The Volcano .
John Stewart Collis
My first impression was of harmony. As I approached the vicinity of Mount Etna (erupting in 1928) it seemed to me that harmony had been established between Man and Nature. Every rock and all the stones, every cliff and cleft, each yard of soil, had joined with Man in the making of vineyards. On the level and the perpendicular, the slant and the criss-cross, grape-vines were succoured by Nature and supported by Man. And sometimes high crags turned into castles, and on many a ledge or shoulder single houses clung like flowers. I reached the famous mountain citadel of Taormina, separated by several ridges from Mount Etna. Looking south from my hotel Window I could see the mountain domed With snow. And there also, even up to the snow, vinei were laced. The eruption did not burst out dramatically from the top, but from half-way down the mountain. At this distance it looked in the daytime like a big bonfire, trailing smokingly down to the sea. At night it was a waterfall of fire. I determined to do two things: to reach the scene of the eruption, and to find what was left of the village of Mascali which was reported to be overwhelmed by the lava. At first I tried to do this on my own, but completely failed to get anywhere near the right spot to start climbing towards the volcano. Then I fell in with a German jonrnalist with a car and guides who knew the right place to go— and I joined them. We drove at a dangerous speed along terrible roads, and through un-motor-conscious mountain villages, until the track stopped even our driver. We went along a path with walls on'each Side, and the walls, and the groves, ended. In fact they were buried under what looked to me like a huge railway embankment , composed of charcoal. I climbed onto it. It did not burn my shoes. This was my first experience of lava. I could see it stretching Up the mountain and down towards the sea. The next thing to do was to follow it up to its source. After climbing by the side of this 'embankment' for some distance I tried walking on the lava again. This was less comfortable now, for I was in danger of scorching my shoes, and smoke got into my eyes. The width of this lava-stream was roughly that of the Thames at Charing Cross. I say stream, for I discerned that the centre of it was slowly moving. My part on the edge was steady, though a little hot. In the centre it was moving down. Its red heat could be seen even in the sunlight. I was interested also in its silence, its quantity, and its power. At this point the guides said it would be dangerous to climb any higher, and the German journalist concurred. So I parted from them and pursued my way alone. It was not long before I actually did reach the source from which the lava flowed. I could see very little through the smoke which now began to affect my throat, so sticking a handkerchief into my mouth I advanced. I was near the pit. I dimly saw a stream of grey boiling fluid rising from a kind of cave in the mountain. I approached nearer; and now I heard a noise as of men pouring gravel down a shaft into a ship's hold — sounds of men at work where no men could be at work. I retired through the sulphurous air, catching sight while doing so of the chill, fresh snow above. I was satisfied with this.
Now to. find Mascali. I ran down by the side of the lava, hoping to see what had happened to the village. It was the same scene all the way down; walls, roads and groves suddenly ending, and the embankment of charcoal in their place, obliterating everything. Sometimes a farmhouse would be half-submerged, or standing on the fringe quite untouched with a tree at the door, while another tree a few yards further out was bent down under the weight of the edge of the lava, whereas the tree in front of it was scarcely visible at all. I even saw, what one hears of so often, a Madonna and Child placed in a nook in a wall, just escaping destruction. Nothing seemed to be burnt. This tree would be overthrown, the one a yard away not even singed: this huse destroyed — its neighbour intact, though pathetically deserted.
As I ran down I could see a long expanse of lava now, a kind of desolate moor, so svide had the 'river' become. If a moor is desolate, what of this? — here no living thing would ever lodge. I saw again that the middle part was slowly moving. Near the bottom, I had heard, it advanced a few hundred yards a day. Before it reached a house the inhabitants could remove the windows and doors for future use. Then entering in, creeping slowly, creeping surely, the monster would deposit itself upon that house, and bury it.
Darkness was coming on and still I could not find Mascali. I got back to a road and met some people who said that all thevillage had been destroyed, nothing of it could be seen. Not believing this, I continued de scending by the side of the lava. It made an eerie search. I met no one: the silence, the solitude and the dusk were principalities making ghostly the strange 'river' on my right, the suddenly ending walls, the half buried farms, the orchards turned to stone.
Waterfalls of fire flowed in the gathering dark, and high above at the source flames flapped out from the belching shaft. I looked round once more for signs of Mascali — and still in vain. But now I saw a man afar off coming towards me. And so to him I could address my question — where is Mascali, 'Dov'e Mascali?' He pointed to the ground on which we stood. 'Ecco', he replied. Mascali was beneath my feet.
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