“Do you know a man who wants to go down and help Captain Belknap at Messina?” I asked Mr. Brush, as we sped down the incline, leaving Fiesole behind, past the Villa Palmieri where the characters of Boccaccio’s Decamerone lived during the great plague of 1348.
“My son Gerome has wanted to go down ever since the earthquake. I will send him to see you tonight,” said the artist.
That evening Gerome Brush called at our hotel; it was agreed that I should write Belknap, offering his services in whatever capacity he could be useful.
“I am in the automobile business now,” the young man said, “but that’s only temporary. When I go back to America I shall study law. I have been trying to get to Sicily all winter; do fix it up for me!”
It was “fixed up.” Belknap telegraphed us to send Brush, and we all returned to Rome.
“Why don’t you end up your trip by all coming down here?” The question was repeated several times in J.’s letters. As a result, on the 24th of March, Patsy, Gerome Brush and I left Rome for Sicily. We traveled as far as Naples with Mr. Parrish and his niece, who were to sail in a few days for home and could not come with us. The trip from Rome to Naples was a pleasant one, though the spring was very backward. Only a few quince and apricot trees were in blossom; the beautiful vineyards were still dark, without a sign of promise. Hanging from tree to tree in the old classic fashion, the vines made a lovely pattern of delicate black tracery against the fervent blue sky.
At Naples we regretfully parted with Mr. Parrish and Miss Lee. Patsy laid in a stock of sandwiches, milk chocolate and newspapers, and we set our faces to the south, prepared for any fate.
Soon after leaving Naples our train broke down.
“E rotto il Westinghouse,” the guard said to each separate traveler in turn.
“Look at Vesuvius, or what’s left of it!” cried Patsy. We had halted within sight of the great volcano. Patsy had not seen it since the eruption of 1906, when one of the twin cones sank out of sight and the whole outline of the mountain was altered, losing much of its distinction. “I never thought to see the everlasting hills change their very shape before my eyes—that gives you an idea of volcanic force!”