The night when the busts of Villa Bellini began to speak

I am Villa Bellini, the green heart of Catania. Once I was a maze of hedges, caves, fountains, and water games, desired by Prince Biscari, who used me to amaze his guests. In the nineteenth century, I was opened to the city and since then I have become a place for strolling, playing, meeting, performing, and telling stories. I listen to the footsteps of the people of Catania, the laughter of children, the rustling of trees, and the music on summer nights.

I love all my tree-lined paths that offer relief from the heat, but there is one that I prefer: the Avenue of Illustrious Men. Since it took the place of the ancient maze, it gathers many figures who have given voice to the history, culture, arts, and science of the city and all of Italy. When the sun shines, the busts silently observe passersby, almost dozing. In the evening, however, when the gates close and the tranquility of the night descends upon me, they begin to speak softly, like old friends sharing distant memories.

One evening I heard Giuseppe Mazzini speak first, with a calm and thoughtful voice.

— Italy — he said — is born from ideas before it is born from battles. It is ideas that teach men to walk together.

A little further away, Giuseppe Garibaldi replied, with the gritty tone of someone who has crossed seas and mountains.

— It’s true, Mazzini, but ideas need heroes because freedom does not come on its own.

Then Cavour joined them. — You are men of ideas and action, but it was my reforms that unified Italy and made Catania a dynamic city open to change.

— I have the utmost respect for all of you, but a city also needs education and culture — asserted Mario Cutelli with conviction.

While they spoke, a more ancient voice, emerging from the dust of the centuries, rose a little further away. It was Stesichorus, the poet who came from Greece and found a home right in Catania.

— Remember that memory is also a form of freedom. I sang of heroes and gods, and my verses traveled farther than ships.

At that point, Caronda, the legislator, intervened. — The city does not live only on dreams or poetry — he said — but on just rules. Without laws, even freedom is lost like a man in a maze.

A little further on, Giovanni Verga listened with the patience of a writer and the keen gaze of a photographer.

— In the streets of a city — he said — there are a thousand stories to tell and I have tried to do so with my pen and my camera. His friends Capuana and De Roberto, a few meters away, nodded in silent approval.

Then, Mario Rapisardi spoke, in a deep voice. — Poetry is born from listening. Words serve to give shape to the thoughts that men carry within.

On one side of the avenue, the curious voices of Giuseppe Gioieni and Carlo Gemmellaro, scholars of nature and the lava of Etna, could be heard.

— We have observed our land — they said — its stones, its volcanoes. Nature also tells stories, if someone has the patience to study it.

The large group of musicians, Calì, Pastura, Savasta, Frontini, Sangiorgi, and Coppola, joined the conversation.

— Music — they declared almost in unison — is another language altogether. It needs no explanations, just a melody and men understand what they feel.

The wind passed through the leaves and for a moment it seemed that the entire avenue let out a single sigh.

— So — said Stesicoro — the city lives in stories.

— In the rules that guide it — added Caronda.

— In the tales of its people — asserted Verga.

— In its culture and its art — pronounced Cutelli and Michele Rapisardi.

— In the words of poetry — continued Mario Rapisardi.

— In the study of nature — declared Gioieni.

— In its music — concluded Sangiorgi.

And I, Villa Bellini, have been listening to these voices for more than a hundred years, I keep them among my avenues, among the lava caves and the staircases. Those who stroll under my trees may not notice it, but they cross an ancient tale that continues even today.

Donatella La Rocca
and the Apprentice Ciceroni
of the I.C. “C.B. Cavour” of Catania