So that was settled for the time, and Brancaccia, having put herself tidy, proposed a visit to the grottoes. Carmelo packed up his kitchen and took it off to the cart. On the way he met his cousin, borrowed his boat and came rowing in it—for Carmelo is also a fisherman. We got in and rowed round the promontory and into the caves. The baby was a good deal puzzled, he thought he was indoors, and yet it wasn’t right, but he was pleased. When we were tired of the grottoes we rowed back, restored the boat to Carmelo’s cousin, packed ourselves into the cart and Guido Santo took us up the zig-zags to Castellinaria after a day which we all enjoyed very much; Ricuzzu, who understood least, perhaps enjoyed it most, but then this baby enjoys everything. If we could have remanded his festa for a few years, instead of only a few days or weeks or whatever it was, he might have understood more and enjoyed less.
Ricuzzu did not come to the theatre, he was supposed to be tired, so Brancaccia put him to bed and, leaving him with Carmelo, accompanied Peppino and me to seeIl Diavolo Verde. We took our seats while the fiancée of Don Giuseppe, assisted by her lady’s-maid, was endeavouring to make up her mind. The difficulty was that Don Giovanni, the brother of Giuseppe, had sent her a case of jewels and, like Margherita, inFaust, she could not resist the temptation to try them on in front of a looking-glass. We saw in the glass the reflection of a devil in green with pink trimmings. He appeared to be standing behind her, looking over her shoulder, but he was not really present; it must have been a magic mirror. Don Giovanni came and denounced his brother who, he said, was a bastard and no gentleman, proving his words by the production of their father’s will written on a sheet of brown paper which he always carried in his belt. This convinced the lady, and she went off with Giovanni. Don Giuseppe,who had been carried away by armed men, escaped and returned to meditate on the crisis of his life. Remembering that the green devil was a retainer of his family, he summoned him and laid the case before him. This time the devil really came and told Giuseppe that there was a way out of his trouble, but that it would involve (1) the perdition of two souls, (2) the shedding of blood, (3) sacrilege, (4) perjury, and (5) all his courage. Don Giuseppe agreed and the curtain fell.
The next act was in the cemetery in front of the tomb of the father of the two brothers. Don Giuseppe and the green devil came in, carrying another will, engrossed on brown paper, but not executed, a bottle of ink, and a quill pen. They stood in front of the door of the tomb and spoke some sacrilegious words. The door opened and revealed the corpse of the father like a Padre Eterno, standing upright, clothed in white, with a white face, a flowing white beard and white kid gloves. Brancaccia was, I believe, really as much frightened as Don Giuseppe pretended to be and I did not like it. The green devil encouraged his master to approach the corpse, which he did, first dipping the pen in the ink-bottle. He offered the pen and held in a convenient manner the new will which would put everything straight, begging his father to sign it. The corpse slowly raised its stiff right arm, took the pen in its hand and signed the will; it then dropped the pen on the ground, lowered its stiff right arm and the door of the tomb closed. Except for this, it did not move and it did not speak at all. It was a ghastly scene and the house was as still as though it had been empty.
In the next act we returned to Don Giovanni whom we found playing dice with Fernando at an inn. When Fernando had lost his money and his jewellery and his lands and his castle and his furniture, he played for his wife, and Don Giovanni won her also. Whereupon Fernando wrote two letters to his wife, one, which they sent by a messenger, told her to come to the inn at once, theother was for Don Giovanni to give to her when she came. Fernando then went away, leaving the coast clear, and the lady entered.
Don Giovanni: Donna Inez, I love you.
Donna Inez: Silence, Sir. I am here to meet my husband. Where is he?
Don G(giving her the second letter): He left this for you.
Donna I(reads): “Dear Inez: We have been playing dice. Don Giovanni has won. You now belong to him. Your affectionate husband, Fernando.” It cannot be! ’Tis false! My husband would never behave in so ungentlemanly a manner.
Giov: On the contrary, Madama. And is not this his handwriting?
In: Now that I look at it again, it is. Ah, Cielo! Betrayed! Surely, Sir, you do not expect me to consent?
Giov: Certainly I do.
In: Never. I am a Spanish lady of high degree.
Giov: Inez, I love you. Be mine.
In: Are you of noble birth?
Giov: Yes.
In: Are you valorous?
Giov: Yes.
In: Don Giovanni (hiding her face), I love you!
Giov: My own, my beautiful one!
In: There is, however, one little difficulty about which, of course, you could have known nothing. Some years ago I foolishly took an oath. I swore I would be true to my husband during his life.
Giov: Well, but—let me see—yes, I did bring my sword with me. Suppose I were to step round and run him through the heart—if you don’t mind waiting?
In: I’m afraid it would be troubling you?
Giov: Not at all. Any little thing of that kind. So glad you mentioned it.
In: Thanks. I suppose you could not manage to bring it off within sight of the window?
Giov: I don’t see why not. Anyhow, I’ll do my best.
[ExitGiov.
In: Waiter! (EnterWaiter.) Lay the cloth for two (She meditates while the waiter lays the cloth. ExitWaiter.) Being a Spanish lady of high degree, the only course open to me is suicide. Fortunately, this ring contains a dose of poison strong enough for two, otherwise I should have had to die unavenged or to send round to the chemist’s for more. (She pours out two glasses of wine,splits the contents of her ring between them,and goes to the window.) Ah! here they come. It is annoying that they are so far off. I cannot distinguish them in the dark; however, they are fighting. Now one is killed and the other is coming in. I wonder which it will be.
EnterDon Giovanni.
Giov: There! my own, my beautiful one. I’m afraid you did not have a very good view, but your poor husband was such a damned bad swordsman that I inadvertently killed him before I could get him as near as I intended.
In: Well, I confess I should like to view the body, just to make sure you have not killed the wrong gentleman–-if you’ve no objection?
Giov: None whatever. You’ll find him in the gutter up the street, under the third lamp post. (ExitDonna Inez.Don Giovanniobserves the two glasses of wine and smells them suspiciously.Re-enterDonna Inez.)
In: Perfectly satisfactory and I thank you.
Giov: My own, my beautiful one! I love you! Be mine.
In: Shall we not first have a little supper? You must be fatigued after your exertions. And see! here is a nice glass of wine for you.
Giov: After you, Madama. (Donna Inezhesitates to drink.) You see, my beautiful one, I have had some experience in these matters, and now I never drink anything poured out for me by a lady unless she drinks some of it herself.
In(aside): Being a Spanish lady of high degree I cannot possibly refuse. I can only trust that as he is of noble birth and valorous, he won’t be such a blackguard as not to drink. (Drinks.)
Giov: Brava! But—do you know?—after all, I think I should prefer a fresh bottle, if it’s quite the same to you, my beautiful one. (He empties his glass upon the floor;the wine flows about the stage in a stream of fire.Donna Inezdies in agony.ExitDon Giovannilaughing.Curtain.)
During the applause that followed, Brancaccia rose, exclaiming:
“Such a thing could not possibly happen.”
She collected her wraps and we left the theatre, although the play was in nine acts and we had only seen three. As soon as we got home, she retired. I said to Peppino:
“I wish we had not gone to that play. I am sure Brancaccia has been frightened by it.”
“No,” said he, “not frightened.”
“But she’s gone away to recover herself?”
“Look here, Brancaccia don’t be thinking of the drama. She don’t be thinking of nothing—only the baby. She go to see if Ricuzzu is sleeping.”
Alessandro Greco to the Author.Marionette Theatre,Piazza Nuova,Palermo,4June, 1909.My dear Enrico,Since I last wrote to you there has been a continual to-do and no time for writing letters. What has been the to-do? Is it possible you have forgotten my telling you that I am studying to be a singer and that I take lessons every day? Now listen to this: Here in Palermo, a new opera was performed recently for the benefit of the victims of the earthquake at Messina. The story was taken from a great German romance and the music was composed by an Italian who is now in America. I was asked to sing as a supplementary tenor. We had a month of rehearsals and in the end the performance was splendidly successful. O my dear friend! If you had seen me on the stage! I was dressed as a warrior with a wig of curly hair and a pair of moustaches. I also received applause, and, when I appeared before the audience to bow my acknowledgments, I thought: “Oh, if only my dear friend were present, how he would be applauding me!” You will understand after that whether I have had any time to write to you; but now that things have calmed down a little and there is less going on I can write to you as much as you like.As you know, I am always busy in the teatrino; the other evening we repeated Samson, that play which you once saw here. If you will believe me, I was thinking of you the whole time because I remembered that when we gave it two years ago you were present.Just now in theStory of the Paladins, Orlando is throwing away his arms and running about naked in the woods, mad for love of Angelica; and soon we shall have the burning of Bizerta and the destruction of the Africans. This will finish in July and we shall then begin theStory of Guido Santo.What have you done with that photograph of myself which I gave you and which you put into your cigarette-case? Is still there, or have you lost it? I have often promised to send you another but have not done so because when you come to Palermo in September I hope we shall be photographed together, you and I. Nevertheless I send you this one now, it was taken by an English lady who came to the teatrino last summer; you see me getting into a rage with a paladin, I am talking seriously to him and swearing at him because he will not let me dress him properly.I will not prolong this letter, I do not wish to bore you; but I promise you that I will never fail to let you know of my doings and I count on you to tell me of yours.Costantino, Sansone, Rinaldo, Rosina, Angelica, Ferraù, Pasquino, Onofrio and all the other marionettes embrace you and send you their kind regards.I am and always shall beYour affectionate friendAlessandro Greco(Buffo).
Alessandro Greco to the Author.Marionette Theatre,Piazza Nuova,Palermo,4June, 1909.
My dear Enrico,
Since I last wrote to you there has been a continual to-do and no time for writing letters. What has been the to-do? Is it possible you have forgotten my telling you that I am studying to be a singer and that I take lessons every day? Now listen to this: Here in Palermo, a new opera was performed recently for the benefit of the victims of the earthquake at Messina. The story was taken from a great German romance and the music was composed by an Italian who is now in America. I was asked to sing as a supplementary tenor. We had a month of rehearsals and in the end the performance was splendidly successful. O my dear friend! If you had seen me on the stage! I was dressed as a warrior with a wig of curly hair and a pair of moustaches. I also received applause, and, when I appeared before the audience to bow my acknowledgments, I thought: “Oh, if only my dear friend were present, how he would be applauding me!” You will understand after that whether I have had any time to write to you; but now that things have calmed down a little and there is less going on I can write to you as much as you like.
As you know, I am always busy in the teatrino; the other evening we repeated Samson, that play which you once saw here. If you will believe me, I was thinking of you the whole time because I remembered that when we gave it two years ago you were present.
Just now in theStory of the Paladins, Orlando is throwing away his arms and running about naked in the woods, mad for love of Angelica; and soon we shall have the burning of Bizerta and the destruction of the Africans. This will finish in July and we shall then begin theStory of Guido Santo.
What have you done with that photograph of myself which I gave you and which you put into your cigarette-case? Is still there, or have you lost it? I have often promised to send you another but have not done so because when you come to Palermo in September I hope we shall be photographed together, you and I. Nevertheless I send you this one now, it was taken by an English lady who came to the teatrino last summer; you see me getting into a rage with a paladin, I am talking seriously to him and swearing at him because he will not let me dress him properly.
I will not prolong this letter, I do not wish to bore you; but I promise you that I will never fail to let you know of my doings and I count on you to tell me of yours.
Costantino, Sansone, Rinaldo, Rosina, Angelica, Ferraù, Pasquino, Onofrio and all the other marionettes embrace you and send you their kind regards.
I am and always shall beYour affectionate friendAlessandro Greco(Buffo).
On arriving at Palermo, I went to the teatrino at about ten at night; not seeing the buffo in his usual place keeping order at the door, I guessed he must be on the stage and, knowing the way, passed through the audience, dived under the proscenium, crept along a short passage, mounted a ladder and appeared among them unannounced. The father, the buffo and his brother, Gildo, were so much astonished that they dropped their marionettes all over the stage and shouted:
“When did you come?” “Why did you not write?” “Why did you not telegraph?”
Thereby spreading their astonishment among the audience, who saw no connection between these ejaculations and the exploits of Guido Santo. They soonrecovered themselves, however, picked up their paladins and managed to bring the performance to its conclusion, and we shut the theatre and proceeded upstairs to the house. On the way the buffo took me aside into his workshop to show me two inflammable Turkish pavilions which he was making; Ettorina in her madness was to fire them in a few days, one in the afternoon and the other at the evening repetition, as a conclusion to the spectacle. I inquired:
“Who was Ettorina, and why did she go mad?”
“I will tell you presently,” replied the buffo, “we must first go upstairs.”
As we went up I asked after the singing and he promised to take me to the house of his professor to hear him have a lesson. Papa and Gildo had preceded us and we found them with the young ladies, Carolina and Carmela, and the child, Nina, who is as much a buffa as her brother Alessandro is a buffo. In a moment, the air was thick with compliments.
Papa: And how well you are looking! So much fatter than last year.
Myself(accepting the compliment): That is very kind of you. You are all looking very well also. Let me see, Buffo mio, how old are you now?
Alessandro: Guess.
Myself: Twenty-five.
Aless: Bravo. I completed my twenty-fifth year just three weeks ago. And you?
Myself: I have also completed my twenty-fifth year, but I did it more than three weeks ago.
Aless: I see. You have twenty-five years on one shoulder; and how many more on the other?
Myself: Twenty-five.
Aless: It seems to me you are making a habit of attaining twenty-five. Are you going to do it again?
Myself: I have begun, but I shall put off completing it as long as possible. If you want to know my exact ageI will give you the materials for making the calculation. I went to the Great Exhibition of 1851.
Gildo: Tell us about it. I have often seen pictures of it in the illustrated papers, but I have never spoken to anyone who was there. Was it very beautiful? Were there many people? Did you see Queen Victoria?
Myself: I can’t tell you much about it. I was asleep and when I woke up I was so hungry that I cried till my mother took me into a side room and gave me my dinner. Then I went to sleep again until they took me home. I have been to many exhibitions since, but I never enjoyed one so much. You see, this one did not bore me.
Aless: You should not have had your dinner there. I went to the exhibition in Palermo and the food in the restaurant was not wholesome.
Gildo: Yes, but you must remember that Alessandro is very particular about his food. He can only eat the most delicate things and must have plenty of variety.
Myself: I did not have much variety in those days. I took my restaurant with me, the one at which I was having all my meals.
Gildo: Oh well, if one can afford to travel like a prince—
Myself: Gildo! I was not six weeks old and—
Papa: I have now made the calculation and I find you are my senior by six years. I hope that when I have caught you up I shall carry my age as lightly as you carry yours. Do I explain myself?
Aless(to me): I think you look older. I should have said you were a well-preserved man of sixty-four or (stretching a point in my favour) perhaps sixty-five.
Myself(feeling sure that here must be another compliment): Thank you very much.
Buffo: Not at all; it does you great credit.
Gildo: Now me, please. Ask me my age.
Myself: Well, Gildo, and how old are you?
Gildo: A hundred and seventy-four next birthday.
Myself: Santo Diavolo! You don’t look it. You must have been very busy since last autumn when, if I remember right, you were only twenty-one.
Carolina(tapping my right arm to attract my attention): Signor Enrico, Signor Enrico, why do you not ask me my age?
Carmela(tapping my left arm): Signor Enrico, Signor Enrico, you have not asked me my age.
Myself: Because I know how old you are. You are both of you the age that charming young ladies always are, and you do not look a day older.
Nina: I’m fourteen.
CaroandCarm(comparing notes): Did you hear what he said? He said we are charming young ladies.
Nina(insisting): I’m fourteen. Do I look it?
Myself: I can compliment you on looking a little older. Since last year you have grown out of being a child, but you have hardly yet grown into being a young lady like your sisters, though you are quite as charming.
Aless(taking the opportunity to begin): First you must know that Carlo Magno is now dead and the Pope is shut up in Paris and is being—
Caro: Signor Enrico, Signor Enrico, do you drink marsala in London?
Myself: Marsala is known in London, but we do not drink it every day as you do in Palermo.
Gildo: In England people drink tea; everything is so different in England.
Myself: That is quite true, Gildo. In England what is like that (holding my hand out with the palm up) in Sicily is like this (holding it with the palm down:Peppino Pampalone taught me this gesture).
Gildo: And that is why in London the people walk on their feet, whereas in Palermo they walk on their hands, as you have no doubt observed.
Aless: Si; e ecco perchè in Londra si mangia colla bocca, ma quì, in Palermo, si mangia nella maniera che tifarò vedere da un diavolo nel teatrino. But I was telling you about the Pope. He is shut up in Paris, where he is guarding the Christians against the—
Caro: Signor Enrico, do you ever see the sun in London?
Gildo: Yes, they see the sun in London, but only on three days of the week; on the other days they send it to be cleaned.
Carm: Then it is not the same sun as ours?
Gildo: It is a different sun. Our sun is made of gold and remains always bright. The sun of London is made of copper and, being constantly exposed to the air, it tarnishes more rapidly even than the breastplate of Carlo Magno, and you know what a lot of cleaning that wants.
Papa: All this is very interesting, but listen to me. I have something to say. When I was a boy at school—are you attending? Very well, then, I may proceed. When I was a boy at school, we had a professor who told us that in consequence of—
Caro: Signor Enrico, Signor Enrico, what is the English for Grazie?
Myself: It means Thank you.
Carm: Signor Enrico, Signor Enrico, what is the English for Buona notte?
Myself: Buona notte in English is Good night.
Aless:—and Paris is being besieged by four Turkish emperors, namely, Rodoferro di Siberia, Balestrazzo di Turgovia, Leofine di Cina and Bracilone d’Africa, and they have two hundred thousand men—
Gildo: Now me, please. Teach me to speak English. What did you say is the English for Grazie?
Myself: Thank you.
Gildo: And Buona notte?
Myself: Good night.
Gildo(tentatively): Thank you. Good night.
Myself: Bravo, very good.
Caro: What does that mean?
Myself: Very good means—
Papa:—and this professor of ours told us that in consequence of certain natural—do I explain myself?—of certain natural causes, it is rare for a human being to live more than one hundred years. It is therefore unlikely that—
Aless:—and Paris is being besieged by—
Myself: Yes, I know, Buffo, by four Turkish emperors and they have two hundred thousand men. I should think it must be rather a serious situation. But I want to hear about Ettorina.
Aless: It is a very serious situation, but do not be alarmed because—
Papa:—it is therefore unlikely that Gildo will ever reach the age of one hundred and seventy-four. Do I explain myself?
Caro: Signor Enrico, Come sta? what does it mean?
Myself: It means How do you do?
Caro(trying her hand): How do you do?
Myself: Brava. Very good.
(Nina did not ask to be taught English.She was following the conversation with sympathetic illustrative gestures not caring two straws whether anyone observed her,just as she did not care whether anyone observed that she was breathing;and,just as she could not stop breathing,so she appeared unable to stop her gestures.She was as incessant and as resourceful as the orchestra inHänsel and Gretel.)
Carm: Signor Enrico, Signor Enrico, Io t’amo.
Myself: Oh! but this is so sudden.
Aless:—do not be alarmed, because—
Carm: What does it mean in English?
Myself: Oh, I beg your pardon. It means—
Aless:—do not be alarmed, for it is the will of heaven that—
Papa: I may even go further and say it is unlikely that Gildo—
Caro: Signor Enrico, do you know what Carmela is doing?
Myself: She is making lace on a pillow, no doubt for her wedding trousseau.
Carm(demurely): Not for my wedding. No one will ever want to marry me.
Myself: Oh, come now, you don’t expect me to believe that?
Aless:—it is the will of heaven that they shall all escape—
Myself: Well, if this is not for you, perhaps it is for Carolina’s wedding?
Aless:—that they shall all escape to Montalbano—
Caro(demurely): Not for my wedding. I shall never marry. I shall stay at home and look after my dear papa and my dear brothers.
Nina(recklessly): That’s all very pretty, but I’m going to get married. (She was sitting on the edge of the table swinging her legs.)
Aless:—that they shall all escape to Montalbano through the subterranean road which the devils—
Myself: Why don’t you tell me about Ettorina? Come to Ettorina.
Aless: One moment, if you please—which the devils will make on Wednesday evening—
Carm: You have not yet told me what it is in English.
Myself: What what is in English?
Carm: Io t’amo.
(By the time I had given the information Papa,who had been proposing my health in a speech of which I caught little except an occasionalDo I explain myself?had begun perorating towards a close and was about to crown his remarks with a brindisi in verse.)
Papa: Questa tavola—
Gildo(taking the words out of his mouth):
—oggi è assai più bella.Enrico! Bevo alla salute di tua sorella.[60]
—oggi è assai più bella.Enrico! Bevo alla salute di tua sorella.[60]
Aless:—which the devils will make on Wednesday evening by command of Argantino the—
Papa(beginning again):
Questa tavola non è sporca ma è netta.Enrico! mangia, e non dare a loro retta.[61a]
Questa tavola non è sporca ma è netta.Enrico! mangia, e non dare a loro retta.[61a]
Myself(obediently taking a pear.It was a fine pear with a maggot in it;they wanted me to take another but I knew that those with maggots are usually the best.Not seeing why I should not be a poet also,I put it thus):
AnimaleNon fa male.[61b]
AnimaleNon fa male.[61b]
Gildo(instantly raising his glass):
Ora che ho mangiato non sono più a dieta;Bevo alla salute d’Enrico che è poeta.[61c]
Ora che ho mangiato non sono più a dieta;Bevo alla salute d’Enrico che è poeta.[61c]
Aless:
Anch’io voglio brindar, da povero precoce,Ad Enrico che sentir vuole la mia voce;Da un anno non ti vedo, O caro fratello!Vieni oggi, ti farò sentir l’Otello.[61d]
Anch’io voglio brindar, da povero precoce,Ad Enrico che sentir vuole la mia voce;Da un anno non ti vedo, O caro fratello!Vieni oggi, ti farò sentir l’Otello.[61d]
Myself(bowing my acknowledgments): Thank you very much.
Gildo: What did you say? Does that mean Good night? Is that what you said before?
Myself: Very much means Molto, Thank you means Grazie, and Good night means Buona notte.
Gildo: Let me try. Very much thank you good night?
Myself: Bravo, Gildo! You are making progress.
(Nina was not so much preoccupied with her comments as to be unable to take a line of her own when there was nothing particularly inspiring in the conversation and,just now,she had laid her head down in an empty plate and was unostentatiously putting out her tongue and making faces sideways at me.)
Gildo(taking a fig in one hand and raising his glass with the other):
Oggi mi voglio mangiare un fico;Bevo alla salute del Signor Enrico.[62]
Oggi mi voglio mangiare un fico;Bevo alla salute del Signor Enrico.[62]
(I had to drink each time,not much—merely to acknowledge the compliment—excusing myself by saying I had not the energy to drink more.)
Myself: My dear Buffo, when you have sufficiently got into the habit of being twenty-five to approach the age Gildo says he is, you will not have so much energy as you have now.
Aless: Yes, I shall.
Myself: No, Buffo mio.
Aless: We will make a bet about it, but you will lose.
Gildo(to Aless): By that time Enrico will not be here to pay if he does lose, so you will not win.
Myself: Bravo, Gildo.
Gildo(bowing his acknowledgments): Thank you very night—Why do you laugh? That is what you say. Why do you laugh?
Papa(taking his revenge about the brindisi): Don’t talk so much, Gildo.
Aless(taking his about the bet): You have been talking all the evening, Gildo. You are as bad as a conjurer in the piazza.
(Gildo proclaimed a general silence and,as a guarantee of good faith,pretended to skewer his lips together with a tooth-pick.)
Aless(whispering to me): Argantino is the Prince of the Devils and has commanded them to make the subterranean road from Paris to Montalbano—
Papa: May I speak one word?
Myself(graciously): Yes, Papa. You may even speak two words.
Papa: I—
AlessandGildo(shouting): One!
Papa:—have—
AlessandGildo: Two! There now, shut up. You’ve spoken your two words. Silence.
Caro: Signor Enrico, last year you only stayed in Palermo four days; this year you will, of course, stay at least a month.
Myself: I am sorry, my dear young lady, but it is impossible.
Aless:—and they will all escape and—
Myself: Please, Buffo, how many kilometres is it from Paris to Montalbano?
Aless: I do not remember, but it is a long way.
Caro: Why do you not stay a month?
Carm: Yes, why are you going away?
Myself: My dear young ladies, I must go to Calatafimi.
Caro: But why do you go to Calatafimi?
Carm: Yes, why do you not stay with us?
(Nina did not speak.She merely gazed at me as though she could not mind her wheel,Mother.)
Myself: I have friends at Calatafimi whom I have promised to go and see and I cannot—
Aless:—and arrive in safety at Montalbano.
Myself: I believe you told me once that Montalbano is Rinaldo’s castle in Gascony. Did the devils make a subterranean road right across France? It is a long way, you know.
Aless: The devils must do as Argantino commands them.
Myself: If he is the Prince of the Devils of course they must; but this seems rather a large order. Come to Ettorina. Why don’t you come to Ettorina?
Aless: One moment, if you please; first you must know that—
Caro: Signor Enrico, who are your friends at Calatafimi?
Myself: I know a baritone singer and his father andmother, two or three landed proprietors and the custode of the Temple of Segesta who lives at Calatafimi and is great friend of mine. I also know another—
Carm: It is not true. How many ladies do you know at Calatafimi?
Myself: Well, let me see. I don’t think I can exactly—
Caro: Tell us about the young ladies of Calatafimi, you like them better than you like us.
(Here sobs were heard;Nina’s head and shoulders had fallen over the back of her chair,her hair had come down an she was weeping gently but inconsolably.)
Myself: I shall be back in three days.
(Whereupon Nina recovered herself and fixed her eyes on the ceiling with an expression of beatific joy such as is worn by S. Caterina da Siena when the ring is being put on her finger in the pictures.Nina’s hair had now to be done up and it is magnificent hair,lustrous,black,wavy thick and long—for a girl of fourteen,wonderful.Her two sisters did it up as though it usually came down about this time of the evening and she submitted in the same spirit.It was no concern of ours.)
Papa: It is now one year since you were last in Palermo and it seems like yesterday—do I explain myself?
Gildo(so that everyone could hear): I have kept all your post-cards in a secret place. No one suspects that I have received them.
Aless: You must know that before Malagigi died he—
Caro: Signor Enrico, why do you wear spectacles?
Myself: In order that I may more clearly contemplate your beauty.
Caro: I do not believe you.
Carm: Signor Enrico, why do you wear your hair so short?
Myself: In order that—
Caro: Signor Enrico, why do you wear that little beard, that barbetta?
Carm: Signor Enrico, why do you wear—?
Aless: Why do you wear a coat and waistcoat?
Gildo: Why do you wear boots?
Papa: Why do you—?
Nina: I can tell you why he does all these things. It is to make the young ladies of Calatafimi go mad for love of him as the daughter of Cladinoro went mad for love of Ruggiero Persiano.
Myself: I have never heard of Ruggiero Persiano. Who was he, a paladin?
Nina: Yes; a cavaliere errante.
Myself: Then who was the daughter of Cladinoro?
Nina: Ettorina.
Myself: Do you mean to say that Ettorina went mad for love of Ruggiero Persiano?
Nina: Yes.
Myself(rising to go): Finalmente!
Aless: Yes, but first you must know—
Myself: All right, Buffo, never mind about that; at last I know who Ettorina was and why she went mad and that will do for the present. Thank you very much and good night.
Gildo: That is what I said. Why did you laugh when I said that?
Myself: Say it again, Gildo, and I won’t laugh this time.
Gildo: Thank you very night and good much.
Myself: Bravo. If you go on at this rate you will soon be speaking English like a native.
I took leave of the young ladies, and Papa, Alessandro and Gildo accompanied me to the albergo, where they left me. As I approached my bedroom door I looked up over it half-expecting to see there the words which, years ago, I had seen written over the entrance to a Tuscan monastery:
O beata Solitudo!O sola Beatitudo!
O beata Solitudo!O sola Beatitudo!
Next morning I called on the buffo in his workshop. His two combustible Turkish pavilions were finished, ready to be fired by Ettorina, and he was full of his devils. I inquired why we were doing Guido Santo so soon; it was only a year since my last visit to Palermo, when I had witnessed his lamented end after a fortnight of starvation in prison, and, at this rate, the story would be over in fourteen months instead of lasting eighteen. The buffo said they had made the experiment of shortening it. If one has to shorten a story, probably thePaladins of Francewith its continuations would suffer less from the process than many others. At all events it could scarcely grow longer, as a work of art so often does when one tries to shorten it.
The devils were naturally among the dramatis personæ of the teatrino, but they had to be got ready and repaired and provided with all things necessary for them to make the subterranean road. I said:
“I am not sure that I quite followed all you told me last night.”
“There was perhaps a little confusion?” he inquired apologetically.
“Not at all,” I replied politely; “but I never heard of Argantino before. Did you say he was the son of Malagigi?”
“That is right. He did not happen to be at Roncisvalle, so he was not killed with Orlando and the other paladins. An angel came to him and said, ‘Now the Turks will make much war against the Christians and, since the Christians always want a magician, it is the will of heaven that you shall have the rod of Malagigi, who is no longer here, and that Guido Santo shall have la Durlindana, the sword ofOrlando.’ And it was so, and Argantino thereafter appeared as a pilgrim.”
“I remember about Malagigi; he made all Rinaldo’s armour.”
“Excuse me, he made some of his armour; but he did not make his helmet, nor his sword Fusberta, nor his horse Baiardo. First you must know that Rinaldo was one of the four brothers, sons of Amone, and their sister was Bradamante.”
“I saw her die at Trapani. The Empress Marfisa came and found her dying of grief in a grotto for the loss of her husband, Ruggiero da Risa.”
“Precisely. She was Marfisa’s sister-in-law because she married Marfisa’s brother Ruggiero da Risa.”
“Then who was the cavaliere errante, Ruggiero Persiano?”
“He was the son of Marfisa and Guidon Selvaggio, and this Guidon Selvaggio was the son of Rinaldo.”
“Had Bradamante no children?”
“Guido Santo is the son of Bradamante and Ruggiero da Risa.”
“I heard something about Guido Santo at Castellinaria the other day—let me see, what was it? Never mind. I hope he left children.”
“I told you last year that he never married.”
“Oh yes, of course; that is what I was thinking of. One cannot remember everything at once and pedigrees are always confusing at first. Then it is for love of Bradamante’s nephew by marriage, Ruggiero Persiano, that Ettorina has now gone mad?”
“Bravo. And Malagigi was Bradamante’s cousin.”
“How was that?”
“Amone had a brother Buovo, and Malagigi was the son of Buovo. Therefore Malagigi was the cousin of Rinaldo and of Bradamante. And that is all you need know about the pedigree for the present. Malagigi was Emperor of Magic. Other magicians only commanded a devil or twoeach, but Malagigi dominated all the hosts of the inferno, all the devils, harpies, serpents, gorgons, hydras, furies and also the monster Briareus.”
“Just as the buffo dominates all the marionettes in the teatrino,” I interpolated.
He bowed and proceeded: “Rinaldo’s helmet used to belong to Mambrino.”
“I have read about it inDon Quixote.”
“Ah! but that was not a real helmet; that was only a barber’s basin because Cervantes wanted to laugh at Don Quixote. Rinaldo slew Mambrino and took his helmet, but Mambrino was a giant and his helmet was too large for Rinaldo, so Malagigi took it down into the laboratory of the inferno and altered it to fit.”
“And do the audience see all that done on the stage?”
“Most of it; and what they do not see they imagine. Fusberta, Rinaldo’s sword, formerly belonged to another giant, Atlante. Malagigi always intended it for Rinaldo, but he was a wise magician and knew that people do not value things unless they pay for them, so he would not let him have it till he had earned it by killing Atlante.”
“It’s rather like what you told me last year about Orlando’s dream and his going to the river-bank where Carlo Magno and that other giant, Almonte, were fighting, and his killing Almonte and his taking his sword and horse and armour.”
“I did not say that Orlando had a dream; it was Carlo Magno who had the dream about a young man whom he did not know, and I told you that afterwards, when Orlando came and helped him to fight Almonte, Carlo Magno recognised him as the young man in his dream.”
“Sorry, Buffo; my mistake. But it is rather like it, isn’t it?”
“About his taking the giant’s sword it is rather like it, but that is not a bad thing in the teatrino, the people must not be puzzled by too much variety.”
Then he told me about Baiardo, Rinaldo’s horse, whoformerly belonged to Amadigi di Gaula, to whom he was given by Berliante, another magician, who found him in the desert. After the death of Amadigi, Berliante chose but seven devils, put them inside Baiardo and turned him loose in the forest, saying: “This horse can only be dominated by a man as strong as Amadigi.” After this, several things happened, of which I only remember that Baiardo kicked all the sense out of Isolier, a Spanish cavalier who was trying to tame him with his sword, not knowing the right way to do it, and a nameless Englishman was involved in a duel. At last Rinaldo came and, after working hard at Baiardo for an hour, struck him a blow between the eyes with his mailed fist and thus tamed him. Then Rinaldo mounted him and boasted of his triumph, shouting in his humorous way: “Now Baiardo is carrying eight devils.”
“And so you see Rinaldo getting Baiardo is not at all like Orlando getting his horse Vegliantino; besides, Baiardo is red, the colour of fire, and Vegliantino is white all over, without one black hair.”
“Why do you call Orlando’s horse Vegliantino? Last year he was Brigliadoro.”
“One moment, if you please. Almonte called him Brigliadoro because he had a golden bridle; but when Orlando took him he called him Vegliantino because he was so wide-awake—only slept with one eye at a time—always kept the other open. You have good horses also in England. I read in theGiornale di Siciliathat your King Edward has a good horse who won the great race this year, but I do not remember his name. It was not a reasonable name.”
“The name was Minoru. Do you think that a bad name for a good horse?”
“I think Vegliantino is better.”
“Perhaps it is. Let us return to Malagigi. Are you not going to tell me why he is no longer giving the Christians the benefit of his services as magician?”
So he told me about Malagigi, who, it seems, had a quarrel with Carlo Magno, in the course of which Malagigi boasted:
“You are the Emperor of the World, but I am the Emperor of the Inferno.”
Carlo Magno did not quite like this and responded by cursing Malagigi, saying that he would not go to heaven when he died. One would think that Malagigi must have had the substance of this remark addressed to him before by persons who had not troubled to wrap it up in the imperial language employed by Carlo Magno. If so, it had never made any impression on him, but now he began to think there might be something in it. He had been a good man on the whole and a Christian, nevertheless, as a sorcerer he had no doubt diabolised a little too freely. To be on the safe side, he determined to repent and, as these things do not get over the footlights unless they are done in the grand manner, he began by burning his magical books, all except one, and they were the books of Merlin, whose disciple he had been. He next dropped his name of Malagigi, because it had been given him by the devils in council, and called himself Onofrio. He still kept on terms with his confidential private devil, Nacalone, whom he now summoned and to whom he spoke these words:
“Convey me to some peaceful shore where I may repent of my sins and die of grief in a grotto.”
When we came to this—I could not help it, I was full of small complaints that morning—I exclaimed:
“But, my dear Buffo, this makes consecutive fifths with his cousin Bradamante dying of grief in the grotto at Trapani.”
He admitted that it would have been better if one of them had had the originality to die in bed as a Christian or an ordinary man does, or to be killed in mortal combat, but there it was, it was the will of heaven and could not be altered. It seemed rather an invitation to the shortener ofthe story, but the same people do not come to the theatre every night and those who had missed the death of Bradamante would be pleased to see Malagigi die.
The nearest peaceful shore with a suitable grotto known to Nacalone happened to be in Asia; he put his master on his back and flew off with him apologising for carrying him so far, but there was not really much trouble about it, because his wings were strong and the journey was accomplished in safety.
Malagigi sat repenting in his Asian grotto, like S. Gerolamo in the pictures. He found a stone with a hole in it into which he stuck a cross made of two pieces of wood tied together with dried grass, and to this cross he prayed. In the intervals of prayer and repentance he gathered the herb malva, dried it, powdered it, mixed it with water into paste, formed it into cakes, baked them in the sun and ate them. When his time came, he died, and gradually his corpse became a skeleton, but his spirit still dwelt within because it was so ordained. His dying did not surprise me—to be born is to enter upon the path which even magicians must tread and which leads to the inevitable door—nor was I alarmed about his spirit remaining inside his skeleton—it gave him a touch of originality after all and differentiated his death from that of Bradamante whose soul I had seen extracted by an angel; but I could not help being seriously uneasy about his burning all his books. Each book had a devil chained inside it, and when Malagigi opened a book its devil used to appear for instructions. As long as he was repenting, they might perhaps be trusted to behave themselves; but after his death, in spite of its being somewhat equivocal, I was afraid that all these devils, and Merlin had an extensive library, would escape and be free to do as they chose. The buffo assured me, however, that no harm would come of it, and as he knew what was ordained by the will of heaven I was ready to take his word; besides, there was still the one unburnt book and this was the home of Nacalone, who might be powerfulenough to avert disasters. So Malagigi’s body remained in the grotto, dead and yet not dead.
Then a time came when his son Argantino happened to be travelling in Asia with his second cousin Guido Santo. Accompanied by Costanzo, a Turk, whom Argantino had defeated and baptised, the two knights came to the dreadful enchanted grotto and entered it to see whether perhaps it might contain anything good to eat. Costanzo did not enter, they sent him off to collect a quantity of wood to make a fire because it was a chilly evening. When their eyes had become accustomed to the dim light, they discerned a tomb whereon was this inscription:
IN HOC LOCO PAX.
IN HOC LOCO PAX.
Guido knelt down to pray, saying: “I perceive here a sepulchre.”
“Yes,” replied Argantino kneeling by his side; “I wonder who in this peaceful grotto is sleeping his last long sleep.”
Presently the tomb opened by a miracle and a voice disturbed their devotions:
“Malagigi parlerà.”
The two cousins trembled with horror as a skeleton rattled up from the sepulchre and spoke thus:
“I am the great magician Malagigi, and in obedience to the command of heaven my spirit has here waited for this day. To you, O my son Argantino! I confide the one book of magic which remains to me. To you, O Guido! I confide the horse Sfrenato.”
Here he delivered the two compliments to the two paladins; but for the moment Sfrenato took the magical book and carried it in his mouth as a cat carries her kitten.
“And now, listen to me. Terrible times are in store for the Christians and it is God’s ordinance that you two shall preserve the faith. Swear to me therefore, O Guido! that you will”—and so forth.
When he had concluded his address, his prophetic spirit was exhausted, as might perhaps have been anticipated, for the speech was of portentous length, and the skeleton clattered down again into the tomb, which closed by another miracle while a ball of fire ran along upon the ground across the stage and back again. Then Guido took his oath and spoke thus to Argantino:
“Let us now depart. And you Turks! all of you, tremble! for Guido shall be your destruction.”
With this he vaulted upon Sfrenato, who curveted and whinnied with joy at recognising his master. And so the two paladins continued their journey; but before leaving the neighbourhood they naturally made arrangements with the local marble-mason to have the tomb closed in a proper and hygienic manner.
“And all this,” said the buffo, “happened only last Friday, and why did you not come in time to see it? It was very emotional.”
As I had missed the emotional interview at the tomb the buffo generously arranged that there should be a private repetition of the scene specially for the young ladies and me; but it could not be that afternoon because it would take time to prepare and we had the appointment to go to his professor’s house for his singing lesson, and that also would take time. Before singing one does a few exercises, the effect of which is to warm up the throat and awaken the voice, because the warmer the throat, the better the quality of the voice, and this had to be got through before anyone could be allowed to listen. At the proper moment I was taken to the professor’s house and introduced into the studio where the buffo, who had taken off his collar todo the exercises, sang extracts from his repertorio, which includesOtello,Rigoletto,I PagliacciandCavalleria Rusticana.
After he had sung one of his pieces, I made him my compliments and congratulated his professor on the result of his teaching, whereupon they made their excuses—I had come on an unfortunate day, the voice was suffering from fatigue and the piano was out of tune. I had not observed the fatigue, but they were right about the piano and I agreed with the maestro, who said it was time to order a new one. Not only was it out of tune enough to curdle the milk, but they had endeavoured to distract attention from its defects by crowding its lid with rubbish till it resembled the parlour chimney-piece in a suburban villa or the altar in a second-rate church.
As some old harridan when bidden to the christening of her great-niece fumbles among such ornaments of her gioventù tempestosa as have been refused by the pawnbroker, and choosing the least suitable decks herself out therein, thinking thus to honour the festa—even so on this piano were accumulated artificial flowers, photographs in metal frames, a sprinkling of glass vases in wire cages that jangled, a couple of crockery pigs to bring good luck and a few statuettes and busts.
“Please, Buffo,” I inquired, “who is that silver saint upon the piano?”
“It is not a saint,” he replied, “it is only un musicista qualunque.”
“It looks about the shape of Mozart,” I said, wondering what he was doing in that galley.
“I do not remember his name,” said the buffo, “it is written on him in front; it is not a reasonable name.”
He brought me the bust and I, thinking that, to harmonise with the musical atmosphere of the studio, it should have been Leoncavallo or Mascagni, found that it was even more out of tune than the shameless piano it had been standing on. It wasbetkoven, with every letterdistinctly legible through the thick silver paint with which it was covered.
These foreign names are so puzzling. At an afternoon party in Palermo I once had a conversation with a gentleman who told me that Bellini was the king of opera-writers and the emperor of composers. To pass a few hours with people who consider Bellini to have written the last note in music is as restful and refreshing as to dream away an August afternoon in a peaceful backwater, forgetting that there is a river running to the sea. After Bellini, the gentleman mentioned Beethoven, who, it seems, studied in Italy, and that is why his music is so melodious. The more accessible writers on Beethoven know as little about this studying in Italy as they know about the Palermitan spelling of his name, but it must be right, because how otherwise could he have acquired his astonishing power of producing the true Italian melody? And there is another German musician who is even more melodious and more Italian in style than Beethoven and therefore a greater musician.
“Did he also study in Italy?” I asked. “And what was his name?”
“They all come here to study, and his name was Sciupè.”
I divined that this German melodist could only be either the Viennese Schubert or the French Pole Chopin, but with my English pronunciation I failed to make the distinction. Then a young lady, who had been sitting near, proposed to clear the matter up by playing a piece composed by Sciupè, and if I would listen attentively I should understand why he is known as the German Bellini. By this time I had made up my mind that it must be Schubert and was expecting one of the songs transcribed by Liszt, but she played Chopin’s Funeral March and told me that the composer had written besides a number of operas and conducted them at Berlin. I acquiesced in what appeared to be the will of heaven, saying:
“Oh! yes, of course. How stupid of me!”
The buffo has a fine voice and has got far beyond appearing to have learnt his songs diligently and to be delivering them correctly. I suspect, however, that he did not pass that way. He will soon have assimilated all that can be taught about singing, and for the rest he is naturally an actor, one of those few who are born with the strange power of appearing to experience inwardly what they express outwardly, a power that his life among the marionettes has strengthened and perfected. But as to predicting his future, which is what he wanted me to do, I suppose that only an expert, and perhaps not even an expert, can tell from hearing a singer in a small room how he will sound on the stage; and the voice is not everything, there is the appearance and the question of how his personality will affect the public, and the further question of how he will stand the life and amalgamate with his fellows. So, like a good Sicilian, I told him that there never was such a magnificent voice, that I had never heard anyone sing so well and that I was sure he would eclipse all previous tenors, which made everything quite satisfactory.
The next day we had our private performance, and it began with Guido Santo and Argantino at the dreadful enchanted grotto of the great magician Malagigi. I was glad to see Argantino; it was nearly as good as seeing Malagigi in his habit as he lived because, although the son only had one diabolical book, yet in his personal appearance he strikingly resembled the father, being indeed the same marionette and distinguished chiefly by his wings, which he inherited from his mother Sabina who was a witch. Argantino always wore his wings even when he used to wear armour, and on his shield he bore the portrait of a devil so that everyone should know at a glance the kind of man he was. After the angel tells him he is to do the magic for the Christians he appears clothed as a pilgrim with wings, and in this way, although it is the same marionette and both Malagigi and Argantino are magicians,confusion is avoided—at least the buffo said that was the intention.
There was another thing I should have been sorry to miss. I had hitherto supposed the dictionaries to be right in defining a miracle as an event contrary to the established course of nature, but the buffo took me behind the scenes to study the miracle by which the tomb opened. There were three or four strings so arranged that if anyone pulled them the tomb could not remain closed. The buffo pulled them and the tomb opened. Nothing less contrary to the ordinary course of nature could be imagined. It would be interesting to know whether other miracles would similarly falsify their definition if one could have a buffo to take one behind and disclose the secret of how they are performed.
The second scene was a Ballo Fantastico, which was given to take the taste of the tomb and the skeleton out of our mouths. It was done by a heavy Turk who danced cumbrously; presently his arms detached themselves and became transformed into devils who danced separately; then his legs followed their example; then his head descended from his trunk and, on reaching the stage, became transformed into a dancing wizard carrying a rod of magic and beating time to the music; then, while the body was dancing by itself, various devils came out of it followed by several serpents that floated among the devils; after which it developed a head, a neck, wings and a tail, so that it became transformed into a complete dragon, and the wizard mounted upon its back and rode about wizarding all the other creatures. Altogether the original Turk became transformed into sixteen different marionettes.
After this we had a funambolo or rope-dancer. The curtain rose disclosing his rope ready for him, he entered and, after bowing profusely, leapt up and sat first on the rope, then on a seat at the back. Here he played with his pole, holding it first with one hand then with the other, then balancing it on his head and doing tricks with it. Then he walked along the rope forwards and backwardsand danced, doing his steps with great care and precision. After which he sat down to recover his breath. Then he rope-walked again, doing impossible things—that is, they would have been impossible if he had not been sustained by many invisible strings, which the buffo manipulated with wonderful skill. I liked the funambolo even better than the wizard, he was extraordinarily lifelike.
In the evening I became transformed into an ordinary member of the public and saw the devils make the subterranean road. The performance contained a great deal besides about Periglio, a Turkish paladin, who, having been accused by the son of the Emperor of China of helping the Christians, was condemned to be beheaded. The father of his accuser with the other three Emperors came to see him die; they stood at corners relentlessly smoothing their beards and curling their moustaches with their right fists and crying “A Morire!” Periglio in chains was led on, blindfolded. The solemn headsman followed, carrying his axe, and, as the boy left off turning the handle of the mechanical piano, the cornet blasted a broken-hearted minor ninth over the last chord of the funeral march and prolonged it till—well, after all it was a mistake; Periglio had not really helped the Christians; his brother proved that, on the contrary, he had done them as much damage as any Turk among the allied armies of 200,000 men. So he was pardoned, and one of his friends gaily kicked the executioner off the stage. The brothers embraced and then, with their hands on their breasts, bowed to the audience to acknowledge the applause; but they did not know they were brothers, they had not yet recognised each other; that was to be another emotional moment to come later on.
The kicking the executioner off the stage and the embracing and bowing of the brothers were so absurdly natural that I inquired about them, and it seemed that Gildo had thought of these effects and carried them out.
“But then,” said the buffo, “Gildo is an artist. You should see him with Truffaldino.”
“What is Truffaldino? Another cavaliere errante?”
“He is the paladin who is a buffo. You should see him toss his crown from one side of his head to the other and put both his hands on his heart when he makes love to Angelica. He only plays the fool a little the first night, and more and more as the drama proceeds, until he dies by being pulled to pieces by four horses. It is all done by Gildo, and the audience laugh every night that Truffaldino appears.”
Then we were taken to Vienna, where Guido Santo and Argantino had arrived, but we only saw Argantino.
“Where is Guido?” I asked. “I want to see him.”
“Yes, well, you won’t see him this evening,” replied the buffo. “He’s only in the next room, but he’s much too busy to come.”
“What is he doing?”
“Baptising Christians—those who couldn’t make up their minds before whether they would be converted or not.”
“Very well, we won’t interrupt him.”
So I had to be content with Argantino, who came with his book, his rod of magic and his wings. After flying about for some time in a hall with columns, he settled down, and someone entered and told him the disquieting news about Pope Gregorio III being shut up in Paris. But, knowing that it was the will of heaven that the inhabitants should not perish, he summoned his confidential family devil Nacalone by opening the book, just as a rich man of to-day liberates infernal power by opening his cheque-book. Nacalone was as comic as the mask Pasquino, and tumbled to show his willingness to obey. He had a string to his back so that he could be turned upside down and made to stand on his head. He received his instructions and flew off to execute them.
The Viennese columns disappeared and the devils, plenty of them, all with wings and tails and horns, were shown, asin a vision, working at the subterranean road. Two were sawing a block of stone; some flew up to use their hammers and do work in the upper parts of the tunnel; one, who was perhaps nervous or perhaps more of an artist and wanted to look the part of a modern Palermitan workman, used his legs to climb a ladder to reach his work; others were digging up the ground and knocking down the walls; a devil wheeled an empty Sicilian cart, painted with paladins, rapidly across the stage and after a moment wheeled it back slowly because it was now heavily laden with tools and cement; another kept coming with a basket of stones on his shoulder and emptying them down in heaps. It was a busy scene and much applauded, especially the cart. The Viennese columns hid it from view.