Chapter 23

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 ambassadors: "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 noble attitude 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 scrap 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 passing.

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 municipale.

"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 municipale, which is not exactly the same thing, and was going on to explain the difference between the carabinieri, the pubblica sicurezza, the guardia municipale, 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 Dickens.'"

"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 Dickens of _Pickwick_ with all his beaux moments, he was thinking of that other Dickens of the _Christmas Books_ with all his mauvais quarts d'heure."

"But have you two authors named Dickens in England?"

Then I saw that to my audience Dickens 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 Dickens 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 embarrassed, 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 breasts, and they all shout continually "Con buona fede, Viva S. Alfio!" After Mass 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.'"

"Oh, well, you know what he meant by that? He had heard that it was going to destroy the world, so he did not want to believe in it; he did not want it to exist; he was not going to encourage such a dangerous phenomenon by having anything to do with it. 'I'll leave you alone and I expect you to leave me alone.'"

"Yes; I suppose he thought that if he removed his custom the comet would fail."

"Precisely. But it is not quite that with S. Alfio; they want him to exist; they are afraid that if they don't believe in him, he will leave off performing miracles and will no longer cure them."

"It seems to me," I said, "that they are dominated by the prepotenza of S. Alfio very much as the sulphur-miners are dominated by the prepotenza of their capo-mafioso."

"With this distinction," he replied, "that the capo-mafioso has the power, and sometimes the will, to hurt them; it would require a struggle to destroy his prepotenza and there is the risk of failure. With S. Alfio, if they cared to be master in their own house, they have only got to leave off believing in him, there need be no struggle and there could be no risk."

"You speak as though they could believe or leave off believing at will."

"So they can, in the loose sense in which they use the word. They only go on believing because their vanity is involved--it flatters them to attribute the gift of miracles to a creature of their own imagination and, by being satisfied with very little and very poor evidence, they make things easy for S. Alfio. But they could not tell you this themselves, they are half asleep about it."

I said: "Of course they are half asleep about it, and all S. Alfio's interests are bound up in their remaining so. They are not only asleep, they are dreaming, as the Red King dreamt of Alice. If they were to wake up S. Alfio would go out--bang!--just like a candle."

Alice and the Red King were as unknown to Joe as Poins or Moliere or Dickens. I did my best to explain the allusion, but I doubt whether I succeeded, for when I had finished he only said that Tweedledum and Tweedledee had better not go about saying things like that, or their bishop would be warning them to be on their guard as he warned the Canonico Recupero. I must try whether he will understand better if I send him a copy of _Through the Looking-Glass_ for his next onomastico. He told me something which makes me suspect that the people must have a dim feeling of how things really are. It seems that sometimes, though rarely, it pleases them to pretend to believe that their padrone has displeased them. Then they half wake up and depose him; but nothing comes of it, they only choose a new one or, after a short time, reinstate the old one.

We went to a house on the route and sat on a balcony in the sunset and the drunken people pelted down-hill, smothered in the golden glory of the dust they raised, banging their tambourines, blowing their whistles, and singing that now the festa was over they must go home and work to pay the debts it had run them into. It was no more use to think of stopping them to see the pictures now than when they were going out; so I pigeon-holed what the carts say about S. Alfio with my poor mother's problem about what influence people who never go to church have over their servants. The cavalli mafiosi and the carts were stuck about with coloured feathers and festooned with bunches of garlic, with flowers, with lumps of lard, with little flags and ribbons, with garlands of caruba beans and with vetch. The flags, the ribbons, the flowers and the feathers were, I suppose, for gaiety and festa--pour faire la frime--but garlic has some magically beneficent properties; not only does it avert the evil eye, it is also a symbol of robust health, so that instead of replying to "How do you do?" by saying "As right as rain," they reply, "As right as garlic." They believe that to put three crosses of garlic under the bed of a woman in child-birth will ensure a happy issue. There is something fortunate or healthy also about vetch and, no doubt, some special significance about lard and the beans of the carob. These beliefs are based lower than Giovanni Bianca's primeval lava, and I know no more about their origin than he does, but I suppose they are older than the Romans, older than the Greeks, older than the Sikels and the Sikans--probably much more than ten thousand or fourteen thousand years old. They spring from a soil which has become fertile by catching the dust of ages, tossed to and fro and carried about by every wind of doctrine, wherein generations of beliefs have grown up, flourished and decayed. There is no more fertilising manure for a struggling young faith than the rotting remains of a dead superstition. And the roots pierce down beneath the soil and shoot into the crevices of an intolerance more unyielding than buried lava. To understand these things, one ought to become a pupil of Professore Pitre, and make a study of the science of demopsicologia, and even then one would only get glimpses of the more recent deposits of civilisation that lie crushed one under the other like the parallel surfaces of rich earth in the pit sunk near Jaci.

Whatever the significance of the things they carried or the origin of their belief in them, the people in the carts kept flinging them to the boys in the road, who caught them and picked them up and carried them off to make their festa with them later on. They were all very lively, but no one seemed to me very drunk, not more drunk than the nudi were naked; there were drunken people among them, but not enough to make me feel sure that S. Alfio ought to be identified with Bacchus. One can see more drunkenness on Hampstead Heath on a Bank Holiday, but one does not hastily identify Saint Lubbock with Dionysus.

CATANIA