this carriage." 
 
 " Jack would have to sit back to the horses," I 
 said, u on that little shelf which is scarcely wide 
 enough to hold your guide-book. How do you 
 think he'd like it?" 
 
 She smiled a little doubtfully. 
 
 " He doesn't like being uncomfortable certainly, 
 but I'm sure he would be very glad ... if you " 
 
 " There's time enough to begin telling fibs on 
 his account," I said. " Let me help you into the 
 carriage and tuck the dust-rug closely round you, 
 for the road to the Gesu is long and white and 
 dusty. The little houses by the roadside are 
 horribly poor and totally void of beauty. Every 
 one seems to be waiting in a starving condition for 
 something which never comes. The men and the 
 women sit idle at their open doors, while the half- 
 naked children play in the hot dust with the lean 
 pigs and the fleas. When you arrive at the Gesu 
 it seems like an earthly paradise, so great is the 
 contrast." 
 
 " Poor starving Sicily !" she said ; " it is, as you 
 say, always waiting. ' II mondo & di chi ha 
 pazienza ' is the motto you too often hear. If they 
 
252 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 would remember that God helps those who help 
 themselves it would be better for them." 
 
 " Perhaps they've ceased to believe that," I said. 
 " God seems to have turned His face away from 
 Sicily lately." 
 
 Not in the best of humours, I lifted my hat as 
 they drove off, and turned on my heel towards the 
 Gardens. I didn't care much what they were like, 
 but it was somewhere to go and some cool place to 
 rest in, while I considered Jack's future prospects, 
 and viewed him in the light of a husband for a girl 
 who expected and enjoyed a large share of this 
 world's goods. As you know, I could argue 
 nothing against him from a social or worldly point 
 ojf view, for in that respect Alice's marriage was a 
 good one, and as I was a few years younger than 
 Jack when she chose between me and a man with 
 three times my income, I cannot complain of Jack 
 being too young to know his own mind. Consider- 
 ing the case from Doris's side, I think it's a desir- 
 able match, for her home — now that her guardian 
 has married again, and a woman whom Doris very 
 much dislikes — will not be a happy one, and Doris 
 must not be unhappy. She is one of those gay, 
 feminine things born to be loved, and she is so 
 accustomed to pleasant luxuries that Fate, if it be 
 of the masculine gender, could never deprive her of 
 her birthright. " She that is born a beauty is born 
 married," so the people say here when they look at 
 a girl like Doris, and it is very true. It would be 
 impossible to consider Doris as an old maid, or even 
 as an unmarried woman at thirty. 
 
 When I reached the Gardens, which are close to 
 the Marina, my annoyance at Jack's manner had 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 258 
 
 cooled down into something like self-pity. I was 
 uncommonly sorry for myself, and at the moment 
 not the least aware of the fact that I ought to have 
 known better than to expect anything else. Youth 
 is a human magnet, and middle-age is old-age to 
 those who are young. " Man is fire, woman tow, 
 and the devil comes and blows," and so it is no- 
 body's fault ; but the way Jack talks about " the 
 things of your day, sir," when he addresses me, is, 
 to say the least of it, a slap in the face. 
 
 In the Gardens there is a giant fig-tree from 
 North Australia, which has formed a charming 
 jungle, quite like a bit of a tropical forest. These 
 Moreton Bay fig-trees, as the gardeners call them 
 in Australia, throw down long arms to the earth, 
 which take root and throw up fresh trunks into the 
 sky, which again in their turn throw down arms and 
 repeat the process of multiplying in the earth, until 
 the one original root is the mother of many trees. 
 There is something uncanny — as there is about all 
 tropical vegetation — in these most prolific trees, for 
 the trunks and arms are of a dull grey colour and 
 smooth surface, which remind me of the thick 
 texture and hue of a half-caste skin; like all fig- 
 trees, this one is very markedly naked in appear- 
 ance, even when in full leaf. The roots are of such 
 a rebellious shape and immense size that, with 
 Sicilian ingenuity, the gardeners have utilised them 
 for armchair rustic seats. The tropical effect of the 
 little jungle is heightened by the heavy trailing 
 plants which have wound themselves round the 
 smooth, grey suckers, and stretched themselves 
 from arm to arm of this many-rooted tree. As I 
 stopped beneath its dark shade, I could not quite 
 recall what feature was missing to complete the 
 
 i7 
 
254 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 miniature tropical scene. Suddenly I recollected 
 there were no brilliant parrots flocking in the deep 
 green overhead, and the evil-speaking monkeys, 
 which ought to have been lying and slandering 
 together, as they swung themselves from branch to 
 branch, were not there. I wondered if this 
 particular sort of vegetation was invented solely for 
 their benefit, for the linking together of the trees 
 gives these wicked little folk an overhead path in 
 the forest jungles, which must be very useful in the 
 time of danger. 
 
 But instead of the chattering of monkeys, or the 
 watery warblings of parrots, I heard a voice which 
 suddenly carried my thoughts'back to Syracuse and 
 the orange grove in the deep- walled latomia. 
 
 It was the voice of Miss Rosina, but with a new 
 note in it — not of tears to-day, but of womanly 
 confidence in her powers as a woman who is loved. 
 I listened (for a moment. Would Miss Persephine 
 answer? I did not expect so, for the quality of a 
 woman's voice responds to the sex whom she is 
 addressing. The vegetation completely screened 
 her and her companion from my sight. 
 
 " Ach! but to loove and to be wise is not 
 possible." 
 
 I knew that voice, too, and the sound of it 
 brought back to me one warm day on the river 
 Anapus, and a short stout figure clad in a black 
 mackintosh. I could see the slender hand of Miss 
 Rosina, trailing her tapered American fingers 
 through the water, and then a thick, freckled hand, 
 a little hairy, slip into the water beside hers. 
 
 I could not help smiling as the words struck my 
 ears, for nothing could ever convince me that a 
 German would not be wise, however much he might 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 255 
 
 love. I did not hear Miss Rosina's answer. Per- 
 haps she, too, did not care to be wise, but, like a 
 woman, was urging impossibilities for the pleasure 
 of receiving realities. 
 
 My guide, a most intelligent under-gardener, 
 who was dressed in the usual gardener's uniform of 
 butcher's blue linen trousers and long coat, gave 
 me no chance of retiring before the lovers were 
 aware of my presence, for he walked on ahead, close 
 to the retired seat on which they were sitting. 
 
 Miss Rosina, with a woman's alertness, looked 
 up ; and when she saw me, a blush, which was really 
 very pretty considering her age, bathed her fine 
 skin. An arm in a tweed sleeve hung foolishly 
 behind her seat : a more unemployed-looking arm I 
 never saw; I was convinced it would commence 
 work again the moment I was out of sight. 
 
 Our greeting was a little embarrassed. I noticed 
 that Miss Rosina was dressed in the same delicate 
 sort of silk, powdered with flowers, as she had worn 
 at Syracuse, but that the professor — for I must no 
 longer call him Herr Mackintosh — had on a tweed 
 suit which, by its brand-newness, I am convinced 
 had never been worn under a black mackintosh in 
 hot weather. 
 
 " Love knows no measure," I said to myself, 
 repeating the old Italian motto, " Amor non 
 conosce misura," if even a German will buy fine 
 feathers when he is in love. They were ready- 
 made feathers, to be sure; that I could see at a 
 glance, and Jack would have scorned them for his 
 valet; but as all Germany is machine-made, and 
 does not keep valets, that did not matter, and they 
 did not fit their occupant so badly. 
 
956 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 " How is Miss Doris?" Miss Rosina asked, the 
 moment her fluttering breath would permit her. 
 There was a look in both of their eyes as much as 
 to say, " Why are you alone? You know that if 
 you had been sitting with Miss Doris where we were 
 sitting just now, and we had suddenly come into 
 view, you would have looked quite as foolish.' p 
 " Not quite," I thought ; " but I will not tell you 
 that," for no man likes to own himself displaced, 
 so I answered as tactfully as I could. 
 
 11 Miss Doris is very well now but the hot wind 
 of the last few days has tried her. She did not care 
 to come to the Gardens to-day; she will be 
 delighted to see you. At what hotel may I tell her 
 you are staying?" 
 
 " At the Hotel des Palmes," the professor said. 
 " We did vurst go to zee Hotel Trinacria, but zee 
 food was very weak, so I insist that Miss Rosina go 
 to zee H6tel des Palmes. She never eats nosing 
 but zee ice creams." 
 
 M Miss Doris is staying at the Hotel des Palmes 
 too," I said. M Have you not seen her?" 
 
 u No," Miss Rosina said. M We are only going 
 there this evening ; our luggage went this morning ; 
 our rooms are not ready yet." 
 
 " Are you not then yourself at zee H6tel des 
 Palmes?" the professor asked, with a glint of 
 humour in his bespectacled eyes. 
 
 " No," I said casually, "I am at the Palazzo 
 Monteleone — the old palace of the family of the 
 great Cortez." 
 
 " Ach ! that is interesting, to be sure ; and is it 
 comfortable also?" 
 
 " It is amusing," I said, " and that is better ; for 
 as Madame Politi used to say when people com- 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 257 
 
 plained to her of the food in her hotel, ' But, my 
 dear sir, you did not surely come to Syracuse for 
 the beef -steak, no so?' " 
 
 Miss Rosina laughed. 
 
 " The German ' so ' is very catching," she said ; 
 " I use it myself now." 
 
 " You will speak German directly," her admir- 
 ing lover said : " already you understand a little; 
 you are very intelligent. So." 
 
 Miss Rosina shook her head. 
 
 " Your English is so good that I have no need 
 to learn German." 
 
 " No, dat ess not so," he said almost sadly ; " but 
 to know a lady you must say somesing." 
 
 " That is quite true," I said, " and I think you 
 have managed very well, professor." 
 
 He took off his hat and bowed very low. 
 
 " I have progressed so well," he said, " zat Miss 
 Rosina is to be my wife. I am very proud . . . but 
 I should prefer that I make loove to her in my own 
 language. She would like it much better." 
 
 I laughed, but he remained perfectly serious. 
 
 " Ach! is it not so? It is very difficult to 
 express oneself agreeably to a sensitive lady in a 
 leetle English." 
 
 I wondered if Miss Rosina had shown any shrink- 
 ing when she had compared him with her " glorious 
 lover " ; but as I looked at her it seemed to me she 
 was quite pleased with her professor's proud air of 
 possession, and quite ready for me to take my 
 lonely way through one of the little paths which 
 wind in and out of the fig-tree jungle. They would 
 prefer that I should take the one which led out, 
 and so I was agreeable. 
 
258 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 Out in the bright sunshine everything seemed 
 young and happy but myself. Blushing Miss 
 Rosina, the proud, possessive German, the young 
 nurse-girl who was flirting very prettily with an 
 artillery soldier under the acacias, and, lastly, Doris 
 and Jack. I thought of their two fair heads seated 
 together side by side on some old tombstone out at 
 the quiet Gesu. I am an old fool, I know, to 
 grudge youth its light ; but the blue sky overhead 
 and the beautiful gardens, with the lotus pond 
 where the papyrus whispered and looked cool, only 
 made me feel my lonely state the more. 
 
 Even the Gardens failed to rouse me ; but at last 
 a cataract of red nasturtiums, which was pouring 
 itself over the dark blades of a tall yucca, did bring 
 an exclamation of pleasure to my lips. There is 
 nothing Sicilians dislike so much as a distracted 
 sightseer ; they would rather show their flowers and 
 curious specimens of bamboos, or whatever object 
 of interest they have the care of, to a man who 
 loved them well than to one who paid them liberally 
 for their trouble. 
 
 In response to my praise of the charming effect of 
 the falling nasturtiums, he at once dragged down a 
 trail of their blossoms which he called Cappuccio, 
 because they resembled in shape the hood of a 
 Capuchin monk. Sicilians, like a primitive people, 
 are fond of giving their flowers, as well as their 
 beasts and friends, nicknames ; and some of them 
 are strangely apt and well chosen, though not 
 always pleasant or flattering. 
 
 The trifoglio, which is the Sicilian weed par 
 excellence, and carpets the orange and lemon groves 
 all round Palermo with pale yellow, is in all its fresh 
 glory just now ; but the beautiful little flower, which 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 259 
 
 is as delicately spring-scented as our English prim- 
 rose, is very provoking; it only opens its tender 
 petals for a few hours each day, and quite surely 
 they will be shut at the very time you take a journey 
 out to some orange grove to see the golden glory of 
 the fruit and the trefoil. 
 
 The leaves of this terrible little weed, which it is 
 as difficult to root out of the land as it is to 
 exterminate the rabbits in Australia, are very much 
 like the Irish shamrock, and their green is as green 
 as the young paddy fields in India. It is a merciful 
 act of Providence that the ordinary Sicilian beast — 
 I am not talking of cows, for they are extraordinary 
 in Sicily — likes this beautiful weed which grows, as 
 everything else does grow in the South, with im- 
 moral abandonment. It possesses the land with an 
 unconquerable power, which paralyses the patient 
 farmer. 
 
 Beautiful as a crop of this greenest of weeds looks, 
 growing below the darker green orange-trees, whose 
 golden fruit seems to have cast a reflection on the 
 trifoglio, even to the blaze of yellow flower, it be- 
 tokens ill for the condition of the orange-trees, for 
 the trifoglio is far too greedy of soil to be a healthy 
 companion for any fruit-trees. But the Sicilian 
 orange and lemon industry has so fallen from its 
 high estate since richer lands have flooded the 
 market with their more carefully selected fruits, 
 that the virtue of the soil is often stolen from their 
 orange groves to give to some more paying crop of 
 broad beans, peas, or artichokes, which replace each 
 other in endless rotation under the shade of the 
 orange groves. 
 
 It is, I think, the peel and not the fruit of the 
 oranges and lemons which is now the paying in- 
 
260 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 dustry in Sicily; for here in Palermo, or in Syra- 
 cuse, I have never seen the smallest piece of orange 
 or lemon peel thrown away, whereas no one would 
 thank you for the inside of the juicy fruit. Every 
 one who knows Sicily well must be familiar with the 
 smell of (fermenting lemon peel. In every village 
 or town you can see groups of men and women 
 sitting in dark sheds or in the bassi of a high palace, 
 quartering and gutting, like fish, stacks of freshly 
 pulled lemons. I have often seen in the country 
 a golden dunghill made of nothing else but fine 
 orange or lemon-peel slowly decaying in the sun ; 
 the air for half a mile or more being pungent with 
 the smell of lemons in a decomposed state. I have 
 been told that these dunghills are spirits of lemon in 
 an immature state. I have no reasonable objection 
 to make if that is the case, but I have my doubts 
 whether it is not the inexpensive and ingenious way 
 the Sicilian has of making lemonade. 
 
 Down at the Cala, both in Palermo and in Syra- 
 cuse, I have watched ships being laden with im- 
 mense casks which contain the rinds of quartered 
 oranges and lemons ; sometimes these rinds are dry 
 and sometimes they are juicy and in a state of 
 fermentation. When this is the case, great care 
 has to be taken of the cargo, and for weeks and 
 weeks these casks, smelling strongly ojf lemons, will 
 remain on the pier head. Each day they are turned 
 and tapped by men who know their work. I have 
 seen very few cargoes of fresh fruit shipped, which 
 seems rather sad. In Palermo every little window 
 has its string of orange peel hanging out to dry, and 
 whenever an orange is eaten by a member of the 
 household, or an extravagant stranger throws a 
 piece of peel on the ground, the thrifty Sicilian adds 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 261 
 
 something to his golden necklace ; the chain grows 
 and grows until it is looped and doubled across and 
 across the small window or round a fine old Spanish 
 balcony, for it is all part and parcel of Sicily to see 
 the handsome black wrought-iron roses, with their 
 fine curling leaves, which decorate these Spanish 
 balconies of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries 
 on the lofty palaces, wreathed and almost hidden 
 with strings of dried and crumpled orange-peel. 
 I do not think that the Sicilian housewife ever has 
 any rags or bones to sell, for she boils down the one 
 into soup and wears the other ; but the cry of the 
 dried orange-peel hawker is as familiar in Syracuse 
 and Palermo as the cry of the cats'-meat or rag-and- 
 bone man is in London. If a Sicilian chances — 
 which is not often — to buy an orange from a fruit- 
 seller, and means to eat it then and there, he in- 
 variably returns the peel to the salesman, but if a 
 stranger buys the orange, the man follows in his 
 footsteps and picks up the skin. Such thrift is not 
 known in England : it is the thrift of universal, 
 patient poverty. Poor Sicily ! how much you have 
 suffered, how little you have been rewarded ! 
 
 This reminds me of a remark Jack made to-day 
 when Doris and I were speaking upon this very 
 subject. 
 
 " Oh," he said, " the united kingdom of Sicily 
 and Italy consists of those who are waiters and those 
 who are waiting !" 
 
 Now when I have finished this long letter I find 
 I have told you very little about the Botanical 
 Gardens. Well, they are not so beautiful as the 
 Villa Tusca or the garden of the Due d' Orleans, 
 but they have a repose and character quite of their 
 own, and the variety of palms, aloes, yuccas, and 
 
262 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 cacti is certainly greater here than in any private 
 garden I have seen. There is an interesting collec- 
 tion of bamboos, some of which are quite forty feet 
 in height. The specimen which particularly took 
 my fancy had a rod of bright canary yellow. When 
 I remarked on its beauty to the gardener — for in 
 the clump they looked lovely, swaying about in the 
 delicate foliage, which rustled just like a lady's 
 silken skirts — he said, " Si, si, signore, they are 
 very beautiful, but, like everything else, their gold 
 turns to grey as they grow older. Look!" he 
 added, pointing out some stems spotted like 
 leopards, u those come from Brazil. In their first 
 year they grow fifteen feet in height and are totally 
 without leaves, with a curious bark like the scales of 
 a fish. They lose these scales in their second year, 
 when their skin becomes pale green ; in their third 
 year a few shoots are thrown out at right angles, 
 and when they are four years old they are fully 
 developed bamboos, with spotted rods quite twenty 
 feet high and in luxurious leaf." Lying on the 
 ground in these groves of bamboos there were 
 hundreds of lately dropped, delicate, silver-lined 
 scales. There was something rather pathetic about 
 them to me, though I scarcely know why. But 
 doubtless it was because they were a visible token 
 of lost youth. 
 
 The Botanical Gardens are, of course, kept up for 
 the benefit of the university students, and therefore 
 every tree and plant is marked very clearly with its 
 proper Latin name. There are many pretty tricks 
 in Sicilian gardening I wish I could carry home to 
 England. Here the wide paths, for instance, were 
 bordered on either side by two rows of moss-covered 
 bricks, just wide enough apart and sufficiently deep 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 263 
 
 to carry a small flower-pot. These pots were filled 
 all down one path with some delicate mauve flower, 
 very similiar to the wild ones I gathered on the 
 mountain behind the Gesu, and on another path 
 they were filled with the smallest of pink roses. 
 Pansies make a charming border in this way, and 
 so do fuchsias. The beauty of the idea is that when 
 your pansy pots are over, you can take them out 
 and replace them with whatever pleases your fancy 
 or the gardener has ready. The line of bricks does 
 not look hard, at least not here, where moss and the 
 old-fashioned penny- wort, and all sorts of small 
 plants which find their home in stones soon cover 
 them. 
 
 Yours, 
 
 J. C. 
 
Palermo, 
 
 April 2oth i 1900. 
 
 Dear Louise, — 
 
 I am looking for the last time at the little 
 children down in the sunny courtyard tumbling into 
 the long yellow omnibus, and I have said farewell to 
 the old cab-mender and tailor-body, and the happy 
 hatter who scrubs his leghorns at the fountain all 
 day long and gathers the gossip of the palace for 
 those who live in its inner courtyard — for a fountain 
 is the people's club in Sicily and many topics are 
 discussed there. Since Biblical times this drawing 
 of water from the wells has played an important 
 part in the lives of the people, whose customs never 
 change. I have come to the conclusion that the 
 hatter has the best time of any of the inhabitants of 
 the palace, (for he is sure to be in the courtyard when 
 my lady of the black mantilla steps out of her 
 carriage and disappears into the fencing hall, and 
 there is always life at that fountain of some sort. 
 A pretty girl, perhaps, accompanied by her mis- 
 tress, will spend one golden hour washing a bunch 
 of purple-rooted onions, while the hatter pulls and 
 kneads and coaxes an antiquated leghorn into a 
 more modern shape over a wooden block ; or an old 
 grey horse past even Sicilian use, accompanied by 
 an old man still more useless, will limp its way 
 across the cobble-stones and let its mouth rest in the 
 cool water. Occasionally it will muster up just 
 enough energy to draw in, with a hissing sound, a 
 little water through its half-closed mouth, but it 
 
 a64 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 265 
 
 seems best contented to look with cloudy eyes into 
 the depths of the cool basin and moisten its lips on 
 the surface. 
 
 The old man may be past work, but no Sicilian 
 above ground is ever past talking, and so the hatter 
 can have from the lips of the very person who saw 
 it, a dramatic account of the murder which took 
 place in the Giardino Inglese yesterday. A cavalry 
 officer of noble family was walking with a popular 
 actress in the broad daylight, when a rejected lover 
 of the lady's shot him through the heart. I do not 
 think that that hatter would exchange his lot with 
 any well-paid clerk in the Bank of England, and 
 small wonder too, for the moment he is tired he 
 will leave the leghorn to soak, and stretch himself 
 out on his back on the warm stones, and sleep with 
 his face turned upwards to the dark, over-spreading, 
 stone-pines. No one disturbs a sleeping man in 
 Sicily. 
 
 I am writing this in my last hours in Sicily ; I 
 have made up my mind to sail for Naples to-night. 
 
 The old Englishman, who is always packing up 
 his trunks to go home, announced his intention of 
 coming by the same boat with me ; indeed, he kept 
 up the farce until an hour ago, when he bounded 
 into my room in great distress. Alas ! he had just 
 received some letters which would detain him in 
 Palermo for a few days longer. When Miss Rosina 
 came to see me the other day (I was recovering 
 from a slight attack of fever, which had kept me in 
 my room for a couple of days) I heard the old hum- 
 bug say to her as she was passing under the 
 corridor : 
 
 " My dear lady, although my acquaintance with 
 you is very slight, I am going to ask you do me a 
 great favour. I have the very worst taste in the 
 
266 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 world ; I would not dare to choose anything for any 
 one except myself : would you be good enough to 
 help me to select some pottery for a bazaar which 
 my sister is getting up for the war fund in 
 England?" 
 
 I did not wait to hear Miss Rosina's answer, but 
 
 I hope he heard my exclamation " D d old 
 
 fool !" as I shut my door. 
 
 You will have guessed, Louise, with a woman's 
 quick wit, why I am leaving Sicily. It has always 
 been a land of strong contrasts to me, and I do not 
 wish to be one of the many who sit in the shade. 
 I, who have basked in her sunshine, dread the 
 shadows and the sadness. 
 
 I said good-bye to Doris yesterday, amid a gay 
 company at the Hotel des Palmes. She seemed a 
 little taken aback when I told her I was really 
 going, and that I had come to say good-bye. I 
 believe she would gladly have spent my last day in 
 Palermo with me, but Jack had not the slightest 
 intention of letting her do so. He at once reminded 
 her of the invitation she had accepted to lunch and 
 
 play tennis with the W s, an English family 
 
 who have lived here for three generations, and who 
 have one of the most delightful gardens in this city 
 of gardens. I don't know if Doris expected me to 
 express my regret more openly at having seen so 
 little of her for the past week, but I thought she 
 looked pale and pained when I said good-bye. 
 How unnaturally old friends can behave when they 
 are surrounded by conventionalities and unnatural 
 people ! for not once did Doris lift her eyes to mine, 
 even when I held her hand at parting, and I be- 
 haved in the most cold-blooded fashion. 
 
 " What time do you leave to-morrow?" she said. 
 
 " At 7.80 p.m., from the Molo," I answered. 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 267 
 
 " I can't believe you are really going, and that 
 I am to be left here ; you are a part of Sicily to me." 
 
 " But I have seen so little of you in Palermo," I 
 said a little impatiently; M my going away can 
 make no difference now." 
 
 " Still, you were here," she said hurriedly, " and 
 although I didn't see you I knew you were near, 
 and now we are parting just like any other chance 
 acquaintances of travel." 
 
 The day after. 
 
 I was interrupted yesterday, and had to leave off 
 suddenly, for such an amazing thing happened, that 
 my boxes are all unpacked and the boat has sailed 
 to Naples without me. I was telling you of my 
 farewell with Doris at the Hotel des Palmes, when 
 Pietro knocked at my door and asked me at what 
 hour I would like the carriage ordered to convey mc 
 and my luggage to the Molo. The carriage, you 
 must know, is the identical cab I watched being 
 mended with a pot of glue and a soldo worth of ink ; 
 I could see it in the courtyard down below, but 
 Pietro gave it the dignified name of grande carrozza. 
 
 After consulting Pietro as to how long it would 
 take to drive to the Molo, I told him to order the 
 grande carrozza for 6.45. It had been waiting all 
 the afternoon for the job, and the driver had 
 adorned himself in a pair of very papery patent- 
 leather boots in honour of the occasion, and had 
 cracked his whip with a " Hulloa ! are you there?" 
 sound in it at intervals of two minutes below my 
 bedroom window with amazing insistence. A smile 
 from me was sufficient to assure him that he was to 
 have the billet. 
 
 " Pietro, come back," I cried, as he ran to give 
 the order. 
 
 " Si, si, signore." 
 
268 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 " Pietro." 
 
 " Si, si, signore; subito, subito." 
 
 " Pietro," I said, " there is one thing I wish to 
 see before I leave the Palazzo Monteleone." 
 
 " Si, si, signore comandi." 
 
 " I wish to see the middle portion of that white 
 horse on my ceiling; it is in the room which is 
 occupied by the lady who wears orange-blossom in 
 her hair." 
 
 " Si, si, signore." 
 
 Pietro was too well-bred to smile at the recollec- 
 tion of that bridal head. 
 
 " I will wait in the salon," I said, " until you 
 find out if the lady is out, and it is safe to invade 
 her room." 
 
 " Si, si, signore." 
 
 The salon was empty ; and, as I sat there waiting 
 for Pietro, who took a very long time to find out 
 such a simple affair, I felt like a London caretaker 
 when the family is out of town, for the salon, which 
 is entirely furnished out of the relics of the ancient 
 Pagnatelli splendour, is always kept strictly under 
 loose linen covers. " Ah, dear patched-up Sicily ! " 
 I thought, as I looked at the various periods in the 
 decadence of the room. " How can I ever leave 
 you?" How typically Sicilian everything was! 
 The glorious proportions of the salon, the elaborate 
 and costly mouldings so sadly in want of repair, the 
 effective but gaudy ceiling, representing some 
 questionable classical subject, full of vigour and 
 wanton action ; the enormous chandeliers, of what 
 might or might not be rock crystal tied up in yellow 
 gauze; the terrible pictures of vulgar Madonnas 
 nursing leering babies, and the rather too realistic 
 representations of Leda and the swan, reclining 
 over doorways and windows. 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 269 
 
 When I was comparing the past with the present, 
 and wondering upon what occasions the linen covers 
 were removed from the formal furniture and the 
 yellow gauze taken off the chandeliers, Pietro sud- 
 denly appeared, and bowed himself across the 
 slippery floor. 
 
 " The bellissima signorina Dorees e a basso, 
 signore," he said. 
 
 Pietro always ripples with smiles when he thinks 
 he is the bearer of good news. 
 
 " Invite the signorina upstairs," I said. " Is 
 she alone?" 
 
 M Si, si, signore," he replied, rippling still wider. 
 
 In a few moments Doris appeared, and Pietro 
 ushered her in with a magnificent bow. The old 
 serving-woman who lives and sleeps in the cold 
 passages, and to whom Doris had presented, when 
 she left the palace, a five-franc piece (the poor old 
 thing usually receives the crumbs which fall from 
 Pietro's tips, as he keeps her well out of sight when 
 the guests are departing) and a pretty girlish hat, 
 toddled after Doris the whole length of the sun- 
 gallery, which is stolen from the salon on the 
 southern side, muttering caressing words and at 
 frequent intervals kissing the hem of her gown. 
 Pietro waved her imperiously away, and called her 
 " an old fool " in excellent English. Pietro's 
 favourite English expression when I first came here 
 was " All right "; but since Doris explained to 
 him that it was very rude, he has never used it. He 
 does not quite grasp the meaning of " old fool," 
 but he has heard the forestiere speak of the poor 
 drudge by that title so many times that he has 
 
 added it to his list of English expressions. 
 
 18 
 
270 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 When Pietro left the room, Doris began talking 
 very hurriedly about the weather, the hot wind and 
 so forth, expressing a hope that I should have a calm 
 passage to Naples. 
 
 " We never used to talk about the weather, 
 Doris," I said. " It was very kind of you to come 
 to say good-bye, but don't let us waste time over 
 weather and politenesses. Tell me something 
 about yourself : what have you been doing ? did you 
 enjoy the luncheon-party and the tennis? How 
 did you spend the evening? There was a glorious 
 moon." 
 
 She did not answer any of my questions, but 
 played nervously with the bunch of charms on her 
 long chain. 
 
 " Well, have you nothing to tell me?" I said. 
 " I have been trying to pass the time one has to 
 spend indoors by going on with my story. Louise 
 asked me to finish it, but I told her that it must 
 wait — the story must finish itself." 
 
 " Our poor little story," she said almost 
 tenderly : " it takes me right back to dear Syra- 
 cuse." 
 
 " Would you like to be back in Syracuse?" I 
 said. " Are you as sorry as I am that we ever left 
 it?" 
 
 I got a woman's answer. " It would be very hot 
 there now on that bare Achradina. Think of the 
 sun on those white rocks ! " 
 
 " I can think of the cool latomia," I said. 
 M Have you forgotten the Garden of Theocritus?" 
 
 " Oh no," she said, " the lovely cool dark 
 latomia ! But somehow my memory of Syracuse 
 is white and sunny and glittering. I want to shade 
 my eyes when I think of it." 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 271 
 
 " Are you still of the same opinion," I asked : 
 11 that the girl would have preferred the elderly 
 lover ; that the young man's coming need not have 
 altered her feelings towards him? or are you able 
 to understand the situation better now?" 
 
 As I paused for an answer, which I thought I had 
 received by the crimson which dyed her clear 
 cheeks, the bells of the Olivella started their un- 
 musical clapping for evensong, and the big salon 
 vibrated with their din. I took one unresisting 
 hand in mine. 
 
 " Don't you agree?" I said, trying to catch a 
 glimpse of her frank eyes; M don't you agree now 
 that youth can only find complete sympathy and 
 understanding in youth — that the young man's 
 coming showed her the true nature of her feelings 
 for the elderly one ? ' ' 
 
 I had to wait some moments jfor an answer, and 
 when it came I was puzzled. 
 
 M I wish I knew," she said, " I wish I knew; 
 that's just what I came to see you about. Oh, you 
 mustn't go away and leave me !" 
 
 " But how can I help you?" I said. " My 
 opinion is unaltered." 
 
 II I believe you want the girl to marry the young 
 man," she said hotly; " you think the other man 
 was glad to get rid of her." 
 
 Our eyes met at last, and before hers were with- 
 drawn the little spark of defiance had died out of 
 them, and something else had stolen in. 
 
 With a scarcely perceptible movement she 
 slipped from her stiff linen-covered chair to her 
 knees on the floor and buried her bright head on my 
 shoulder; a little tremble ran through her as I 
 touched Her pretty hair. 
 
272 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 Without lifting her head she drew one glove off, 
 and a hand was held out for my inspection. Per- 
 haps she did not notice the start of surprise I gave 
 when I saw the ring ; she certainly could not have 
 guessed why I looked at it so long. 
 
 " Did the young man put it there?" I asked, 
 " and yet you are uncertain?" 
 
 She looked up at me again, with eyes as troubled 
 as an unforgiven child's, and as full of tenderness as 
 a woman's — such blue, entreating eyes. 
 
 " It was the moonlight," she said, with a voice 
 full of apology, " the moonlight and the marina. 
 I couldn't help it. He insisted, and everything 
 was so Southern and romantic. Oh ! it's so difficult 
 for a girl to say ' No ' when — when " 
 
 M When she loves the man," I said, finishing the 
 sentence jfor her. 
 
 A little sob burst from her lips, and the words : 
 
 " But I don't love him, I don't love him, that's 
 just it. Oh, won't you ever understand? — I don't 
 love him one scrap in the broad daylight, in the 
 unromantic hotel. I never would have let him put 
 it on my finger, or hope for a moment, if it hadn't 
 been for the moon and the marina and the music ; 
 and I had been so lonely and miserable all day." 
 
 " But, dear child," I said, " you surely have not 
 promised to marry him if you don't love him ; there 
 is no earthly reason for your doing so?" 
 
 " I haven't," she said. " I haven't promised 
 anything ; I only allowed him to hope I'm free yet. 
 We were sitting on the marina together, listening 
 to the band and watching other people making love, 
 — I think that sort of thing is infectious," she said, 
 with a little laugh, — " and Jack was in one of his 
 nicest moods. I knew he was very fond of me, and 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 273 
 
 I was so lonely. You were going away, and our 
 good-bye had been so horrid, I couldn't help just 
 letting him like me a great deal ; and then it kept 
 getting nicer and nicer — the feeling that, after all, 
 some one, even if it was only Jack, really liked me 
 and wanted me to love him." 
 
 I stroked her hair as if I understood. 
 
 " It was all your fault, every bit of it," she said ; 
 " so don't despise me. I just couldn't snub any 
 one who was kind to me, and when he put his arm 
 round my waist, I wanted to cry and to be loved a 
 great deal; and Jack was there, and of course he 
 must have thought all that meant that I loved him, 
 and it was only because I was so miserable. Why 
 did you ever send me away?" she said suddenly, 
 springing to her feet. 
 
 " I send you away, little one?" I said. M What 
 about the ladies in the salon in the evenings?" 
 
 " If I had stayed," she said, " and I had felt like 
 that — like I did on the marina, I could have cried 
 with you, and then I wouldn't have got into such a 
 bother." 
 
 " And might I have loved you a great deal?" I 
 asked. " Would you have snubbed me?" 
 
 " You would never have done it," she said, with 
 a little sigh and a provoking blush. Jack took this 
 old-fashioned ring off his watch-chain, and before I 
 knew what he was doing he had slipped it on my 
 finger. It was his mother's ring; he says it was 
 given to her by the man she wronged, and she asked 
 Jack never to put it on the finger of any woman but 
 the one he meant to marry." 
 
 " And you left it there," I said, " and by so 
 doing you gave your silent consent." 
 
274 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 " I was going to take it off there and then, but 
 he implored me to wear it until I had considered 
 the matter for a day or two. He begged so hard 
 and looked so sad that I couldn't be unkind. Poor 
 lady l" she said, turning the ring round and round. 
 11 Jack says she was very unhappy. She was only 
 my age when she died ; girls married so young in 
 those days, didn't they?" 
 
 " Yes, and those old days were my days, little 
 Doris," I said, as I drew her unresistingly closer to 
 my side. " For it was I who put that very ring 
 on her hand. You see, I am old enough to have 
 been Jack's father." 
 
 " You were the man who gave that ring to Jack's 
 mother!" she cried in amazement. " You were 
 the man his mother wronged ! Oh ! surely it isn't 
 true ? I can't believe it ! " 
 
 Her lips trembled, and her dear eyes became little 
 blue lakes of tears. 
 
 " Yes," I said ; " it seems incredible to you, but 
 it is quite, quite true. I am getting an old man, 
 you see." 
 
 She began pulling off the ring. 
 " Then I can't wear it another hour," she said. 
 " No, I can't wear it. You loved Jack's mother, 
 and she treated you cruelly. I know she did. 
 Jack told me all about it, and how she regretted it ; 
 and yet I have never heard you speak bitterly of any 
 woman. But that is the reason why you" — she 
 hesitated for words — M why you won't allow your- 
 self to love any one else. Perhaps you are afraid 
 to trust a woman?" 
 
 " I have forgiven Alice long ago," I answered, 
 " although I never forgave the man who robbed me 
 of her, so you need have no feeling about the ring." 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 275 
 
 I tried to put it back on her finger. " The wound 
 in my heart which I thought was healed many years 
 ago has troubled me a little lately, for it seems hard 
 that it should be his son who is now to rob me of 
 you, his son who is to have Doris : I am to be robbed 
 again in the second generation of the dearest thing 
 in life. Oh! little one," I said, when I saw the 
 pain I was inflicting, " forgive me for saying this. 
 I am a brute to cast the shadow of my spoilt life on 
 the brightness of yours." 
 
 " I can't marry Jack," she said; " that settles 
 it." A happier look came into her eyes as she 
 spoke. " I will tell him so to-night. I will tell 
 him the whole truth, that I don't love him enough 
 to marry him. He has amused me and been awfully 
 kind to me, and he's ever so much nicer than you 
 think; but as a husband he would bore me to 
 death." She laughed a little nervously. " Don't 
 think me flippant and a dreadful flirt, but a girl 
 can't think of all that when she is being made love 
 to for the first time ; and Jack makes love very well 
 indeed — he loses all his indifference then." Her 
 eyes conveyed a stronger protest than her words. 
 
 " You are saying all this for my sake, Doris," I 
 said ; " but surely I would rather see Alice's boy 
 marry you than any other man." 
 
 "Why should I marry any other man?" she said. 
 "lam not one of S. Pasquale's girls." 
 
 " No," I said, " but remember the old Italian 
 motto, ' She that is born a beauty is born married.' 
 It is the natural course of events for a girl like you 
 to marry. And I need not be dog in the manger 
 about it because I can't marry you myself; I 
 needn't poison your mind against the fellow who is 
 going to do it." 
 
276 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 " I suppose you can't marry me yourself?" she 
 said, as simply as if she were asking me why I 
 couldn't go out for a walk with her. 
 
 " I suppose as a wife I would bore you awfully, 
 just as much as Jack would bore me as a husband ; 
 but I might improve. I shan't always be so young ; 
 women soon get over that ! " 
 
 " Doris," I said, " don't be cruel; my heart is 
 sore enough already." 
 
 " I was trying to be kind," she said gently ; " I 
 don't want you to be robbed again." 
 
 There was something in her eyes and attitude 
 which gave me courage to tell her the only way I 
 could see to prevent it, but I can't tell you, Louise, 
 what I said, or how exactly it came about ; but when 
 Doris was in my arms telling me that I had driven 
 her into proposing, and that she knew she loved me 
 ever since the day she left for the Hotel des Palmes, 
 the salon door was flung wide open and the shaved 
 Swiss hurried in (he is always in a hurry and has a 
 habit of knocking over furniture). He suddenly 
 stopped when he saw the look of embarrassment on 
 Doris's face. " Ach ! terrible-ness ! " he said, as 
 he spilt a small table in his anxiety to get out of the 
 room. " Please to excuse me. I did not under- 
 stand that zee salon was so engaged ; I make great 
 apology." 
 
 The bells of the Olivella were still filling the room 
 with sound when the professor and Miss Rosina 
 were ushered in. I think the professor grasped the 
 situation very quickly, for he took both my hands 
 and wrung them most horribly (the professor's 
 hands are not pleasant in warm weather, but I was 
 not in the humour to resent such trifles). 
 
 " Dis is goot," he said. " Already you can 
 understand what happiness I feel; I am very re- 
 joiced — so." 
 
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 277 
 
 Miss Rosina looked inquiringly from Doris to me. 
 
 " We came to say good-bye," she said, in a 
 mystified air. " We thought you were going 
 away. I don't quite understand." 
 
 The professor stepped carefully across the 
 polished floor to Doris, who was looking divinely 
 foolish ; he shook hands very elaborately. 
 
 M I make my best congratulations to you, Miss 
 Doris," he said very gravely; " for one so young 
 you have made a wise choice." 
 
 Miss Rosina then added her timid congratulations 
 to that of her lover's, and at that embarrassing 
 moment Pietro bowed himself into my presence, 
 trying to assume a mournful expression. 
 
 " Prego, signore,' 9 he said, " la grande carozza 
 e pronta." He spoke with an air of apology, as 
 though it were rude of him to tell even a paying 
 guest that the cab was waiting to take him away. 
 Pietro always speaks pigeon Italian to his English 
 guests ; he never throws his irregular verbs or fine 
 idioms before swine, or perhaps his politeness com- 
 pels him to murder his own beautiful language to 
 suit the intelligence of the forestiere. 
 
 " Pietro," I said, " I shall not require the 
 carriage. I am not going to Naples to-night." 
 
 " Signore," he said, with a little ring of distress 
 in his voice; he had seen a vision of a ten-franc 
 note held out to him and then rudely withdrawn, 
 but his good manners asserted themselves, and he 
 said, " The illustrious signore will honour our house 
 by staying a few days longer, grazie, grazie?" 
 
 " Yes, Pietro, I have changed my mind. Go 
 and give the cabman three francs out of that, and 
 keep the rest for yourself." As I put ten francs 
 into his hand he looked keenly at Doris, and his 
 face lit up with an exceeding great intelligence. 
 
278 BY THE WATERS OF SICILY 
 
 " The bellissima signorina Dorees has been kind, 
 signore. Non si dice mai tanto una cosa che non sia 
 qualche cosa," he said to himself, with a knowing 
 little laugh, which practically means that " There 
 was some truth in the gossip, after all." 
 
 " Yes," I said, " and perhaps it was the little 
 pitchers of the palace which spread the gossip, for 
 in Sicily I believe they have very long ears." 
 
 Yours affectionately, J. C. 
 
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