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.