Calatafimi is a town of 10,000 inhabitants about twenty miles inland from Trapani. A slight eminence to the west of the town, 1115 feet above the sea, crowned by the ruins of a castle of the Saracens (hence the name of the place, Cal’ at Eufimi), commands an extensive and beautiful view which includes three monuments—first, the famous Greek temple of Segesta; secondly, the theatre and the remains of the city above it; thirdly, the obelisk commemorating Garibaldi’s first victory over the Neapolitans in May, 1860. These three monuments are considered to be the chief attractions of Calatafimi; but one should not suppose that, after one has seen its principal monuments, there is nothing more to be got out of a Sicilian town. I had picnicked in the temple of Segesta, climbed up through the site of the ancient city to the theatre and seen Garibaldi’s monument over and over again and in all kinds of weather, before I knew anything of the processions which occur at Calatafimi early in May.

I was there one year when the annual festa was conducted with more than the usual ceremony. I went to the Albergo Samuel Butler, named after the author of Erewhon, who often stayed there when writing The Authoress of the Odyssey, and was well known in the town. Owing to the death of Don Paolo who, with his wife, Donna Maria, used to manage the hotel, it is now (1908), I regret to say, closed, and the traveller must do the best he can at one of the other inns. Butler’s memory is, however, still preserved in the name of one of the streets.

The day after my arrival was the great day of the festa, and opened with rain. The people, who had come from all the country round, hung about listlessly during the morning, hoping that the weather might clear up and by noon the authorities decided that the ceremonies should proceed, so that, as they all had to be crowded into the afternoon, the town for the rest of the day was choked with processions.

There was first the Procession of the Maestranza, of unascertainable antiquity. Those who took part in it came riding on horses and mules covered with gaudy trappings and carrying something to indicate their trades. The Oil-pressers, suitably dressed, carried a model of an oil-press; the Millers carried a little mill; and these two companies carried their money on trays. The Vetturini, who came next, carried their money stuck into little wooden horses, like almonds in a hedgehog pudding. The Tillers of the Ground carried a model of a plough. There were men carrying long lighted candles with circular loaves of bread threaded on them; others carried bags full of nuts and sugar-plums which they continually scattered among the crowd and threw in at the open windows.

There was the procession with the traditional Car of the Massari, made by fixing a square wooden framework on a cart and covering the outside of it with green leaves which were again nearly hidden by loaves in the shape of rings about eight inches across. It looked like a square Jack-in-the-Green on wheels and the men inside it, standing on chairs and looking over the top of the framework, cut off the loaves and threw them to the crowd. They hit me full on the chest with one and I clutched it before it fell, to the great delight of some children who were standing near and who said I must take it home and keep it and it would never go bad, but would bring me good luck.

Then there was the Procession of the Holy Crucifix, the Padrone of Calatafimi. For many years no one knew of its existence; it stood, like the Discobolus in Butler’s poem, A Psalm of Montreal, stowed away, in a lumber room, turning its face to the wall, and when brought out was found to be so black that it might have come from Egypt and so intensely thaumaturgic that the church of Il Crocefisso had to be built to hold it. That particular crucifix, however, like the letter of the Madonna at Messina, no longer exists; it was burnt and the one in use is a copy, made, one must suppose, from memory. They had the good sense, however, to make it, if anything, blacker than the original, and happily it has turned out to be at least equally thaumaturgic. One cannot see how black it really is, for it is covered with silver, like the frame of the picture of the Madonna di Custonaci, and festooned with votive offerings, earrings, necklaces, watches and chains which glitter and glisten as the procession passes along the streets.

Finally, rather late in the day, came the Procession of the Personaggi, telling the story of The Prodigal Son. It consisted of twenty-nine principal and many accessory figures, the more important ones carrying scrolls stating who they were. The dresses were not equal to those one expects to see at a leading London theatre, but the peasants of the neighbourhood are unaccustomed to contemplate the triumphs of the modern theatrical costumier. There may have been much else in the procession that would have failed to win praise from a metropolitan crowd of spectators, and such justice as was done to it by the author of the little book, which was on sale for a few centesimi, might have struck an exacting critic as being tempered with more mercy than it fairly deserved. But the author was not thinking of the exacting critic, his attitude of mind was rather that of Theseus when he determined that Pyramus and Thisbe should be performed—

For never anything can be amiss
When simpleness and duty tender it.

Moreover, the little book was not intended to be the exact description of something the writer had seen; it was written to ensure that the people should miss nothing they had come to see, and I believe I can best convey an idea of what this procession appeared to them by translating from the book. In the group No. 6—the Prodigal departing with his friends—the figures were on horseback; but all the other personages went on foot, following each other at distances of about ten yards, and walking slowly through the middle of the streets between wondering rows of solemn and delighted people.

THE PRODIGAL SON
PART I
Introduction

I. Divine Mercy.—A majestic matron robed as a sovereign, resplendent with jewels and sheltering sinners under the voluminous folds of her mantle.

2. The Blind Design of the Prodigal.—His departure from his father’s house. A resolute youth in the garb of nudity, with a bandage over his eyes; his right hand is tied behind him and in his left is a bunch of flowers; he turns and gives ear to the Evil Spirit.

3. The Evil Spirit.—Clothed in skins like a faun, he is lying in wait for the preceding figure.

PART II
The Story of the Prodigal

4. The Young Son.—His sword by his side, with haughty mien he demands his portion.

5. The Father of the Prodigal.—A grave personage, sad and tearful, in the act of handing over his keys and caskets which are carried by a servant.

6. The Departure of the Prodigal.—A gay young man mounted on a courser and attended by friends also on horseback. One of his companions carries a scroll: “Invenies multos, si res tibi floret, amicos;” another carries another scroll: “Si fortuna perit, nullus amicus erit.”

7. The Prodigal far from Home.—He flaunts his rich raiment and carries a lute; one would say he is enjoying life.

8. The Allegory of the False Friends.—They have consumed his wealth and now conspire to abandon him. A man of double aspect, with two faces, carries swallows taking wing: “Ita falsi amici.”

9. The Prodigal reduced to poverty—despised and spurned by his friends. A youth in mean attire, compelled by hunger to beg, he shades his eyes with his left hand and in his right carries a scroll: “Confusion hath covered my face. To beg I am ashamed.”

10. The Citizen Patron—to whom the unhappy youth offers his services. An austere man, gazing on him with a harsh countenance, gives him a crust of bread and a rod and sends him forth into the country to tend the swine.

11. The Son’s Resolution.—In tattered rags, unshod and leaning on a stick, the wretch is saying, “I will arise and go to my father.”

12. The Father’s Welcome.—Descrying him from afar, he goes with open arms to meet his boy, embraces him, folds him tenderly to his bosom and, exulting with joy, exclaims, “My son was dead and is alive again—was lost and is found.” The son is saying, “Father, I have sinned.”

13. The Rejoicings at Home.—A group of youths and maidens crowned with flowers and playing upon instruments of music.

14. A Servant presenting the prodigal with sumptuous apparel and a golden ring.

15. The Elder Son.—He has returned from the country, angry and resentful, and is astonished to see the prodigal.

16. The Good Father goes to meet him and, calming his anger with soft words, exhorts him to become reconciled to his brother. He blesses them both and foretells peace, brotherly love and happiness.

PART III
The Allegorical Sense of the Parable

17. The Wicked Man in Prosperity contented with his state and persisting in evil, a fit subject for reproof. A voluptuary and a miser, magnificently attired, is clasping to his heart a purse full of money and a bunch of flowers and corn.

18. The Divine Warning.—A prophet who contemplates the preceding figure threateningly while he records the fatal sentence: “Thou fool; this night thy soul shall be required of thee.”

19. The Punishment of Tribulation.—Divine Love that desireth not the death of a sinner. A celestial winged messenger carrying a scourge: “Whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth.”

20. The Remorse of Conscience.—The awakening of Repentance. A man in sorrowful garments expressing the emotions of his heart, now weeping, now confused, now raising his eyes to Heaven, now looking on the serpent that gnaws his heart.

21. The Contrite Sinner hearkening to the whisperings of grace. A penitent, his heart pierced by an arrow, weeping and carrying a scourge: “Against Thee only have I sinned and done this evil in Thy sight.”

22. A Holy Minister supplicating the Crucifix with these words: “A broken and contrite heart, O God, shalt Thou not despise.”

23. Divine Grace.—A beautiful girl in white with a transparent veil, radiant and joyful, carries a branch of palm.

24. Peace of Mind.—The soul reconciled with Jesus Christ. Jesus of Nazareth comforting the soul and opening His arms to receive her: “Come my Beloved, my Bride.”

25. The Soul.—A lovely maiden, modestly clad, with precious gems on her bosom and a garland of white roses on her brow: “My Beloved is mine and I am His.”

26. The Joy of the Angels.—They appear as nymphs and sing a hymn of glory to God and of welcome to the repentant sinner.

27. The Holy Cross, decorated with flowers and rays of glory, carried on high by a seraph.

28. The Holy Virgin with the Cross.—It is partly wrapped in a precious cloth and the Madonna, full of joy and lovingkindness, invites the people to kiss the holes from which the nails have been drawn.

29. Calatafimi.—A handsome, smiling youth in Trojan attire devoutly offering his heart to the crucified Saviour with these words: “Thy blessing be upon us evermore.”

* * * * *

A stranger had arrived at the albergo and Donna Maria did not know how to manage unless he supped with me; I was delighted to make his acquaintance and to have his company, especially as he turned out to be an ingenious French gentleman with a passion for classification. He had come from Palermo and spent the morning at the Temple of Segesta which had pleased him very much and given him no difficulty. It was architecture—a branch of painting. His plans were upset by the rain and, instead of returning to Palermo, he had come on for the night to Calatafimi, where he arrived in time for the procession of The Prodigal Son which had interested him very much but puzzled him dreadfully. He could not classify it.

“Why not procession—a branch of drama?” I inquired.

He said it was perhaps not so simple as I thought, and that he had been trying unsuccessfully to work it in with his scheme. I begged him to expound his scheme, which he was so ready to do that I suspected he had intended me to ask this.

“There are,” he said, “three simple creative arts. In the first, ideas are expressed in words; this is literature. In the second, ideas are expressed in the sounds of the scale; this is music. In the third, ideas are expressed in rigid forms either round, as in sculpture, or flat, as in painting. We may call this third art painting, that being its most popular phase.”

“I see your difficulty,” said I. “If drama is not one of the arts, the procession cannot be a branch of drama. But I think the drama is one of the arts all the same.”

“Please do not be in a hurry,” said the French gentleman. “Any two of these arts cover some ground in common where they can meet, unite and give birth to another distinct art related to both as a child is related to its parents, and inheriting qualities from both. It is to these happy marriages that we owe drama—the offspring of literature and painting; song—the offspring of literature and music; and dance—the offspring of music and painting. This gives us altogether six creative arts.

“And now observe what follows. In the first place, these six arts exist for the purpose of expressing ideas. In the next place, painting is without movement, its descendants, drama and dance, inherit movement, the one from literature, and the other from music. Again, inasmuch as a painter must paint his own pictures, painting does not tolerate the intervention of a third person to interpret between the creator and the public. The painter is his own executive artist; when his creative work is done, nothing more is wanted than a frame and a good light. Literature permits such intervention, for a book can be read aloud. Music and song demand performance, and will continue to do so until the public can read musical notation, and probably afterwards, for even Mozart said that it does make a difference when you hear the music performed; while in the case of the drama and the dance the performers are so much part of the material of the work of art that it can hardly be said to exist without them. Is not this a striking way of pointing the essential difference between the creative artist and the executive?”

“Very,” I replied. “I am afraid, however, that you have not a high opinion of the executive artist.”

“I will confess that he sometimes reminds me of the proverb, ‘God sends the tune and the devil sends the singer.’“

I laughed and said, “We have not exactly that proverb in English, though I have heard something like it. It can, however, only apply to the performer at his worst, whereas you are inclined to look upon him, even at his best, as nothing more than a picture frame.”

“And a good light,” he added. “Don’t forget the good light. Frame or no frame, a picture presented in a bad light or in the dark is no more than a sonata performed badly or not at all.”

“Well, let us leave the performer for the present and return to your second trio of arts. Are you now going to combine them, as you did the first, and raise a third family in which a place may be found for such things as processions?”

“That,” he replied, “may hardly be, for there is no couple of them that has not a parent in common. But there is no reason why any two or more of the six arts should not appear simultaneously, assisting one another to express an idea. Thus an illustrated book is not drama—it is literature assisted by painting. And so a symphony illustrating a poem is not song—it is music assisted by literature, or vice versa, and is sometimes called Programme Music. When we look at dissolving views accompanied by a piano, we are not contemplating a dance—we are looking at painting illustrated by music; and, if there is some one to explain the views in words, literature is also present. When you come to think of it, it is rare to find music and painting either alone or together without literature. Except in the case of fugues or sonatas and symphonies, which are headed ‘Op. ---’ so-and-so, or ‘No. ---’ whatever it may be, music usually has a title. And except in the case of such things as decorative arabesques and sometimes landscapes, painting usually has a title. The opportunity of supplying a title is peculiarly tempting to literature who produces so many of her effects by putting the right word in the right place.”

I said that this was all very interesting, but what had become of the procession? He replied that he was giving me, as I had requested, a preliminary exposition of his scheme.

“Comic opera,” he continued, “is drama interrupted by song and dance. Grand opera is the simultaneous presentation of most, perhaps all, of the six arts. There is no reason in nature against any conceivable combination; it is for the creative artist to direct and for the performing artists to execute the combination so that it shall please and convince the public. And now, revenons À nos processions, where can we find a place for them?”

“Surely,” said I, “some such combination will include them—unless they have nothing to do with art.”

“I have thought that perhaps they have nothing to do with art, for art should not be tainted with utility; but religious pictures are tainted with utility just as much. Besides, I do not like to confess myself beaten.”

It was plain the procession was not going to be allowed to escape. I considered for a moment and said—

“I suppose we may not classify the procession as literature assisted by dance, because literature ought to have words and dance ought to have music.”

“The words are not omitted,” he replied; “they are in the little book. Besides, we have the story in our minds as with programme music. The omission of the music from the dance is more serious. It may be that we shall have to call it a variety of drama, as you originally suggested.”

“Oh, but that,” I replied modestly, “was only thrown out before I had the advantage of hearing your scheme of classification. May it not be that—”

“I have it,” he interrupted. “Of course, how stupid I have been! The procession does not move.”

“Does not move!” I echoed. “Why, it moved all through the town.”

“Yes, I know; but things like that often happen in classification,” he replied calmly. “Properly considered, each figure and each group illustrated a separate point in the story, and was rigid. They went past us, of course; and if they had gone on cars it would have been less puzzling; but these good people cannot afford cars and so the figures had to walk. It would have done as well if the public had walked past the figures, but that would have been difficult to manage. The only movement in the procession was in the story which we held in our minds, and of which we were reminded both by the title and by the little book which we held in our hands. The procession must be classified as literature illustrated by living statuary, or sculpture, which, of course, is a branch of painting.”

I regret that the French gentleman left Calatafimi so early next morning that I had no opportunity of ascertaining whether he slept well after determining that processions do not proceed.