return from an extended trip through the Holy Land, and learning that we
intended to leave the next day, insisted that we drive out with him that
afternoon. About three o’clock we were informed with great éclat that
“His Excellency the Egregious Lord X--” did us the honor to await us.
Ready at the door to bow us out to the emblazoned barouche with its
black-liveried coachman and lackey hovered an unsuspected congregation
of obsequious hotel employés. Many of them we had never before seen;
none of them had hitherto deigned to notice our daily peregrinations in
Gualterio’s coach of state. But now that one of the dear nobility they
reverence almost as much as in medieval times recognized us socially, we
were quite plainly persons of consideration. Our splendor, however, was
short-lived. We had time only for a swift visit to a handsome club with
extensive grounds, to the Caffè Massimo for a taste of its famous
green-almond ices, and to the Giardino Inglese for a glimpse at its
botanic charms, for we had an engagement for tea at the American
Consulate.
It had not taken us long to arrive at the conclusion that Consul Bishop
was a very Bishop of Consuls, and it was due to his kindly interest and
hints that we enjoyed considerable intimacy with the life of the people,
and also had a good opportunity to see under actual conditions not only
the delights of being a foreign representative of the United States,
but also the drawbacks of such a position. Incidentally, it is,
generally speaking, both wise and pleasant to introduce one’s self at
the Consulate immediately on arriving in a foreign city where a stay of
any length is contemplated. In case any untoward incident should arise
later, such acquaintance with the consul would prove of inestimable
advantage, and would save unpleasant and wearisome investigations of
one’s right to American citizenship and his character. And if the consul
prove, as is now generally the case, a man of parts and charm, the
result will prove most happy for the visitor who desires to see and know
the best the city can afford.
The royal residence in Palermo, rising from the Piazza Vittoria, the
highest point in the city, is scarcely more remarkable than many of the
private _palazzi_. Ordinary as Palace and Piazza are now, in medieval
times this was the fortified citadel: a place of arms and chivalry, of
turrets and bastions, of fortresslike buildings forming the defensive
key to the city. But little have Time and the barbarous restorer left.
First comes an arcaded court, then two flights of marble stairs, and
then room after room, tastelessly over-decorated. One marvels at the
dullness of royalties who could so slavishly consent to the stuffy
vulgarity of these apartments, when before them was a model in the room
declared to have been King Roger’s own. Its mosaics have faded not a
whit in the long centuries; design and color hold soft and true to the
walls, and this kingly chamber in its dignity and splendor shames the
tawdry display of the monarchs who came after. Time spent in such rooms
is wasted.
The Cappella Palatina, or royal chapel, is a tiny temple richly
embellished with marvelous mosaics, but so smothered by the
encroachments of the formless Palace that half its beauty is lost for
lack of light. It is not even a structure by itself, but a part of the
main building, which King Roger added about 1132 in honor of Saint
Peter, to whom he dedicated it. Perhaps, because of its position, or
perhaps by design, the nave and aisles were left almost unlighted; but
seventy-five feet above, the architect pierced the dome with eight
apertures, to flood apse and chancel with a glorious nimbus of sunshine,
which finds a fit mirror in gleaming walls inlaid with golden glass.
[Illustration: “The Cappella Palatina ... a tiny temple richly
embellished with marvelous mosaics.”]
The illumination is, however, confined entirely to the choir save for an
hour or so in the morning, when the sidewalks glow with the genius of
their artist creators--and fade as one watches into shadowy old
tapestry. At first it is a darkly mysterious place, indistinctly peopled
by spectral figures on every side. Then slowly, as the eyes habituate
themselves to the gloom, out from the mellow background lean strong,
stern figures. Saints and angels pray, plead, wing their way across the
walls; patriarchs and prophets act out the stirring chronicles of the
Old Testament and New. High above the choir and tribune, halved by the
circumambient light, a majestic, supramundane figure, cross-crowned with
the diadem of supreme sacrifice, holds forth the Book upon whose snowy
page blazes the royal message in golden letters that need no flame of
fire to bid them shine--’Εγώ εἰμι τὸ φῶς τοῦ κόσμου: “I am the Light of
the world.”
The single-mindedness of medieval artists is always astonishing.
Anything from the Bible was apparently meet for the walls of this
sumptuous house of prayer, which, instead of being a mere bit of florid
decorative architecture belonging to the King, is a vivid pictorial
history. Very realistic is the scene at Lazarus’ tomb, where a man, with
head turned away, holds his nose with one hand as he tilts the tightly
swaddled body to an upright position. A little farther along, on the
same wall, the artist represented Jesus being baptized by John the
Baptist in a dark stream which flows past in snow white ripples. John is
sheltered by a section of bright olive-green wall, and at their feet
cherub heads peep through the wavelets. All the figures, though very
stiff and formal, as might be expected of work in such intractable
material, are admirably done, and the faces in particular are
expressively stern and reposeful.
Restoration has not harmed the chapel, and both it and its decorations
and furniture remain intact--the magnificent mosaic pulpit, in the
Lombard style; the giant candelabrum beside it, about fifteen feet high,
a superb piece of pure Byzantine sculpture with a wealth of mythological
details, which strikes a strange pagan note in this Christian church;
and the stalactite ceiling, carved wood of the best period of Saracenic
workmanship, much after the style of the ceilings of the Alhambra at
Granada. The Saracen glorified it with magnificent star-shaped coffers,
geometrical designs, Cufic lettering--his religion allowed him no image
of anything in heaven above or the earth beneath--and the less
prescribed Norman placed his saints and virgins in the divisions of the
stars. Yet the work was done with such rare skill--so thoroughly were
the Saracens artists first and Mohammedans afterward--that nowhere is
there a clash of motive or execution. It fills one with the delight of
the East, the subtle perception of masses of color shaded and mellowed
by time.
That, unfortunately, cannot be said of Palermo’s other royal residence,
the little Summer palace of La Favorita, built by the Bourbon King
Ferdinand IV under the shoulder of Monte Pellegrino, and evidently his
conception of a Chinese nobleman’s residence. Striking a jangling note
of color in the landscape, it stands boldly forth a great rubricated
initial upon the green and gold of the smiling Conca d’Oro. Surely there
never was such another freak of royal fancy! In their search for the
bizarre, King Ferdinand’s architects and decorators succeeded in
cramming into one architectural nightmare the styles of a dozen realms
and epochs; and the result is a queer hodge-podge of no artistic value,
but of mirth-provoking interest to the traveler. Only Mr. Kipling’s
famous phrase can describe it--“A sort of a giddy harumfrodite!”
In the King’s suite, Japanese artisans may have decorated the
bedchamber, some forgotten artist from hundred-gated Thebes the ceiling
of the anteroom, and then with supreme disregard for these exotic
effects, the royal humorist--if he were such!--must have turned over the
beautifying of his dressing room to a commonplace decorator of modern
times, and permitted him to do his worst.
The dining table, a huge circular affair, is the _piéce de résistance_
of the whole palace. Nothing queerer--or more entirely up-to-date and
practical--has ever made its appearance in the most recently constructed
American houses. Standing upon a massive cylindrical shaft that runs
straight through to the kitchen in the basement, the table is a sort of
combination dumbwaiter-quicklunch counter. At each place a silver tray,
imbedded in a small shaft, connects below with the main trunk, and these
trays, operated automatically with the larger central charger, answer
djinn-like by serving a whole course at once, smoking hot, when the
royal host rubs the button at his place. Slow eaters might find it
somewhat disconcerting to turn from conversation back to--an empty black
hole before them! But perhaps King Ferdinand was not a joker.
Every room has some freakish combination peculiarly its own, some in
Turkish, Arabic or Pompeiian motives, and one huge reception salon in
hand-painted silk with Chinese mandarins in full ceremonial costume upon
the walls. Above all are the luxurious smoking and lounging rooms, and
of course, a wide, tiled veranda on each floor affording sweeping views
on either hand.
To the Sicilian in his blissful ignorance, La Favorita appears a
masterpiece, the people generally regarding the _château_ with the
reverence of simplicity. Indeed, poverty and ignorance are the
mainsprings of life for a majority of the people. Nor is ignorance
confined to the masses. A Sicilian doctor in Palermo, himself graduated
from one of our greatest universities and therefore an exception to the
rule, told me in all seriousness that a majority of the “society people”
of the capital could read nothing more difficult than the daily papers.
“They often forget how to spell their own names”--you don’t wonder much
at that when you see some of the names!--“and their notions of first aid
in sickness or injury are barbarous and medieval. When my wife and I
first began to practise in Palermo, we tried to help the people with
clubs and societies of a semi-educational nature. But we had to drop it
all. You can’t begin education with the adults.”
This was recognized a century ago by one of the foremost patriots of
Sicily, the Prince of Castlenuovo, who was one of the prime movers in
lifting his island out of the medievalism of Ferdinand’s régime. Out in
this region of the suburbs--known as _I Colli_ (The Tops), and dotted
with splendid villas--and not far distant from Ferdinand’s Favorita, the
Prince established a model farm, kitchen garden and dairy where the boys
of both rich and poor families are taught by experts how to get the most
out of the ground without having recourse to the antiquated methods of
their forefathers. And if one may judge from the attitude of the young
students and the eagerness with which they display their knowledge, the
big Institute is still proving most successful.
The boy who showed us about said proudly that when he finished his
schooling he was to be overseer of a big plantation up country, much
like the one spreading around us. America had no attractions for him. In
his own words: “My father has taught me to love Sicily very much,
_signore_. He makes much money in his business in N’ova York. But I will
be patriot. I stay here. I study. By and by I can help my poor country
to grow rich!”
Gardens and boys are interesting, but the stockyards of the school are
a revelation. Goats and kids, sheep and lambs, magnificent bulls and
kine and soft-eyed, frisky little calves have each their separate yards,
all immaculate; and in the neat brick addition to the cow-stables is a
model piggery comfortably full of grunters, who seem to appreciate
quarters where a fresh handkerchief dropped in an occupied pen can be
recovered quite unsoiled. The school dairy is as complete as it is
wholesome and clean; but you are not likely to go far outside until
another phase of the milk industry appears--a donkey carrying large jute
panniers full of goats’-milk potcheese, or _ricotta fresca_. The whey
oozing from the bags and the donkey’s sweat gather a crust of dust over
all. Don’t manifest a talkative interest--unless you wish to have the
peasant merchant urge you to try “just a taste, _signori_!”
Among the splendid estates of _I Colli_, the Villa Sofia is one of the
finest, and the genius of its creator, a wealthy Briton named Whitaker,
shows what may be accomplished by perfect taste when man and Nature work
together harmoniously to draw the most and best from the breast of the
warm and generous earth. Villa, by the way, is almost as flexible a term
in Italian as palace. It means not merely a house for summering, but
grounds as well as mansion; and many of the houses quite equal the
so-called palaces. Another estate worthy a visit is the Villa of the
late Count Tasca--this is out Monreale way--who laid out the grounds as
an experimental agricultural station, and who was one of the first men
in Sicily to farm on a scientific basis. But he dearly loved royalty,
too. On the “basement” door of the house a bronze tablet impressively
records with a wealth of adjectives the fact that Queen (Dowager)
Margharita once took luncheon here with the delighted owner, and that
ever since the premises have had an added value and charm because of her
Majesty’s visit.
Occupying the monastery of the suppressed and exiled Filippini monks,
the Palermo Museum--a vivid epitomization of all Sicily’s various
periods and renascences of art and culture--is given a distinct
character of its own by the crumbling though palatial home housing it,
worthier far to be called a palace than many of the _palazzi_ of the
nobility. You are apt to be disappointed on entering, however, when the
courteous guardian of the gate informs you that you will be “permitted”
to leave your cameras with the incumbrance clerk across the entrance
hall. In vain you plead, catching sight of some of the untrammeled
beauties of the first courtyard just beyond. But the guard is
uncompromisingly honest; you enter in without so much as the moral
support of a sunshade.
The little court is a veritable wild Eden. Flowering vines drip down
over the edges of the walls and twist about the pillars; a single
prickly pear rears its fat donkey-cars above the cornice and glories in
the sunshine; great bursts of foliage clothe in green the joints of the
corners. In the center of the courtyard a low stone fountain basin full
of brilliant plants affords a picturesque foothold for a sixteenth
century Triton drinking deep from a conch. And over on the left, just
beyond the archway that gives an entrancing vista of the second court
beyond, a tender vine wreathes completely about the tragic column topped
with a cross of iron from the Piazza dei Vespri, in which it once stood
to mark the spot where some of the French who fell in the massacre were
buried.
Sidewalks and columns, cornice and roof are a museum in themselves,
decorated with quaint bits of ancient and medieval architecture, some
actually built in as parts of the cloister, others arranged in artistic
abandon about the shade-dappled walks. But why puzzle out ancient
inscriptions on crumbling marbles when the second court beckons, like a
coquettish woman, from the stern lines of the archway? Shake off the
persistent employé who offers to be your mentor, and pass through into a
tropical palm garden where the luxuriance of the foliage almost hides
the antiquities. No attempt has been made to curb the riotous
propensities of the plants. Palm tree and shrub, flowers in beds and
rows, vines and creepers give the brilliant court the air of a Spanish
patio. But you have really come to see the antiquities, and gradually
getting back your sense of proportion, you look about.
Directly before you is a queer, somewhat battered thing of dark stone,
looking more like a bathtub than anything else. It proves to be a
sarcophagus; one of the rare prehistoric Sikel monuments, of inestimable
value in studying the customs and culture of the vanished people, whom
the Greeks so effectually absorbed that the only trace we have of their
mode of life is in a few such scattered pieces as this from the tombs,
though even these are often of doubtful authenticity.
Papyrus reeds, descendants of the paper-plants imported into Sicily long
centuries ago by some forgotten Arab, rear their puffball heads from the
fountain, a little grove of living feather dusters. Who knows but that
the thrifty Saracen caretaker may have used them to dust out his
immaculate mosques and public baths?
So varied and comprehensive a collection as the Museum contains has
required consummate skill and taste to arrange coherently, and
throughout the entire building the director, Professor Salinas, has done
his work so admirably that each group’s significance is fully apparent.
In the various halls are quaint old pictures and triptyches so ugly that
their very repulsiveness spells the perfect expression of the art of
their time, marvelous coins which gave Sicily the reputation of leading
the world in numismatics during the Greek era, and most important of
all, the metopes.
Carven slabs from the temple friezes--what a story they tell of the
primitive and ardent culture of the early Greeks perched upon their twin
hills at Selinus, beside the sounding deep! One whole hall is lined with
them, arranged symmetrically in series, speaking even to-day with the
voice of that mystic lore which, to understand, reveals ancient Sicily.
And though individual carvings excel them in precision and beauty, as a
series denoting the exact progress of Greek Sicilian art from its
crudest to its most perfected form, the metopes are unsurpassed.
Moreover, these metopes from the temples of Selinus recall a story so
tragic, so amazing, that comparisons fail and mere words avail little to
picture its horror. Selinus was still young, and the wealthy and
expanding Selinuntines were still engaged in building their tremendous
temples in 409 B.C. when Hannibal Gisgon with his Carthaginians fell
upon the city with a ferocity that is even yet appalling in its details,
butchering the inhabitants ruthlessly, and expunging the city from the
book of the living. But Hannibal was in a hurry. He had no time to spare
to destroy structures of such problematical value as unfinished temples,
since he purposed to avenge the defeat and death of his grandfather,
Hamilcar, at Himera on the north shore of the island. Giving the
temples and the desolate city over to the owl and the locust, he hurried
northward, flushed and confident. So it was that the partially completed
homes of the bright gods remained until the shock of earthquake hurled
them crashing down into chaos.
Centuries elapsed in the silence of desolation before the metopes, which
Freeman so aptly calls “the choicest offerings Selinuntine piety could
offer the immortal gods,” were picked carefully by the archæologists
from the ruins and ranged upon the plaster walls of the Museum, showing
the evolution of the art from the weird, uncouth shapes of the earlier
metopes to the finished later shapes of gods and heroes and men. Yet so
rapid was the development of the sculptors that within a century the
first metopes had become curiosities, and the later work so superior it
is hard to realize it was produced in the same age. And one cannot but
wonder what might have been the fullest flower of this strong, budding
genius at Selinus, had not the insatiable African smitten it with his
blighting breath of war.
One palace that has fallen upon evil days, after as picturesque a past
as any building in the island can boast, is the lofty home of the Barons
of the Chiaramonte. In the fourteenth century, during the Aragonese
period, these and other nobles became so powerful that no systematic
administration of Sicily by the government was possible, and the
palace--usually called Lo Steri--is an excellent manifestation of the
Chiaramonte power. Grim and stiff outside, it still preserves within
something of the magnificence of the days when knights in armor clanked
through its lofty halls and ladies in quaint headdresses and billowing
skirts peeped through the folds of the arras and tapestries to watch the
wheels of intrigue and government go round. Many a dark tale could these
old halls tell. Andrew Chiaramonte, the last of his line to rule, was
dragged hence to the block in 1392, and the palace became the court,
with justice taking the place of chicanery. Later on the Spanish
viceroys made it their official residence, and in 1600 it became the
seat of the dreaded Spanish Inquisition. In the inner courtyard is the
private chapel, where no doubt many of the Inquisition’s bitter and
fruitless tragedies had their inception. The whole structure smells of
blood. To-day, as the Dogana, or Custom House, it is as useful as
ever--and for the Sicilian importer no doubt still a palace of most
unpleasant inquisition.
King William the Bad, King Roger’s son, and father of William II, the
Good--who built the Cathedral of Monreale--called his favorite palace in
Arabic La Zisa, the Beloved or the Splendid. It is of distinctly Moorish
character--bare walls unrelieved by projecting decorations of any sort,
with Oriental doorways, pointed-arch windows, and a heavy battlemented
frieze. In King William I’s time the palace eunuchs were almost as
powerful as they were at Constantinople, and most of the palace
officials were Saracens, which is perhaps one reason for the
architecture of the structure. William himself lived the idle, sensual
life of a voluptuary, and toward the end of his reign, with Oriental
indifference, shut himself up in his splendid house and refused any bad
news.
It is not hard to see in the mutilated grandeur of the main hall why he
fell a victim to the insidious charm of the East, for more than any
other place in Palermo this chamber breathes of “Araby the blest.” The
ceiling is a great stalactite vault: a little fountain still bubbles
down over steps of mosaic; and it runs across the floor through square
pools exactly as do those other similar fountains in the Alhambra at
Granada. Only the frescoes on the walls are modern, replacing ancient
panels of marble which once embellished the villa. No--there was one
other modern touch: a flock of tiny white wax ducks, belonging to the
caretaker’s little daughter, bobbing serenely about in the rippled
pool!
VI
THE PLAIN OF PANORMOS
A short distance outside the Porta Sant’Ágata--one of the southern
gates--on the edge of the rolling Conca d’Oro, is the Campo di Santo
Spirito or cemetery, a lovely greensward full of curious tombs and
graves and vaults. Its chapel is old and bare, a relic of the Cistercian
monastery established on the same spot in 1173 by Archbishop Walter of
the Mill, the English mentor of King William the Good. Doubtless the
Archbishop had much to do with the King’s goodness, since his father was
William the Bad. When the church was restored in 1882, the greatest care
was taken to preserve at least the spirit of the prelate’s design, with
the result that among these Sicilian graves under the matchless blue of
the Sicilian sky there stands an English church of the Middle Ages.
Close beside it on the 31st of March, 1282, just at the tap of the bell
for evening prayer, began the terrible massacre of the Sicilian Vespers,
while in the city near by the great bell of San Giovanni boomed out the
knell of all the Frenchmen in the island and the downfall of the
heartless House of Anjou. Many of the French who perished in that
orgy of slaughter have been buried here.
[Illustration: The bells of the church of the Holy Spirit boomed the
knell of the French in the Sicilian Vespers.]