theaters.]
The play was one of the familiar favorites, representing the
endeavors of invading Moors to convert Christian Sicilians to
Mohammedanism, but the author was somewhat mixed in his history. Beside
the Sicilians and Moors he worked in Frenchmen, and before the play was
over, the story was that of a struggle between the two Christian
nations, the Mohammedans obviously forgotten. The wicked, wicked
Frenchmen were, of course, defeated, and their bloody schemes met with
the noisy condemnation of the little crowd, while their opponents, the
ancestors of these same street boys and hucksters and fishermen, won as
hearty approval.
In the interval between the fourth and the last acts I had a chance to
inquire of my neighbors why there were no women present. Both men
regarded me with astonishment, and the younger answered first.
“Women? Women in the theater? Why, the theater is not good for them. I
never bring my woman!”
Evidently a foreign woman was different, and none of the audience seemed
to regard it as strange that one should be among them. As we came out
into the fresh night air, Gualterio was apologetically solicitous, a
little nervous as to the success of his experiment in bringing us to
this particular theater. But our manifest satisfaction with our night of
dissipation speedily reassured him, and all the way back to the hotel he
sang _canzone_ to his chunky little Arab out of pure joy and
thankfulness.
IV
CATHEDRALS
It has already been pointed out that the Easter season is an especially
good time to be in Palermo. On Easter morning the great Court of the
Lord before the Cathedral is a surprising picture. Upon the heavy stone
balustrade enclosing it sixteen massive saints meditate benignly in the
scented air. The great gray cement yard, flowers all colors of the
rainbow, marble Santa Rosalia--patroness of Palermo--the huge church
itself: all are bathed in the most brilliant sunshine imaginable. Words
and pictures alike fail to give any adequate expression of it. The noise
and unrest of the busy Corso are forgotten in this magic precinct;
smiling, happy men, women and children stream through the yard,
picturesque in their holiday attire; while from the windows drones the
chant of the Mass, like the buzzing of a swarm of kindly bees hovering
over the flowers. The white glare of the Egyptian desert is never more
blinding than a Sicilian spring morning radiance.
[Illustration: The blending of different architectural forms in the
Palermo Cathedral gives it charm.]
Though the service calls, religion in Sicily takes small heed of the
antics of foreigners, and if one chooses to stay outside in the
courtyard and take photographs, it causes not the slightest comment. The
main charm of the Cathedral lies in the curious blending of its
different forms of architecture--Arabic, Norman, Gothic; which produces
a dashing and almost whimsical effect in its fine arcades, its rich
friezes and battlements, its interlacing arches, and its airy turrets
outlined against the blue sky. Two graceful flying arches connect the
Cathedral with the campanile or belfry which, as is often the case, is
separated from the Cathedral proper--in this instance across the street.
The vast structure as a whole is the very epitome of Sicily’s many sided
culture and art during her high tide of glory, the Norman period. A
witty Englishman has fitly remarked that the badly restored and
whitewashed interior, however, is of the “railroad station type.”
In the south aisle chapels, though, are the excellent tombs of the
kings, the grim and silent last homes of the marvelous Frederick, that
“Wonder of the World,” of Henry VI, The Butcher, of Constance the
Broken-Hearted, and of others. A great crimson porphyry sarcophagus
holds the dust of King Roger, of whom it has been well said indeed that
he was “one of the wisest, most renowned, most worthy, and most
fortunate princes of his time” (Freeman). Kneeling Norman nobles carved
in white marble upbear the simple, boxlike mass of porphyry upon their
armored shoulders. What an expression of the homage of the people! The
simple inscription, in Latin, reads:
IN QUIET AND PEACE, ROGER, STRENUOUS
DUKE AND OF SICILY FIRST KING,
IS DEAD IN PANORMOS, THE MONTH OF FEBRUARY
IN THE YEAR 1154.
So it would seem that we are not the first people to discover “the
strenuous life!”
And King Roger’s life was certainly strenuous. But it was nothing at all
compared to the career of his father, who landed stealthily in Sicily by
night with a handful of trusty knights and men-at-arms, captured Messina
before breakfast, and stormed on through the island, felling the
Saracens like so many saplings. The Norman conquest was distinguished
throughout by the most impossible feats of both personal valor and
consideration; the island was ready for Roger to knit together and
administer when he succeeded his father, and played the rôle of lawgiver
and organizer to his fiery parent’s conquests. And young Roger rose even
higher than his father. Where he had been Count, Roger made himself not
only King of Sicily, but ruler of a considerable part of Southern Italy
as well. What manner of man he was is shown by an ancient mosaic still
on the wall of the church of the Martorana, a remarkable example in
itself of Norman-Sicilian art. Notwithstanding the tremendous
temporal power of the Popes in those days, this descendant of the
vikings refused to be crowned by the papal legate, and the mosaic
represents him placing the diadem upon his head with his own hands.
[Illustration: “A great crimson porphyry sarcophagus holds the dust of
‘Roger, Strenuous Duke.’”]
The Martorana church was built by the King’s High Admiral, Giorgios
Antiochenos, a versatile gentleman indeed, who amused himself while on
shore leave or duty by building bridges and churches, importing silk
weavers and generally playing the constructive and highly intelligent
official, whose good works have long outlived himself.
Throughout the island it is eminently proper to keep the key of a
building as far away from its door as possible--it is the _custode_ of
La Martorana who gives open sesame to the Scláfani Palace. As you drive
over, he ticks off its history on his bony fingers with the precious
key: Built in 1330; afterward a grand hospital; to-day a barrack for the
Bersaglieri or mountain riflemen. Practically the only remaining
evidence of its former grandeur is a tremendous fresco attributed to a
long-forgotten Flemish painter, on one of the walls of the courtyard.
The fresco, measuring some eighteen feet in height by about twenty-two
in length, is called _Il Trionfo della Morte_, The Triumph of Death, and
its name is fully borne out by its grisly realism, as the white horse
and his ruthless skeleton rider trample down those who wish to live,
and ignore the wretched who plead in vain for release from their misery.
With the latter group stands the painter himself, palette and mahlstick
in hand; it is said he was taken ill while a guest in the palace.
Perhaps the painting commemorates his feelings during that unfortunate
experience.
It is frankly ugly--there is no other word to express it--yet it still
clings to the white wall and produces an astonishing effect, especially
when one remembers that it is a faithful expression of the religious
feeling of the epoch it stands for. While we were studying it, a
well-fed American-in-a-hurry, evidently a person of importance
Baedekering through Sicily, rushed into the court, asked abruptly if
that were the great picture, thrust both hands into his pockets and,
with feet wide apart, appraised it a few moments in patent disgust. It
costs about a _lira_ and a half--something like thirty cents of our
money--to see the fresco. Pulling out a handful of loose change to pay
the custodian, the stranger glanced first at his hand, then back at the
painting.
“Thirty cents! Thirty cents--that’s exactly what it looks like!” he
exploded, and was off before we could get our breaths.
That Palermo had queer taste in the old days is indicated by the
Scláfani fresco; and further evidence is not lacking in the crypts of a
Capuchin monastery, a short distance outside the Porta Nuova. The
vaults, long ago used as a burial place by the wealthier families of the
city, contain at present some eight thousand embalmed bodies. This
subway full of mummies is divided into several sections, the men and
women segregated from each other and from the monks and priests, who
have a gallery apart. Some of the bodies are in coffins or caskets of
various sorts, but many have been hung up by the neck in cords like
hangman’s nooses. Some skulls are entirely fleshless, while others are
partially covered. Hands whose fingers have shrunk to black bits of
petrifaction hang loosely from rotting gloves which now appear several
sizes too large. Heads have slipped back to stare up at the cobwebbed
ceiling, turned sidewise with most diabolical leers, moved forward as
though to combat the visitor. Not a single skull is expressionless, even
if devoid of flesh. Some are jocose, some piously sad, some morose, some
menacing and grim.
Within the artillery barrack a little farther out, is a ragged tower
some thirty feet high that represents the ancient villa of La Cuba. An
Arabic frieze about the bare exterior suggests the residence of some
haughty old Emir of Palermo. The iconoclastic archæologists, however,
have shattered the popular belief by deciphering the inscription to
prove that no Saracen ever lived there, but that the mansion was erected
in 1183 by the grandson of Roger, King William II, “The Good,” of whose
reign one chronicler of the period wrote: “There was more security then,
in the thickets of Sicily than in the cities of other kingdoms.”
Modesty, though, could scarcely have been the most conspicuous of that
monarch’s many virtues, for the inscription reads: “In the Name of God,
clement, merciful, give heed. Here halt and admire. Behold the
illustrious dwelling of the most illustrious of the kings of the earth,
William II.”
Tired out one night after a long day following the hounds through the
forests outside Palermo, this same King William II, “The Good,” lay down
to sleep on a hill overlooking the city. And in his sleep, he dreamed:
Out of the glades floated the shining figure of the Virgin, mysterious
and inspiring, telling the awestruck monarch that the church he had
sworn to build for her must be erected on that very spot. Slowly the
dazzling vision faded, and when he awoke William named the hill Mon
Reale--Royal Mount--at once beginning to prepare for the most splendid
church in Sicily, a house of prayer worthy of both its divine patroness
and its royal founder.
In 1174 the actual construction began, and eight years later, thanks to
the pious aid of the King’s mother, Margaret of Aragon, the Duomo of
Monreale was solemnly consecrated. It was, however, unfinished outside,
and to this day its barren exterior hints nothing of its interior
magnificence.
[Illustration: “The Monreale Cathedral rises like a fortress before the
town.”]
Around the Cathedral sprang up a populous little city of jammed-together
houses along constricted, hilly streets, and eight centuries have not
changed the town appreciably. It is possible to ascend by tram this
crested slope upon whose brow the Middle Ages still reign.
Unfortunately, the cars are not personally conducted to stop at the best
viewpoints, so it is better, though more expensive, to take a cab.
Once in a while in Europe the recognition of class distinction grips an
American with a strangle-hold. That day in the Monreale tram it seized
me, when a fat, overdressed middle-class woman of forty or so began to
give herself more airs than a duchess. With her little son, she was
taking up room enough for four ordinary people, when a spotlessly neat
old peasant woman, with a decent murmur of apology, sat down in the
half-vacant space alongside. The bourgeoise flared like a Sans Gene,
jabbed at her parcels brusquely, and told her loudly not to intrude upon
her betters. It was then that I wished for a second-class car, to save
the old woman from such gratuitous effrontery.
The Cathedral rises like a fortress before the town; its main
doors--between two massive square towers, giving upon a dusty little
square--are rich bronze leaves full of low-reliefs from Old Testament
history. The first impression on entering is of a dazzling blaze of
golden light, beating upon and beaten back from golden walls with
stunning effect, in which the details of design and ornamentation, for
all their clarity and importance, are so marvelously subordinated that
they but add to the glowing display. Though the superb glass mosaics
cover an area which Baedeker--with “Made-in-Germany” accuracy--declares
to be 70,400 square feet, the lower walls are all pure white marble,
with an upper border and slender bright-colored bands which run
perpendicularly through the spotless white like the embroidery upon a
holy robe. The vast nave and aisles are light and airy. There is
complete absence of any artificial decoration--no tawdry, meaningless
images, no hideous ex-votos to distract the eye. Harmony is the keynote
of every inch of the decorations; from pave to rooftree there is not one
inconsistent or jarring note.
The great dome of the main apse is completely filled by a bust of the
Christ in the same glittering, marvelous, indescribably mellow glass
mosaic that covers thousands of square feet upon the walls. It is the
face of the man traditional, the visage of one whose appearance has been
handed down from father to son since the beginning, the likeness of a
founder, a prophet. And the still, solemn wonder of it fills one like
the recurrent chords of a great and stately harmony. It is the one
feature that stands out high above the blinding golden haze.
“Not a jarring note”--and yet, who that has seen those forty Old
Testament mosaic tableaux on the upper walls can help recalling his
first start of amazement at their literalness. They speak a dialect of
art; they translate the Bible stories that the uneducated medieval mind
could not read, into something that everybody could understand. A
snow-white Eve worming her way out of an equally pallid dreamer’s side,
and afterward decorously introduced by God Himself to Adam, is startling
enough. But how about Noah, draped by a modest son, while in the vinous
slumber brought about through a too generous testing of the liquid
sunshine of his own vines? No details of these ancient histories was too
insignificant or too broad for the artificers to weave lovingly into
their master-work; and nothing could better illustrate the pure
simplicity of the medieval mind to which anything Biblical was holy, and
fit for presentation to all the world.
One of the most noticeable features of the Duomo is the clearness and
delicacy of every detail. In St. Mark’s in Venice, time has blurred and
defaced almost everything and the better part of the mosaics is
crumbling into soft decay; but here in Monreale the delineation is so
vivid and sharp, each color so soft and pure in tone, it seems as though
the master workman had laid down his tools but yesterday to pronounce
his _chef d’œuvre_ complete.
We are apt to think of cloisters as gloomy, forbidding places, where
half frozen monks with blue lips and hair shirts shiver about their
religious tasks and wish--if they are human!--they had never been born.
Of course, there are such cloisters--but not here in Monreale, where the
glorious sunshine bathes all that is left of the monastery King William
erected for his Benedictine monks beside the Cathedral. Pleasant
cloisters these, warm and blooming and fragrant with ozone and the
perfume of the flowers. And very pleasant, indeed, very much worth
while, must have been the lives of the jovial Benedictine brothers
during the high and mighty reign of William the Good! Even after seven
hundred years the silent arcades are lovely, filled yet with slender
columns about which climb ribbons of mosaic and garlands of living vines
to set off the different capitals--the finest examples of twelfth
century carving in the world. Every capital is different, and almost
every one tells a story. The visitor can unravel for himself ancient
legend or Bible story, picking out old familiar figures here and there
in the mellow marble; or if he chooses, he can meditate upon the curious
fact that the Normans were producing this glorious work in the island of
the sun long before Giotto was born.
[Illustration: “A snow-white Eve worming her way out of an equally
pallid dreamer’s side is startling.”]
Monreale’s streets are rugged and steep, but very clean and decent. The
Monrealese, instead of naming their Corso for Italy’s first king, have
named it for the town’s most famous son, the seventeenth century
painter Pietro Novelli, whose studies of the monks are moving figures,
clearly establishing him as the foremost materialist Sicily ever
produced. On the Corso is Grado Salvatore’s three-boy-power macaroni
factory, a queer, rambling, black sort of a cavern, lighted only by the
front door. A macaroni-machine looking for all the world like Benjamin
Franklin’s old hand printing press occupies the front on one side; and
Salvatore himself sits in the little blue and white tiled sink before
it, fanning and snipping the wriggly paste as the boys twist the screw
and force it out in long strings. On the other side of the partition is
a cluttered-up sales-room where every imaginable shape of macaroni and
spaghetti decorates the shelves. Behind all is the mixing-room, joyously
dark; and you may handle the doughcakes to make sure they are pure and
clean! No matter if your hands are very dirty, after your sightseeing;
the good folk of Monreale will take no particular harm after what they
have doubtless experienced at other hands. None the less, as a general
thing the interior of a Sicilian paste shop compares favorably with that
of an American bakery, and the workers themselves are quite immaculate,
with soft, clean, pink hands like a woman’s.
After it comes from the press, the macaroni is cut into six-foot lengths
and hung up outside the shop to dry in the sunshine. By the time it has
collected sufficient dust and germs to make it stiff--two or three days
are usually long enough--it is cut into package lengths and sold. In
Southern Italy it often occupies a good part of a roadway, or even hangs
over a busy coalyard; but in Sicily both its manufacture and sale are
cleaner and more wholesome; and the macaroni made in Termini is famous
for its quality. Whether it is something in its manufacture, or some
subtle quality of the flour from which it is made, the Sicilian _pasta_
seems generally to have a flavor and a delicacy lacking in the Italian
variety.
The three juvenile assistants--boys who had the haunting native eyes of
soft yet gleaming brown dusk, lustrous as old Marsala wine full of the
sun--did not seem in the least to mind the drudgery of turning their
endless screw. But while we were handling doughcakes in the black
backroom with genial Salvatore, they stopped “twisting the twist” and
somehow managed to spread the news throughout the entire village that
there were strangers within their gates; and a crowd of small boys,
beggars, and others who seemed to have no occupation gathered at the
front door, demanding vociferously that they be photographed, chaffing
each other and us, and arranging themselves according to their own ideas
of a picturesque group.
While there was no stately ceremony to welcome us, the freedom of the
town was clearly ours after that picture taking. Nobody asked for so
much as a copper penny, and gruff, cheery voices called after us
heartily: “_Buon viaggio! A rivederci, signori!_ Good-by! Come back
again!” And Monreale has been branded as a town “whose beggars are very
importunate!”
Bad as the Sicilian beggars are supposed to be, we experienced less
annoyance from them throughout the island than from their pertinacious
brethren of Naples and the mainland generally.
At the brow of the hill is a terrace garden, the “Eden
Restaurant”--where by all means you must take tea. The little
establishment amuses rather than disappoints; and though it scarcely
justifies its grandiose title, it commands a view that no doubt
suggested the name to its proprietor. Falling away from its feet, the
hill cascades down in great billows to the cool green and orange sea of
the Conca d’Oro. And when the trolley car turns the shoulder of the
hill, in Palermo--misty and dun in the gathering dark--lights like
jewels flash out in scintillating ripples that spread and widen and
sparkle as you race down the dusty mountain road, leaving medieval
Monreale silent and spectral behind.
V
PALACES AND PEOPLE
“Palace” in Italian is a flexible and generic term, and the examples of
“palaces” one sees in Sicily give an entirely new sense of the
elasticity of the Italian language, and the freedom with which the
people use it. _Palazzo_ means really any building or structure of any
sort where wealthy, a noble, or a royal family lives now, or ever has
lived; and some of these structures are as remarkable for their
disreputable appearance as others are for their beauty and richness,
resembling nothing in the world so much as American tenement houses. One
such is unforgettable--a dingy white, square, four-storied building with
green shutters and a large central doorway, owned and occupied by a
titled and wealthy family whose members move in the highest society
throughout the island. The ground floor is taken up entirely by stables,
the servants, and rats as large as kittens. The mezzanine floor above is
given over to two insurance companies, whose signs cover a considerable
part of their story. Above, the really noble family lives in stately
fashion.
It was when idling up the Nile that we first met the older son of the
family. Becoming friendly on desert and river, the Sicilian confided in
me his desire for a northern alliance, readily admitting the difficulty
of reconciling his fiery temper with that of any wife he might choose
among his own people.
“I’d like an American,” he declared, shrugging, “but if I can’t get her,
I’ll take an English girl. With cool northern blood in their veins, my
children might well show the virtue and strength which has made you
Anglo-Saxons what you are. You see, here in Palermo I am a wealthy man.
I am ‘Your Grace,’ ‘Your Highness.’ But in New York or London or Paris I
am only one of ‘those poor Sicilians.’ I should like to marry a wife
whose income, together with mine, would enable us to live as becomes the
nobility in those cities.”
I made as diplomatic a reply as possible, but I am very much afraid that
the gentleman left me feeling that Americans are after all a cold and
unappreciative people, though he did express a desire to continue the
acquaintance in Palermo. When we reached that city, we learned from
various sources of the aggravating inhospitality of the romancing
nobility, one of whose favorite pleasantries consists of ardent
solicitations to foreigners to call, and the presenting of cards which,
upon scrutiny, are found to bear either no address or only the Italian
legend for “General Delivery.”