Castellinaria, and Other Sicilian Diversions Part 30

Eight hundred paces to the north of Lentini the glorious brothers met a young man of the Jewish religion who had eaten nothing for a month.

Captain Mercurio, having seen and been much touched by the portents performed by his prisoners during the journey, begged them to restore the youth. Immediately, with no a.s.sistance from anyone, the saints broke the ropes that bound them, prayed to heaven, approached the sufferer, infused new life into his exhausted frame and restored him to perfect health.

The youth and his parents confessed their faith in the Nazarene, Captain Mercurio also declared himself converted and twenty of the soldiers, dismounting from their horses, threw their arms on the ground and prayed to be bound with chains since they now abhorred the false pagan G.o.ds and intended for the future to worship only the G.o.d of the three brothers.

They entered Lentini on Wednesday the 3rd of September, 252, their hands bound behind them, their heads uncovered and their feet bare, presenting to the emotional crowd an appearance of great n.o.bility. They were put in prison with the twenty converted soldiers, tortured and starved; but a venerable man girdled with grace and celestial light miraculously brought food to them, embraced them and blessed them, their wounds were healed, their strength was restored, their courage was reinforced. Their tortures were increased after this, and so it went on till the 10th of May, 253, when S. Alfio was killed by having his tongue pulled out, S.

Filiberto was burnt on a gridiron and S. Cirino was boiled in pitch and bitumen.

Eight years later, in June, 261, Vitale in his retirement was cheered by a visit from Neofito and Aquila, who brought to him, as tokens of the martyrdom of his three sons, the mantle of Alfio, the girdle of Filiberto and the veil of Cirino, saturated with blood.

The geographers write Trecastagne on the maps as though the village took its name from Three Chestnut Trees, but the learned say it should be Trecastagni--Tre Casti Agni, that is Three Chaste Lambs, after the three saints who rested on the site of the parish church. Their memory is perpetuated also at Mascali, Catania and Lentini. And they are adored at Aci-reale, Pedara and at other places on the eastern slopes, whence the faithful come to their shrine at Trecastagne on the 10th of May.

CHAPTER XX THE NAKED RUNNERS

One may see in the foregoing story of S. Alfio the foundation of some of the incidents painted on the carts, and perhaps the saints' travelling bareheaded and barefooted is the origin of the people running so to Trecastagne, but I can find nothing in the book to support the belief that S. Alfio was a medical man or that he ever cured anyone of hernia.

Nevertheless that he was a medical man, especially successful in treating hernia, is believed by everyone in and round Catania. Fortified by my book I ventured to doubt it and asked my friends in what university he took his diploma. They replied that I was confusing cause and effect; for in the beginning it was not the universities that made the doctors, it was the doctors that made the universities.

I then pointed out that he could not even cure himself from the wounds made by the tortures; SS. Peter and Paul had to come to the Roman prison, S. Andrea had to be called in at Mascali and the old man girdled with grace and celestial light at Lentini. But they disposed of this by reminding me that medical men are notoriously powerless to cure themselves.

Then I objected that a saint who was born in 230 and who died in 253 was too young to have got together anything of a practice. They replied that the carts show him exercising his profession.

"Where are these carts?" I exclaimed. "If they are in Catania, let them be called and give their evidence in the usual manner."

So we looked at all the carts we met that were not going too fast. On one of them Garibaldi was landing at Marsala and overcoming the Bourbons at Calatafimi; on another Cristoforo Colombo was receiving a bag of gold from Ferdinand and Isabella, who wanted to put an end to all this wearing delay about the discovery of America; on another Don Jose was being made a fool of by Carmen in the wine-shop of Lillas Pastia; we saw the enthusiasm of the Crusaders on catching sight of Jerusalem; Otello was smothering Desdemona; we saw the Rape of the Sabines and somebody before the Soldan. But none of these pictures threw any light on S. Alfio.

Peppino Di Gregorio said we must have patience. So we patiently turned down another street and saw King Ruggero dismissing the amba.s.sadors: "Return at once to your Lord and tell him that we Sicilians are not--"

something for which the artist had left so little room that it was illegible, but the n.o.ble att.i.tude of King Ruggero conveyed the meaning: we saw Mazeppa bound to a white horse rushing through a rocky wood and frightening the lions and tigers; Etna was in eruption; banners were being blessed by the Pope; Musolino was tripping over that cursed wire and being taken by the carabinieri; Paolo and Francesca were abandoning the pursuit of literature in favour of an eternity of torment--anything rather than go on reading in that book. Still there was nothing about S.

Alfio.

They then proposed a visit to the workshop of a man who earns his living by painting carts. We found him at work on the birth of Rinaldo who came into the world with his right hand closed. The doctors and nurses were standing round, wondering; they all tried but they could do nothing.

After eight days the baby, yielding to the incessant caresses of his adorata mamma, opened his fist and lo! it contained a sc.r.a.p of paper with his name--Rinaldo--written upon it.

We begged the artist to show us a cart with the Life of S. Alfio, or the designs for such a life. And he could not. He said such carts were rare and he had no designs; when asked to paint the story of S. Alfio he does it out of his head, putting in anything that his patrons particularly order. We asked how old he makes the saints and he replied that his instructions usually are to make them about sixteen. So that the carts, if we could find them, would not be evidence of anything but the well-known habit of artists to flatter their sitters. Still I should have liked to see pictures of the young doctor, the young surgeon and the young chemist curing patients of hernia and being martyred for the faith.

On the 9th of May in the evening we all went to the Teatro Machiavelli and, coming out a little before midnight, walked up the Via Stesicoro Etnea to the Piazza Cavour. The pavements were lined with people who had come to see the sight and the roadway was left for those who were going to Trecastagne. There were innumerable painted carts, some of them nearly as fine as Ricuzzu's birthday present; the horses and mules were so splendidly harnessed and so proud of themselves that Peppino Di Gregorio called them "cavalli mafiosi"; they were driving fast out of the city with coloured lights and fireworks. Every now and then came a naked man running in the road and carrying a large wax candle. They speak of them as I Nudi, but they were not really naked; they wore white cotton drawers down to their knees, a broad red waist-band and a broad red scarf and some of them wore a flannel jersey. They were all bare-headed and bare-footed, or rather without boots, for they wore socks; this is enough to satisfy S. Alfio, who, being a doctor, does not insist on their taking needless risk. Nevertheless the socks must get torn to pieces before they are out of the town, and their feet must be bleeding long before they reach Trecastagne. Some of the so-called nudi, both men and women, were fully dressed except that they were without hats or boots. They all ran, occasionally they may rest by walking, but they may not dance and they may not stop and they may not greet their friends in the crowd except by shouting "Con vera fede, Viva S. Alfio!" Each of them carries his candle in his hand and it may cost five or ten francs, some cost as much as twenty francs. For days before the festa they go about Catania with trays collecting soldi from all they meet. But if one of them meets the doctor who attended him in the hospital, he is careful not to make the mistake of asking the doctor for a subscription. So they ran and shouted, and I said:

"These are the carts that ought to have the story of S. Alfio. Couldn't we stop one and look at it?"

They recommended me not to try, it would block the stream of traffic and the people would not like it. So we sat in the piazza till about two in the morning and watched them pa.s.sing.

That was not all we were to see. In the afternoon of the 10th of May everyone who was left in Catania went out towards Trecastagne to see the return of the people, who are said to be drunk after their religious devotions. In order to do this in comfort Peppino Di Gregorio had arranged that we should go to colazione with Giovanni Bianca, a friend of his who has a country house on the Slopes of Etna near the route, and afterwards we would go where we could see the return of the devout.

First, he said, we must go to the station and fetch Joe, because he was to come too.

I said: "With pleasure, but why go to the station? I thought Joe was employed in the municipio?"

"We shall find him keeping order among the coachmen in the station-yard,"

replied Peppino.

And there he was in the uniform of a guardia munic.i.p.ale.

"Why, Joe!" I exclaimed, "I thought you were writing at a desk all day in the Mansion House. I did not know you were a policeman."

He replied that he was a guardia munic.i.p.ale, which is not exactly the same thing, and was going on to explain the difference between the carabinieri, the pubblica sicurezza, the guardia munic.i.p.ale, the guardia campestre and all the rest of it, when I interrupted him:

"I shall never remember what you are telling me; I shall always think of you as a policeman."

"All right," he replied, "I'll be Joe the Policeman, and Ninu is a policeman too."

"I can quite believe it," I said. "When we went to the lava you both treated me just as our policemen in London treat the old ladies and gentlemen who are afraid of the traffic; you helped me along and never let me fall down, and looked after me as though I had been given specially into your charge. London policemen are just like that--very kind and helpful. I know one of them in private life and he is a capital fellow. I made his acquaintance over my bicycle."

"How was that?" inquired Joe. "Did you get run over and did he pick you up? What did I tell you about living on the slopes of volcanoes?"

"It was not exactly that," I replied; "it was because I wanted to avoid being run over that I gave my bicycle to a man to sell it for me when the motor-cars began to get on my nerves, and this policeman bought it. He did not give much for it, but if the value of his friendship is taken into the account I think I made rather a good bargain."

"Tell me about him."

"Oh, there's nothing to tell. He comes to see me sometimes, when he is free. We have tastes in common; for instance, we do not like knock-about brothers at a music-hall--they bore us. And then books; our tastes in literature, however, are less alike; but he is quite a reader. Once he had in his pocket The _Beauties of Nature_, by Sir John Lubbock--that was to improve his mind--and _Little Lord Fauntleroy_, which he was reading for pure enjoyment. I told him that I also had written a book and he wanted to read it, so I lent it to him."

"I hope he appreciated it?" inquired Joe sympathetically.

"He was extremely polite about it. Next time I saw him he said: 'Well, I've been reading your book'; (he spoke with great deliberation) 'I can get on with it. Yes. It doesn't drag upon me. I don't feel it's time wasted. But, you know, if I ever do anything of that sort, I think it will be more in the style of Charlie d.i.c.kens.'"

"I should not call that very polite of him, was it?"

"I am not so sure. We must distinguish. He was not thinking of the d.i.c.kens of _Pickwick_ with all his beaux moments, he was thinking of that other d.i.c.kens of the _Christmas Books_ with all his mauvais quarts d'heure."

"But have you two authors named d.i.c.kens in England?"

Then I saw that to my audience d.i.c.kens was as much a sealed book as Moliere and that my literary policeman must be reserved until I can write _Diversions in London_. So I turned the conversation by telling Joe that d.i.c.kens is not an uncommon name in England and is a form of Riccardo, as Jones is a form of Giovanni.

While talking we were on our way to Joe's house, where he changed from his uniform to his private clothes, and then we took the tram to Cibali.

Here we bought provisions and carried them with us to the country house, which was not yet properly open for the summer. We had picked up our host, Giovanni Bianca, on the way, and he took us round and showed us the garden, which was full of flowers and fruit trees and vines; he showed us also the lava of 1669 which destroyed part of Catania. He gave me a piece of primeval lava from the bottom of the well which his father had dug, about 150 feet down. I inquired how old that lava would be. He was not sure, but it would be older than the Romans, older than the Greeks, older than the Sikels or the Sikans.

"Say ten thousand years old," said Giovanni, and he said it without being in the least embarra.s.sed, but then he is not a canonico and has not Moses hanging as a dead weight on him. He went on to say that he did not really know. "The memory of man," he said, "works very imperfectly, and to understand these things one ought to study the science of geology."

In the afternoon we went across country to a spot on the route, past which the people had already begun to come. I asked, what they had been doing at Trecastagne all night. They told me that the journey from Catania takes about three hours, more or less according to the ability of the runner, so that they begin to arrive somewhere about 3 a.m. and keep on arriving all the morning; and others come from other villages on the eastern slopes. Then they make a row till the church is opened and the nudi go in and light their candles before S. Alfio. Some of them go on their knees and lick the stone floor of the church all the way from the entrance to the altar, but this is being discouraged because it covers the floor with blood and is considered not to be hygienic. Perhaps it might also be well to prohibit the running with bare feet, for that must also make the floor in an unhygienic condition, to say nothing of the roads that lead to the village. Some take stones and beat their b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and they all shout continually "Con buona fede, Viva S. Alfio!" After Ma.s.s they dress and eat and drink. Some of them have carried their food on their backs, others have friends who have brought it in their carts, and the food includes eels, which come from the Lake of Lentini; thus they enjoy the luxury of eating fish on the Slopes of Etna and moreover fish from the place of S. Alfio's martyrdom. At midday the car bearing the three saints is brought out into the street, but this, it seems, does not interest the nudi; they have run naked to the shrine, they have lighted their candles, they have performed their vow and are now free to enjoy themselves. Of course, those who suffer from hernia do not attempt to run until after they believe themselves to be cured of that complaint; but rheumatic patients are often much better after running to Trecastagne, the exertion has upon them an effect like that of a Turkish bath, but it knocks them up in other ways.

By the afternoon, when it is time to return, what with the running, the walking, the driving, the fasting, the shouting, the religious exaltation, the want of sleep, the eating and drinking, the fireworks and the jollity of the festa, many of them are drunk. Joe says the festa is a continuation of some Bacchic festival, and this is more than likely, just as it is more than likely that the Bacchic festival was a continuation of some earlier one. He wants S. Alfio to be a transformation of Bacchus, just as Bacchus was a transformation of Dionysus and Dionysus of some earlier divinity, and so on back to him who first discovered wine, ages and ages before the vates sacer who immortalised Noah.

"And how much do the people believe?" I asked.

"Ah!" replied Joe; "who knows? And what is faith?"

"I'm sure I don't know," I said; "sometimes one thing and sometimes another. It is a difficult question."

Then I remembered that he had asked me the same question, and I had made the same reply at Nicolosi six weeks before, and I also remembered something that had happened in between. "The other day," I continued, "I had to wait in the station at Messina, and I asked the porter who was helping me with my baggage whether he had seen the comet. He replied, 'No, I have not seen the comet, and I shall not even look for it; I do not believe in the comet.'"