But under the new regime these priests are becoming mere decorative survivals, that look well enough in the landscape, but are not taken seriously save in their match-making and money-lending capacities.
The intense realism of their religion is what still keeps it alive for the poor in spirit. Their saints and devils are on the same familiar footing towards mankind as were the old gods of Greece. Children do not know the meaning of “Inferno”; they call it “casa del diavolo” (the devil’s house); and if they are naughty, the mother says, “La Madonna strilla”—the Madonna will scold. Here is a legend of Saint Peter, interesting for its realism and because it has been grafted upon a very ancient motif:—
The apostle Peter was a dissatisfied sort of man, who was always grumbling about things in general and suggesting improvements in the world-scheme. He thought himself cleverer even than “N. S. G. C.” One day they were walking together in an olive orchard, and Peter said:
“Just look at the trouble and time it takes to collect all those miserable little olives. Let’s have them the size of melons.”
“Very well. Have your way, friend Peter! But something awkward is bound to happen. It always does, you know, with those improvements of yours.” And, sure enough, one of these enormous olives fell from the tree straight on the saint’s head, and ruined his new hat.
“I told you so,” said N. S. G. C.
I remember a woman explaining to me that the saints in Heaven took their food exactly as we do, and at the same hours.
“The same food?” I asked. “Does the Madonna really eat
beans?”
“Beans? Not likely! But fried fish, and beefsteaks of veal.” I tried to picture the scene, but the effort was too much for my hereditary Puritan leanings. Unable to rise to these heights of realism, I was rated a pagan for my ill-timed spirituality.