The next time I was in Palermo, Turiddu, the conduttore, who used to take me about the town, had returned after being for a year in Naples. He was employed at another hotel, but that did not prevent his making an appointment to take me to the marionettes. My experiences at Trapani had removed all sense of danger, and I now felt as safe in the theatre as in the streets of London. Statistics may or may not support the view, but I am inclined to attribute the general impression that Sicily is more dangerous than other countries, less to the frequency of crime there than to the operatic manner in which it is committed. So that I no longer wanted Turiddu to protect me. As the figures on the stage were to interpret the drama to the public, so he was to interpret to me their interpretation. The ingenious French gentleman at Calatafimi would, perhaps, have classified him as an incarnation of the book of the words.

The theatre was already full when we arrived. We had had to buy another straw hat on the way, to preserve our dignity and incognito; this had delayed us, and the play had begun, but the audience politely made room for us in the gallery at the side.

We were in a wood and there was a picturesque, half-naked, wild man on the stage with loose, brown hair hanging down to his waist; he wore a short, green skirt trimmed with silver braid, a wreath of pink and white roses, yellow leather boots and gaiters; a mantle fell from his shoulders to the ground and made a background of green to his figure. He was actually, as I afterwards discovered, about thirty inches high and his roses were as large as real roses, so that his wreath was enormous and looked very well. Turiddu whispered to me that he was Samson, which made me inquire whether they were going through the whole Bible this winter, but he said this was an exceptional evening, after which they would return to the usual story.

Samson had already killed the lion with a blow of his sinewy right arm; its body lay in the middle of the stage, and the busy bees were at work filling its carcase with honey. He observed them, commented upon their industry, tasted the honey and composed his riddle.

The next scene was the hall of audience in the king’s palace. Guards came in and placed themselves at corners. They were followed by a paladin in golden armour with short trousers of Scotch plaid made very full, so that when he stood with his legs together he appeared to be wearing a kilt. Turiddu and I both took him for a Scotchman and, as I had seen Ottone and Astolfo d’Inghilterra in the teatrino at Trapani, there seemed to be no reason why he should not be one. Highlanders, of course, do not wear trousers, but we supposed that his Sicilian tailor had had little experience in the cutting of kilts. Whatever he was, he had an unusually animated appearance, for, by a simple mechanism, he could open and shut his eyes. Then came a lady, and the knight kissed her. She was followed by a king and his prime minister, neither of them very splendid, their robes being apparently dressing-gowns, such as one might pick up cheap at any second-hand clothes shop in the Essex Road, Islington. As each of these personages entered, the courtiers, who were not in view, shouted “Evviva.” Last of all came Samson.

There was a dispute and it was to be submitted to the king, whom they addressed as Pharaoh. I said to Turiddu—

“But Pharaoh was king of Egypt and all this happened in Palestine—if, indeed, it happened anywhere.”

“Pharaoh also governed Palestine,” replied Turiddu.

The dispute arose out of the killing of the lion which had been about to attack the lady, and Samson, having delivered her, was by every precedent of romance bound to marry her and wished to do so. But she was already engaged to the golden Scotchman, and that was why he had kissed her. After much discussion it was agreed that if the paladin should guess the riddle to be put forth by Samson he might marry the lady, otherwise Samson should have her. All was done regularly and in the presence of King Pharaoh.

Samson then propounded his riddle: “Out of the eater came forth meat, and out of the strong came forth sweetness.”

The golden Highlander winked his eyes, put his fist up to his forehead and meditated anxiously for some time. Then he said—

“Sono confuso.”

He wanted to give it up, but the lady would not allow this, and King Pharaoh, taking in the situation, ruled that he must have time; so they all went away except the knight and the lady. Then the poor paladin made the best use of his time and gave his whole attention to the riddle; sometimes he winked his eyes, and sometimes he put his fist up to his head and meditated as hard as ever he could, turning first one way and then the other. But nothing came of it; he only repeated—

“Sono confuso.”

The lady continued her encouragement, saying that riddles were seldom easy to guess, that he must not worry too much and the true answer would come into his head, probably while he was thinking of something else; but he only turned away and said again—

“Sono confuso.”

The lady did not mind how stupid he was, for she was really in love with him; but she began to perceive that, unless something were done, she might have to marry a man who, though very strong and clever enough to compose a riddle, was unable to wink his eyes, so she undertook to see Samson alone and try to inveigle the answer out of him. The knight, having had some experience of her powers of persuasion, was comforted, discontinued his meditations, dropped his fist, said “Addio,” embraced her and left the stage.

Samson now came on and the first thing he did was to put his arm round the lady’s neck. She was quite ready for him and put her arm round his. Thus they stood indulging in a little preliminary fondling till she asked him point-blank to tell her “il mistero dell’ oscuro problema.” He instantly removed his arm and stood off, exclaiming with great firmness—

“No, no, no, non posso!”

Thereupon she began to go away as though all was over between them. It was a simple ruse, but it deceived the framer of the riddle; he drew her towards him in repentance, put his arm round her neck again and whispered into her ear. She took a moment to consider, and then laughed. It was not the spontaneous laugh of a person overwhelmed by the irresistible humour of a good joke, it could not well have been that, assuming that he had told her the true answer; nor was it the perfunctory laugh of a person pretending to be amused. It was a laugh of heartless mockery.

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the lady.

Samson smelt mischief and brought the curtain down with a fine speech, threatening her with his wrath if she should betray him.

The next act passed in the same hall of audience; soldiers entered and stood as guards, and then came Pharaoh. He was followed by two obviously comic men, who might have been costermongers or knockabout brothers from a music hall, and one comic woman. The men wore modern shirts and trousers and long-tailed coats, or rather dressing-gowns, that had once been as good as those worn by Pharaoh and his prime minister. Turiddu told me they were Pasquino and Onofrio, and the woman, who seemed to be just an ordinary woman out of the market with an apron, was Colombina. But the people give Pasquino the pet name of Peppinino and call the woman Rosina. These are the masks of Palermo, whose origin, like that of other Italian masks, is of great antiquity. They grew up to supply a want just as in our own day we have seen Ally Sloper growing up to supply a want of the people of London.

There was a dispute as to which of the two men Rosina was to marry, and the question had been referred to King Pharaoh who decided that it was a case for trial by riddle, and, accordingly, Rosina propounded a riddle which was in four questions; after each question Onofrio turned away his head to meditate, while Rosina, unobserved, whispered the answer into the ear of Pasquino who presently announced it in a loud voice and then danced with Rosina in triumph.

The four questions and answers were—

Q. A man that was no man—A. An eunuch—

Q. Threw a stone that was no stone—A. A pumice-stone—

Q. At a bird that was no bird—A. A bat—

Q. Sitting on a tree that was no tree—A. An elder-tree.

This being a riddle and in dialect and, moreover, dialect spoken in the presence of a king, certainly was, or rather was intended to be, humorous. Nevertheless, King Pharaoh was as little amused as our own Queen Victoria would have been if Ally Sloper and his companions had been taken to Windsor to perform in cockney slang before her. Pharaoh had to sit it out because he was there to see fair play, but he was so bored that he failed to observe how shamelessly Rosina was cheating; so she won her cause and danced off with Pasquino.

Turiddu explained to me that elder-trees are in the habit of drying up and falling down dead, a thing not done by properly conducted trees. I asked him what all this had to do with the play. He had just bought a handful of melon seeds from a man who was pushing his way about among the audience, and was munching them contentedly, not in the least put out by the course the story had taken. He said we had been witnessing a comic interlude intentionally introduced to amuse the boys by burlesquing the situation in the principal story the extreme seriousness of which might otherwise have depressed them unduly. I had read of such things being done in mediÆval mystery plays, and here was an instance in my presence and not as an imitation or resuscitation of a dead archaism but as a vital growth.

The interlude being over, the original story was resumed. The paladin and the lady entered, followed by Pharaoh and his prime minister, who had gone off to make room for the final dance, and lastly, by Samson. The golden paladin took the stage, winking excessively, and, in a triumphant, overbearing manner, said—

“What is sweeter than honey? and what is stronger than a lion?”

Samson glared at the lady who ostentatiously shook her head.

“Ha, ha, ha!” jeered the paladin, and Samson covered his face for shame. The lady continued to shake her head, but, like the lady in another play, she did protest too much and Samson’s suspicions were confirmed. He exercised great self-control and appealed to Pharaoh, pointing out that it was absurd to suppose his riddle could have been guessed by an unassisted Scotchman, no matter how bright his armour, and concluded his speech by openly accusing the lady of having betrayed him. This was too much for the paladin; he drew his sword and approached Samson to pay him out for his rudeness and for not admitting that he had been fairly beaten. Before he could finish the speech that usually precedes a stage duel, Samson, who was unarmed, knocked him down in self-defence with one blow of his fist. He fell back upon Pharaoh who happened to be standing behind him; Pharaoh fell back upon his prime minister who happened to be standing behind him; the prime minister fell back upon the lady who happened to be shaking her head in protest behind him, and all four came to the ground together. Trumpets sounded, the piano struck up, the operators stamped with their clogged feet, the audience applauded and there were calls for “Sansone,” but it was not a moment for responding to calls. Soldiers came on one by one and Samson knocked them down; they came two by two and he knocked them down; they came three by three and he knocked them down. Between his feats of strength he frequently put his long hair back with his hand, so that it should fall behind and not hinder his movements or obstruct his sight. When he had done, the curtain fell on about thirty soldiers, heaps upon heaps, writhing in their death agonies.

The next act was in a wood and there was the Highland paladin who had not been killed when Samson knocked him down; he had, however, been a good deal hurt and was winking more than ever. There were also a few soldiers who had either recovered or had not been knocked down in the previous scene; in these cases, as with earthquakes, one has to wait to find out who is killed and who survives. Turiddu said that Samson was being arrested and presently some more soldiers entered with a prisoner, but it was the wrong man; it was, in fact, Samson’s father. He was led away in chains. Then they brought on Samson with several yards of iron chain coiled round and hanging down from his joined hands.

“Andiamo, andiamo,” said the soldiers, but the jubilant paladin could not resist the temptation to stop the soldiers and make a taunting speech which amounted to—

“Here is the end of all your rage, O Sansone!”

Samson listened with great forbearance and, when it was his turn, replied in a speech full of dignity, containing a great deal about gloria and vendetta and the weight of his chains and il cuore di Sansone, and he threatened them over and over again, and struggled and shook himself and made great efforts to get free, so that the soldiers shrank back. Suddenly he broke his chains, and the soldiers all ran away and Samson after them, leaving the paladin alone. A soldier soon returned and announced that Samson was committing deeds of violence behind. This frightened the paladin; he winked nervously and hurried away, exclaiming—

“Arrest him, arrest him; I’m off,” amid the derisive laughter of the audience.

Then Samson came on in his fury, armed with the jawbone of an ass; Turiddu said it was of a horse, but I knew better, at least, I knew what it ought to have been. The soldiers did their best, but he knocked them all down again as before amid immense cheering.

The next scene was outside a castle in the country. Samson came on alone with his jawbone, and stood silent, very terrible, and waiting for an opportunity to break out.

The silence was prolonged. Nothing happened. It was a pause of expectation.

Then we heard a voice, a solemn, cavernous voice with a vibrato like a cinematograph, calling loud and slow—

“Sansone, Sansone, Sansone!”

“Whose voice is that?” exclaimed Samson, looking round and seeing no one.

The voice repeated its call two or three times and at last Samson recognized it.

“E la voce del mio genitore.”

“Sansone, Sansone, Sansone! In questa torre sono incarcerato.”

Then Samson understood that Manoah had been arrested and imprisoned and must be delivered. He approached the castle and knocked.

“Chi È?” said the porter.

“Son io, Sansone.”

We heard a movement of consternation within the castle and then Samson called out—

“Aprite.”

There was more consternation and the voice of Pasquino or Onofrio was heard speaking in dialect which made the audience laugh. The castle sent a messenger who came on and asked what Samson wanted.

“Open the door and give me my father,” said Samson with suppressed rage. Throughout Samson behaved with extreme moderation. But the messenger, instead of doing as he was told, approached Samson in a hostile manner. Samson took him in his arms and, with his great strength, threw him up and out of sight. We heard his body fall inside the castle walls.

“Aprite,” said Samson.

Then several messengers came, sometimes singly, sometimes two together, and once four soldiers came and said—

“Va via, Sansone,” but they only got themselves into trouble, for he took them all up and threw them back into the castle and we heard each of them fall separately.

“Aprite,” said Samson, “datemi il mio genitore.”

Then there came a comic dwarf; Samson looked at him scornfully, and saying—

“Cosa vuoi, Insetto?” took him up, twirled him round and round and threw him away.

Then Pasquino and Onofrio came on; Samson, after doing them some damage, but not so much as they deserved because they were favourites with the audience, passed by them and disappeared in the direction of the castle gate. We heard him knock and we heard the movement within, indicating serious alarm, while the masks made comments in dialect. This was repeated and repeated with a roaring crescendo until, with a crash, the walls of the castle fell upon the stage—a bushel of stones—and Samson entered carrying the castle gates under his left arm and his father on his right, and the delighted audience applauded as the curtain fell.

After this we came away, which I have often regretted since, because these marionettes were the best I had seen. They were worked by artists who understood the handling of repose and the value of small things well placed. Occasionally, it is true, the figures moved too much and were unintentionally comic, but wonderful effects were produced by very slight movements. When a puppet was delivering a tirade, the listener, standing as motionless as one of the knights at Catania, would sometimes turn his head almost imperceptibly, or shift his weight from one leg to the other, or place his right hand on his hip with his arm a-kimbo. The action not only expressed contempt, acquiescence, or boredom as the case required, but vivified the whole scene, spreading over it like the ripples from a pebble thrown into a pond.

If I had been as strong as Samson I would have stayed to the end, for I knew he could not be wearing all that loose, brown hair merely to toss it back when he was fighting. The Philistines would come later on and bribe the lady to entice him and see wherein his great strength lay, and he would be enticed and, forgetting how she had betrayed him over the riddle, would tell her everything; for he had a guileless, generous nature, and every time he was deceived thought it an exceptional case and no rule for future conduct. And presently the lady would make him sleep upon her knees and a young man would come with a pair of scissors and crouch under her mantle and cut off his locks and drop them into a shallow round box upon the floor, as in Carpaccio’s picture in Milan, and she would wake him up, exclaiming—

“The Philistines be upon thee, Samson,” and he would rise powerless and be taken and bound in fetters of brass.

Nevertheless, the marionettes, with all the romance of their story and the unexpected way in which their movements stimulate the imagination, would certainly fail without the wizardry of the voice of the speaker, for the voice is the soul of the marionettes. And as the cobbler from Mount Eryx found his opportunity in the Death of Bradamante at Trapani, so the voice at Palermo would surely have done something with the Blinding of Samson—something perhaps not unworthy of Total Eclipse. It communicated to us the dignity and beauty of Samson’s character; when he was observing the industrious bees it was full of pity for the dead lion, and we knew that the poor beast had had every chance of escape and had only been killed after a delay that was longer than it was judicious. And so we knew that he did not kill the soldiers till his great patience had been exhausted and the voice was full of sorrow for their death.

Why should he be so constantly driven to use his strength? Why could he never use it without harming some one? Why was he born into a world where men played on his simplicity and women charmed him to destruction? These were the riddles that confused Samson. It seemed to him that he was no better than the Arabian giant who held the Princess of Bizerta in thrall—that cruel bully who cared not how many he killed, nor who they were, and believed every man to be as wicked as himself. Samson, each time his patience was exhausted, hated himself for what he had to do, yet no experience could shake his faith in that melancholy but attractive swindle—the ultimate goodness of man. Both Samson and the giant were as mistaken as they were powerful, but Samson, by virtue of his weakness, was the stronger man, for, while the giant’s brutality aroused our hatred, Samson’s nobility compelled our love.

Being alone one autumn evening in Palermo, about a year and a half after I had seen Samson, I returned to the teatrino and found it open. On asking the young man at the door whether the performance had begun and whether there was room for me, he pulled aside the curtain at the entrance and disclosed the stage full of fighting paladins and the auditorium half empty. I paid three soldi and took a seat. After the first act, I congratulated the young man at the door on the performance and told him it was not the first time I had been to his theatre, and that I was sorry to see it so empty.

“There is no one here,” he agreed; “do you know why? It is because to-night will die Guido Santo, a marionette very sympathetic to the public, they cannot bear to see his end. But it is the last night and to-morrow they will come because the story will begin all over again.”

Feeling I could bear to witness the death of Guido Santo, I returned to my seat. Before the curtain drew up on the last act there entered a page who took his hat off with his right hand and stood politely bowing until the audience should be ready to listen to what he had to say. He then recited the programme for the next evening, telling us that all who came would see the baptism of Costantino, Imperatore del Mondo. As soon as he had gone, Pasquino and Onofrio came on and in dialect comically commented upon the programme.

At the end of the entertainment, after Guido Santo was dead and the angel had come down, taken his white soul out of his mouth and carried it up to heaven, I resumed conversation with the young man at the door, and soon perceived that he was a fine natural actor who will commit a crime if he does not go on the stage as a buffo. He told me that the theatre is open all the year round; they do not make much money in the summer because the people prefer to be in the open air, but in the winter—! and his gestures indicating how they sat shoulder to shoulder and craned their necks to see over one another’s heads and wiped the perspiration off their foreheads and scattered it upon the floor, were rapid, precise and eloquent. He remembered the performance of Samson and the crowd and, as soon as he saw I was interested, became like a puppy that has found some one to play with. If I would come to-morrow he would show me all the marionettes and tell me all the secrets of the business.

I went and was introduced to his brother, his three sisters and his father who is the proprietor of the show. It was the father’s voice that I had heard in Samson, the buffo and his brother help in working the marionettes and in cleaning and repairing them after the performance, the sisters do the housekeeping, speak for the women and make the dresses. They told me a great deal that I wanted to hear. For instance, they knew all about Michele and the Princess of Bizerta and told me that she is the sister of Agramante, King of Campinas and Emperor of Yundiay, and her name is Fulorinda di Nerbof di Bizerta; the name of her wicked Arabian giant is Alaballak Aizan. I had asked Pasquale in the teatrino at Trapani about them, but he had never heard of them. These professional marionettists at Palermo had a poor opinion of the teatrino at Trapani and, from what I told them about it, said it could only be an amateur affair. They were particularly contemptuous of the management for allowing the words to be read out of a book. They ought to be improvised. At Palermo the only play that is ever read is Samson, which was written by a Sicilian, and even in that the comic episode of the masks with the riddle of Rosina is a home-made, unwritten interpolation.

Pharaoh has nothing to do with the Egyptian Pharaohs. Faraone is his private name and he is the king of the Philistines. The name of the paladin is Acabbo and he is a Philistine and not a Scotchman; but they excused me for falling into the error, and showed me that many of the knights wear stuff sufficiently like a Scotch plaid to deceive a mere Englishman. Moreover, Scotch knights do come into the story; Carlo Magno sends Rinaldo off to fetch recruits and he returns with an army of Scotch paladins under Zerbino, the Prince of Scotland. Samson ranks with Christians because he is on the right side in religion and that is why his skirt was really a skirt. Acabbo ranks with Turks because he is on the wrong side in religion and that is why he wears trousers. The lady is Tanimatea, but Dalila is brought on afterwards and it is she who cuts Samson’s hair. The buffo nearly wept when I told him I had gone away without seeing the operation. However, he explained how it was done: his long brown hair is a wig and is pulled off when she uses the scissors.

They told me all about the story, or rather stories, of the paladins. First there is an Introduction beginning with the conversion of the Emperor Constantine, and passing rapidly through his son Fiovo and his descendants to Pipino King of France and father of Carlo Magno. It lasts about a month and is followed by—

I. The Story of the Paladins of France with Carlo Magno, Orlando, Rinaldo, Gano di Magonza and many others. This lasts about six months and ends with the defeat and death of Orlando and the paladins at Roncisvalle. It is followed by—

II. The Story of the Sons of the Paladins with Palmerino d’Oliva, Tarquasso, Scolimmaro and the crusades. This lasts about three months and is followed by—

III. The Story of Balocco with the valiant Paladins Trufaldino, Nitto, Vanni Caccas, Pietro Fazio, Mimico Alicata and the giant Surchianespole. This lasts about six months, and is followed by—

IV. The Story of Michele, Emperor of Belgium, against the Saracens. This lasts about three months and ends with the death of Guido Santo.

I had come on the last night and if I had come a few nights before, I might have happened upon the Palermitan version of what I had seen at Catania.

Among all this, which by itself would last over a year and a half, they celebrate certain anniversaries by interpolating other plays, each of which lasts one, two, or three days. Thus, at Christmas they do the Nativity, at Easter the Passion, at Midsummer the story of S. Giovanni Battista; on the 11th of May, the day Garibaldi landed at Marsala, they do the Sicilian episodes from his life; on the anniversary of the day that Musolino, the famous brigand, was arrested, they do his life and on the proper day they commemorate the execution of Anna Bonanno, la Velenatrice, detta la Vecchia dell’ Aceto, who sold poisoned vinegar. There is no regular day for Samson; they do it whenever they feel inclined, that is whenever they want a few more soldi than usual, for they look upon the paladins as the pane quotidiano and on the interpolations, for which they charge extra, as feasts.

They also occasionally give a kind of music-hall entertainment and I was so fortunate as to see one.

Piccola Serata Ballabile

1. Passo a due eseguito da due ballerini di rango Francese, viz. Miss Ella e Monsieur CanguiÙ.

2. Dansa del Gran Turco, fumatore di pipa.

3. L’Ubbriaco. Scena buffa.

In private life, that is behind the scenes, the ballerini are called Miss Helvet and Monsieur Mastropinnuzza. Miss Helvet first danced alone; she had six strings and two wires, not rods, and was dressed like the conventional ballet-girl with a red bodice and a diamond necklace, and she wriggled her white muslin skirts and waved a broad green ribbon. Monsieur CanguiÙ then danced alone; he was slightly less complicated, and kissed his hand with great frequency. They wound up by dancing together. They twinkled their toes and alighted on the tips of them like Adeline GenÉe and, as their heels were cunningly jointed and balanced, they could also walk like ordinary mortals, or at least as well as any marionette. He assisted her to leap up and pose in an attitude while standing on his knee, and they waltzed round one another and did all the things that one has learnt to expect from opera dancers.

The name of the Gran Turco was Piriteddu cu Giummu. He was accompanied by Pasquino and danced while Pasquino went and fetched him a lighted candle. He lighted his pipe at the flame and puffed real smoke out of his mouth. After which Pasquino blew out the candle and they danced together.

The Ubbriaco, whose name was Funcia, asked Pasquino for wine, and drank it out of the bottle with consequences that might have been anticipated, but may not be described. When he had done drinking, he threw the bottle away, dancing all the time. He took off his coat and threw it away, then unbuttoned his trousers and took them off, threw them away and went on dancing in his shirt.

“He is a very common man,” said the buffo apologetically; “a fellow of no education.”

This constant introduction of Pasquino must not be taken as involving any anachronism. Pasquino is like Love, he is not Time’s fool. Never having been born, he can never die, and never to die is to be immortal. Accordingly, whenever a comic servant is wanted, whether as a messenger from a castle which is being stormed by Samson, or to assist a Grand Turk or a drunkard of no definite period, or to accompany a paladin on a journey, be put into prison with him and help him to escape, or merely on behalf of the proprietor of the show to invite the people to to-morrow’s performance, Pasquino is always there, with his dialect and his comic relief, to undertake the job. He works harder than any other marionette and consequently is always requiring renovation.

There is so much renovation going on among the puppets that the buffo cannot tell exactly how many there are at any particular time. He says their number is fluid, and supposes that it rises and falls round about five hundred. They are very heavy, especially those in armour, and vary in height from twenty-six to thirty inches, giants being thirty-four inches. They must represent a large capital, for a well-made marionette in full armour will cost as much as 150 francs (£6), the elaborate ones, with tricks, and the dancers probably more; ordinary Turks and pages unarmed will cost less, say perhaps 50 francs (£2) each. Some of them have glass eyes which catch the light and brighten them up wonderfully. Many have eyes that move like Acabbo. There are two paladins who can be cut in half, one horizontally and other perpendicularly.

There was nothing the buffo and his brother could not explain, and what this implies a glance through the notes to the Orlando Furioso, which is only a fragment of the complete story, will show. Orlando squints, both his eyeballs are close to his nose. They told me that this is because when his uncle, Carlo Magno, met him as a child, not knowing who he was and taking a fancy to the boy, he told him to look at him, and Orlando came close and looked at him so fixedly that his eyes never returned to their normal position. He also has two little holes, one on each side of the bridge of his nose. This is because at Roncisvalle he called for help by winding his magic horn; Oliviero told him to blow louder and he blew so forcibly that he broke a blood-vessel and the blood poured out of the little holes so that he died. He could not die by being mortally wounded in the usual way, because his flesh was made of diamonds, which was a gift of God to help him to propagate the faith and to conquer the heathen.

They showed me the three separate Christs which they use at Easter, the first as he walks among the people, the second as he is on the cross and the third as he rises from the tomb, and all, especially the last, were beautiful and impressive figures.

They give two performances every day, from six to eight and from nine to eleven, all the year round, Sundays and festas included, unless some irremovable obstacle, such as an illness or a wedding in the family, or the death of the king or an earthquake, necessitates the closing of the theatre. Nearly all the rest of every day they are cleaning up and preparing for the next performance.

On the evening when Constantine was converted to Christianity I went to both performances, being behind the scenes for the first so as to see how everything was done. Before we began, I was let into the secret of how the emperor had his leprosy lightly stitched on him in such a way that the thread could be drawn, and it would fall off at the right moment. The first performance was to a certain extent a rehearsal for the second, at least in the second there were modifications—always improvements. The father stood on one side of the stage, working some of the marionettes and speaking for them. He had a MS. book which contained little more than a list of the characters and properties and a short statement of what was to happen in each scene. He also directed his younger son who stood at the other side of the stage, working other figures and speaking for some of them, and, when there were many puppets on at once, the buffo was sent for from the front door, where he was keeping order. When there were women or angels or children to speak, one or more of the girls came down a ladder through a trap-door from the house above. To speak improvised words on a given subject, as the father did, is called “recitare a soggetto.” When the girls spoke, the father prompted, if necessary, and this they call “recitare col suggeritore”—to speak, with the assistance of a prompter, words that have been learnt.

For the second performance I was among the audience, and this is what I saw. It may not be in every detail in complete accordance with the received views of historians, but the marionettes take their history wherever they find it. In this case they found it not in Gibbon but in a favourite legend of the people, and, considering that they depend upon the favour of the people, to take it from that source was a judicious proceeding.

The curtain rose on a bedroom in the palace in Rome. Constantine, Emperor of the World, was lying in just such a bed as Pasquino or Onofrio might have, with pillows and sheets and a red flowered counterpane. He was endeavouring to allay the irritation of his skin caused by the painful malady from which he had been suffering for twelve years. A sentinel stood at the foot of the bed.

Amid shouts of “Evviva Costantino,” two Christians were brought on in chains. They knelt to the emperor who offered to spare their lives if they would become Saracens or Turks or pagans—that is, if they would adopt his religion. Of course, they indignantly refused and were led off to be burnt, leaving the emperor restlessly soliloquizing to the effect that all Christians must be burnt and all doctors, too, if they could not cure him.

This was the cue for the family doctor to enter with a specialist.

“Come sta vostra MaiestÀ stamattina?” inquired the family doctor, and the patient declared himself no better—he was much the same.

I expected the doctor to feel his pulse and look at his tongue, but the buffo told me that this is not done in leprosy and that it was wrong of his brother at the afternoon performance to outrage realism by making one of them lay his hand upon the emperor’s fevered brow; his father had reproved him for it and the action was not repeated in the evening. One cannot be too careful in dealing with diseases of a contagious nature.

The doctors consulted, and with unexpected unanimity and rapidity recommended the emperor to bathe in the blood of six children. He agreed, and said to the sentinel—

“Let six children be arrested at once and brought to me.”

The sentinel showed the doctors out and departed to execute the order, returning with six children already half dead with fright. The emperor addressed him—

“Children,” he said, “for twelve years I have suffered from a painful and irritating disease. My learned physicians advise me that a bath of your blood will restore me to health. The remedy is so simple that I have resolved to try it. Of course, the first step will be to put you all to death. This I regret, but—”

Here he was interrupted by the sobs and cries of the children—

“We do not want to die, your Majesty!”

He assured them of his sympathy, but begged them not to stray from the point, explaining that, as it was a question of saving the life of the Emperor of the World, their personal wishes could not be consulted and they had better prepare to have their blood shed at once. They trembled violently and, choking with tears and anguish, knelt to him for mercy.

“PietÀ, MaiestÀ, pietÀ!”

It was a view of the situation which had not occurred to him. The children, being too young to understand the nature of his complaint, rashly leapt on the bed and embraced him. The noble sufferer reconsidered while the children continued to cry—

“PietÀ, MaiestÀ, pietÀ!”

He was touched with compassion, he wavered, he could resist no longer.

“It is not just,” he declared, “to kill all these children; if that is the only remedy, I am content to die.”

So he pardoned them and they danced away, joyfully shouting, “Evviva Costantino!”

The doctors puzzled me. After languishing for twelve years, why should the patient suddenly call in a specialist? I wondered whether perhaps he disbelieved entirely in doctors, and had at last yielded to the reiterated entreaties of his adorata mamma.

“Now do, my dear, be guided by those who must know better than yourself. It is such a pity you will persist in going on like this. If only you would try to realize how much it distresses me to witness your sufferings! Why not take a second opinion? What I always say is: Make proper inquiries, go to a good man, follow his treatment and you will derive benefit.”

Twelve years of this sort of thing would bring round the most obstinate emperor. The buffo, however, assured me that nothing of the kind had happened; no specialist had been called in, those two doctors had had charge of the case from the beginning, the emperor was an orphan who had never known a mother’s loving care and I must have been drawing upon my imagination or my personal reminiscences. Nevertheless, like a true Sicilian, he congratulated me upon the modification and promised to speak to his father about it with a view to introducing it next time the doctors come to see the emperor—that is in about a year and a half.

And then, what became of the doctors? Were they also pardoned?—they stood more in need of pardon than the poor children. Or were they burnt for failing to cure the emperor?—which would not have been fair, seeing that he would not give their proposal a trial. The buffo explained that they knew this was to be their last chance, and that if they did not cure him in two hours they were to be burnt with the Christians. They had proposed their barbarous treatment not expecting it to have any beneficial effect on his health but merely to gain time, and they had escaped.

As soon as the children had danced away, the patient pulled up the bed-clothes, which had become disarranged owing partly to his restlessness and partly to the children’s terror, and composed himself to slumber. He slept, woke and told his dream. He slept again, woke and told his dream. He slept again and this time we saw his dream. There was a juggling with the lights and a red gauze was let down. Two quivering clouds descended from heaven; St. Peter, with the keys at his girdle, and St. Paul, with a sword, burst through. They made passes at the sleeping emperor and spoke antiphonally, one being a tenor and the other a bass. They announced that the Padre Eterno was pleased with him for pardoning the six children, and that if he would send for Silvestro, a hermit living on Monte SirÀch (i.e. Soracte, near Rome, where there is now a church dedicated to S. Silvestro), he would be told what to do. The saints and the quivering clouds rose and disappeared. The emperor woke for the third time, called Captain Mucioalbano, told him his dream and sent him to fetch Silvestro. It was all carried out with extreme reverence and the applause was enthusiastic.

The second act passed before the hermit’s grotto on Monte SirÀch. Enter Captain Mucioalbano with two comic Saracen soldiers. They have searched all the mountain and this is the only grotto they have found; they hope it will prove to be the right one, for they are tired and hungry.

“Come out, come out, come out,” exclaims Captain Mucioalbano.

“You are a pagan,” says a voice within.

“Yes, I know,” shouts the captain, “but never mind that. Come out, I want to speak to you.”

Enter, from the grotto, Silvestro who declares he will have no dealings with Turks.

“That has nothing to do with it,” says the captain. “I come from Constantine, Emperor of the World,”—and he tells him about the twelve years’ illness, the constant irritation and the mysterious vision.

Silvestro bows his head, crosses himself, and says—

“I understand.”

“Then do not keep his Majesty waiting,” says the captain. “Come at once and cure him.”

Silvestro agrees to come, but not till he has celebrated Mass, at which he invites them to be present. They laugh at the idea—Saracens at Mass, indeed!—and when they see that he is serious they laugh more; it is, in fact, such a good joke that in a spirit of What next? they accept his invitation, intending to jeer. First, however, they want something to eat. Silvestro has nothing for them; besides, one does not eat before Mass.

“But we are hungry,” they say. “You don’t fast all the year; what do you eat?”

Silvestro, like so many hermits, lives on roots, but he has not yet sown the seed—he will sow it now. The soldiers object, they are not going to wait four months for their dinner. Silvestro did not mean that they should: the seed will grow during Mass and they shall eat the roots afterwards. They are more amused than ever, but consent to wait. Silvestro sows his seed in two places and they all go off to Mass.

An angel descends with ballet-girl feet, performs an elegant dance and blesses the seed, which by a simple stage trick immediately grows up in two flower-pots. The angel dances again and disappears.

Silvestro returns from Mass with the captain, who is deep in thought, and the two soldiers, who show comic incredulity in every movement. The captain tells Silvestro that during Mass he had a vision of the Passion. Silvestro is not surprised.

“Ah!” he says musingly, “yes; that, I suppose, would be so.”

The captain is so much impressed he is not at all sure he ought not to be baptized. The soldiers, who are too hungry to pay any attention, interrupt—

“What about that food?”

They had been standing with their backs to the full-blown turnips. Silvestro turns them round and they are stupefied to see that the miracle has been performed. They are all three converted and insist on being baptized instantly. Silvestro performs the ceremony, somewhat perfunctorily, and promises to cure the emperor. They shout, “Evviva Silvestro!” and dance for joy as the curtain falls.

For the third act we returned to the palace in Rome. Costantino was still in bed, his son Fiovo and his nephew Sanguineo were with him attempting to comfort him; he was pointing out that it is little use trying to comfort a man who is, and has been for twelve years, enduring such extreme discomfort. They were interrupted by a messenger who announced the return of the captain with Silvestro.

“Let them be brought in,” said the emperor.

Accordingly they came, and the patient repeated to Silvestro all about the twelve years’ illness and the constant irritation. Silvestro imitated the emperor’s action to show he understood how unpleasant it must be. The patient then recounted his vision and asked—

“Can you propose any remedy?”

“Become a Christian. The water of baptism will wash away your disease.”

The emperor hesitated not a moment. Silvestro retired to have a cup fixed into his right fist and filled with real water, while the sufferer cleverly turned down the bedclothes and, with the assistance of Fiovo and Sanguineo, got out of bed and stood upright, showing his body and arms covered with the dreadful marks of the leprosy.

Silvestro returned and solemnly performed the sacrament of baptism, pouring all the water over the kneeling emperor who shivered violently with the cold, so violently that, while he rose, his leprosy fell from him as it had been a garment and his flesh became as the flesh of Samson—which in fact it was, for ordinary naked men are so seldom required that by changing his head one marionette can double the parts.

Then Costantino danced for joy and embraced Silvestro, he embraced Fiovo, embraced Sanguineo, embraced Captain Mucioalbano, embraced the comic soldiers, embraced Silvestro again and made him bishop over all bishops—that is Pope of Rome. They were all dancing and embracing one another indiscriminately as the curtain fell.