“I am not sure that it is a bad plan,” he replied, “it is true we do not allow it in Palermo; but one moment, if you please, there is something coming into my head. Ah! yes, it is about holding up the mirror to nature. Now here, in Catania, this stage presents a truer mirror of nature than ours in Palermo. For have you not observed in life that, with the exception of a few really sensible people like you and me, most men are merely puppets in the hands of others? They do not act on their own ideas nor do they think for themselves; also they adopt any words that are put into their mouths. Now, it seems to me that the proportion of real men compared with marionettes is not greater on this stage than we observe it to be in life, and therefore we may say that the proprietor of this theatre is following the advice of your poet.”
He noticed that one of the chief characteristics of the Catanian marionettes comes into evidence when they are fighting. Two of them take up their positions opposite each
other, sidling round and round like fighting cocks preparing to set to; they raise their scimitars, cross them and rub them one against the other, like butchers sharpening their knives; after a certain time spent in this sword exercise, they cross the stage and, turning suddenly round, face one another and strike; the consequence of this manœuvre is that they both fall to the ground. We were looking on at such a duel and when the climax came the buffo rose to his feet and clapped his hands expecting the rest of the public to join, but to his surprise they remained cold, and declined “to crown his applause with their acquiescence,” as he expressed it. He turned wonderingly to the young man who was selling lemonade and said, speaking with difficulty in broken Tuscan, as a Portuguese gentleman from Rio might be expected to do:
“Tell me, Caro mio, why do not the public join me in applauding?”
“My dear Sir,” replied the young man, “it is out of the question. You do not seem to be aware of the identity of the marionette who has just been killed. He is a Christian and the brother-in-law of Rinaldo. He is Ruggiero, a very noble youth. The public do not applaud, because they are sorry for his death and, besides, it would be an insult to Rinaldo if they were to applaud at the death of his brother-in-law.”
On hearing this the buffo borrowed my handkerchief and wiped away two tears, one from each of his eyes, then he returned it politely and began mumbling to himself.
“What are you saying?” I inquired. “Why do you speak so low?”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” he replied, “I was merely reciting a prayer for the repose of the soul of poor Ruggiero.”
* * * * *
The next morning I was down before him and had nearly finished my coffee when he came slowly and sadly into the dining-room. I said: