have not the same keen interest in what befell Sicily as in all that
happened to mother England, but for their contemporaries there must have
been little to choose between the importance of William the Conqueror
and his strong breed, and those twelve stout sons of old Tancred de
Hauteville who, from the condition of Norman squires of Cotentin, became
in one generation, kings of Sicily, the richest island of the
Mediterranean. The Battle of Hastings took place in 1066; in 1061 Robert
Guiscard, and his brother Roger, the Great Count, sons of old Tancred,
conquered Sicily and made Palermo their capital. What have the Normans
left behind them? A great art: Churches, cloisters, mosaics, tombs,
monuments worthy to stand on the island of the Greek temples, still
reckoned among the wonders of the world.
Our first days in Palermo were mild and cloudy--good sightseeing
weather; on the golden days that followed it would have been hard to
remain indoors, even within such splendid interiors as the cathedral of
Monreale and the church of the Martorana. We went first to the Capella
Palatina in the royal palace, the finest royal chapel in Europe. A
certain stately order, an aristocratic atmosphere, recalled the chapel
royal in Madrid, probably because we were more familiar with that than
any other. The Capella Palatina is far handsomer and as different from
the Madrid chapel as possible. The walls are entirely covered with fine
gold mosaics, the floor with rich marble mosaic, porphyry, serpentine,
Africano, cipolino, verde antique, all our favorite marbles, inlaid and
enlaced in the most entrancing patterns. “All this marble must have come
from the Greek temples and the Roman palaces,” Patsy reminded me.
“Let us enjoy it where it is!”
The beautiful wooden roof covered with Arabic inscriptions is connected
with the walls by a stalactite vaulting like the ceilings of the
Alhambra. The gold mosaics of the walls recalled the mosaics of Ravenna;
this blending of Arabic and Byzantine decorations with Norman
architecture is perfectly harmonious; the result is a unique chapel, one
of the jewels of Sicily, the treasure house. The good smell of incense,
the low voice of a priest in the confessional muttering words of good
counsel to a kneeling penitent, made the place warm, alive, part of
today.
“That’s either a great swell or a great sinner,” whispered Patsy. “No
one else would deserve so much attention from a royal chaplain. I wonder
which it is. Not that it matters much. I once asked the verger of
Salisbury cathedral if people ever came there to pray. ‘I sometimes
catches ’em at it!’ he answered fiercely. That’s the spirit that makes
the English cathedrals seem like so many museums! This chapel has
something of the same defect; that swell or sinner just saves it!”
In Palermo we felt the influence of the Arab everywhere, in the streets
as well as in churches and palaces. The gravity of the people, their
stern flashing eyes, something in their bearing as if they were never
without a sense of what is due them, recalls not only the Arab, but the
Spaniard who has been so much influenced by him. The women of the lower
class have the same magnificent black hair as the Syracusans. Few of
them wear hats; there is some picturesque dressing, but the bright
handkerchiefs worn over the head, and the pretty lace aprons, are the
last trace of the native costume that has practically disappeared from
the city. We saw few beggars. If we asked our way we were always
answered with politeness, ceremony even.
In a shop where we went to buy gloves we found the same indifference of
the seller to the buyer that we noticed in Madrid--a take-it-or-leave-it
spirit--not encouraging to trade.
“These gloves are rather light for traveling,” I said. “Show me some
darker ones.”
“They may soil,” said the dealer truculently; “they will never wear
out.”
“Are they of Sicilian make?”
“They were made in this shop.”
The gloves proved all their maker claimed; indeed they still survive.
“That standoffishness is, I suppose, the result of Sicilian _omertà_!”
said Patsy. “I like these people, though I don’t understand them; you
miss that jolly flash of sympathy the Italian gives you. They’re very
different--Sicilians; they’re not quite Italian, I think!”
We walked in the Corso every afternoon at the fashionable driving hour.
Though the weather was mild the smart people all drove in closed
carriages, sometimes with one window partly open as they do in Madrid.
The carriages were mostly of an antiquated shape much to our liking; a
sort of cross between a landau and a barouche; the coachmen all wore
caps. The finest turnout we saw had blue and red wheels; the lining and
liveries were brown, and coachman and footman wore caps to match with a
gold crown embroidered over the visors. We were standing at the Quattro
Canti, the bull’s-eye of Palermo, where the Corso and the Via Macqueda
cross, when this carriage passed.
“Some one’s bowing to you!” Patsy exclaimed.
I caught a flash of spectacles from the dark interior, the flourish of a
hat, nothing more.
“That,” cried Patsy, “was the father of Teodoro. I told you they were
great chiefs!”
* * * * *
We went to Monreale by an electric tram; it cost ten cents to go (the
distance is only five miles) and eight to return. On account, Patsy
“supposed,” of Monreale standing on a high hill, and the fact that it
takes more electricity to pull the car up than to let it down. The
country people in the car were coldly polite to us but they argued
sharply among themselves. As we passed the old city wall we noticed the
washing hung out to dry. All the way to Monreale there was the same
frank display of linen and underclothes. The sheets and table linen,
even outside the poorer houses, were extremely handsome, often trimmed
with beautiful lace. Before going into the cathedral we loitered about
the little town of Monreale.
“May the lady sit here and rest a moment?” Patsy asked a tailor sewing
in the doorway of his shop.
The man gravely motioned me to a chair, then asked a question.
“The Signorino is Americano? Has he ever seen Kicago?” Patsy said he
knew Chicago well.
“I am thinking of going there,” said the tailor. “I have a good little
business, nothing to complain of, all the best people in Monreale wear
my clothes, but there is no great future, no prospect of laying anything
by. My neighbor, Ludovico, has been in Kicago twenty years; he has done
very well. He has merely come back here to wait till his poor father
dies--the old man’s past praying for--then he
[Illustration: MONREALE. _Page 395._]
[Illustration: PALERMO. THE ROYAL PALACE. _Page 392._]
[Illustration: PALERMO. THE CATHEDRAL. _Page 391._]
returns to Kicago. He asks me to go with him. What does the Signorino
advise?”
Over a barber’s shop hung a sign with the words “Tonsorial Artist;” this
evidently was the establishment of Ludovico.
Below lay the Golden Shell. As he sat at his door, the tailor could see
Palermo with its domes and turrets, Monte Pellegrino, a vast blue
mountain rising from the bay on one side, Monte Catalfano on the other.
Behind him rose an amphitheatre of aerial blue mountains; close at hand
towered the grand cathedral of Monreale, that pilgrims cross the world
to visit.
“It depends,” Patsy for once spoke with hesitation, all his cocksureness
gone. “Chicago is a fine city, great opportunities there, but the
climate’s not just what you’re used to here; there are no mountains, no
sea.”
“The matter of climate is important,” said the tailor; he waxed his
thread, doubled it and began to sew a button on the coat he was making.
“As to mountains, what matters it? One cannot eat them! I have ten
children--not an easy thing to fill so many mouths; they eat and they
eat. I do not wish to die in the _albergo dei poveri_! Ludovico is rich!
He has two stores in Kicago. When he was a boy his father could only
earn ten _soldi_ a day; his poor mother could not always give her
children polenta; they must often dine on dandelions and herbs of that
sort! Now, when his parents are old, Ludovico takes good care of them.
His father wrote that he was dying; Ludovico came back to Monreale; that
was two years ago--the old man is still alive. The brother of Ludovico
has a fruit store in Kicago; he takes care of the business, sends him
the rent of the shops,--two hundred _scudi_ a month. I have seen the
money!”
I hurried Patsy away at this point; he was becoming too much interested
in the tailor’s affairs; in another minute he would be writing letters
of introduction to Chicago magnates.
In the sunny space outside the barber’s door sat a silver haired
patriarch wrapped in a shawl--Ludovico’s father.
“The old gaffers wear shawls here,” said Patsy, “as they do in Patras.
These folk seem more like Greeks than Italians; a trifle grouty, but
with a certain fibre, something bold yet reserved, that makes you want
to know them better.”
“Spend the day gossiping with tailors and barbers if you like; I’m for
the cathedral.” I flung off towards the church; Patsy followed
slowly. It is the only way to take him when he’s in that
little-friend-of-all-the-world mood.
The cathedral of Monreale, and the adjacent cloister of the old
Benedictine monastery are the crowning glory of that city of wonders,
Palermo.
The Capella Palatina, the cathedral of Palermo, the Martorano and the
other churches of the city proper hardly prepare one for the
magnificence of this gorgeous church that stands, glowing with the
golden stain of time, on a hill between the Conca d’Oro and its
enfolding mountains. It is the work of Saracen architects, who built for
Norman Kings and Christian prelates, with Byzantine, Italian, Greek,
Arab, and Norman artists and workmen to help them! The result, instead
of being an architectural Babel, is the world’s most truly cosmopolitan
cathedral, one of the most stupendous and glorious of existing
sanctuaries. The cathedral is in the shape of a Latin cross with three
apses. The façade is flanked by two square towers, handsome and imposing
enough; the great beauty of the exterior, however, is the outside of the
choir, at the back of the church. The lovely pattern of inlaid lava
stone in two colors is the fullest, most splendid expression of this
style of decoration we first saw on the façades of the palaces at
Taormina.
The interior--it is a place to pass hours, days, alone. Here set ajar
the door of your soul, let the wind of the ages blow through, as you
have done in the Parthenon at Athens, or the great Egyptian temple of
Karnak. Drink from the cup of beauty, bathe in the well of light and
glory, so shall an echo of that thrill of passionate love for their art
that moved the artists who wrought this gemmed casket of delight vibrate
through your inmost being.
Every inch of wall space is covered by gold Byzantine mosaics with
jewelled pictures representing the whole of Christian history. You may
read here as in a book the great scenes from the Old Testament, the
story of the life and passion of the Saviour, the history of the Virgin,
and of the Apostles. The central figure that dominates the whole
cathedral, that you
[Illustration: MONREALE. REAR OF THE CATHEDRAL. _Page 399._]
[Illustration: MONREALE. THE CATHEDRAL. TOMBS OF WILLIAM I. AND WILLIAM
II. _Page 399._]
[Illustration: PALERMO. MONTE PELLEGRINO. _Page 397._]
[Illustration: MONREALE. FAÇADE OF THE CATHEDRAL. _Page 400._]
must look at first on entering and last on leaving, is the majestic
half-length figure of Christ, over the high altar. The right hand is
raised in the act of blessing; the left holds an open book, with the
words in Greek and Latin: “I am the Light of the World.”
The face is severe in expression and very Oriental in type; it is the
face of the judge rather than the Saviour of mankind, with nothing of
that super-sweetness introduced by the Italian artists of the
Renaissance who produced what we now call the Christ-like type.
In my diary for this day I find three words: “Monreale; past belief!”
Later visits made us familiar with the wonderful massively built church
inlaid with Oriental stones, fretted with Oriental carving. We each
found our favorite pictures in the three different series of mosaics
blazing on the walls--“An open book of history, theology, and ethics for
all men to read.”
For me the quaint Old Testament scenes are the most interesting. Dearest
of all, the story of Noah, the first character in sacred history with
whom I became acquainted. The naïve simplicity with which the story is
told recalls the Noah’s ark dramas of the nursery, with the dear
familiar figures of Noah, Ham, Shem, Japhet, their wives, their animals,
their round green trees made of a shaving and looking like Italian stone
pines. The very smell of those freshly painted animals, the taste of a
certain yellow camel came back to me in the cathedral of Monreale in one
lightning flash of memory. Here they are, the dear companions of
childhood, the consolers of long rainy days, when the children in the
nursery knew exactly how the people in the ark felt on the fortieth day
of the deluge. The building of the ark is a most spirited mosaic
picture; so is the taking on board of the animals. Noah walks with a
horse on one side and a lion, smaller than himself, on the other. The
scene when the dove is first let loose is very fascinating; you feel the
crowding and fatigue of the too large family party in the ark. In the
scene where the dove returns with the olive branch, the sea is depicted
in delightful hummocky waves. Two swimmers, apparently sinners, are
struggling in the water; on the shoulder of one perches a crow,
evidently about to peck out the sinner’s eyes. The scene of the landing
on Mt. Ararat is supremely spirited; the gesture of relief with which
Noah lets the lion go is masterly.
Patsy’s favorite scene is Rebecca giving the camels of Abraham water
from the well. One of the most haunting pictures is the expulsion from
the Garden of Eden of our first parents, dressed in sheepskin. The
cherubim here is lovely, and the vigorous angel driving the unhappy pair
forth with a flaming sword, terrifying.
The death of the Virgin is one of the most primitive and touching of the
whole series. The body of the Virgin lies on a couch surrounded by the
Apostles; Peter leans over her listening to her heart--this simple human
touch makes the whole scene vivid and alive, in spite of its extreme
primitiveness. Beside the bed stands Christ, with Mary’s new fledged
soul dressed in swaddling bands like a new born infant in his hands. As
she received Him into this world, so He receives her into the next. As
this picture is part of the story of the Virgin, she is made the most
prominent figure. The figure of the Son is much smaller than that of his
dead mother on the couch.
In the cloister of Monreale we were again possessed by haunting
memories of Spain. The place is like some supremely beautiful Andalusian
patio. It is surrounded by slender Arabic paired columns, some with
twisted shafts, some inlaid, some of plain alabaster with amazing
fretted capitals, the heads of men and animals carved in the midst of
the foliage of acanthus and palm. The center is cunningly laid out by
some wise gardener, monk or layman. At each corner is a mass of yellow
wall-flowers with alternate clumps of white stocks, purple flags, and
lavender hyacinths. Among the ornamental trees we found one new to
us--the flowering peach. The blossoms are shaped like a red camellia,
with softer, more gracious petals.
“The peaches?” Patsy asked the _guardiano_.
“Small and not at all good to eat,” he made a face; “sour in fact as
unripe grapes. You see that other tree, with the insignificant blossoms?
That bears peaches fit for the King!”
“Look at these violets!” Patsy brought me the largest Parma violets I
ever saw. “This fellow says they begin to bloom in November. Here they
are still going it for all they’re worth in April. One of those chaps in
Taormina gave
[Illustration: MONREALE. INTERIOR OF THE CATHEDRAL. _Page 400._]
[Illustration: MONREALE. THE CLOISTERS. _Page 404._]
[Illustration: MONREALE. BRONZE DOOR OF THE CATHEDRAL. _Page 399_]
[Illustration: MONREALE. THE ARAB FOUNTAIN. _Page 405._]
as the reason he had chosen Sicily as a home, that the violets bloom
longer here than any place he had ever known.”
Overhead the sky was a flawless sapphire vault, broken only in one
corner by a mountain that looked like transparent amethyst. The perfume
of the orange and the lemon blossoms was intoxicating as sweet wine; the
comfortable hum of bees made a low undersong to the music of the magic
fountain in the corner of the cloister. It is not Italian, it is not
Sicilian. What manner of fountain can it be? Listen! Its language is
softer than any now spoken in Trinacria!
“_Allah il Allah!_” The fountain still murmurs the old cry of the
muezzin.
From a large basin rises a high carved shaft of rich topaz colored
marble, supporting a curiously wrought ball with sculptured figures,
foliage, and the alternate heads of men and lions. From their mouths
drips and drips, but never spurts, a slow soft shower of diamond drops.
It is as different from the noisy splurging fountains of Naples, as the
slow soft-spoken tongue of the Arabian sage is different from the
strident scolding of those men on the train, the father of Teodoro and
the little _avvocato_.
“A place of mystery and beauty beyond belief.”
So the record of Monreale ends as it began--“past belief!”
* * * * *
“It’s good enough just to be alive today,” Patsy declared one ecstatic
morning; “I’m off for the market and the Marina!”
To reach the Piazza Caraccioli, the market-place, we threaded a maze of
narrow dark alleys full of Rembrandtesque lights and shadows. In the
very heart of this labyrinth stands an old macaroni mill.
“We may enter and see the works?”
“_Benvenuto!_” The voice was less welcoming than the word. “They don’t
make macaroni where the Signorino comes from?”
“Not like yours!” Patsy magicked the peevish proprietor into good humor,
and we were free to enter the dark cavern. Two half naked fellows stood
at a deep trough kneading flour and water to a paste. A pair of barefoot
men, harnessed to a heavy wooden pole that turned a press, trod their
weary round. The paste was put into this press, and came out in long
strips. A fifth youth cut the strips into the proper lengths and hung
them to dry over bamboo canes.
“These might be the serfs of Roger the Norman making _pasta_ for his
army,” said Patsy; “it’s positively mediæval!”
The rude interior was like an ancient cave,--floor, walls, ceiling were
all of stone; the men worked in a dull heavy-hearted way that hurt you.
There was none of the joyous thrill of labor lightly carried; it was a
grievous place.
“The _pasta_ made in America is villainous; I have eaten it,” said the
_capo_. “It is made of wheat flour; bah! Semolina is the only flour fit
to make macaroni for Christians.”
“_Un bicchiere di vino_,” Patsy gave the money to the elder of the men
harnessed to that heavy pole. The fellow threw back his beautiful plume
of hair out of his gray-blue eyes and thanked Patsy awkwardly.
“_Grazie, beviamo a vostro salute._”
The second-hand boot-store next door was a much gayer place than the
mill.
“What can I sell you?” said the jolly proprietor, evidently the buffo of
the quarter. “Riding-boots good as new? Fishermans’ boots? They will
keep you dry to the knee!”
The riding-boots at once dainty and sportsman like, looked
extraordinarily like Teodoro’s; the heavy hobnailed fisherman’s boots
leaned fraternally against them.
“I do not buy today,” laughed Patsy; “perhaps I may sell tomorrow.”
“I will give you better prices than any man in Palermo!”
Where the market-place broadens to its widest, stands a _friggetoria_.
On its marble counter lay a vast copper basin of crisp fried fish that
looked like whitebait.
“What does the Signorino desire?” asked the fishwife, a tall woman with
a superb coiffure and piercing black Saracen eyes. “Scoponi? that is
good to make _zuppa alla marinaia, calamaretti, gamberi_?”
“Which is the scoponi?”
She picked up a big, very handsome blood-red fish, and held it out to
Patsy to show how fresh it was.
Leaving him to deal with the fishwife I passed on to the fruit stall.
It was a bad season, the _fruttaiuola_ said. Here were precious
mandarins and oranges; she held one up.
“Behold; you can see the blood through the skin; they are all like
this.” She showed an orange cut in half, the pulp ruby as a pomegranate.
“Oh, the blood oranges of Palermo are famous, they bring a great price
at Naples.”
I bought a basket like a net; my _fruttaiuola_ filled it with citrons,
lemons, oranges,--adding one of those rare winter melons Teodoro had
recommended. From the market we made our way to the Marina, a beautiful
curving avenue with fine palaces and gardens fronting the sea.
“The Marina at Messina once looked like this,” sighed Patsy.
Beyond the fashionable Marina we came upon a little fishing village. We
peeped into one poor hut; it was filled with fisherman’s tools, fishing
reels, lobster pots, old nets, broken oars. On the sunny outer wall hung
a tiny crate filled with orange parings.
“Every scrap of lemon, orange, or mandarin skin is saved, dried in the
sun, and sold to make candied peel or mandarin liqueur,” Patsy pointed
out. “Teodoro’s father was right. The Sicilian really is economical.
Palermo could live on what spendthrift New York throws away!”
The nets were spread on the sand to dry; the first catch of the day had
been made; two old fishermen were busy weighing the silver fish from the
boat drawn up on the beach. We watched a barchetta come in; she danced
prettily over the water, curtseying to the craft home before her. On her
prow was painted a picture of the Madonna; the big brown sail had a red
cross for luck.
“_Spugni! spugni di Trapani!_” A _gobbo_ with a crate of sponges stopped
to show us his wares.
“Sponges of Trapani!” cried Patsy; “why that Trapani is Drapana, where
the old Anchises died, where pious Aeneas founded the games in his
memory. As we can’t get to Trapani, let’s have one of its sponges!”
He laid in a supply, not yet exhausted. How precious now is every little
thing from Sicily--even the outworn gloves, even the fine pear-shaped
sponge from Trapani.
“Have you noticed the street shrines?” Patsy pointed to a majolica
medallion of Santa Rosalià let into the wall of a house. Two lighted
candles and a mass of fresh violets stood before it.
“I have not seen one neglected shrine in all Palermo; they are better
kept than in any Italian city I know; we might be in Bavaria.”
The busy gay streets of Palermo are filled with familiar names and
escutcheons. Under a fine stone stemma bearing the arms of Charles the
Fifth (the Pillars of Hercules and the enlacing scroll) appear the magic
names of Edison and Singer.
During those first happy days at Palermo, we forgot (or pretended to)
the one absorbing preoccupation of the last three months; behaved, Patsy
said, as if there had never been an earthquake; inevitably we were
brought back to it as children after a holiday must return to school. At
the Quattro Canti we met two sandwich men parading the streets with
flaming signs on their backs.
“_Seconda gita a Messina_, 8 francs!”
Luckless Messina! For eight francs the Palermitans can make a trip to
see the wreck of the proud city once Palermo’s rival!
“Poor devils--to be made a spectacle of!” sighed Patsy. “Still it helps
to have anybody make money! The railroad will get something out of
these special trips; any movement is better than none.”
Outside a large dry-goods shop an immense placard called our attention.
“Bazar Messinesi. Bankrupt stock from Messina, to be sold out below
cost.”
In the Via Marquada, a fine bustling modern street, I found my friend
Palladia the milliner. She welcomed me cordially though I saw she looked
ill and care-worn.
When the serious business of choosing straw, shape, and flowers for a
new hat was over, we spoke of other things.
“How are thy affairs going, Palladia?”
“Badly, Signora. It is a dreadful season. No one buys anything new. See
that mass of old hats my customers have brought me to make over! It is a
miracle the Signora should come today; she can perhaps help me? I have
had an idea. The ladies of Taormina have always served themselves at
Messina (there is no serious milliner at Taormina). Now that the
milliners of Messina are no more,--how if I went to Taormina with hats
for Easter? Mostly mourning hats of course--but a little lighter,
_via_, second mourning for the young ladies at least!”
“What a good notion!”