Castellinaria, and Other Sicilian Diversions Part 11

"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."

CHAPTER V ARGANTINO

As I had missed the emotional interview at the tomb the buffo generously arranged that there should be a private repet.i.tion 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 to do the exercises, sang extracts from his repertorio, which includes _Otello_, _Rigoletto_, _I Pagliacci_ and _Cavalleria 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 gioventu tempestosa as have been refused by the p.a.w.nbroker, and choosing the least suitable decks herself out therein, thinking thus to honour the festa--even so on this piano were acc.u.mulated artificial flowers, photographs in metal frames, a sprinkling of gla.s.s 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 was BETKOVEN, with every letter distinctly 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 pa.s.s a few hours with people who consider Bellini to have written the last note in music is as restful and refres.h.i.+ng 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 astonis.h.i.+ng 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 Sciupe."

I divined that this German melodist could only be either the Viennese Schubert or the French Pole Chopin, but with my English p.r.o.nunciation 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 Sciupe, 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 pa.s.s that way. He will soon have a.s.similated 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 s.h.i.+eld 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 c.u.mbrously; 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 backwards and 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s, 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, as in 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.

The buffo was very proud of this scene, and no wonder.

"There is nothing like it in Dante. But then," he continued, "there would not be likely to be. What is Dante? As versification, as language, his poem is fine, splendid, supreme, above all other poetry books; but as sense, what is it? And then again, why should Dante go about to make me believe in devils? Me! the ruler of all the devils in the teatrino! As though I did not know more about devils than anyone.

Dante is the Emperor of Words, but the buffo is the Emperor of Deeds.

And then his obscurity! As a theme for discussion Dante is as obscure as religion. One says: 'It is so.' While another says: 'It is not so.' As men discuss a melon and one says: 'Inside it is red.' While another says: 'Inside it is white.' Who can bear testimony to the truth of Dante's words? We cannot cut his poem open and see his inner meaning.

Whereas I have cut my inferno open for you. I have shown you what it is like inside, and you can bear testimony to the truth of the subterranean road."

The buffo told me that the Christians in Paris were not armed, but they all got safely away to Montalbano. During the siege, the Pope directed the defence, and the people, following his commands, threw their furniture over the walls with the intention of damaging the enemy; but the Turkish Emperors had made a study of the art of war and taught their men how to hold their s.h.i.+elds over their heads, and thus they warded off the chairs and tables and were able to creep along under cover, approach the city, climb up the walls and descend into the piazza. The first who entered went round to open the gates and let the rest in. As soon as they had recovered from their surprise at finding that the inhabitants had all escaped, they began to commit sacrileges. Balestrazzo, Emperor of Turgovia, occupied the princ.i.p.al church of Paris as a stable for his horses. Rainello, a nephew of the traitor Gano di Magonza, wis.h.i.+ng to do a bravery, went into a church and cried with a loud voice:

"Take down that crucifix; it is only wood; if it had been a G.o.d I should not have denied the faith. Take it away. There is only one G.o.d and Mahomet is his prophet."

With this he leapt on the altar, drew his sword, and was about to hew the crucifix into pieces when a thunderbolt struck him. As he was the first to lay hands upon the sacred images, so he was the first to be struck.

But he recovered; he did not die of the thunderbolt; it was the will of heaven that he should live to be killed by Guido Santo.

It was a pity that I had to go to Calatafimi and could not stay for all this, but before I went I had the satisfaction of seeing Ettorina go mad.

At first she was hardly more than slightly unhinged, yet she was mad enough to enter the enemy's camp by night. The sentinel had just been awakened by the corporal, but she paid no more attention to them than they to her. Nor did she shrink from making consecutive fifths, or downright octaves, with Costanzo as she crossed the stage, going away to fetch a quant.i.ty of wood to light a fire because it was a chilly evening; but, as the buffo pointed out, she had a sufficient dramatic reason to justify the licence. Presently, like the laden Sicilian cart, she staggered back with her f.a.ggots and disappeared. In a few moments we saw the fitful glare from the conflagration she had kindled dancing on the combustible pavilion which took up all the back of the scene. Various Turkish soldiers entered to investigate the cause of the unwonted light, but they did not return to report, she killed them all, one after the other; and this gave time which the buffo utilised by applying a match from below, and, while the pavilion blazed and the audience applauded, Ettorina in her burnished armour went as mad as Tilburina in her white satin till the curtain fell.

CHAPTER VI THE ESCAPE FROM PARIS