22. _A Holy Minister_ supplicating the Crucifix with these words: "A broken and contrite heart, O G.o.d, shalt Thou not despise."

23. _Divine Grace_.--A beautiful girl in white with a transparent veil, radiant and joyful, carries a branch of palm.

24. _Peace of Mind_.--The soul reconciled with Jesus Christ. Jesus of Nazareth comforting the soul and opening His arms to receive her: "Come my Beloved, my Bride."

25. _The Soul_.--A lovely maiden, modestly clad, with precious gems on her bosom and a garland of white roses on her brow: "My Beloved is mine and I am His."

26. _The Joy of the Angels_.--They appear as nymphs and sing a hymn of glory to G.o.d and of welcome to the repentant sinner.

27. _The Holy Cross_, decorated with flowers and rays of glory, carried on high by a seraph.

28. _The Holy Virgin with the Cross_.--It is partly wrapped in a precious cloth and the Madonna, full of joy and lovingkindness, invites the people to kiss the holes from which the nails have been drawn.

29. _Calatafimi_.--A handsome, smiling youth in Trojan attire devoutly offering his heart to the crucified Saviour with these words: "Thy blessing be upon us evermore."

A stranger had arrived at the albergo and Donna Maria did not know how to manage unless he supped with me; I was delighted to make his acquaintance and to have his company, especially as he turned out to be an ingenious French gentleman with a pa.s.sion for cla.s.sification. He had come from Palermo and spent the morning at the Temple of Segesta which had pleased him very much and given him no difficulty. It was architecture--a branch of painting. His plans were upset by the rain and, instead of returning to Palermo, he had come on for the night to Calatafimi, where he arrived in time for the procession of _The Prodigal Son_ which had interested him very much but puzzled him dreadfully. He could not cla.s.sify it.

"Why not procession--a branch of drama?" I inquired.

He said it was perhaps not so simple as I thought, and that he had been trying unsuccessfully to work it in with his scheme. I begged him to expound his scheme, which he was so ready to do that I suspected he had intended me to ask this.

"There are," he said, "three simple creative arts. In the first, ideas are expressed in words; this is literature. In the second, ideas are expressed in the sounds of the scale; this is music. In the third, ideas are expressed in rigid forms either round, as in sculpture, or flat, as in painting. We may call this third art painting, that being its most popular phase."

"I see your difficulty," said I. "If drama is not one of the arts, the procession cannot be a branch of drama. But I think the drama is one of the arts all the same."

"Please do not be in a hurry," said the French gentleman. "Any two of these arts cover some ground in common where they can meet, unite and give birth to another distinct art related to both as a child is related to its parents, and inheriting qualities from both. It is to these happy marriages that we owe drama--the offspring of literature and painting; song--the offspring of literature and music; and dance--the offspring of music and painting. This gives us altogether six creative arts.

"And now observe what follows. In the first place, these six arts exist for the purpose of expressing ideas. In the next place, painting is without movement, its descendants, drama and dance, inherit movement, the one from literature, and the other from music. Again, inasmuch as a painter must paint his own pictures, painting does not tolerate the intervention of a third person to interpret between the creator and the public. The painter is his own executive artist; when his creative work is done, nothing more is wanted than a frame and a good light.

Literature permits such intervention, for a book can be read aloud.

Music and song demand performance, and will continue to do so until the public can read musical notation, and probably afterwards, for even Mozart said that it does make a difference when you hear the music performed; while in the case of the drama and the dance the performers are so much part of the material of the work of art that it can hardly be said to exist without them. Is not this a striking way of pointing the essential difference between the creative artist and the executive?"

"Very," I replied. "I am afraid, however, that you have not a high opinion of the executive artist."

"I will confess that he sometimes reminds me of the proverb, 'G.o.d sends the tune and the devil sends the singer.'"

I laughed and said, "We have not exactly that proverb in English, though I have heard something like it. It can, however, only apply to the performer at his worst, whereas you are inclined to look upon him, even at his best, as nothing more than a picture frame."

"And a good light," he added. "Don't forget the good light. Frame or no frame, a picture presented in a bad light or in the dark is no more than a sonata performed badly or not at all."

"Well, let us leave the performer for the present and return to your second trio of arts. Are you now going to combine them, as you did the first, and raise a third family in which a place may be found for such things as processions?"

"That," he replied, "may hardly be, for there is no couple of them that has not a parent in common. But there is no reason why any two or more of the six arts should not appear simultaneously, a.s.sisting one another to express an idea. Thus an ill.u.s.trated book is not drama--it is literature a.s.sisted by painting. And so a symphony ill.u.s.trating a poem is not song--it is music a.s.sisted by literature, or vice versa, and is sometimes called Programme Music. When we look at dissolving views accompanied by a piano, we are not contemplating a dance--we are looking at painting ill.u.s.trated by music; and, if there is some one to explain the views in words, literature is also present. When you come to think of it, it is rare to find music and painting either alone or together without literature. Except in the case of fugues or sonatas and symphonies, which are headed 'Op. ---' so-and-so, or 'No. ---' whatever it may be, music usually has a t.i.tle. And except in the case of such things as decorative arabesques and sometimes landscapes, painting usually has a t.i.tle. The opportunity of supplying a t.i.tle is peculiarly tempting to literature who produces so many of her effects by putting the right word in the right place."

I said that this was all very interesting, but what had become of the procession? He replied that he was giving me, as I had requested, a preliminary exposition of his scheme.

"Comic opera," he continued, "is drama interrupted by song and dance.

Grand opera is the simultaneous presentation of most, perhaps all, of the six arts. There is no reason in nature against any conceivable combination; it is for the creative artist to direct and for the performing artists to execute the combination so that it shall please and convince the public. And now, _revenons a nos processions_, where can we find a place for them?"

"Surely," said I, "some such combination will include them--unless they have nothing to do with art."

"I have thought that perhaps they have nothing to do with art, for art should not be tainted with utility; but religious pictures are tainted with utility just as much. Besides, I do not like to confess myself beaten."

It was plain the procession was not going to be allowed to escape. I considered for a moment and said--

"I suppose we may not cla.s.sify the procession as literature a.s.sisted by dance, because literature ought to have words and dance ought to have music."

"The words are not omitted," he replied; "they are in the little book.

Besides, we have the story in our minds as with programme music. The omission of the music from the dance is more serious. It may be that we shall have to call it a variety of drama, as you originally suggested."

"Oh, but that," I replied modestly, "was only thrown out before I had the advantage of hearing your scheme of cla.s.sification. May it not be that--"

"I have it," he interrupted. "Of course, how stupid I have been! The procession does not move."

"Does not move!" I echoed. "Why, it moved all through the town."

"Yes, I know; but things like that often happen in cla.s.sification," he replied calmly. "Properly considered, each figure and each group ill.u.s.trated a separate point in the story, and was rigid. They went past us, of course; and if they had gone on cars it would have been less puzzling; but these good people cannot afford cars and so the figures had to walk. It would have done as well if the public had walked past the figures, but that would have been difficult to manage. The only movement in the procession was in the story which we held in our minds, and of which we were reminded both by the t.i.tle and by the little book which we held in our hands. The procession must be cla.s.sified as literature ill.u.s.trated by living statuary, or sculpture, which, of course, is a branch of painting."

I regret that the French gentleman left Calatafimi so early next morning that I had no opportunity of ascertaining whether he slept well after determining that processions do not proceed.

PALERMO

CHAPTER XIV--SAMSON

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 cla.s.sified 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 Ess.e.x 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.