ARGANTINO
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 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 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 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 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 Sciupe."
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
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 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 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 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, 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 shields 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 principal church of Paris as a stable for his
horses. Rainello, a nephew of the traitor Gano di Magonza, wishing 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 god I should
not have denied the faith. Take it away. There is only one God 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 quantity 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 faggots 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.