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Into its harbour, which Norman and Suabian princes attempted to improve, the sand has long since silted, and Naples for many centuries past has been able to regard with serene contempt the city that it was once intended to make her commercial rival: “Se Salerno avesse un porto, Napoli sarebbe morto.”
After a time the officers discovered that it was worth the forty-minutes walk to bathe at a cleaner and more attractive beach, Morto Bay, on the other side of the Peninsula. This lay within the French sphere. To reach it we had to pass through some of our allies Rest Lines, and it was interesting to have a peep at them and at their ways of doing things.
Here at Anzio we found a Gesù Morto procession winding with a band, and a red-and-white confraternity, through the little fishing town. At one moment the great black erect Madonna appeared among the torch-light against the deep blue sky, the misty blue moonlit sea. Much less fine than such processions are in Tuscany; but impressive.
"Questo," said our cowled conductor, "è il Barone Avellina, morto di cholera, anno ætatis fifty-six; he loved our order! here is another equally good-looking personage," said he, exposing a corrugated face and dark hair, frightfully at variance with a blue silk handkerchief, and all the funeral gear of twenty years ago.
Nothing! There was nothing left him but the love he had for her, nothing left him but himself. And in spite of all, his desperate desire to snatch her from destruction, his need of denying death, made him cling to the last piece of wreckage, in an act of blind faith: "... he son gia morto: e ben, c'albergo cangi resto in te vivo. C'or mi vedi e piangi, se l'un nell' altro amante si trasforma."
The beach at Morto Bay was clean and sandy; the water clear, though very shallow for a long distance out. It was an ideal spot for a lazy floating bathe. But it had one drawback.
At the moment when the first shot was fired on Menotti's house she had been reading Petrarch's Ode to the Lords of Italy, and the lines l'antico valor Ne Vitalici cor non e ancor morto had lodged like a bullet in her brain. From the day of her marriage she began to take a share in the silent work which was going on throughout Italy.
"Who was it then, son of a pig? Who was it?" "Mercy, mercy, my lord! I will tell the truth!" he whined as he twisted. "Gesù morto! Tell anything else and I cut thy liver out, hound!" swore the man who held him. "Ah, Dio! I will! I will! It was Silvestro who killed the Jew!" "You shall come with me to the Signor Sotto-Prefetto," said his holder. "There's a ducat for me in this affair."
In the face of one of the precipices by the way-side, a marble slab is fixt, informing the traveler that the road was opened by the late Emperor of Germany in the year of 1830. We followed this romantic valley for a considerable distance, passing several little blue lakes lying in their granite basins, one of which is called the "Lago Morto" or Dead Lake, from having no outlet for its waters.
“Vivesti qual guerrier cristiano e santo, E come bel sei morto: ei godi, e pasci In Dio gli occhi bramosi, o felice alma, Ed hai del ben oprar corona e palma.”
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