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.
CHAPTER XV—THE CONVERSION OF THE EMPEROR CONSTANTINE
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