The second act passes in prison. Two convicts are talking and a third, a stupid fellow, old, dirty, only half clothed, is sitting apart, stitching together a few more rags. Singing is heard without. Every one in the theatre who had passed under prison walls by night had heard such music and had seen the singers crouching in the shadows; we all knew it was a signal. The two convicts go to the window and reply. A stone is thrown in, wrapped up in a letter,
which tells them that Pietro Longo has killed one of their gang and will be taken to their prison; it is for them to avenge the murder. They confer and agree that the stupid fellow shall be their instrument. They call him from his occupation and instruct him. They tell him that a prisoner will be brought in, he is to ask his name, if he replies “Pietro Longo,” he is to stab him with the knife which they give him. He is so stupid that they have to act it for him, and to make him imitate them till they think he can be trusted. They hide. A prisoner is brought in and talks to the stupid fellow. The stupid fellow has been in prison for years and has talked to hundreds of prisoners. In the course of conversation, without any particular intention, for he has forgotten all about his lesson, he asks the prisoner his name.
“Pietro Longo.”
The stupid fellow remembers that this is his cue for doing something, but cannot remember what. His arm accidentally hits the knife which is stuck in his belt; of course, this is the prisoner he is to kill; he takes out his knife, opens it with his teeth and attacks Pietro who, though unarmed, is
able to defend himself. This puts the stupid fellow out, he was told nothing about the prisoner defending himself. The two convicts, who have been watching, get impatient, come from their hiding and encourage him. This makes matters worse, he was told nothing about this either. He is irritated, he grows wilder and, in a fury, suddenly turns from Pietro and murders the two convicts instead.
The two acts were of about equal length; the first existed merely to introduce the second, and the second merely to introduce the stupid fellow whose part was nearly all gesture and, as I afterwards ascertained, was taken by Giovanni’s brother, Domenico. He may have spoken twenty words, he was too stupid to speak more; the others spoke a good deal, but, except that they had been told beforehand, as to each act, about as much as the reader has been told about the second, all they said was impromptu, so that each repetition, like a Japanese netsuke, would be a unique work of art.
Remembering how continually Sicilians use gesture in ordinary life, it will be understood that in such a play the actual words are of secondary importance. Giovanni, in
working the marionettes had become familiar with all the types that in different grades of society reappear in all plays—the good king, the proud tyrant, the traitor, the faithful friend, the young lover, the noble mother and so on; and, as the words were always improvised, except in such plays as Cavalleria Rusticana, which are exceptional with the Sicilian marionettes, his memory had become stored with conventional phrases suitable for all the usual stage emergencies and always ready for impromptu delivery. His fellow-actors were also familiar with them, having heard the phrases over and over again, and seen the types with their appropriate gestures from their early youth as members of the marionette audience.
It is claimed for this kind of impromptu acting that the actors are freer than when speaking words they have learnt, and can therefore behave with more naturalness. It is the difference between delivering an extempore speech and reciting one that has been learnt—the difference between “recitare a soggetto” and “recitare col suggeritore.” So great is the freedom that an actor may introduce anything appropriate that occurs to him at the moment, and the others must be
ready to fall in with it. Peppino told me that one night in Catania, after the performance, he was sitting in the cool with Giovanni’s family on the pavement and in the road, outside the theatre, when an old beggar stopped to beg. He had come a long way, he knew no one in the town, he had nothing to eat, nowhere to sleep, no money. The mother gave him a penny, Giovanni gave him another, his brother, Domenico, another—every one gave something. The beggar, seeing all that wealth lying in the hollow of his hand, and knowing that he was now safe for a few days, burst into tears and turned away speechless. At the sight of this, Domenico called to him, went after him, met him, emptied his pockets, gave him all he had, took his head in his hands, kissed him on both cheeks, dismissed him, returned to his family and was received with an approval that was too deep for words. Such an improvised incident, the sudden outcome of uncontrollable emotion, may be seen any day in Sicily and might be introduced any evening into one of these unwritten plays by any actor who should take it into his head to do it. The audience, who would probably have seen the play before, would recognize