The next time I was in Palermo, Turiddu, the conduttore, who used to take me about the town, had returned after being for a year in Naples. He was employed at another hotel, but that did not prevent his making an appointment to take me to the marionettes. My experiences at Trapani had removed all sense of danger, and I now felt as safe in the theatre as in the streets of London. Statistics may or may not support the view, but I am inclined to attribute the general impression that Sicily is more dangerous than other countries, less to the frequency of crime there than to the operatic manner in which it is committed. So that I no longer wanted Turiddu to protect me. As the figures on the stage were to interpret the drama to the public, so he was to interpret to me their interpretation. The ingenious French gentleman at Calatafimi would, perhaps, have classified him as an incarnation of the book of the words.

The theatre was already full when we arrived. We had had to buy another straw hat on the way, to preserve our dignity and incognito; this had delayed us, and the play had begun, but the audience politely made room for us in the gallery at the side.

We were in a wood and there was a picturesque, half-naked, wild man on the stage with loose, brown hair hanging down to his waist; he wore a short, green skirt trimmed with silver braid, a wreath of pink and white roses, yellow leather boots and gaiters; a mantle fell from his shoulders to the ground and made a background of green to his figure. He was actually, as I afterwards discovered, about thirty inches high and his roses were as large as real roses, so that his wreath was enormous and looked very well. Turiddu whispered to me that he was Samson, which made me inquire whether they were going through the whole Bible this winter, but he said this was an exceptional evening, after which they would return to the usual story.

Samson had already killed the lion with a blow of his sinewy right arm; its body lay in the middle of the stage, and the busy bees were at work filling its carcase with honey. He observed them, commented upon their industry, tasted the honey and composed his riddle.

The next scene was the hall of audience in the king’s palace. Guards came in and placed themselves at corners. They were followed by a paladin in golden armour with short trousers of Scotch plaid made very full, so that when he stood with his legs together he appeared to be wearing a kilt. Turiddu and I both took him for a Scotchman and, as I had seen Ottone and Astolfo d’Inghilterra in the teatrino at Trapani, there seemed to be no reason why he should not be one. Highlanders, of course, do not wear trousers, but we supposed that his Sicilian tailor had had little experience in the cutting of kilts. Whatever he was, he had an unusually animated appearance, for, by a simple mechanism, he could open and shut his eyes. Then came a lady, and the knight kissed her. She was followed by a king and his prime minister, neither of them very splendid, their robes being apparently dressing-gowns, such as one might pick up cheap at any second-hand clothes shop in the Essex Road, Islington. As each of these personages entered, the courtiers, who were not in view, shouted “Evviva.” Last of all came Samson.

There was a dispute and it was to be submitted to the king, whom they addressed as Pharaoh. I said to Turiddu

“But Pharaoh was king of Egypt and all this happened in Palestine if, indeed, it happened anywhere.”

“Pharaoh also governed Palestine,” replied Turiddu.

The dispute arose out of the killing of the lion which had been about to attack the lady, and Samson, having delivered her, was by every precedent of romance bound to marry her and wished to do so. But she was already engaged to the golden Scotchman, and that was why he had kissed her. After much discussion it was agreed that if the paladin should guess the riddle to be put forth by Samson he might marry the lady, otherwise Samson should have her. All was done regularly and in the presence of King Pharaoh.

Samson then propounded his riddle: “Out of the eater came forth meat, and out of the strong came forth sweetness.”

The golden Highlander winked his eyes, put his fist up to his forehead and meditated anxiously for some time. Then he said

“Sono confuso.”

He wanted to give it up, but the lady would not allow this, and King Pharaoh, taking in the situation, ruled that he must have time; so they all went away except the knight and the lady. Then the poor paladin made the best use of his time and gave his whole attention to the riddle; sometimes he winked his eyes, and sometimes he put his fist up to his head and meditated as hard as ever he could, turning first one way and then the other. But nothing came of it; he only repeated

“Sono confuso.”

The lady continued her encouragement, saying that riddles were seldom easy to guess, that he must not worry too much and the true answer would come into his head, probably while he was thinking of something else; but he only turned away and said again

“Sono confuso.”

The lady did not mind how stupid he was, for she was really in love with him; but she began to perceive that, unless something were done, she might have to marry a man who, though very strong and clever enough to compose a riddle, was unable to wink his eyes, so she undertook to see Samson alone and try to inveigle the answer out of him. The knight, having had some experience of her powers of persuasion, was comforted, discontinued his meditations, dropped his fist, said “Addio,” embraced her and left the stage.

Samson now came on and the first thing he did was to put his arm round the lady’s neck. She was quite ready for him and put her arm round his. Thus they stood indulging in a little preliminary fondling till she asked him point-blank to tell her “il mistero dell’ oscuro problema.” He instantly removed his arm and stood off, exclaiming with great firmness

“No, no, no, non posso!”

Thereupon she began to go away as though all was over between them. It was a simple ruse, but it deceived the framer of the riddle; he drew her towards him in repentance, put his arm round her neck again and whispered into her ear. She took a moment to consider, and then laughed. It was not the spontaneous laugh of a person overwhelmed by the irresistible humour of a good joke, it could not well have been that, assuming that he had told her the true answer; nor was it the perfunctory laugh of a person pretending to be amused. It was a laugh of heartless mockery.

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the lady.

Samson smelt mischief and brought the curtain down with a fine speech, threatening her with his wrath if she should betray him.

The next act passed in the same hall of audience; soldiers entered and stood as guards, and then came Pharaoh. He was followed by two obviously comic men, who might have been costermongers or knockabout brothers from a music hall, and one comic woman. The men wore modern shirts and trousers and long-tailed coats, or rather dressing-gowns, that had once been as good as those worn by Pharaoh and his prime minister. Turiddu told me they were Pasquino and Onofrio, and the woman, who seemed to be just an ordinary woman out of the market with an apron, was Colombina. But the people give Pasquino the pet name of Peppinino and call the woman Rosina. These are the masks of Palermo, whose origin, like that of other Italian masks, is of great antiquity. They grew up to supply a want just as in our own day we have seen Ally Sloper growing up to supply a want of the people of London.

There was a dispute as to which of the two men Rosina was to marry, and the question had been referred to King Pharaoh who decided that it was a case for trial by riddle, and, accordingly, Rosina propounded a riddle which was in four questions; after each question Onofrio turned away his head to meditate, while Rosina, unobserved, whispered the answer into the ear of Pasquino who presently announced it in a loud voice and then danced with Rosina in triumph.

The four questions and answers were

Q. A man that was no man A. An eunuch

Q. Threw a stone that was no stone A. A pumice-stone

Q. At a bird that was no bird A. A bat

Q. Sitting on a tree that was no tree A. An elder-tree.

This being a riddle and in dialect and, moreover, dialect spoken in the presence of a king, certainly was, or rather was intended to be, humorous. Nevertheless, King Pharaoh was as little amused as our own Queen Victoria would have been if Ally Sloper and his companions had been taken to Windsor to perform in cockney slang before her. Pharaoh had to sit it out because he was there to see fair play, but he was so bored that he failed to observe how shamelessly Rosina was cheating; so she won her cause and danced off with Pasquino.

Turiddu explained to me that elder-trees are in the habit of drying up and falling down dead, a thing not done by properly conducted trees. I asked him what all this had to do with the play. He had just bought a handful of melon seeds from a man who was pushing his way about among the audience, and was munching them contentedly, not in the least put out by the course the story had taken. He said we had been witnessing a comic interlude intentionally introduced to amuse the boys by burlesquing the situation in the principal story the extreme seriousness of which might otherwise have depressed them unduly. I had read of such things being done in mediaeval mystery plays, and here was an instance in my presence and not as an imitation or resuscitation of a dead archaism but as a vital growth.

The interlude being over, the original story was resumed. The paladin and the lady entered, followed by Pharaoh and his prime minister, who had gone off to make room for the final dance, and lastly, by Samson. The golden paladin took the stage, winking excessively, and, in a triumphant, overbearing manner, said

“What is sweeter than honey? and what is stronger than a lion?”

Samson glared at the lady who ostentatiously shook her head.

“Ha, ha, ha!” jeered the paladin, and Samson covered his face for shame. The lady continued to shake her head, but, like the lady in another play, she did protest too much and Samson’s suspicions were confirmed. He exercised great self-control and appealed to Pharaoh, pointing out that it was absurd to suppose his riddle could have been guessed by an unassisted Scotchman, no matter how bright his armour, and concluded his speech by openly accusing the lady of having betrayed him. This was too much for the paladin; he drew his sword and approached Samson to pay him out for his rudeness and for not admitting that he had been fairly beaten. Before he could finish the speech that usually precedes a stage duel, Samson, who was unarmed, knocked him down in self-defence with one blow of his fist. He fell back upon Pharaoh who happened to be standing behind him; Pharaoh fell back upon his prime minister who happened to be standing behind him; the prime minister fell back upon the lady who happened to be shaking her head in protest behind him, and all four came to the ground together. Trumpets sounded, the piano struck up, the operators stamped with their clogged feet, the audience applauded and there were calls for “Sansone,” but it was not a moment for responding to calls. Soldiers came on one by one and Samson knocked them down; they came two by two and he knocked them down; they came three by three and he knocked them down. Between his feats of strength he frequently put his long hair back with his hand, so that it should fall behind and not hinder his movements or obstruct his sight. When he had done, the curtain fell on about thirty soldiers, heaps upon heaps, writhing in their death agonies.

The next act was in a wood and there was the Highland paladin who had not been killed when Samson knocked him down; he had, however, been a good deal hurt and was winking more than ever. There were also a few soldiers who had either recovered or had not been knocked down in the previous scene; in these cases, as with earthquakes, one has to wait to find out who is killed and who survives. Turiddu said that Samson was being arrested and presently some more soldiers entered with a prisoner, but it was the wrong man; it was, in fact, Samson’s father. He was led away in chains. Then they brought on Samson with several yards of iron chain coiled round and hanging down from his joined hands.

“Andiamo, andiamo,” said the soldiers, but the jubilant paladin could not resist the temptation to stop the soldiers and make a taunting speech which amounted to

“Here is the end of all your rage, O Sansone!”

Samson listened with great forbearance and, when it was his turn, replied in a speech full of dignity, containing a great deal about gloria and vendetta and the weight of his chains and il cuore di Sansone, and he threatened them over and over again, and struggled and shook himself and made great efforts to get free, so that the soldiers shrank back. Suddenly he broke his chains, and the soldiers all ran away and Samson after them, leaving the paladin alone. A soldier soon returned and announced that Samson was committing deeds of violence behind. This frightened the paladin; he winked nervously and hurried away, exclaiming

“Arrest him, arrest him; I’m off,” amid the derisive laughter of the audience.

Then Samson came on in his fury, armed with the jawbone of an ass; Turiddu said it was of a horse, but I knew better, at least, I knew what it ought to have been. The soldiers did their best, but he knocked them all down again as before amid immense cheering.

The next scene was outside a castle in the country. Samson came on alone with his jawbone, and stood silent, very terrible, and waiting for an opportunity to break out.

The silence was prolonged. Nothing happened. It was a pause of expectation.

Then we heard a voice, a solemn, cavernous voice with a vibrato like a cinematograph, calling loud and slow

“Sansone, Sansone, Sansone!”

“Whose voice is that?” exclaimed Samson, looking round and seeing no one.

The voice repeated its call two or three times and at last Samson recognized it.

“E la voce del mio genitore.”

“Sansone, Sansone, Sansone! In questa torre sono incarcerato.”

Then Samson understood that Manoah had been arrested and imprisoned and must be delivered. He approached the castle and knocked.

“Chi e?” said the porter.

“Son io, Sansone.”

We heard a movement of consternation within the castle and then Samson called out

“Aprite.”

There was more consternation and the voice of Pasquino or Onofrio was heard speaking in dialect which made the audience laugh. The castle sent a messenger who came on and asked what Samson wanted.

“Open the door and give me my father,” said Samson with suppressed rage. Throughout Samson behaved with extreme moderation. But the messenger, instead of doing as he was told, approached Samson in a hostile manner. Samson took him in his arms and, with his great strength, threw him up and out of sight. We heard his body fall inside the castle walls.

“Aprite,” said Samson.

Then several messengers came, sometimes singly, sometimes two together, and once four soldiers came and said

“Va via, Sansone,” but they only got themselves into trouble, for he took them all up and threw them back into the castle and we heard each of them fall separately.

“Aprite,” said Samson, “datemi il mio genitore.”

Then there came a comic dwarf; Samson looked at him scornfully, and saying

“Cosa vuoi, Insetto?” took him up, twirled him round and round and threw him away.

Then Pasquino and Onofrio came on; Samson, after doing them some damage, but not so much as they deserved because they were favourites with the audience, passed by them and disappeared in the direction of the castle gate. We heard him knock and we heard the movement within, indicating serious alarm, while the masks made comments in dialect. This was repeated and repeated with a roaring crescendo until, with a crash, the walls of the castle fell upon the stage a bushel of stones and Samson entered carrying the castle gates under his left arm and his father on his right, and the delighted audience applauded as the curtain fell.

After this we came away, which I have often regretted since, because these marionettes were the best I had seen. They were worked by artists who understood the handling of repose and the value of small things well placed. Occasionally, it is true, the figures moved too much and were unintentionally comic, but wonderful effects were produced by very slight movements. When a puppet was delivering a tirade, the listener, standing as motionless as one of the knights at Catania, would sometimes turn his head almost imperceptibly, or shift his weight from one leg to the other, or place his right hand on his hip with his arm a-kimbo. The action not only expressed contempt, acquiescence, or boredom as the case required, but vivified the whole scene, spreading over it like the ripples from a pebble thrown into a pond.

If I had been as strong as Samson I would have stayed to the end, for I knew he could not be wearing all that loose, brown hair merely to toss it back when he was fighting. The Philistines would come later on and bribe the lady to entice him and see wherein his great strength lay, and he would be enticed and, forgetting how she had betrayed him over the riddle, would tell her everything; for he had a guileless, generous nature, and every time he was deceived thought it an exceptional case and no rule for future conduct. And presently the lady would make him sleep upon her knees and a young man would come with a pair of scissors and crouch under her mantle and cut off his locks and drop them into a shallow round box upon the floor, as in Carpaccio’s picture in Milan, and she would wake him up, exclaiming

“The Philistines be upon thee, Samson,” and he would rise powerless and be taken and bound in fetters of brass.

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.