“You know this air—yes? and this? You like our Italian composers? Tell me where you will find their match! Mascagni, Leoncavallo, Puccini, Boito—for me his Mefistofile is the noblest of modern operas.”
“Come!” cried Patsy, the concert over, “I have found two portraits of a jolly old monk, who spent his whole life beautifying this church. First, look at his work. This pulpit, these choir stalls—aren’t they lovely?”
When we had admired the richly carved pulpit and choir, Patsy took us to the sacristy, where the carving is even finer than in the church. The figure of San Domenico asleep on the ground, the roster of the order he founded, growing like a genealogical tree out of his side, is charming. The figures of saints and martyrs, some of them full of dignity and beauty, are held up by pairs of chubby children, playing on pipes and cymbals; meant for angelini, they look far more like amorini. The wood-carving, evidently by the same hand throughout, rises to heights in the figure of Christ in the sacristy and Saint Michael in the choir.
“Un capo lavoro!” cried the Torinese. “It has been shockingly neglected though; I must write to the Prince about it!”
The monk could illuminate a missal as well as carve a choir; the custode assured us that the handsome parchment music-book in the choir was the work of the same monk.
“Here’s the old fellow’s signature to his magnum opus,” said Patsy, “carved on a panel of the choir: Hoc opus fieri fecit ad deis, etc., etc. Fr. Joseph Alermo, 1602. The frate’s Latin is queer, but we know what he means. Here he is young, there he is old, painted by himself. Wood-carver, illuminator, portrait-painter, well done, Fra Joseph!”
In a room leading to the sacristy hang the monk of Taormina’s two portraits of himself. The first shows a jovial full-blooded man in the Dominican habit, holding a skull in his hand; below are the words: Junior fui et fecit illum. The older portrait is much defaced; the motto in Fra Joseph’s queer Latin remains clear: Eterni servi et feci istud.
“That was a man with good red blood in his veins,” said Patsy. “We have all fallen under his spell! That’s because what he did, he did with all his might. Joseph—could he have been English?”
“I believe he was German,” said the Torinese. “He must have passed his life in Taormina though, to live in this place of unparalleled beauty, to enjoy an existence devoted to art and religion—beato lui!”
As we left the San Domenico, Patsy and the Torinese had some discussion about paying the custode.