The history of the harlequinade, volume 2 (of 2)

By Maurice Sand

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Title: The history of the harlequinade, volume 2 (of 2)

Author: Maurice Sand

Release date: July 2, 2025 [eBook #76429]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Martin Secker, 1915

Credits: deaurider and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HISTORY OF THE HARLEQUINADE, VOLUME 2 (OF 2) ***

THE HISTORY OF THE HARLEQUINADE

[Illustration]

THE HISTORY OF THE
HARLEQUINADE

BY MAURICE SAND

VOLUME
TWO

LONDON: MARTIN SECKER
NUMBER FIVE JOHN STREET ADELPHI

_First Published 1915_

CONTENTS

PAGE

VIII. PANTALOON 9

IX. THE CANTATRICE 53

X. THE BALLERINA 75

XI. STENTERELLO 89

XII. ISABELLE 121

XIII. SCAPINO 161

XIV. SCARAMOUCHE 207

XV. COVIELLO 231

XVI. TARTAGLIA 259

XVII. SOME CARNIVAL MASKS 275

XVIII. CARLO GOZZI AND CARLO GOLDONI 281

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

PANTALOON _Frontispiece_

FACING PAGE

THE DOCTOR 48

STENTERELLO 96

ISABELLE 128

SCAPINO 176

SCARAMOUCHE 208

COVIELLO 240

THE APOTHECARY 272

THE HISTORY OF THE HARLEQUINADE

VIII

PANTALOON

From the Greek comedies down to our own modern vaudevilles, from the old
satyr besmeared with grape-juice down to Cassandre besmeared with snuff,
at the hands of Aristophanes, Plautus, Terence, Macchiavelli, Beolco,
Molière and Goldoni, the old man of the comedy, like the old man of the
farce, has always been more or less niggardly, credulous, libertine,
duped and mocked, afflicted with rheum and coughs, and, above all,
unhappy.

Whether he is called Strepsiades, Philacleo or Blephirus, in the comedies
of Aristophanes; Theuropides, Euclio, Demipho, Demænetus, Stalino or
Nicobulus, in those of Plautus; Messer Andronico, Pasquale, Placido,
Cornelio or Tomaso, in those of Beolco; Pantalone, Zanobio, Facanappa,
Bernardone, the Doctor, the Baron, Cassandro or the Biscegliese, in the
Commedia dell’ Arte; Collofonio, Pandolfo, Diomede, Demetrio, Coccolin,
Gerontio or Bartolo, in the Italian _commedia sostenuta_; Gaultier
Garguille, or Jacquemin Jadot, in the French farce; or yet Orgon,
Gorgibus, Arpagon or Sganarelle, in the pieces of Molière—fundamentally
he is always, under whatever of these names we find him, the Pappus or
the Casnar of the Atellanæ.

“Pappus” (says M. Ferdinand Fouque), “whom the Greeks called
Πάππος, is sometimes a miserly, libidinous, finicking and
astute old man, sometimes a simple old fellow of good faith;
and he is always a dupe, be it of a mistress, a rival, a son, a
lackey or some other intriguer. He corresponds to the Doctor of
the Bolognese and the Pantaloon of the Venetians. A cornaline
shows us his bearded mask.... He is dressed in purple. The Osci
had another old man called Casnar, who nowise differed from
Pappus.”

In the _Mostellaria_ of Plautus the son of Theuropides, an old Athenian
merchant, falls madly in love with a musician during the absence of his
father; he purchases her and takes her to his father’s house, where in
the company of several friends he abandons himself to all manner of
orgies. One day, when our gay revellers had drunk _à la grecque_—that is
to say, until they could not stand—old Theuropides arrives. Tranio, a
veritable Scapin, the young man’s devoted slave, invents a ruse to keep
the old man from the house. He orders the principal door to be closed
and bolted, and then concealing himself near at hand he firmly awaits
Theuropides.

THEUROPIDES. What is the meaning of this? My house shut up in
broad daylight? (_He knocks._) Hola! Someone! Open the door!

TRANIO (_approaching and pretending not to recognise him_). Who
is this man who comes so close to the house?

THEUROPIDES. No one answers, but it seems to me, unless I have
lost my senses, that here comes Tranio, my slave.

TRANIO. Oh, my lord Theuropides, my good master, what
happiness! Is it possible that it is you? Permit me to salute
you and to wish you a good day. Has your health always been
good in those far lands, my lord?

THEUROPIDES. I have always been in the health in which you see
me now.

TRANIO. You could not be in better.

THEUROPIDES. And you others? Have your brains become addled in
my absence?

TRANIO. But why, pray, should you ask that, my lord?

THEUROPIDES. Why? Because you all leave the house at once and
none remains to take care of it. I was on the point of kicking
down the door.

TRANIO. Oh, oh, sir! Did you really touch the door?

THEUROPIDES. And why should I not touch it? Not only have I
touched it, but, as I tell you, I have almost broken it down.

TRANIO. You overwhelm me with dismay. Yet again I ask you, have
you touched this house?

THEUROPIDES. What now? Do you take me for a liar? Am I not
telling you that I not only touched, but that I knocked as
loudly as I could?

TRANIO. Oh, gods!

THEUROPIDES. What’s the matter?

TRANIO. By Hercules, you are wrong.

THEUROPIDES. What are you telling me?

TRANIO. It is impossible to tell you all the ill that you
have done. It is atrocious, irreparable. You have committed a
frightful sacrilege.

THEUROPIDES. How?

TRANIO. Oh, sir, withdraw at once, I beg of you, and quit this
fatal house. At least come over here. But, in reality, now, did
you touch the door?

THEUROPIDES. Of course. Of necessity I must have touched it,
since I knocked. It is impossible to do the one without the
other.

TRANIO. Alack, you are lost, you and yours.

THEUROPIDES. May the gods cause you to perish by your augury,
for you are also mine. But whatever do you mean?

TRANIO. Learn, sir, that some seven months ago we all abandoned
that house, and that since then no one has set foot within it.

THEUROPIDES. The reason, quickly!

TRANIO. I implore you, sir, look well about you to see that no
one is listening.

THEUROPIDES. There is no one; you may speak with confidence.

TRANIO. Take the trouble to look yet again.

THEUROPIDES. I tell you there is no one. You may speak your
secret without fear.

TRANIO. A horrible crime must have been committed in that house.

THEUROPIDES. If you wish me to understand you, speak more
clearly.

TRANIO. I mean that long ago, in your house, a crime of the
blackest must have taken place. We discovered it but lately.

THEUROPIDES. What crime do you mean? Who can have been the
author? Speak, wretch! Do not leave me longer in suspense.

TRANIO. The ancient proprietor of the house, he who sold it to
you, had stabbed a guest with his own hand.

THEUROPIDES. And killed him?

TRANIO. Still worse. After robbing him, he buried him in the
house itself. One evening when my lord your son had supped
abroad, he went to bed upon returning home. We others did the
same. Suddenly—I was sleeping profoundly at the time, and I had
even forgotten to extinguish the lamp—suddenly, then, I heard
my young master crying out. I ran to him and he assured me that
the dead man had appeared to him whilst he was sleeping.

THEUROPIDES. But that was a dream, since he slept.

TRANIO. You are right. But listen. My young master related that
the ghost had told him this——

THEUROPIDES. Still whilst he was asleep?

TRANIO. That is true. The ghost behaved ill. I am astonished to
think that a soul which for sixty years had been separated from
its body should not have thought of choosing a moment in which
your son was awake to pay his visit. I regret to point it out,
sir, but you have at times a certain absence of mind which does
little honour to your judgment.

THEUROPIDES. I am silent.

TRANIO. Here then word for word is what the old spectre said:
“I am a stranger from beyond the seas, the guest of Diapontius.
This is my dwelling, and this house is in my power. Orcus would
have none of me in Acheron. He dismissed me brutally because,
although my body has been buried, it received no honours of
sepulture. I was tricked by my host, who drew me hither and
murdered me for my money. He barely covered me with earth, and
I remained hidden in this house. None but myself knows who I
am, and I demand of you that you quit this house at once.”
These were his words, my lord. The house is accursed, given
over to divine vengeance. I dare not speak to you of all the
apparitions to be seen there every night. Sh! Sh! Listen, do
you hear?

THEUROPIDES (_scared_). What is it? Oh, my poor Tranio, I
implore you, by Hercules, tell me what you heard.

TRANIO. The door moved. Nevertheless I am certain that no one
pushed it.

THEUROPIDES. I am stricken with fear. There is not a drop of
blood left in my body. Who knows but that the dead may come to
drag me living into hell?

TRANIO (_aside, hearing movements in the house_). I am lost.
They will ruin my comedy of phantoms and spectres by their
folly. (To THEUROPIDES.) I am trembling with fear. Go, my lord,
go from that door. Flee, in the name of Hercules, flee, I
implore you.

THEUROPIDES. Tranio!

TRANIO (_pretending to mistake his master for a phantom_). Sir
Spectre, do not call me! I have done nothing! I assure you that
it was not I who knocked at the door.

THEUROPIDES (_trembling_). What ails you? With whom are you
talking?

TRANIO. How, sir? Was it you who called me? In truth, I thought
that it was the dead man who complained of the noise that you
had made. But how do you happen to be still here? Begone, cover
your head; go, and on no account look behind you.

THEUROPIDES (_fleeing_). Great and mighty Hercules, protect me
against these rascally phantoms! (_Exit._)

Pantaloon and Cassandre are no less credulous and poltroon than their
ancestor Theuropides the Athenian.

Angelo Beolco presents two old men in one of his comedies (written
_circa_ 1530). One of these is Messer Demetrio, a doctor, who swears by
the learned doctors of antiquity, Asclepiades, Hippocrates, Æsculapius
and Galen; the other is Ser Cornelio,[1] a Venetian advocate, enamoured,
notwithstanding his years and his infirmities, constantly spitting Latin
and expressing himself pretentiously when in the society of Messer
Demetrio, but employing the common dialect with a certain Prudentia,
whose offices he desires with Beatrice, the lady with whom he is in love.

CORNELIO (_alone_). Never since I first drew breath and was
cast naked upon this world have I been so truly destitute of
ideas, so reduced (as if I had been shut up without eating or
drinking, in the cave of some horrid monster, or as if I were
taken in some colossal spider-web) as I am ever since I have
been here, _ita et taliter quotiens_. I seem as one abandoned
in an empty boat and left alone at the tiller on a storm-swept
sea. But if Hope will only open me her window a little, I shall
get myself out of this embarrassment, and I shall so contrive,
by means of money, presents, and my natural gifts, that I shall
win the favour of this beautiful woman, worthy of the chisel
of Sansovino. I will go find Prudentia, the world-chart of
gallantry.... But here she comes, most opportunely. Good day to
you. Where are you going, my charming Prudentia?

PRUDENTIA. You will do well not to trouble me if your head is
full of fantastic notions; I have not the time to be bothered
with them. You are but a thief grown fat on the miseries of
this poor world, for you would give nothing to a beggar.

CORNELIO. Prudentia, I do not wish to boast, but if you knew
the alms I give, you would be astonished. Amongst other things
I treat all the hospitals of this country to my old discarded
clothes, and never a day of Lent passes but that I myself give
the poor all my old _liards_.

PRUDENTIA. In this fashion you won’t deprive yourself of much,
and you behave in the same way in your love affairs. To procure
assistance, you offer more than you have got, but, when the
obstacle is overcome, you look the other way, you refuse to
know those who have befriended you, and we find that we have
served you for the love of Heaven.

CORNELIO. Aid me, Prudentia; you know that I am tender in the
stomach and soft in the lungs. Wait! I shall give you full
proof of my friendship. If you will promise me your assistance
I promise you on my side to give you a pair of red stockings
which I have worn only four times, and a quartern of excellent
beans; this on condition that you will speak to that young
girl, beautiful as a parrot by Aldo,[2] white as linen, light
as a rabbit; I think that her name is Beatrice, and her
mother’s Sofronia; at least, so I have been told, for I do not
know them otherwise, being a stranger.

PRUDENTIA. I think I know them. I will do what I can to speak
to them; and I will tell them so many little nothings about you
that I am sure the lady will be yours at your pleasure. But how
shall you contrive with all the infirmities that afflict you?

CORNELIO. Get along. You are a giraffe! for ever mocking. Do
you think I am so deteriorated that I don’t know how to set a
horse to a gallop when I wish? Get along, you don’t know me.

PRUDENTIA. No need to glorify yourself. I know your great and
venerable stupidity. When you are with her, best not tell her
your age. Do you understand?

CORNELIO. But for my illnesses, I could tell you some pretty
things, and, thin as I am, I could turn twenty somersaults upon
one hand, and, fatigued as I am, you should see how swiftly I
could race.

PRUDENTIA. Very well, Messer Cornelio, since you are so hot
upon this affair, trust me, I will so act that you shall be
satisfied. Whilst waiting, I beg you to let me have four
_bolognini_ (four halfpence), which I shall be able to repay
you only by saying a deal of good of you.

CORNELIO. May you sole my shoes if I have more than four
_quattrini_ (a halfpenny). My wife refuses to let me carry
money because, she says, I sow it in the earth. But I promise
you that if you bring me a favourable answer I shall without
haggling give you three _bolognini_ in old coin; they have a
hole through the middle, so as to string them round the neck of
a cat. Now I must go; I have been with you too long. Enough!
You understand me. (_Exit._)

PRUDENTIA (_alone_). Go! Go to the devil! you will have
no trouble to get there. Now just consider me that old
ill-accoutred beast. Admire with me, I implore you, the gallant
adventure that has fallen into my hands. I am to serve him for
money, this gouty, unclean, catarrhal old thing, who has taken
it into his head to fall in love with such a beautiful and
virtuous child!

Further on, Cornelio meets Truffa, and, following ever his
amorous idea, he desires to seek the aid of sorcery, and makes
offers to her so as to obtain the favours of the girl. “Look,”
says he, “if I may have this dove by means of _grimoires_ and
incantations without employing that rascally Prudentia, who is
for ever hanging about me, I promise to give you my hat; you
know the one I mean; the one which you bought from me some time
ago, and which I still am wearing to restore its shape.”

PANTALOON, who gives his name to the breeches made all in one piece, is
one of the masks of the Commedia dell’ Arte.

“In Venice” (says M. Paul de Musset), “four improvising
masks occurred in every piece: _Tartaglia_, a jabberer;
_Truffaldino_, a Bergamese caricature; _Brighella_,
representing public orators, and several popular types; and
finally, the famous _Pantaloon_, personifying the Venetian
bourgeois in all his absurdity, and bearing a name whose
etymology is worthy of a commentary. The word is derived from
_pianta-leone_ (plant-the-lion). The old Venetian merchants, in
their fury to acquire territory in the name of the Republic,
planted the lion banner of St Mark wherever possible on the
islands of the Mediterranean; and when they returned to boast
of their conquests, the people mocked them by calling them
_pianta-leoni_.”

According to other authors Pantaloon derives his name simply from San
Pantaleone, the ancient patron of Venice.

Pantaloon is sometimes a father, sometimes a husband; sometimes a widower
or an old bachelor, still ambitious to please, and consequently very
ridiculous; sometimes he is rich, sometimes poor, sometimes miserly and
sometimes prodigal. But he is always a man of ripe age. A native of
Venice, he ordinarily represents the merchant, the tradesman, the father
of two daughters who are extremely difficult to guard. These are Isabella
and Rosaura, or Camilla and Smeraldina, and they are in league with their
soubrettes, Fiametta, Zerbinetta, Olivetta or Catta, to deceive the
impotent vigilance of their senile parent.

In this situation he is always very avaricious, and very mistrustful. One
may apply to him what the slave Strobilus says of his master Euclio in
the _Aulularia_ of Plautus:

“Pumice is not as dry as this old man. He is so miserly that
when he goes to bed he takes the trouble to tie up the mouth of
the bellows, so that they may not lose their wind during the
night. When he washes himself he weeps the water which he is
compelled to use. Some time ago the barber cut his nails. He
carefully gathered up the parings and took them with him lest
he should be a loser.”

The by-names of starveling, skinflint, niggard, Pantaloon the needy,
Pantaloon _cagh’ in aqua_, fit him perfectly. The Bolognese and the
Venetians deride the avarice of Pantaloon and of Doctor Balanzoni.

“They represent him” (says M. Frédéric Mercey) “in the act of
embarking upon a debauch, sitting at an empty table, eating
hare soup, drinking claret diluted at the fountain in the
corner, regaling themselves upon a duck-egg—of which they keep
the yolk for themselves and give the white to their wives—and
providing watered milk for their children; a meal which, as
they assure us, occasions them no gastric overburdenings.”

But Pantaloon is not always quite so mean. Occasionally he confines
himself to being ridiculous. Dressed in his red pantaloons and
dressing-gown, wearing upon his head his woollen cap, and shod in his
Turkish slippers, he fully represents the ancient Venetian merchant
running about his business, buying and selling, with a deal of talk,
oaths and gestures. He is for ever pledging his honour for the truth
of what he says. His ancient probity is well known, and if he hears
any dispute arising, he runs to witness it. Should the discussion
degenerate into a quarrel, he thrusts himself in, anxious to intervene as
a mediator. But Pantaloon was born under an evil star. He so contrives
that it is seldom indeed that blows do not result from his pacific
intervention, and he stands his chance of receiving most of them.

Whether in Venice or on the mainland he is always unlucky. Having one day
hired a horse to go riding, he took with him his lackey Harlequin. The
old screw coming abruptly to a halt, Harlequin delivers a shower of blows
to urge it onwards. The poor beast, in return, kicks him in the stomach.
Harlequin, in a fury, picks up a paving stone to heave it at the horse;
but his aim is so bad that the stone heavily strikes Pantaloon, who had
retained his saddle. Pantaloon turns and perceives Harlequin holding his
stomach and roaring. “What an ill beast they have given us!” says he
piteously to his lackey. “Can you believe that at the same time that it
hit you in the stomach, it fetched me a kick in the middle of my back?”

Pantaloon is always exploited by someone, and Harlequin’s duty is, as
we have seen in the instance cited, to cause him to swallow the most
fantastic shams. Harlequin, perceiving him so naïve, disguises himself as
a merchant and is taken with the conceit to present him such a memoir as
the following:—

“Two dozen chairs of Holland linen; fourteen tables of
marzipan; six faïence mattresses full of scrapings of
hay-cocks; a semolina bed-cover; six truffled cushions; two
pavilions of spider-web trimmed with tassels made from the
moustaches of Swiss doorkeepers; a syringe of the tail of a
pig, with a handle in pile velvet.”

Each of the articles is quoted at a fabulous price, but Pantaloon
consigns the false merchant and his memoir to the devil.

His avarice sometimes gives Pantaloon a certain wit. One day he hears
Harlequin speaking to himself, and saying in the course of casting up
his accounts and writing down the figures: “You have no tail, but you
shall have one!” and thus all the noughts become nines. Pantaloon takes
the note, examines it in the presence of his lackey, and says, “You, you
have a tail and you shall not have one,” and thus he converts all the
nines into noughts, to the great mortification of Harlequin. After that,
Harlequin presents him with a more exact memoir: thus:

To one quarter of roast veal, and one
plaster of unguent for the scurvy 3 livres 10 sols.

To one capon and one belt for Master
Pantaloon 12 livres

To one pasty for Harlequin and two bundles
of hay for the master 1 livre 10 sols.

To one pound of fresh butter and to sweeping
the chimney 12 sols.

To tripe and a mouse-trap 10 sols.

To three sausages and the re-soling of a
pair of old shoes 15 sols.

To shaving the master and to mending
sundry commodities 1 livre 10 sols.
-------------------
Total, 20 livres 7 sols.

Pantaloon has nothing to say to the figures, but he affects to take
offence at seeing the various articles so ridiculously associated and in
his anger throws the paper in the face of Harlequin instead of paying him.

In _Pantalone Spezier_ (Pantaloon the Apothecary), of Giovanni Bonicelli,
Pantaloon argues with his friend the Doctor, a learned man of law, upon
the excellence of their respective professions. The argument ends in
mutual insult. Presently, however, they desire to become reconciled. The
Doctor makes the first advances and sends his gossip a basket containing
two partridges. His servant Harlequin is despatched with it. Pantaloon
is flattered by this courtesy, and gives Harlequin a gratuity of a
quarter-ducat. The latter overwhelms him with blessings, makes a false
exit, returns and relates that in his zeal he came so quickly that he has
torn his breeches. Pantaloon is in the mood to be munificent. He gives
him another quarter-ducat, saying: “Observe, my lad, I do not lend it
to you, I give it to you absolutely.” Harlequin blesses Pantaloon all
over again, makes shift to go, and returns once more. He owes a little to
the tailor who is to mend his breeches; this tailor, who is miserly and
cruel, has threatened him that if he does not bring him a quarter-ducat
he will on the very next occasion that he meets him deprive him of his
pretty little hat (_suo gentil capellino_). Can Pantaloon possibly suffer
that such an injury should be done to his old friend the Doctor through
the person of his servant? Pantaloon yields once more. But Harlequin
returns yet again, and now craves the wherewithal to satisfy a sempstress
from whom his mother has bought a gown for which she cannot pay. The
sempstress threatens to withhold the cloth, which would be an infamous
thing. Pantaloon gives yet again, but with the declaration that this time
it is no more than a loan. Harlequin accepts the condition and departs
in earnest. Pantaloon opens the basket, and instead of partridges finds
it to contain a ram’s head with horns. He calls Harlequin back. “I am
afraid,” says he, “that some of the money I gave you was bad; return it
to me, and I may give you a good ducat instead.” Harlequin, as credulous
as he is astute, returns all the money, whereupon Pantaloon throws the
ram’s head at him, telling him to be off with the head of his father, and
threatening to beat him if he reappears.

“In his shop, the apothecary Pantaloon plays the most
villainous tricks upon his customers, whilst his servants, Nane
and Mantecha, whom he starves, devour his inoffensive drugs
upon the ground that they have the merit of being filling. He
argues with his workmen concerning a minute of time which he
claims they owe him. When it is a question of paying them, he
never has a halfpenny; he cannot even give them the wherewithal
to dine. At last, when they come to threats, he authorises
them to go and fetch on his behalf something from the inn
in a little iron mortar as big as the hollow of his hand,
recommending them to take great care not to break it. He drives
out his little apprentice Mantecha at the hour of dinner.
Tofolo, the father of Mantecha, comes to plead on behalf of his
son. Pantaloon consents to take him back, but on condition that
he shall go home to dinner.”

He does not forget the practical jokes of which he has been made the
butt, for when his will is opened it is found to read: “I bequeath to my
servant Harlequin twenty-five strokes of a whip well laid on.” Sometimes,
however, Pantaloon is in high and brilliant circumstances. He is then so
rich and so noble that he might well become a doge. He has magnificent
villas and millions in his coffers, and he is then _Don Pantaleone_. He
is dressed in velvets, silks and satins, his garments conforming always
to the mode of Venice of the sixteenth century. He is the confidant of
princes, the counsellor of doges, perhaps a member of the Ten. It is
then that he flaunts his erudition, that he enlightens by his advice
the most illustrious marquises of Italy. He is summoned to settle their
differences, but, whether he is noble or simple, he so thoroughly
shuffles the cards that swords are drawn in the end and, being reduced to
employ force to settle quarrels, he plies his Damascene poniard to right
and left.

Pantaloon is always very much in vogue in Venice, in the Bolognese and in
Tuscany.

“A surprising thing” (says M. Frédéric Mercey) “is that our
century, which, if it has not destroyed everything, has
at least altered everything, has been unable to strip the
mask from any of the Italian buffoons. They have braved
the inconstancy of the public, the tyranny of fashion, the
caprice of authors; they have witnessed the death of that
Venetian aristocracy which despised them; they have survived
the Republic and the Council of Ten; Pantaloon, Harlequin and
Brighella, the three masks of Venice, have buried the three
Inquisitors of State. Who is it, what is it, that has saved
them from these revolutions and these catastrophes? Their
popularity.”

Pantaloon has been served up in every sauce in Italy, particularly
towards the end of the eighteenth century. He has been given every shade
of character, and every social condition, like the Neapolitan Pulcinella.
He has been played with and without his brown mask with its grey
moustaches, although tradition exacts that he should always wear it.

Riccoboni writes as follows concerning the type of Pantaloon at the
beginning of the eighteenth century:—

“As regards the character of Pantaloon, he was represented at
first as a merchant, a simple fellow of good faith, but always
in love, and for ever the dupe of a rival, a son, a lackey,
or a serving woman; sometimes, and particularly within the
last hundred years, he has been seen as a kindly father of
a family, a man of honour, tenacious to his word and severe
towards his children. Always has it been doomed that he should
be the dupe of those who surround him, either with a view to
extracting money from his pocket notwithstanding his parsimony,
or to reduce him to surrender his daughter in marriage to a
lover notwithstanding other engagements which he had made. In
short, the character of Pantaloon has done the service intended
by fable; whenever it has been necessary to make of him a
virtuous man, he has been an example to age in the matter of
discretion; when the intention of fable has carried the poet
to invest him with weaknesses he has been the very type of a
vicious old rake. For all this there exists the precedent set
by Plautus, who presents in his comedies old men sometimes
virtuous and sometimes vicious, according to the intentions of
the story which is developed. In the last fifty years there
has been a notion in Venice to correct certain customs of the
country and apply them to the personage of Pantaloon. To carry
out this idea he has been represented sometimes as a husband
or an extremely jealous lover, sometimes as a debauchee, and
sometimes as a ruffler.”

In 1716 the costume of Pantaloon had undergone some change. He no longer
wore his long _caleçon_, but replaced them by breeches and stockings;
he preserved the traditional colours, but often he played in his long
gaberdine, which originally had been red, and later black. It was when
the Republic of Venice lost the kingdom of Negropont that the whole city
put on mourning. Pantaloon, like a good citizen, could not wish to run
counter to the laws and customs of his country. He adopted the black
gaberdine, and he has worn it ever since.

Nevertheless, in the nineteenth century, Pantaloon gave up his Venetian
dress; he became modernised. He assumed a powdered wig and dressed
himself like Cassandre—that is to say, in the fashion of the time of
Louis XIV.

In 1578 Giulio Pasquati, born in Padua, was engaged by the _Gelosi_
troupe, then in Florence, to play the parts of Pantaloon and Magnifico.
In 1580 these rôles were being played in the _Uniti_ troupe by an actor
named Il Braga. In 1630, in the _Fedeli_ troupe, we find them played by
Luigi Benotti, a native of Vicenza; in 1645 by Cialace Arrighi in the
troupe of Mazarin. In 1653, at the Petit Bourbon, a Modenese named Turi
was playing them, and continued to play until his death in 1670.

In 1670, this troupe having no one to take Turi’s place, Louis XIV.
desired that an actor should be requested from the Duke of Modena.
This prince chose Antonio Riccoboni, father of Luigi Riccoboni, known
as Lelio, who went to France in 1716. But Antonio refused, preferring
to remain in the service of the Duke of Modena. It was then that these
rôles underwent a change of name on the Italian stage in Paris, and the
character was undertaken by Romagnesi (Cinthio). In the scenarii of
Gherardi there was not a single Pantaloon. This type became _Géronte_,
_Oronte_, _Gaufichon_, _Trafiquet_, _Persillet_, _Sotinet_, _Brocantin_,
_Tortillon_, _Goguet_, _Grognard_, _Jacquemart_, _Boquillard_, _Prudent_.
Here is a scene from Gherardi between Brocantin and his daughters.

BROCANTIN. What is that work you are doing?

COLUMBINE. It is a valance, but I am afraid that I am making it
too small, for if by good luck I should come to be married——

BROCANTIN (_in a rage_). If by good luck or ill luck you should
come to be married! I know your ways. You are not always to
be seen with a needle and a piece of embroidery in your hand,
and you can sometimes wield the pen. But that is not what I
want to talk about now. Leave your work and listen to me.
(_They sit down._) Marriage—— (_To_ COLUMBINE.) Oh, you are
laughing already, are you? Faith, there is no need to shake
your bridle.... Marriage, I say, being a custom as ancient as
the world, for there were marriages before you, and there will
still be marriages after you——

COLUMBINE. I know, papa. I heard that ever so long ago.

BROCANTIN. I have resolved, so as to perpetuate the family of
Brocantin—— You perceive what I am coming to? I have resolved,
in short, to get married.

ISABELLA _and_ COLUMBINE (_together_). Oh, father!

BROCANTIN. Ah, my daughters, you are very astonished! Yet can
it be denied that I am still a fine figure of a man? Consider
my air, my shape, my lightness (_he leaps and stumbles_).

ISABELLA. You are going to be married, then, father?

BROCANTIN. Yes, if you think it good, my child.

COLUMBINE. To a woman?

BROCANTIN. No. To an organ pipe. What a question!

ISABELLA. You are marrying a woman?

BROCANTIN. I think that each of you has her wits in a sling. Am
I beyond the age? Do you not know that one is never older than
one seems? And Monsieur Visautrou, my apothecary, was telling
me only this morning, whilst giving me some medicine, that I
look less than forty-five.

COLUMBINE. Oh, my father, that was because he was not looking
you in the face.

BROCANTIN. I am as I am, but I feel that I need a wife. I am
bursting with health, and I have found a young woman such as I
could desire, beautiful, young, respectable, rich—in short, a
chance in a thousand.

ISABELLA. Another than I would tell you, my father, what you
risk in marrying. But I, who know the respect which I owe you,
will only tell you that since you are in such good health you
are very wise to take a wife.

BROCANTIN. Ah, you take the thing in a proper spirit. Since you
are so reasonable, learn that I am in treaty about a marriage
for you.

ISABELLA _and_ COLUMBINE (_together_). Oh, my father!

BROCANTIN. Oh, my daughters!

In 1712 the Pantaloon of the forain troup of Ottavio was named Luigi
Berlucci. His reputation was eclipsed by that of Giovanni Crevilli, who,
after having long played in Italy, appeared in the French forain theatres
and became known as the Venetian Pantaloon.

Alborghetti, born in Venice, who performed under the mask for a long time
in Italy the parts of fathers, jealous husbands and tutors, always under
the name of Pantaloon, went to France with the Regent’s company in 1716.
He was a man of means, and he added to his talent for the theatre the
most irreproachable morals, but his rather severe character caused him at
times to treat an estimable wife too harshly. Alborghetti died on the 4th
January 1731, at the age of fifty-five.

In 1732 Fabio Sticotti took up this line. He had been in the company
since 1716, and he had followed his wife, Ursula Astori, the Cantatrice
of the troupe.

“Sticotti, a gentleman of Friuli, in the territories of the
Republic of Venice, was of a good appearance, and no less
in request in society on account of his extreme joviality
than well received in the theatre for his talent. He had
two sons, Antonio and Micaëlo Sticotti, who played at the
Comédie-Italienne, and a daughter, Agatha Sticotti, who
appeared a few times in the theatre, but who became better
known for her estimable qualities, and for the invincible
attachment of a man of merit, who married her notwithstanding
the persecution of an irritated family.”

Fabio Sticotti died at the age of sixty-five, in Paris, on the 17th
December 1741.

Carlo Veronese, father of Coraline, and of Camilla, was also seen in the
rôles of Pantaloon. He was himself a good actor, but his reputation was
eclipsed by that of his daughters, for whom he wrote a great number of
pieces. He filled the rôles of Pantaloon from 1744 until his death in
1759.

Colalto made his début in Paris in 1759, but he was not accepted by the
public until the following year. Grimm speaks as follows of his talent:—

“On the 17th December 1744, the Italian comedians gave the
first performance of _I Tre Fratelli Gemelli Veneziani_, an
Italian piece in prose by the Sieur Colalto (Pantaloon). The
idea is taken from the story of ‘The Three Hunchbacks.’ The
resemblance which it offers to the _Menechme_ of Goldoni
detracts nothing from the merit of the author, who has
surpassed his models. But the point upon which it would be
difficult to over-praise him is the incredible perfection with
which himself he plays the three rôles of the three brothers
Zanetto. The changes in his appearance, his voice and his
character, which he varies from scene to scene according to
which of the three he represents, is a thing unbelievable that
leaves nothing to be desired. This piece, which is not written,
which is no more than a scenario, is perfectly played by almost
all the actors, but especially by the Sieur Colalto, by Madame
Bacelli, in the rôle of Eleonore, and by the Sieur Marignan,
who plays the Commissary with a truth and comicality very much
above that of Préville. They have, moreover, the advantage of
varying their business and their dialogue at every performance,
and the continued intoxication of the public for this piece of
itself nourishes the wit of the actors.”

Colalto died in September of 1777. “His personal character was of a
modesty and a simplicity little common in his class. He knew no other
happiness than that of living peacefully in the bosom of his family,
and doing good to the unfortunates whom chance brought to the notice of
his generosity. He died of a very protracted and very painful disease.
His children, who never quitted his bedside, beheld him expiring in
their arms. He appreciated all their care, and his last words were the
expression of his gratitude. His eyes had fallen upon a print of _The
Paralytic Served by his Children_. The following lines are inscribed at
the foot of the picture:

“‘If the truth of a picture is the truth of the object, how
wise was the artist to place this scene in a village!’

“‘My children,’ said the moribund in a feeble voice, ‘the
author of those lines did not know you.’”

In Italy towards 1750 Darbés became noteworthy as a good Pantaloon.
Darbés was the director of an Italian company. He went one day to Goldoni
to procure a play from his pen; he obtained, not without considerable
trouble, the comedy _Tonin, Belia Gracia_. He played in it the part
of Pantaloon, and as the character of this father was serious, Darbés
thought well to perform without a mask. Goldoni’s piece fell flat. To
what was this due? Was it the fault of the piece or of the actor?
Goldoni wrote another play for Darbés, who then resumed the traditional
mask. This piece succeeded beyond the hopes of the author and of the
leader of the troupe. Thereafter Darbés never again put aside the mask
and challenged, with Goldoni for his author, all the Pantaloons of
Italy: Francesco Rubini at San Luca, Corrini at San Samuele of Venice,
Ferramonti at Bologna, Pasini in Milan, Luigi Benotti in Florence,
Golinetti and Garelli, Giuseppe Franceschini, and others.

iii

Such as he still remained in the nineteenth century, although somewhat
out of fashion in Italy, THE DOCTOR was first presented on the stage in
1560 by Lucio Burchiella. Sometimes he is very learned, a man of law, a
jurisconsult; more rarely he is a physician. Doctor Graziano or Baloardo
Grazian, is a native of Bologna. He is a member of the Accademia della
Crusca, a philosopher, an astronomer, a grammarian, a rhetorician, a
cabalist and a diplomatist. He can talk upon any subject, pronounce
upon any subject, but notwithstanding that his studies were abnormally
prolonged he knows absolutely nothing, which, however, does not hinder
him from citing inappropriately “the Latin tags which he garbles,” says
M. F. Mercey, “often culled from fables which he denaturalises, changing
Cyparissus into a fountain, and Biblis into a cypress, causing the three
Graces to sever the thread of our destinies whilst the Fates preside
over the toilet of Venus; and this with an unrivalled aplomb and all the
intrepidity of foolishness.”

When he is a lawyer he is clear-sighted only in those affairs with which
he is not entrusted, and his pleadings are so interesting that the court
falls asleep and the public departs, thereby compelling him regretfully
to cut short his address. Frequently he is the father of a family, and it
is usual then for his daughter, Columbine or Isabella, to denounce the
avarice which has earned him the nickname of Doctor Scrapedish. Often he
uses all his endeavours to please the ladies, and sometimes even he is
the sighing lover, notwithstanding his advanced years and great belly,
both of which should give him ample matter for reflection. Ponderous and
ridiculous in his manners as in his speech, he is played upon by his
lackeys, saving on those rare occasions when they are more stupid than
himself. If he inclines to pleasantries such pleasantries invariably have
their roots in ill-will.

From 1560 to the middle of the seventeenth century the Doctor was always
dressed from head to foot in black, arrayed in the robe usual to men of
science, professors and lawyers of the sixteenth century; under this long
robe he wore another shorter one reaching to the knees; his shoes were
black. It was only with the coming of the Italian company to Paris in
1653 that Agostino Lolli assumed the short breeches, the wide soft ruff,
cut his doublet after the fashion of that of the days of Louis XIV., and
replaced the bonnet, which presented too much analogy with that of the
lackeys, by a felt hat with an extravagant brim.

“The city of Bologna, which is the very home of sciences and
letters, and where there is a famous university and a number of
foreign colleges, has always supplied us with a great number
of learned men, and particularly of doctors, who occupied the
public chairs of that university. These doctors had a robe
which they wore at lectures and in the town. The notion was
very wisely conceived to transform the Bolognese Doctor into
another old man who might play side by side with Pantaloon,
and their two costumes became extremely comical when seen
together. The Doctor is a never-ending babbler, a man who
finds it impossible to open his mouth without spouting forth
sententiousness and scraps of Latin. It is not impossible that
this character may have been copied from nature. To this day we
may see pedants and doctors doing the like. Many comedians have
held different views on the subject of the Doctor’s character.
Some have thought well to speak in a sensible manner and to
make lengthy declamations manifesting the greatest possible
erudition, adorning their sentences by Latin quotations taken
from the gravest authors. Others have preferred to render
the character more comical: instead of presenting a learned
Doctor they have presented an ignorant one, who spoke the
macaronic Latin of Merlin Coccaïe, or something like it. The
first were perforce compelled to know something so as to avoid
true solecisms in good faith. The others were under the same
obligation of knowledge, but they needed genius in addition;
for I am persuaded that more wit is required to misapply a
sentence than to apply it in its true sense” (L. RICCOBONI).

The black mask which covers no more than the forehead and the nose of the
Doctor, together with the exaggerated colour of his cheeks, are directly
derived from the Bolognese jurisconsult of the sixteenth century, who had
a large port-wine mark over part of his face.

Doctor Balanzoni _Lombarda_ (a surname applied to this personage because
Bernardino Lombardi and Roderigo Lombardi played the part in Italy, the
first during the sixteenth century and the second during the eighteenth)
wears, like Basilio, a great hat turned up on both sides. Like the other
Doctor already mentioned, he is from Bologna. There is a deal of analogy
between the two, or perhaps they are the same personage in different
social strata. This Doctor is particularly a man of medicine, which,
however, does not hinder him from practising alchemy and the occult
sciences. He is avaricious, egotistical and very weak in resisting his
coarse and sensual appetites. When he goes to see a patient he chatters
of anything but that patient’s illness. He is interested in a thousand
nothings, he touches everything, breaks vessels, feels the pulse of
his patient as a matter of conscience, whilst discussing the talents
of Columbine or the figure of Violetta. The dying man ends by falling
asleep, worn out by the amorous exploits which form the subject of the
chatter of this ignorant Doctor, with his rubicund nose, his inflamed
cheeks and his gleaming eye. The patient having fallen asleep, the
Doctor makes love to the waiting-woman, or plays the gallant towards the
daughter or even the mistress of the house. There is no evidence that he
has ever cured anybody with the exception of Polichinelle, who cannot
die, and who once pretended to be ill so as to draw the Doctor to his
house and there administer a sharp correction on the subject of a little
rivalry in an affair of love or gluttony, the details of which have never
been ascertained.

This type of ridiculous man of medicine has in all ages been a butt for
satire. Thus in Athens long before Aristophanes, the Doric comedians,
as we have said in our introduction, attracted the crowd by the farces
they performed on their trestles, and subsequently it was the character
of the Doctor which afforded the greatest amusement by his gibberish, his
muddles and his interminable periods, usually interrupted by the kicks of
some other mime.

In _Arlequin Empereur dans la Lune_ (1684) we are introduced into a
garden where there is an enormous telescope employed by the Doctor to
consult the stars. He leaves his instrument, and speaking the twofold
language proper to him, he bids Pierrot be silent: “_E possibile, Pierò,
che tu non voglia chetarti?_ Tais-toi, je t’en prie!”

PIERROT. But, sir, how is it possible that I should be silent?
I am not allowed a moment’s rest. As long as the day lasts
I am made to run after your daughter, your niece and your
waiting-woman; whilst at night I am made to run after you? No
sooner am I in bed than you begin: “Pierrot! Pierrot! Quick!
Get up. Light the candle and give me my telescope. I want to
go and observe the stars!” And you want me to believe that the
moon is a world like ours! The moon! Hah! You’ll drive me mad.

THE DOCTOR. Hold your tongue, Pierrot, or I will beat you.

PIERROT. Although you should kill me I must vent my feelings!
I could never be such a fool as to agree that the moon is a
world. The moon, the moon! Morbleu! And the moon no bigger than
an omelette of eight eggs!

THE DOCTOR. You impertinent fellow! If you had ever so little
understanding I should condescend to reason with you, but you
are a fool, an ignorant animal, and you only know you have a
head because you can feel it; so hold your tongue. Yet again I
tell you, be silent! Tell me, have you noticed those clouds
that are to be seen round the moon? Those clouds are called
crepuscules. Now it is those which I argue——

PIERROT. Let us hear.

THE DOCTOR. Now if there are crepuscules in the moon, it
follows that there must be a generation and a corruption; if
there is corruption and generation, it follows that there must
be animals and vegetables; ergo, the moon is an inhabited world
like this.

PIERROT. Ergo, as much as you like! But as far as I am
concerned, _nego_; and this is how I prove it. You say that in
the moon there are tres ... cus ... tres ... pus ... les trois
pousse-culs.

THE DOCTOR. Crepuscules, and not pousse-culs, fool!

PIERROT. Anyhow, the three—you know what I mean; and you say
that if there are three puscuscules it follows that there must
be a generation and a corruption.

THE DOCTOR. Most certainly.

PIERROT. Now listen to Pierrot.

THE DOCTOR. Let us hear.

PIERROT. If there is a generation and a corruption in the moon
it must follow that worms are born there. Now is it possible
that the moon is worm-eaten? What do you say to that? Heh? By
heaven it is unanswerable.

THE DOCTOR (_laughing_). Oh, assuredly not. Tell me, Pierrot,
are not worms born in this world of ours?

PIERROT. Yes, sir.

THE DOCTOR. Does it follow thence that our world is worm-eaten?

PIERROT. There is something in that.

After this discussion on the moon, the Doctor informs Pierrot of his
matrimonial plans for his daughter. Harlequin appears and so plagues
Pierrot with questions that the latter answers the Doctor upon the
matters raised by Harlequin. The Doctor, exasperated by the seeming
impertinences of his servant, lets fly a buffet fit to break his teeth.
Pierrot falls down, picks himself up and goes off saying: “That is an
effect of the moon.”

In the _Gelosi_ troupe, which went to France in 1572, the part of Doctor
Graziano was played by Lucio Burchiella, an actor of great wit and
liveliness, who was replaced in 1578 by Lodovico, of Bologna.

In the same year, 1572, Bernardino Lombardi went to France to play the
rôles of Doctors in the _Confidenti_ troupe. A clever poet as well as
a distinguished actor, he published in Ferrara in 1583 _L’Alchemista_,
a five-act comedy which was several times reprinted. You will find in
it, as in most of the pieces of those days, various Italian dialects,
Venetian, Bolognese and others.

Doctor Graziano Baloardo was played in the company of 1635 by Angelo
Agostino Lolli, of Bologna. De Tralage speaks with praise of his manners.
His comrades called him _the angel_, no doubt in consequence of his name
of Angelo. He married the Signorina Adami, who played soubrettes in the
same company. He died at an advanced age on the 29th August 1694.

In 1694 Marco-Antonio Romagnesi (Cinthio), having undertaken to perform
old men, sometimes played Doctor under such Gallicized names as Bassinet.

In 1690, Giovanni Paghetti and Galeazzo Savorini were playing Doctors in
Italy. Paghetti was also seen in France in the forain theatres.

In 1716 Francesco Matterazzi filled these rôles in the Regent’s company,
and at the same time Ganzachi and Luzi, of Venice, were performing them
in the German improvising troupe of Vienna.

Other famous exponents of the character were Bonaventura Benozzi, brother
of the celebrated Silvia, in 1732; and Pietro Antonio Veronese, son of
Carlo Veronese (_Pantaloon_), in 1754.

In the Neapolitan theatre there was a type which very greatly resembled
in character and in costume the old men of the old Italian comedy in
France, such as Pandolfo and Gerontio, who wore the same dress as the
old men in the comedies of Molière. This type was called PANGRAZIO IL
BISCEGLIESE, so named because he was a native of Bisceglia.

“It is necessary to know” (says M. Paul de Musset) “that
Bisceglia is a little town of Apulia where a dialect is
spoken which has the privilege of amusing Neapolitans however
vaguely they may discern the accent. From time immemorial the
character of Don Pangrazio in the theatre of San Carlino has
been played by natives of Bisceglia or else by Neapolitans who
know how to reproduce to perfection the speech of Apulia. Their
_succès-de-ridicule_ depends as much upon the accent as upon
the talent of the actors, who, for the rest, are incomparable
comedians. The public laughs with confidence from the moment
that Pangrazio makes his appearance. The bills of the play
never fail to add to the title of the piece these words, which
constitute a particular attraction to the crowd: _Con Pangrazio
biscegliese_ (with Pangrazio of Bisceglia). The effect produced
in our theatres by the dialects of our peasants cannot approach
the wild laughter excited by this Pangrazio; it would be
necessary to go back to the days of Gros-Guillaume and the
Gascon Gentlemen to find an equivalent to this personage, who
still sustains with the illustrious Pulcinella the national
Commedia dell’ Arte, that precious and charming tradition of
which the booth of San Carlino is the last asylum. This feature
of the popular taste is, however, a source of bitter and cruel
injustice: the native of Bisceglia cannot show himself in
Naples but that all the world bursts into laughter as soon
as he utters a word; the tyranny of custom and of prejudice
condemns him to the profession of buffoon; it were idle for him
to become angry, for the only result would be that the laughter
would grow still more unrestrained before an access of choler
in a Biscegliese.”

The particular merit of Pangrazio Biscegliese lies in the whining
intonation of the dialect of his locality, and in the exhibition of the
usual absurdities which provincials bring into a capital. The life of
the great cities, the luxury, the costumes, the somewhat relaxed morals,
cause him at every step to break into ejaculations of surprise. “We don’t
do that sort of thing at home,” he says at every moment; or else: “At
home there is not so much noise, there are not so many people to elbow
us as here, but at least everybody knows everybody. Nor is your Naples
as beautiful. I would that you could have seen Bisceglia built upon her
rock. That now is a lovely country covered with rich villas and famous
for her grapes and wines. You cannot say as much. And then in Bisceglia
you don’t see all this filth that is everywhere to be met in Naples. If
I could but finish my business I should not be long in getting away from
your noise, your fleas, your lazzaroni and your abandoned women.” The
native of Bisceglia is very often right, but his criticisms under the
ægis of his absurdities and his comical language pass for mere stupidity
on his part.

Like Pantaloon he represents several provincial types, tradesmen,
burgesses or old peasants; but fundamentally his character is always the
same: rather miserly, credulous and easy to deceive.

His black velvet doublet and breeches are old fashioned. The sleeves
of his coat and his cap are of red cloth, his stockings of red cotton.
To-day Il Biscegliese whom the Neapolitans also call _Pangrazio
Cucuzziello_ (Pangrazio the Cuckold), has undergone a change of costume
like most of the other Italian masks. He wears a red wig with a queue _en
salsifis_, and an embroidered waistcoat of the days of Louis XV. which
looks like a piece of tapestry. His coat and breeches are black, his
stockings red and his shoes buckled.

_Le Jettaturi, con Pangrazio Biscegliese_ is the title of a piece in
which M. Paul de Musset shows us Il Biscegliese as he was to be seen on
the stage of the San Carlino in Naples.

“The three knocks have been sounded. The little orchestra is
playing the overture. At last the curtain rises and we see Don
Pangrazio arriving laden with all his preservatives against
ill-luck: the horns of a bull, coral hands, a rat made out of
Vesuvian lava, a heart, the forks and the serpent. A burst of
laughter greets his entrance according to custom. Whereupon
he advances with a piteous air to the edge of the stage to
take the public into his confidence on the score of his
superstitious terrors.

“‘Sirs,’ he says, ‘if I have forgotten anything let me know,
of your charity. These big horns which I carry, one under each
arm, preserve my brow from a similar decoration. That, however,
is not what most torments me; for Dame Pangrazio is incapable
of wanting in fidelity to me. By turning this coral hand,
whose index and little finger are extended towards folk of a
suspicious countenance, I shall avoid pernicious influences.
My outfit is complete, and I have been told that I might thus
venture to show myself even in the streets of Toledo. I see
with satisfaction that one is safe in Naples ... a prudent man
never runs any risks in this capital; nevertheless I am not
quite easy. I have had an evil dream, and I am very anxious to
return to Bisceglia.’

“Thereupon Don Pangrazio relates his dream, from which he draws
all manner of prognostications. In fact all possible accidents
happen in the one day to poor Pangrazio. Whilst he is rubbing
up his amulets a thief steals his handkerchief, another his
snuffbox, a third his watch. Pulcinella disguises himself as an
usher to relate to him a false exploit. A wily girl pretends
to mistake him for her lover who was carried off to Barbary
by Corsairs; she embraces him and overwhelms him with her
caresses. Pangrazio attempts to escape, when a cart knocks
him over into the mud. He gets up furiously, cursing clumsy
folk, thieves and the abandoned girls of Naples, whereupon
two charming young men in yellow waistcoats with seals, gold
chains and quizzing-glasses politely accost him, and assist him
to cleanse himself of the mud. This happy encounter charms Il
Biscegliese, who is in ecstasy with the fine manners and the
politeness of the gentlemen of Naples. With their canes they
knock upon the table of the inn and command the waiter to
serve Signor Pangrazio with the best and the most expensive in
the house: sweetbreads and peas, Milanese fried cutlets, boiled
eggs, beetroots and cucumber salad. To all this Pangrazio
prefers the classical macaroni; he is served with a _rotolo_,
which he consumes, eating it with his fingers. Meanwhile the
two fashionable fellows dine and consume the more refined
dishes which Il Biscegliese has declined; then they exchange
a signal; they rise, take up their hats, overwhelm the other
in salutations and depart. The old man finds it impossible
to believe that he should again have fallen a victim to his
credulity. With his bizarre conjectures upon the cause of the
absence of the young men he amuses the public, and ends by
paying the bill, not, of course, without a deal of haggling.”

An old yellow wig showing the weft; and surmounted by a nightcap with
a greasy ribbon, upon a bald head, whose red ears they barely conceal;
two eyebrows shaggy and grey shading the little eyes so suspicious
and mistrustful in their glances; a rubicund nose smeared with snuff;
coarse fleshy lips gaping stupidly when their owner listens or watches
what is happening about him; a short thick neck denoting a choleric
irascible temperament; a prominent abdomen encased in a waistcoat that
was erstwhile embroidered, and a pair of old red breeches; the whole
enveloped in a make-believe dressing-gown, a soiled yellow rag which
fifty years ago was plush; a pair of thick legs in woollen stockings,
ending in feet of an abominable size and length, these thrust into shoes
which remind us of charcoal boats; a ponderous gait and a continual
grumbling; and there you have CASSANDRO.

No one has risen yet; it is hardly day, and already Cassandro is
complaining of the laziness of his servant and his daughter. So much the
better, when all is said! He will have time in which to contemplate his
money. Having taken a discreet pinch of snuff, from a box that creaks
like a wheel in need of greasing, he slyly opens a hiding place known to
himself alone; but a startled fly is on the wing, and Cassandro prudently
shuts up his treasure once more. Next it is his servant, Pierrot, asleep
on his feet, who blind and yawning comes to strike his head against his
master, crushing underfoot Cassandro’s corns and bunions ill-protected by
the enormous shoes. A splendid kick administered to Pierrot, who responds
at hazard by a buffet which never misses the face of his master, is the
affair of a moment.

Pierrot recognises his mistake and repents his precipitancy. He begs
pardon of his good master and all is forgotten. “It is already light,”
says Cassandro, “and I must go out; bring me my things and particularly
my spectacles which I left in my room. Be quick!” Cassandro is no longer
alone, therefore he must pretend in the presence of others to be deaf and
short-sighted—an old ruse, but an unfailing one.

Whilst recommending his servant not to cook anything for breakfast and to
lock the door upon his daughter, he assumes his fine coat. He takes his
looped hat, his cane with its ivory head, his green gloves, his colossal
watch, which himself he has mended to avoid useless expenditure. The
movement of this watch of his makes such a tic-toc that when he passes
in the street the neighbours, attracted by the noise, come to the
thresholds of their shops and say: “There is Messer Cassandro. Where is
he going?” “To see his mistress,” reply the wits.

To behold him as he comes adown the street you might be moved,
notwithstanding his dashing toilet, to give him alms; and, what is worse,
he would accept them. Nevertheless he is the richest man in this parish,
just as he is the most miserly. There is nothing that he will not do for
money. He would even give his daughter to Polichinelle. He considers
him, however, somewhat debauched, and prefers Leandro, the hidalgo, the
man of wealth, the pretty fellow. It is at the house of this prospective
son-in-law that he goes to seek a breakfast, to avoid, so he says, giving
trouble to his servants. “And then,” he adds, “we shall be better able to
talk over our little affairs at table.”

Meanwhile what is happening at his home? His daughter Columbine has
employed her charms to corrupt Pierrot; she has added to them a venison
pasty and a bottle of old wine which have put to sleep all the scruples
of her gaoler, and she abandons herself to mirth and dancing with her
lover, Harlequin.

It rarely happens that Cassandro does not return at this moment,
accompanied by his amphitryon, who struts like a cock and is laden with
gifts for the seductive Columbine. Thereupon the lovers take flight.
Columbine is to be sacrificed; but Harlequin, protected by a fairy whose
talisman he saved, holds his own against Cassandro, and battles in point
of wealth with Leandro. Cassandro does not hesitate. The richer of the
twain shall have his daughter, his little doll; and as the treasures
of fairies are inexhaustible, Leandro defeated, retires in a fury,
reproaching the old man with his lack of faith. Cassandro shrugs his
shoulders, laughs in his sleeve, and blesses the lovers.

The character of Cassandro was created in 1580, in the _Gelosi_ company,
under the name of Cassandro _da Sienna_. His were the parts of the
serious fathers, whilst Pantaloon, in the same complicated intrigues,
presented, together with the Doctor, the absurd personages, the jealous
husband, betrayed, beaten and contented. This character of Cassandro
disappeared from the Italian scenarii for more than a century, and it
was only in 1732 that Périer revived the name to perform under it the
rôles of ridiculous father in the forain theatres. He was imitated by
Desjardins, in 1736, and Garnier, in 1739. On the Franco-Italian scene,
Robert des Brosses, a native of Bonn, in Germany, who had joined the
theatre as a musician in the orchestra, made his first appearance on the
stage in 1744 in this rôle. This actor, estimable for his character and
his talents, added musical composition to his other gifts. He wrote the
music of a great number of ballets and comic operas.

In 1780, Rozière was playing the same parts in the Théâtre-Italien.
But the most famous of all Cassandri was Chapelle, whose credulity and
naïveté were proverbial in the theatre. Chapelle was short and fat; his
eyes, which were continually blinking, were crowned by thick, black
eyebrows; his mouth, always agape, lent him a stupid air. His legs
resembled those of an elephant. If you will add to all this a clumsy,
heavy shape, you will have some notion of Chapelle. One might imagine
that Nature, beholding him after she had made him, said to him: “I aimed
at making you a man, I have made you a Cassandro; forgive me, Chapelle.”

It was to Chapelle that the elder Seveste related on his return from a
tour in Normandy the story of how, during his sojourn in Rouen, he had
educated a carp, which followed him everywhere like a dog, but that
unfortunately he had just lost it, at which he was very much troubled.

“And how did you lose this carp?” inquired Chapelle.

“Mon Dieu!” said Seveste, “I was so imprudent as to take it with me one
night to the theatre. A terrible storm came on after the show. My carp
followed me without trouble down to the street, but there the poor beast
was drowned in attempting to leap across the gutter.”

“How unfortunate,” said Chapelle; “I thought that carp were able to swim
like fish.”

People had made him believe so many things that during the last years
of his life he had become so mistrustful and sceptical that when one of
the theatre boys would say to him: “You are to play to-morrow,” he would
reply: “Be off with you; I am not to be taken in!” Whenever he was asked
how he fared, he would turn his back upon the inquirer, saying: “That is
not true.” Chapelle, who added the trade of grocer to the profession of
actor, retired in 1816, and went to live with an uncle, who was a canon
in Versailles. He died at Chartres in January, 1824.

The Romans have a type called CASSANDRINO, who is the same as their
Pasquale. He is a worthy citizen of Rome, of a ripening age of some
fifty years or so, but still young in his ways: agile, sedulously curled
and powdered, his linen always irreproachable, his white stockings
immaculate, his silver-buckled shoes well lacquered. He wears a light
three-cornered hat; his coat and breeches are of fine red cloth which
throws into relief his spangled white satin waistcoat, with its ample
skirts. In character he is charming; he is never angry whatever betide,
and he turns a deaf ear upon all jests at his expense. Courteous,
well-bred, astute and witty, it is not difficult to perceive in this type
the personification of one of the handsome curial _Monsignori_.

“Yesterday, towards nine o’clock” (says the author of the
_Chartreuse de Parme_), “I was issuing from those magnificent
rooms overlooking a garden full of orange-trees, known as the
Café Rospoli, opposite the Fiano Palace. A man at the door of
a sort of cave was saying: ‘_Entrate, o signori!_ Enter, sirs,
we are about to begin.’ I obtained admission to this little
theatre for the sum of twenty-eight centisimi, a price which
made me fear low company and fleas. I was soon reassured. I
had for neighbours some worthy citizens of Rome.... The Romans
are, perhaps, of all the people of Europe, those who most
love and are quickest to perceive fine shades of satire. The
theatrical censorship in Rome is more meticulous than in Paris,
and consequently nothing can be more flat than the comedies
performed there. Laughter has been driven to seek refuge with
the marionettes, where pieces more or less improvised are
presented. I spent an extremely pleasant evening at the Fiano
Palace. The theatre upon which the actors parade their little
persons may be some ten feet wide and some four feet high. The
mounting is excellent, and carefully calculated to suit actors
who are twelve inches tall. The fashionable personage among
the people of Rome is Cassandrino, a coquettish old gentleman
of some fifty-five to sixty years of age, quick, agile, his
white hair very carefully powdered, well groomed, and in
general more or less like a cardinal. Moreover Cassandrino
is trained in affairs and polished by rubbing shoulders with
the great world; he would in truth be an accomplished man but
for his weakness of falling regularly in love with all the
women whom he meets. You will agree that such a character is
extremely well invented in a country governed by an oligarchic
court, composed of celibates, where the power is in the hands
of age. It goes without saying that Cassandrino is secular; but
I will wager that in all the auditorium there is not a single
spectator who does not in his mind invest him with the red
skull-cap of a cardinal, or at least with the violet stockings
of a _monsignore_. The _monsignori_ are, as is known, young
men of the pope’s court, the auditors of this country; their
rank is a step which leads to all the others. Rome is full of
_monsignori_ of the age of Cassandrino, who have failed to make
their fortune, and who seek what consolation they can find
whilst awaiting the red hat.”

M. Frédéric Mercey gives us in his _Théâtre en Italie_ several accounts
of the pieces which were performed at the Fiano Theatre: _Il Viaggio a
Civita-Vecchia_, _Cassandrino Dilettante_, _Cassandrino Impresario_, etc.

In 1840 this theatre was directed and worked by a jeweller of the
Corso who, by a curious chance, was homonymous with the hero of his
improvisations—Signor Cassandro.

[Illustration]

vii

The spirit of Venetian mischief and Venetian quaintness appears to be
personified in the mask of FACANAPPA, the leading character in the
marionette troupes. His success in Venice is equal to that of the
Biscegliese in Naples. The bills never fail to indicate that he is
included in the piece; it is _Harlequin the Bankrupt, with Facanappa_;
_Pantaloon the Grocer, with Facanappa_, etc., etc. His every entrance is
greeted with applause and anticipatory thrills of mirth. It is he who
comes to notify the public of changes made during the performance, and
who at the final curtain comes forward again to announce the pieces of
the morrow, which, as usual, are _with Facanappa_. His is the privilege
of saying everything he pleases, and he is not backward in making
numerous allusions, employing the most current words in his Venetian
dialect, and manufacturing new ones when the need arises.

A long parakeet nose, surmounted by a pair of green spectacles like
those of Tartaglia, a flat wide-brimmed hat, a red cravat, an enormous
waistcoat with tinsel buttons and a long white coat, the tails of which
trail along the ground—such is the appearance of this personage, whose
offices are very varied, but whose character at bottom seems to be that
of a sort of Venetian _Monsieur Prud’homme_.

In the beginning of the eighteenth century this type bore the name
of Bernardone. In 1705, the actor Leinhaus played in the improvising
company of Venice the rôles of ridiculous parents under this name, with a
Venetian accent, so as to be as reminiscent as possible of the classical
Pantaloon.

Zanobio is another type of old man of the same sort, but dating back to
the fifteenth century. This personage parodied the citizens of Piombino,
and his rôle was extremely characteristic. In the _Gelosi_ troupe, which
played in Florence in 1578, Girolamo Salimbeni, a Florentine, was engaged
by Flaminio Scala exclusively for this character.

viii

There existed once in Palermo a national theatre, like that of Naples,
but with types that were entirely different. Thus the father of the
family, the Baron (IL BARONE), a Sicilian lord, the dupe of his servants
and his daughter, was the personification of the nobility of the
land, and of the bourgeoisie aiming at aristocratic distinctions. It
is not known whether Lappaio and his successor Pasquinio, two famous
Sicilian actors, preserved this type, but down to the latter half of the
nineteenth century there were still no Sicilian marionette pieces that
did not include the Baron.

Under the name of Fleschelles in serious rôles, and under that of
Gaultier-Garguille in farces, Hugues Guéru, who was born in Normandy,
played the parts of father and of old man, at first in the Théâtre du
Marais in 1588, and later at the Hôtel de Bourgogne.

His name, GAULTIER-GARGUILLE, is derived from _gaultier_, meaning _bon
vivant_, from the old French verb _gaudir_ (to rejoice or to enjoy) and
from _garguille_ which means _gargoyle_ or wide-throat. Guéru married
the daughter of Tabarin somewhere about 1620. He must then have been at
least fifty years of age (he was of the same age as his father-in-law),
whilst his wife was very young and very wealthy. After the death of
Gaultier-Garguille she was able, through her own wealth and that
bequeathed her by her husband, to marry a gentleman of Normandy. Gaultier
was a good and worthy husband, and in fine weather he would leave his
house in the Rue Pavée-Saint-Sauveur to repair to his country villa, near
the Porte Montmartre, there to live as a _franc bourgeois_.

He was lean of body, long of leg, and broad of face. He wore a greenish
demi-mask with a long nose and cat’s whiskers; his hair was stiff and
white, his beard pointed like that of Pantaloon, his breeches and shoes
were black, and he wore a black doublet with red sleeves; he was equipped
with a pouch, a dagger and a cane.

In 1622, the Hôtel de Bourgogne was in the apogee of its success. The
best farces performed were, according to the critics of the day: _La
Malle de Gaultier_, _Le Cadet de Champagne_, _Tire la Corde_, _J’ai la
Carpe_, _Mieux que Devant_, _La Farce Joyeuse de Maistre Mimin_, etc.

Gaultier-Garguille enjoyed in particular a great reputation as a singer
of absurdities, and somewhere about 1630 a collection of songs was
published, mostly of an obscene character, approved by Turlupin and
Gros-Guillaume. Hugues Guéru died in 1633.

He was replaced after his death by Jacquemin Jadot, who, however, never
reached the level of Gaultier-Garguille.

In the French company at the theatre of the Hôtel de Bourgogne in 1634,
GUILLOT-GORJU was the personification of the Doctor. The part was played
by Bertrand Haudouin de Saint-Jacques who, according to Guy-Patin, had
been dean of the faculty of medicine. He played for eight years at the
Hôtel de Bourgogne, then withdrew and went to Melun, where he resumed his
medical profession. But, seized with melancholy, he returned to the Hôtel
de Bourgogne.

“He was a big man, dark and very ugly: his eyes were sunken
and his nose resembled a trumpet, and although in general
appearance he was not unlike an ape and there was absolutely
no necessity for him to wear a mask in the theatre, he
nevertheless never appeared without one.”

Doctor Guillot-Gorju was dressed from head to foot in black. He wore
the ancient costume of the time of Henri IV. The doublet buttoned to
the chin, trunks like a pair of melons and tight stockings; he wore two
garters on his left leg, one above and the other below the knee.

He died in 1643 at the age of fifty.

THE CANTATRICE

It was the custom of the Greeks to sing all their poetry and they gave no
theatrical pieces that were not sung and accompanied by instruments.

“In Homeric days,” says M. Charles Magnin, “the singers went
about like the troubadours in the Middle Ages, celebrating the
exploits of heroes in festivals, in public assemblies and in
the palaces of kings, and always preferring the very latest
songs.”

Thespis, in the scenarii which he composed, caused his songs to be sung
by a chorus; this, for instance, was the case with the songs to Bacchus
and Silenus in the scenarii entitled _The Vintage_. Thereafter the
actors would declaim. He was the first to draw from the chorus a solo
singer who was known as a _corypheus_. Æschylus added a second singer,
and when Terpander had introduced lyre accompaniments for the songs the
foundations of opera were laid.

The Latins failed to develop that taste and fashion for music which had
characterised the Greeks. With them songs and accompaniments were things
apart from poetry. We know that the Atellanæ were composed of farces,
pantomimes, dances and music. Many of their plays must greatly have
resembled our modern comic operas or, rather perhaps, those pieces which
once were called _interludes_ in Italy, and are known to-day as _opera
buffa_. In antiquity this name of _interlude_ was given to all pieces
that were played or sung during the intervals in the main performance.
The tragic or comic chori would come upon the proscenium between every
two acts. Little by little these chori were replaced by mimes, buffoons
or dancers, and then by short pieces mingled with songs to sustain the
patience of the spectators during the wait.

“After the fashion of the ancients,” says M. Castil-Blaze,
in his _Histoire de l’Opéra Italienne_, “who brought on the
chorus during the entr’actes of their dramas, the Italians
gave madrigals and songs to fill up the same spaces. These
interludes, unconnected by any dialogue, did not long retain
the suffrages of the public. _La Flora_ by Alamanni, _Il
Granchio_ by Salviati, and _La Cofanaria_ by Ambra, which
were performed and published in Florence in 1566, with the
concert interludes written by Lori, Nerli and Cini for these
gay comedies, led the public to exact something better. _Il
Mogliazzo_ and _La Cattrina (atto scenico rusticale)_, by
Francesco Berni, produced in Florence in 1566 were extremely
successful because a remarkable dramatic action with two or
three characters was unfolded in these harmonious interludes.
This was the dawn of the _opera buffa_, a happy prelude to the
_Gallina Perduta_ of Francesco Escolani, which soon took Italy
by storm, and to _La Serva Padrona_ which was greeted with
enthusiasm, by the whole of Europe.”

The Président de Brosses, writing of this little masterpiece of
Pergolese’s, says:

“There are a male and a female buffoon who play a farce in the
entr’actes in a manner so natural, and with an expression so
comical, that it is impossible to conceive the like. It is not
true that it is possible to die of laughter, for if so I should
now be dead, notwithstanding that the pain I experienced in the
expansion of my spleen hindered me from hearing as well as I
desired the celestial music of this farce.”

In the nineteenth century, between the lowering and raising of the
curtain, the entr’acte existed in all its tiresomeness. The boredom
begotten of these long waits was frequently a source of ill-will on the
part of the public, who spent half the evening yawning. It was necessary
that a piece should be very good to survive these entr’actes. It was
generally deplored in France that the custom of filling these gaps as in
the eighteenth century should have passed from fashion. It was in these
interludes that the Italians showed, more even than in their dramas and
tragedies, how great they are as composers, as actors, as mimes and as
singers.

“The Italians” (says the Président de Brosses) “have cultivated
a taste for the theatre which is above that of any other
nation; and as they are no less gifted in the matter of music,
they never divorce the one from the other; thus most often
tragedy, comedy and farce are all opera in Italy.”

The first _opera buffa_ was performed in Rome at the beginning of the
sixteenth century on the occasion of the fêtes given by Giuliano de’
Medici, the brother of Leo X. The comedy of Plautus, _Pœnulus_, was set
to music and performed on two consecutive days in an immense theatre
expressly built in the square of the Capitol.

In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, there were no pieces, whether
scenarii for improvisors or fully written plays, that did not conclude
with dancing or singing, either of a popular character or else drawn
from tragedies set to music by such famous composers as Peri, Crosi,
Monteverde, Soriano, Emilio del Cavaliere, Marco Antonio Cesti and
Giovanelli, Cavalli; these did then for the theatre what was done in the
following century by Scarlatti, Pergolese, Jomelli, Piccinni, Paesiello,
Cimarosa, and, in the nineteenth century, by Cherubini, Rossini, etc.

In the beginning of the sixteenth century—in 1526—La Barbera created a
sensation in Italy. She was a Florentine, and she travelled from city
to city at her own charges, accompanied by a chorus, with the support
of which she gave those interludes, for which the taste amounted then
to a veritable passion. Macchiavelli has a deal to say of her in his
letters. “La Barbera should be at this moment in Modena,” he writes to
Guicciardini, at the end of a long political letter, “and if you can
serve her in any way I recommend her to you, for she engages my thoughts
a deal more than does the emperor.”

Florence, Turin, Venice, Bologna, Rome and Naples were the first
cities in which the Italian opera was established, and in which fame
was achieved for the beauty of their voices by the _Signore_ Catarina
Martinella, Franceschina Caccini, Giulia and Vittoria Lulle, La Moretti,
Adriana Baroni, Checca della Laguna, Margherita Costa, Petronilla
Massimi, and Francesca Manzoni. All these _virtuose_, in addition to
being singers, were actresses and performers upon several instruments:
for in the _Farsa_ or _Festa Teatrale_ of Jacopo Sannazaro, performed
in Naples at the palace of the Prince of Calabria, in 1492, an actress
representing Joy sang, to her own accompaniment on a viol, whilst her
three followers played the flute, the fiddle and the pipe. This custom
of combining talents and of a singer’s sometimes being his or her own
accompanist, continued in Italy down to the end of the eighteenth century.

The greater part of these operas were intermingled with improvised
scenes, and farces performed by the characters of the Commedia dell’Arte.
In _L’Anfiparnasso_—a harmonic opera by Orazio Vecchi, performed in
Modena in 1594—Brighella, Pantaloon, a lackey named Pirolino, and the
Captain, move as freely as in their own improvised farces.

“Pantaloon calls Pirolino. The greedy servant answers him from
afar with his mouth full. Pantaloon cries: ‘Holla, Pirolino!
Where are you then? Pirolino! Pirolino! Ah! thief, what are you
doing in the kitchen?’ ‘I am filling my stomach with birds,’
says Pirolino, ‘with birds which used to sing: _Pipiripi!
cucurucu!_’”

On the 14th December 1645, Cardinal Mazarin commanded a performance to
be given in Paris at the Petit-Bourbon Theatre, of _La Finta Pazza_ of
Giulio Strozzi, with music by Francesco Socrati, and machinery by Torelli.

Margarita Bartolazzi was the CANTATRICE in this troupe. Her voice, says a
contemporary author, was so charming that it would be impossible worthily
to praise her.

Luigia Gabriella Locatelli and Giulia Gabrielli were also included as
Cantatrices in this same company, which continued its performances down
to 1652.

In 1658, at the Petit-Bourbon, a great performance was held of _La
Rosaura_, a lyric tragedy by Antonio Arcoleo, with music by Antonio
Perti, originally given in Venice. The interludes were filled by Fiurelli
(Scaramouche).

The word _opera_ was then used in its true sense of “work.” It was
customary to say _opera musicale_, _opera tragica_, _sacra_, _comica_,
_scenica_, _armonica_, etc. Works such as _La Rosaura_, _Orfeo_, _Ercole
Amante_ and _Serse_ were announced with the word _Machines_ at the head
of the bill, and the room in the Louvre where these Italian operas were
performed bore the name of the _Salle des Machines_. The opera _Serse_
(Xerxes), first given in November, 1660, was so long that it took more
than eight hours to perform.

The players in this piece were Signora Anna Bergerotti, Signor Melone,
who was an abbé, and who played feminine rôles, Bordignone, Atto,
Tagliavacca, Zanetto, Chiarini, Piccinni, Assalone, Rivani and Augustino.

In the interludes, “Scaramouche (Tiberio Fiurelli) appeared in disguise,
and danced between two Doctors; he was recognised by his companions,
Trivelino and Pulcinella, who stripped and beat him.”

To the company of Italian singers Louis XIV. united for these
performances that of the Italian buffoons as well as the French dancers
and musical performers. Of these royal fantasies were soon born the
French opera and the permanent installations of the French and Italian
comedies.

After the demolition of the Petit-Bourbon, Louis XIV. lent the hall of
the Palais-Royal to Molière and to the troupe of Italian comedians who
also sang, but whose singing was confined to couplets.

In Gherardi’s collection we see that at the end of the seventeenth
century some of the airs fitted to the comedies are Italian and others
French. They are mostly melodies drawn from the old Italian operas of the
beginning of the century, and from French rigadoons and Italian couplets,
many of which have a deal of _maestria_. In the case of some pieces,
however, like _Les Originaux_ (1693), the music of which was written by
M. Masse, the airs were specially composed for the occasion.

The rôle of La Chanteuse or Cantatrice was really a very limited one and
demanded no more than a pretty voice and a pretty face. Such attributes
were supplied by Elisabeth Danneret, known then under the name of _Babet
la Chanteuse_, who made her début at the Italian comedy on 8th July 1694,
in _La Fontaine de Sapience_. She was short of stature, but extremely
well made and very pretty. Her duties consisted in appearing dressed as a
shepherdess—as shepherdesses were dreamed of in those days—to proffer a
cup of a miraculous water whilst singing:

“Qui goûte de ces eaux ne peut pas plus se méprendre
Quand l’amour lui demande un choix;
Buvons-en mille et mille fois;
Quand on prend de l’amour, on n’en saurait trop prendre.”

And, at the end of the piece, when shepherds and shepherdesses have
chosen one another with _sapience_ and are dancing together, the
cantatrice shepherdess returns, and sings:

“Amanti, ci vuole costanza in amor’,
Amando,
Penando,
Si speri, si, si;
Che basta sol un di,
Un’ hor’, un momento,
Per render contento
Un misero cuor’.”

In _Le Départ des Comédiens_ (1694), Gherardi, as Harlequin, says to the
Doctor: “As for you, sir, you are going to live on your rents. I should
like to associate myself with you, but it is forbidden to an Italian
comedian to go into retirement before the age of a hundred and twenty,
and it was only out of kindness that Scaramouche was permitted to retire
at ninety-four.”

Then, turning to Babet: “And you, mademoiselle, what are you going to
do?” he would inquire. Babet answered him in song:

“Quand une fille,
Jeune et gentille,
Voudra,
Bientôt elle parviendra.
J’en connais une,
Que la fortune
Jusques aux cieux élèvera ...
Dans un nuage, à l’Opéra.”

Babet hardly realised the truth of the fiction which she sang. After the
death of Gherardi, with whom she had lived as a wife, and by whom she had
had a son, she did indeed join the opera.

Sometimes Babet was dressed as a sibyl, as an ancient priestess, as
Bellona, the goddess of war, as a Naïad, as an Egyptian, etc.

Some wits on the subject of the Cantatrice announced that an abbé
formed part of the new company in the capacity of almoner. “They have a
Cantatrice, a Doctor and an Almoner; therefore the company is complete.”
We do not know whether an abbé did indeed accompany the comedians, but
if so that would not have been the first case of its kind in an Italian
troupe. The Italians frequently mingled religious practices with the most
profane things. The first register of the new troupe was conceived as
follows:—

“In the name of God, of the Virgin Mary, of Saint Francis, of
Paul, and of the souls in Purgatory, we start our performances
on this eighteenth of May, 1716, with _L’Inganno Fortunato_.”

A story related by the Président de Brosses, in speaking of a performance
in the amphitheatre of Verona, in 1740, is no less curious.

“Let me not forget to tell you of a singular surprise I
experienced at the comedy, on the first occasion that I went
there. A bell in the city having sounded, there was so sudden
a movement about me that I thought the amphitheatre was
tumbling into ruins, particularly as I saw that the actresses
were running away, and one of them notwithstanding that at
the moment, in accordance with the prescriptions of her rôle,
she was in a swoon. The real cause of all this was that the
_Angelus_ had just sounded, and that the whole assembly had
knelt down facing the East, whilst the actors vanished into the
wings and an _Ave Maria_ was sung. After this, the swooning
actress returned, very properly performed the usual obeisance
after the _Angelus_, resumed her condition of unconsciousness,
and the piece continued.”

In the performance of the company of 1716 we find _Les Stratagèmes_,
music by Plagliardi (1716); _Alcyone_, a parody (1741), music by M.
Blaise; _La Serva Padrona_ (1756), music by Pergolese. Other musical
composers of the Italian comedy were: Tarade, Kohot, Philidor, Gibert,
Sodi, Monsigni, Chardini, Lamette, Duni, Clément, Grétry, Le Chevalier
d’Herbain, Bambini, Gossec, Garnier, Desbrosses, etc.

Rosalia Astraudi made her début on the 30th April 1744. She was eleven
years of age at the time, and she was engaged to sing in parodies and
interludes, to play lovers and soubrettes and to dance in the ballet. She
discharged all these offices to the satisfaction of the public, married a
nobleman, and left the theatre in 1755.

Justine-Benoîte du Ronceray, known as Mademoiselle Chantilly, born at
Avignon in 1727, was the daughter of Du Ronceray, sometime musician of
the chapel of the King of France, and later choir-master to Stanislas,
King of Poland. In 1744 she was a dancer in the service of this monarch,
when she obtained leave to visit France, accompanied by her mother,
Claudine Bied, who was also in the employ of the King of Poland as a
musician. She made her début in the theatre of the Opéra-Comique at
the fair of Saint-Laurent, under the management of Favart. Favart fell
seriously in love with her, and married her at the end of that year.
He was summoned later on by the Maréchal de Saxe, to undertake the
management of the theatre which was to follow the French army into the
Low Countries.

The marshal’s camp was never without its comic opera. It was from its
stage that the battle orders were issued. In the interval between two
pieces the principal actress—a part long filled by Madame Favart—would
come to make such an announcement as: “Gentlemen, there will be no
performance to-morrow as M. le Maréchal is delivering battle. On the next
day we shall give _Le Coq du Village, Les Amours Grivois_.”

From principles both of taste and of system, the Maréchal de Saxe
insisted upon gaiety in his armies. He said that the French never
conducted themselves so well as when they were gaily led, and that what
they most feared in time of war was boredom. Mademoiselle Chantilly,
therefore, followed her husband to headquarters in Brussels. It was there
that the Maréchal de Saxe fell in love with her (1746).

“Mademoiselle de Chantilly” (he wrote one day), “I take my
leave of you. You are a more dangerous enchantress than the
lady Armida. Now as Pierrot, now as Love, now as a simple
shepherdess, you bear yourself so charmingly that you enchant
us all. I, too, have beheld myself at the point of succumbing,
I whose sinister art affrights the universe. What a triumph
for you had you been able to subject me to your laws! I am
grateful to you for not having exerted all your arts. For a
young sorceress you contrive very well with your crook, which
is no less, I think, than the wand by which that poor Prince
Renaud was stricken. Already I have beheld myself surrounded
by blossoms and petals, sinister equipment for a favourite
of Mars. I tremble to think of it. And what would the King
of France and Navarre have said if he had found me grasping
a garland instead of the torch of vengeance? Notwithstanding
the danger to which you have exposed me, I cannot bear you any
grudge for my error; it is charming! But it is only by flight
that so great a peril is to be eluded:

“Adieu, divinité du parterre adorée;
Faites le bien d’un seul et les désirs de tous;
Et puissent vos amours égaler la durée
De la tendre amitié que mon cœur a pour vous!”

“Forgive, Mademoiselle, this rhymed prose which your talents
inspire from the lingering remains of my intoxication; the
liquor I have drunk lasts, it is said, often longer than we
think.

“MAURICE DE SAXE.”

Madame Favart made her début at the Comédie-Italienne on the 5th August
1749. “There is no other instance of so great a success.” Grimm says that
her celebrity was the result of the passion she had inspired in the hero
of Fontenoy.

Her talents were variously appreciated. She had, we are assured, a frank
and natural gaiety, an agreeable and piquant manner. Fitted for any
character, she rendered all with a surprising truth: soubrettes, leading
ladies, peasant girls, naïve parts, character parts, she made them all
her own; in a word, she could multiply herself without end, and audiences
were amazed to see her play on the same day, in four several pieces,
four entirely different rôles. She was able so perfectly to imitate the
various dialects that people whose accent she borrowed imagined her their
compatriot.

“We emphatically assert,” wrote the brothers Parfait, in 1769,
“notwithstanding the sentiments of those who are always greedy
of novelty, that this amiable actress has not yet been equalled
in these rôles; and to convince all who might doubt it there
is no need to do more than to send them to witness the first
performance of _La Fée Urgèle_, which is about to be given.”

In June of 1771 the first symptoms of the disease that was to kill her
made their appearance; and although she was well aware of her desperate
case she continued to play until the end of the same year, out of
interest for her comrades. Of her death in 1772 Grimm wrote as follows,
very harshly disparaging her talents:—

“The theatre of the Comédie-Italienne has just lost a
celebrated actress in Madame Favart. Throughout all her
protracted sufferings she showed a great deal of fortitude
and patience. Upon recovering one day from a long swoon she
perceived, among those whom her danger had hastily brought
about her, one of her neighbours in grotesque accoutrements.
She smiled, and said that she had thought to behold the Clown
of Death (_le Paillasse de la Mort_)—a jest full of character
from the lips of a dying actress. The priests were never able
to induce her to renounce the theatre. She said that she would
not be forsworn; that the theatre was her state; that if she
were to recover she would be compelled to play again, and
that consequently it was impossible for her to renounce her
profession in good faith; she preferred to die without the
sacraments. When, however, she felt herself to be expiring she
exclaimed: ‘_Oh! pour le coup, j’y renonce._’ Those were her
last words. Madame Favart was somewhere about fifty years of
age. She was a bad actress. Her voice was harsh and her manner
coarse and ignoble. She was only endurable in exaggerated
characters and not long in those; she was very superior in
the part of the _Savoyard Montrant la Marmotte_: that was her
great talent, and it made her fortune in the theatre at the
time of her début in 1749. She was then called Mademoiselle de
Chantilly; she danced and sang and her dancing sabots turned
the head of all Paris.”

Between August 1752 and March 1754, Monelli, Guerrieri, Lazzari and the
Signore Anna Tonelli, Catarina Tonelli and Rosa Lazzari were seen as
singers on the stage of the Comédie-Italienne. They presented Pergolese’s
_La Serva Padrona, Il Maestro di Musica_ by Scarlatti, _Serpilla et
Bajocco_ by Ristorini, and other interludes set to music by Cocchi,
Selleti, Rinaldo di Capua, Latilla, Jomelli, Ciampi and Leo. As these
Italians sang only in _opera buffa_, the name of _buffoons_ came to be
given them. Hence it is that still to-day we speak of _buffi_ in the
Italian companies, although there is usually nothing of the buffoon in
their performances.

In the middle of the eighteenth century war was declared between
French music and Italian music. French music, with the King and
Madame de Pompadour at its head, carried the day. The Italian singers
quitted Paris, but the Comédie-Italienne seized upon their repertory,
appropriated subjects and music, and translated all their pieces, such,
for instance, as _La Serva Padrona_, which became a French comic opera
under the title of _La Servante Maitresse_.

Laruette, Rochard, Bouret, Mesdames Favart, Rosalie Astraudi, Foulquier
(_Catinon_), and Superville sang in French, and bolstered up the weakness
of their singing by the liveliness and dash of their performances. This
was the true cause of the failure in Paris of the Signora Deamicis on the
20th June 1758, when she made an attempt to restore to the esteem of the
French public the Italian music which five years before had yielded so
many comic operas.

After only one performance lasting four hours, and consisting of _La
Serva Padrona_ and _Gli Raggieri della Femina Scaltra_, the Signora
Deamicis and her father understood that further efforts would be useless.
She crossed to England, where she abandoned the line of _prima comica_
and took up the serious music of Bach.

Mademoiselle Foulquier made her first appearance in 1753, in the rôles
of Angélique, and was seen later on in those of Silvia. She added
to circumspection of behaviour and natural graces in singing and in
declamation, a superlative degree of talent as a dancer. Her elder
sister, Madame Bognoli, was seen as Silvia in 1758.

On the 6th May 1761, Mademoiselle Piccinelli made her début as an Italian
Cantatrice. Favart, in a letter to the Count of Durazzo, relates as
follows the history of Mademoiselle Piccinelli:—

“Here is what is said: One day a poor village woman found a
new-born child abandoned in a field; this was our Signora. The
peasant woman took charge of her out of charity, fostered her,
and brought her up as best she could as her own child until the
age of eight. Then one of those women who seek in the youth
and beauty of members of their own sex a means to their own
fortunes chanced to pass through the village, saw the little
one, was impressed by her natural graces, and proposed her
purchase for a moderate sum. The bargain was concluded. This
third mother spared nothing to give her adopted daughter an
education suitable to the state of life which she had in view
for her. The child profited beyond all the hopes that had been
entertained. Already the _matrone_ entertained visions of
fortune; she caused the girl to enter the theatre; she arranged
to procure for her an opulent protector; but the young actress,
whose tastes did not incline to these dispositions, decided
to choose for herself. This of course was opposed. To the end
that she might have peace, the girl then left her third mother
and voluntarily placed herself under the protection of another
adoptive one, so that she might appear becomingly in the world;
this last conducted her to Paris. There Mademoiselle Piccinelli
was well received at the Comédie-Italienne, and her success
was everywhere proclaimed. Thereupon the various mothers of
the cantatrice sought her out and each one claimed her. The
first one said: ‘She is mine, I gave her life.’ The second one
said: ‘I saved that life; I fostered her; she belongs to me.’
The third one: ‘I bought her; I educated her; who can dispute
my rights?’ The fourth one added: ‘She gave herself freely to
me, and I am working daily to make her fortune, which is the
best claim of all. I will tear out the eyes of any one of you
that disputes her with me.’ Our Cantatrice, to make the peace
amongst them, gave an equal sum of money to each. The first
three withdrew; the fourth remained with her as her counsellor.
La Piccinelli, fatigued by these little family vexations, ended
by renouncing all her mothers, and placed herself under the
authority of a husband. She chose M. Vezian, the brother of a
very pretty girl who was with us at the Comédie-Italienne, and
to whom he owes the considerable position which he fills.”

Mademoiselle Piccinelli added to a charming presence “a voice of great
range and flexibility, of a silvery and pleasant timbre. She was able to
please French ears. With this gift she combined that of playing comedy
with great nobility.”

Mademoiselle Collet made her début on the 21st January 1721, in _La Fille
Mal Gardée_.

“Her infantile performances obtained her the applause of
the public, which was redoubled when she was seen in the
rôle of Betzi in _Le Roi et le Fermier_. These are about the
only characters in which she achieved distinction. Her voice
was poor, and she replaced by mannerisms what she lacked in
expression.”

In 1762, Signorina Colomba, a Venetian, successfully made her début at
the Comédie-Italienne in Paris. An Englishman fell in love with her and
attempted to carry her off. She left the theatre to escape from him, and
did not return to it until 1772.

“Her début was of the most brilliant,” says Grimm in his
correspondence. “She is no longer in her first youth; at least
she has the air of being about thirty years of age. Her only
fault is that she is invested with too much nobility and too
much beauty for the rôles of comic opera; her carriage, her
walk, her air, are those of a queen. Her glance is august,
noble and tender; her great eyes, the most beautiful in the
world, seem to suggest that the proper place for her is
tragedy. Her play is not without mannerisms, but they are
mannerisms that are pleasing.... She has a charming voice, and
an excellent way of singing, full of that grace, sweetness
and facility which French singers can never achieve. Speaking
for myself, this is the first, and perhaps the last time that
I have heard anyone sing in a Parisian theatre with such
ravishing charm and grace.”

The Italian comedians, to repair the loss which they suffered in the
retirement of Mademoiselle Piccinelli, and the death of Madame Savi—who
had made her début in 1760 in the parts of leading lady—charged Colalto,
who played Pantaloon parts, to go to Italy to find two actresses. He
left in April of 1766 and returned in August with the Signore Zanarini
and Bacelli, mother and daughter. They made their début as first and
second ladies in _Gli Amori d’Arlequino_ of Goldoni. Those who understood
Italian applauded them heartily, especially the mother; the others
withdrew but indifferently satisfied. Madame Zanarini was engaged to
play leading rôles, and her daughter, Mademoiselle Bacelli, for those of
soubrettes.

In 1770 Paris received Mademoiselle Mesnard, a young and pretty
Cantatrice, who had begun life as a shopkeeper and then entered
the theatre under the protection of the Duke of Chaulnes, who had
her portrait painted by Greuze. It was she who was the mistress of
Beaumarchais, and the cause of that scandalous rough-and-tumble between
the “duc et pair crocheteur” and the author of _Figaro_. We know that,
as a consequence of this affair, Beaumarchais, although acquitted by the
tribunal of the Marshals of France, which had sent M. de Chaulnes to the
prison of Vincennes under a _lettre de cachet_, was sent to Fort-l’Evêque
by M. de la Vrillière for the sole reason that it was impossible for the
son of a clockmaker to be in the right in a quarrel with a duke and peer.

Of Madame Ruette, Grimm writes on the occasion of her retirement in 1777:

“This charming actress united to the most engaging of voices
and the finest of countenances, a tact that is infinitely rare,
and a most naïve and delicate sensibility. It is hopeless to
expect to see again the rôles of Isabella and Columbine played
as they were played by her. The delightful scene of the Rose
in _Le Magnifique_ was entirely her own work; she diffused
into it a mixture of propriety and interest whose magic is
inexplicable. A singular saying, perhaps, but one full of
truth, was that of Madame d’Houdetot when she declared that,
‘_in that moment Madame La Ruette expressed modesty even in her
back_.’”

The theatres of the fair of Saint-Laurent took possession of the types,
the pieces and the music of the Italians. They played and sang French
recitatives with Italian music, French dance music and French romances.
Down to 1721 we can find only couplets upon ancient airs, or those which
already had been sung elsewhere.

In 1737, Monsigny wrote the music of _On Ne S’Avise Jamais de Tout_,
and of several other comic operas. In 1759, Duni composed _La Veuve
Indécise_, and Laruette wrote _Le Boulevard_ in 1753. Other composers of
music for the Opéra-Comique were MM. Lacoste, Gillier, Aubert, Delacroix,
etc.

Since the Opéra-Comique manifested too great a development, and the
Italian troupe fell short of what was necessary, the two companies united
their forces in 1761. The troupe of the Opéra-Comique was then composed
of Mesdemoiselles Deschamps, Rosaline, Nessel, Luzi, Arnoult, Dezzi,
Florigny. The men were Laruette, Bourette, Delisle, Audinot, Parau,
Saint-Aubert, Clairval and Guignes.

In the forain theatres the principal actresses singing in comic opera or
in parodies were:

Mademoiselle Maillard, the daughter of a cook and a lace-mender. She
began in 1696 with Bertrand, who perceived her talent and gave her an
engagement in his company, in which she remained for eight years. She
married a young man named Cavé, at Besançon. He took the name of Maillard
and became an actor (see Scaramouche). She retired when Mademoiselle de
Lisle entered the theatre in 1716. On the point of being confined, she
was accidentally wounded, and died in September, 1721.

Mademoiselle de Lisle, born in 1684, was barely eleven years of age when
she made her first appearance as a soubrette at the Opéra-Comique. She
reappeared in 1716, played until 1740, and died in 1758.

Mademoiselle Bastolet, born in Paris, joined the _Jeu de Bertrand_ in
1698, on a salary at the rate of tenpence a day. Afterwards she played
with Dolet, with the Sieur Saint-Edme, with Lalauze in 1721, and with
Honoré in 1724, and she married an Italian doctor in 1735. Later, in the
company of the Sieur Pontau, she scored considerable success in the rôles
of mothers.

Mademoiselle Lambert played leading parts and sang in vaudevilles; she
married Dolet, who, before being a manager of the theatres at the fairs
of Saint-Laurent and Saint-Germain, had filled an engagement in the
Italian company of Constantini, and afterwards in that of Tortoretti.
She left the theatre in 1709, became a _modiste_ at the fairs of
Saint-Germain and Saint-Laurent, but, failing to make a success of this
business, she induced her husband to give up the theatre, and jointly
with him opened a lemonade shop.

In 1700, Mademoiselle Babron, the daughter of a box opener at the
Comédie-Italienne, sister of Babron (the forain Harlequin), appeared in
rôles of Columbine and of women disguised as men, in Bertrand’s company.
In 1707 she married the actor Prevost, and went with him into the country.

In 1710, Mademoiselle d’Aigremont, known under the name of _Camuson_,
left her modiste shop to join the Opéra-Comique. She remained there until
1723.

THE BALLERINA

The art of dancing is inseparable from the art theatrical, and especially
from pantomime. Xenophon relates that on the occasion of the return of
the ten thousand Greeks sent to assist Cyrus in his campaign against
Artaxerxes, after they had performed their celebrated retreat, dilated
upon by all historians, the Greeks instituted the public games and
festivals.

“Thracians were the first to appear, full-armed, and leaping to
the sound of flutes. They sprang so high and dropped again with
so much force, that the spectators seem to have been frightened.

“Next came a Mysian who held a shield in either hand. He span
rapidly round and performed dangerous leaps whilst retaining
these shields. He ended by striking them one against the other,
after the fashion of the Persians, and by executing to the
sound of this novel instrument a delightful dance-step.

“After him came a company of Arcadians. They were in brilliant
armour and advanced rhythmically, hand in hand, whilst a
warlike march was being played by flutes. Some detached
themselves from the company, others joined it, and they
concluded by dancing in a ring, but with so much rapidity and
unanimity that the movement of a wheel is neither swifter nor
more equal.

“Finally came two women arrayed in the most elegant garments.
One of these performed the Pyrrhic dance, a shield in her
hand; the other went through the dance of Ariane, waving a
kerchief, and she moved with so much lightness and grace that
she delighted the spectators and was greeted at the conclusion
of her ballet by the applause of all.”

Pindar refers to a dance executed by a troupe of Lacedemonian virgins.
The greater part of the Laconian dances were common to boys and to girls.
In _Hormus_ young men and maidens formed by their interlacings the figure
of a collar. The young corypheus advanced with the vigour of his sex,
striking male and bellicose attitudes, whilst the girl who led the choir
advanced on her side with graceful and modest steps.

“At the beginning,” says Lucian, “the same person danced and
sang at the same time; but as it was perceived that the effort
of the dance was troubling to the breathing, it was considered
well to appoint some to sing and others to dance.”

Among the dancers of antiquity there were those who imitated the form and
the movements of beasts.

“From the imitation of animals the dancers passed on to the
imitation of men, selecting those whose professions or vices
rendered their movements more nearly akin to those of animals.
As the _Emmelie_ was the imitation of the most graceful and
healthy bodies, the _Cordace_, or comic dance, was the
imitation of bodies ill-made or deformed as a consequence of
sensuality and low passions” (Magnin, _Origines du Théâtre
Moderne_).

Pliny speaks of the famous Lucceia, who to a talent for dancing added
that of declamation, and who reappeared on the stage in her hundredth
year, to recite some verses. He speaks also of an actress, Galeria
Copiola, mime and dancer, who had made her début in Rome in 671, and who
reappeared in the time of Augustus. She had then reached the age of a
hundred and four. Phœbe Vocontia and the famous Dionysia, who received
two hundred thousand sesterces (about two thousand pounds sterling per
annum) were also _saltatriculæ_ (dancing mimes).

These two types are to be found in the Renaissance. The animal, the
imitative and the burlesque is to be seen as much in the classical
masques of the Italian comedy as in the grotesque ones of Leonardo da
Vinci; whilst we find the graceful, the noble and the beautiful in the
person of the ballerina.

Pietro Maria Cecchini (Fritellino) says, in his discourses on comedy
published in 1614 but written at the end of the sixteenth century: “It
is more than fifty years since the custom arose of introducing women
into the theatre.” He means by that, without doubt, that the women
were entrusted with rôles holding an important place in the plot,
and supplanting the boys to whom such parts had been entrusted until
then. From the fifteenth century (1494), in Italy, we find women in
the theatre, performing concurrently with young men, and very often
licentious in word and deed, the rôles of goddesses, nymphs or of
allegorical and mythological characters. These early actresses in the
comedy of the sixteenth century, notwithstanding the great liberty of
customs and of language, contrived to maintain some of the reserve proper
to their sex.

In his _Supplica_, N. Barbieri (Beltrame) says:

“I shall never bow to the custom of having the rôles of women
or of young girls performed by boys, especially after having
seen the disadvantages which result from this in certain
troupes. To begin with these young people do not know how to
dress themselves in the garments which do not belong to their
sex, and they get themselves dressed at home by their women
or their brainless servants, who sometimes amuse themselves
by trifling with them, so that he whose senses have not been
calmed by age or by serious care may easily become vain and
fatuous; being thus disguised as women, these youngsters
show themselves about the town, talking and fooling one with
another; they come dishevelled to the theatre, and it is then
necessary that their friends or preceptors should dress their
heads again, renew their paint and rearrange their garments.
We are to be thankful if they but come in time, and then it
is necessary to flatter them and to cajole them so to give
them courage; there is more than enough in all this to weary
the patience of those entrusted with such matters. It is more
natural that women should fill the rôles that are proper to
them; they know how to dress themselves and, as they lead
decent lives, far from being a source of scandal, they set none
but good examples. But, one will exclaim, I have successfully
paid my court to an actress. That is possible; but all women
are not so accommodating, nor all men so fortunate. Here is a
man who for years has pursued an actress and fruitlessly spent
treasures upon her. It must be remembered that actresses are
women with the same nature as their sister women. They may not
fall but all the world knows it; and, apart from the fear of
God, they are compelled to live with more care and virtue than
those who are in a position to cover their faults with the
mantle of hypocrisy.”

“For the rest,” says M. H. A. Soleirol, in an interesting work
on Molière and his troupe, “the appearance of women on the
boards seems to go back to very remote ages, as may be seen
in ancient drawings. According to these pictures, which give
the names of actors and indicate the rôles which they filled,
we see that in the fifteenth century many women performed in
the mystery plays rôles either of females or of angels. Many
other old portraits show us that in the sixteenth century women
performed on the trestles in the public places; and lastly we
know the costumes of the women who took part in the comedies of
Marguerite of Navarre in 1540.”

If in the fifteenth century in France women were permitted to appear and
to take part in the mystery plays, there is every reason to suppose that
they were performing long before then in the theatres of Italy, a nation
which always led the way in artists of all kinds.

It is very certain that throughout the Middle Ages there was no lack of
Bohemiennes and _joculatores_ on the trestles. They came to enliven the
sumptuous repasts of the great lords by performing comedy-scenes like
those of _Le Berger et la Bergère_, _Courtois_, _Mariage_ and _Pèlerin_.
The performances of these plays were intermingled with dances and songs.
The earliest actresses derived a great deal from these _ballerine_.
The rôles which they performed, however, were very short ones in
scenarii that were very simple, and one woman in a troupe would often be
sufficient to discharge all the female parts. We know that down to the
end of the seventeenth century the broader female rôles (such as those of
gossips) were invariably performed by men, by Scaramouche, Harlequin and
Pierrot.

Later on it became necessary that all Italian actresses should be able
to dance; that was part of their primary education. For many celebrated
actresses, indeed, it was the essential factor in their admission into
the theatre; and even in the eighteenth century it was necessary for the
immortal tragic actress Hippolyte Clairon to be able to dance and sing
so as to be accepted into the Théâtre-Italien. Coraline and Camille,
the famous daughters of the actor Veronese, owed their chief success to
their dancing. This applies also to Madame Favart, whose village dance in
sabots took Paris by storm.

In the plays of Angelo Beolco (Ruzzante, 1530), the young woman does not
take up more than two or three scenes, somewhere about the middle of the
piece, leaving it to other characters to continue and work out the story.
We find her still the object of the plot; but, contrary to our modern
theatrical rules, she disappears sometimes in the very moment when the
interest of which she is the pivot reaches its climax. The reason for the
slight development of these rôles was without doubt the insufficiency and
inexperience of the actresses entrusted with them, and perhaps also their
obligation to go and change their dress for the final ballet. In _La
Mandragora_, of Macchiavelli, Lucretia appears for the first time in the
third act, and does not reappear thereafter until the end of the fifth.

With the Italians, the dance was in such high repute that in the
sixteenth century young Frenchwomen “would go beyond the Alps to learn
it.” No spectacles were given in Italy that did not include dances and
music, and to this day there are interludes in _Norma_ and _Semiramide_
of ballets imitating village dances.

In the seventeenth century the court of Savoy set the fashion to all
other courts of Europe by its ballets and fairy scenes, under the
direction of the famous Comte d’Aglié, a fertile genius in the matter of
theatrical invention.

The scenario of one of his ballets, given on the occasion of the birth
of the Cardinal of Savoy in 1634, is extremely curious by virtue of the
singular allegorical personages introduced into it. The title of this
ballet is: _La Verità nemica della Apparenza sollevata dal Tempo_.

“At rise of curtain a choir of False-Reports and of Suspicions
is discovered, preceding Appearance and Falsehood. The back
of the stage is opened. Upon a great cloud borne by the Winds
Appearance is seen dressed in a garment of changing colours
sewn with mirrors, and equipped with the wings and tail of
a peacock; she is in a sort of nest whence issue a crowd of
Pernicious Falsehoods, Frauds and Cheats; Pleasant Falsehoods,
Flatteries and Intrigues; Comical Falsehoods, Pleasantries and
Pretty little Stories.

“These characters had their various entrances until the advent
of Time. He drove out Appearance, and caused the cloud upon
which she had been enthroned to be opened. Within it was then
discovered a huge hour-glass from which came Truth and the
Hours. These last characters, after various speeches analogous
to the subject, formed the great ballet.”

It was then the custom for great personages, even sovereigns themselves,
to take part in fêtes of this brilliant kind. Thus, Louis XIV., desiring
in his pleasures as in other things to be the first of his century,
danced in the ballets of his court, and received the applause of the
comedians for his performance as actor, singer and dancer.

“The King has twice rehearsed the ballet which he intends to
dance before the Queen of England” (Guy Patin, 1661). It was
in this same year that the great monarch created a dancing
academy, “because,” he says in his letters patent, “the art of
dancing has always been recognised as one of the most virtuous
and necessary to adapt the body to exercise, and consequently
one of the most useful to our nobility, not only in time of war
in our armies, but also in time of peace in our ballets.”

Louis XIV. loved the rôle of the Sun in these splendid ballets, for the
production of one of which no less than nine hundred new costumes were
prepared. Sometimes, however, he did not disdain to be seen in a comic
part. In the ballet of the _Seasons_ he represented the golden-headed
Ceres surrounded by the reapers, which were played by Messeigneurs de
Saint-Aignan and de Vertpré, MM. Lulli and Bruneau, the Sieurs Beauchamp,
Raynal, Lecomte and Lapierre. In the _Triumph of Bacchus_, he performed
the part of a sort of good-for-nothing cutpurse and bully, and even
sang a couplet in favour of the fair sex. In _Les Amants Magnifiques_,
a comedy-ballet by Molière (1670), he not only co-operated in the
preparation of the scenery and in the production, but mimed, danced, sang
and played the flute and the guitar.

Let us cite amongst the most famous dancers Gertrude Boon, called _la
belle Tourneuse_; a surname derived from the style of dance which she
performed. She appeared and obtained the greatest possible success in the
theatre of Dame Baron, at the fair of Saint-Germain. Gertrude Boon was
young, beautiful and extremely gracious in the performance of her bizarre
evolutions. She was no less virtuous than gifted and turned a deaf ear
upon the sighs of her numerous suitors. Amongst these was a Sieur Gervais
who had amassed a considerable fortune at play and who, to prove to
this austere maiden how sincerely he loved her, offered her his fortune
and his name. Gertrude accepted him for her husband, not on account of
his fortune, but believing in the genuineness of his affection. The
marriage however was not a happy one, and Gertrude was driven to seek a
dissolution of it. But she failed in this, the validity of the marriage
being confirmed by a judgment of the 4th March 1715.

Violente, a famous rope dancer, was an Italian. She made her first
appearance at the fair of Saint-Laurent in 1717, and she was there seen
dancing at the _Folies d’Espagne_ upon a balanced plank, eight inches
wide, with as much grace as security.

Mademoiselle Hamoche, the wife of Hamoche, the Pierrot of the fairs,
united, in 1721, the capacities of tragic actress and première danseuse
in the forain theatres.

In 1724, Mademoiselle Grognet was dancing at the Opéra-Comique; she
passed into the service of the Duke of Modena in 1736, and married the
Marquis d’Argens, at Berlin.

Mademoiselle Cuppi de Camargo, born in Brussels in 1710, made her first
appearance at the Opéra in 1726 at the age of sixteen, and did not leave
it until 1751. Voltaire compares her to Mademoiselle Sallé, another
dancer quite as famous:

“Ah! Camargo, que vous êtes brillante!
Mais que Sallé, grands dieux! est ravissante!
Que vos pas sont légers, et que les siens sont doux!
Elle est inimitable, et vous êtes nouvelle:
Les Nymphes sautent comme vous,
Et les Grâces dansent comme elle.”

She was received with enthusiasm, her name became so popular that
fashions assumed it. There were Camargo bonnets, Camargo corsets, Camargo
head-dresses, Camargo cakes, etc., etc.; never had such a vogue been
known. Compelled, notwithstanding her brilliant début, to remain among
the supernumeraries in consequence of the jealousy of Mademoiselle
Prévot, Camargo contrived to issue in a brilliant manner from those ranks.

“A dance of Demons was being done. The principal actor misses
his entrance and whilst the orchestra, nevertheless, plays
the air of the solo, murmurs rise from the groundlings; they
become noisy and the actor is embarrassed, when the young
débutante, seized with a happy inspiration, leaps to the middle
of the stage, and improvises with spirit a Spanish step which
delights the dissatisfied spectators, and transports them with
admiration.”

Camargo was chiefly distinguished for her extraordinary lightness and her
wild gaiety.

In a letter written from Italy in 1739 by the Président de Brosses, the
following passage occurs:—

“There is nothing better to do when one arrives than to go to
the comedy to seek amusement; this is what we did at Verona.
I cannot get accustomed to the cheapness of the prices; the
first places do not cost ten sous; but the Italian nation is
imbued with the taste for spectacles so that the quantity of
people who attend fully compensates for this. Thanks be to God
there is no trouble to find room at the comedy in Verona. It
is performed right in the middle of the ancient amphitheatre
of the Romans, and there are no other places provided for the
spectators but those on the steps of the amphitheatre, where
all sit together and where some thirty thousand persons can be
accommodated. The companies of the country itself are, in my
view, better than those which are transplanted to Paris and to
our provinces, but the object of my ever-increasing surprise,
although I have seen her every day, is a young dancer who leaps
at least as high as Javilliers who can make twenty successive
capers without once repeating herself, and perform every one of
the steps that are so admired in our dancing masters; so that
on the score of lightness Camargo, by comparison with her, is
a dancer of stone. In general the dancers of this country are
very much stronger and cleverer than our own.”

Favart, in a letter of the 20th June 1762, proposed to the Count of
Durazzo the engagement of Baletti the elder, a son of Silvia and he
spoke at the same time of Mademoiselle Dumalgé:

“Baletti is young, no more than thirty to thirty-three years
of age. He has with him a young dancer, Mademoiselle Dumalgé,
of sixteen to seventeen years old; she is very shapely, though
perhaps a little high in the shoulders, which is but a trivial
fault. After Catinon and Camille, she is the very best of our
first dancers at the Théâtre-Italien. She will follow the
fortunes of Baletti, who has, it is said, secretly married her.”

The dance has changed like the fashions, and yet when we look at the
ancient figures, statues, painting and Etruscan, Greek and Roman
bas-reliefs which preserve for us numerous types of dancers of both
sexes, we are impressed by the fact that the grace of the human body is
above and beyond all transient conventions, and that it has remained the
same throughout the ages in which the art of dancing has been spreading
through the world. One might compare the Ballerina of the Renaissance
with the dancer with the timbrel of Herculaneum, and discover the same
movement of body and the same simplicity of garments. In other paintings
the manner of holding up a corner of the gown, of draping the body in
the _tarentina_ or of raising cymbals or a veil above the head, might
have been created yesterday by the latest brilliant choregrapher from
Italy—Taglioni, Carlotta Grisi, La Rosati or La Ferraris.

The famous Bigottini, the greatest mime of the nineteenth century in
the serious manner, who could draw tears from her audience in her
pathetic scenes, was French. In her day (1809), France was infatuated
with Italian artists to such an extent that several of our composers gave
the first performances of their compositions as if they were the work of
ultramontane artists; an instance of this is afforded by Mohul, with his
comic opera _L’Irato_.

STENTERELLO

STENTERELLO, MENEGHINO and GIANDUJA are what the Italians call
_caratterista_—that is to say, they are character parts interposed; in
other words, they are rôles which, whilst frequently being of no value
to the action of the piece, are nevertheless introduced so as to throw,
even into the darkest melodrama, a little mirth by jests and pleasantries
that are frequently incoherent and quite irrelevant. Whatever the piece
that is performed, the _caratterista_ comes to discharge his own peculiar
part in it—speaking his own dialect, and dressed in his own traditional
costume—among other actors who speak Italian and are dressed according to
the exigencies of the situation and the piece. Stenterello in Tuscany,
Meneghino in the Milanese, and Gianduja in Piedmont are all of them
the same type, modified to suit the particular taste of each province.
Each of these three masks is to-day the sole representative mask of his
country. They have dethroned and replaced throughout northern Italy
Harlequin and Brighella, who survive merely as puppets in the marionette
shows.

“The gentlemen of La Crusca,” says M. Frédéric Mercey, “and
the purists of Florence in general, are the avowed enemies
of poor Stenterello. They cannot bring themselves to speak
of him without scorn and anger, and it is less his conduct
than the incorrectness of his language and his weakness for
dialect which provokes their hatred. Stenterello, in effect, is
Tuscan rather than Florentine. You will find him at Perugia,
at Arezzo, at Pistoia, and at Siena; he is even naturalised
in Lucca, in Pisa and in Bologna, and he speaks perfectly
the accented language of the people of these towns, of which
you would believe him to be a native. But if his language
varies his actions are always the same. In Bologna Stenterello
took some time ago the ways of his companions of Venice,
Milan and Turin, Harlequin, Meneghino and Girolamo, between
whom and himself it is not to be doubted that certain bonds
of relationship exist. The fact is that all these are mere
variants of the same type, various countenances of the same
character, modified by environment and climate.”

The Florentines claim that their Stenterello, a very fantastic personage,
was created in the late eighteenth century by an extremely popular actor
named Il Buono. The cut of this character’s costume, however, does not
tend to prove him of so recent a creation. The showy and variegated
colours of the garb of Stenterello, the three deep parallel lines at
each corner of the mouth—derived from the ancient _rictus_ worn by all
the masks of the Renaissance—seem to us to belong to a sixteenth-century
type, a type no doubt forgotten, but strikingly resuscitated by the actor
Buono.

This opinion that types are no longer improvised, but merely transformed,
is that of M. Frédéric Mercey. “In the days of the republic of Florence,”
he says, speaking of Stenterello, “he dwelt in palaces; he was then in
the very prime of life, and in the fine vigour of his spirit; he was
called Macchiavelli, Boccaccio, L’Aretino or Poggio. Stenterello is the
rather vulgarised descendant of these fine wits, and he has inherited in
particular their vices and their meannesses. I am surprised that instead
of taking the name of _Stenterello_ he should not have retained that of
Poggio. But the name of Stenterello—derived from the verb _stentare_, to
endure—prevailed.”

Stenterello does not deliberately aim either at wit or at malice; when he
achieves one or the other he does so unconsciously, as a result of his
natural ingenuousness. Like all the types of the Italian comedy, he is a
faithful reflection of the people who created him.

During the carnival of Florence, great sheets, upon which were painted
the acts and _gesta_ of Stenterello, were wont to drape the corners of
every street. His performances were held in the little theatres of the
_Piazza Vecchia_ and the _Borgo Ogni Santo_. The lower orders of Florence
encumbered the pit and the aristocracy filled the boxes. Twopence was
the price of a seat in the pit, and the best boxes were to be had for a
florin. At these same prices admission was to be gained also throughout
the remainder of the year when the entertainment consisted of operas
sung by worn-out tenors and young creatures who had discarded the needle
for the pursuit of art. Nevertheless everybody attended when the great
theatres were closed, and one even heard in these places the music of
Cimarosa, of Rossini and of Meyerbeer.

No piece was possible in Florence without Stenterello. He was sometimes
the servant, sometimes the master; sometimes he parodied the hero of
drama, of comedy or of a fashionable romance. Sometimes he personified
passions and political caricatures of a palpitating actuality, and his
popularity was heightened when, under the anger of the censors, he
was sent to spend some days in prison in the person of the actor who
performed him, or even of the impresario who admitted him to the stage.
Apart from the special pieces of which he is the hero, he is to be seen
in a great number of others into which he is introduced even if he has to
be dragged in by the ears; thus, for instance, we have _Robert the Devil,
with Stenterello_; _Don Giovanni, with Stenterello_, etc. Tragedy, drama
and serious opera, all make room for him. From choice he undertakes in
them the rôle of a cowardly and comical servant. He is very amusing when
he is seduced by the nuns in _Robert the Devil_ or when he receives the
statue of the commander to supper in _Don Giovanni_.

He changes his costume freely, according to the exigencies of the piece,
but he preserves immutably his triumphant black wig, which terminates
in a long red queue after the Prussian fashion, his black eyebrows
either in the form of corkscrews or else terminating at the ears like
those of certain ancient masks, his three deep parallel lines at the
corners of his mouth, and finally his white-painted cheeks, on which he
sometimes plasters a daub of rouge, shaped like a cart-wheel. But his
chief characteristic, the seal without which Stenterello’s existence
would be impossible, is the absence of the handsomest of his front teeth.
The actor who is to devote himself to the reproduction of this amusing
character must, to begin with, undergo this sacrifice. The more marked is
the black gap thus made in his upper jaw, the more sure is his success.
Moreover the absence of this middle tooth is of enormous assistance to
the actor in the imitation of the dialect of the Tuscan folk.

Stenterello is addicted to violent colours. He wears a pale blue coat
and a yellow waistcoat, a pair of breeches that are black, or of which
one leg is sometimes of an apple-green. His cotton stockings, one of
which is red, the other striped blue and white, are stretched upon
slightly knock-kneed legs, which bear witness to his Florentine origin.
He leaves high heels to the gentlemen of the court of Louis XIV.; he
parades his great feet in stout shoes adorned with enormous tin buckles.

Stenterello has neither the malice nor the coarseness of most of the
Italian buffoons. We feel that he belongs to a people whose prime
requirement is a black coat, and whose greatest desire is to be addressed
in the third person. The lively pleasantries of Stenterello are never
indecent. His appearance is always in harmony with the proprieties, and
he has a certain naïveté proper to the Tuscan people. He is not brave, he
never wants to kill anyone, but he lives in great fear of being killed
himself. Lean and active, he is always ready to run for it at the first
sign of danger. Extremely susceptible, he is gallant towards all women,
but it does not amuse him to pay them a protracted court; he lacks the
necessary patience. He does not eschew manners which frequently lead
to his being cuffed. After women, life’s chief attraction for him lies
in the table. Greediness will lead him to forget love; to obtain a
good dinner he will perform a thousand knaveries, he will even submit,
perhaps, to be beaten, although he has no love for blows, and is greatly
in dread for their effect upon his health. His laziness is proverbial,
and there is no doubt that if he were possessed of a few halfpence he
would be as avaricious as he is gluttonous; but since he possesses
nothing of his own, he contents himself with coveting the wives and
the dinners of his neighbours, and he loves to lie in the sun like a
lizard, dozing, with one eye on the watch. He is happy if he can find an
indulgent ear into which to speak ill of this person and that; he will
then forget that his belly is empty, and will himself be more amused by
his own quips than will others.

M. Frédéric Mercey, in his _Théâtre en Italie_, speaks of several
scenarii in which Stenterello plays the protagonist part, the entire
action of the piece turning about him. He is the lover of a princess,
and desires to declare to her his passion after having performed an
exaggerated toilet, with his wig nicely curled. He has even borrowed
the travelling satchel of an Englishman of his acquaintance, so as
to be irreproachable in his personability. “This satchel contains a
multitude of objects whose purposes he cannot even guess, besides
fourteen nail-brushes of various patterns. The implied criticism of the
meticulous cleanliness of the English is entirely Italian and very droll.
Stenterello is astonished by the contents of the satchel, and, after
examining each object at length, he attempts to use it. His embarrassment
and his commentaries are extremely amusing. Finally, after a hundred
futile endeavours appropriately to employ this complicated machinery,
he ends by depilating his nose with the corn-razor, and by brushing his
teeth with a soap-box full of soap, which distorts his countenance into
horrible grimaces.”

Here is an episode from the misfortunes of Stenterello, from which it
will be seen that the author has had no scruples about pillaging the
adventures of Falstaff:

A prince surprises Stenterello at the feet of the princess his wife.
Stenterello thinks to escape by pretending that he is seeking a bracelet
which the lady has dropped. The princess, in agreement with her husband,
gives Stenterello an assignation. Intoxicated with fatuity, he forgets
all prudence, and goes, to be flouted in the chamber of the princess. The
prince arrives, Stenterello hides in a coffer. The husband pretends to
have heard a noise in his wife’s room. He feigns jealousy, and beats with
his sword on the coffer. Stenterello, enclosed in it, bounds with fear.
The princess explains that the noise is made by rats. The prince orders
the coffer to be thrown into the River Arno. Stenterello, who is in
terror, and wants to raise the lid, which is crushing his fingers, cries
out and is discovered. The princess pretends to swoon. Four men arrive,
and they seize Stenterello, who leaves his wig in their hands. He begs
for mercy. He says that he was but preparing a surprise for the princess
in the hope of amusing her, “and I mistook this coffer for the door when
I attempted to leave the room.”

“No, no! Don Stenterello,” says the prince. “You are an old debauchee,
and you are going to be punished.” The prince draws an enormous hunting
knife sharp as a razor, and threatens him by a terrible gesture, to the
great applause of the public. Stenterello begs again for mercy, and
swears that he is not guilty.

“And if I were to forgive you, and to restore you to liberty, what should
you do now?”

“I am of agreeable appearance,” says Stenterello, lifting up his bald
scarred head, “and have a voice as lovely as a flute; the impresario
of the theatre of the _Borgo Ogni Santo_ would, I am sure, give me an
engagement as _soprano_.”

Sometimes he imitates the boasts of the captains or of Scaramouche. He
then assumes a military costume, causes his spurs to jingle, and trails
a great sword after him. He swears by bombs and cannons, and he relates
how, at a single sword-stroke, he split in twain a cavalier and his horse.

After having engaged in all professions, after having been a doctor, a
lawyer, a brigand, a porter, without ever making a success of anything,
he returns to Florence. He had left his wife there in misery in a hovel.
He finds her now dressed with great elegance, and occupying a handsome
house.

“Am I really at home?” he inquires.

Upon receiving an affirmative reply from his wife, and having made the
discovery that she is more beautiful than he had ever suspected, he asks
her whence proceeds all this wealth.

“My friend,” says she, “you recommended me to Providence when you
departed, and Providence has not forgotten me.”

Stenterello is enchanted. After he has eaten and drunk, and as he is
reposing in one of the arm-chairs of Providence, his wife enters with
three children who throw themselves upon his neck. Thereupon he protests:
“Per Bacco! I did not leave a single child in Florence. Is it Providence
again that has undertaken to make me a father?”

“Without a doubt,” says Madame Stenterello, “and you shall lose nothing
by it.”

Stenterello accepts his position with an air of comical resignation. No
sooner has he become accustomed to his house and his furniture than he
grows miserly. He will not consent to cut an egg into four, deeming it
wasteful.

“At breakfast,” he says, “an egg ought to be pricked at one of its ends
with a pin. Through this puncture half the contents is sucked, the rest
being left for dinner. In this fashion taste is satisfied, the pleasure
of eating is long-drawn and the purse does not grow empty. Moreover the
egg is not lost, the shell may be taken back to the poultry-keeper, so
that with it she may invite the hens to lay further. That is what I call
eating an egg in a profitable manner.”

Having turned avaricious, he becomes a speculator, and, seeking quickly
to double his capital, he so contrives that he loses everything. But
Stenterello is growing old and his wife with him; with age she can no
longer hope for anything from Providence. Stenterello drives her out,
with reproaches upon her evil conduct, and sends the children to the
devil, calling them bastards.

Stenterello is often oppressed in his home life. In an Italian farce
which shows him as a musician, he has for wife a virago who constantly
scolds and shouts. He decides never to answer her in dangerous moments,
save by a funereal note, drawn from the depths of an enormous hunting
horn, very much larger than himself. A sound and no more; but what a
sound!

[Illustration]

This idea of replying only by a sound is reminiscent of the scene of
Arzigogolo, a Florentine peasant of the sixteenth century, an ancestor of
the more modern Stenterello. Charged with theft, Arzigogolo repairs to
Alesso, a lawyer, to undertake his defence. The affair being explained,
Ser Alesso sees only one way out of it for Arzigogolo, and that is to
feign insanity.

ARZIGOGOLO. Oh! uh! I don’t know how to do it. It is difficult.
If I were wise I should do this. (_He strikes him with his
stick._)

ALESSO. May the devil take you, wretch! You have nearly broken
my shoulder; you will be a fool indeed if you caress the judge
in that fashion.

ARZIGOGOLO. I have heard tell that fools always strike; I had
a brother whose brain was deranged who always behaved like that
to me. (_He advances to strike again._)

ALESSO. Be quiet, animal! Can you think of no other way to play
the fool?

ARZIGOGOLO. I have heard tell that fools throw stones. I will
go and find one and throw it at your head.

The lawyer, having prevailed upon him to be quiet, advises him to answer
all the judge’s questions by a whistle.

Arzigogolo appears before the judge, who asks him: “What is your name,
peasant? Where do you live?” etc. Arzigogolo answers each of these
questions by a sharp whistle. The judge dismisses him acquitted, greatly
pitying him.

Comes the lawyer to claim his fee, and he receives from the peasant no
other answer but the same whistle.

The Stenterello of Bologna does not play parts of an importance equal to
those of the Florentine Stenterello. He is usually a servant, wearing his
livery with negligence and dressed awry. Like his Florentine namesake
he wears stockings of different colours, which is, as we have said, a
tradition of the variegated costumes of the sixteenth century. He is a
poltroon and a dolt, but his most distinctive trait is his preoccupation,
so profound that it sometimes amounts to imbecility. In Bologna
Stenterello is a rather fantastic being. His continual absent-mindedness,
his mania for relating stories which never come to an end, and which he
interrupts at the most interesting point, his jests and his grimaces are
all accepted as drolleries and impertinences by the public. The manner
in which he turns to crave his master’s pardon for having committed a
fresh stupidity disarms the anger of old Tabarino himself, who laughs
and takes the public to witness, with an air of resignation, exclaiming:
“What would you? It is Stenterello!”

It has been said that there never have been, and never will be, two
Stenterelli who resemble one another. He is the most difficult personage
to present of all the masks of the Italian comedy. He is a type full of
fantasy in his jests, and of spontaneity in his improvisation.

Stenterello, having angered his master, who has withdrawn so as not to be
driven to beat him, takes the public into his confidence: “Conceive now——
But then you saw him for yourselves, didn’t you? My master had given me a
letter to get mended and a watch to put in the post, into that big hole
with which you are perfectly acquainted, like the mouth of Gina, who is
a pretty girl with eyes bigger than my nose. Well then, it happened that
I met Signor Birrichino, who said to me: ‘Stenterello!’ ... a droll of
a name that, which comes to me from my father, who married my mother,
so that my mother, who was the daughter of my grandfather, who was the
father of my father, who was the father of his son, who was the father of
my mother, had a husband who was the son of my grandmother. Oh! no, no!”
(He turns a pirouette and is on the point of going out.) “Where is my
master? What a droll master! He is so absent-minded that he has forgotten
to give me a new pair of stockings.” (He thrusts out his leg, loses his
balance, stumbles over his foot and pretends to fall; but he recovers,
and carefully seeks the thing that may have tripped him. He picks up a
hair.) “I am losing them all.” (He takes off his wig and shows his bald
head, a disclosure which never fails to amuse the public. Taking the
hair, he replaces it on his head with care, whereafter he puts on his
wig back to front, and seeks to continue his discourse; but the long
queue which hangs down over his nose, and which he thrusts aside at every
moment, causes him horribly to squint.) “My hair, which was the son of my
wig, which was the grandmother of the watch which I took to the post....
But what the devil’s this?” (And he pulls at the end of the long queue,
which gradually comes undone; he continues to pull, and draws off so many
yards of ribbon that he becomes entangled in it, and ends by running off
shouting: “The devil, the devil!” leaving the public in suspense on the
score of the explanation which he had to offer of the way in which he had
discharged his errand.) It is quite impossible to convey any adequate
notion of his utterance of all these inconsequent ideas, interrupted by
poses and grimaces; the performance must be witnessed if the success of
such a type is to be understood.

“Harlequin is made, but Stenterello is born,” said one who still
laughed twenty years afterwards in relating the jests and postures of
Dominicone, a comic actor of great gifts. He played the parts of father
with Stenterello for his servant. The troupe of Bon and Romagnoli, which
was in the service of the King of Sardinia in 1833, still possessed a
very remarkable Stenterello, who was the cause of a deal of laughter,
particularly when Gattinelli played the rôle of master at the theatre of
the Corso, at Bologna.

In Florence, Ricci was the most famous of the modern Stenterelli. He was
an actor of endowments greatly above those of the buffoon. He played with
great spirit and taste the rôles of Bouffé and Arnal, intermingling them
with Stenterellic jests.

In 1853, at the theatre of San Carlino in Naples, Altavilla was still a
remarkable _caratterista_ in every sense, using always the Neapolitan
dialect. What an extraordinary verve of improvisation must have been
necessary to enable an actor to create a fresh rôle every second or third
day!

The modero MENEGHINO, a character sometimes servant, sometimes master and
sometimes peasant, speaking the dialect of Lombardy, descends in fairly
direct line from the Menego of Ruzzante, and the Menghino of _La Lena_ of
Ariosto.

Whilst it is true that his garments, of a rather modern cut, are
reminiscent of those of Stenterello, but more sober in the matter of
colour, they do not at all resemble those of his ancestor Menego. But why
should Meneghino more than any other mask have been faithful to tradition
in the matter of costume? The modern Brighella, for instance, resembles
but faintly the Brighella of the sixteenth century, whilst about the
Pantaloon of to-day very little remains of the erstwhile Venetian
Pantalone.

Meneghino, the Milanese, wears a short coat and breeches of green
cloth with red buttons and lacings; his waistcoat is flowered, and
his stockings striped. His countenance, jovial of expression with its
tip-tilted nose, is framed in a wig of flat hair gathered into a queue
wrapped in red; and his hat, laced in red, is far more like one of those
enormous castors worn by the sixteenth-century buffoon than a tricorne.

Menego and Menato are, under two different names, one and the same
personage, created by Marco Aurelio Alvarotto, an actor in the Paduan
troupe of Ruzzante. He is a comic type, a sort of simple and poltroon
peasant and sometimes a servant. Under his apparent stupidity, Menego
(Domenico), thinking and speaking in the manner of the peasants,
frequently complains of the customs and vices of the day.

Here is a “very facetious and very comical” dialogue from the plays of
Ruzzante, declaimed at Fossone during the hunt in 1528. (_Recitato a
Fosson alla caccia._)

MENEGO. January, February, March, April, May, and June—the
month of wheat; to the devil with the others! The year is too
long. Provided that wheat becomes bread through the sickle,
that is all that matters. But who is this that comes? Is it not
my gossip Duozzo? It is he. Gossip, how goes the harvest?

DUOZZO. Badly, gossip. Whoever seeks misery this year will find
it without a signpost to guide him.

MENEGO. As for me, I seek a means to eat as little as possible.
These cursed beetroots have so enlarged me that I take a deal
of filling.

DUOZZO. To tell you the truth, gossip, I think you ought to
eat sorb-apples so as to reduce your poor stomach; that is my
opinion.

MENEGO. What I seek, gossip, is to render myself ill, because
when I am ill I have no appetite; and to have no appetite is
all that I can desire. Do you understand, gossip?

DUOZZO. You speak very wisely, gossip.

MENEGO. The usurers will neither sell wheat nor even display
it, so that there is nothing to be done. I am inclined to think
that there will be quite enough even should they sell it at a
large profit. But they hunger after the blood of the poor more
than a lean horse hungers after new grass.

DUOZZO. That is very true, gossip, and we may shout, curse, or
grow as rabid as dogs before wheat will be harvested for the
common weal; but judging from the month of January, I think
that there will be abundance and all men will rejoice.

MENEGO. But for that hope, gossip, we should be in bad case.
And as for me, I fear lest the highway robbers and the gentry
may eat the harvest before it is ripe.

DUOZZO. I share your fears, but they cannot carry off
everything.

MENEGO. Ay! We’ll get what they leave, and we shall grow so fat
on it that we shall look like hanged men, and so light that the
wind will blow us away.

DUOZZO. So that, gossip, you are afraid?

MENEGO. I? I am afraid of nothing but fear. I am a man, and if
any are going to survive, I should like to be one of them.

DUOZZO. As for me I am troubled by neither wife nor child.
I live like a thief. And now, gossip, let us speak of more
pleasing things. How go your love affairs?

MENEGO. Eh, gossip, how shall love affairs progress when one
possesses nothing? How shall a man take home a wife when there
is only a single piece of bread in the house? If she has a good
appetite she will not be able to live on words. You understand?

DUOZZO. Of course; it is quite clear.

The conversation continues on these lines. Menego announces that he is
awaiting the harvest to marry a certain Gnva. Duozzo tells him, little by
little, that he knows a _quidam_ who will not await the new harvest to
find food for Gnva, and that in fact he carried her off three days ago.

“I don’t believe it,” says Menego; “nevertheless let us go and find her
and hear the truth from her.”

Duozzo begs leave to go and fetch his weapons, saying that there are
wolves in the forest, and that he does not care to quarrel with Nale,
who is Menego’s rival. Menego replies that there is no need for weapons
on a visit to Gnva, that he has his knife, which is sufficient. (Here
follow some very equivocal pleasantries and puns.) He winds up by saying
that he did not know his gossip for a coward, but now that he sees that
he is, he will go alone. Gnva, however, solves the matter by arriving in
person.

MENEGO. Good-morrow, my dear Gnva, how are you?

GNVA. I should be better if I had bread. This is a very evil
year.

MENEGO. I have brought you a large piece which, on my honour, I
shall give you if you will answer me on certain matters which
my gossip here has told me.

Before replying Gnva wants to sing. They sing, and, as they are
finishing, Nale, Menego’s rival, enters and leaps upon him, sword in
hand, shouting: “I have got you, traitor! Surrender!”

Menego attempts to escape without answering; he darts this way and that,
receiving so many blows that in the end he falls down. Nale carries off
Gnva, and Menego is left on the ground.

“Am I unfortunate enough?” he cries. “One hundred against one! He has
pierced me through and through; there are more holes in me than in a
sieve. What a beautiful life awaited me! I think of it now that I am on
the point of death. Confession! confession! I am covered with blood.
Duozzo, my gossip, go and find me a doctor; but then he lives too far
away; and perhaps he wouldn’t come; and even if he came perhaps he
wouldn’t be able to heal my wounds. I am certain that I shall never get
well again, I shall be crippled for life, that is sure. Woe me! Must
I die then in such a moment as this? Something told me that I should
die this year, if not from wounds then from hunger in this devastated
country. And so that you die, Menego, what does it matter whether you
die thus or of hunger? And I shall never see my Gnva again! Yet my
heart tells me that perhaps I shall get well! Shall I allow myself to
die or not? What am I to do, or what am I not to do? What if I were to
take vengeance upon this dog of a traitor who has just slashed me into
ribbons? Yes, I shall be avenged! I shall let it be known everywhere that
he has killed me. May the plague stifle him, the coward! I shall send him
to the galleys! I shall kill myself. It shall be said everywhere that
he is my assassin. But how shall I kill myself? That is the trouble.
There are so many ways, yet now that I come to seek one I cannot find
any! Where is the knife? Now that I need it I no longer have it. But
I shall find a way. I shall eat myself. That will begin by satisfying
my hunger. None but myself will know it, and it will be said that this
wretch murdered me and that dogs ate my body, and in this fashion he will
be sent to the galleys. Ah yes, you shall go to the galleys; yes, to the
galleys! Don’t grow impatient, gossip, I shall bequeath you my knife and
my shoes. Yet it is a pity to die so young! Farewell, Gnva, I shall never
see you again. Yet, wait! I don’t want to eat myself, I should suffer too
much. I shall strangle myself.”

A magician arrives. Duozzo tells him that Menego has gone mad. The
magician, half-priest, half-doctor, cures him, and fortifies him with
fresh hope. He assures him that he shall see his Gnva as much as he
desires, and that he shall have abundance of bread. Menego, comforted,
thanks him and announces that he never felt so well.

Then follow predictions: “You shall not die of hunger this year, although
you may have to live on very meagre fare. There will be great wars, and
after them there will be peace. After famine there will be abundance, and
wealthy men will live happily in the world. Thereupon I leave you, I must
go. I shall come again on Sunday or some other day.”

The piece ends in excuses offered to Menego by his rival. Menego takes
the hand of Gnva, who swears for ever after to be faithful to him,
whereupon they abandon themselves to joy, dancing and singing.

The character of the modern Meneghino is the same, with few differences,
as that of Stenterello; the same costume, the same parts, the same
buffoonery, and therefore the same reception from the Milanese public.

“Meneghino,” says M. Frédéric Mercey, “has taken the place of
Harlequin and Brighella. Meneghino is the spoilt child of the
Milanese, the hero of the theatre of la Stadera; his talent
consists particularly in a sort of adroit awkwardness, in the
amusing manner in which he knocks against walls and trips upon
the pavement without ever falling, and without ever losing his
nonchalance.”

In absent-mindedness and naïveté he surpasses Pierrot. Meeting in
the streets of Milan a painter who is carrying two portraits on his
shoulders, Meneghino returns to his master, refusing to go the errand
upon which he was sent: “I shall not go out again to-day,” he says;
“disaster would befall me; I met a man with three heads, and that is not
natural.”

On another occasion, coming home at night, Meneghino wishes to light his
candle, and seeks to strike a light in the darkness. He hurts his fingers
and drops flint and steel. How is he to find them again? His ideas work
quickly. He gropes about for the candle, finds it, and runs to his
next-door neighbour for a light, with which he returns to look for his
flint and steel. “I knew I should find them like this,” he says, and you
behold him striking them once more. A spark flies, the tinder ignites,
and he applies it to the candle which has lighted his labours. “Behold,”
he cries, “it is lighted!”

A very common absent-mindedness with him is to array himself in his
master’s dressing-gown and slippers, and to lie down in his master’s
bed. The numerous cuffs he has received have never cured him of this
abstractedness. You should see him waiting at table, putting sugar
into the soup as though it were salt, pouring wine on to the heads of
the guests, and then taking off their wigs to dry them by the fire; he
mistakes the candle for the vinegar bottle, and scatters tallow into the
salad. He is often to be seen throwing the garments of his master through
the window, which he has mistaken for the wardrobe, and doing a thousand
other things of a like nature.

Pantaloon, seeing him with a button in his ear, comments upon it. “I wear
it,” he replies, “because without it I should be sure to hear something
dirty.” That is the wittiest thing he ever uttered.

iii

GIANDUJA and GIROLAMO are one and the same character. At the Fiano
theatre in Milan, he was existing still in the nineteenth century under
the name of Girolamo, and was performing, in the dialect of Lombardy,
the same rôles of talkative, poltroon and greedy peasant as the Gianduja
of Turin and Genoa. The Piedmontese, fearing in 1802 that in the name of
Girolamo (Jérôme), borne by the king, some political allusion might be
suspected, he was rebaptized, and renamed Gianduja.

He is a native of Caglianetto, near Asti, as his dialect shows. He is
an astute peasant, who simulates stupidity, either a pretended dolt or
else a cunning dolt. His is the style of wit which the English attribute
to the Irish. He is very much less fantastic than Stenterello, and when
he became Gianduja he ceased to show any of the absent-mindedness of
Meneghino and Girolamo. Of this last the following is related:—

“A farmer from the neighbourhood of Bergamo had taken his
servant, Girolamo, to market to bring home the cattle which
he intended to purchase. This cattle turned out to consist of
seven donkeys. Having made his purchase, the farmer called
Girolamo, and after counting the animals in his presence he
bids him drive them home. Girolamo offers no comment: ‘Seven,’
he says; ‘very well.’ He bestrides one and drives the others
before him. Three hours later he arrives at his master’s gate,
and counts the donkeys without dismounting. After having
counted them thrice he still can find only six. ‘What a
misfortune! What a misfortune!’ he exclaims in his despair.
‘If only it were my own property! But since it is the property
of another, however honest I may be, I shall be charged with
negligence! It is absolutely necessary that I should find
the seventh.’ He spurs his mount and goes back, searching
everywhere and making inquiries from everyone he meets. It is
all in vain. Indefatigable, he continues this course for three
days and nights, without even pausing to give himself time to
eat. In the end the poor beast he is riding falls from fatigue
and exhaustion. Girolamo rolls into the dust, picks himself up,
and suddenly finds what he was seeking. ‘The seventh! I have
found it,’ he cries. ‘Where the devil was it lost?’ And he goes
back to his master, leaving the poor donkey dead of exhaustion.”

In the history of the marionettes, M. Ch. Magnin says:

“In Milan Girolamo fills the principal part in all the farces,
in all the parodies, in all the little pieces made up of
satirical allusions, the triple source whence flows the fortune
of the _Fantoccini_. We have seen Girolamo play Pirithoüs,
in a parody of Alceste, powdered white, wearing the wings of
a pigeon and a purse. In this farce he accompanies Hercules
into hell, and his terrors on the way are somewhat reminiscent
of the poltrooneries which, under similar circumstances,
Aristophanes attributes to Xanthias in _The Frogs_. In 1841,
M. Bourquelot found Girolamo very amusing in a five-act
piece: _Il Terribile Maino, Capo di Briganti_, a melodrama to
the accompaniment of daggers, swoons and pistol shots. Let
us add that the common butt of Girolamo’s pleasantries is a
Piedmontese, represented as perfectly stupid, a graciousness
and neighbourliness which the Fantoccini of Turin did not fail
to reciprocate to their little colleagues of Milan.”

Gianduja wears a maroon coat and a yellow waistcoat, both trimmed with
red, a pair of green or maroon breeches, red stockings and a black wig
with a trumpet-shaped queue in red. His physiognomy is a mixture of
coarseness and cunning. His large eyes, his arched and heavy eyebrows,
his flat nose, his thick lips, his fat chin and his fleshy cheeks remind
us of the countenance of the ancient Silenus.

He was to be seen in Genoa at the Delle-Vigne theatre, playing in his
own costume the part of a servant of Ugolino and coming with his quips,
to throw a little gaiety into the midst of a black melodrama, in which
Ugolino, in his tower, before perishing of hunger, watched his children
expiring about him. During these critical moments, Gianduja would enter
the sombre dungeon from time to time; it is not clear why he should have
had the liberty to do this, for, far from bringing the least nourishment
to the dying man, he came to jest in his patois upon this horrible
situation.

He was to be seen again at Cuneo at the foot of the Alps. The theatre was
more or less open to the sky and admission was not expensive: a penny for
the front seats and a halfpenny for the others, and an audience that ate
apples and nuts throughout the performance. The piece was _La Principessa
Mirabella_, and to one who inquired whether it was written and learned
by heart or improvised, the impresario replied: “_Improvisato tutto, e
sempre_; Gianduja talks like a peasant.” It was an affair of primitive
marionettes like those of the Guignol of the Champs-Elysées.

First came a prince dressed in sky-blue satin slashed with white, a cloak
of yellow velvet, a cap with white feathers, laced with gold. He was
accompanied by Gianduja in his classic costume, and both were lost in a
blue forest, and were devising some means of finding food. Gianduja has
several notions, such as to repair to the baker at the corner, or the
pastrycook opposite. But his master draws his attention to the fact that
they are lost in a vast solitude, that their horses are worn out, with
weariness and hunger, and that for himself he desires only one thing,
death, since the Princess Mirabella will never consent to see him again
unless he shall have accomplished her thirty-seven wishes. Gianduja is
not disposed to die; he says that he imagined himself at Cuneo, which
is entirely outside of the subject, and which shakes the audience with
laughter. After having sought for a little while, Gianduja discovers a
spring of pure and limpid water. Thus both are saved from certain death.
But Gianduja can think of nothing but dying. This marvellous water
has quickened his appetite. He has not eaten since morning, he says,
since when he has done nothing but walk, which is to treat his body
very treacherously. “It is all very well for my master, who at the end
of his travels will find Mirabella. But I would very gladly possess a
loaf surrounded with sausages.” Thereupon he is taken ill, and believes
himself to be dying. He implores his master to bury him after he has
expired, and whether it be so as not to die under his eyes, whether from
other causes, he goes off, followed by the laughter of the spectators.

The action continues thus through four or five scenes, which repeat
always the same situation. In each scene the amorous cavalier
recommences his trials until the moment in which the Princess Mirabella—a
very beautiful marionette, in cloth-of-gold and velvet, who always makes
the same gesture by means of a cord pulled by the impresario—informs her
cavalier that she accepts him in marriage, “because he has performed all
her wishes, and since nothing pleases women so much as the obedience of
men.” After this Gianduja demands the hand of the first lady of the court.

Without Gianduja no performance would have been possible. The indulgent
public yawned through the scenes of love and rivalry, for there was a
traitor in the piece—a traitor dressed like Buridan, with a terrible
beard and squinting eyes. Did the impresario perceive that his public was
languishing, he never hesitated to cut short the scene and to introduce
Gianduja, who abandoned himself to amorous incoherencies.

Gianduja enjoyed his greatest favour in Turin during the nineteenth
century. In _The Taking of Delhi_, a long, terrible and spectacular
melodrama, Gianduja, disguised as the aide-de-camp of an Indian chief,
amused the audience by his reflections, his sallies and his witticisms,
always in Piedmontese. He would come and go amidst English soldiers in
red coats and white trousers, or amidst kilted Highlanders as freely as
among Brahmins dressed like the Turks to be seen at fancy-dress balls.
Gianduja crosses the battlefields, enters the besieged garrison or leaves
it, is present at war councils, and listens to the enumeration of the
dead and wounded without the least discomposure. He is afraid everywhere
and of everything, although no one, with the exception of the public,
takes the least notice of him.

Zacometo, which is Venetian for Giacometto, who, down to the eighteenth
century, was called Momolo (diminutive of Girolamo) is the Venetian
_caratterista_. Usually dressed in white calico, he whitens his face like
Pierrot save for a large blood-red stain, placed brutally upon one cheek
only, and one red stocking as worn by the Venetians in the fifteenth
century. Zacometo, whatever costume he may assume, preserves always this
red stocking.

There is something of Scapin, something of Harlequin and something
of Stenterello in the character, so that his doings and his ways are
very varied. When he plays with Brighella, who is sharp, astute and
very witty, Zacometo is a dolt, a clown. In _Le Baruffe Chiozzotte_ of
Goldoni, Zacometo’s rôle is that of the fool; dressed like a fisherman of
Chioggia he still preserves his distinctive cheek and stocking.

This character comes to Venice to fling athwart no matter what piece
his amusing reflections and his fantastic interludes. He is akin to the
absent-minded Stenterello; he says very cunning things with the air of
not knowing what he is saying; he begins a sentence to finish it in
another act, or not to finish it at all, and he stares at the public, and
even addresses it, always with the air of not perceiving its presence.

It may be said that when the actor entrusted with this rôle is equipped
with talent and wit, he gives Zacometo a countenance proper to the
people of the lagoons. He is more of an epicure than a glutton, more of
a talker than a gallant with women; he is superbly lazy, yet capable of
great vivacity, displaying alternations between dreamy somnolence and
sudden awakenings; in short, he displays the petulance and the agility of
the cat. He fully portrays the nature of the _barcarolo_, who passes so
promptly from slumber, his body dangling over the sleepy waters of the
lagoon, to laughter, to jests and above all to the derision of strangers.

Zacometo has never quitted Venice, and if at times he is absent from
the theatres of San Samuele or San Gallo, it is that he may go as a
marionette to amuse the merchants and fishermen on the quay of the
Schiavoni.

The character of JEANNOT, a rustic and stupid servant, who destroys by
his transposition of words the sense of what he wishes to say to us,
although believed to have been created in 1779 in the forain theatres
by the actor Volange, is nevertheless a very ancient type. From _Zanni_
the Florentine authors of the sixteenth century have created Gianni,
Giannino, and Giannico, comedy servants.

From these come _Jeannin_, _Janin_, _Jennicot_, _Janicot_, _Janot_,
comics of the French farces, who amused the public in the sixteenth
century being coeval with _Jean-de-l’Epine_.

Jeannot (Giannino) reappears in the scenarii and pieces of the
Comédie-Italienne at the end of the seventeenth century, and in the plays
of Gherardi in which he performs several old man parts (1694).

All the world knows his nonsense (_janotismes_): he has sold more than a
hundred trusses to a man of straw; he buys a loaf from a butter merchant:

“Moi, pour leur montrer mon adresse,
Je renversai les assiettes et les plats,
Je fis une tache sur ma veste, de graisse,
Sur ma culotte et mes jambes, de drap.
Et sur les bas que mon grand-père, de laine,
M’avait donnés avant d’ mourir, violet.
Le pauv’ cher homme est mort d’une migraine,
Tenant une cuisse dans sa bouche, de poulet.”

This type scored its triumphs in the eighteenth century. Grimm writes of
him as follows:—

“(May 1779.) A new spectacle, set up last year at the fair of
Saint-Laurent, has been drawing for the past two months both
the city and the court in consequence of the prodigious success
of a sort of dramatic proverb whose subject it is not easy to
expound. But it is impossible to forgo speaking of a work which
has delighted all Paris, for which the masterpieces of Molière
and Racine have been abandoned, and which, having reached its
hundred-and-twelfth performance, is still drawing more than
ever. The object of so great an enthusiasm, the idol of so
rare and sustained an admiration, the man, in short, whom at
this moment we may call the man of the nation, is a certain
M. Jeannot who plays, it must be confessed, with the greatest
truth, the part of a dolt, who is watered from a window like
Don Japhet d’Arménie, who, upon the advice of his friends, goes
to complain to the clerk of the commissary, who dupes him and
who, after having fought with a view to avenging himself, is
caught in the street by the watch, and finds himself in the
end stripped of the little that he possessed; all of which
goes to prove very clearly without doubt that it is always
_les battus qui payent l’amende_. This proverb which serves as
a moral to the piece is also its title. The author to whom
we are indebted for so noble a production is M. Dorvigny. He
has assembled into the rôle of Jeannot many features which,
if already known, are none the less truly comical. As for the
actor (le Sieur Volange), who has performed this rôle with so
much success, he gives us more than hope. It is impossible to
have a countenance more mobile and natural, inflexions of voice
more varied and more exact, movements more simple and easy, or
a gait more frank and naïve. The gentlemen of the chamber have
already taken steps to bring about his appearance in a theatre
more worthy of his glory.”

In January of 1780, Grimm speaks again of Jeannot:

“Jeannot, or M. de Volange, that actor so famous on the
boulevards, that unique man who throughout the whole of last
summer was the admiration and delight of city and court, whose
portrait was engraved in twenty different manners, and was to
be found in Sevres china, on the overmantels of all our pretty
women, or in wax modelled in the study of the Sieur Curtius,
between M. de Voltaire and M. le Comte d’Estaing—this man in
short, so rare and so honoured, has thought fit to develop his
great talents in the theatre more worthy of his glory than
the trestles of the Variétés Amusantes. He made his début on
the 22nd February 1780, a date for ever memorable, on the
stage of the Comédie-Italienne, in the rôles of the triplets
of Colalto.” (The three hunchbacks of Tabarin.) “Although on
that day there were several other interesting spectacles, and
notably the first performance of _Atys_, we cannot remember
ever to have seen in any of our theatres on the most remarkable
occasions, even during the triumph of M. de Voltaire, such
a concourse of spectators. There were as many people in the
wings and in the corridors as in the pit and boxes, and it was
necessary to turn away at the door a number far in excess of
that which was admitted. What then was the success of a first
appearance which attracted such extraordinary attention? Upon
what depends the most brilliant of renowns? The object of so
fine an enthusiasm, the idol of the boulevards, transported
into this new temple, beholds there his honours tumbling about
him and his glory eclipsed. It was in vain that the crowd of
his adorers whom he had dragged after him never ceased to
applaud him and to shout with emotion, ‘Courage, Jeannot,
courage!’

“The illusion was dissipated. The Roscius of the fair seemed
here confounded in a crowd of the most ordinary actors. He was
found to be out of countenance, his voice was harsh, his play
not only common and trivial, but further, cold and destitute
of humour. It would seem that his countenance and voice cannot
lend themselves save to expressions of the lowest and most
stupid; such a character he was able to portray with a very
arresting naturalness, but it is the only character that fits
him; in other rôles he has not even the merit of being a good
caricature. Although this judgment was passed upon him at
that first performance yet all Paris flocked to see him, and
his mere début alone was the source of greater profit to the
Comédie-Italienne than all the other novelties of the year put
together. Oh, Athenians! This is not the first of your follies;
and if the gods are propitious to you it will not be the last.”

“I am not acquainted” (says Mademoiselle Clairon in her memoirs) “with
an actor in the forain shows known as Volange; but all Paris is unanimous
on the subject of the perfection of his talent at the Variétés Amusantes.
He was induced to appear at the Comédie-Italienne, where the work and the
talent may perhaps not be compared with those of the Comédie-Française;
but in that setting, this Volange, elsewhere so famous, was unable to
sustain comparison with the least of the comedians.”

The modern JOCRISSE, whom the Piedmontese and the Milanese seem to have
copied from their Gianduja, and who seems to be a very recent personage,
dates nevertheless from the seventeenth century, for in 1625 we see him
parading the trestles in all his traditional stupidity. The same is the
case with Gringalet who, in 1634, at the Hôtel de Bourgogne, played the
parts of servant and served as interlocutor to Guillot-Gorju when the
latter desired to address the public.

Lajingeole, so well known in the marionette theatres, and in the
nineteenth century restored to the proper stage in _L’Ours_ and _Le
Pacha_, also dates from the commencement of the reign of Louis XIII.

At the beginning of the nineteenth century the Boulevard du Temple had
two famous dolts, Bobèche and Galimafré. Under his red coat and his grey
three-cornered hat, surmounted by a butterfly, Bobèche was the king of
farce. His reputation was colossal and his successes were very often due
to coarse truths and to malicious allusions which several times earned
him a reprimand from the police. Bobèche would frequently perform at
the houses of great lords, of ministers and of bankers. He toured the
provinces and in the end undertook the management of a theatre at Rouen.

Galimafré never enjoyed the fame of Bobèche; he was rather a sort of
Pagliaccio, and his talent was more appreciated by the lower orders,
who preferred his heavy stupidities to the subtler malice of Bobèche.
Galimafré left the theatre without, however, leaving the stage. He became
a stage-hand at the Opéra-Comique. In that office he was frequently
treated with disdain by those who did not know that this man who turned a
frame or set up a wing had held a crowd in ecstasy before him.

XII

ISABELLE

We have seen that in the company of the very famous Ruzzante there
existed an actress of the name of Fiorina, which may have been her own
or assumed for the purposes of the theatre. This name was often bestowed
by Ruzzante and many subsequent authors—such as Tarabosco in 1560 and
Calmo in 1553—upon the leading lady. Now it is Fiora, the sweet village
girl, so beautiful that Ruzzante is dying of love for her in his piece
_La Fiorina_; now it is Fiorinetta, the courtesan apprentice whom love
preserves from vice, and renders worthy of pardon.

This FIORINETTA is the Philenium of Demophilus and of Plautus, brought
to light for the second time in the sixteenth century and transformed to
suit the tastes of the Renaissance. It is very interesting to follow the
transformation of this type. In the ancient theatre Philenium is no more
than a courtesan in love. Argyrippus is certainly not her first lover,
and probably will not be her last. She resigns herself to a division
of her favours between father and son, after having lowered herself to
flatter and to caress two slaves. She submits to all this vileness out of
love for the young man.

Fiorinetta is interesting in a very different fashion, and Ruzzante’s
piece is better than that of Plautus. All the world knows the _Asinaria_,
whilst Ruzzante’s _Vaccaria_ is almost unknown. We will give an outline
of it. Like Demænetus, Placido is a gentleman married to a rich wife
who has kept the administration of her fortune, and who causes her
revenues to be governed by a steward, modelled upon the dotal slave of
the _Asinaria_. Placido complains to his servant Truffo (the Libanus of
Plautus) that he has spent his life in tutelage, and that he is still a
_uomo fresco_—that is to say, a dashing fellow, addicted to pleasure, who
in the midst of opulence has never been able to enjoy anything. Madonna
Rospina deprived him of everything, and, through the authority of her
virtue, becomes the torment of the house and the family.

“I am not ignorant,” he says, “of the fact that my son Flavio
is in love with Fiorinetta, and that he has been living with
her for a year. I am not at all perturbed; it is the best
possible liaison. He is too young to marry. I want him to
settle down as late as possible. May God preserve him from such
an existence as mine. Let him profit by his youth. Fiorinetta
is not, thank God, a woman of religious inclinations, the most
dangerous form of mistress that exists; nor is she a married
woman, which again is a source of danger when the husband is
jealous; she is a child who loves him tenderly and who will
admit no other lovers. But her mother is a procuress who
wants to sell her daughter to the rich Polidoro because my
son has no more money to give her. Myself, I have no money.
My wife keeps everything under lock and key, and her steward
is incorruptible. It is necessary, my dear Truffo, that you
should exercise your arts to rob me—that is to say, to purloin
from my wife the sum necessary to my son so that for a year to
come he may not be troubled in the exclusive possession of his
mistress.

“Go, then, my dear Truffo. You have my authority for any
knavery. I am not one of those grumbling and turbulent old
men who proceed in such a way as to cause their death to be
desired. I wish to be my son’s best friend and to do for him
what in other days my father did for me.”

Fiorinetta loves Flavio. She loves him ingenuously and with all her soul.
She does not say, like Philenium to Cleæretu: “Permit me to prefer him to
all my lovers.” She says: “I want no lover other than himself.”

FIORINETTA. What do you want of me, mother?

CELEGA. You have again, to my misfortune, allowed Flavio to
enter the house by the garden gate. I did not wish to say
anything to you in his presence. But answer me now: Is it
possible that you do not wish to believe what I have told you?
You know nevertheless that what I tell you is always true.
When for the first time you received the caresses of Flavio of
which you were afraid, having never received those of any man,
I told you not to fear. Did I deceive you, seeing that you find
yourself so much in love with him?

FIORINETTA. It is more than true, my mother.

CELEGA. Very well, then, why do you not heed me now when I tell
you not to allow him to come again? Since he has nothing more
to give us he will ruin you.

FIORINETTA. Because I am unable to send him away in this
fashion. Because loving him I do not wish to hurt him by
leaving him. It is as if someone were to bid me to cease loving
you as my mother. That were impossible.

CELEGA. It is a fine thing if you contrast the affection you
bear your mother to that of a lover. I shall be compelled,
until you become a great lady, to go and beg, for the simple
reason that your lover will not turn his steps elsewhere. You
think he loves you? It is the pleasure that you give him that
he loves and not yourself! With me it is different.

FIORINETTA. He would weep too much, he would sigh too much. He
has so often sworn to love me. He has spoken so many promises.

CELEGA. Tears and sighs are very light proofs of love, and
oaths are always on the lips of lovers. I have never known
tears and sighs and oaths to proceed from any but those who
have nothing to give. Those who spend do not weep. You wish to
please Flavio and to belong to him alone. It is all very well,
my daughter, for a rich woman to have one only lover; but you
are not in such case.

FIORINETTA. Since he has been good to me in the past must I be
ungrateful to him?

CELEGA. The past is as nothing. But let us suppose then that
Flavio loves you. Do you think, perchance, that things will
always remain as they are? You are deceived. As soon as your
countenance begins to change so will his ideas change.

FIORINETTA. Oh! I have no fear of that.

CELEGA. That which we do not fear comes more quickly than that
which we do fear. Consider now: what do you find lacking in
Messer Polidoro that a rich man should have?

FIORINETTA. He is ugly and unpleasant. I have never seen a more
hideous face.

CELEGA. He is so rich that his wealth conceals all his faults.
I can think of nothing uglier and more unpleasant than a man
without money.

FIORINETTA. He is diseased.

CELEGA. Now there’s a misfortune! When a young man is seen
to be a little pale, with a scratch in his leg or a lump on
his arm one cries at once: He is ill! But I shall not say
another word. Do as you please and you shall always be a poor
unfortunate; do as I tell you and you shall soon be rich and
a great lady. Look at Nina, who a little time ago was going
barefoot and in rags through taverns and other disreputable
places, and who to-day is the owner of so many silken gowns and
so many collars of pearls, and has so many servants to do her
will.

FIORINETTA. Have patience. The next time that Flavio comes I
will talk of it with him.

CELEGA. Fool! Know that if you persist in loving him who has
nothing to give you, all the others will be equally close. Our
future lies in competition. I have already told you a hundred
times what you should do. Should anyone present you with a
necklace, a ring or anything else, show it immediately to all,
so that another, not desiring to seem less rich, shall make
you a present of greater value. It is necessary to know how to
receive each and how to talk with everyone so as to lead all to
suppose that you are in love with them.

FIORINETTA. You want me to love all the world as I love Flavio?

CELEGA. I did not say love all, but pretend to do so.

FIORINETTA. My mother, that were too painful a life. I could
never pretend the contrary of what I feel and of what is in my
heart. I think that it is better to marry, and I wish to lead a
purer existence than that which you suggest.

In a later scene between Fiorinetta and her lover, she shows herself as
passionate as she was meek and gentle with her mother.

FLAVIO. Why do you not let me go, dear heart? Why do you retain
me? Is it so as to increase the pain which I must experience
when I leave you?

FIORINETTA. Can you believe that I am anxious to let my soul
depart from me?

FLAVIO. Mine will remain with you, for you are the asylum of
all its joys and all its happiness.

FIORINETTA. How can it remain with me since I no longer exist
without Flavio?

FLAVIO. Nevertheless your mother wishes to separate us.

FIORINETTA. I may occasion grief to my mother, but nothing
shall separate me from you.

FLAVIO. When this new lover stands before you with all his
money your sentiments will change, perhaps.

FIORINETTA. Flavio, you must not say such things to me. Not all
the gold in the world could suffice to change my sentiments
towards you. My heart is not for sale like merchandise in
the open market, and if the love which I bear you were not
sufficient to cause me to persevere in my purpose, my mother’s
project would be. She wishes to separate me from you—from you,
the only thing in all the world that I love! She shall not long
rejoice in the possession of me, I shall stab myself to the
heart or otherwise rid myself of life.

FLAVIO. No, you must live. Let me die, for if I were deprived
of you I should be deprived of life’s greatest happiness. Joys
and pleasures shall never be wanting in your life.

FIORINETTA. You want me to live, but existence without you
would be worse than death. Tell me what pleasure could be a
pleasure for me without Flavio? What joy could be a joy, what
delight could be a delight for me without you?

FLAVIO. If in my death there were not the death of every hope
of seeing you again, which is the greatest good of all, know,
my heart, that no one would die more gladly than I, able to
glorify himself in dying of love for the most beautiful woman
nature ever created.

FIORINETTA. If I should ever happen to survive you, Flavio,
know that my life would be so bitter and full of torments that
death must seem a sweet thing by comparison. But, so that it
shall not be said that I should ever experience any other
pleasure after your death, I should make an effort to live
and to prolong this miserable existence so that my sufferings
should compensate me a little for the loss of a lover as dear
as you. Listen, Flavio, render me the most pious service in
your power, take your sword and pass it through my heart. Life
is dear to me only on your account, it belongs to you, it is
your thing: if you want to die, bear it with you.

FLAVIO. Oh! beloved lady, if rather I could but join my soul
to yours so as to make but one! Gladly would I strip myself of
life to give it to you. Would not that be the best use to which
it could be put?

FIORINETTA. You increase my happiness and my life by attaching
your lips to mine.

FLAVIO. Delicious lips! Am I unfortunate enough?

FIORINETTA. Hold your Fiorinetta in your arms, my Flavio!...
Flavio, I am dying.... Help!

Vezzo and Truffo run on to assist in restoring her to consciousness; but
Vezzo says that he has no rose-water, and Truffo, who has sold his shoes
to keep Celega quiet with the money, is unable to buy any.

FLAVIO. Listen, Fiorinetta, my beloved: is this a proof of the
love you say you bear me, this desire to be the first to die?
Why do you not open your loving eyes? Do not conceal from me
the light of my life. Is it not enough already that I should
have to weep for my own misfortunes without your increasing
them? Fiorinetta! You do not answer your Flavio! Answer me!

Truffo and Vezzo run from side to side seeking something by means of
which to restore her to consciousness. Truffo suddenly shouts: “Return
to life, we have the money!” Flavio, happy to know that they have been
able to purloin from the steward the money which is to appease Celega
and render them both happy, says: “We have no further reason to be
sorrowful—do you hear? They have brought the money.”

FIORINETTA. Beautiful heaven! Where am I?

FLAVIO. In the arms of your Flavio.

FIORINETTA. Flavio, why do you not let me die? I should die so
happily in your arms!

Truffo and Vezzo reflect upon the fact that money is more potent than
rose-water to conquer swoons.

FLAVIO (_to FIORINETTA_). Take courage, my life, my love. In
spite of adverse fortune we shall be happier than ever. (_To
the servants._) But which of you two has the money?

In Plautus’s play, Libanus and Leonida, the two cunning slaves, compelled
the young couple to desire the money for some time. The result is a
burlesque scene of an incredible coarseness, in which the master is
compelled to embrace the knees of one of his slaves and to bear the other
on his shoulders. Philenium is condemned to caress them, which does not
seem to cost her any very great effort, for she herself offers them her
kisses, and is spontaneously prodigal of the most tender epithets.

Fiorinetta is too chaste, and Flavio too seriously enamoured to admit
of this. The scene is no less comical in consequence of a long and very
humorous story related in dialect and as a duet by Vezzo and Truffo,
whose only purpose is to render the two lovers impatient. In the end,
after having appeared to doubt the word of his young master, Vezzo exacts
that he shall tenderly embrace his mistress by way of an inviolable oath.
Thereafter he considers himself assured of his master’s protection in the
dangers he has incurred to serve him.

In the _Asinaria_, Demænetus, the father of the lover, demands and
obtains the favours of Philenium as the price of his complacence. The
young man consents to it to ensure the continuance of his pleasures. The
old man’s cross-grained wife surprises this orgy, trounces the son and
threatens the father, whilst driving him off with blows. It is a scene of
gross realism.

Ruzzante is also a realist. He calls things by their names and does not
cloak the brutal and licentious morals of his day. But he belongs to the
Renaissance; his spirit tends to the ideal, and he completes the destiny
of the courtesan by a fifth act of his own creation, which is certainly
the best of the piece.

[Illustration]

After having ably softened the monstrosities of the ancient text so as
to preserve that which is comical—as for instance turning the old man’s
desire for the courtesan into a simple pleasantry, so that it may serve
as a lesson to his son, and making the son’s submission no more than a
feint, with the mental reservation to withdraw Fiorinetta in time from
this opprobrium—Ruzzante enters into romantic developments.

The mother of Flavio, Madonna Rospina, pauses on the threshold of
the house of Celega at the moment of blazing out. She recovers her
self-possession, and with great prudence and dignity accuses herself
of being the cause of all the evil. She has been wanting in indulgence
and liberality; she has driven her son to despair, her husband to vice
and her servants to theft. She goes to Celega, and shows her so much
gentleness and pity that this miserable woman repents her, and withdraws
to a convent, after having confessed that Fiorinetta is not her daughter,
but a child fallen into her hands during the fortunes and turmoil of war.
The wars to which she alludes are those of Charles VIII. and Louis XII.
Thus we behold Fiorina purged of this sordid relationship with Celega,
and the effect of her constancy is to bear good fruit in the forgiveness
of the mother of her lover and the repentance of her own supposed mother.
The manner in which Celega excuses herself for her evil designs is
arresting:

CELEGA. Know, lady, that under pressure of the miseries of
life good thoughts frequently disappear. That is the fault
of fortune which with reason is said to be blind. I say this
for myself, who, not that I might become rich, but so that I
might avoid the horrors of want, have done what has been seen.
Nevertheless when this child fell into my hands, I had nothing
but good will for her. But the little care shown by the great
and powerful for the poor in the world wrought a change in me.
And then the might of the great misleads us; we don’t know how
to refuse them what they exact. What could I do to preserve
this child from a cavalier as great and as noble as your son?

Celega disappears and Madonna Rospina calls her son: “It would be
impossible,” she says, “for me not to be anxious whilst knowing you to be
wandering about in this carnival time. Go seek your mistress, and conduct
her to our house. Later on you shall learn the good intentions that I
have in mind.”

FLAVIO. I know now that there is no love like that of a mother.
Oh, mother! mother! in what language, in what words should I be
able to please you as you deserve!

Here follows an excellent scene, in the highest degree amusing, between
Placido and Rospina, the father and mother of Flavio. The husband
rejoices in the happy change which has taken place in his wife. He says
that the most favourable things are those which are least expected.

ROSPINA. You are right, Placido; for who could have foreseen a
thousand years ago that Flavio would have married a wife to-day?

PLACIDO. What are you saying?

ROSPINA. Very soon you shall see Fiorinetta here to celebrate
the wedding.

PLACIDO. And you would consent to such a thing?

ROSPINA. Why not?

PLACIDO. Do you consider her a suitable wife for our son?

ROSPINA. I have heard you say that given that a woman were
suited to rejoice the soul of her husband, she should be chosen
without regard to her birth.

PLACIDO. But this girl has no dowry.

ROSPINA. How often have I not heard you curse those who seek
a great dowry, and who thereby bind themselves in cords that
deprive them of their liberty?

PLACIDO. That was said only in jest.

ROSPINA. But Flavio has taken it seriously.

PLACIDO. And will you suffer this?

ROSPINA. I shall do by him as I have seen you do.

PLACIDO. Do so then; but as for me, I shall never give my
consent to it.

ROSPINA. You will, and you will even go so far as to open the
nuptial ball if necessary.

PLACIDO. Not so. I shall withdraw to the country during the
event.

ROSPINA. Come, put a good face on the matter, and rejoice in
the thought of the happy days that are to come.

PLACIDO. You will have it so? Very well then, so be it!

A great ball is given, and the piece concludes with songs and dances.

This _Vaccaria_ of Ruzzante is extremely remarkable, especially since
discarding all the ancient grossness of the _Asinaria_ he has been able
to extract from it a romantic and amusing piece invested with a humour
more naïve and more natural than that of the original. In the story of
Fiorinetta brought up in evil by Celega and becoming, by virtue of her
sentiments, her constancy and sincerity, the legitimate wife of the
handsome Flavio, one might perceive the rehabilitation of the courtesan.
But one would be at fault. Fiorinetta is not, and never has been, a
courtesan, especially a courtesan of that epoch. She has neither the
ways nor the sentiments of one. A trafficker contrives that in spite of
herself she shall make the acquaintance of a man. He was young, handsome,
lovable and sincerely enamoured. She becomes attached to him; she would
have died rather than belong to another. Madonna Rospina, in marrying
her to her son, did no more than restore the honour which her son had
taken from the girl. The mother of Flavio would never have received the
ancient courtesan Philenium into her house.

The costume of Fiorinetta must have been very beautiful and in the best
of taste. It was an age in which refinements of toilet filled the most
important place in the life of a woman. “I know perfectly,” says Isotta
in _L’Anconitana_ of Ruzzante, “how to embroider collars in gold and
silk. I know how to dress a lady, and what colours are more advantageous
to dark women and to blondes; also what garments are best attuned to
go with liveries and devices. I know what colours signify love, hope,
jealousy and other things of the same kind. I know how the _faldigie_ are
to be worn, how the fringed head-dress suits best, whether it conceals
all the hair, whether it leaves an inch or two displayed; I know what
women are enhanced by earrings, and whether it is better to wear pearls
or plain gold in girdles and rings, as well as the different kinds of
corset to render the appearance of the throat more delicate, or more or
less to display the breast. I know what collars, carcanets, gold chains
and strands of pearls render a woman more imposing. I also know the kinds
of rings to adorn the fingers; how a woman should walk, how she should
laugh, turn her eyes, drop a curtsy, and what movements denote grace and
modesty; how to adorn the dress of the woman of fashion, how to combine
fabrics of different colours so as to obtain the richest effect. Some
women wear their hair hidden, or combed in so level a manner that each
hair lies beside its fellow; others wear it in a sort of disorder which
renders them more graceful and more beautiful, etc.”

The taste of the Renaissance was, more than that of any other age, based
upon an imitation of the Greeks and the Romans. The actresses did not
wear the dresses of their own time save under pressure in contemporary
pieces. All comedies which were a few years old became _ancient_, and
were represented in the ancient manner—that is to say, in fancy costumes
such as are to be seen in the pictures by painters of this epoch.

Rabelais relates, in his _Sciomachie_, that in Rome, in 1569, amid the
noblemen, the men-at-arms and the footmen and horsemen who took part
in a tournament, Diana and her nymphs suddenly make their appearance
to play a little scene which concludes in the pretended abduction of a
nymph by some soldiers. Diana claims her from the soldiers; enclosed in
a cardboard citadel, these refuse; thereupon Diana and her nymphs go to
demand the assistance and vengeance of the knights. The assault is given,
and the spectacle commences.

“Diana bore upon her head a silver crescent; her golden hair
hung about her shoulders and some of it dressed round her
head with a laurel garland ‘introphiated’ with roses, violets
and other flowers. She was dressed in crimson damask, richly
embroidered, with a fine Cyprian fabric of beaten gold,
curiously pleated like the rochet of a cardinal, descending
to the middle of her leg, and over this a rare and precious
leopard skin attached by golden buttons to her left shoulder.
Her golden boots were cut _à la nymphale_ and tied with silver
cord. Her ivory horn hung upon her left arm. Her quiver,
preciously adorned with pearls, was suspended from her right
shoulder by a thick cord in strands of white and scarlet silk.
In her right hand she carried a silver javelin. The other
nymphs differed but little from her in accoutrements save that
they had no silver crescent on their brows. Each one carried
a very beautiful Turkish bow in her hands, and a quiver like
Diana’s. Some wore upon their shoulders African skins of lynx
and marten, others led greyhounds in leash or blew their horns.
It was a lovely sight.”

In the troupe of the _Intronati_ (1530 to 1560), the leading ladies,
whose real names we ignore, appeared under the names of Lelia, Beatrice
and Isabella. In 1570, the beautiful Armiani, born at Vicenza, a poetess,
a musician and a comedienne of talent, was becoming celebrated throughout
Italy. The _Confidenti_ troupe, which went to France in 1572, had for
leading lady an actress of beauty and endowed with great literary
talents. This was Celia, whose real name was Maria Malloni. The Cavaliere
Marino surnames her in _L’Adone_ “a fourth Grace,” and Pietro Pinelli
composed in remembrance of her an entire volume of poems: _Corona di lodi
alla Signora Maria Malloni, detta Celia, comica_. She played equally well
in the Commedia dell’ Arte and in _commedia sostenuta_, in tragedy and in
pastoral. She was chiefly remarkable, according to Count Ridolfo, in the
rôle of Silvia in _L’Aminta_.

At about the same time, the _Gelosi_ troupe possessed for leading
lady “the beautiful and too tender Lidia di Bagnacavallo,” says M.
Charles Magnin. “Her jealous and but little disguised passion for her
fellow-actor Adriano Valerini caused some little scandal, a rare thing at
this time when actresses prided themselves upon nothing so much as their
virtue.”

In 1578, Flaminio Scala engaged in the troupe of the _Gelosi_, then
in Florence, a young girl born in Padua in 1562, named ISABELLA, then
barely sixteen years of age, beautiful, full of talent and very virtuous.
Francesco Andreini, who was playing Captains in the same company, fell
in love with her and married her. In the following year (1579), Isabella
gave birth to a son, Giovanni-Battista Andreini (_Lelio_).

It was first under the name of Accesa that Isabella was admired and
applauded when she made her début and was elected a member of the academy
of the _Intenti_ of Pavia. She was the most celebrated actress of her
time, and honoured by the most illustrious approbation, such as that
of Tasso, Ciabrera, and Marino, not to mention cardinals, princes and
sovereigns. A crowned portrait of Isabella was placed between those of
Petrarch and Tasso in a fête given in her honour in Rome by one of her
greatest admirers, the Cardinal Aldobrandini.

Isabella was the soul, the honour, the pillar of the _Gelosi_ company.
She went to France with the troupe in 1584, and there, as in Italy,
Isabella, then in her twenty-second year, achieved the same degree of
distinction by her modest and reserved conduct as by the versatility of
her talents, and the same was again the case when she revisited France,
summoned thither by Henri IV. in 1600.

Thomas Garzon says in his _Place Universelle_:

“The graceful Isabella Andreini, the most brilliant ornament
of the stage and the theatre, as praiseworthy for her virtue
as for her beauty, has rendered so illustrious her profession
that as long as the world shall last, and down to the end of
time, the name of the famous Isabella Andreini will be held in
veneration.”

Notwithstanding the most flattering attempts to detain her, Isabella
left Paris. Compelled by an accident to interrupt her journey at Lyons,
she died there in childbirth on the 10th July 1604. The greatest honours
were paid her. Pierre Mathieu relates the event in his _Histoire
de France sous le Regne de Henri III._ (Paris, 1609); and Niccolo
Barbieri (Beltrame), who was a member of the company, tells us that the
municipality of the city of Lyons honoured the funeral of the comedienne
with marks of distinction. “The aldermen,” says M. Charles Magnin, “sent
the banners of the city and the mace-bearers to the obsequies of this
great actress, and the guild of merchants followed the procession with
torches. Francesco Andreini, the husband of this famous woman, caused an
epitaph to be engraved upon her tomb which is to be read in Mazuchelli,
and which may yet exist in Lyons, where it was still to be seen at the
end of the eighteenth century. This epitaph concludes in the following
terms:—‘_Religiosa, pia, musis amica et artis scenicæ caput, hic
resurrectionem exspectat...._’”

A beautiful medal was struck, bearing the effigy of Isabella Andreini,
her name being followed by the letters C.G., which stand for _Comica
Gelosa_ (comedienne of the _Gelosi_ troupe), and bearing on the obverse
the figure of Fame with the words “_Æterna Fama_.” She had deserved
all these distinctions not only by the wealth of imagination which she
displayed in the Commedia dell’ Arte, but by various publications from
her pen, some in verse and some in prose. During her various sojourns
in Paris, the last of which was in 1603, she conquered the admiration of
both court and city, and enjoyed a very particular favour with Marie de’
Médicis and Henri IV.

She has left us some sonnets, madrigals and songs, _La Pastorale de
Myrtille_, printed at Verona in 1588, and a _Canzonniere_ printed in
Milan in 1601. With her died the _Gelosi_ troupe.

At the beginning of the seventeenth century, the leading ladies of the
various Italian troupes were Renemia, Lucia, Pandolfina, Lucrezia and
Virginia.

Lavinia, whose real name was Diana Ponti, _comica desiosa_, an actress
and poetess (1580), discovered, according to Riccoboni, among the
effects inherited from her father—a comedian like herself—a large number
of scenarii bearing the precious autograph signature of Saint Charles
Borromeo. The explanation of this curious fact is as follows:—Adriano
Valerini had been called to Milan. Notwithstanding the tolerance shown
to comedians by the Italian clergy, the governor of the city, having
fallen a prey to some scruple of conscience, ordered the suspension of
the performances by the troupe under Valerini’s management. Valerini
protested. The governor submitted the matter to the decision of the
archbishop, who was Charles Borromeo. The good prelate summoned the
comedian into his presence, questioned him, heard him and permitted
him to reopen his theatre on condition that he would submit to him his
scenarii. Those which he approved he signed with his own hand. One of the
greatest saints of the church reading and approving the scenarii of the
Commedia dell’Arte is a fact as significant as it is striking. Niccolo
Barbieri (Beltrame) says in his _Discorso_ that Braga, the Pantaloon of
the company of Valerini, as well as the Pedrolino, still possessed in
his day (1634) manuscripts approved and signed by Saint Charles Borromeo.

In 1601, Virginia Ramponi filled the rôles of leading lady in the
_Gelosi_ troupe. G. B. Andreini fell in love with her and married her in
1601. He wrote for her his first piece under the title of _Florinda_ in
consequence of the name which she bore in the theatre. She died somewhere
about 1634.

In the French company at the Hôtel de Bourgogne, an Italian actress was
playing in 1617, under the Gallicised name of Florentine, the rôles of
leading lady, and the daughters of Gros-Guillaume.

In the _Fedeli_ troupe, in 1624, Margarita Luciani, the wife of Girolamo
Gavarini (Captain Rhinoceros), died a few days after her husband, and as
devoutly as he.

In 1635, Lidia, an actress of great merit, was the second wife of G. B.
Andreini, the director of the company.

In 1652, Eularia Coris, a young and charming comedienne, was one of
the last actresses to sustain by her talent the weakening vogue of the
_Fedeli_ troupe. She contributed, with Lidia, to the success of a devout
dramatic piece entitled _La Maddalena Lasciva e Penitente_, performed for
the first time in 1607.

“The list of characters is curious,” says M. Charles Magnin;
“beside Magdalen, Martha and Lazarus, the principal parts
are those of the Archangel Michael, several angels, Divine
Grace, three lovers of Magdalen, her page, her waiting-woman,
her seneschal, her cook, two dwarfs and three old women of
ill repute. In the first three acts there is no question of
anything but gallantry and merry-making. Magdalen, abandoned
absolutely to her senses, closes her ears to the wise counsels
of Martha her sister. In the third act, penitent and contrite,
she renounces pleasure, assumes a hair-shirt, is favoured by
ecstatic visions, and finally ascends to heaven, borne in
the arms of five cherubims, whilst the Archangel Michael and
Divine Grace exhort the audience to follow the example of this
reconciled sinner.”

Agata Calderoni, known under the name of Flaminia in Italy, was the
grandmother of Virginia Baletti, the wife of Riccoboni (Lelio), and she
took the theatre name of Flaminia, which had become hereditary in the
family.

iii

“Is it you, AURELIA—beautiful Aurelia?—you, whose riches are your least
attraction, and heaven alone knows how rich you are! You, whose beauty
and goodness match your wealth and generosity, deign to answer me, O my
hope, my future! Deign to accept my services! Permit me to follow you
that I may read in your eyes your least desire! Command of me all that it
is humanly possible to do! I deliver myself up to you, body and soul; I
am your slave.”

Aurelia replies: “Are you Horace? No! You are not the man I love, who
will be my slave only in becoming my master. Withdraw, I must not listen
to you! If you are come to demand of me nothing but my love, I answer you
that you may claim of me any other alms but not that of my heart.”

Whilst in Italy the rôles of leading lady were being interpreted by
Orsola Bianchi, born in Venice, they were being filled in France by her
sister, Brigida Bianchi, known by the name of Aurelia. She went to Paris
in 1640 with Tiberio Fiurelli, left it in the following year, to return
again in 1645, with her father, Giuseppe Bianchi, the director of the
troupe, her sisters Luigia and Orsola and her husband, Marco Romagnesi.

In 1659 Aurelia wrote a piece, _L’Inganno Fortunato_, which she dedicated
to the queen-mother. The queen-mother found the piece to her taste and
conveyed her thanks to Aurelia in the shape of a present consisting of a
pair of diamond earrings of exquisite workmanship, said by Loret to be
worth three hundred pistoles.

Aurelia left Paris at the end of June of 1659, but was absent only a
year. Upon learning of the death of Romagnesi, her husband, she returned
there in 1660, re-entered the theatre and did not retire until 1683. She
remained in Paris after going into retirement; she resided in the Rue
Saint-Denis, near the convent of the great Saint-Chaumont, where she
passed away at the age of ninety, in 1703.

She was a very beautiful woman, with great taste in dress, and
passionately addicted to her toilet. Mademoiselle Belmont, the wife of
Romagnesi de Belmont (Léandre), her grandson, says that she found her
upon her deathbed beautifully dressed in the very latest mode.

Aurelia had been very much beloved by Anne of Austria; like Scaramouche
she was admitted to the intimacy of the queen.

Orsola Corteze, known in the theatre under the name of Eularia, made her
début in Paris in 1660 at the age of twenty-three. Her mother, Barbara
Corteze, known under the name of Florinda, claimed for her husband
descent from Hernando Cortez, the conqueror of Mexico. Orsolo Corteze
married Giuseppe-Domenico Biancolelli (Harlequin), at Saint-Germain
l’Auxerrois, and bore him twelve children.

“She was tall and well made without being beautiful; and of an extremely
amiable disposition.” She undertook the parts of leading lady after
the retirement of Aurelia, and remained in the theatre until 1680. In
1704 she withdrew to Montargis, to the convent of the Sisters of the
Visitation of Mary, and died there in 1718 at the age of eighty-six.

Françoise-Marie-Apolline Biancolelli, the daughter of the famous
Harlequin Domenico Biancolelli and of Orsola Corteze, was born in Paris
in 1664, and made her first appearance there in 1683 in the rôles of
leading lady, under the _nom de guerre_ of ISABELLE. At the same time
her younger sister undertook the parts of soubrette under the name of
Columbine.

“Never” (says Devizé) “was the Comédie-Italienne so applauded
as it is now. If Harlequin is inimitable in the various rôles
in which he is to be seen performing, his two daughters are
no less so; the various characters which they play are so
admirably rendered that they have earned the applause of all
Paris, which never wearies of admiring them. Never has one
beheld so much intelligence for comedy combined with so much
youth. There is no part undertaken by them of which they do not
acquit themselves with such a grace that when they appear upon
the stage it almost seems that they must have been born solely
for the character which they represent.”

The following monologue from Gherardi presents a resumé of the dominant
character of the Isabella type:

“Sirs, in the deplorable state into which gallantry has fallen,
it is not surprising that a woman should be compelled to uphold
the cause of all her sisters. Our sex might wait long and in
vain for the other to undertake the task of avenging it. Since
taverns and tobacco-shops have become so fashionable women have
ceased to please; and love, powerful though he be, is unable in
the minds of young men to offer adequate compensation for the
fatuous and brutal pleasure of a debauch at _l’Alliance_ or _la
Galère_.

“Where are the days when the fair sex beheld the flower of
youth assiduously at its feet?—those days which might rightly
be called the golden age of tenderness, when hearts came in
squadrons to reconnoitre our power! In those happy days none
was sure of conquering us, and banishment followed quickly upon
the least wrong that should be done us. But the face of things
is changed. We no longer behold at this time of day a thousand
indefatigable adventurers ready to sustain our cause against
all the world; and love, which in other times was a source of
riches to our sex, is to-day no more than a source of ruin.

“It is not in our century that you must seek those magnificent
heroines who came forward to repair, at the price of their
jewels, the most cruel desolations of war, and thus to place
themselves side by side with the most famous conquerors.
Gallantry to-day is no longer recognisable, or else it haggles
even in the matter of little favours; and far from stripping
oneself of everything in the service of love, one’s heart
is given only with reservations. But that which has most
contributed to decry gallantry is the unworthy profanation
of our attractions by uniting us daily to imbecile old men,
members of a nation which in all times has been contemned by
the kingdom of love. These bizarre matches, which avarice
suggests to our parents, open the door to innumerable abuses.
They constitute a nursery for separations, and a clear source
of profit to so many coquettish abbés who are everlastingly
lying in wait for marriages of this description.

“Is it credible that there should be girls so innocent as
to accept without vexation these changes in the matter of
marriage? And is not the sweet idea of matrimony which we
form for ourselves incompatible with the austerities to which
bespectacled husbands would subject us? Are we not aware that
Hymen’s is a sort of warfare from which old men and children
are disqualified? What sort of a figure can an old dodderer
be expected to cut under the banner of Hymen, or rather what
sort of a figure can a young girl be expected to cut beside a
husband who catechises her at every hour, who counts the steps
she takes, who does not open his lips save to contradict her or
to beguile her with tales of his bygone prowess? a sour-faced
fellow who accounts the addition of a ribbon to his wife’s
head-dress as a crime, and who sets questions to his servants
on the score of the most innocent movements of his better half?
I do not even touch upon that legion of infirmities of which
old age is the prey, nor the unbearable cough which is the
music to which an old man invariably treats his young wife.
You are not to suppose that I do not see something heroic in
the sad fidelity of which a woman has the courage to pride
herself towards husbands of this kind, but it is necessary
that I should frankly confess my own weakness. In a similar
extremity I could answer only for a stony inflexibility never
to depart from the hatred which at the outset I must conceive
for any old man who should dare to attempt my liberty.”

When she is in love she recoils before nothing to disembarrass herself of
the fetters imposed upon her by the paternal will:

ISABELLE (_dressed as a man, before the mirror adjusting her
cravat_). Give me that hat, Pierrot. Do you find in me a
cavalier to your taste?

PIERROT. Pardi, mademoiselle, you are charming. You might be
mistaken for me. Yet there is a little difference. Are you
going to raise a company of infantry?

ISABELLE. Do not think to mock me. I should not tremble more
than another under fire.

PIERROT. If all captains were of your kind they might save
enlisting expenses and produce their own soldiers.

ISABELLE. I do not assume this costume without reason. You know
that my father wants me to marry M. Bassinet.

PIERROT. Your father? Good! He is a drivelling old fool, as I
have told him.

ISABELLE. I am making use of this disguise to avoid that
marriage. M. Bassinet has never seen me. He is coming to pay me
a visit, and I shall await him in this apparel. I am going to
give him news of Isabelle, and—by heaven!—I shall quench his
desire to marry her.

PIERROT. Mordi, now, there’s a daring girl! I have always told
your father that I never believed he was your mother’s husband
when you were born. You have too much spirit. Don’t you think
so?

ISABELLE. Oh, as for me, Pierrot, that does not trouble me. I
am concerned only to put an end, if I can, to this impertinent
marriage by which I am threatened. But here comes, I think, M.
Bassinet. Leave me with him; I shall play my part.

PIERROT (_going off_). Pardi, it is the man himself. He looks
like an old boar.

ISABELLE (_seats herself nonchalantly in an arm-chair. The
Doctor enters_). Your servant, sir; your servant.

THE DOCTOR (_perceiving ISABELLE, and mistaking her for a
man_). Sir, I beg your pardon. I was told that Mademoiselle
Isabelle was in her chamber. (_Aside._) What the devil’s this
coxcomb doing here?

ISABELLE. Sir, she is not here, and I am awaiting her. But
you, sir, what do you seek? Is mademoiselle ill? From your
countenance I take you to be a doctor, and you have all the
appearances of a member of the faculty.

THE DOCTOR. You are not mistaken, sir. I am a nursling of
Hippocrates. But I am not here to feel the pulse of Isabelle.
My pretensions are quite otherwise.

ISABELLE. Indeed. And of what nature, pray, are the pretensions
of a doctor towards a young girl?

THE DOCTOR. I seek to marry her.

ISABELLE (_laughing_). Ah! ah! ah!

THE DOCTOR. You find it droll?

ISABELLE. Not at all; but it is that ... ah! ah! ah! I laugh
like that sometimes, ah! ah! ah!

THE DOCTOR (_considering himself in a mirror_). Is my face
dirty?

ISABELLE. No, I am just laughing. Ah! ah! ah!... Tell me, sir,
in determining to take so perilous a leap, I hope that you have
properly sounded yourself? You have not, perchance, discovered
any little headache, eh? You understand me?

THE DOCTOR. Not at all, sir. I am very well. I am not subject
to headaches.

ISABELLE (_placing her hand upon his brow_). My faith! You
will be able to wear them very well, and I would as soon that
you should marry that girl as another.

THE DOCTOR. And so would I.

ISABELLE. But when she is your wife do not spoil her by your
ridiculous manners. We have had a good deal of trouble to
bring her to her present state. I shall be accounted among
your friends, and I intend when you are married to come to you
without ceremony to eat your capon.

THE DOCTOR. Sir, you do me too much honour, but I never eat
poultry. From what I hear, you are perfectly acquainted with
the lady in question?

ISABELLE. Our acquaintance does not date from yesterday, and if
you are discreet I can tell you something concerning her which
I am sure you do not know.

THE DOCTOR. Oh, you can tell me everything and depend upon my
discretion. You know that doctors——

ISABELLE. I spend ... but I must take care that no one
overhears us.... I spend every night in her chamber.

THE DOCTOR (_stupefied_). In her chamber?

ISABELLE. In her chamber, and I could even tell you—— But you
are sure to talk?

THE DOCTOR. No, no, I swear it!

ISABELLE. Last night my head reposed upon the same pillow. Draw
your own conclusions from that.

THE DOCTOR. On the same pillow?

ISABELLE. And it will be the same again to-morrow. Still, what
I have told you should not hinder you from carrying through the
affair. A real lover is not to be put off by trifles.

THE DOCTOR. Trifles! Fine trifles! After all, nothing presses
yet in the matter of this marriage. Farewell, sir. Heaven has
befriended me. Here is a young man who loves me. (_Exit._)

ISABELLE. I think that his vapours of love for Isabelle are
over now. In the quarter of an hour during which I have played
the man, I have been a fairly complete rascal.

The rôles of Isabelle are usually purely comedy ones. It is no part
of her business to affect her audience or even to engross it. She is
concerned to enliven the stage with her satires, her fantasies and her
wit. She speaks like a man, and she has the knowledge, the audacity and
the self-assertion of one.

ISABELLE. Do you not know, Columbine, that prose is the very
offal of wit, and that a single madrigal can infuse more
tenderness into a heart than thirty of the best-balanced
periods? It is only the very base who do not love poets to
the point of folly. Ah, Columbine! how charming is a man when
he offers us his vows after having passed them through the
sieve of the Muses. How is one to resist the declaration when
it strikes the ear in rhythm, and when its imagery forces
sensibility into the wildest and most rebellious soul? What
joy, Columbine, to rejoice the heart with these ingenious
novelties that enclose a deal of passion in very little space.
Oh, the happy talent to be able to restrict your movements and
thoughts to the feet and measures prescribed by poetry!

COLUMBINE. Do you realise, mademoiselle, that such feet might
lead you straight to the Petites-Maisons! Wit is all very well,
but something else is needed in marriage. Waiting-woman though
I be, I would not take a poet either to lover or to husband.
What profit is there in being the wife of a rhymer? Is a room
to be furnished with epigrams? Is a butcher to be paid with
sonnets? My faith! if I were in your place I should throw
myself at some good financier, who would cause my merit to roll
in a coach, and who——

ISABELLE. A financier! Horror!

Françoise Biancolelli, although not endowed with great beauty, had a
“gift of pleasing spread over all her person.” She was full of grace,
very well made and had a physiognomy that was sweet and charming. M.
de Turgis, an officer in the Gardes-Françaises, fell madly in love
with her and married her in 1691. She was twenty-seven years of age
and her husband was twenty-one. The father and mother of M. de Turgis
entered in 1693 a plaint against their daughter-in-law, accusing her of
the subornation of their son. The mother of Françoise Biancolelli, in
her ignorance of the laws of France and to defeat the parents of her
daughter’s husband in their plaint, announced to them that between her
daughter and their son there existed no convention, treaty or celebration
of marriage. In 1694, the father and mother of M. de Turgis made a will
disinheriting their son “to punish him for his shameful alliance with
Françoise-Marie-Apolline Biancolelli, protesting, for the rest, to
declare null the marriage which he might have contracted with her did
they come to discover it.”

Coming into possession of proofs of the marriage, they had their son
removed to Angers, and they enjoined upon him to declare that he had been
abused and suborned. Of a weak character, he gave way and signed this
declaration. Nevertheless he repaired immediately to a notary to protest
against the step he had just taken.

The Parliament gave judgment on the 11th February 1695, declaring the
marriage null, and forbidding the Sieur de Turgis and Mademoiselle
Françoise Biancolelli “to cohabit, under pain of corporal punishment, or
to enter into a fresh contract of marriage, under pain of its nullity.”
And this “whether during the lifetime or after the death of his father
and mother.” Against this Constantin de Turgis lodged a yearly protest
with his notary—there are seven of them in existence.

Françoise Biancolelli had left the theatre in 1695. The father of M. de
Turgis died in the same year, but the fate of the young couple was not
ameliorated until 1701. They were then remarried under a dispensation
from the Cardinal of Noailles, and they declared that “there had been
born of them under faith of marriage two children then living, namely:
Charles-Dominique de Turgis des Chaises, born in 1692, and a daughter who
later on became Madame Millin de Tressolles.”

“From that time onwards, M. de Turgis went publicly to visit his wife,
and even appeared with her in public places.” Although he continued to
make use of rooms at his mother’s house, he lived with his wife in the
Rue des Petits-Pères, received there, and spent there most of his time,
whilst Françoise Biancolelli publicly bore his name.

The mother of M. de Turgis died on the 2nd February 1704, and renewed
in her will the two acts of disinheritance should her son remarry
Mademoiselle Biancolelli, as if she were in ignorance of the fact that
they were already remarried, an ignorance hardly possible considering
that they lived in the same parish.

M. de Turgis died on the 29th April 1706. Perceiving that his end was
approaching, he sent for his nephew, de Turgis de Canteleu, then in
his fourteenth year. He represented to him in a touching manner the
sad position of his wife and children, caused him to embrace them and
recommended them to him. Young Canteleu promised that he would never
abandon his aunt and cousins. He kept his word for, dying at the age of
twenty-one, he left to Charles-Dominique, his cousin, an income of eight
thousand livres to sustain his name, and an income of four thousand to
the sister.

After the death of her husband, who left nothing but debts, seeing
that he died disinherited, Françoise Biancolelli was reduced to seek
assistance, having spent her own possessions to support her husband in
military service. The courts pronounced a judgment in 1709, granting her
a pension of a thousand livres for herself and her children, and in 1713
the king, desiring to recompense the services of Constantin de Turgis in
the person of his widow, awarded her a further pension of three hundred
livres.

Madame de Turgis left two children, Charles-Dominique de Turgis,
chevalier of Saint-Louis and an officer in the royal navy, and
Marie-Anne-Reine de Turgis, the wife of the Sieur Millin de Tressolles.

Giovanna Rosa Benozzi, celebrated under the name of SILVIA, went to
Paris with the troupe summoned by the Regent in 1716. She played for
forty-two years the parts of leading lady with the same vivacity, the
same shrewdness, and always producing the same illusion. The inconstant
public never cooled towards her. She enjoyed applause until the hour
of her death, and was mourned with the liveliest regrets. She excelled
especially in the plays of M. de Marivaux, of whose fine and witty
dialogue she had a perfect grasp. A volume would hardly suffice to
contain all the praise which she received in prose and verse.

The rôles of Silvia were very diverse. In the plays of Marivaux, like _Le
Jeu de l’Amour et du Hasard_, she is at once mistress and soubrette. In
other pieces she is just a soubrette, sometimes a simple naïve peasant
girl, or an innocent shepherdess, as in _Arlequin Poli par l’Amour_, the
first play which Marivaux produced at the Comédie-Italienne.

Harlequin enters, playing with a battledore and shuttlecock, and in this
fashion advances to the feet of Silvia. There, still playing, he lets
the shuttlecock fall, and in stooping to pick it up he perceives Silvia;
astonished, he remains arrested in his stooping attitude; little by
little he comes jerkily erect again; then he looks at her. She, in an
access of shyness, attempts to withdraw; he arrests her with the words:
“You are in a hurry then?”

SILVIA. I withdraw because I do not know you.

HARLEQUIN. You do not know me? So much the worse. Let us make
acquaintance, shall we?

SILVIA (_shyly_). Certainly.

HARLEQUIN (_approaching her, and signifying his joy in little
bursts of laughter_). You are very pretty!

SILVIA. You are very amiable.

HARLEQUIN. Not at all, I speak the truth.

SILVIA (_laughing a little in her turn_). You are very pretty
too.

HARLEQUIN. So much the better. Where do you live? I shall come
and see you.

Silvia tells him that she is beloved of a shepherd who might spy upon
them, which afflicts Harlequin; but she assures him that she does not
love the shepherd, and Harlequin is consoled. He informs her in his turn
that he lodges with the Fairy, which arouses jealousy in Silvia because,
she says, the fairy is more beautiful than she. Harlequin reassures her.
Soon Silvia has no uneasiness other than that occasioned her by her
sheep; they are straying and she is obliged to follow them. Harlequin
takes her hand and kisses it, saying: “Oh! the pretty little fingers! I
never had sweetmeats as good as these!” And thus they separate.

In another scene Silvia returns with a cousin, another shepherdess,
whose advice she asks. “Harlequin has already kissed my hand,” she says,
“and he will want to kiss it again. Advise me, you who have had so many
lovers. Shall I allow him?”

“Beware of doing so,” replies the cousin. “Be very severe, for that
ferments the affection of a lover, and beware of telling him that you
love him.”

“But how can I help it?” asks Silvia.

Harlequin returns; tendernesses between the two lovers; jealousy of the
fairy, who causes the disappearance of Silvia; then ruses of Harlequin,
to whom love has given so much spirit that he purloins the magic wand of
the fairy, leaving her impotent; he presents it to Silvia, who employs it
to evoke spirits and devils, which are beaten by Harlequin.

In _L’Amante Romanesque_ (1718) Silvia confesses to her waiting-woman,
Spinette, that she is still in ignorance of what love may mean
notwithstanding that she has been married; but, in the solitude in which
her husband left her, she spent her time in reading romances which have
turned her head. She detests all men, she says, and she is to take into
her service a certain Marinette who speaks, perhaps, more ill of the
male sex than she does herself. This Marinette is no other than Mario,
who, in the disguise of a waiting-woman, seeks to gain the presence of
Silvia whom he loves. Spinette opposes herself at first, but, after many
promises from Mario, and after he has sworn that he has no design beyond
that of seeing Silvia, Spinette presents him to her mistress and he is
engaged as a waiting-woman. Wishing, however, to be faithful to his word
to Spinette, Marinette (Mario) excuses himself from entering the service
of Silvia, saying that he has just come into an inheritance from an aunt,
who has left him an income of twelve thousand livres. “That,” he says,
“is the wherewithal to seek a husband.”

SILVIA. I am charmed by what you tell me, and you are not to
doubt that it was my aim to care for your fortune by attaching
you to myself.

MARINETTE (Mario). Madame, I am already more attached to you
than you think.

SILVIA. But you speak already of seeking a husband, and you
hated men so bitterly.

MARINETTE. Nevertheless one always ends that way. Still, I
shall hold back as much as possible and perhaps all my life; I
am very difficult to please.

SILVIA. What is your taste? Let us hear.

MARINETTE. I desire one who has the heart of an Italian and the
manners of a Frenchman.

Silvia approves these ideas, nevertheless she continues to denounce all
men. Spinette and Marinette in an even greater degree follow her example.
In the end Marinette says so much ill of them that Silvia embraces him
with fervour.

SILVIA. Come, my dear Marinette, let me embrace you. I love
you with all my heart. I find in you my own thoughts, my
sentiments, my humour. (_To SPINETTE, who attempts to check
her._) Stand aside, Spinette. I want to kiss her a thousand
times.

SPINETTE. Madame, spare me the sight of it.

SILVIA. Why should you oppose it?

SPINETTE. I’m jealous.

SILVIA. Withdraw, silly. Approach, my heroine, let me stifle
you with caresses. (_To SPINETTE._) What does that mean? Why
do you tear her from my arms? Release me, I tell you, and stand
aside.

SPINETTE. But, madame, you have read romances; do you not
remember Céladon who disguised himself as a girl to approach
his mistress Astræ?

SILVIA. What then?

SPINETTE. If perchance Marinette were a boy who had had the
same idea, should I be right to allow you to continue as you
are doing?

SILVIA. Ha, ha! You are still making fun of my romances. If
Marinette, with the spirit and the sentiments which are hers,
were a boy, that boy to-morrow would be my husband.

Mario goes down upon his knees and declares himself. Silvia forgives, and
accepts him for her cavalier pending that he shall become her husband.

In _The Portrait_ (1727), a play by M. Beauchamp, Silvia has assumed the
garments of her soubrette Columbine, and passes herself off as Columbine.
She gives a very bad reception to Valerius, the future husband destined
her by her father. Valerius is not duped; but he pretends to mistake her
for her waiting-woman, and thus discloses to her his sentiments in a
more delicate manner. But the more Valerius displays his submission to
the orders of the beautiful Silvia, the more does she, believing him to
be indifferent, attempt to turn him aside. With this aim in view, she
herself sketches her portrait for him:

“First of all she is neither tall nor short, neither well made
nor ill made. She is fat rather than thin, and notwithstanding
all that, a rare thing to-day, she has a figure, and she has
a little air of recklessness and youth that is arresting.
It is perhaps neither wit nor brilliance, yet it partakes
of both. She is white and rosy; she has eyes and teeth; she
dances passably; in a word she is like a thousand others.
On the subject of her conduct there is nothing to tell you.
She lives as all girls live to-day. As for her temper, faith,
it is not easy to define it. She is gentle by reflection,
sharp by temperament, timid in the things which she knows,
decided in those of which she is ignorant, imperious with
those who owe her nothing, exigent without friendship, jealous
without passion, absent-minded to the point of forgetfulness,
and unequal to the point of brusqueness; in short it is so
difficult to live with her that I cannot bear to be with her
most of the time. Do you know who is the master, the guide,
the director of all her actions and of all her sayings? It is
Caprice.”

Valerius pretends to attach faith to this portrait, which he knows does
not at all resemble her since he has the original under his eyes; to
pique her he says that he will renounce Silvia, an announcement which
angers her.

Silvia was the subject of many madrigals, sonnets and epistles composed
in her honour. She was born in Toulouse, of Italian parents. She was
married in Paris, in 1720, to Giuseppe Baletti, known by the name of
_Mario_. Of this marriage was born Antoine-Louis Baletti (_Lelio_), who
entered the Théâtre-Italien in 1742, Louis Baletti, who became a dancer,
and Jeanne Baletti, who married Blondel, the royal architect. Silvia died
in 1759.

At the time that the famous Silvia was undertaking rôles which demanded
such versatility, FLAMINIA, the wife of Louis Riccoboni (Lelio), was
playing the parts of leading lady.

Elena-Virginia Baletti was born at Ferrara in 1686. She visited in her
childhood the various theatres of Italy. Her parents, although poor, gave
her an education calculated to place her above the majority of her class.
From her most tender youth she passed for one of the best actresses of
her country.

Louis Riccoboni, already at the age of twenty-two the director of a
company, perceived in the talents of Mademoiselle Baletti a means of
reintroducing to the Italian stage the qualities that it had lost. He
sought and obtained her in marriage. She went to Paris with her husband
in 1716 to contribute with him to the academic reformation of the
theatre, after having vainly attempted it in Italy, where the masks had
remained masters of the field; but the French public also loved Harlequin
and Scaramouche, and the performances of Italian masterpieces could never
have sufficed for the success of this new company. It was necessary to
give way to the demand for the masks. Flaminia retired with Riccoboni in
1732. Justice was done to her talents, and she was esteemed not only as
an excellent actress but also as a very learned woman. She spoke Spanish
and French quite as well as her mother tongue, and made considerable
progress in a serious study of Latin.

Flaminia drew from the _Rudens_ of Plautus the subject for her comedy
_Naufrage_, which was not a success. Her play _Abdilly, Roi de Grenade_,
a tragi-comedy written in collaboration with Delisle, was also not a
success. Out of conceit with the theatre she left it entirely in 1733 and
dwelt in retirement until 1771, the epoch of her death.

Marie Laboras de Mézières, born in Paris in 1713, made her first
appearance on the 23rd August 1734, in the rôle of Lucile, in _La
Surprise de l’Amour_. She married François Riccoboni the son, and
withdrew from the Théâtre-Italien in 1761. She wrote various French
scenes to be introduced into the Italian scenarii, but it is as a French
novelist that Madame Riccoboni earned the durable celebrity of her name:
_Lettres de Fanny Butler_, _Ernestine_, _Histoire du Marquis de Catesby_,
were her principal works. She also translated several English pieces: _La
Façon de se Fixer_, _La Femme Jalouse_, _La Fausse Délicatesse_ and _Il
Est Possédé_. She was one of the greatest wits of her day. She died in
1792.

On the 3rd May 1730, Anna-Elisabeth Constantini, the daughter of
Giovanni-Battista Constantini (the _Ottavio_ of the old company), made
her début at the Comédie-Italienne to play such characters as Isabelle
and Silvia.

vii

Giacometta-Antonia Veronese, known under the name of CAMILLE, was born
in Venice in 1735. She went to France in 1744 with her father Veronese
(Pantaloon) and her sister Anna Veronese (Coraline), being then no more
than nine years of age. Camille made her début as a dancer on the 21st
May 1744, at the same time that her sister and father were making their
first appearance in _Coraline, Esprit Follet_, a piece which enjoyed a
great vogue. Subsequently she was seen in the rôles of leading lady, in
1747, at the age of twelve, in a scenario (_Les Sœurs Rivales_) written
expressly for her by her father.

“Camille,” says an author of that time, “had a gesture of an
expressiveness such as is not to be learned before a mirror, and an
accent of a naturalness such as art can never yield, but such as the
heart may prompt when it is moved. Free from ambition and jealousy, she
was innocent of those rivalries which nearly always spring up among women
of her condition. Her character was in her face, and one saw imprinted
there nobility, frankness, wit and gaiety; no woman of her state ever
carried disinterestedness further, nor did ingratitude succeed in
turning her aside from beneficence. With a beneficent soul it is almost
impossible not to have a tender heart; these qualities are nearly always
inseparable, and if her sensibility permitted her some weaknesses she
knew how to earn pardon for them by the constancy of her attachment.”

“The Sieur Billioni has just produced at the Théâtre-Italien
the ballet _Pygmalion_ with success. The subject is so well
known that it is unnecessary for me to enter into details of
it. I will remark only that the Demoiselle Camille, who plays
the part of the statue, renders it with the most singular
truth. Nothing can equal the delicacy of her pantomime,
particularly in the scene when the statue gradually becomes
animate; she depicts her surprise, her curiosity, her nascent
love, and all the sudden or graduated movements of her soul,
with an expression such as has never yet been equalled. I think
that the art of the ancient Greek and Roman mimes could not
surpass the talents of Camille in this style of work” (Letter
of FAVART to M. de Durazzo, 27th December 1760).

“‘_Thémire Délivrée_, such is the title of the ballet-pantomime
performed by Billon,’ says Biglioni, the erstwhile
ballet-master of the Opéra-Comique. Thémire (Mademoiselle
Camille), amidst a troop of hunters, delivers her orders,
departs with them to beat the countryside, and leaves the
stage empty (a gross fault). Two woodcutters and the wife of
one of them dance a _pas de trois_. They go off as they came
on without explaining the reason of their appearance. Thémire
reappears; she has been involuntarily separated from the hunt.
She finds herself alone and expresses her fears. A savage
perceives her from the height of a hill, comes abruptly down
and seizes her; she swoons in terror; the savage binds her with
slender branches of willow and drags her into his cave. At this
critical moment the hunters arrive and perceive the danger of
Thémire; they charge up the hill; savages armed with clubs hurl
themselves upon them. Ah! what is happening during this time to
poor Thémire? Finally, luckily or unluckily, the savages are
routed and Thémire is delivered. Were they in time or were they
not in time? That is what remains to be explained. Be it as it
may Thémire is brought on in triumph to the sound of cymbals.
(Why cymbals?) There are rejoicings on the deliverance of
Thémire. The conquered savages also rejoice. (Wherefore?)

“Notwithstanding these absurdities the ballet gives great
pleasure. That is because it is perfectly executed. It is
because Camille, who represents Thémire, is an excellent
comedienne” (FAVART, 1st August 1760).

Camille died in 1768 at the age of thirty-three.

Among other actresses of fame who played in Italy during the seventeenth
and eighteenth centuries let us cite those who played under the names
of Clarice, Angela, Graziosa, Rosaura, Eleonora, Diana, Beatrice or
Isabella, the Signore Alborghezzi, 1600; Armelini, 1600; Andreoletti,
1602; Garziani, 1610; Aspontini, 1630; Pazzighetti, 1661; Teresa-Corona
Sabolini, who played in 1688 under the name of Ottavia Diana; Giovanna
Amatis, 1695; Anziani, 1715; Malatesta, 1720; Albertini, 1706; Antonia
Albani, 1760; Teodora Ricci of Padua, who exercised so great an influence
on the talent of Carlo Gozzi, 1760; Felicita and Rosalie Bonami, 1775;
Marianna Bassi, 1750; etc.

XIII

SCAPINO

Endowed with honeyed language, engaging manners and a sycophantic
politeness, BRIGHELLA is the most infamous rascal that ever drew
breath. He does not even display the brutal frankness of Polichinelle
to counterbalance the baseness of his sentiments. He is a smirking cat
concealing vicious claws in pads of velvet. Lively and insolent with
women, braggart and boastful with old men and cowards, he decamps on the
approach of any of those who do not fear him. There is a great deal to be
dreaded from him; the more you have frightened him the less disposed is
he to forgive you, and if you should receive a stab in the dark, be sure
that his was the hand that dealt it. A singer, a dancer and a musician,
when he desires to do anyone an evil turn there is no house into which
he is not able to insinuate himself. He is a valuable servant to the man
who knows how to employ his talents. As his needs are many, he requires
a deal of money, and if you know how to flatter his self-love and to
pay him well, there is neither girl nor woman in Italy whom he is not
able to wheedle for you. He has discharged all kinds of offices; he has
been a soldier, an attorney’s clerk, and he has even turned hangman’s
assistant so as to abstract himself from the attentions of justice. The
service he prefers to all others is that of lovers, and it is rather
from inclination than from necessity that he loves what he calls _his
estate_. For if there is no one to serve he will work for his own
account to keep himself in practice, and then woe betide the young girls
who fall under his claws! They are for ever lost if they lend an ear to
his proposals and his sophisms. Brighella believes absolutely in nothing
but the rope which is one day to hang him; hence a glimpse of a watchman
will reduce him to a condition which it is impossible to describe.

Such was the old Brighella; but in the course of centuries and of
civilisation he has improved a little. He is still imbued with the same
instincts, but he does not assassinate quite so freely. To-day many women
are able to look him in the face without trembling and to listen to him
without believing. He is far more terrible to the purses of old men,
which he purloins with incredible dexterity. His dreams are of nothing
but thefts like the Epidicus of Plautus, from whom he descends in direct
line.

“As for me,” says Epidicus, “I am going to assemble the Senate of my mind
to deliberate upon what I shall do. For it is upon money (however much
it may be our best friend) that I am going to declare war. What source
shall I tap? I must neither fall asleep nor draw back. I am resolved to
make a fresh attempt upon my old master. I have procured a sharp knife to
disembowel the old man’s purse. But what do I see? Two old men at once!
What a capture! I shall transform myself into a leech and suck their
blood....”

Later, when he is content with his misdeeds:

“I do not believe that in all Attica there is a soil more fruitful than
my old master. I take all the money I want from his cupboard, however
locked and sealed he may leave it. But should the old man come to
perceive it, ’ware the rod!”

Brighella, whose name signifies intriguer, is as old as Harlequin, his
compatriot. We have already said that both were natives of Bergamo. The
Slaveró of _La Piovana_ of Angelo Beolco is a true Brighella.

“As for me,” he says, “I find nothing difficult; I am accustomed to
despise things. I want two young girls, and if it be not sufficient to
kill one man I shall kill two. Do you not remember that dispute in which
I stabbed a man as easily as you prick a bladder, and of that other
fellow whose bones I broke as you squelch a bean?”

Elsewhere we hear him declaring: “I am now going to seek Sittono, into
whose hands the girl must have fallen by now. I shall so contrive with
amiable words that he shall give me the fifty livres promised me so that
I may get me hence. And should anyone suggest that I have acted badly, I
shall throw the entire fault of it upon my gossip.”

Slaveró recks nothing of being a perjurer like Brighella. A purse has
been stolen, and Bertevello, the fisherman, knows who has it.

BERTEVELLO. Good-morrow, comrade. What is your name?

SLAVERÓ. My name is Slaveró.

BERTEVELLO. Slaveró. Very good. I am resolved to conceal
nothing from you because I have no desire to go to prison.
Since you say that the purse is yours, swear to me that if I
tell you who has it you will give me what you promised.

SLAVERÓ. On the faith of an honest man.

BERTEVELLO. Swear it on your soul.

SLAVERÓ. Since I give you my assurance, why should you require
an oath?

BERTEVELLO. Swear as I shall bid you.

SLAVERÓ. Very well.

BERTEVELLO. Say: I, Slaveró, I swear——

SLAVERÓ. I, Slaveró, I swear——

BERTEVELLO. —that I will give you what I have promised you——

SLAVERÓ. —that I will give you what I have promised you——

BERTEVELLO. —of whatever is in the purse——

SLAVERÓ. —of whatever is in the purse——

BERTEVELLO. —in livres, sous and deniers——

SLAVERÓ. —in livres, sous and deniers——

BERTEVELLO. —upon burning coals——

SLAVERÓ. —upon burning coals——

BERTEVELLO. —burning and scorching me at once——

SLAVERÓ. —burning and scorching me at once——

BERTEVELLO. —that by a miracle may the living and the dead——

SLAVERÓ. —that by a miracle may the living and the dead——

BERTEVELLO. —leap at my eyes, tear them out, and burn them, and
wither my hands.

SLAVERÓ. —leap at my eyes, tear them out and burn them, and
wither my hands.

BERTEVELLO. And that the devil himself may bear me off——

SLAVERÓ. And that the devil himself may bear me off——

BERTEVELLO. —into the depths of misfortune——

SLAVERÓ. —into the depths of misfortune——

BERTEVELLO. —so that not a fragment of my person shall survive.

SLAVERÓ. —so that not a fragment of my person shall survive.

BERTEVELLO. Very good. Await me here and I will bring the man
with the purse to you.

SLAVERÓ. I shall wait. Ah, purse! You see how strongly I desire
you. Have no fear, we shall depart together. Otherwise I
should not have sworn as I have done. And I do not consider
myself under any obligation of giving what I promised to this
fellow for having sworn what I swore. Moreover I swore with my
tongue and not with my conscience. Is not my tongue free? Can I
dispose of it? My tongue can say what it pleases.

In a more modern Italian scenario which has done duty in various forms,
always with success, “some young Venetian gentlemen are in a villa on
the banks of the Brenta. To amuse themselves and to dispel the sadness
which might result from the death of their butler, Meneghino, they take
it into their heads to make fun of three poltroons who are in their
service: Pantaloon, Harlequin and Brighella. They make the pretence to
believe in the boastful valour of Pantaloon, and they beg of him to spend
the night watching over the body of the dead butler. Pantaloon consents
against his will; but it is Harlequin who has been put to bed on the bier
instead of Meneghino. They have covered him with a sheet and painted his
face white. Harlequin is no more at ease than he who watches over him.
He fears lest this farce should bring some misfortune; nevertheless he
makes merry at the expense of his comrade, performs a somersault on his
bed, and heaves great sighs. Soon, however, his laughter ceases, and he
thinks only of following the example of Pantaloon, who has gone into
hiding, for Brighella appears, dressed as a devil, and pursues them with
a torch. Brighella, however, imagined that he would have to do only with
Pantaloon, and did not expect to find Harlequin in the place of the dead
man, still less to find a corpse running in this scared fashion about
the chamber. In his fright he falls down, and we behold the three of
them rolling on the ground possessed by terror ineffable. Finally the
entrance of their masters, who come to mock them, brings about their
return to reason, at the end of a long series of jests which the public
receives ever with uproarious laughter.”

The costume of Brighella in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries
consisted of a sort of jacket and a wide pantaloon in white linen to
suggest his rustic origin, a cap laced in green, and a cloak; the coat
and pantaloons were laced at the seams with green cloth so as to make
the costume represent a sort of livery. His olive-tinted and bearded
mask conforms, like that of Harlequin, with the tradition of the ancient
_Sanniones_.

In the nineteenth century his costume became a bizarre combination of
old and new fashions. His jacket took the form of a riding-coat made of
wool or white flannel with three collars; further he wore a waistcoat
and pantaloons of the same material laced with green. He preserved
his traditional white cap trimmed with green and his brown half-mask,
whose beard was arranged so as to imitate heavy whiskers and a slight
moustache. The chin was shaven. In this costume he looks very much like a
negro arrayed in a ridiculous livery.

Brighella is the stock from which are sprung Beltrame, Scapino, Mezzetin,
Flautino, Gradelino, Truccagnino, Fenocchio, Bagolino, and all the shrewd
and intriguing lackeys of the Comédie-Française, from _Sbrigani_ (a
variant of the name of Brighella), _Sganarelle_, _Mascarille_ and _La
Montagne_ to _Frontin_ and _Labranche_; the livery only has changed; the
character is always that of Brighella, and from Pseudolus, the Greek
slave, down to Figaro, the factotum, the type has always been a liar, a
drunkard, a thief, a debauchee and more or less a murderer.

An Italian comedian, known under the name of Briguelle, appeared in 1671
on the stage of the Comédie-Italienne to replace Locatelli (_Trivelin_),
lately dead, in the parts of first _Zani_. According to Robinet, this
character became the rage, and, after his portrayer’s death, Louis
XIV., seeking to replace him, requested another actor from the Duke of
Modena. The duke sent him Giuseppe Cimadori, who played under the name of
Fenocchio the same rôles as those of Brighella. This actor, however, died
on the journey.

The two most famous players of Brighella during the eighteenth century
in the Italian troupes were Giuseppe Angeleri, who from 1704 to 1752
undertook the improvised parts in the comedies of Goldoni, and Atanasio
Zanoni of Ferrara, who was one of the best comedians of the eighteenth
century. “Zanoni received a very good education, but his taste for
declamation having urged him to embrace a theatrical career, he joined
the troupe of the famous Antonio Sacchi, whose sister he married. Zanoni
was unrivalled in the grace of his enunciation and the vivacity and wit
of his repartees. To the qualities natural to his state he added those
of a lofty character. On the 22nd February 1792, on his way home from a
splendid supper, he fell into a deep canal and died soon afterwards.” In
1787 a collection was published in Venice of the mordant, allegorical and
satirical Brigelleschi witticisms. We will cite some fragments.

“One should not say ‘a thief,’ but ‘an ingenious mathematician who finds
a thing before its owner has lost it.’ Appropriated objects are the
things which we inherit before the death of those who possess them. To
conduct a theft with propriety it is necessary to be assisted by three
devils: one who will teach you how to purloin adroitly, one who will
show you how to conceal effectively, and a third who will persuade you
never to make restitution. When I am compelled to _travel_—that is to
say, to decamp—I console widowed hens by adopting their chickens. I
deliver purses and watches from captivity. I am very talkative because
my father was dumb and he left behind him a capital of new words which
had never been used. For the rest, I am a bastard. Out of charity I was
once given a bowl of soup, but so extremely limpid that the beautiful
Narcissus might have seen himself mirrored in it more clearly than in his
fountain. My shirt is become a romance; it is full of knights-errant and
the washerwoman refuses to wash it for fear of poisoning the river. My
supper is the supper of Bertoldo: a plate of peas _ventosissimi_, with
some boiled hope, a ragout of desires and a piece of roast expectation.
My debts have transformed me into a star that is seen only at night.”

FENOCCHIO, a variant of the type of Brighella, made his appearance on
the Italian stage as early as 1560. Like Brighella, he finds employment
in amorous intrigues, and he acts in these not only on behalf of Celio,
Leandro or Zerbino, but also on his own. We behold him in a Venetian play
of the seventeenth century, written in dialogue upon an old scenario,
as the lover of Olivette, the servant of Pantaloon’s daughter Beatrice.
Harlequin, another lackey in the piece, is so naïve as to take him
into his confidence, never suspecting that Fenocchio is his rival.
From that moment Fenocchio swears to be avenged upon Harlequin, and
seeks for means to be rid of him. He begins by playing nasty tricks
upon him. Harlequin is bearing Olivette two birds alive in a basket;
Fenocchio takes possession of it, and replaces the birds by a cat. He
is present at the compliments by which Harlequin accompanies his gift
and those returned him by Olivette, who adores birds, and he is the
sniggering witness of her disappointment when she beholds a furious
tabby escaping from the basket, after having scratched her. The anger
of Olivette and the tears of Harlequin rejoice the heart of Fenocchio.
Harlequin, wondering who can have done him such an evil turn, suspects
his confidant. But Fenocchio swears by all that there is most sacred (in
which he does not compromise himself, seeing that he believes in nothing)
that he is incapable of a farce which could result in spilling the blood
of the beautiful Olivette.

By force of circumstances Harlequin is unable to continue to see
Olivette, whom Pantaloon keeps in duress with his daughter. He has
recourse to the expedients of Fenocchio. The latter takes advantage of
the situation to rid himself of his preferred rival.

“Pretend to be dead,” he advises him. “I shall put you in a coffin and
take you to Pantaloon the apothecary upon the pretext of getting him to
make your autopsy. During the night, when everyone is asleep, you can go
and seek Olivette.”

Credulous Harlequin consents. Fenocchio carries him to Pantaloon’s
house, and, after having related to the latter an unlikely story, which
Pantaloon readily believes, he withdraws, hoping that the apothecary
will deprive Harlequin perhaps of a leg or an arm. But Harlequin, being
alone with Pantaloon, who is admiring the beautiful body which has
been brought him for dissection, cannot resist the need to scratch
himself. This occasions some surprise to the apothecary, who has never
seen the like. Trembling, he seizes a scalpel, and is about to make a
large incision in Harlequin, when the latter leaps up in his alarm, and,
shouting for help, throws himself upon Pantaloon, who swoons in terror.

Harlequin goes to Fenocchio to discover a fresh expedient. Fenocchio
reproaches him with his lack of patience. “You should have let the
apothecary bleed you a little,” he says, “and thus you would have seen
Olivette. However I have found a better way: you shall disguise yourself
as a pig, and I shall take you to Pantaloon as a present from the doctor.”

Harlequin again consents. Fenocchio disguises him, and leads his pig to
Pantaloon, who admires this beautiful animal.

“It is a pity to kill it,” he says. Again Harlequin is taken with the
need to scratch himself, and he does this in a fashion so singular in a
pig that Pantaloon is surprised.

Fenocchio explains that this is a trained pig, and he makes Harlequin go
through several performances, such as that of walking upright, of taking
snuff from the apothecary’s box, and replying by signs to questions that
are addressed him.

Pantaloon exclaims: “What an admirable pig! What a rare animal! I shall
not have him killed until to-morrow morning,” and he causes Harlequin to
be shut up in a sty, whilst Fenocchio slips into the house in quest of
Olivette, certain that this time he is rid of his rival, and confident
that he will see him disembowelled on the morrow.

During the night Harlequin finds a way out of the place where he has been
imprisoned. Always in his bizarre disguise, he wanders forth in quest
of Olivette’s chamber. But he gets into the apothecary’s shop, where
Pantaloon sleeps on his camp bed. Whilst groping his way about, Harlequin
knocks over some vessels, which are broken in their fall.

PANTALOON (_waking with a start_). Nane! Nane! Drive out the
cats that have got into my shop!

HARLEQUIN (_aside_). He takes me for a cat, I am lost if he
recognises me. Oh, poor Harlequin! who could have foretold you
that to see Olivette it would be necessary for you to play the
pig? The worst of it is that I do not know where I am going.

He hurtles against a pile of bottles and breaks the lot. Pantaloon
laments: “There goes my oil of frogs! My balsam of oysters is all lost!
My electuary of sepia is broken, I am sure!” He gets up, lights his
candle and looks about him; meanwhile Harlequin has slipped under the
bed. Pantaloon, after having deplored the loss of his drugs, which he
admits, however, will not be difficult to replace, seeing that in reality
they consist of no more than earth and water, returns to bed and puts
out the light. Harlequin attempts to rise, and in doing so lifts up the
bed. Pantaloon rolls along the ground with him, gets up and strikes out
haphazard, shouting: “The pig! The pig is strangling me! Help!”

When Fenocchio finds that he has not succeeded in disembarrassing himself
of Harlequin by this means, he suggests to him a third expedient; this is
to procure a deal of money with which to bribe Pantaloon, who will then
allow him to see Olivette. He announces that he knows a way to get the
money. “The Doctor is a collector of curiosities. We will go and sell him
one.”

He dresses up Harlequin as a clock, with a dial in the middle of his
belly, and carries him off to the Doctor, who admires this beautiful and
very curious piece of horology.

“This,” says Fenocchio to the Doctor, “represents, as you see, a man, and
it tells the minutes, the hours, the days, the months, the years and the
centuries; also it can predict the past, and it can say Papa and Mamma,
and it chimes.”

So saying, Fenocchio takes up a hammer and shows the Doctor that all
that is necessary to make it chime is to strike the head of the figure.
But Harlequin ducks his head and threatens to discover everything if
he is touched. Fortunately the Doctor has not perceived this movement.
Fenocchio, who loves money better than vengeance, begins to haggle with
the Doctor. But at this point a servant enters with the Doctor’s soup.
Harlequin is unable to resist the temptation, and throws himself upon the
soup, which he swallows greedily. The Doctor turns round, and cries: “Ho!
ho! ho! A clock that eats! Help! murder! thieves!”

iii

Louis Riccoboni says, in speaking of the costume of BELTRAME:

“His dress is not extraordinary, and I think that it is proper
to his day, or perhaps a little earlier. He wears a mask which
is the same as that of Scapin.... Beltrame, who was a Milanese,
and who spoke the language of his country, wore also the
costume of it.”

His dress is that of a servant of the end of the sixteenth century.

This type, more modern than Brighella, had no other employments in the
_Gelosi_ troupe than that of an astute and cunning gossip; but, like
Mezzetin, and the French Sganarelle later on, he played all the husband
parts, pretending at times to believe the stories that were told him. In
the middle of the nineteenth century, at Bologna, this personage, which
by then had passed into the marionettes, still represented the burgher,
the merchant or the old Jew, and shared the parentage of Columbine with
old Tabarino.

Niccolo Barbieri was the first actor to render the French acquainted
with this shade of Brighella. Under the name of _Beltrame da Milano_, he
went with Flaminio Scala and Isabella Andreini to play in Paris before
Henri IV., in 1600. After the _Gelosi_ troupe was dispersed, Beltrame
returned to Italy, and joined the _Fedeli_ company. In 1613 he was back
again in Paris with this company under the management of G. B. Andreini.
He remained until 1618, returned yet again in 1623 and continued in the
French capital until 1625, when he himself became the head of the troupe,
and rendered himself famous in Italy and in France, not only as an actor
but also as a writer.

His work: “_La Supplica_: a tract for all men of merit who have not set
up as critics and who are not entirely foolish,” is no more than a piece
of pleading in favour of the comedians and the comedy of his day; it is,
however, extremely interesting for the anecdotes included in it, which
give an idea of the manners of the time.

“All the authors who have written against comedy” (he says)
“have not always been equipped with knowledge of this art.
The science of all things is to be found among all men, but
no single man has the gift of knowing everything. Sacred and
profane authors cannot judge us. Saint Bonaventura draws such a
picture of comedians, that if you were to believe him you must
consider us all damned. Let me relate a little anecdote which
proceeds directly out of what I am saying.

“When I left Vercelli, my birthplace, in the year 1596, I
joined a mountebank known by the surname of Monteferrin.
We visited Aosta (anciently Augusta), a city of Savoy, and
Monteferrin begged the chief magistrate’s permission to set up
his trestles there. But, as this perhaps was not the custom in
that city, the magistrate, not knowing what to decide, went to
seek counsel of his spiritual superior, who plainly refused
this permission, saying that he did not desire the admission of
magicians into that country. The stupefied Monteferrin replied
that, being unable so much as to read, it was impossible for
him to work magic. The superior bade him be silent: ‘I know
all about that,’ he said. ‘I have seen in Italy charlatans who
took a ball in one hand and caused it to pass into the other,
or who threw a leaden bullet into one eye, and caused it to
come out of the other; who swallowed burning tow, ejecting the
fire from their mouths in a thousand sparks; who pierced their
arms with a knife and were instantly cured of the wound; and
all that by magic and other works of the devil.’ Thereupon the
superior dismissed Monteferrin without waiting for his reply,
and threatening him with imprisonment.

“This superior was a theologian, but he knew nothing of human
adroitness, and in that he greatly resembled those blessed
saints who have spoken so ardently against the art of comedy,
having never witnessed more than some stray farce or some
obscene nonsense performed by the marionettes of mountebanks
and charlatans.

“Many ignorant folk, who do not know the etymology of the
word _istrio_, nor its derivation, believe that by _istrioni_
(histrions) _stregoni_ (warlocks) is meant, magicians and men
abandoned to the devil; and it is as a result of this that
in some parts of Italy the ignorant people hold the belief
that comedians can command rain or summon a tempest at their
will. As a matter of fact they are very poor enchanters and
magicians, and very hungry ones, who have a deal of trouble to
command a little money to rain upon them so that they may live;
besides, if they had the power to summon rain they would be
careful not to exercise it, for when it rains no one comes to
their performances.”

To prove that comedy is not a vile and contemptible art, Beltrame cites
a large number of comedians who were honoured and held in high esteem,
mentioning among actors of antiquity Roscius, the friend of Cicero,
Aliturus and Æsop, and among actors of his own day Isabella Andreini,
Pietro-Maria Cecchini (_Fritellino_), Giovanni-Battista Andreini
(_Lelio_), Cintio Fidenzi, Maria Malloni (_Celia_), Nicolò Zeccha
(_Bertolino_), and himself. “Myself,” he says, “the least of all these,
I was appointed by King Louis the Just—a very good and very Christian
monarch—a soldier in his guard of honour, and I was jealous to show
myself worthy of that honour, as my captain, the illustrious Duc de la
Valette, will bear witness. The eminent Cardinal Ubaldini can also tell
how much His Very Christian Majesty was disposed to overwhelm me with
favours. I will not mention the princes, princesses, kings, queens and
emperors who have held the children of comedians at the baptismal font
and have called their parents gossip, both in speaking and in writing to
them, nor how, upon occasion, they have made them participate in their
fêtes, drive with them in their court carriages, gratified them with
presents from their own hands, regaled them with sumptuous banquets, and
invited them to participate in their amusements. Many princes and great
lords have played in comedies before their relatives and friends, and
have been eager to interpret in the best possible manner the characters
entrusted to them, and this entirely for their amusement. Are they on
that account to be deemed infamous and contemptible? No. Therefore, it
follows that comedy is not vile.

“How many princes, kings and emperors have played in public in their
own theatres? In my own day I have seen the Dukes of Mantua, Francesco,
Fernando and Vincenzo performing with our comedians, as well as the
Prince of Urbino and so many others whom I do not mention. If the great
lord may tread the stage for his amusement without derogating from his
nobility, why should honest folk be lost in reputation if they do the
same for their livelihood? Since the nobles are not ashamed of performing
in comedy, the art cannot be contemptible.

“I compare the efforts made to condemn comedy and comedians to those
butterfly hunts engaged in by children, who run furiously through fields,
heedlessly crushing plants and flowers under their feet, coming and
going and striking the air with their arms, holding the very wind in
their hands, and perspiring even unto blood. In their despair we see
them sometimes throwing stones or their hats into the air, and then
precipitating themselves upon their prey, without recking how they
tear their garments or perhaps even break a limb. And all this to what
purpose? To seize a thing which, living, is of little use and dead of
none. In short, the efforts of our denouncers resemble the prowesses of
Don Quixote of La Mancha.

[Illustration]

“Comedians study printed _libretti_ with the permission of their
superiors; it is true that they themselves invent a deal, but this
without departing from the subject. The authors of subjects or scenarii
seek the most likely stories and arrange them according to the rules of
humour, just as the dramatic authors arrange their subjects according to
the rules of poetry. Thereafter the actors undergo the necessary degree
of study so as to interpret as aptly as possible the characters which
they are to represent. Lovers and women study history, fable, rhymes and
prose so that they may exploit the wealth of the language. Those whose
aim it is to excite laughter ransack their brains to discover new jests,
not out of any desire to sin or to lead others into sin, not to extol
vice or error with obscene words, but that they may provoke laughter by
the employment of equivocal and bizarre inventions in the exploitation
of the characters entrusted to them. The Captain excites hilarity by his
hyperbolic extravagances; Doctor Graziano does the same by his garbled
quotations; the first lackey by his intrigues, his astuteness and his
lively rejoinders; the second lackey by his stupidity; Harlequin by his
tumblings; the Covielli by their grimaces and their macaronic language;
the old men by their ponderous manners and their old-fashioned idioms.

“I have read that in the time of the Emperor Marcus Aurelius a certain
Fulvius, pronounced lost by the doctors in consequence of an abscess in
the breast, determined in his despair to go and get himself killed in
war. In battle he received a lance-thrust exactly in the middle of his
abscess, and this wound cured him immediately of his alleged incurable
ill. The very contrary happened to the consul Cneus Ruffinus, an old
warrior, who died in consequence of a comb’s tooth penetrating his head
whilst he was combing himself. Are we to argue from these events that
he who wishes to be well should go to war, and that none should ever
comb himself under pain of death? I have seen sick men despaired of by
their doctors, drink wine and recover health. Shall we therefore give
wine to all sick men that they may be cured? A cripple who could never
walk without crutches, slipped and fell; a passing vehicle ran over his
legs at that moment and broke them both, as a consequence he was so
thoroughly cured that thereafter he could walk without crutches. Is it
therefore necessary that he who is crippled or lame should go and throw
himself under vehicles so as to recover? It is very possible that some
undesirable events may have taken place in the theatre. But is that a
reason why one should not visit them? Two or three trees do not make a
forest, and a man may die as becomingly in the theatre as elsewhere.

“In Italy the customs of one town are very different from those of
another. In Naples a woman will call a man familiarly ‘my treasure’ or
‘my handsome fellow’ and other similar names, whilst in Lombardy such
terms are not uttered save between lovers, or else are employed only
by courtesans. To kiss a married woman in Naples is an insult to be
washed out in blood, whilst in Piedmont it is considered a very trivial
matter, and is deemed between acquaintances a proof of friendship or
a mark of reverence. In some countries it is customary for women to
salute strangers in this fashion; in others it were an impoliteness. In
certain parts of the Marches the women seem almost hostile to the male
sex, and they envelop themselves in their garments almost to the point
of concealing their countenances. In Venice young girls are dressed
entirely in white and widows entirely in black, and in such a fashion as
not to allow one to see their faces, which are beautiful, for there the
handsomest women are to be found. In other countries it is fashionable
for ladies to display the throat and part of the breast, whilst in others
again they are covered to the neck; and yet all alike are honourable
women. A fisherman will go half naked through the streets, as will also
a wool-worker. What in some would be licentious is rendered by custom
perfectly becoming in others. To see the naked feet and a little of the
leg of a beautiful lady seems to be a great affair, whilst washerwomen
and poor peasant girls display naked feet and legs without exciting the
least comment. Nevertheless a woman’s honour is everywhere the same. Why
should the one give scandal and not the other? Custom is answerable. Thus
is it with women who play in comedy; we know that the love speeches which
they utter are no more than fictions, which cannot be held to corrupt the
soul, since in uttering them an actress but conforms with the custom of
her art.”

“Here come the coaches of Ferrara and Bologna! This way, sirs! This
way, illustrious gentlemen! Where are the baggages? I will take charge
of everything. Will your Excellencies lodge at the _Three Moors_, at
the _Golden Shield_, at the _Royal Hostelry_, at the _Pelican_, or
elsewhere? I will conduct you where you will. I am a faithful and
dependable man. Shall I carry your saddle bags? Mind that pool of water!
This way, my lords! Ficchueto! Fenocchio! Come and fetch the trunks,
portmantles, baggages, cloaks, swords and all the effects (_tutta la
roba_) of these gentlemen! Do you require a pleasant agreeable valet
who understands all things, or perhaps a _cicerone_? Here I am, my
masters! My services are at your disposal. I ask nothing but the honour
of being your servant, and you shall pay me what you please. Will your
Excellencies dine forthwith? Or perhaps you would prefer to whet the
appetite before supper? Here, sir host! Put all your dishes in the oven,
I am bringing you travellers of quality!” (_And in a whisper_:) “I am
to have half your profits or I shall proclaim your inn the hovel of a
poisoner.”

Thus SCAPINO.

Sometimes travellers will have none of him, telling him that they are not
making a stay, and giving him perhaps a few coppers to be rid of him and
his speeches. In such case he will set down the baggages and cloaks in
the middle of a brook, and walk off shrugging his shoulders in contempt
and pity.

“What misers! (_Che cacastechi!_) What needy fellows! (_Che bisognosi!_)”

Nevertheless Scapino is less of a rascal than his father Brighella. Where
Brighella would freely ply his dagger, Scapino will but ply hands and
feet, and more often still no more than his legs, for he is a thorough
coward, and he will not give the lie to the etymology of his name
Scappino, which is derived from _scappare_, to escape.

Always a valet, he frequently changes his master; he is an intriguer,
a wit, a garrulous fellow and a fluent liar. He bears a very evil
reputation. He is a humbug (_un imbroglione_), a beggar and more or less
of a thief, but greatly in favour with soubrettes. These young ladies
find it impossible to amuse themselves without him. Scapin is a character
that has been treated in a masterly manner by the hand of Molière. His
name is the French equivalent of Brighella. They are one and the same
personage, wearing the same costume and endowed with the same natures.
In France Brighella lost his original name and modified his costume in
the early part of the seventeenth century. Fundamentally, however, he
remained unchanged in all but the label.

Caillot, in his _Petits Danseurs_, represents the Italian Scapino of his
day, dressed like Fritellino, in ample garments with mask and beard,
plumed hat, cloak and wooden sword. It was in such raiment that Dionis of
Milan, the director of a troupe, played the parts of lackey in 1630.

But, upon being introduced to the French stage by Molière and Regnard,
Scapin’s costume became mixed with that of Beltrame, Turlupin and
Jodelet. He discarded the mask, assumed garments striped green and white,
his traditional colours, and became Gros-René, with powdered face,
Mascarille, La Violette, Sganarelle, etc.

Molière, upon being reproached with the follies of Scapin, replied: “I
saw the public quit _Le Misanthrope_ for Scaramouche; I entrusted Scapin
with the task of bringing them back again.”

The Italian Scapino, who appeared on the Italian stage in Paris in
1716, resumed the costume of Brighella, slightly modernised, and he
perpetuated the rôles created by the ancient Briguelle and by Mezzetin.

Giovanni Bissoni played these parts in the troupe of 1716. Born in
Bologna, he became an actor at the age of fifteen. He was engaged as a
clown in a small troupe under the management of a certain Girolamo, a
charlatan who sold his unguents by the aid of his farces, in 1681. After
a short while Bissoni found himself as wise as his master. He became
first his partner and afterwards his competitor. He set out to sell his
unguents in Milan; but, finding himself forestalled there by another, and
being in danger of starving, he bethought him of a stratagem which was
successful.

He set up his trestles in an open place near that in which his rival was
operating. He boasted with emphasis the efficacy of his drugs. “But why
should I boast of them?” he asked the crowd. “You know all my remedies;
they are the same as those of the operator, my neighbour here, for I am
his son.”

Thereupon he proceeded to invent a very likely story. He related that
this rigorous parent had cursed him, on account of certain youthful
follies, had driven him from home and refused to recognise him. This
speech was reported to the other operator. Bissoni, profiting by the
emotion of the crowd, went with a penitent air and a countenance bathed
in tears, to throw himself on his knees before his pretended father and
to implore pardon for his faults. The other maintained the fictitious
character imposed on him far beyond all hopes that Bissoni could have
entertained: he called him fool and rogue, and protested that, far from
being his father, he did not even know him. The higher rose the anger of
that operator against the swindle perpetrated by Bissoni, the more did
the people become concerned in the fate of this poor youngster, until in
the end they were so deeply moved that they not only purchased all his
drugs, but made him presents in addition.

Bissoni, satisfied with his success, and fearing lest the truth should
come to light, hastened to depart from Milan. Soon afterwards he
abandoned the trade of charlatan and joined an itinerant troupe in
which he played the parts of Scapin. Later he entered the service of M.
Albergotti, as _maître d’hôtel_, travelled in France with him, and then
returned to Italy. It was there that Riccoboni found him when he was
assembling the company for the Regent of France, and he engaged him for
the Comédie-Italienne to play _Zanni_ parts. His talent was mediocre but
he continued in this employment until his death, in May of 1723, at the
early age of forty-five. He bequeathed all of which he died possessed to
Riccoboni, who had frequently rendered him good service.

On the 2nd September 1739 Alessandro Ciavarelli, born in Naples, made his
début at the Comédie-Italienne in the part of Scapino.

“Ciavarelli met tant de grâces
Quand il représente Scapin,
Qu’à ses lazzi, à ses grimaces,
On le prendrait pour Arlequin.”

In 1769, Camerani, a very mediocre actor, enjoyed nevertheless a sort of
celebrity for his singular capers, and his gluttony, which was the cause
of his death. He succumbed to an indigestion of _pâté de foie gras_.

The principal authors had entered into an agreement to obtain from the
Théâtre-Italien an increased remuneration for their rights. Camerani
pronounced himself against them at the meeting held by the actors,
delivering himself on that occasion of the following witticism:—“Sirs,
take care. I have already been telling you for some time that as long as
there are authors comedy will never thrive.”

Giovanni Gherardi, of Prato in Tuscany, went to Paris in 1675 to replace,
under the name of FLAUTINO, the Brighella of the Italian troupe. He made
his début in _Arlecchino Pastore di Lemnos_.

Giovanni Gherardi was a good actor; he was extremely comical, he played
the guitar perfectly and imitated various wind instruments with his
throat. He was in himself a whole orchestra.

He remained a very short time in the theatre. His depraved morals led
him into trouble. He was imprisoned and upon his liberation immediately
quitted France. He left one son, Evaristo Gherardi, the famous Harlequin.

GRADELINO is another variant of the type of Brighella. It was under this
name, already known in Italy, that Constantino Constantini went to play
in Paris in 1687.

Constantino Constantini was a member of a good family of Verona; he had
set up a factory and was a discoverer of several chemical secrets for
the dyeing of cloth. Having fallen in love with a comedienne, not only
did he quit his country and his business to follow her, but further
induced his legitimate wife and children to accompany him. Thus in
the wake of that actress he wandered through Italy under the name of
Gradelino, accompanied by his two sons, Angelo Constantini (_Mezzetin_)
and Gian-Battista Constantini (_Ottavia_). When his mistress died,
Constantini went to Paris to display there his accomplishments, which
were very real, and had already earned him the greatest success in Italy.
He conceived the unfortunate notion to sing on the Parisian stage a song
composed in Italy against the French. He was so thoroughly booed and
hooted, notwithstanding his talent, that he never dared to show himself
again.

vii

The earliest MEZZETINI date from the end of the sixteenth century, and
had their birth in the _Gelosi_ company. They then wore white linen
garments, a mask, a hat, a cloak and the wooden sabre of the ancient
_Zanni_. Thus they are depicted by Caillot. They were then no more
than simple variants of Scapino and Brighella; their costume was the
same, their name only was different. But when, at the beginning of the
seventeenth century, the rôles of _Zanni_ assumed a greater importance,
the actors who played them adapted their costumes to the tastes of their
day, both when they preserved the original type intact and when they
modified it.

Angelo Constantini was the first to dress the character of Mezzetin in
the striped red and white garments which became characteristic of him.
He had been received into the old troupe in 1682 to double Domenico
Biancolelli in the rôle of Harlequin; perceiving that the troupe had no
second _Zanni_, no Brighella, he took up that character, and borrowed
from the Italian and French buffoons, his predecessors, this striped
costume traditional of the _Sannionnes_ of antiquity. He discarded the
mask which had been worn by Brighella, Beltrame, Scapin and all the
earlier _Zanni_, both Italian and French. We know that Molière himself
long played lackey parts under a mask. Constantini fashioned the cut of
his garments after the mode of his day, whilst preserving the striped
fabric.

After the death of Domenico, Mezzetin wore the lozenges of Harlequin and
played the same rôles until the arrival of Evaristo Gherardi. Mezzetin
then resumed his livery and his character of shrewd lackey, acting
sometimes on his own account, playing the parts of deceived or deceiving
husbands such as Sganarelle, sometimes appearing as the servant of
Ottavio or of Cinthio.

Angelo Constantini, the son of Constantino Constantini, after spending
his youth playing in Italy, went to Paris in 1682, and made his first
appearance there in _Arlequin Protée_, in the rôle of Glaucus-Mezzetin,
whilst Domenico played Protée-Arlequin.

When it fell to his lot to replace Domenico, Constantini received from
the hands of Columbine, in a scene prepared _ad hoc_, the garments
and the mask of Harlequin. He retained this rôle for a very long
time, but he always played it under his own name of Mezzetin. As his
countenance, despite its great swarthiness, was comely and mobile, and
as he was beloved of the public, the entire audience rose, and, by way
of manifesting its esteem for him, shouted: “No mask! No mask!” As a
consequence Constantini performed without mask until Evaristo Gherardi
came to make his début as Harlequin, and to appropriate the character on
his first appearance. Constantini then returned to his rôles of Mezzetin
and continued in them until the theatre was closed in 1697.

The brothers Parfait tell the following story of Constantini:—“It is
worth while to relate a thing that happened to him at the house of M.
le Duc de Saint-Agnan. He had dedicated a play to this nobleman, who
was in the habit of paying generously for such dedications; with the
object of receiving the recompense he hoped for, he presented himself
one morning at the duke’s house; but the porter, suspecting the object
of his visit, refused to allow him to enter. Mezzetin, to overcome this
refusal, offered him a third of such recompense as he might receive
from his master, and out of consideration for this promise was allowed
to pass. On the stairs he met the head lackey, who proved no less
intractable than the porter. Mezzetin promised him another third, and
was thus introduced into the ducal apartments. There he found the duke’s
valet, who showed himself still more inflexible than the other two, and
was with difficulty overcome by a promise of the last remaining third. In
this fashion nothing was left for poor Mezzetin who, upon beholding the
duke, ran to him and cried: ‘My lord! here is a theatrical piece which
I take the liberty of presenting to you, and for which I beg that you
will compensate me by ordering that I be given a hundred lashes.’ This
extraordinary request amazed the duke, who demanded to know the reason
of it. ‘It is, my lord,’ said Mezzetin, ‘that to contrive to reach your
presence I have been compelled to promise to your porter, to your lackey
and to your valet each one third of whatever you may have the goodness to
give me.’ The duke severely reprimanded his servants, and sent a hundred
louis to the wife of Mezzetin, who had entered into no promises.”

The Mezzetin of the plays of Gherardi, although generally softened in his
ways, is often the real Brighella of other days, with all his villainy.

MEZZETIN (_to ISABELLE_). Come now, my beauty, tell the truth.
Is it not true that you would very willingly become my better
half? Look now, consider me—my air, my carriage! Eh? I grow
angry when I observe these little embryos attempting to enter
into competition with me.

ISABELLE. They must indeed have lost their wits. They are very
amusing marionettes.

MEZZETIN. No matter for that. Let us speak of the happiness in
store for us.

ISABELLE. These are calculations in which we are sometimes
mistaken, and it is not often that we find in marriage all the
happiness that we had expected.

MEZZETIN. I am gentle, peaceful, easy to live with, my humour
is silk and velvet. I lived six years with my first wife
without ever having the slightest dispute.

ISABELLE. That is very extraordinary.

MEZZETIN. I quarrelled with her only once. I had taken snuff
and I wanted to sneeze; she caused me to miss my stroke. In my
anger I took up a candlestick and broke her head. She died a
quarter of an hour afterwards.

ISABELLE. Heavens! Is it possible?

MEZZETIN. That was the only difference we ever had, and it
didn’t last very long as you can see. If a woman is to die it
is better that she should die at the hands of her husband than
at those of a doctor, who charges heavy fees, and who may keep
her languishing perhaps for six months or a year. I cannot bear
to see people languishing.

ISABELLE. And can you think without horror of having committed
as black a crime as that?

MEZZETIN. I? Not at all. I am used to blood from my youth. My
father had a thousand affairs in his life, and he invariably
killed his man. He served the king for thirty-two years.

ISABELLE. On land or sea?

MEZZETIN. In the air.

ISABELLE. How in the air? I never heard of such employment.

MEZZETIN. It is that as he was of an extremely charitable
disposition, and whenever he happened to meet a doomed man on
his way to the gallows, he would get into the cart with him and
assist him to die in the best possible manner.

ISABELLE. Oh! Horror!

MEZZETIN. If you had but seen him at work you would have been
inclined to get yourself hanged.

ISABELLE. As these are perhaps family talents, you should have
taken up your father’s office.

MEZZETIN. I inclined considerably towards it; but, as you know,
it is necessary that a gentleman should travel.

ISABELLE. I perceive only one slight difficulty to our
marriage; it is that I am married already.

MEZZETIN. Married? Pooh! What of that? Shall that embarrass
you? I am also married, but there is nothing easier than to be
widowed; twopennyworth of rat-poison will do the business.

In other scenes of the same repertory, Mezzetin shines only in his
clownishness and cowardice.

ISABELLE (_as an inn servant, receiving MEZZETIN dressed
as a traveller and followed by HARLEQUIN, his lackey_).
Good-morning, gentlemen, what do you lack?

HARLEQUIN. Come along, my girl; a chamber, a fire and the best
food. I always put up willingly at a house where the wine is
good and the waiting-woman pretty.

ISABELLE. Sirs, you shall have all that you seek, nothing is
wanting here.

MEZZETIN (_presenting his booted leg to ISABELLE_). Now then,
my girl, off with my boots.

ISABELLE. Draw off your boots! Indeed, sir, that is not my
business.

MEZZETIN. Are you not also the ostler?

HARLEQUIN (_to MEZZETIN_). Now that seems a resolute girl. But
I think that she is ogling you a little.

MEZZETIN. The little rogue is pretty, faith. Come here, my
girl; are you married?

ISABELLE. No, sir, thank God. I have not that honour; it is not
a good year for girls. All the young men are at the war.

MEZZETIN (_becoming mincing_). If you would but repose me a
little from my warlike exploits? I have money.

ISABELLE. Good! I am very fortunate, I have never been tempted
by money. I prefer a man whom I like to all the treasures of
the world, and if you want me to speak frankly, I like your
valet better than yourself. (_She strikes HARLEQUIN in the
stomach with all her strength._)

HARLEQUIN. Ouf! Faith, the rogue has good taste. Come, sir,
withdraw. This is not meat for your birds. (_Pushing MEZZETIN
away._)

MEZZETIN (_approaching her_). The little rogue does not
appreciate my merit.

ISABELLE. I beg you, sir, again to be quiet. I do not like to
be mauled. If you wish to put up at the inn the door is open.
Otherwise—your very humble servant.

(_She attempts to enter the inn, MEZZETIN arrests her, seizing
one of her arms; CINTHIO, who has seen this, comes out of the
inn and rudely thrusts MEZZETIN aside._)

CINTHIO. By virtue of what, sir, if you please, do you permit
yourself liberties with this girl?

MEZZETIN. By virtue of what? By virtue of my good pleasure.

CINTHIO. Your pleasure! Listen to me, my ugly little fellow.
Don’t warm my ears for me because I might find _my_ pleasure in
something that would not please _you_.

MEZZETIN. Sir, that is not the way to address a Parisian
gentleman who returns from Flanders.

CINTHIO. You from Flanders?

HARLEQUIN (_who has been hiding round the corner out of fear,
approaching_). May the devil take us if we are not!

MEZZETIN (_standing squarely_). Oh no, we were not there when
our general issued his summons to the enemies; they did not
appear on the last day of July to plead on the battlefield. The
case was called and it lasted for eight hours, but by virtue of
good pieces of cannon which we carried we very quickly routed
the enemy. They attempted two or three times to appeal, but
they were always dislodged from their opposition and condemned
to pay expenses, damages, interests and costs. Ah! _and_ costs!
Well then, were we there? Oh no! I am but jesting!

CINTHIO. As far as I can see, sir, you have observed the battle
in some lawyer’s office. But I recommend you to go your ways
and not to look behind you.

MEZZETIN. Sir, have a care what you do. Should you insult
me.... (_He draws his sword, CINTHIO carries his hand to his
own hilt._)

CINTHIO. Well?

MEZZETIN (_hiding behind HARLEQUIN_). You will have to deal
with my lackey.

HARLEQUIN (_running off_). I am not obliged to get myself
killed in your place.

CINTHIO. Begone! I don’t deign to answer you. But if you come
ogling this girl again I’ll beat you to death. (_He flicks
MEZZETIN’S nose with his gloves and departs._)

MEZZETIN (_after CINTHIO has gone_). But he is going for all
that! (_To HARLEQUIN._) Heh! What do you think of it? I nailed
him all right, didn’t I?

Sometimes Mezzetin would sing in parodies, accompanying himself on the
guitar. Watteau painted him playing this instrument amid the various
actors of the Comédie-Italienne: Isabelle, Ottavio, Columbine, and the
rest.

He also sang and danced in allegorical costumes in the ballets which
concluded most of the plays, or, after having played the rôle of the
servant of Ottavio throughout the piece, he would disappear in the last
act to go and make up as an American Indian.

After the suppression of the theatre and the company in 1697, Constantini
set out for Germany to seek employment. He had found an engagement
in a company at Brunswick, when Augustus I., King of Poland, who had
heard of him, made him a proposal. Constantini accepted it, and found
himself charged by this prince with the formation of a company which
was alternately to play Italian comedy and sing Italian opera. He went
to France in 1698 to recruit his company, and discharged his mission so
well that in the following year Augustus I. named him chamberlain and
treasurer of his entertainments, and ennobled him.

Such brilliant fortune, however, could not endure. The daring and
enterprising Mezzetin fell in love with the king’s mistress, and declared
himself. Nor did he stop there; he set himself to depreciate the king
in the spirit of this lady. The lady, it is said, was indignant at the
insolence of the comedian. The king was informed of what had passed and
concealed himself in the lady’s chamber, where an assignation had been
given to Constantini. What happened no one knows beyond the fact that
Augustus came forth in a fury, sword in hand, threatening the comedian’s
death. “But probably he felt that it was not fitting that he should soil
his hands in the blood of a man who had betrayed him so unworthily.” He
ordered his arrest, and had him imprisoned in the castle of Königstein.

Mezzetin remained for twenty years in this fortress. At last another lady
of the court, who then enjoyed some influence over the heart of Augustus,
induced the King of Poland to visit his fortress-prison of state. There
she summoned Constantini, who appeared “with a beard which he had allowed
to grow ever since his arrest.” He flung himself at the king’s feet, but
notwithstanding that the lady added her supplications to the actor’s,
Augustus remained inexorable and refused the solicited mercy. This lady,
however, continued her efforts with such good result that a few months
later Constantini was restored to liberty. “All his property was restored
to him, but he was commanded to quit Dresden and the state of Saxony.”

Mezzetin set out for Verona, but he remained there only a little while.
Anxious to revisit Paris and to return to the stage where so long he had
played with success, he joined the new company of the Regent, and was
received into it with joy and surprise. He made arrangements with his old
comrades to perform in five or six pieces for the payment of a thousand
crowns, and he reappeared on the stage on the 5th February 1729.

In the _Mercure de France_ for the month of February 1729 you may read:

“The Sieur Angelo Constantini, a native of Verona, known
heretofore by the name of Mezzetin, a comedian of the old Hôtel
de Bourgogne, played in the same theatre, and made his début
in the rôles which he had erstwhile performed in the comedy
entitled _La Foire Saint-Germain_, originally presented in 1695.

“This piece was preceded by a prologue by the Sieur Lelio, the
son, of which the following is the subject:—

“Momus and Harlequin first make their appearance. Momus
complains that his place should so long have been abandoned.
He inquires of Harlequin the cause, and Harlequin imputes it
to the extreme love of the French for novelty. Momus promises
to remedy this difficulty by a novelty which shall surpass all
others. By his orders a venerable old man comes forward; he
explains that this is the Mezzetin of the old Italian theatre.
At a further order from the god who introduces him, and who
takes him under his protection, he casts aside his old man’s
robe, and appears in the garb of Mezzetin. Momus recites a
fable on the subject of old age. This fable does not at first
seem favourable to an old man of seventy-five, but Momus
consoles him with a tap from his bauble, thereby shedding upon
this beloved disciple a pleasant folly which is to take the
place of youth.”

Mezzetin then relates a dream which he has just had. He dreamed himself,
he says, in Paris, on the Italian stage; he beheld a guitar issuing from
the boards and he was singing again notwithstanding his great age. Whilst
he is relating this a guitar is, in fact, thrust upwards. He takes it,
tunes it and sings to his own accompaniment, addressing the groundlings:

“Mezzetin, par d’heureux talens,
Voudroit vous satisfaire;
Quoiqu’il soit dupuis très long-temps
Presque sexagénaire;
Il rajeunira de trente ans
S’il peut encor vous plaire.”

There was such a concourse of spectators that, notwithstanding that the
prices of admission had been doubled, as many people had to be turned
away as it was found possible to admit.

He gave five performances, and a few days later set out for Verona,
leaving in Paris “more creditors than reputation,” according to one of
his detractors. He died in Italy at the end of that same year, 1729.

Angelo Constantini had married in Italy Auretta, the daughter of Dorsi
and of the famous actress Angiola. Auretta was seen in Paris at the
Italian theatre of the Hôtel de Bourgogne; but she was not a success. Her
talents and appearance were only mediocre. Thence she went to Germany. Of
this marriage were born a daughter who became a nun at Chaumont, and a
son named Gabriele Constantini who played Harlequin in Italy.

viii

NARCISINO is a native of the town of Malalbergo, between Bologna and
Ferrara. The Bolognese, having already in the Doctor a character which
spoke the dialect of the educated classes, the actor Ricconi created,
towards the middle of the seventeenth century, another personage speaking
that of the lower orders—a dialect which is almost a different language
from that which is spoken still to-day. This character was, in the
seventeenth century, sometimes a stupid servant, sometimes a master;
further he would very often play the rôles of fathers and of guardians
usually imbecile, stupid, and as obstinate and malicious as possible. He
shared these duties with Tabarino and Fitoncello, rôles which, like those
of Beltrame and Sganarelle, served two purposes, and were created—or
rather reconstructed—by the actor Bigher, in Bologna.

Narcisino was still held in great esteem and enjoyed a great vogue in
Bologna at the beginning of the nineteenth century. His part was then a
singular one. He scarcely appeared at all in the course of the actual
plays, coming upon the stage merely to utter or perform some buffoonery
which had no connection with the scenic action.

Wearing a straw hat, his hair long like that of the peasants, dressed in
extremely wide coat and breeches, in red and green stripes, sometimes
with a cloak on his arm or a basket of fruit in his hand, he would
come during the entr’acte to perform an interlude and to chat with the
audience, criticising the manners of his day, and relating amusing
adventures of the suburbs and the country. He was a sort of Pasquino or
Bruscambille. He was accorded the right to say anything he chose, but he
was obliged to confine himself to generalisations, avoiding personalities
that were too pointed.

“Sirs! It must be confessed, and you will confess it with me I
am sure, that falsehood is a curious thing. Should there be any
liars in the theatre I beg them to have the goodness to depart
so that they may not hear what I am going to say.” (_He pauses
a moment._) “Well, then! Does no one depart? I see, sirs,
that we are all men of sincerity. I may tell you then between
men.... Ah! but I perceive some women yonder! All sincere and
frank ladies are entreated to remain; those who are addicted to
falsehood may return home to see whether the wine is turning
sour in their cellars.” (_A pause._) “Not a lady departs. Well
done, ladies! I see that I have round me nothing but frankness
and loyalty.” (_He goes to one side of the stage, stoops, and,
with his hand to his mouth, as if he were speaking secretly in
the ear of each_:) “I don’t believe it for a moment, but they
wish to be taken for something that they are not! Now, since
frankness and truth reign here, I will tell you in confidence
that women must imagine men to be far more stupid than they
are, to relate to them a heap of inventions which they have the
air of believing and of accepting as current coin until one day
when, weary of this tissue of diabolic invention, they dismiss
the lies together with the women who utter them.

“I ask you now, ladies (yes, it is to you in particular that
I address myself), is it not true that when you don’t even
so much as stir your tongues you still indulge in falsehood
by means of your raiment? I ask you whether it is not the
greatest falsehood that a woman could invent to lead us to
believe in the existence of that which she does not possess.
I see it every day. The thinnest women parade themselves in
petticoats of the rotundity of the cupola of Saint-Mark in
Venice. The streets of Bologna are now too narrow, for our
ladies are compelled to go afoot—there are no carriages capable
of containing them. I ask you what is the result of all this?
Under these mendacious cruppers what is there? Nothing!”

In another interlude he says: “Sirs, let all misers depart
quickly, lest they might employ their ears in listening to me!
Since no one budges I may speak freely. How foolish are those
people who spend some forty years of their lives in piling
farthing upon farthing to make halfpence, and halfpence upon
halfpence to make livres, and livres upon livres to make louis!
By the time that they have amassed sufficient for enjoyment
they can no longer make use of their fortune; old age has
exhausted them. Let the exhausted ones depart, I am going
to address young people in the prime of life. Oh, you young
fools, who think but of eating, drinking and making love! Is
that the aim of existence? I pause, sirs; we are in the theatre
and not at a sermon.” And, with a pirouette like that of
Stenterello, he disappears.

There are several French characters derived from the type of Scapino,
among which the principal ones are Turlupin, Gandolin, Grattelard and
Jodelet.

TURLUPIN (unlucky, unfortunate) was created at the end of the sixteenth
century at the Hôtel de Bourgogne, by Henri Legrand. He played the
rôle for more than fifty years in a costume greatly resembling that of
Brighella in point of shape, and somewhat derived from that of Harlequin
in point of colour.

Turlupin was of great fecundity in quips, puns, cock-and-bull tales and
gibberish, and in that style of jests which derived from him the name of
_turlupinades_. Like most of the French comedians of his day he helped
himself to what he found available; but the most prolific source was
undoubtedly Rabelais.[3]

“He was an excellent comedian,” says Sauval; “his sallies were full of
wit, fire and judgment; in a word, he was short of nothing but a little
naïveté; and notwithstanding this, everyone confesses never to have
seen his like. Although florid he was a handsome well-made man, with a
pleasing countenance. He was astute, witty and amusing in conversation.”
He entered the theatre in 1583 and spent his life there, quitting it only
for the grave which was accorded him in the church of Saint-Sauveur in
1637.

In the French troupe at the Hôtel de Bourgogne, “Gros-Guillaume,” says
Tallemant, “was _le fariné_, Gaultier the old man, and Turlupin the
rogue. The latter also played the part of _Zanni_, who was regarded as
the facetious one of the company, and in that character he wore a costume
similar to that of Brighella, with the little cloak and pantaloon.”

Turlupin was a man of well-ordered life, a husband who would not suffer
his wife to enter the theatre, and who lived after the fashion of a
bourgeois. He devoted long hours to learning his rôles. “He studied his
trade assiduously, and it would happen sometimes that when a man of
quality who esteemed him invited him to dinner he would answer that he
must study.”

Louis Legrand, his son, upheld the celebrity of his father. He made his
début, under the same name of Turlupin, in December, 1620, and lived
until 1655.

GRATTELARD (1620), a French buffoon of the tabarinic farces, surnamed by
derision the Baron Grattelard, is another type of cunning lackey. His
costume is very similar to that of Trivelino. Like Trivelino he wears a
doublet and pantaloon in the Italian fashion, very wide and embroidered
with deep-coloured triangular designs upon a pale ground. He wears
also the half mask, the chin-piece and the skull cap, the wide pleated
collar, the lath and the light coloured shoes, a cap like Brighella’s but
no cloak. Above a portrait of this character lately discovered in the
Bibliothèque des Estampes the following distich is to be read:—

“Ma mime n’est belle ny bonne,
Et je vous jure sur ma foy
Qu’on peut bien se fier à moy,
Car je ne me fie à personne.”

The same engraving presents two other characters of the same
epoch—_Jasmin_ (a sort of Crispin) and _Jean Broche_ or _Boche_, who is
somewhat related to the Italian Doctors.

Already before Grattelard, other French buffoons had attached to their
theatre-names titles borrowed derisively from the nobility: _Le Comte de
Salles_, _Le Marquis d’Argencourt_, _Le Baron de Plancy_ and _Le Comte de
Permission_.

The most brilliant rôle of Grattelard is in the farce of _The Three
Hunchbacks_, a story drawn from the _Facétieuses Nuits_ of Straparole,
who himself derived it from an Eastern source.

_The Farce of the Hunchbacks_

“Trostolle the hunchback has three hunchback brothers, the
sight of whom he cannot bear. He is filled with horror of
misshapen people. One day, being compelled to leave home, he
enjoins his wife to lock up after dinner and not to allow
anyone to enter. He does not wish to find his brothers there,
in which case he would lay the stick across Madame’s back.
Thereupon he departs. Madame Trostolle has a love intrigue with
a certain Horace, who sends her his servant Grattelard with a
love letter.

“The husband being gone, the three hunchbacks arrive with
stomachs as hollow as wells and teeth as sharp as wolves’.

“‘It is a long time since we have eaten,’ says the first
hunchback, ‘and at need my belly might serve as a lantern.’

“‘Here is the house of my brother,’ says the second, ‘let us go
in.’

“The third knocks at the door. But Madame Trostolle recognises
them from their humps. Nevertheless she permits herself to be
moved by their entreaties, admits them and sets food before
them. But Trostolle returns and she hides the three brothers.
Trostolle, whilst suspecting the presence of the hunchbacks,
departs again upon receiving his wife’s assurances that no one
has entered the house. She runs then to her brothers-in-law and
finds them drunk.

“‘I think,’ she says, ‘that they have a reservoir on their
backs, for they have emptied a hogshead. However, they must be
got out of this.’

“Grattelard arrives with his letter: ‘Consider my trouble,’
says Madame Trostolle. ‘A hunchback has dropped dead on my
threshold. You must take him to the river.’

“‘What will you give me?’

“‘Twenty crowns.’

“‘Very good. Let us get to business.’

“‘Very well; here is the fellow.’

“‘He is very heavy,’ says Grattelard, and thereupon shoulders
the hunchback and departs to throw him into the water.

“‘I have made a bargain to get him to carry one away; I must
contrive that he shall carry away all three,’ says Madame.

“Grattelard returns. ‘I have thrown him into the water,’ he
announces. ‘But he was very heavy!’

“‘You are mocking me,’ replies the woman. ‘You must have thrown
him in very badly, for he has come back again. Look! Here he
is!’

“‘To the devil with the hunchback! I will load my shoulders
with him again and carry him back to the river.’

“He goes and returns, but still he finds a hunchback.

“‘Don’t you understand that he will always come back?’ says
Madame Trostolle; ‘you don’t know how to go about it.’

“‘Mordienne!’ says Grattelard. ‘I shall end by getting angry! I
shall take him back again, but if he makes another appearance I
shall put a stone round his neck.’ And for the third time he
carries off the hunchback, whilst Madame goes off on the other
side.

“Trostolle returns; he has discharged his affairs and wishes to
assure himself that his brothers have not been to his house.

“‘How now! Death of my life!’ cries Grattelard, who has
returned for the third time, and perceives Trostolle, ‘there is
my hunchback again! To the river, my hunchback! To the river!’

“He seizes the husband, and carries him off like the others.
That done he returns to receive the promised twenty crowns.

“‘Well, have you thrown him into the river?’ inquires Madame
Trostolle.

“‘I had to carry him there four times!’ answers Grattelard; ‘he
persisted in coming back, but this time——’

“‘Four times! Has he by chance put my husband with the others?’

“‘Faith, the last one at least could talk!’

“‘Oh! what have you done?’ cries the woman. ‘You have thrown my
husband into the water!’

“‘There’s no great harm done! He was a hunchback who could
never have been straight. Here, this is a letter from Master
Horace.’

“‘Is he far from here?’ she asks.

“‘Since your husband is dead,’ is the answer, ‘you had best
marry him. Lo, here he comes!’

“‘Madame,’ says Horace, ‘if the affection which I bear you may
serve as a warrant to permit me to present to you my vows, you
may believe that I am the most faithful of your subjects.’”

JODELET, a clownish lackey, ingenuous and stupid of appearance, was
played in the French troupe of the Hôtel de Bourgogne by Julien Geoffrin,
from 1610 to 1660. In shape his costume is that of Beltrame; as to its
colour, he wears a black cap, striped doublet, trunk and hose, the mask
of Brighella and the black chin-piece, the cloak, purse and wooden sabre
of all similar types.

It was for the character of this personage that Scarron wrote _Jodelet
Duelliste_ and _Jodelet Maître et Valet_ in 1645.

We have also _Jodelet Astrologue_, a comedy by d’Ouville, 1646; and _La
Feinte Mort de Jodelet_, a comedy by Brécourt, 1660.

Julien Geoffrin was the last to play _la farce_ in France.

“For one who plays the naïve with his face plastered with
flour” (says Tallemant) “he is a good actor. Farce is no longer
played save at the Marais, where he is, and it is on his
account that it is played there. Jodelet speaks through his
nose in consequence of not having been properly treated ... and
that lends him a certain quaintness.”

Jodelet played also sometimes with the Italian troupe.

Gilotin, Tripotin and Filipin played in farces at the French theatre of
the Hôtel de Bourgogne (1655). Filipin, whose real name was Villiers,
played the same rôles as Jodelet. Scarron wrote for him _Le Gardien de
Soi-Même_. He wore the black mask of the Italian lackeys, and a red cap
adorned by two feathers.

(1635) Goguelu was a French mask who appears to have attempted to
replace Gros-Guillaume at the theatre of the Hôtel de Bourgogne. He wore
wide pantaloons, a doublet like that of Brighella, the cloak, skull cap
and exaggerated moustache of the Italian buffoons.

Bruscambille, another type of the Hôtel de Bourgogne, was created by
Deslauriers. He was a native of Champagne, an actor and an author, and
he made his first appearance in 1598, on the trestles of Jean Farine,
joining the company of the Hôtel de Bourgogne in 1634.

XIV

SCARAMOUCHE

SCARAMOUCHE is the son or the grandson of Matamoros. His name, which
signifies “little fighter” or “skirmisher,” and his primitive Neapolitan
type, would place him in the category of Captains, if Tiberio Fiurelli
had not endowed him in France with every shade of character.

The costume of Scaramouche has never varied in point of colour; he has
always been dressed in black from head to foot. Riccoboni says that “in
point of cut it is an imitation of the Spanish dress, which, in the city
of Naples, had long been the dress of courtiers, of magistrates and men
of war. Towards 1680 the Spanish Captains came to an end in Italy, and
the old Italian Captain having long been forgotten, it became necessary
to find in the companies of Neapolitan comedians an actor to replace the
Spanish Captain; thus Scaramuccia was created. In Italy this personage
has never had any character other than that of the Captain; he is at once
a boaster and a coward.”

Originally he wore a mask, like all the types that date back to this
epoch. In his _Petits Danseurs_, Callot represents the Scaramuccia
of the _Fedeli_ company (whose real name was Goldoni) wearing a mask
and brandishing a sword. His costume differs but little from what it
afterwards became with Fiurelli, excepting the slashings in his doublet
and in his plumed cap, which suggest that the date of the creation of
this type is the end of the sixteenth century.

Tiberio Fiurelli, the most famous of all Scaramouches, discarded the
mask, floured his countenance and, by his facial play, “was the greatest
mime in the world.” The breeches that he wore at first were wide,
afterwards he assumed those which remained traditional to the type.
The girdle has sometimes been of cloth like the costume, sometimes of
leather. Trimmings and buttons were always of the colour of the dress.

Scaramouche proclaims himself marquis, prince or lord of several
countries which have never existed in any geographical chart. He was, he
says, abandoned in his early youth by his illustrious father, and reared
at the expense of some king or other, who caused him to spend his early
years at the oar of a royal galley. It is not to be doubted that he
found his way to the galleys later on, for he is the greatest thief that
ever breathed. He inherits all the boast and brag and poltroonery of his
father the Captain. Like him he is in love with all women; but his pale
countenance and evil reputation afford him few chances with the fair sex.
He avenges himself for his rebuffs by boasting of illusory favours and by
maligning the women whom he pretends to have jilted.

Notwithstanding his pretensions to nobility, for he claims to be as
noble as Charlemagne, and as rich as another ancestor of his named
Crœsus, he is nearly always the servant of a very minor gentleman, or of
a poor bourgeois, who employs him in the conduct of his love affairs.
But instead of doing his duty he prefers to amuse himself by beating
the watch and thieving from passers-by. In short, Scaramouche is a
good-for-nothing who finds delight only in disorder. If there are any
blows to be received in payment for his rascalities, he is sly enough
to procure for some neighbour the windfall that was destined for
himself. There is a perfect understanding between him and Pulcinella,
who is another rogue of his kidney. It is thus that, arm-in-arm, the one
shouting and gesticulating brutally, the other bellowing, leaping and
wheeling his sword about the ears of peaceful citizens, they sweep the
pavement, ogling the same women and thirsting for the same bottles. It
is rarely that the matter does not end in a dispute between these two
gossips. Pulcinella becomes angry, and Scaramouche vanishes.

[Illustration]

“Where is that poltroon, that coward?” cries Pulcinella, pounding the
tables with his great knotted cudgel.

When the formidable fellow’s anger is spent Scaramouche returns to
reprimand his friend upon his evil inclinations, his irascibility,
drunkenness and egoism; it is a speech full of good sense and morality,
to which Pulcinella listens absent-mindedly rubbing his hump. Most of the
time he does not listen at all, for he has no esteem whatever for this
poltroon. The matter, however, ends invariably in libations, and it is
glass in hand and his brain a little heated that Scaramouche gives a free
rein to his brilliant imagination. He will thus relate all his exploits
of gallantry to Pulcinella, who does not interrupt him save by occasional
exclamations of admiring astonishment, or by little mocking laughs, which
indicate his incredulity.

Suddenly, however, pots, glasses and bottles fly into fragments.
Pulcinella, wearied by all this chatter of Scaramouche, swings his
devastating club to put an end to the conversation; then he gets up and,
without paying his share, departs sneering.

Scaramouche has gone into hiding at the crash, and does not show himself
again until his comrade is far away.

“What an ass!” he exclaims. “What an animal! What rude, unmannerly ways!
Next time I shall correct him thoroughly; I shall pull his ears.”

Upon the remark of a third party, who accuses him of having been afraid,
he replies like Panurge: “Afraid? I? I have a deal of courage. I do not
mean the courage of the lamb, but the courage of the wolf, and even more
the courage of the slayer.”

Scaramouche is like the bowman of Bagnolet, “he fears nothing but danger.”

Tiberio Fiurelli was born in Naples on the 7th November 1608. Although
the son of a cavalry captain, he was, at the age of twenty-five, employed
as a servant by the leading lady of a company that then enjoyed a good
repute in Naples. He was a utility man, and played small parts from time
to time.

One day the laundress of the comedienne who employed him told Fiurelli
that her daughter’s best friend was about to be married and that her
daughter was to be one of the bridesmaids; she invited him to the
nuptials, knowing him for a young man of jovial humour. The marriage
was a brilliant affair; there was a deal of drinking and dancing;
Fiurelli distinguished himself by eating as much as two and drinking as
much as four. As a result, in the course of the dance, driven no doubt
largely by the wine into an amorous transport, he kissed the bridesmaid
notwithstanding her resistance. The insult was considered of a grave
character, particularly as it had been offered in public, and it was
judged to be reparable only by marriage. On the morrow the laundress,
having assembled witnesses and the members of her family, came to
demand justice from the mistress of Fiurelli. The accused appeared, but
had nothing to say. He could remember nothing of what had happened
yesterday. The laundress, having reminded him of everything, threatened
to lay a plaint before the magistrates if he did not repair his fault and
make the amend demanded by the honour of the family. Having taken counsel
with the actress whom he served, Fiurelli decided to marry the young
laundress, who was very pretty.

Some time after their nuptials, Fiurelli and his wife joined a company
of comedians. Madame Fiurelli took the name of _Marinette_, which was
probably her own, for she was the first soubrette to bear it. Fiurelli
himself assumed the name of Scaramouche. Angelo Constantini, the author
of _The Life, Loves and Deeds of Scaramouche_, says that Fiurelli was the
creator of this type; but he is at fault in this statement as in several
others in his biography. Evaristo Gherardi severely trounces this work
of Constantini’s: “If those,” he says, “who have spoken so unworthily of
Fiurelli, and who have made use of his name to produce an infinity of
wretched quips and bad jests are capable of shame, let them come candle
in hand to make reparation to the manes of so great a man, that they may
avoid the punishment which impostors deserve before God and humanity.
There is nothing more impious than to exhume a man for the purpose of
covering him with calumny.”

Nature had marvellously endowed Fiurelli, and his name very quickly
became famous throughout all Italy as that of the most perfect and witty
mime that had ever existed. After having visited most of the great cities
of Italy, he went to Paris in the reign of Louis XIII., in 1640, and
enjoyed there an equal degree of success.

The queen took great pleasure in his mimicries. One day, when he and
Brigida Bianchi (an actress known—as we have seen—under the name of
Aurelia) were in the chamber of the dauphin (afterwards Louis XIV.), the
prince, who was then but two years old, was in such evil temper that
nothing could appease his rage and his cries. Scaramouche told the queen
that if she would permit him to take the royal child in his arms he would
undertake to calm him. The queen having permitted this, he made so many
grimaces, performed so many apish tricks, that not only did the child
cease to cry, but he was seized with a hilarity whose results ruined
the garments of Scaramouche, to the great bursts of laughter of all the
ladies and gentlemen present at this scene.

From that day Scaramouche received the order to visit the dauphin every
evening to amuse him, together with his dog, his cat, his monkey, his
guitar and his parrot. Scaramouche would then be about thirty-three years
of age. He was invariably summoned to Paris whenever any Italian troupe
was commanded to appear there. Many years later Louis XIV. used to take
pleasure in reminding Fiurelli of their first interview, and the great
king would laugh heartily when Fiurelli mimed the story of that adventure.

On the subject of Scaramouche, Gherardi writes as follows in the scenario
of _Colombine Avocat Pour et Contre_:—

“After having mended everything that is in the chamber, he
takes his guitar, drops into an arm-chair and plays whilst
awaiting the arrival of his master. Pasquariello comes up
softly behind him and beats the time of his music on his
shoulders, which terribly frightens Scaramouche. In a word it
is now that this incomparable Scaramuccia, who was the ornament
of the theatre and the model of the most illustrious comedians
of his day—having taught them that art so difficult and so
necessary to persons of their _character_, how to stir up
passions and to depict them—it is now, I say, that for a long
quarter of an hour he could shake the audience with laughter at
a scene of terror in which he did not utter a single word. It
must also be agreed that this excellent actor possessed this
marvellous gift in so high a degree that he could move the
hearts of his audience by the simplicity and naturalness of
his mimicry far more than they are ordinarily to be moved by
the most able orators or by the charms of the most persuasive
rhetoric. A great prince, seeing him play once in Rome, said
of him: ‘Without speaking Scaramouche says the most beautiful
things in the world.’ And to mark the esteem conceived for him,
the prince sent for him when the comedy was ended, and made
him a present of the coach and six horses in which he had had
him fetched. He was always the delight of all the princes who
knew him, and our invincible monarch never wearied of heaping
favours upon him. I dare even to persuade myself that if he
were not dead the company would still be in existence.”

In 1659 a rumour was abroad that in the course of journeying into Italy
Fiurelli had been shipwrecked and drowned whilst crossing the Rhone, an
adventure which was celebrated in verse by Loret.

Fiurelli made frequent journeys into Italy to visit his wife Marinette.
His last visit was a very protracted one; he remained with her for
seven years, and returned to Paris only after her death. He established
himself there permanently, and remained on the stage until the age of
eighty-three. Having then retired, he fell in love with a young girl
named Mademoiselle Duval, who was tall, well made and very beautiful,
the daughter of a servant of the Président de Harlay. He sought her in
marriage and obtained her.

The first months of the honeymoon were spent peacefully; but soon
Fiurelli’s jealous and avaricious nature was revealed. After all, he
was perhaps right to suspect and to complain. There was too great a
difference in age between them and the young woman was coquettish.
Scaramouche sought to enforce his rights and his authority; but his young
wife refused to endure lessons and corrections; she sought shelter with
her parents and took proceedings against him to obtain a separation.
Fiurelli on his side accused her of infidelity, and demanded that her
hair be cut and she be sent to a convent. The affair made a deal of
noise, and four years were spent in preparing the case for the courts.
Before it was completed Fiurelli died, on the 5th December 1696, at the
age of eighty-eight.

At eighty-three he still displayed such agility that in his pantomime
scenes he could box the ears of a fellow-actor with his foot. With a
slight and supple body he combined a strength and litheness that were
extraordinary.

We know that Molière testified ever for Fiurelli an unlimited admiration.
It has been said, and there is reason to believe it, that it was the
incomparable Scaramouche who determined the vocation of this illustrious
child when he was taken by his grandfather to witness Fiurelli’s
performances. It was by these that Molière was inspired to embrace the
profession of the theatre. It has also been said that as a comic actor
Molière always sought to imitate the Italians, Trivelino in particular,
but Scaramouche above all. It is well known that Molière was Italian
rather than French in his ways, both as author and comedian; that for his
first essays, not only for his scenarii but still more for his written
pieces, he tapped the sources afforded by the Italian repertory, and
that the two companies played in his day the same subjects in the same
theatre, whilst the Italians made no affectations of claiming priority,
and Molière did not dream of contesting it them. For the rest these
borrowings became reciprocal, as may be gathered from the fact that
_Scaramouche Ermite_ scored a success at court, whilst _Tartuffe_ gave
rise there to indignation.

At the foot of a portrait of Fiurelli in the dress of Scaramouche is the
legend:

_Tibère Fiorilli, dit Scaramouche, le grand original des
théâtres modernes._

“Cet illustre comédien
Atteignit de son art l’agréable manière:
Il fut le maître de Molière,
Et la nature fut le sien.”

Let us take a glimpse of him at work in some entirely Italian scenes
preserved in Gherardi’s collection.

“Ottavio, having given Angélique an assignation in the
Tuileries, desires that a gallant collation shall be prepared
so as to afford her a pleasant surprise. He begs Scaramouche to
attend to it and departs. Scaramouche, left on the stage, falls
into a reverie. Harlequin enters and Scaramouche begs of him
to think of a way but without telling him what is the subject.
Thereupon the two of them walk up and down the stage, their
heads in their hands, and from time to time one turns to the
other exclaiming: ‘Faith, I have it!’ to add afterwards: ‘No,
that idea is worth nothing,’ and to recommence their goings
and comings in silence. Suddenly they meet, and Scaramouche
exclaims: ‘Ah, this is sure to succeed!’ Whereupon they depart
without any further explanations.”

In another scene:

CINTHIO (_approaching SCARAMOUCHE_). _Come vi chiamate?_ (What
is your name?)

SCARAMOUCHE. What is my name?

CINTHIO. _Si, il vostro nome, qual è?_ (Yes, what is your name?)

SCARAMOUCHE. _Il mio nome, signor, è_ (My name, sir, is)
Scaramuzza, Memeo Squaquara, Tammera, Catambera, _e figlio di_
(a son of) Cocumaro and of Madonna Papara Trent’ova, e Iunze,
e Dunze, e Tiracarunze, _per servire a vossignoria_ (to serve
your lordship).

CINTHIO. _O che bel nom! in verità, non si puo far de più!_
(What a beautiful name! A better were impossible!) (_He pulls
out his purse._) Here, this is for Scaramouche. This is for
Memeo Squaquara. This is for Tammera and Catambera. (_At each
name he gives him a coin._) And the rest of the purse for the
rest of your name.

SCARAMOUCHE (_aside_). This fellow must be a collector of
names. (_To CINTHIO._) Sir, I have still several other names in
my family as beautiful and as long as my own. If you want them
you have but to mention it.

Scaramouche, having heard of the issue of a warrant for the arrest
of Harlequin, his master, under his assumed name of the Marquis of
Sbrufadelli, dresses himself as a woman so as to escape.

HARLEQUIN. Ha! Ha! here is some demoiselle from the Pont Neuf.
Good-morning, madam. Your servant.

SCARAMOUCHE. Sir, indicate to me, if you please, the way to La
Grève?[4]

HARLEQUIN (_mockingly_). You have but to go on as you have
started. Stick to your present ways and you will go straight
there.

SCARAMOUCHE. I will hurry then, for I fear lest I should not
find room.

HARLEQUIN. There is no need to hurry, there will always be room
for you.

SCARAMOUCHE. The truth is, sir, that they are going to hang
the Marquis of Sbrufadelli, and he will be, they say, the most
comical corpse in the world, so that everyone is hurrying to
see him.

HARLEQUIN (_angrily_). Those who told you that are
ill-informed. The Marquis of Sbrufadelli is a man of honour and
he will not be hanged. Do you understand?

SCARAMOUCHE. But I tell you that he will be. That it is
absolutely necessary that he should be, since all the windows
are already let.

HARLEQUIN. That is a fine necessity—to hang a man because the
windows are let. Go your ways, madam, you don’t know what you
are saying.

SCARAMOUCHE. It will be a very pretty show. I am dying to
see it. He married two wives and they are going to hang two
petticoats beside him. Oh, what a pretty show to see! Oh, how
droll it will be!

HARLEQUIN. I shall end by losing my temper. I tell you again
that I know the Marquis of Sbrufadelli, and——

SCARAMOUCHE (_revealing himself_). Yes, and I know him too.

HARLEQUIN. Scaramouche?

SCARAMOUCHE. Yes, sir. I have disguised myself in this fashion
because I know that the Doctor is seeking you to have you put
in prison. He is at the head of twenty archers, and I should be
sorry if they compelled me to keep you company. You know very
well that I have had nothing to do with your affairs, and that
this would never have happened to you if you had followed my
advice.

HARLEQUIN. This is not a time to be moralising——

SCARAMOUCHE. Oh, sir, you have waited too long, we are lost.
Here comes the Doctor.

The archers arrive with the Doctor. Harlequin, not knowing where to
conceal himself, dives under the petticoats of Scaramouche. The Doctor is
furious. He seeks Harlequin and comes face to face with Scaramouche. He
gives him good-day with a mocking air, and, observing that he is holding
his sides and groaning, asks him what is the matter.

SCARAMOUCHE. I beg you to let me go, sir. I am pregnant and in
pain.

THE DOCTOR. This is very distressing! But we must see about
getting you away from here because I am looking for a certain
man whom I am going to arrest, and if he should come this way
the archers might hurt you in the tumult.

SCARAMOUCHE. And what is the name, sir, of him you are seeking
to arrest?

THE DOCTOR. He is called the Marquis of Sbrufadelli.

HARLEQUIN (_thrusting his head from under the petticoat_). The
Marquis of Sbrufadelli, sir? The Marquis of Sbrufadelli is gone!

THE DOCTOR (_hearing a voice but seeing no one_). Who spoke
then?

SCARAMOUCHE. It is my unborn child, sir. (_Aside to
HARLEQUIN_:) Be quiet, animal, or you will be discovered.

THE DOCTOR (_suspiciously_). Your unborn child, is it? He is a
well-nourished child.

SCARAMOUCHE. Indeed yes, sir. I have never spared my children
anything.

THE DOCTOR. So I perceive, since they talk before birth.
(_Leaning over SCARAMOUCHE._) Master child, you say then that
the Marquis of Sbrufadelli is gone?

HARLEQUIN (_thrusting out his head_). Yes, sir, he departed by
the mail coach. It should suffice you to be told once.

THE DOCTOR. That is very true, sir. I beg your pardon for my
importunity. (_To the archers._) Corporal Simon! Take me that
child and put him in prison at once. He is a little debauchee
at much too early an age, and must be sent to a reformatory.

The archers seize Harlequin and bear him off; Scaramouche escapes crying:
“_Salvo! salvo!_”

When Tiberio Fiurelli withdrew from the Théâtre-Italien in 1694, the
rôles of Scaramouche were filled by Giuseppe Tortoretti, who had been
playing Pasquariello until then.

“On the day of PASQUARIELLO’S birth, the cat stole the roast meat,
the candle turned pale thrice, the wine turned sour in the cellar,
and—incredible prodigy!—the stock-pot emptied itself into the ashes. Evil
prognostications! Faithful to them Pasquariello was ever a glutton, a
drunkard and a devastator, the ruin and the terror of kitchens.”

This name of Pascariel, or Pasquariel as it is written by Gherardi, is no
doubt a diminutive of Pasquino, the Roman emblem of satire.

In the sixteenth century Pasquariello was a dancer and a mountebank like
Meo Squaquara, from whom Scaramouche claims descent. These personages are
depicted by Callot. They are dressed in tight garments, with hawk-bells
on their legs, they carry sabre and cloak, and wear a mask with a
fantastical long nose, but they appear to be without head-dress. Meo
Squaquara in particular seems to be bald-headed. Pasquariello bears the
surname of _Truonno_—that is to say, the Terrible. It is a type that was
not seen in France until 1685, when it was borne thither by Giuseppe
Tortoretti. Like its ancestors, his Pasquariello was particularly a
dancer and a very clever equilibrist. The rôle is always that of a
servant.

The _Mercure Galant_ for March of 1685 says:

“The Italian company has been increased by a new actor who
earns the applause of all Paris, and who has given similar
pleasure at court. He is of a surprising agility and admirably
supports the incomparable Harlequin.”

Notwithstanding, however, the felicitous débuts of Pasquariello, this
actor was never more than mediocre, and his talents lay largely in the
suppleness of his limbs. His type is a variant of Scaramouche, whom—as we
have mentioned—he came to replace in the Italian company after the death
of Tiberio Fiurelli in 1694.

After the suppression of the Théâtre-Italien (1697), Giuseppe Tortoretti
(_Pasquariello_) obtained from the king the privilege of performing the
plays of his repertory throughout France, but with the reservation that
he was not to bring his company within thirty leagues of Paris.

Thereupon he engaged a company and toured the provinces, but did such
poor business that he died in want. Giuseppe Tortoretti had married in
Italy Angelica Toscano, who was known at the Théâtre-Italien under the
name of Marinetta; she went with him into the provinces and shared his
ill luck.

Pasquariello is dressed more or less like Scaramouche, saving that he
does not always wear the cap and cloak; he replaces cloth by black
velvet, and sometimes wears red stockings. His simple and severe
appearance permits him to play the same parts as Scaramouche, and to
replace Scapin under the name of Pasquin.

It is chiefly in _L’Avocat Pour et Contre_ that Pasquariello has an
important part; it is he who develops the plot of the piece; he enters
at every instant to terrify Harlequin, who has become a great lord, and
his servant Scaramouche. Now he appears as a Captain, to compel Harlequin
to marry Columbine whom he has betrayed; at other times he is seen as a
dancer, a Moor, a devil and even as a painter, for Harlequin has demanded
a painter to paint his portrait.

Pasquariello enters. He has donned a waistcoat splashed and smeared with
paint; he walks clumsily by the aid of crutches, and his eyes are almost
hidden under a green visor.

“What is this?” demands Harlequin. “A painter of invalids? He is
paralysed and he will paint me upside down.”

Pasquariello attempts to doff his hat to salute the Marquis Arlecchino,
but he trembles to such an extent that, at his movement, the crutches,
being unable to support him, one slips forward and the other backward and
he tumbles upon Harlequin, who also falls. In the very act of falling
this courteous painter greets Harlequin, wishing him good-morning, and
announces himself his servant.

Harlequin, bruised and crippled, enlists the assistance of Pierrot to
pick up the painter, and then says to him: “Without ceremony, sir, go and
do your dying first, and then come back to paint my picture.”

But Pasquariello, or rather the painter, evidently adds deafness to his
other infirmities; for without being at all disconcerted he sits down,
places an enormous pair of spectacles on his nose, and, after having
mixed some colours on his palette with a brush that is something like
a broom, he daubs the face of Pierrot, who was standing open-mouthed
before him, watching him mix his red and black. Pierrot departs in tears.
Harlequin becomes angry. The painter makes no answer; he considers
Harlequin, and, brush in one hand and palette in the other, he drags
himself on his knees to Harlequin, who, scared, asks him what he is going
to do.

“I am going to paint your lordship,” replies Pasquariel. But Harlequin
draws his attention to the fact that his canvas is on the other side of
the stage. The painter gets up, attempts to turn towards his canvas,
but misses his step, and falls full length upon the stage. Harlequin
exclaims: “Oh, here is a broken painter! I shall have to pay for a
painter!” But Pasquariel is up again, and is taking his leave preliminary
to departing. He balances himself upon his feet, then lets himself hurtle
against Harlequin, who, being pushed thus unexpectedly, falls once more.
Pasquariello falls on top of him as heavily as possible. He then gets up
and departs, pursued by Harlequin’s imprecations.

In another scenario, _La Precaution Inutile_, Pasquariello is a lackey.
He has been placed on duty together with Pierrot at Isabella’s door, and
they have been expressly commanded not to allow any love letters to pass
in. A butterfly flutters towards them. Pasquariel lifts up his nose and
observes to Pierrot that perhaps this is a love messenger. Pierrot is
absolutely of the same opinion. Thereupon a chase is set on foot, their
object being to seize the papers which the butterfly no doubt carries.
We have bounds and leaps, and we see one climbing upon the shoulders of
the other to reach the butterfly, but the butterfly rises ever higher
and higher. Both of them, nose in the air, fling up their hats, and end
by colliding with each other so violently that both are knocked over and
roll on the ground.

In _Le Grand Sophy_, Pasquariello, the valet of Ottavio, says to Mezzetin:

“Become but a captain of dragoons, and pleasure and good living
will follow you everywhere. No troubles, no sorrows, nothing
but joy. What happiness! You receive an order to join the army.
Immediately you take the coach, and all along the road you have
partridges and quails and ortolans for your everyday food. Just
taste me this wine.” (_He pretends to uncork a bottle and to
pour wine into a glass. MEZZETIN opens his mouth to receive the
wine._) “Well, what do you think of it? That is the least of
all the wines that you will drink on the way. Then you arrive
in camp. To begin with you are given very handsome apartments
on one floor.”

MEZZETIN. So much the better, for I do not care about going
upstairs, I think it is a bad omen.

PASQUARIELLO. A number of officers will come to visit you. You
play, you smoke, you sing, you drink liqueurs.

MEZZETIN. The devil! That is the life of a prelate! And people
say that there are evils in war!

PASQUARIELLO. Well, well! It is only people who have never been
there who speak ill of it. Meanwhile the enemy advances, and
the captain of dragoons is ordered to go and reconnoitre—that
is, to ascertain where the enemy is encamped, what movements
they are making, and the number of the troops that compose
their army. There is nothing easier. First of all you will
march in fine order at the head of your company. Oh! I can see
you on horseback, what a heroic air! What majesty! Do you dream
of it? Do you shake your ears?

MEZZETIN. Ay. I know how it hurts me to go on horseback, and
yet I have never mounted anything more than a donkey. It makes
my shoulders ache. Couldn’t we cut that out?

PASQUARIELLO. Indeed no, it is an honour. You advance thus
upon the enemy. As soon as they see you appear, they detach
a company of carabineers to come and meet you. When you are
within range of one another you begin to exchange salutes in
pistol shots, zin! zan! The captain of the carabineers draws
his sword, runs upon you and—tac!

MEZZETIN. Woe me!

PASQUARIELLO. Oh! that is nothing, only an arm lopped off.

MEZZETIN. And you call that nothing! I think it is something
myself!

PASQUARIELLO. Pooh! pooh! a mere trifle. The action is reported
to the court, and you become a colonel in another regiment.
The general orders his army to deliver battle, and to come to
blows; the enemy are firing like all the devils, zi! zi! pi!
pa! bon! ban! tac!

MEZZETIN. Heavens, I am lost! Another tac!

PASQUARIELLO. It is a grenade shot, which carries away one of
our colonel’s legs. But that is a trifle.

MEZZETIN. Devil take me if I didn’t suspect it when I heard
that tac of yours!

PASQUARIELLO. What would you? These are the fruits of war.
Your wound will be treated. Your name will be published in the
gazette, and you will become a brigadier.

MEZZETIN. A still greater charge?

PASQUARIELLO. Faith, I should think so! All the officers will
come to compliment you upon your new rank, and they will envy
your good fortune. The enemy rallies and returns to the charge.
First of all our brigadier runs from side to side, issuing
the necessary orders. The fight becomes obstinate, then the
enemy is routed, victory is shouted, the fugitives are pursued
sword in hand. At that moment a battery of twelve pieces of
cannon, which the enemy had mounted on a little prominence, is
discharged, bon! don! don! tac! tac!

MEZZETIN. Mercy! Ah! I am dead, there were two tacs!

PASQUARIELLO. You were very unfortunate. What a pity! Our poor
brigadier has had his remaining arm and leg carried away by a
cannon shot.

MEZZETIN. I am not in the least surprised, tacs have always
been fatal to me. (_Kneeling down with his two arms behind
him._) Now here is a pretty man!

PASQUARIELLO. You must be patient, my friend. These are marks
of your valour. You will have appeared again in the gazette,
and you will be made a general, the highest rank of all.

MEZZETIN. There is one thing I notice: the more my rank
increases, the more my limbs diminish.

PASQUARIELLO. From the moment that you are a general you mount
on horseback.

MEZZETIN. A moment, please. How am I to mount on horseback if I
have neither legs nor arms?

PASQUARIELLO. You are afforded a fresh occasion on which to
cover yourself with glory. The enemy is badly placed, you
have closed round them, and, after issuing your orders for
the fight, you run hither and thither, giving courage to your
soldiers.

MEZZETIN. Good! I shall be giving courage to others whilst
myself I am dying of fright.

PASQUARIELLO. The battle is over: turn what way you will there
is nothing but carnage; grenades, bombs, carcasses, cannon
balls, all come hailing down. Pif! paf! zin! zan! bon! don!
don! tac!

MEZZETIN. Ah me! We have come to it again!

PASQUARIELLO. It is a bullet that has carried away the
general’s head.

MEZZETIN. Trivial, eh?

PASQUARIELLO. Exactly.

MEZZETIN. I shall be happy to know what rank you will give me
now.

PASQUARIELLO. Oh, as soon as your wounds are healed, peace will
be made, and you will go and serve in Hungary against the Turks.

MEZZETIN. I am to go and serve in Hungary without arms, legs
or head. Oh, go to the devil with your company! If ever I
become a captain of dragoons may all the tacs in the world
strike me at once!

In _La Fausse Coquette_, Pasquariello is again a servant, and in the
service of I know not what Polish prince, who is none other than Ottavio.

“He comes on with a lighted torch followed by one of his
friends who carries a bottle and a glass. And as Pasquariello’s
entire attention is engaged by the bottle, he thinks only
of emptying it, without paying attention to what his master
is saying. Hence it follows that he never returns proper
answers to the questions of the prince who, wearied by his
impertinences, looks at him closely, and, surprising him
glass in hand, delivers him a kick in the stomach and goes
off. Pasquariello falls backward, turns a somersault without
upsetting his glass, gets up, drains it, and goes off saying:
_Gran sventura di servire un giovane senza cervello!_ (What a
misfortune to serve a witless young man!)”

In the Regent’s troupe (1716) Giacopo Rauzzini was entrusted with the
rôles of Scaramouche. According to the brothers Parfait,

“He was an intruder in the troupe of the Italian comedians.
A hundred pistoles presented by him to the man who had been
charged by Riccoboni (_Lelio_) to find a good Scaramouche
obtained him the position. He had been an usher in Naples
before taking to the stage, and he was but a very mediocre
comedian. He was addicted to gambling, ostentation and
extravagance; he set up a coach, kept open house, and in
consequence made many debts. Riccoboni the elder was obliged
to apply to the court for an order to inhibit his comrade’s
creditors to stop persecuting him, and, being himself an honest
man, he compelled Rauzzini to pay three-quarters of his debts.
This state of things continued down to the death of this
comedian, who was stricken by an apoplexy in the church of
Saint-Eustache, where he died on the 24th October 1731. He was
buried on the morrow at the expense of the troupe.”

In 1711, Cavé, known as _Maillard_, made his début at the fair of
Saint-Germain in the rôles of Scaramouche. He toured the provinces
but was never seen at the Théâtre-Italien. One day at the fair of
Saint-Laurent, Maillard was in the shop of Dubois, the lemonade vendor;
his wife, who was playing Columbine, happened to pass by on her way to
the theatre, and gave him good-day in a friendly and coquettish manner.

“Do you by chance know that lovely comedienne?” Maillard was asked by one
who happened to be in the shop at the same time.

“Eh! Cadedis,” he replied, affecting a Gascon accent, “if I know her?

“... Au gré de mes désirs,
J’ai goûté dans ses bras mille et mille plaisirs.”

“Shake hands,” said the other, “for I can say the same.”

Maillard abandoned his tone of raillery to inform this indiscreet fellow
that he was the husband of the calumniated Columbine.

“Faith,” replied the other, “I am sorry to have been so frank; but I
cannot possibly retract a statement of fact.”

It was then that Maillard became really angry and demanded satisfaction.
Swords were drawn. Maillard was wounded and disarmed. His adversary
himself conducted him to a surgeon in whose care he left him, taking his
leave in the terms of the following mocking allusion from La Fontaine
upon deceived husbands:

“Quand on le sait, c’est peu de chose:
Quand on l’ignore, ce n’est rien.”

In 1745 Gandini made his début at the Théâtre-Italien in _La Vengeance de
Scaramouche_ and was very well received.

Other famous players of the part were Carlo Agati and Bertinelli, who
achieved a deal of success in Italy somewhere about 1715.

iii

PASQUINO is an intriguing lackey, who talks a deal and lies as much.
His reputation is detestable. He is a nincompoop who makes a ruin of
everything to which he sets his hands, including his own affairs, for
he spends far too much time in chattering with the waiting-women.
Nevertheless he is concerned with only one thing in the world—his own
interest. Pasquino is no more than a pale shadow of Brighella, or perhaps
he is the same type as Pasquariello.

PASQUINO (_as a traveller_). Ah, Fortune, Fortune! will
you always turn a pirouette at the pasquinades of the
unfortunate Pasquino? And will you never steer the wheel of
your inconstancy into the rut of my merit? Driven from Rome
by kicks, I have trailed my shoes from hostelry to hostelry,
having no other payment to offer for my lodging than that of
liberally maligning those who give me food. At last I arrive
here without money, with the hunger of a dog, and unable to
appease the starving murmurs of my languishing inside.

Oh, sweet Olivetta, my dear mistress, whose pretty and
coquettish ways so often contrived that I should find credit in
the hostelries, you should have mended my fortunes. But, since
all things are mutable, and since your beauty could but grow
pale before the inhumanity of innkeepers, I was compelled to
leave you. What should you say, O beautiful forsaken one, if
you could see your tender Pasquino, his stomach as hollow as
his purse, you who found me a hundred times lying gorged with
wine upon your door-sill, as upon a feather bed? It was then
that in assisting me to rise you were able with such charming
discrimination to distinguish between the hiccoughs of my
vinous plenitude and the sighs of my burning love. Oh, Kitchen!
enchanting and delicious retreat! Thou erstwhile favourable
asylum for my appetite, thou, the usual sojourn of my charming
Olivetta! Happy the peaceful stew-pans that are scoured by her
lovely hands! Grills, cauldrons, pots and frying pans, warlike
ministers to the jaws, you that are the usual trophies of my
lovely mistress. Alas!—for pity’s sake revolt against all the
roasts and the ragouts of which you are the secondary causes
and by a general and harmoniously funereal rattle inform my
dear Olivetta that a desperate hunger is about to break the
springs of the turnspit of her love!

The costume of CRISPIN, of the French comedy, created by Raymond Poisson
in the middle of the seventeenth century, is borrowed from that of
Scaramouche, and particularly from that of the Neapolitan Scaramouche,
who, in imitation of the Captains, wears a long rapier and displays all
the arrogance and cowardice of that character. This type, which is that
of a lackey, more or less faithful according to the wages which he earns,
a flatterer, a drunkard, a liar and a thief like Brighella, is none the
less an entirely French creation which we owe to Poisson. We mention
the character as a transformation of that of Scaramouche, by which it
was inspired. Crispin was very quickly admitted to the forain theatres,
and was seen in the same pieces as Mezzetin, Harlequin, Polichinelle,
Scaramouche, Pantaloon and the other Italian types. Being of a more
modern creation, he wears no mask; he is dressed in black, with boots or
shoes, ruffle, gloves, a wide leather belt and a rapier.

Poisson was a tall and well-made man. Some say that to the costume of
Crispin he added boots to conceal the excessive thinness of his legs, but
it is more likely that he appeared thus upon the stage because, in his
youth, the streets of Paris, of which not more than one half were paved,
compelled footmen and servants to go booted.

COVIELLO

CALLOT has left us engravings of the principal dancers, buffoons, mimes
and masks of the ancient Italian comedy, in his series known as _Les
Petits Danseurs_, but whose real title is _I Balli di Sfessania_ (_The
Dances of Fescennia_). All the world knows that the inhabitants of
Fescennia, whose ruins are still to be seen a quarter of a league from
Galesa in Piedmont, invented a style of verse which enjoyed a great vogue
in Rome, in which satire, allied with a primitive coarseness, called
things by their proper names. These verses were laden with raillery,
jests and buffooneries; they were accompanied by grotesque dances and
improvised scenes, absolutely like the Atellanæ, but of a more trivial
humour. In a letter addressed to Augustus, Horace writes:

“_Fescennina per hunc inventa licentia morem_
_Versibus alternis, opprobria rustica fudit._”

“The people of Fescennia,” says the Chevalier de Jaucourt,
“accompanied their fêtes and public rejoicings by pastoral
performances in which comedians declaimed an extremely
licentious sort of verse, and went through a thousand
buffooneries in the same taste. These verses were imported
into the theatre, and held the place of regular drama for over
a hundred years with the Romans. The biting satire for which
they were employed, discredited them still more than did their
primitive coarseness, so that they became really formidable.

“Catullus, seeing that the Fescennian verses were proscribed
by the public authorities, and that their coarseness was no
longer in the taste of his century, perfected and chastened
them in appearance. In their meaning, however, they remained no
less obscene, and they became far more dangerous to morals. The
frank, rude terms of a soldier are less hurtful to the heart
than the fine, ingenious and delicately turned speeches of the
man who follows the trade of a gallant.”

The Fescennian actors were still called in Rome _Mimi septentrionis_.
They were either naked or dressed in very tight garments, their
waists girt with a scarf whose ends floated in the wind. They danced,
accompanying themselves upon castanets very similar to those that are in
use to-day.

It is, then, under this title of _I Balli di Sfessania_ that Callot
reproduced some fifty actors, dancers and buffoons of the end of the
sixteenth and the beginning of the seventeenth centuries. In the main he
represents actual personages, derived haphazard from the various Italian
troupes, such as the _Gelosi_, the _Accesi_, and the _Fedeli_, who
visited Florence when Callot was a student there.

These personages may be divided into two classes, rendered very distinct
one from the other by the garments worn by each: that of the jugglers
and tumblers, who were exclusively dancers or mimes, and that of the
buffoons, _zanni_ and comedians playing given parts.

The members of the former class wear skull caps like the ancient mimes,
or else caps decked with long feathers, the half mask with a very long
bottle nose, without beard, and tight garments, adorned by a line of
large buttons; they recall the costumes in fashion for court fools and
buffoons of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. In the main they
are merely tumblers, addicted to contortionistic poses and wild dances,
equilibrists, sword swallowers and strong men. They are the descendants
of the real _funambuli_ and _acrobates_ of the ancients, and like them
they are phallophores.

Thanks to Callot, we find among these the following types that would
otherwise be lost to us: Ciurlo in an extravagant posture, inviting
Gian-Fritello, who disdains him, to the dance; Ratsa-di-Boio, abandoning
himself to a picturesque dance, whilst several kindred fellows, holding
hands, form a ring about a Smaraolo-Cornuto, perched upon stilts,
beating a drum; Pasquariello Truonno and Meo-Squaquara imitating by
their gestures a sort of _cancan_; Esgangarato and Cocodrillo as well
as Bello-Sguardo, wearing bracelets and hawk-bells on their arms and
legs; Razullo scratching, as his name suggests, his guitar, to the
sound of which Cucurucu, in fine spectacles, is striking a modest pose.
Cicho-Sgarra threatens Collo-Francisco, who trembles before him; Babeo
is seen with his friend Cucuba; Cardoni pursued by Maramao; Grillo,
a crippled, misshapen fellow; Cucorongna and Pernovalla, each going
through contortions; and lastly Coviello, famous for his grimaces and his
confused language.

This personage, according to Salvator Rosa, was one of the seven masks
of the ancient Commedia dell’Arte. The description which he affords us
proves that already in his day the costume of this buffoon had been
transformed, and probably by himself, for we know that, under the mask of
Coviello, Salvator Rosa earned the applause of all Rome in a character
of his own creation, _Il Signor Formica_. In Hoffman’s tale entitled
_Salvator Rosa_, a pleasant fiction is intermingled with the details of
historic reality on the subject of the transformations and disguises of
Salvator Rosa.

According to Salvator Rosa, Coviello is a native of Calabria; “his wit is
sharp and subtle; he is shrewd, adroit, supple and vain. His accent and
dress are those of his country—doublet and breeches of black velvet laced
with silver. He wears a mask with encarnadined cheeks and black brow and
nose.”

Apart from the mask there is nothing resembling this description in the
personage engraved by Callot, nor in all his collection of dancers in
extravagant poses, their tight-fitting and ridiculous garments adorned
by a row of enormous buttons running the whole length of the body, their
hats heavily plumed, their limbs charged with hawk-bells to render the
dance noisy as that of savages, each mask adorned by a nose like an
elephant’s trunk, some jumping and leaping, some playing the guitar or
mandolin, some threatening invisible enemies with their wooden sabres.

“_C’è un Coviello_” (He is a Coviello) is an old Italian saying
applicable to a boastful fool. Molière, in his _Bourgeois gentilhomme_,
has made of his Coviello a lackey after the fashion of Scapin, who
repeats everything said by his master, if not word for word at least idea
for idea. According to some Coviello is a nincompoop who affects to be
valiant; according to others he is an astute observer. In reality he is
a type that has already passed from fashion. In the early years of the
nineteenth century he still appeared from time to time in some marionette
scenario to discharge a rôle similar to that of the Captain. His costume
also had undergone considerable change: his black hat was adorned by
three red feathers, his doublet was slashed with red, his shoes were
black, his breeches red and yellow, his cloak red, he wore gloves, cannon
boots and the baldric and sword of the Captains. Even his bizarre mask
was gone and replaced by a flesh-coloured mask adorned with moustachios.

The dancers in Callot’s second class above mentioned consist of those
comedians and buffoons who bring to mind Pulcinella by their simple and
ample garments—a wide pantaloon and a sort of blouse, gripped at the
waist by a girdle—carrying the wooden sabre and wearing the incomparable
plumed hat which takes the form of an enormous cap like that of
FRITELLINO. Also they have beards and masks.

In this fashion does Callot show us, at the beginning of the seventeenth
century, Pulcinello talking with Lucretia; Mezzetin playing the guitar
to Riciulina (a soubrette of the _Gelosi_ troupe); Guatsetto (a lackey
in the _Fedeli_ troupe) and Mestolino grimacing at each other; Fricasso
in rags, seeking sword in hand his adversary whilst taking care to turn
his back upon him. Bagattino mocking Spezza-Monti, who is furiously
endeavouring to draw a sword which has rusted in its scabbard; Fracasso,
sword in hand, and very different from the French Fracasse; Gian-Farina,
wielding his bat whilst dancing with Franceschina (the famous Silvia
Roncagli); Bernovalla, a dancer and tambourine player; Trastullo making a
declaration to Lucia, who is commanding him to kiss her slipper; Scapino
wrangling about a bottle with Zerbino; Franca-Trippa and Fritellino
dancing, the first accompanying himself upon his sabre, the second upon a
mandolin.

Franca-Trippa, whose real name was Gabriello di Bologna, was engaged in
the _Gelosi_ troupe in 1576 for the parts of _Zanni_. He went to France
in 1577 and played in the scenarii which were the delight of the court of
Henri III. at Blois.

The type of Fritellino, or Gian-Fritello, scored in Italy in the
sixteenth century a success equal to that enjoyed by Harlequin in the
century following.

In 1560, Pietro-Maria Cecchini, known by the name of Fritellino, was
playing in the _Accesi_ troupe rôles identical with those that were being
filled by Harlequin in the company of the _Gelosi_; thus, in the scenarii
of _Arlequin Maître d’Amour_ and _Arlequin Valet Etourdi_, the character
of Harlequin is played by Fritellino.

Towards 1612, Cecchini was summoned to the court of Matthias, Emperor of
Germany. He scored there so great a success that the emperor ennobled
him. He published in Venice in 1614 a small treatise: _Discorso intorno
alle commedie, commedianti e spettatori_, which he dedicated to the
Marquis Clemente Sanezio, and issued a second edition in 1616 dedicated
to the Cardinal Borghesi.

Some years later, in France, the character of Fritellino, then called
Fritelin and Fristelin, was entrusted with the rôles of lackey in the
Tabarinic farces.

Fritellino is dressed in ample garments, and wears the extraordinary hat
which, in the hands of Tabarin, assumed—as we shall see—a great variety
of forms. He wears the brown mask of the Bergamese mimes and the mantle
traditional to all the _Zanni_ of the sixteenth century, as well as the
wooden sabre and purse, which last, always empty, plays so great a part
in his existence.

iii

In 1570 an Italian troupe toured in France and even went to Paris to play
farces and comedies half in French and half in Italian, and sometimes
partly in Spanish. This was the company of Juan Ganassa. In it were to
be seen the Doctor in his black robe, Pantaloon with his red shoes,
Harlequin in his rags, and the Captain on his long legs. Pagliaccio
played the leading part and TABARINO was the _Zanni_. But this Tabarino
was not yet the famous Tabarin who, some fifty years later, with his
master Mondor, was to draw such crowds to witness his farces on the Place
Dauphine.

The Tabarino of 1570 was probably entrusted to double rôles, such as that
of servant with that of father or husband, like many other masks of the
Italian comedy.

There existed in the nineteenth century in Bologna a type which, like
all the others, entered the realm of marionettes, representing the old
man under the name of Tabarino or _Ser Tabarin_. He was nearly always a
retired and ignorant merchant, who began all his sentences in Italian
but, for want of practice in this language, invariably concluded them in
the Bolognese dialect. Usually he was the father of Columbine, and allied
with the Doctor. He is the Bolognese Cassandre or Pantaloon. He wears a
powdered bag wig; his coat, waistcoat and breeches are snuff-coloured,
his stockings red, coming above the knee and over the breeches; he is
shod in buckled shoes and crowned by a round hat. He is always an old
man of sixty.

The most famous of the Tabarins, the associate of the Italian Mondor,
who from 1618 to 1630 attracted all Paris was, according to some, of
Italian origin and born in Milan, whilst according to others he proceeded
from Lorraine. His real name, however, has remained unknown, eclipsed by
the glory of his patronymic. Was it by chance that he assumed that of
Tabarino, as he might have assumed that of Burattino or Cavicchio—two
other types greatly in vogue in the sixteenth century? Or did he
deliberately choose a name that was already known throughout France from
a member of Juan Ganassa’s company who had toured there under it?

Another itinerant troupe under the name of the _Comédiens de Tabarin_,
and managed by a certain Tabarini, also toured part of France and of
Germany in 1659, and ended by establishing itself at Vienna.

Tabarin, whose name is derived from _tabaro_ (a mantle or a tabard),
went, as we have said, to Paris in 1618, and became associated with
the charlatan Mondor, who, after the fashion of all charlatans of the
sixteenth century, set up his stage under the open skies. Upon this
farces were played with the object of attracting the crowd; that object
achieved, the merchandise to be sold was put forward with quips and
witticisms.

It was in this fashion that the Italian Cabotino (the probable source
of the word _cabotin_, meaning an itinerant actor) acquired so great a
reputation in the sixteenth century as a nomadic operator. He played
farce from a scenario, sold his drugs during the interludes, and drew
teeth at the end of the performance, all to the accompaniment of flutes
and violins.

The number of these charlatan directors of theatres is considerable;
the most famous were Scarniccia in the eighteenth century, in Italy,
Armando Niasi, on the Place du Châtelet, in Paris, and Mondor who came in
1618 to replace, on the Place Dauphine, Jacques May and Dulignac, whose
improvisatory wit had been amusing the gay people of Paris ever since
1598.

Tabarin reached the zenith of his glory in 1622. The Place Dauphine, the
scene of his exploits, became too small to contain the spectators who
flocked thither, far less for the purpose of buying his unguents than to
procure a preservative against melancholy.

“The Pont Neuf in the seventeenth century,” writes M. Paul de
Saint-Victor, “was the caravanserai of Paris. There you would
find encamped beggars, gypsies and comedians; the seven deadly
sins kept open fair there; you would behold swarms of those
eccentric figures of which the satires and prints of the times
have left us such lively portraits, raffinés twirling their
moustachios, courtesans in chairs, quacks upon their mules. It
was there that you would meet the muddy poet with his owlish
eyes and his beard like an artichoke leaf.

“What a pantomime in the manner of Callot! Here two duellists
are engaged upon the pavement, there a tooth extractor gropes
with his butcher’s forceps in the jaw of a screaming peasant,
yonder a hawker of hunting dogs beats his pack, further on a
pickpocket appropriates the purse of a passer-by, and beggars,
dragging their crutches along the unpaved ground, cling to the
doors of heavy coaches and to the poles of chairs.

“But the king of this new Cour des Miracles was Tabarin, the
servant of the charlatan Mondor. Their glorious stage was
erected on the Place Dauphine, and for more than ten years
the people of Paris stood ranged about it, a thousand mouths
gaping to consume the nostrums of the empiric and the jests of
the buffoon. It had an attendance, a vogue, a success of which
some idea may be gathered from the jeremiad which a pamphleteer
puts into the mouths of the women of the Rue Dauphine, furious
to see their husbands waste their time upon this comedian. ‘My
husband does not budge from Tabarin. I spend my days without
seeing him; first to this beautiful farce; then to play with
other debauched fellows like himself; after playing they must
go to the tavern. All the evil proceeds from that dog Tabarin.
And whence do you suppose came last year’s illness but from
this fine buffoon? Such was the heat on the Place Dauphine that
the air was corrupted by it. And that was the reason why the
king remained out of Paris for so long, and why we suffered so
much poverty.’”

[Illustration]

In 1625 Tabarin went to tour the provinces, and retired in 1630,
peacefully to enjoy the fortune which he had amassed. He bought a
feudal estate near Paris, and died there a very short time after having
acquired it. There are two versions of the manner of his death: one has
it that he succumbed in a drinking bout, the result of a tavern wager;
the other that he was killed whilst hunting. The fact is reported in
a book entitled _Parlement nouveau, ou centurie interlinaire de devis
facétieusement sérieux et sérieusement facétieux_, by Daniel Martin,
1637, from which the following is an interesting passage on the subject:—

“Could you tell me the reason why the name of charlatan is
given to all vendors of theriacs, distillers, tooth-drawers,
vendors of powdered serpents, of unguents and balsams in the
market places, of comedians on a table, bench or scaffold.

“Indeed, sirs, this word charlatan means a man who by fine
words sells bad merchandise; a cajoler such as was seen in
Paris in the year 1623, in a man named Tabarin and an Italian
named Mondor, who, having set up a scaffold in l’Isle du
Palais, assembled the people by the music of their violins
and the farces which they played, whereafter they set about
praising their drugs, and said so much good of them that
the silly and stupid folk, believing them capable of curing
all ills, would strive with one another as to who should
be the first to throw his money knotted in the corner of a
handkerchief or in a glove on to the scaffold so as to obtain a
little box of unguent wrapped in a printed bill, setting forth
the virtues of it and the manner of using it.

“I have been told that this buffoon became in a few years so
rich with the money of fools that he bought a lordship near
Paris, which, however, he did not very long enjoy.

“Why so?

“Because his neighbours, who were gentlemen of good and ancient
houses, being unable to endure for their companion a pantaloon,
a fool who with his hat metamorphosed into a thousand shapes
had made so many others laugh, killed him one day while
hunting, it is said.

“His master had not sufficiently impressed upon him a proverb
of his native land: ‘_A cader va chi troppo sale._’”

“Tabarin had a tragic end,” says M. de Saint-Victor. “His
trestles had enriched him; the jests which throughout ten
years he had flung to the crowd had come back to him in a
shower of doubloons. Pride tempted him. He purchased a feudal
estate and set up there as a lord. The gentlefolk thereabouts,
indignant of such a neighbour, killed the buffoon one day at
the hunt, as though he had been a hare. _Poor Yorick!_”

Mondor and Tabarin had several competitors, amongst whom were the Sieur
Hieronimo and his comedian _Galinette la Galina_; and Desiderio de Combes
and his servant _Grattelard_, who set up their theatre at the entrance
to the Pont Neuf. Desiderio was ugly and misshapen, and his jests were
ponderous.

“As for Combes, he is coarse and rustic, he cannot read or
write or speak, and the little audience accorded him accounts
him what he is, an ignorant charlatan, and the most brazen liar
that ever mounted a bench.”

The populace admired Tabarin, who possessed in so high a degree the
genius of farce, whilst people of condition were no less amused by him.
It is conceived that some habitués of his entertainment, observing the
attention which he excited, had the idea to collect his farces and
impromptu jests. But they did not disclose themselves.

One only, a certain Guillaume, has issued from obscurity.

“There are five or six rascals” (it is Hortensius who speaks,
in the _Vraye histoire comique de Francion_, 1668) “who earn
their living by writing romances; and there was even a college
scout, who was in the service of the Jesuits after me, who
amused himself by spoiling paper. His first attempt was a
_Collection of Tabarinic Farces_ ... a book so successful that
twenty thousand copies were sold, whilst it is impossible to
sell six hundred of a worthy work.... The name of this scout
was Guillaume.... He contrived to get some other works printed.
But all his books are fit for nothing but to wrap up pounds of
butter.”

So that _The Complete Works of Tabarin_ did not contain a single line
written by Tabarin or by Mondor, whose entire repertory was improvised;
nevertheless, they were collected from the inspirations of Tabarin.

Neither the comedians of the Hôtel de Bourgogne nor Gaultier-Garguille
assisted by Gros-Guillaume and Dame Perrine, who played the most famous
farces that one could desire, were able, for the five sous which they
charged each spectator, to afford their audiences the amusement and
laughter afforded by Tabarin alone, gratis and with only his hat. For be
it noted that his was a master hat which assumed all conceivable shapes;
it was a veritable first matter, _indifferens ad omnes formas_. It was
the chief property of an entire shop, the very foundation stone of his
theatre.

“This venerable and wonderful grey felt came to Tabarin in
direct succession from Saturn. This god was the first to wear
it, not as wide as it is now, but in a lengthened shape. He
wore it when he came to Italy, fleeing before the choler of
Jupiter, and gave it then its pointed shape that he might
disguise himself. Until then there had been no hats but round
ones like that of Mercury. It was from that time forward that
pointed hats were worn in the Spanish fashion. Saturn presented
it to _Tabaron_, an ancestor of Tabarin’s, who until then had
gone bareheaded. He was glad to find this expedient to protect
him from the heat of the sun; it was from this felt hat the
invention of the parasol was derived. This hat was handed down
from father to son with respect and reverence like a holy
reliquary, in memory of Saturn who wore it on weekdays. But
some member or other of the Tabarinian race, through negligence
or absent-mindedness, permitted it to be lost. It was found
and carried to Jupiter, who, unable to conceive of a better
present for his Mercury, gave it to him as becoming the only
god who wore a hat. Mercury, vain and foolish, had its shape
altered, transformed it into a pyramid and attached wings to
it. Unfortunately, however, on the first occasion that he wore
it, upon taking flight from heaven, the wind got inside it and
it was lost. It is said that he would never afterwards wear a
high-crowned hat. Janus, who, we are told, was living at that
time, was so glad to find it that he put it on, but, having
two faces and an enormous head, he so deformed it that it
became then as wide as it is now on the head of Tabarin. Janus
concealed it under Mount Aventine. Romulus discovered it in
the course of building Rome, and it was long preserved at the
Capitol. It never issued thence but to figure in the triumphs
of the emperors, when they entered Rome laden with spoils and
trophies. The high priests were charged with the care of this
precious hat, but a member of the Tabarinic race secretly
abstracted it, and it was transmitted again from male to male
through the Tabarin family. At the time of the expedition of
François I. into Italy, the grandfather of the grandfather of
Tabarin gave it to a French soldier who was returning home.
Desiring to buy a drug which was a sure cure for an ill with
which he was afflicted, and having nothing with which to pay
for it but this hat, the soldier exchanged it for a medicine
to an apothecary of the Place Maubert, who made use of it for
filtering honey.

“Tabarin, upon his arrival in Paris, recognised this hat which
had been held in such high esteem by his family. Indignant
to discover the use that was being made of the head-gear of
Saturn, he repurchased it, and if he is the last to own it he
can boast that he is the first to have invented how to give
it new shapes. With this lunatic and fantastic hat he can
represent all manner of hats, and present himself to the eyes
of the admiring crowd now as a soldier, now as a courtier, now
as a coal-heaver, now as a Dutchman, now as a bear-leader, now
as a slinger, now as a servant lately from the wars, etc.

“In brief, Tabarin’s hat, assisted by him who bore it, has
caused more people to laugh in one day than ever the comedians
of the Hôtel de Bourgogne were able to do with their comedies,
tragi-comedies and pastorals.”

The farces of Tabarin are the source of all the trestle repertories of
yesterday.

“It is rare to find a pearl amongst these” (says M. Paul de
Saint-Victor), “but on the other hand there is no lack of
salt. One is overcome with surprise when prowling through this
rubbish-heap to come suddenly nose to nose with Molière or La
Fontaine. Here a scene of Poquelin, there an apologue from the
Bonhomme have been taken from the farces of Tabarin as a pearl
is taken from the oyster. The sack in which Scapin encloses
Géronte plays its part in three or four of the farces of the
booth on the Pont Neuf.”

Tabarin proposes to his master a burlesque question; his master proceeds
to resolve it by a doctoral explanation which Tabarin interrupts with his
foolery.

_Question: How to make fifty pairs of shoes in half-an-hour_

TABARIN. It is a great secret. I do not think there is any man
in the world who has ever put this invention into practice.

THE MASTER. In truth, Tabarin, the solution of this secret
must be very ardently sought. It is one of the most clever
inventions seen for a very long time. As for me I am
constrained to acknowledge my ignorance save that to arrive at
this end I should take a hundred cobblers and I should entrust
to each the making of one shoe; then I think that in a very
short while I should arrive at what is desired.

TABARIN. That is not what I mean. I mean one man who alone,
in less than half-an-hour, should make fifty pairs of shoes.
There is nothing easier. You will yourself confess when you
shall have learned the secret that it is one of the finest
conceivable; cobblers should be able to extract great profit
from it. To begin with you must take fifty pairs of new boots
(if you desire that your shoes shall be new), and cut them all
equally across along the line of the ankle; by this means,
instead of fifty pairs of boots which we had before you will
find in less than half-an-hour fifty pairs of shoes ready made.
Is it not a fine invention?

_Who are those who desire to be one-eyed?_

TABARIN. My master, the other day I heard a certain fellow say
that he would give a hundred crowns to be one-eyed. Who are
those that may be considered entitled to express such a wish?

THE MASTER. A man must be quite beside himself to have so
great a cupidity in his soul. Sight is one of the first organs
of the body, and the most delicate part of it, being of an
incredible and admirable construction, in which the Author of
the Universe has enclosed all that is rarest and most excellent
in this world; for whether we consider the two pairs of nerves
which have their sources in the brain, and by which sight is
conducted, one of them being stronger to supply movement, the
other more delicate to supply sight; or whether we consider
the crystalline humour that is in the centre of the eye,
and its enveloping tunic which resembles a spider’s web, or
the other two humours that surround it and in which the eye
seems to swim; if afterwards we come to the consideration and
contemplation of the admirable retina and the films which
surround the whole body of the eye, the muscles which raise and
lower the eyelids, and all the artifice employed by Nature in
this admirable construction, we shall conclude that a man is
highly imprudent to desire the inestimable loss of the finest
part of him.

TABARIN. The men who desire to be one-eyed are the blind. If
you do not believe me go to the monastery of the Quinze-Vingts,
and I can assure you that you will not find there a single one
who would not be delighted to _see_ you hanged.

_Who are those who deride doctors and apothecaries?_

TABARIN. In your opinion, who are those who deride doctors and
apothecaries?

THE MASTER. Some very ill-advised people who, believing that
they will never need their services, deride their recipes;
they are people of nothing, ignorant of the fact that medicine
is an entirely celestial and divine art, which restores and
reintegrates Nature in her perfection and her apogee. Medicine
is the science of natural sciences, and ignorant are those who
despise it.

_Altissimus de coelo creavit medicinam, et vir prudens non
abhorrebit eam._

TABARIN. I said the same thing lately to a tailor who was
making me a pair of breeches: _Homerus et vir prudens non
abhorrebet eam._

THE MASTER. For my part I think that those who malign doctors
are the ignorant, and such folk as think never to need their
assistance.

TABARIN. You are wrong, for those who mock them are those who
most desire their aid, the people who are ill.

THE MASTER. The people who are ill, Tabarin! How can it happen
that a patient should mock a doctor, since he is so sorely in
need of one?

TABARIN. Is it not a piece of mockery to put out your tongue
half-a-foot to him who comes to visit you?

THE MASTER. Indeed to put out the tongue is a sign of derision.

TABARIN. Very well, when a doctor goes to see a patient to
ascertain his ailment, the sick man always puts out his tongue
at him. That is pure mockery.

_Dialogue between Mondor and Tabarin_

TABARIN. My master, let us consider things for once: it is high
time that I should become the master. I have been the servant
far too long.

THE MASTER. Get along, you rascal, you gallows bird! Do you
want to become the master, scullion that you are? You want to
give me orders, do you? And what then am I to become? Your
servant? Really, it would be a fine sight!

TABARIN. Yes, indeed, I should be a fine sight. Am I not as
much a man as you, and as great a master?

THE MASTER. What is one to say to a man who is persuaded of
something, and who gets some insolent notion into his mind?
Come here, rogue; who keeps you? who nourishes you? who
supplies you with all your necessaries?

TABARIN. It was but wanting that you should boast of feeding
me! A fine master you! When I came to see you, you made an
agreement with me, and you promised to dress me and to nourish
me. The devil take me if you’ve observed the hundredth part of
that! Every time that I have risen I have been compelled to
dress myself. When it was necessary to dine, did you feed me?
I have been constrained myself to go to the trouble of putting
my fingers in the dish and carrying them to my mouth. I have
endured far too much at your hands, but henceforward I shall
teach you what it means to be master.

THE MASTER. Is your brain so troubled and your judgment so
distorted that you do not know that I am your master?

TABARIN. Not at all, I maintain that I am as great a master as
you. Tell me, pray, how you can distinguish between master and
servant?

THE MASTER. It is easy to recognise the one from the other,
whether at rising or going to bed or even in the street: the
master always goes ahead.

TABARIN. I have got you. Now listen. You say that the master is
always to be recognised because he walks ahead; tell me now,
every time you go to sup in town and that you return after dark
by torchlight, which of us two walks ahead?

THE MASTER. It is you, Tabarin, since bearing the torch it is
your duty to light my way.

TABARIN. It follows then that I am the master, for I walk
ahead. Oh! the fine lackey that follows me then!

_The most daring animal_

TABARIN. Since you have some slight knowledge of the nature
of animals, will you kindly tell me which is the most daring
animal, and which the most generous?

THE MASTER. That is a matter beyond all doubt, Tabarin; it
is the lion; for just as he is the most furious of all so is
he the most daring. The daring and generosity of anything is
to be recognised by the heights of the enterprises which it
undertakes. Now among all species of animals, of which the
number is almost infinite, there is none that shows so great
generosity and daring as the lion. He is equipped with a male
courage which distinguishes all his actions. There is no other
beast, however furious it may be, that dares to stand before
his face. In short, to be brief, he is the most daring of all
animals.

TABARIN. You are wrong, my master. I do not go so far as to
say that you are lying, but it really amounts to no less. The
most daring animal on earth is the miller’s donkey, my master,
because every day of his life he is amid robbers and knows no
fear.

A collection attributed to Tabarin is entitled: “Jardin, récueil, trésor,
_abrégé de secrets, jeux, facéties, gausseries, passe-tems_, compozéz,
fabriquéz, experimentéz, et mis en lumière par votre serviteur Tabarin de
_Valburlesque_, à plaisirs et contentements des esprits curieux.”

Here are some brief extracts from it:

_To contrive that all those who are at a ball or other assembly
shall sneeze at once_

Take spurge, pirètre and white hellebore, in equal quantities
of each. Reduce the whole to finest powder and blow it through
a quill about the room where people are assembled and watch the
result.

_To contrive that meat brought to table shall seem full of
worms_

Take a lute cord, cut it into little pieces and put these upon
the meat while it is still hot, and the heat will set these
pieces jumping and moving as if they were worms.

This is followed by several jests and secrets to amuse the company, such
as:

“Recipe to prevent a pot from boiling.”

“How to make an egg run through the room without anyone
touching it.”

“How to kill and pluck a bird all in one stroke.”

“How to cut a string into several pieces and immediately to
make it whole again.”

“Admirable secret for cutting an apple in four, eight or more
pieces without damaging the skin.”

“How to contrive that he or she whom you appoint in drying the
face with a cloth shall become black. A very amusing secret,”
etc., etc.

Even a prophetic almanac for 1623 appeared under the name of Tabarin with
admirable predictions for every month of the year. It is a collection of
sentences and predictions after the manner of _La Palisse_.

“First of all should no timber or faggots arrive in port we
shall be in danger of paying high prices for fuel, etc. The
month of March will commence immediately after the last day of
February, and the weather will be very variable. The month of
April will follow after, etc. In the month of June the grass
will be cut. In July there will be a great war between dogs and
hares. Bulls will be twice as big as sheep and donkeys will be
as stupid as usual, whilst diminishing nothing in the length of
their ears. In the month of October the Normans will be busy in
their orchards. The month of December will be the last month of
the year. In this year no rustics will be ennobled,” etc., etc.

All such prognostications, like many others of Tabarin, come in
direct line from Rabelais, who himself imitated in his _Pantagrueline
prognostication_ the collection of _facéties_ of Henri Bebelius.

“This year the blind will see very little, the deaf will hear
very badly and the dumb will not speak at all. Many sheep,
bulls, pigs, geese, pullets and ducks will die. Fleas will
mostly be black. There will be horrible sedition between dogs
and hares, between cats and rats, between moles and eggs. In
all this year there will be but one moon, and it will not be a
new one. In winter, according to my little judgment, those who
sell their furs to buy wood will not be wise. Should it rain
do not be melancholy, for there will be the less dust on the
roads. Keep yourselves warm, avoid catarrhs and drink the best.”

The costume of Tabarin was composed of his mirific hat, of a felt which
was red rather than grey, of a short cloak in old green serge, and jacket
and trousers of linen.

BURATTINO is a famous mask of the _Gelosi_ troupe. It was somewhere
about 1580 that this personage appeared in Florence and scored so great
a success that very soon he passed into the marionette theatres, and his
name became the denomination of all marionettes, _Fantoccini_, _Puppi_,
_Pupazzi_ and _Bamboccie_. In 1628 a piece was even written about this
personage by Francesco Gattici, entitled _Le Disgrazie di Burattino_
(_The Misfortunes of Burattino_).

In the scenarii of Flaminio Scala, Burattino is a comical character,
addicted to tears, a glutton, a coward and always a dupe. He is a
servant, sometimes of Captain Spavento, sometimes of Isabella and
sometimes of Pantaloon. In fairy plays he intrudes upon the action to
deliver his jests, which have absolutely no connection with the plot. He
is a sort of ancient Stenterello. In _L’Innocente Persiana_, Burattino
is the servant of the Prince of Egypt, and his rôle consists of losing
and finding his master. In some plays he is a courier bearing letters,
booted, wearing a wide felt hat, and carrying a whip; he loses his
letters, or permits them to be stolen from him, which disheartens him,
and, crossing his legs, he refuses thereafter to be entrusted with any
commission.

At other times he is a gardener, the father of Olivetta, an indolent
girl, little given to work. He reproaches her with being unable to do
anything. “How,” he cries, “at your age and as big as you are, and, my
faith, fit to be married, you still do not know how to use a mattock
or how to plant a cabbage!” Thereupon he submits her to a course of
burlesque horticulture, naming to her one after another the garden
implements, and telling her how to use them.

Very often he is an innkeeper, and married to Franceschina, who leads him
by the nose. The Captain, having dined at his inn, departs after having
paid. Burattino is so surprised that he takes up a spade, shoulders it,
and thus escorts the Captain home to do him honour; but he is careful to
take with him Grillo, the pot-boy, so that he shall not be compelled to
return alone. When he gets back he perceives Pantaloon whispering with
his servant Pedrolino; the latter, perceiving Burattino, with whose wife
he is in love, raises his voice and reproaches Pantaloon with attempting
to betray the wife of that poor fellow Burattino. Pantaloon beats his
servant for having disclosed his intentions before the husband and
departs. Burattino comforts Pedrolino who has suffered for the sake of
the honour of his friend the innkeeper; he takes him inside, feeds him,
and then, with the greatest confidence, entrusts him with the vigilance
of his wife during his absence.

No sooner has our innkeeper departed than Madame Franceschina makes
unmistakable advances to Pedrolino. It is Pantaloon who seeks to convince
Burattino of the treachery of his friend and of his wife. Furious,
the innkeeper demands an explanation of Franceschina, who assures him
mockingly that he is mistaken. He believes her and returns to his
affairs, but Pantaloon, grown jealous on his own account, returns to the
assault, and compels the husband to surprise the two lovers. Burattino
seeks various ways of vengeance; he decides for poison and spends half
the piece seeking a suitable one; being unable to find any, he decides to
call the watch, and it is before the justice that he demands explanations
of his wife and Pedrolino. The result is that Burattino is persuaded
that he misunderstood what he heard and what he saw, which was no more
than a pleasantry. He believes and begs forgiveness of his wife, whom he
continues to account virtuous.

The actor who played the rôle of Burattino in the _Gelosi_ troupe must
very long have been absent from it, for he is not found to be included in
a whole series of scenarii which must cover a space of some six to eight
years.

CAVICCHIO was in the _Gelosi_ troupe in the sixteenth century, a sort of
imbecile and rustic servant. His rôles are short, and they consist mainly
in his coming on to sing and to relate some story after the fashion of
the peasants.

In _Gli Avvenimenti Comici_, Cavicchio is carrying soup to the harvesters
when he pauses before Mezzetin and Harlequin, who, dressed as labourers,
are making love to Lisetta, a young shepherdess. He mocks them, and
from injurious expressions they come to blows. But the shepherdess and
her friends, who arrive at the noise, separate the brawlers, and compel
them to make friends. Lisetta, desiring to cement the harmony between
Mezzetin and Harlequin, exacts from them a promise that, for love of her,
they will eat Cavicchio’s soup in the position that she shall indicate.
Lisetta then places them back to back and ties their arms. She then
places the bowl on the ground, bidding them eat, and departs, enjoining
Cavicchio to give them drink after they have finished the soup. Mezzetin
and Harlequin then attempt to pick up the soup, but each of them, every
time that he stoops, lifts his companion upon his shoulders, which is
a source of jests for Cavicchio, who looks on with bursts of laughter.
Harlequin ends by picking up the bowl and runs off eating, carrying
Mezzetin on his back.

In the third act it is night; Cavicchio is in his hut with his children
who are weaving baskets whilst he sings to the accompaniment of a
hornpipe, so as to maintain the family gaiety. Hearing a noise without,
he takes up a lamp and goes outside, to find himself face to face with
a military patrol. He cries out and calls his wife to his aid, but the
captain having reassured him, Cavicchio takes up his hornpipe and sets
them all dancing, his wife, his children, the soldiers and even the
captain.

FICCHETO is a simpleton who wearies his master, the innkeeper, and his
customers by gross proverbial comparisons and ponderous quotations. To
listen to him you would suppose that he had been in the Doctor’s service,
and that he had profited by his lessons. Extremely timid, he goes greatly
in fear of thieves, and so as to deceive them he never sleeps in the
same part of the house on two consecutive occasions; every evening he
is engaged in removing his bed. His master, intrigued by these nightly
removals, inquires the reason.

“It is on account of thieves,” replied Ficcheto. “They will be finely
trapped——”

“I hope so indeed,” replies his master, a man of sense.

“I say that they will be finely trapped. A rolling carcass gathers no
flies, as my father was wont to say.... And then again I like to sleep as
far from you as possible, for, as the proverb has it: Who lies down with
dogs gets up with fleas, and then——”

“That will do!” says his master, pushing him rudely aside. “Sleep where
you will.” And thereupon Ficcheto begins once more to transport his
mattress.

Among the less known Italian buffoons may be cited Gian Manente and
Martino d’Amelia.

In _La Calandra_ of the Cardinal of Bibbiena, the servant Fessenio
compares Calandro, the ridiculous and deceived husband, to these two
buffoons. “The thing that above all others makes me laugh at the expense
of Calandro,” he says, “is that he believes himself to be so beautiful
and lovable that all the women that see him are immediately enamoured of
him, as if the world did not possess such another model of perfection. In
short, as a popular proverb runs, if he ate hay he would be a bull; in
his own way he is almost as good as Martino d’Amelia or Giovanni Manente.”

“He is more simple than Calandrino,” is a proverb based upon the two
models of Boccaccio in which the simplicity of the painter Calandrino
impinges upon imbecility. _Far Calandrino qualcheduno_ means to make a
fool of someone. Bibbiena gives this popular name to the old man of his
comedy _La Calandra_.

Cortavoce, also called _Courtavoz_, was one of the first Italian mimes
to go to France in 1540. His costume with its grey hood and his long
cardboard nose earned him the surname of _the pilgrim_.

Rabelais, describing in his _Sciomachie_ (1569) the fêtes held in Rome on
the occasion of the birth of a dauphin of France, speaks of “Bergamese
mimes and other _matachins_, who came to perform their jests and
somersaults” before the court of Rome. Among others he cites Il Moretto,
the archbuffoon of Italy.

Il Moretto is also cited several times by Ludovico Domenichi in his
collection of _Facétie_, 1565, as a famous utterer of witticisms and a
master of his art.

XVI

TARTAGLIA

IL TARTAGLIA (the stutterer) is a mask of Neapolitan origin. Sometimes he
is a gossiping servant who, unable to complete the articulation of his
words so as to convey his ideas, flies into perpetual rages with himself
and with others. Nevertheless he is fat. Enormous spectacles conceal
three-quarters of his countenance, to suggest that he is short-sighted,
and that he has no desire to be surprised by danger; for however ready he
may boast himself to brave anything, from an elephant downwards, he will
usually conceal himself behind a hayrick if he hears a cock crow.

The type is one that was but little seen out of Italy. He filled utility
rôles and had never more than one scene in a scenario. He would play
moreover the parts of notary, of constable, of advocate, of judge, and
sometimes of apothecary; but he was invariably a ridiculous and ridiculed
personage.

Favart writes in 1761:

“The farce _I Tre Gobbi_ (”The Three Hunchbacks“), translated
into French by Lelio Riccoboni, is being repeated at the
Théâtre; this farce develops badly; but if it succeeds, that
at least will be a good development. I fear in this _facétie_,
the character of Tartaglia. One of the three hunchbacks is a
stammerer who always halts upon indecent syllables. That is to
venture a great deal in a nation whose ears are as chaste as
their morals are corrupt.”[5]

Tartaglia’s characteristic costume has always presented a great deal of
analogy with that of the _Zanni_. Created, it is said, by Beltrani da
Verona in 1630, an epoch in which lackeys such as Scapino and Mezzetino
began to discard the mask, Tartaglia assumed as his characteristic device
no more than the enormous blue spectacles, without which he cannot play.
His face is beardless, his head bald and covered by a round grey hat; he
wears an enormous linen collar; his cloak, coat and pantaloon are green,
striped transversely with yellow; his stockings are white and his shoes
are of black or brown leather. Such at first was Tartaglia.

But like all the others he underwent modifications suggested by changing
fashions. In 1750, Fiorilli, a very talented Neapolitan actor, a member
of Sacchi’s troupe, played this type in short breeches and cap; by giving
the garments of Tartaglia the form proper to Scapin he eliminated the
yellow stripes, and embroidered his green livery with silver frogs.

In the nineteenth century in Naples this personage, whose character is to
be nothing in particular so that it may be anything he chooses according
to the actor undertaking it, wore the white wig, the three-cornered
hat and the green coat in the Louis XV. fashion; he was the modern
Tartaglia, stammering the emphatic dialect of Naples. He delivers himself
of the most outspoken and buffoon sayings, with a nonchalance and calm
that are imperturbable. It is also a very common thing for the actor who
plays Tartaglia to go and spend a night, or perhaps four or five days, in
prison. It is a state of things accepted by the actors and the public,
and no one troubles about it.

At every undesirable word he stops as if to seek the proper one, and when
he has found it he falls upon it heavily, as it were. It is difficult
to give a specimen of the excessively free subjects which lead to his
arrest. There was one which assumed the importance of a political
fact. In the piece in which it was delivered Tartaglia was returning
from Spain, and attempted to inform the audience that the queen had
just opened the Cortes, being attended by the leaders of all political
opinions. The manner in which he garbled the word _Cortes_ and several
others remained stamped upon the memory of those present, and the jest
created some sensation, seeing that the Queen of Spain was then the
beautiful Christina, sister to the King of Naples. Tartaglia was sent to
prison for a week, and deprived of his favourite spectacles for a month.
The latter was the most cruel punishment possible to inflict upon the
actor and the public; for without his enormous spectacles Tartaglia is
paralysed.

Tartaglia is not always a fat fellow. Sometimes he is so dry, so long
and so lean, and adorned with so prominent a nose, that he resembles
a walking-stick. He then enjoys a singular prerogative; he is a
_jettatore_, he has the evil eye, or rather he has two evil eyes, for he
can see nothing behind his great spectacles.

“Tartaglia,” says M. Paul de Musset, “is a Neapolitan, enjoying
as great a favour as Pancrace. He represents the southerner
worn out by the climate, suffering from chronic ophthalmia, and
in a condition bordering upon cretinism. His hollow cheeks, his
long nose surmounted by enormous blue spectacles, his sickly
air and his vice of pronunciation make up the particular signs
of a _jettatore_ whom it is dangerous to encounter.”

In the comedy _Il Re Cervo_ of Carlo Gozzi, Tartaglia, his stammering
and stupidity notwithstanding, is the prime minister of the kingdom of
Serendippe. He desires to marry his daughter to the king, his master.
The king, however, loves another, the beautiful Angela. He marries her
and becomes jealous. To satisfy his desire to test the sentiments of his
wife, the magician Durandarto gives him a formula by means of which his
soul can introduce itself into any dead body that he desires to resurrect.

The imprudent monarch confides this important secret to Tartaglia, who is
not only furious at the marriage of the king, but further has permitted
himself to fall in love with the queen. We behold the injudicious king
and his perfidious minister in a forest. A hunted stag falls dead at
their feet. Tartaglia persuades his master to put his magic formula to
the test upon this animal. The formula is terribly efficacious, for,
simultaneously with the passage of the soul of the king into the body
of the stag, the body of the king falls dead. So far the evil is of
little account, for the king, who has become a stag, may return his soul
into his discarded inanimate body. But Tartaglia has been made aware
of the formula. He makes use of it immediately to cause his unworthy
soul to pass into the body of the king, and, whilst the latter bounds
away though the forest, Tartaglia returns to the palace and orders the
massacre of all stags, young and old, in the kingdom of Serendippe.

The scene in which Angela beholds the return of her husband, now
stammering and unbearable in his behaviour, is extremely amusing. She
drives him from her chamber, and finds herself at the door face to face
with a poor beggar whom, by force of instinct, she immediately begins to
love. This mendicant, of course, is none other than her real husband.
The king had found in the forest a poor devil dead of cold, and he had
taken possession of his body, thinking it but little suitable to reappear
before his better half in the shape of a stag.

Explanations follow, and Angela, to be rid of the odious Tartaglia,
promises him her caresses if he will consent to resurrect the little dog
which she has just lost. Tartaglia submits to this caprice, but scarcely
has he left his body than the legitimate king resumes it by means of the
formula, whilst Tartaglia yelps and whines in the body of the dog. That
is the last effort of his eloquence, for the king immediately strangles
him, and thus ends the comedy.

In Bologna the office of Tartaglia is to provoke laughter at the expense
of the law. It is sometimes the commissary himself, sometimes merely the
police agent who is held up to ridicule. But the Corporal of the _sbirri_
is his triumph. If he goes to arrest a guilty man his stammering renders
him so ridiculous that everybody falls to mocking him. His choler rises
to heights of fury when he perceives that the more he speaks the more the
laughter increases. We hear then inarticulate cries and unearthly roars
issuing from his throat. At last he departs, consigning everybody to the
devil, and from a distance we still hear his bizarre ejaculations which
it would be idle to attempt to reproduce.

Can we dispense with THE NOTARY? Impossible. Does not love play its
part—the principal part—in every piece? And if love is to be succeeded by
Hymen must not Hymen be preceded by a notary?

It is necessary, therefore, to the end that the scenario of a gay piece
shall satisfy the public, that when the dénouement is reached Ottavio
shall wed Isabella, and his servant shall wed the soubrette. The
notary comes to prepare the contract and to marry these young people.
The old men never marry, and all their needs are to be satisfied by
the apothecary. Should the notary by chance arrive in answer to their
summons, it is for the purpose of drawing up their wills.

A wig with eight curls, a black gown, a bourgeoning nose pinched by
enormous spectacles, an empty belly, a great foot, a cane in one hand
to sustain this ponderous individual, and a portfolio in the other
to balance him, shaking his head, smiling at everyone, he enters—the
desired, the indispensable, the triumphant notary! He salutes the
company, blows his nose and mops his brow, for he is a man of importance.
After the customary pinch of snuff proffered him by Cassandro, he takes
a chair, extracts his papers from his portfolio, seeks for a long time
his pen which is behind his ear, and on the score of which he disturbs
the entire household. It is Columbine who eventually finds it, thrust
into his wig. The company sits; a circle is made, whilst the Notary cuts
his pen, plucked, he says, from the right wing of Eros, and destined to
cement the happiness of the future spouses. Finally, after testing the
point upon his nail, and then trimming and retrimming it a little, after
having taken off and replaced his spectacles a dozen times, as if to test
the patience of his clients, he makes up his mind to receive the names,
patronymics and qualities of the one part and the other part.

The actual business is speedily despatched, particularly if he has
been primed beforehand. Sometimes, it is true, discussions arise, and
everything is on the point of being broken off. Throughout these he
remains impassive. Sometimes he comes to draw up the contract of the
guardian, and it is signed by the lover. This may enrage others, but
it matters not at all to him. All that concerns him is to have two
signatures. With these he will depart quite satisfied, particularly if he
has been well paid. Having pocketed his fee he will discuss the weather,
he will yawn more than is polite, and he will sometimes permit himself
to accept refreshment, and even to caress the chin of the soubrette,
throwing her a roguish glance over the top of his spectacles. He never
refuses to join the nuptial banquet, and he is capable of remaining at
table for three days and three nights without weariness; he will never
fail at each dessert to sing in a falsetto voice some old and playful
couplet upon the charms and graces of the bride. Thereafter, pleased with
his alleged witticisms, he will resume his eating.

There is, however, no company so good but that in the end it must be
quitted. A nuptial banquet cannot last six years. The Notary will return
home, supported by some of his clients, for his desire to return to his
wife has been left in some of the bottles he has emptied.

Not always, however, does it happen that he is so hospitably treated.
In those houses into which he comes to contravene by his ministry the
desires of the true lovers, if he dares to rise from his chair to make
a bow he will invariably sit down again upon nothing, to the great
satisfaction and hilarity of the servants. Sometimes also his fee is laid
across his back for him, after which he will not be seen again until the
storm is over. At bottom he is always a good fellow, fearing his wife and
the king, without any real evil in him, and residing at the corner of a
street in all the cities of the world.

In the _Intronati_ company, the Notary was sometimes called Ser Neri,
sometimes Ser Ghello, Ser Agapito or Ser Ciappelletto.

iii

In many Italian pieces the _Podestà_ or the _Bargello_ plays his part in
the dénouement. Neither is ever loaded with a long or a difficult rôle.
Their dress is severe, their manners insignificant, they represent the
law in all its rigidity.

THE COMMISSARY, being of an inferior order, is treated more cavalierly in
the Italian scenarii, as in the farces of Polichinelle.

THE COMMISSARY (_to his clerk_). Come, let us make haste, open
your desk, shut the door, drive away the dogs, take a chair,
blow your nose, leave a wide margin and write a large hand.

THE CLERK (_producing a large pen and a very small ink-horn_).
Sir, let us get on if you please.

THE COMMISSARY. I shall soon be done. Accused, what is your
name, surname, quality, birthplace, street, parish and lodging?
Have you a father, a mother, brothers or relations? What are
you doing in this town? Have you been here long? Whom do you
visit? Where do you go? Whence are you come? Set it down,
scribe. (_He strikes the shoulder of his clerk._)

THE CLERK (_dropping his ink-horn_). Oh, my shoulder is broken!
Behold a crippled clerk!

THE COMMISSARY. That is _punctum interrogationis_, you ignorant
devil! And you, accused, are you going to answer? Set it down
that he has said nothing.

THE ACCUSED. How could I, sir, when——

THE COMMISSARY. Enough! Do you think I have time to listen to
all your idiocies? Don’t you know that I have to see three
rascals hanged to-day without counting you? Send word that the
gang is not yet to set out. I have something here by which to
increase it.

THE CLERK. Sir, the gang will not start until you join it.

(_Collection of Gherardi._)

“_Avocats, procureurs and gens de chicane_,” as the song has it, received
fairly sharp treatment in the Italian buffooneries and the French farces
alike. In these the man of the robe is represented as more grasping
and thieving than his clients. They were always mocked, ridiculed and
presented with malice by the actors, to the delight of the audiences that
witnessed their scenic misfortunes.

“The Chicanoux earned their living by being beaten,” says
Rabelais. “The manner of it is as follows: When a monk,
a priest, a usurer or a lawyer is ill-disposed towards a
gentleman of his country, he sends him one of his Chicanoux.
Chicanou will cite him to appear, will outrage him and utter
impudent injuries against him according to his resources and
instructions, until the gentleman, if he be not paralysed of
wit and more stupid than a frog, is compelled to answer him
with blows and sword-thrusts, or, better still, to fling him
through a window or from the ramparts of his castle. That done,
Chicanou becomes rich for four months, as if beatings were his
proper harvests. For he will receive sound compensation from
the monk, the usurer or the lawyer, and from the gentleman a
reparation sometimes so excessive that the latter will lose
all his property in it, with danger of perishing miserably in
prison, as if he had struck the king.”

Many a spectator, after applauding the shower of blows with which
Polichinelle rewarded this Grippeminaud or that Grapignan, would return
home, considering with rage that a real Grippeminaud would come to
summon him on the morrow. In Italy the naïve public would still to-day
applaud the prowess of the “Seigneur de Basché daulbant sur Chicanoux,”
especially in certain remote districts, where law and justice are no
better loved or respected than they were of old; and in such places it is
not always without danger for the manager or for the actor himself when
a gentlemen in black comes to parade his venality and absurdities upon
the boards. On the Italian stage in Paris these caricatures of men of the
robe were usually played by Harlequin or Mezzetin, and Louis XIV., far
from having any notion of reprimanding their satirical allusions, laughed
at them and applauded them heartily.

In the following scene Grapignan is played by Harlequin.

THE THIEF. Is Master Grapignan at home?

GRAPIGNAN. Yes, sir. I am he.

THE THIEF. Sir, I am your servant.

GRAPIGNAN. Sir, I am yours.

THE THIEF. Knowing you to be the most honest advocate amongst
advocates, I come to beg you to enlighten me by your advice on
a little matter which has just happened to me.

GRAPIGNAN. What is the question?

THE THIEF. Sir, I was walking along the highway, when I was
very roughly struck by a merchant, mounted on an old screw.
When I asked him what he meant by it, he sided with his horse,
got down and told me that the animal was not an old screw and
that it was I myself who was that. Thereupon we quarrelled, and
we came to blows, and as he did not happen to be the stronger
I knocked him down. He got up and ran away. I ought to add
that as we rolled along the ground some twenty-five or thirty
pistoles fell from his pocket.

GRAPIGNAN. Ho! ho!

THE THIEF. I picked these up, and seeing that he had already
run away I got on to his horse, and I rode on as if nothing
had happened. Presently I learn, sir, that this rascal has
been lodging a complaint against me, charging me with being a
highway robber. I beg you to tell me whether there is about my
action the least appearance of such a thing! Inform me, I beg
of you, whither this affair is likely to lead me?

GRAPIGNAN. Faith! If the affair is conducted with heat it may
very well lead you to the hangman. We must get you out of it.
Did anybody see you?

THE THIEF. No, sir.

GRAPIGNAN. So much the better. To begin with we must lock up
the horse. For if the merchant came to discover it, seeing
that he has no other witness, he would not fail to have it
interrogated upon the facts, and then you would be lost.

THE THIEF. There is nothing to be feared on that score. The old
screw is incapable of unlocking its teeth.

GRAPIGNAN. Do not trust to that. Every day we behold dumb
witnesses bringing about the downfall of the accused.

THE THIEF. The devil!

GRAPIGNAN. We must lose no time. We must begin by procuring
witnesses at any price.

THE THIEF. But there was no one on the highway at that moment.

GRAPIGNAN. Never mind, never mind. We will discover someone who
was there.... I have in mind a couple of Normans who sometimes
work for me; but they will not undertake the matter save at a
good price, for they have just issued from an affair in which
without me ... you understand. (_He puts his hand on his neck
in a gesture suggestive of hanging._) Also it is a fact that
witnesses are very dear this year.

THE THIEF. How does that happen?

GRAPIGNAN. It is because no quarter is given them, they hang as
many of them as they can discover.

THE THIEF. If it is only a matter of money, sir, here is my
purse with twenty-four pistoles.

GRAPIGNAN. Heh! Heh! That may suffice for one witness,
but there are two of them. Haven’t you anything else, any
jewellery, any old diamond? On occasions like this, it is
necessary to know how to bleed oneself.

THE THIEF. Here is a diamond worth another twenty pistoles, and
here a watch, which may be worth twelve.

GRAPIGNAN. Well, well, out of love of you I might advance five
or six pistoles myself. After that we’ll make our accounts.

THE THIEF. Do so, sir. I place myself in your hands, and I
trust myself to your discretion.

GRAPIGNAN. Very well, then. It will be an extraordinary thing
if, with my two witnesses, I do not have your accuser sent to
the galleys. (_The thief departs._) Twenty-four pistoles on the
one hand, a watch and a diamond on the other: is it not better
that I should profit by these things than the provost? For this
poor devil will undoubtedly be sent to the wheel without delay!

Such is M. Grapignan, who succeeds in robbing even highway robbers.

IL SBIRRO (the Constable) was ever a type greatly in vogue in the Italian
comedy. He is the same personage as the _Sergent du Guet_ of the booth of
Polichinelle, under the names of _Corporal Rogantino_, _Corporal Simone_,
_Capo de gli Sbirri_, etc. Like the _Podestà_ (chief magistrate), this
terrific personage appears but little in the course of the plot’s
development.

[Illustration]

A vast felt hat, an enormous cloak, great strong boots, a long sword,
enormous moustachios and a cardboard nose, and there you have the
elements out of which to construct a constable. This raiment was always
hung upon a nail behind the first wing. The whole could be put on like a
dressing-gown, for it is often Harlequin, Mezzetin, Scapin or some other
lackey who passes himself off as something that he is not. But let them
have a care! For often at the moment when they least expect it there
appears on the other side of the stage a real Sbirro, who moves silently
in the shadow, wrapped to the eyes in his great cloak. But his heavy
boots alone make so much noise that it would be necessary to be as deaf
as Pandolfe not to hear him. What are the uses of this sombre personage?
To execute justice upon the traitors and evildoers of the comedy. He was
born anywhere. He is of any age, or rather he is so old that he is of
none. He lives everywhere. He is, he has been, and he will be. He is as
ancient as comedy. But his spirit is obtuse, and unpardonable mistakes
are common with him. Being strong of hand and tight of grip, he is feared
by all. Harlequin flees before him as though he were the plague. Mezzetin
fears him more than fire, and the same is the case with the good Pierrot,
although he has done nothing to draw upon himself the constable’s
attention. Polichinelle alone is not afraid of him. He is his greatest
enemy. On no single occasion have they met but that sound blows have
been exchanged, and the Sbirro has not always issued in triumph from the
contest. But what matter? He is strong in his conscience and the support
of the law, and knows nothing but his duty.

If the doctor was ridiculed on the Italian stage and in the comedies of
Molière, the APOTHECARY was not spared. But this worthy corps of science
triumphs in the person of _M. de Pourceaugnac_; he knows how to keep his
place, and never in the slightest degree does he impinge upon the rights
of the medical faculty.

“No, I am not a doctor,” says the apothecary to Eraste, “mine is not that
honour, and I am but an apothecary, an unworthy apothecary, your servant.”

In _Le Malade Imaginaire_ M. Fleurant is the model apothecary; he is
fully conscious of his worth, and does not jest on the subject of
his drugs. He is no longer the simple Matassin who, to introduce his
merchandise, seeks to deafen his client by bellowing its virtues in his
ear.

In the plays of Gherardi he bears the most ridiculous names, like
those of _Viseautrou_, _Cussiffle_ and _Clistorel_, and other kindred
ones. Callot calls him Maramao, and dresses him in a manner but little
different from the apothecaries to be seen in the comedies of Molière. He
presents him with a cap on his head, an apron about his body, armed with
his favourite weapon, which is as long as a culverin, and levelling it
with precision at Cardoni.

In the Italian comedy the apothecary is treated still better than in the
comedy-ballets of Molière. He plays a part, comes to mingle in the plot,
and alludes to his art in metaphors and symbols.

“I am persuaded, sir” (he says, addressing the Doctor, whose
daughter he seeks in marriage), “that a pierced chair would
more aptly denote an apothecary than a sedan chair.” (He has
been brought on in a sedan chair.) “But as such a vehicle
would not put me in good odour with my mistress, I have had
myself borne to your house in an elegant manner, to present
you my respects and all the submission which pharmacy owes to
medicine. I bring you a desperate patient, with whom simples
are of no effect, and whose cure in itself will shed the
highest credit upon your faculty.

“It is I, sir, who am both the patient and the illness; it is
I who am diseased to my very marrow by this terrible ailment.
It is I who am corroded by the perfections of Columbine. It
is I who desire to marry her, and finally it is I who implore
you to prescribe it me as a savoury decoction, which I shall
swallow with delight. To the Doctor all the honour, and to the
apothecary all the pleasure of it.”

XVII

SOME CARNIVAL MASKS

When it is considered that the greater part of the jests and the types
of Molière are to be found grossly but energetically sketched in the
Commedia dell’ Arte—that is to say, in the farces and parodies which,
without announcement of author and without printed publication, assembled
audiences for so many centuries before the appearance of the great
Poquelin—there can be no doubt that the interest of our researches
will be recognised just as it will be seen that they are without any
pretensions to raise the subject above its exact literary value. For
us it has been primarily an exploration in the archives of the eternal
comedy. Other lights will come in the course of time to complete this
work and to prove that the greatest comedian in the world is the people
that inhabit it.

Apart from their types of comedy the Italians possess a crowd of other
masks to be seen in the streets and public places during the last three
consecutive days of Carnival. A great number of these masks had their
birth in the theatres from which they have long since disappeared; but
the majority are no more than the products of fancy or fashion: of these
are the _Quacqueri_, who correspond to the French _Chicards_, and whose
costume is a medley of ancient and modern fashions; the _Matti_ (fools),
arrayed in long white shirts, wearing a nightcap and a white mask, the
neck smothered in an enormous collar. Men and women dressed thus run with
the crowd, performing a thousand follies, some with tambourines, some
with baubles, but most of them armed with sticks from the end of which
hangs a bladder or a wet sponge, with which they strike all the other
masks they meet.

The costume of _Bajaccio_ or _Pagliaccio_ is still very much in favour
during carnival, as is that of Pulcinella, both for men and women. The
_Maghi_ (sorcerers) is a character adopted by graver folk, as is that of
the _Abbatacci_, who, dressed entirely in black, saving for one white
stocking, go aping the ways of advocates and other men of the robe.
_Le Poverelle_ (female mendicants; a disguise for women) cover their
faces with a white mask, release their hair, and let it fall upon their
shoulders and dress entirely in white; the _Poverelle_ form into troupes
and go in quest of alms, which consist of flowers, fruits and sweetmeats.
Other disguises greatly in vogue are those of _Marinari_ and _Pescatori_
(sailors and fishermen), of _Giardinieri_ and _Giardiniere_ (male and
female gardeners), _Cascherini_ (topers), _Scopetti_ (sweeps), etc.

In a collection entitled _Trattato su la comedia dell’ arte, ossia
improvisa_, a title but little justified by the reproduction of five
masks of the Italian comedy, Francesco Valentini published in Berlin in
1826 a volume containing a large quantity of these carnival costumes.
It would be impossible to give a better idea of the scenes that were
to be witnessed during Carnival than by translating some passages from
Valentini’s sketch:

“I am now compelled” (he writes), “so as to render my little
treatise as little incomplete as possible, to present some
little scenes which take place in the streets of Rome. And that
I may succeed in this, I beg that in imagination you will
transport yourselves with me to some place in the neighbourhood
of the Corso, where our theatre is set up.

“It is the twentieth hour (in other words, two o’clock in the
afternoon), and no one is yet to be seen. The sky is overcast,
but the weather will be safe; it will not snow.

“Behold! here already is a Pulcinella, playing a trumpet,
leaping and talking. Let us listen. He complains of the
indolence of the masks; it is after two o’clock, and they are
not yet ready; a very little more would induce him to beat
them. He departs quite angrily, protecting his better half, who
leans upon his arm.

“Suddenly there is a great noise; a Harlequin, walking on
tiptoe, lantern in hand, leads the way for a _Quacquero_ and
his lady, the _Quacqueressa_; with him comes a _Bajaccio_
under an open sunshade. What the devil’s this, my friend, a
sunshade and a lantern? Night and sunshine? Yonder our desolate
Pulcinella is returning, and he who lately was lamenting is
now at the very summit of hilarity; he has just met another
Pulcinella, to whom he relinquishes his wife. Reciprocal joy.
Here comes an _Abbataccio_ and here two or three _Quacqueri_,
_Poverelle_, _Sbirri_, _Micheletti_; and last a Captain
_Fracasso_ in argument with a Tartaglia:

“‘If you don’t return at once to the galleys I will cut you in
two, piece of a thief!’

“‘_Vo ... i ... v’in ... ga ... gannate_,’ replies Tartaglia,
‘_io non sono ... chi ... chi ... rícer ... ca ... ca ...
cacate_’ (You are mistaken, I am not he whom you are seeking).

“Listen, listen to the Harlequins, crying as they run: _Chi ...
... chi ... chichirichi chic ... chirichi!_

“Turn now to this _Abbataccio_, a book under his arm, who
with the assistance of other masks has just seized upon a
poor imbecile of a peasant, who has come to see the Roman
carnival, and who certainly never expected to become an actor
in this farce: ‘You are my debtor,’ he bellows at him, ‘these
last two years, these last two centuries. Your grandfather,
great-grandfather, great-great-grandfather, or, if you prefer
it, your archi-great devil of a father, who was my man of
affairs, wrote me a bill of exchange. Don’t you believe it?
Do you deny the patent truth? I am going to show it to you.’
With that he opens his book, which turns out to be nothing
but a flour box, blows into it, and thus almost blinds the
poor peasant, who was gaping at him. He becomes the butt of
the laughter and ridicule of all who are present. A mask in
the dress of a groom comes to rub him down; the sweeps sweep
him, and a fool mystifies him. The peasant attempts to depart,
but at this moment a Doctor, an Apothecary and some Matassins
insist upon offering him their services. ‘He has turned pale,’
cries one, pointing to his flour-covered face, ‘he is about
to die.’ He gets away at last and darts round a corner of the
street, followed by his mockers, of whom heaven alone knows
when he will succeed in ridding himself.

“What is this noise? What is happening? ‘A Spectre, a
Spectre!’ (_una Fantasima!_) cries someone, and you behold
the Pulcinelli, Arlecchini, Brighelli, Pantaloni cutting a
thousand capers of terror. Captain _Ammazzasette_ (Rodomont)
puts his hand to his sword and runs to meet the phantom, which
lengthens itself almost indefinitely, and then disappears, to
the great shouts of the assembly.

“Observe this crowd, listen to this noise! Here comes the
cause of it: a well-harnessed donkey, bearing the king of
the Polichinelles with two little Polichinelles, his sons,
seated in the panniers. His court, consisting of thirty or
forty Polichinelles, escorts him, playing all conceivable
instruments. This general masquerade is extraordinary,
capricious and very droll. Consider that no two wear the same
head-dress; one wears a huge wig, another a basket, some an
evil hat, others go with shaven heads, and yet another bears a
cage with birds in it.”

This scene is illustrated in the work, and indeed each Pulcinella wears
a fantastic head-dress. But the remainder of the costume is invariable.
It consists of a sort of round skirt in grey linen bordered with red or
blue, descending to the knee; the front of this blouse, open upon the
breast, ends in a heart of red cloth. The trousers, similarly decorated
with red or blue, are wide and do not go below the ankle. These garments
are caught to the figure by a cord, from which hangs a copper bell,
similar to that which mountaineers hang about the necks of their cattle.
The mask is black or brown, the cap traditionally pointed, whilst the
wide ruff and the black shoes complete the costume of the Pulcinella of
carnival, such as he was in 1826.

“Along the Corso, from end to end, the people swarm like ants.
There is no window that is not crowded with sightseers. And
how varied is the assembly! Here ranks, ages and sexes are
all intermingled and confounded. Joy, gaiety and good humour
rule; pleasantries, practical jokes, laughter, nosegays and
clouds of flour on this side, and a rain of flowers on the
other, long queues of carriages filled with masks, and ancient
coaches on which the youthful nobility of Rome is representing
the abduction of Proserpine. Next we see women disguised as
officers, as sailors, as natives of Frascati or Albania. Two
squadrons of ancient warriors on cardboard horses engage
furiously in combat, and so on. The revels conclude with
races of unfettered and unmounted horses down the middle of
the Corso. Such is the Roman carnival until the hour of the
Angelus, at the sound of which everyone unmasks, and all go
to conclude the day at the theatre, at a soirée, or at home.
Shrove Tuesday being the last day, the Angelus bell is impotent
to command obedience; all retain their masks and then begins
the scene of the _Moccoli_, too well known to need reporting
here.”

After alluding thus superficially to some of the masks of the Roman
carnival, we may not pass in silence over several singular fantastic
and religious types, indispensable to all the scenarii of mystery plays
performed by the marionettes in Italy and in a less degree elsewhere.
These are Satana or the Devil, Mago or the Warlock, L’Incantatrice or
the Fairy, the Good Genius, the Archangel Michael and all the spirits
who preside over the elements, over nature, and so on. These personages,
the last surviving vestiges of the mystery plays, have marched down
the centuries step by step with the masks. The moment that an Italian
scenario departs from absolute reality it invariably falls into the
marvellous. The _fiabesco_, or fairy style, reached its highest diapason
in the eighteenth century at the hands of Carlo Gozzi.

XVIII

CARLO GOZZI AND CARLO GOLDONI

At the end of the eighteenth century, when the Italian comedy was dying
in France, having been fused into comic opera and French comedy, it was
also expiring in a literary sense in Italy, but not without one last
flicker, perhaps the most brilliant of all since the days of Ruzzante.

Carlo Gozzi did for the Commedia dell’ Arte the very opposite of that
which had been done by Beolco (Ruzzante). The latter had protested
against the academic language of his day. He had enthroned the dialects
upon the stage, and proved that this rustic speech was the only one
suitable to rustic and bourgeois pieces. Some two hundred years later,
towards 1750, Carlo Gozzi, finding the Italian language softened by the
various schools of literature through which it had passed, considered it
a fitting vehicle to convey the ideas of all classes; and after a stern
and derisive fight with the theatre of Goldoni, which was imbued with the
Venetian spirit, he became the exclusive poet, the absolute master of an
excellent company. Sacchi, the principal of this company, had with him
some precious actors, and he himself was a Truffaldino of the very first
rank.

“Never again,” says Gozzi himself, “shall we see a Truffaldino
like Sacchi, a Brighella like Zanoni or a Tartaglia like
Fiorilli, this Neapolitan full of fire, and so justly famous
throughout Italy. Nor shall we see again such another
Pantaloon as Darbés, this comedian self-contained or impetuous
at will, majestic, stupid and so true to life that the Venetian
citizen thinks to see himself mirrored upon the stage when he
beholds this perfect model of his absurdities. La Smeralda was
an angel in grace, a butterfly in lightness. With three words
these people knew how to play a scene so as to make their
audiences die of laughter. Never would they have suffered a
piece to fail on its first performance. Sooner would they have
manufactured another one on the spot. It was necessary that
the spectators should laugh for their money, for the players
were honest, and not for the devil himself would they have
returned the price of the tickets. I lived with them for ten
years amid noise, quarrels, storms and injuries, and all with
so much pleasure that I would not exchange those ten years for
all the rest of my life. They would have burned Venice for me.
Alas! everything comes to an end. The extinction and dispersion
of the company is one of my greatest sorrows. Goldoni placed
his trust in imposing and deceptive words; and words are
omnipotent with spirits of narrow limitations; his pieces will
perhaps return to the surface, whilst my poor fables, if once
forgotten, will never see the light again.”

These poor fables, which indeed are very much forgotten in Italy, and
very little known elsewhere, are none the less destined to live in the
archives of the Commedia dell’ Arte. They are not exactly scenarii, the
rôles being succinctly and wittily written, particularly in those parts
in which the actors had to express serious or passionate sentiments,
which in the main are difficult to improvise.

“I flatter myself” (he says) “to have been of use to the
company and to the art. Who could count all that out of
complaisance I have written for them of prologues and of
farewells in verse, of scenes to be interposed, of compliments
for pretty actresses who were passing through, of additions
to the farces, of soliloquies, of despairs, of menaces, of
reproaches and of prayers?”

The scenarii of the pieces of Gozzi might simply be called fairy tales
in action, the _fiabesco_ or, as it were, the fabulous. They are very
pretty stories, and their principal scenic merit lies in the alternation
of burlesque with dramatic situation. Gozzi himself called them nursery
tales, but if so they are written by a very poetical nurse for no less
poetical nurslings. Hoffmann steeped himself in them to produce his
fantastic tales. M. Paul de Musset, in one of his writings full of
grace and good sense, upon modern Italy (_Revue des Deux-Mondes_), has
characterised perfectly the bizarre genius of the Italian librettist and
that of the German narrator.

The principal pieces of Carlo Gozzi are: _The Love of the Three Oranges_,
_The Raven_, _The King Stag_, _Turandot_, _The Woman Serpent_, _The
Happy Beggars_, _The Blue Monster_, _La Zobéide_ and _The Green Bird_.
These subjects gave scope to improvisation, to fancy and to that immense
share held by a group of inventive and witty actors in the success of a
theatrical work.

Gozzi was surnamed the Aristophanes of the Adriatic. But the Signora
Teodora Ricci supervened. “_Amour, tu perdis Troie!_” Gozzi, who until
then had allowed himself to be cajoled by all the charming comediennes
of the company, fell in love with the Signora Ricci, who had no talent
whatever. Sacchi, the old Truffaldino, was the rival of the poet, his
best friend. The other actresses became jealous, and the men took sides
in the contest. The end of it was the dispersal of the company. Gozzi
found himself compelled to change his style. He followed the example of
Goldoni, whom he had so consistently mocked, he wrote and arranged plays
in the foreign taste for Signora Ricci, with the result that his dramatic
genius was extinguished in compilation.

Happily the secret fire of his active genius was re-ignited, and his
spirit revealed itself under a different form. He turned to the writing
of satires—“the best fruits borne by this fecund tree.”

“The year 1797,” says M. Paul de Musset, “arrived. Gozzi
witnessed the fall of his country as a result of treachery, its
abandonment by the French general, the entrance of the German
bayonets and the derisive election of Doge Manin, his friend.
Heaven alone knows what had become in this conflict of the
Pantaloons and Truffaldini! The year of Carlo Gozzi’s death is
not even known. Nor do we know the year in which he was born.
This bizarre genius passed like one of those comets whose
course we have not the time to study.”

It may be well to cite some fragments and reflections of Carlo Gozzi on
the nature and the history of the Commedia dell’ Arte, and particularly
of the success scored by this genre in Germany.

“The improvised comedy, known as the Commedia dell’ Arte,
was in all times the most useful to the troupes of Italian
comedians. It has existed for three hundred years. It has
always been attacked but never conquered. It seems impossible
that certain men of our day, who pass for authors, should not
perceive that they are ridiculous when they condescend to step
from their importance to an amusing anger against a Brighella,
a Pantaloon, a Doctor, a Tartaglia or a Truffaldino. This
anger, which appears to be the result of intoxication, clearly
shows that in Italy the Commedia dell’ Arte survives in all its
vigour the shame of the persecutions exerted against it.

“I consider sound impromptu comedians as of much greater worth
than improvising poets who, without saying anything of any
sense, captivate the attention of those assemblies gathered to
hear them.

“The improvised Italian comedy, called _dell’ arte_, is very
ancient and very much more ancient than the regular and written
Italian comedies. It had its beginnings in Lombardy, whence
it spread through Italy and penetrated into France, where it
is still to be found. In the sixteenth century it was no more
permitted to women to be present at improvised comedies than
at written ones. Both styles alike had become too licentious.
We may judge of the obscenities of the written pieces, but not
of those which were improvised, and which we know only from
tradition.[6] These two styles were always in rivalry.

“In the time of the Austrian emperors Leopold, Joseph and
Charles VI., the French comedians made all possible efforts to
keep their place in the two theatres of Vienna. But they were
dismissed by these emperors, who desired none but German and
Italian comedians in their theatres, and of these they gave
preference to those of their own nation. The Vienna companies
of comedians followed the same working methods as those of
Italy, and the improvised comedy which we call Commedia dell’
Arte was preferred. Weiskern, Heindrich, Leinhaus, Prehauser,
Kurz, Jacquedt, Stéphanie, Muller, Breuner, Gottlieb, La
Huberin, La Nutin, La Elizonin, and La Schwagerin were clever
performers who played improvised comedy in German.

“Il Ganzachi, an able Italian comedian of our acquaintance,
who speaks German very fluently, went to reinforce the Vienna
company with the personnel and the material of our own theatre.
Weiskern and Heindrich played old men’s parts; Leinhaus played
Pantaloon in German with a Venetian accent; Prehauser played
Hanswurst, a sort of second Zanni; Kurz played Bernardone;
Brenner was seen as _Il Burlino_ (the jester); Gottlieb as
a village idiot; La Nutin, La Elizonin, and La Schwagerin
played the feminine rôles, and all were as much beloved by the
public as are Sacchi, Fiorilli, Zanoni, Darbés, Coralina and
Smeraldina by ours.

“The detractors of this style claimed to have buried it.
Improvised comedy, they said, no longer exists even in Italy;
everywhere now comedy is recited from memory. But anyone who
cares to look at the manuscript which serves as a guide to
these excellent comedians will find a single sheet of paper
placed near a little lamp, for the greater convenience of the
entire troupe; upon this sheet is the whole matter from which
ten to twelve persons will keep an audience in laughter for
three hours, and conduct to its proper conclusion the story set
forth.

“To give our reader a specimen of the guide which suffices for
our improvising comedians, I will transcribe here a subject
which I read by the light of the little theatre lamp, without
adding or subtracting a single word. It is that of _The Broken
Contracts_, which we see performed several times each year, and
always with success.

ACT I

LEGHORN

BRIGHELLA enters the stage, sees no one and calls.

PANTALOON enters, simulates fear.

BRIGHELLA wants to leave his service.

PANTALOON recommends himself to him.

BRIGHELLA is touched, and promises him his assistance.

PANTALOON says that his creditors demand payment,
especially Truffaldino, and that this is the last day
allowed him, etc.

BRIGHELLA pacifies him.

At this moment:

TRUFFALDINO. Scene in which he demands payment.

BRIGHELLA finds a way to fend him off.

PANTALOON and BRIGHELLA remain.

At this moment:

TARTAGLIA, at the window, listens.

BRIGHELLA perceives this. Plays a scene with
Pantaloon pretending wealth.

TARTAGLIA comes down into the street to pretend to
beg alms of Pantaloon. In the end they agree upon the
marriage of the daughter of Tartaglia and the son of
Pantaloon.

At this moment:

TRUFFALDINO says that he wants his money.

BRIGHELLA pretends that Pantaloon gives it to him.
When this has happened three times all go off.

FLORINDO speaks of his love for Rosaura and of the
hunger that torments him. He knocks.

ROSAURA listens to his protestations, wants to put
him to the test, and asks for a present.

FLORINDO says this is not possible at the moment as
he has no means.

ROSAURA bids him wait, telling him that she will make
him a present, and goes off.

FLORINDO remains.

At this moment:

SMERALDINA, with a basket which she gives to
Florindo, and goes off.

FLORINDO eats.

BRIGHELLA, having heard that Rosaura has sent this
basket, steals it and escapes.

FLORINDO follows him.

LEANDRO speaks of his love for Rosaura. He seeks to
deceive Pantaloon.

At this moment:

TARTAGLIA comes on, speaking to himself of the great
wealth of Pantaloon.

LEANDRO asks for the hand of his daughter.

TARTAGLIA replies that she is affianced to the son of
Pantaloon.

LEANDRO is astonished; he makes a scene, etc., etc.

“From this textually rendered sheet” (says Gozzi) “comes the
comedy _I Contratti Rotti_, and from more than four hundred
other formulæ as concise as this come all our Commedia dell’
Arte. Such plays as these are not at the mercy of the sudden
illness of an actor, or the fact that another has been recently
recruited; a simple arrangement, broadly made, concerning
the basis of the scenic action, suffices for a successful
performance. At the moment of taking up the curtain it often
happens that the description of the rôles is changed according
to circumstances, the relative importance or the ability of
the actors. Nevertheless the comedy marches happily and gaily
to its conclusion. Not a year passes but that some scenes
are added or subtracted from the argument, and a simple
announcement made to the company is all that is needed for the
change to be ably executed. It will be seen that these clever
actors work upon the very basis of their subjects, establishing
always their scenes upon different foundations, and filling in
the dialogue with so much variety that they are always new and
perdurable. I have frequently heard these improvisors reproach
themselves with having badly established (_mal piantato_)
some scene or other, and proceed to re-establish it at once
by excellent arguments in such a way as to prepare their
companions for a fresh attempt.

“It is very true that in this style of comedy some serious
actors, and more particularly some actresses, have a very
arsenal of premeditated material committed to memory, material
which serves for intercessions, for reproaches, for threats,
for the expression of despair and for sentiments of jealousy;
but it is none the less surprising to see that, face to face
with the public and improvising with other improvisors, they
are able to hold this material in readiness, and to select
from the mass with which their brains are stored, that which
is suitable to the occasion, expressing it with energy, and
earning the applause of the spectators.

“Such is the system of our improvised comedy, a glorious art
which our nation alone can claim for its own, and one that, in
the course of three centuries, has by no means exhausted its
wit.

“It would take too long to enumerate the four hundred and more
subjects which are continually being renewed in the dialogues.
The clever actors who succeed the clever actors who die suffice
to give an eternal aspect of novelty to these subjects. We
see Roderigo Lombardi, an excellent Doctor, replaced by
Agostino Fiorilli, a clever Tartaglia, renewing each subject
merely by the differences that lie between their respective
talents. A single new original personage suffices to revive the
originality of the entire company.”

Gozzi informs us, however, that the authors of his day, and notably
Goldoni, wrote their dialogue after the first performance, and published
the scenarii which had been successful in the hands of improvising
comedians. For the rest, the majority of Italian comic authors have
proceeded thus. Nearly all the comedies of the seventeenth century are
extracted from old improvised scenarii of which Gozzi gives us a very
curious although very incomplete list. He cites among others: “The
famous Domenico Biancolelli, who has caused to be performed in dialogue
a very large number of improvised Italian scenarii. His comedies are
printed, but they have remained unfruitful, whilst the very same
subjects, treated by improvisation, are still greatly appreciated in
the theatre.” He further tells us that comedies written and recited
by comedians who memorise them, which had never succeeded in bringing
together sixty spectators, would attract a crowd from the moment that the
improvisors took possession of the subject to embroider it in their own
manner.

Many plays written up after the first performance, and published in
the _sostenuta_ form, have served none but reading purposes. The
comedians _dell’ arte_ took no notice of them, preferring their old
dry and succinct résumés, which left their wit very much more free and
untrammelled.

But whatever Gozzi may say, he has followed, like Goldoni, the extremely
felicitous mixed style, half-memorised, half-improvised. It remains,
however, that this mixed style could only be treated successfully by an
original spirit, and one sufficiently in sympathy with his actors to
leave them a free hand. It was a style that ended with himself. All that
remained of it after him was the custom in Italy to cause certain comic
masks to appear in the course of all sorts of performances.

Carlo Goldoni began, like Gozzi, and before Gozzi, by writing scenarii
for the Commedia dell’ Arte. Numerous traces of this must remain in
Italy, but Goldoni himself refused to edit these skeletons, of which he
was unjustly ashamed, until he had written them anew with full dialogue,
and thereby changed and converted them into complete plays. We have seen
Gozzi reproach him with having ruined, by means of this cold work, many
felicitous subjects in which the improvisors shone, subjects which, for
the rest, were of no use to the comedians of his day in their new form,
or else (according to Gozzi) were of use only for performance at banquets.

The quarrel between these two authors and their adherents was a very
lively one. Both had a deal of merit; Goldoni’s was the greater
wisdom, observation and reality, Gozzi’s the better invention, wit
and originality. Both began in the same way by leaving an open field
to improvisation. Little by little each felt the need to write up the
rôles, and to substitute his own personality for those of the comedians.
Both followed for some time the mixed style—that is to say, writing up
the serious rôles, and leaving the rôles of the masks to improvisation.
In the end both brought about the disappearance of the latter, Gozzi
in spite of himself, and with infinite regret for his beloved Sacchi
company; Goldoni, on the other hand, with the deliberate resolve to
suppress masks and dialects, or to relegate them to a place of secondary
importance. Thus he no longer permits them to improvise, but himself
writes their dialogues for them. It was upon this ground that Gozzi was
able victoriously to attack him. That which is written for improvisors is
of necessity pale, cold and heavy, and it would be far better not to see
Truffaldino or Tartaglia at all than to see them gagged by the logic of
the author.

The sentence of death which Goldoni attempted to pronounce against the
Commedia dell’ Arte is fully set forth in his piece entitled _Il Teatro
Comico_, which he himself has placed at the head of his collection
(edition of Turin, 1756), declaring it to be a sort of preface to his
work. There is very little that is amusing in this comedy; it is rather
to be considered a critical piece; but it is of interest to students of
the history of this style.

A theatrical director is rehearsing some new actors in a fresh piece, and
dissertating at length upon the subject:

ORAZIO (_the manager of the company_). You see that it is
very necessary to procure actors who are united by a literary
convention; without that they will usually fall into the trite
or the unnatural.

EUGENIO (_the second lover in the company_). Then it becomes
necessary entirely to suppress the improvised comedy?

ORAZIO. Entirely, no! It is as well that Italians should
continue masters of an art which other nations had not the
courage to create. The French are in the habit of saying that
Italian comedians are very daring to risk making impromptu
speeches to the public; but that which may be called temerity
on the part of ignorant comedians is a fine quality with
comedians of ability, and, to the honour of Italy and the
glory of our art be it said, there are still many excellent
personages who bear triumphantly and meritoriously the
admirable prerogative of speaking impromptu with as much
elegance as the poet may achieve in writing.

EUGENIO. But usually the masks are at a loss when they utter
what is premeditated.

ORAZIO. When what is premeditated is brilliant, graceful, well
suited to the character of the personage which is to utter it,
all good masks will learn it gladly.

EUGENIO. Would it not be possible to suppress masks in
character comedies?

ORAZIO. Woe to us were we to attempt such an innovation! It
is not yet time to risk it. In all things we must not offend
universal taste. In other times the public attended comedy
only to laugh, and they desired to see no other actors on the
stage but the masks. Did the serious characters render the
dialogue a little too long, at once they grew weary; to-day
they have learned to listen to serious rôles, to enjoy words,
to be interested by events, to favour the moral, to laugh at
the sallies and altercations derived from the serious itself.
But the masks are still beheld with pleasure, and it is not
necessary to withdraw them altogether. Rather let us seek
to limit their conventions and to bridle their ridiculous
characters.

EUGENIO. But this is a very difficult way of composing.

ORAZIO. It is a way that has lately been rediscovered, and to
which we devote ourselves. Very soon we shall see the most
fertile wits rising to improve it, as is desired with all his
heart by him who invented it.

Notwithstanding this naïvely perfidious attitude, Goldoni did not dare
until very late entirely to suppress the masks; but he had so completely
transformed them that they might well look upon him as their assassin.
Success abandoned him in a measure as he denaturalised the national
taste in the speeches of these personages, who, thanks to him, came to
utter dialogues in the French fashion—that is to say, like lackeys and
soubrettes imitating their masters. He acknowledged himself beaten,
became a Frenchman, and produced in France _Le Bourru Bienfaisant_; that,
after all, was his real genre.

It is none the less true, and Gozzi himself recognised it, that Goldoni
had worked for the Italian theatre, especially at the beginning, in
a felicitous and amusing manner. His Venetian pieces are still quite
charming, notwithstanding the narrower and heavier garb which he gave
them in redressing them for his readers. Compelled to leave the Venetian
dialect to his principal comic personages, he has contrived to produce
some real characters for the comedy of manners. Nevertheless the sum
total of his theatrical work does not sufficiently justify the title
awarded him of the _Italian Molière_. If any Italian genius deserves such
a comparison it is the genius of Ruzzante, who at once actor and author
was, like our great Poquelin, nourished upon Plautus and Terence, upon
whom, like him again, he improved considerably.

FOOTNOTES

[1] The names of Demetrio and Cornelio continued to be adopted in the
theatre for old men’s rôles, particularly in memorised comedies, such
as _La Vedova, comedia facetissima_ by Nicolò Buonaparte, a citizen of
Florence, 1643.

[2] Aldo Manuzio, the famous Venetian printer of the fifteenth century
(_sta zovene bella à muo un papagà in stampa d’Aldo_).

[3] _Les Bigarrures et touches du seigneur des Accords_, _Les
Apophthegmes du sieur Gaulard_ and _Les Escraignes dijonnoises_ (1560),
as well as the _Vaillans faits d’armes de Bolorospe_ (1633), must have
supplied Turlupin with matter to be embroidered and amplified into texts
of the style of the following:—

“... Habillé de vert (de gris), parfumé (comme un jambon) d’odeur (de
sainteté), et enveloppé d’un manteau (de cheminée). Il rencontre une
dame parée d’une belle robe (d’avocat), d’une fine fraise (de veau) et
d’une riche côte (de melon), bordée, d’un filet (de vinaigre).” Then
follows the description of his hero: “Il a un corps (de garde), une tête
(d’épingle), un cou (de tonnerre), des épaules (de mouton), des bras (de
mer), une main (de papier), un pied (de cochon), un dos (d’âne), une
langue (étrangère), une haleine (de savetier). Il était fort bien vêtu,
il avait de belles chemises de toile (d’araignée), un rabat de point
(du jour), une culotte (de bœuf).... Sa maison était bâtie de pierres
(philosophales), soutenue de piliers (de cabaret), et on y entrait par
deux cours (de chimie), d’où on montait vingt-cinq degrés (de chaleur),
et on se trouvait dans une grande chambre (de justice).... Il courait
à la chasse suivi d’une meute de chiens (-dent), de quatre valets (de
pique), montés sur des chevaux (de frise) portant des lacs (d’amour)
et des filets (de canards).... Il visitait souvent ses châteaux (en
Espagne), ses terres et ses champs (de bataille) ... et mourut d’une
chute (d’eau), etc., etc.”

[4] The site of the gallows.

[5] In the _Collier de Perles_, performed in 1672, Harlequin, who plays
the part of a certain Marchese di Sbrofadel, having swallowed a medicine,
imagines himself at the point of death. He summons a notary to make his
will. The Doctor goes out and returns with Tartaglia, who plays the
notary.

TARTAGLIA. Ser ... ser ... servant illustri ... tri ... tri ... trious.

HARLEQUIN. This notary is from Tripoli.

TARTAGLIA (_sits down, draws pen and paper and begins to write_). L’an
... an ... an ... an....

HARLEQUIN. Que l’on mène cet âne à l’écurie!...

TARTAGLIA. _I ... i ... i ... io son ... son ... sono presto._

HARLEQUIN. _Va, bene!_ I leave this house to the Doctor.

THE DOCTOR. But the house is mine!

HARLEQUIN. I know, that is why I am leaving it to you: if it were not
yours I should not leave it to you. I leave my cabinet to my cousin.

TARTAGLIA (_writing_). My ca ... ca ... ca....

HARLEQUIN. Faites vite retirer ce notaire, il va salir tous les meubles.

TARTAGLIA. ... binet! à mon cou ... cou ...

HARLEQUIN. I leave sixty-five acres of broadcloth to dress my family in
mourning.

THE DOCTOR. You are making a mistake. Cloth is not measured by the acre.

HARLEQUIN. It seems to me that a man may measure his own property as best
he pleases.

TARTAGLIA. Pou ... pou ... pou ... pour habiller ma famille en feuille.

HARLEQUIN. Je laisse à _Lallemand_, mon valet de chambre....

TARTAGLIA. Un lavement à mon valet de chambre.

HARLEQUIN. Lallemand! et non lavement.

TARTAGLIA (_writing always under the dictation of HARLEQUIN_). _Si si ...
si ... si ... signor_, il y a bien lavement ... ent ... ent ... ent.

HARLEQUIN. Je laisse toutes mes vielles nippes à la fripière, ma voisine.

TARTAGLIA (_repeating_). Tou ... tou ... toutes mes vieilles tri ... tri
... tripes, à la tri ... tri ... tripière, ma voisine.

HARLEQUIN. _Ohimé!_ ce notaire-là n’en peut plus; il faudrait lui donner
une médecine pour lui faire évacuer les paroles...! Je laisse vingt écus
à mon cuisinier, à condition qu’il dépendra de mon frère cadet.

TARTAGLIA. Qu’il pend ... pendra mon frère cadet.

HARLEQUIN. Enfin, je laisse au notaire ci-présent, une langue de pore
pour mettre à la place de la sienne.

TARTAGLIA. Po ... po ... po ... porc toi-même!

Harlequin gives him a kick which sends him flying, together with his
pens, paper, portfolio and ink-horns. Tartaglia gets up, his face covered
with ink, and goes off in such a rage that he is unable to articulate
intelligible sounds.

[6] On this score Gozzi is absolutely mistaken, so far at least as
Ruzzante is concerned, whom evidently he had never read. Ruzzante’s
pieces, as we have said, are never licentious, and virtuous women
attended their performance. “_Ad audiendas eas hominum tam mulierum
concursus_,” says B. Scardeon. This is further proved by the prologues
which Beolco himself recited, and in which he frequently addressed
himself to the good and beautiful ladies of the audience, sometimes
rebuking them upon the exaggerated fashions of their toilettes, sometimes
speaking to them of faithful love and of conjugal love in the most naïve,
and at the same time the most idealistic manner. In the _Gelosia_, of
Lasca (1581), there is a prologue addressed entirely to ladies, as is
also the case with _Il Granchio_, of Salviati (1566) and several other
comedies of the sixteenth century.

INDEX

Achæus, i. 9

Acrobates, i. 10

Actresses, in ancient Rome, i. 14;
in fourth and fifth centuries, 22;
in sixteenth century, 29;
morals of, 180;
admitted to the Italian stage, ii. 77;
admitted to the French stage, 79;
dancing essential to, 80;
in Beolco’s plays, 80;
in the Renaissance, 133

Adami, Patricia, plays soubrette parts, i. 44;
in Paris, 162;
marries Agostino Lolli, 163

_Adamo, L’_, described, i. 254

Adelphi Theatre, Legrand plays at, i. 230

Æschylus, i. 9; ii. 53

Aigremont, Mlle d’, cantatrice, ii. 73

Alborghetti, pantaloon, i. 49

Alvarotto, Marco, Beolco’s letter to, i. 303;
plays Menego, ii. 101

_Amante Romanesque, L’_, scene from, ii. 152

_Amants Magnifiques, Les_, Louis XIV. plays in, ii. 83

Amelia, Martino d’, i. 25; ii. 256

_Amour des Trois Oranges, L’_, produced, i. 100

_Anconitana, La_, quotations from, i. 236; ii. 132

Andreini, Francesco, in Scala’s company, i. 37;
his career, 149;
as author, 150;
his preface to Scala’s collection, 240

Andreini, Giovanni-Battista, heads the Uniti Company, i. 89;
his birth, 149;
plays Lelio, 150;
biographical note of, 254;
his _L’Adamo_, 254;
his _Teatro Celeste_, 255;
other works by, 256

Andreini, Isabella, i. 38;
her marriage, 149;
plays Isabella, 162;
in France, 239;
her distinguished career, ii. 135

_Anfiparnasso, L’_, ii. 57

Angeleri, Giuseppe, plays Brighella, ii. 167

Apothecary, the, described, ii. 273

Apuleius quoted, i. 60

Argens, Marquis d’, on morals of actresses, i. 180

Argieri plays Pulcinella, i. 113

Aristophanes, i. 10

Arlecchino. _See_ Harlequin

Arlequine, i. 173

_Arlequin Esprit Follet_, i. 95

_Arlequino Proteo_, i. 164

_Arlequin Poli par l’Amour_ quoted, ii. 151

_Artémire Délivrée_ quoted, i. 97

Arzigogolo, scene of, ii. 97

_Asinaria_ contrasted with Beolco’s _La Vaccaria_, ii. 128

Atella, theatre at, i. 11

Atellanæ, comedies so called, i. 11;
licentious, 12;
the source of the Commedia dell’ Arte, 32, 107

Augustus I. of Poland and Angelo Constantini, ii. 192 _et seq._

_Aulularia_ quoted, ii. 18

Aulus Gellius on ancient masks, i. 16

Aurelia, i. 41;
described, ii. 139;
played by B. Bianchi, 140

Aurelio. _See_ B. Ranieri

_Avocat Pour et Contre, L’_, scene from, ii. 221

Babron, Mlle, cantatrice, ii. 73

Bacelli, La, cantatrice, ii. 70

Bagnacavallo, Lidia di, i. 35;
and A. Valerini, ii. 134

Baletti, Elena-Virginia, plays Flaminia, i. 149;
in _The Wiles of Isabella_, 242;
marries L. Riccoboni, 265;
her career, ii. 165

Baletti, Giuseppe, goes to France, i. 268;
married to La Dumalgé, ii. 86

Baletti, Luigi, plays Lelio, i. 50;
at the Théâtre-Italien, 272;
accidentally shot, 273

BALLERINA, THE, chapter on, ii. 75;
Gertrude Boon, Violente and Mlle Hamoche, 83;
La Camargo, 84;
La Dumalgé, 86

Ballets, scenario of _La Verità_, ii. 81;
Louis XIV. in, 82

Balli, Celesi, plays Pulcinella, i. 129

_Banqueroutier, Le_, scene from, i. 166

Barbançois plays Pulcinella, i. 113, 153

Barbera, La, success of, ii. 56

Barbieri, Niccolo, quoted, i. 152;
on Zeccha, 192;
on boys playing feminine rôles, ii. 78;
on Isabella Andreini, 136;
plays, 173;
his _Supplica_, 173 _et seq._

Baron, the, of Sicilian origin, i. 28;
a variant of Pantaloon, ii. 50

Bartolazzi, Margarita, i. 41;
in _La Finta Pazza_, ii. 157

Bastolet, Mlle, cantatrice, ii. 72

Bathyllus, mime of the first century, i. 19

Beaumarchais and Mlle Mesnard, ii. 70

Begot, Anne, wife of Tabarin, i. 162

Belloni plays Pierrot, i. 212

Beltrame, of Milanese origin, i. 29;
costume of, ii. 172;
played by Barbieri, 173

Benozzi, Giovanna-Rosa, plays Silvia, i. 49;
married to G. Baletti, 268;
presents her son to the public, 272;
her career, ii. 150;
in _Arlequin Poli_, etc., 151;
in _L’Amante Romanesque_, 152;
in _The Portrait_, 154;
her marriage, 155

Beolco, Angelo (Ruzzante), opens a career to Italian dialects, i. 26;
his _La Rhodiana_ quoted, 99;
Il Sitonno created by, 134;
names of his soubrettes, 161;
_La Vaccaria_ quoted, 235;
_L’Anconitana_ quoted, 236;
creates the modern theatre, 254;
dialogue of, 276;
chapter on, 279;
compared with his predecessors, 280;
his epitaph, 281;
his stage companions, 282;
his use of dialects, 283;
his realism, 286;
his letters, 287;
his times, 288;
dialogues quoted, 289 _et seq._;
his letter to Alvarotto, 303;
his methods, 308;
his works, 309;
characters introduced by, 311;
dialogue quoted, ii. 14;
women in his plays, 80;
dialogue of, 102;
_La Fiorina_ quoted, 121;
_La Piovana_ quoted, 163;
never licentious, 285 _f.n._

Bergerac, Cyrano de, boastfulness of, i. 145;
quoted, 146

Berneri, Giuseppe, poem by, on Meo Patacca, i. 129;
Marco Pepe, 132

Bertinazzi, Carlo, plays Harlequin, i. 49;
succeeds Thomassin, 88;
his début, 90;
his talents, 91;
his death, 93;
Collé’s criticism of, 94;
Grimm’s criticism of, 95

Bertoldino, _The Life of_, i. 183 _et seq._;
on the stage, 191

Bertoldo, _The Life of_, i. 183 _et seq._;
on the stage, 191

Bianchi, Brigida (Aurelia), i. 43, 44, 153;
goes to France, 257;
writes _L’Inganno Fortunato_, ii. 140

Bianchi, Giuseppe, plays Spezzafer, i. 153; ii. 140

Bianchi, Orsola, ii. 140

Biancolelli, Catarina, plays Columbine, i. 44, 67, 163;
her début, 164;
quotations from her rôles, 165 _et seq._;
in Paris, 173

Biancolelli, Françoise-Marie-Apolline, plays Isabelle, i. 67;
at the Comédie Italienne, ii. 141;
her marriage with M. de Turgis, 147;
pensioned, 150

Biancolelli, Giuseppe-Domenico (Domenico), Gherardi on, i. 77;
defect in his voice, 84;
melancholy character of, 91;
father of Catarina, 163;
Fournier on, 204;
married to Orsola Corteze, ii. 141

Biancolelli, Pierre-François, plays under name of Dominique, i. 68;
plays Trivelino, 98

Biancolelli, Teresa, plays Columbine, i. 49, 163

Biancolelli, Teresa (the younger), i. 163

Bibbiena, Cardinal of, his _La Calandra_, i. 280

Bigottini plays Harlequin, i. 95

Biologues, i. 90

Birrichino, rôle described, i. 134 _et seq._

Biscegliese, Il, of Neapolitan origin, i. 28;
described by Musset, ii. 38;
ejaculations of, 39;
costume of, 40;
in _Le Jettaturi_, 40

Bissoni, Giovanni, plays Scapino, i. 49;
career of, ii. 182

Bobèche, ii. 118

Boon, Gertrude, ballerina, ii. 83

Borromeo, Cardinal Charles, i. 238;
scenarii bearing his autograph, ii. 137

Bos, Abbé du, quoted, i. 13

Bosse, Abraham, plays Matamoros, i. 152

Boxwell, the English clown, i. 232

Brazier quoted, i. 196

Brighella, origin of, i. 27;
Bergamese, 28, 45;
contrasted with Harlequin, 64;
in Venice, ii. 17;
described, 161;
descended from Epidicus, 163;
costume of, 166;
played by Angeleri and Zanoni, 167;
witticisms of, 167

Brocantin, variant of Pantaloon, ii. 26

_Broken Contracts, The_, scenario of, ii. 287

Brosses, Président de, on improvisation, i. 32;
on Meo Patacca, 131;
on _La Serva Padrona_, ii. 54;
on Italian opera, 55;
on a performance at Verona, 61, 85

Bucco, i. 107;
character of, 108

Buffoon, etymology of, i. 19

Burattino, gives his name to marionettes, i. 21;
in Scala’s scenarii, 29;
and Pedrolino, 202;
in _The Wiles of Isabella_, 242 _et seq._;
character described, ii. 252;
and Pantaloon, 253

Burchiella, Lucio, plays the Doctor, ii. 31, 37

Cabotino, ii. 238

Cacasenno, _Life of_, i. 184 _et seq._;
on the stage, 191

_Calandra, La_, performed at Lyons, i. 33;
written, 286;
quoted, ii. 256

Calcese, Andrea, plays Pulcinella, i. 112

Callot, his _Les Petits Danseurs_, i. 27, 63;
engravings of Captains, 148;
of Scaramouche, ii. 207;
his engravings, 231, 235

Camargo, La, Ballerina, ii. 84

Camerani plays Scapino, ii. 183

Camille. _See_ Antonia Veronese

CANTATRICE, THE, i. 28;
Elizabeth Danneret, 45;
chapter on, ii. 52;
some early singers, 56;
rôle of, 59;
Mlle Chantilly, 62;
Deamicis, 66;
La Piccinelli, 67;
Mlle Collet, 69;
La Colomba, 69;
Bacelli, Zanarini, Mesnard and Ruette, 70;
others, 72 and 73

CAPTAIN, THE, i. 26;
of Neapolitan origin, 28;
Spavento, 29;
Cocodrillo, 35, 45;
chapter on, 137;
_The Braggart Captain_ quoted, 138;
his bearing, 142;
Matamoros, 143;
European success of the type, 147;
costumes of, 147;
names of, 148;
Spavento, 149;
Rodomonte, 150;
Rinoceronte, 152;
Spezzafer, 152;
costume of, in the eighteenth century, 155;
Giangurgolo, 155;
Il Vappo, 156;
Rogantino, 157

Carlin. _See_ Carlo Bertinazzi

Carnival masks, ii. 275 _et seq._

Carpentier, plays Gillies, i. 213;
his drunkenness, 215;
his last appearance, 216

Casnar, i. 27, 107;
the ancient Pantaloon, ii. 10

Casperle supplants Hanswurst, i. 128

_Cassandre aux Indes_ quoted, i. 275

Cassandrino, of Roman origin, i. 28;
described, ii. 46

Cassandro, origin of, i. 27;
in dialogue with Paillasse, 197;
with Pierrot, 209;
described, ii. 42;
character created and developed, 45

Castil-Blaze quoted, ii. 54

Cavé, plays Scaramouche, ii. 227;
his duel, 228

Cavicchio, in Scala’s scenarii, i. 29;
described, ii. 254

Cecchini, Pietro-Maria, on comedy, ii. 77;
plays Fritellino, 236

Celega in _La Vaccaria_, ii. 123

_Centaura, La_, described, i. 40

Champfleury, scenarii by, i. 125;
on Deburau, 226;
on the English Clown, 232

Chantilly, Mlle de. _See_ Madame Favart

Chapelle, famous Cassandro, ii. 45;
anecdotes of, 46

Charlatans, in Athens and Sparta, i. 10;
Istomachus, 18;
Mondor, 41; ii. 238;
in Italy and France, 239;
Martin’s description of, 240

Chicanoux described, ii. 268

Ciavarelli, Alessandro, plays Scapino, ii. 183

Cicero, his friendship for Roscius, i. 18;
quoted, 60

_Cid, Le_, i. 145

_Clizia, La_, played in Rome, i. 280

Cinedologues, i. 80

Cinthio, in dialogue with Pierrot, i. 210;
played by M. A. Romagnesi, 259;
costume of, 260;
in _Colombine Avocat_, 260;
and Mezzetin, ii. 190

Clairon, Hippolyte, ii. 80;
on Volange’s failure, 118

Cleon, Roman mime, i. 18

Clown, the English version of Pierrot, i. 231;
descendant of the Clowns of Shakespeare, 233;
played by Giuseppe Grimaldi, 233;
played by Joe Grimaldi, 234

Cocodrillo, Captain, played by Fornaris, i. 150

Colalto plays Pantaloon, ii. 29;
his death, 30

Collé, his criticism of Bertinazzi, i. 94;
his criticism of Deshayes, 178;
of the sisters Veronese, ii. 177

Collet, Mlle, cantatrice, ii. 69

Colomba, La, her début, ii. 69

_Colombine Avocat_, dialogue from, i. 260

COLUMBINE, i. 41;
Catarina Biancolelli, 44;
Teresa Biancolelli, 49;
in _L’Empereur dans la Lune_, 82 _et seq._;
chapter on, 159;
a soubrette, 162;
Catarina Biancolelli, 163;
speeches of, 164 _et seq._;
in _Le Banqueroutier_, 166;
in _L’Homme à Bonnes Fortunes_, 169;
and Harlequin, 171;
costume of, 173;
Violette, 174;
Coraline, 175;
in scene from Gherardi, ii. 26;
the daughter of Cassandro, 44;
in dialogue with Isabella, 147

Comédie-Française makes war upon the forain theatres, i. 46

Comédie-Italienne, the “New” and the “Old,” i. 50;
amalgamated with the Opéra-Comique, 52;
styled “Théâtre des Italiens,” 53;
Bertoldo at, 192

Comedy, ancient, i. 11 _et seq._

Comædiæ Planipediæ, i. 12

Commedia dell’ Arte, developed in Italy, i. 26;
continuation of the Atellanæ, 28, 32;
improvisation in, 30;
Riccoboni’s hostility to, 267;
Gozzi and Goldoni on, ii. 281

Commedia Sostenuta, i. 26

Commissary, the, ii. 267

Confidenti Troupe, i. 34, 37, 150

Constantini, Angelo, plays Mezzetino, i. 44;
his career, ii. 185;
succeeds Domenico, 186;
anecdote of, 187;
and Augustus I. of Poland, 192;
his reappearance, 193;
his death, 194

Constantini, Anna, plays Isabelle, ii. 157

Constantini, Antonio, plays Harlequin, i. 89

Constantini, Constantino, plays Gradelino, i. 45;
career of, ii. 184

Constantini, Giovanni-Battista, plays Ottavio, i. 45;
in Paris, 262;
his services to France, 263;
his character and death, 264

Coraline. _See_ Anna Veronese

Corneille, i. 145

Cornelio, Aloysio, patron of Beolco, i. 281 _et seq._

Corteze, Orsola, plays Eularia, i. 44;
wife of Domenico, 67;
her début, ii. 140

Corypheus created by Thespis, i. 9

Cotta Pietro, Riccoboni on, i. 266;
endeavours to uplift comedy, 267

COVIELLO, i. 27;
of Calabrese origin, 28;
chapter on, ii. 231;
in Callot’s engravings, 233;
played by Salvator Rosa, 234;
Fritellino, 235;
Tabarino, 237;
Burattino, 252;
Cavicchio, 254;
Ficcheto, 255

Crispin, costume of, i. 152;
described, ii. 229

Croce, Giulio Cesare (Della Lira), i. 183;
his poem, 185

Dancing. _See_ Ballerina

Danneret, Elizabeth, cantatrice, i. 45; ii. 59;
in _Le Départ des Comédiens_, 60

Darbés, plays Pantaloon, ii. 30;
Gozzi’s praise of, 282

Deamicis, cantatrice, ii. 66

Deburau, Jean-Baptiste, i. 53;
contrasted with Père Rousseau, 196;
transforms character of Pierrot, 219;
Théophile Gautier on, 220;
Janin’s biography of, 221;
his agreement with Bertrand, 222;
plays in which performed, 223;
his last appearance, 226;
his death, 227;
and George Sand, 228;
his character, 229;
his son, 230

Deburau the younger succeeds his father, i. 229

Delaulne, Florentin, his _Arlequiniana_, i. 69

Della Lira. _See_ Croce

_Départ des Comédiens, Le_, quoted, ii. 60

Deshayes, at the Comédie-Italienne, i. 175;
Collé’s criticism of, 178

Doctor, the (Il Dottore), i. 26;
of Bolognese origin, 28;
in Scala’s scenarii, 29, 48;
Materazzi, 49;
in _L’Empereur dans la Lune_, 80; and ii. 35;
and Pedrolino, 201;
in _Pantalone Spezier_, ii. 21;
described, 31;
Riccoboni on, 32;
his mask, 33;
players of, 37;
in dialogue with Isabelle, 144;
and Fenocchio, 171;
and Scaramouche, 218

Donat, Jean, plays zanies, i. 44

Domenico. _See_ Giuseppe-Domenico Biancolelli

_Double Inconstance, La_, i. 94

Dumalgé, Mlle, Ballerina, ii. 86

Ely plays Polichinelle, i. 125

_Empereur dans la Lune, L’_, i. 79; ii. 35

_Épreuves, Les_, sketched, i. 223

Esopus, Roman mime, i. 18

Ethologues, i. 10

Etoile quoted, i. 35 _et seq._

Etruscans, i. 11

Fabioni plays Pulcinella, i. 119

Facanappa described, ii. 49

Favart, marries Mlle Chantilly, ii. 62;
on La Piccinelli, 67;
on La Dumalgé, 86;
on Camille, 158 _et seq._

Favart, Madame (Mlle Chantilly), her début, ii. 62;
Maréchal de Saxe in love with, 63;
her talent, 64;
her death, 65;
her dancing, 80

Fedeli Troupe, i. 39

Fenocchio, variant of Brighella, ii. 168;
and Harlequin, 169

Fescennia, the verses of, ii. 231;
actors of, 232

_Festin de Pierre, Le_, i. 205

Ficcheto described, ii. 255

_Finta Pazza, La_, title of, i. 42;
performed in Paris, 57

Fiorello, Silvio, introduced Pulcinella, i. 112

Fiorilli, Agostino, plays Tartaglia, ii. 261;
Gozzi’s praise of, 281, 290

Fiorina, La, quoted, ii. 121

Fiorinetta in _La Vaccaria_, ii. 121

Fiurelli, Tiberio, Scaramouche, i. 41, 43, 44;
in interlude, ii. 58;
plays Scaramouche, 208;
his marriage, 210;
his fame, 211;
and Louis XIV., 212;
his second marriage, 214;
in scenario from Gherardi, 215

Flautino, played by Giovanni Gherardi, ii. 184

Flavio, Flaminio Scala, i. 29;
in _La Vaccaria_, 235; and ii. 125;
in _The Wiles of Isabella_, i. 242

_Fontaine de Sapience, La_, quoted, ii. 59

Fornaris, Fabrizio di, in Confidenti Troupe, i. 37;
plays Cocodrillo, 150

_Fourberies de Scapin, Les_, i. 188

Fournier, Édouard, on Pierrot, i. 204 _et seq._

Fracassano, Michelangelo da, plays Pulcinella, i. 44, 113

Fracasse, Le Capitaine, i. 148

Franca-Trippa, type created, i. 37;
a zanni, ii. 236

Franceschina, played by Silvia Roncagli, i. 37, 162;
in _The Wiles of Isabella_, 242;
wife of Burattino, ii. 253

Fritellino, in Scala’s scenarii, i. 29;
described, ii. 235;
played by Cecchini, 236

Funambules, Théâtre des, i. 125;
Deburau at, 218;
Deburau’s agreement, 222

Funambuli, i. 10;
in Rome, 15

Gabrielli, Giulia, i. 41;
cantatrice, ii. 57

Galimafré, ii. 118

Ganassa, Juan, establishes Italian comedy in Paris, i. 34;
his company, 192

Garrick, David, on Bertinazzi’s talent, i. 191

Garzon, Thomas, on Isabella Andreini, ii. 135

Gaultier-Garguille, created, i. 41;
on boastfulness, 146;
etymology of, ii. 50;
described, 51

Gautier, Théophile, on pantomime, i. 54;
on Deburau, 220

Gavarini Girolamo, plays Captain Rinoceronte, i. 152

Gelosi Troupe, i. 35;
at Hôtel de Bourbon, 36;
its motto, 37;
players in, 238

Genest martyred, i. 19, 255

Gennari, his eulogium of Beolco, i. 280 _f.n._

_Gentilhomme Gascon, Le_, played before Henry IV., i. 198

Geoffrin, Julien, plays Jodelet, ii. 204

Gherardi, Evaristo, on improvisation, i. 39;
plays Harlequin, 45;
his collection of scenarii, 52;
his account of his first appearance, 76;
his death, 78;
scene by, ii. 26;
in _Le Départ des Comédiens_, 60;
monologue of Isabella, 142;
on Fiurelli, 211

Gherardi, Giovanni, plays Flautino, i. 44;
father of Evaristo G., 76;
career of, ii. 184

Gianduja, originated in Turin, i. 28;
identical with Girolamo, ii. 108;
described, 110;
in Turin, 112

Gian Farina, i. 193

Giangurgolo, of Calabrese origin, i. 28;
one of the captains, 155 _et seq._

Giaratone Giuseppe, plays Pierrot, i. 44, 207;
biographical note of, 211

Giglio. _See_ Gilles

Gilles, variant of Pierrot, i. 213;
played by Carpentier, 213

Girolamo, identical with Gianduja, ii. 108;
in Milan, 109

Goldoni, Carlo, hostile to Commedia dell’ Arte, i. 99;
writes play for Darbés, ii. 30;
his methods, 290;
his quarrel with Gozzi, 292

Golinetti plays Harlequin, i. 95

Gozzi, Carlo, his relations with Sacchi, i. 100;
and the Commedia dell’ Arte, ii. 281;
his scenarii, 283;
and Signora Ricci, 284;
on improvisation, 284 _et seq._;
his quarrel with Goldoni, 292

Gradelino played by Constantino Constantini, i. 44; ii. 184

Grattelard, described, ii. 200;
in _The Three Hunchbacks_, 201;
the rival of Tabarin, 242

Grimaldi, Giuseppe, Clown, i. 233

Grimaldi, Joe, Clown, i. 233

Grimm, quoted, i. 47;
on dismissal of Italian players, 53;
on Bigottini’s Harlequin, 95;
on Colalto, ii. 29;
on Mlle Chantilly, 64, 65;
on La Colomba, 69;
on Mme Ruette, 70;
on Jeannot, 115

Gringalet, ii. 118

Gros Guillaume, created, i. 41;
played by Guérin, 198;
costume of, 199

Guaiassa, La, the Neapolitan soubrette, i. 179

Guapo, Il, i. 133 _et seq._

Guérin, Robert, plays Gros Guillaume, i. 198

Guéru, Hugues, creates Gaultier Garguille, ii. 50

Guillot-Gorju, created, i. 41;
described, ii. 52

Halle, Adam de la, i. 121

Hamoche plays Pierrot, i. 206, 212

Hanswurst, the German Polichinelle, i. 115;
Magnin on, 127;
played by Prehauser, 128

Harlay, Achille de, i. 62

HARLEQUIN, descended from phallophores, i. 11, 27;
Bergamese origin of, 28, 41;
played by Domenico, 44;
by Gherardi, 45, 76;
by Thomassin, 49, 84;
by Carlo Bertinazzi, 49;
described, 54;
chapter on, 57 _et seq._;
possible ancestor of, 59;
costume of, 60;
etymology of name, 62;
character transformed by Domenico, 65;
in _L’Empereur dans la Lune_, 79;
in plays by Marivaux, 85;
played by Antonio Constantini, 89;
by Bertinazzi, 90;
by Bigottini, 95;
by Golinetti, 95;
in marionettes, 95;
actors who played, 96;
Trivelino, 96;
in _Artémire_, 97;
Truffaldino, 98;
in _Harlequin Roi Par Hasard_, 153;
and Spezzafer, 154;
in _Arlequino Proteo_, 164;
and Columbine, 171;
and Violette, 174;
and Pedrolino, 201, 202;
in _Les Épreuves_, 224;
in _The Wiles of Isabella_, 242;
in _Colombine Avocat_, 260;
in _Cassandre aux Indes_, 275;
Pantaloon’s servant, ii. 19;
in _Pantalone Spezier_, 21;
in _Le Départ des Comédiens_, 60;
in _Arlequin Poli par l’Amour_, 151;
and Fenocchio, 169;
and Mezzetin, 189;
and Scaramouche, 216;
in _L’Avocat Pour et Contre_, 221;
in _Le Collier de Perles_, 260 _f.n._

Haudouin, Bertrand, plays Guillot-Gorju, ii. 52

Henri III. summons Gelosi Troupe to France, i. 35

Henri IV., anecdote of, i. 198

Herodotus on marionettes, i. 20

Histrion, etymology of, i. 17

_Homme à Bonnes Fortunes, L’_, scene from, i. 169

_Illusion Comique, L’_, i. 145

_Inganno Fortunato, L’_, i. 84;
announcement of, ii. 61;
by Brigida Bianchi, 140

Interludes, origin and development of, ii. 54;
filled by Fiurelli, 58

ISABELLE, played by Isabella Andreini, i. 37, 162;
in _L’Empereur dans la Lune_, 83;
and Columbine, 165;
in _Le Banqueroutier_, 167;
in _L’Homme à Bonnes Fortunes_, 169;
and Pedrolino, 202;
in _Les Épreuves_, 223;
in _The Wiles of Isabella_, 242;
in _Cassandre aux Indes_, 275;
in scene from Gherardi, ii. 27;
chapter on, 121;
Isabella Andreini, 135;
some leading ladies, 138;
played by Brigida Bianchi, 139;
by Françoise Biancolelli, 141;
monologue of, 142;
in dialogue with the Doctor, 144;
with Columbine, 147;
Silvia, 150;
Flaminia, 156;
Lucile, 157;
some other variants, 159;
and Mezzetin, 188

Istomachus, a charlatan, i. 18

_Italien Marié à Paris, L’_, success of, i. 268

Janin, Jules, his biography of Deburau quoted, i. 220

Jan-Klaassen, the Dutch Polichinelle, i. 127

Jeanne of Naples, her history dramatised, i. 24

Jeannot, described, ii. 114;
played by Volange, 116

Jocrisse, ii. 118

Jodelet, created, i. 41;
described, ii. 209

Karagheus, the Eastern Polichinelle, i. 115

Lambert, Mlle, cantatrice, ii. 72

Laurent plays Leandro, i. 227

Leandro, played by C. V. Romagnesi, i. 45, 264;
in _Les Épreuves_, 223;
character transformed, 273;
in _Cassandre aux Indes_, 275;
played by Laurent, 277;
and Cassandro, ii. 44

Legrand, Henri, plays Turlupin, ii. 198

Legrand, Paul, plays Pierrot, i. 230

Legrand, Louis, plays Turlupin, ii. 200

LELIO, played by Luigi Riccoboni, i. 49, 264;
in _L’Inganno Fortunato_, 84;
in _Le Prince Travesti_, 85;
chapter on, 235;
Flavio, 235;
played by G. B. Andreini, 254;
Orazio, 257;
Cinthio, 259;
Ottavio, 262;
played by L. Riccoboni, 264;
played by Cotta, 266;
in _L’Italien Marié à Paris_, 267;
played by G. A. Romagnesi, 268;
played by F. Riccoboni, 271;
played by A. L. Baletti, 272;
Leandro, 273

Lisle, Mlle de, cantatrice, ii. 72

Livius Andronicus, i. 13

Locatelli, Domenico, plays Trivelino, i. 43, 44, 66, 97;
play by, 98

Locatelli, Gabriella, i. 41; ii. 57

Lolli, Angelo Agostino Constantino, plays the Doctor, i. 44;
marries Patricia Adami, 163;
his Doctor, ii. 37

Lombardi, Bernardino, i. 35;
plays Doctor, ii. 37

Loret, “The Historic Muse of,” quoted, i. 43

Louis XIII. summons Italian troupe to France, i. 41

Louis XIV., responsible for French opera, ii. 58;
dances in ballets, 82

Lucian, quoted, i. 14;
on masks, 17;
on dancing, ii. 76

Lysiodes, i. 10

Macchiavelli, Niccolo, as dramatic author, i. 280;
friend of La Barbera, ii. 56

Maccus, i. 26, 107;
character of, 108

_Maddalena Lasciva e Penitente, La_, characters in, ii. 138

Magnin, Charles, on pantomime in Rome, i. 13, 14;
on marionettes in Rome, 19;
on attitude of Church towards histrions, 22;
on itinerant troupes, 36, 38;
on plebeian drama, 53;
on Pulcinella, 120;
on Polichinelle, 121, 126;
on Punch, 127;
on ancient singers, ii. 53;
on dancing, 76;
on funeral of Isabella Andreini, 136

Maillard, Mlle, Cantatrice, ii. 72

Malloni, Maria, Celia, i. 35;
her talent, ii. 134

_Mandragora, La_, i. 280; ii. 81

Manducus, i. 19

Manente, Gian, i. 25; ii. 256

Marco-Pepe, of Roman origin, i. 28;
affinity with Polichinelle, 128;
costume of, 131;
rôle of, described, 132

Marinette, i. 44

Marionettes, in antiquity, i. 19;
etymology of, 20;
varieties of, 21;
gypsies and, 25

Marivaux writes plays for Thomassin, i. 85

Marmontel on Harlequin, i. 59, 64

Mary of Médicis summons Fedeli Troupe to Paris, i. 39

Masks, in Rome, i. 15;
worn by Greek mimes, 17;
worn by types of the Italian comedy, 27;
some carnival masks, ii. 275 _et seq._

Matamore. _See_ Matamoros

Matamoros, Captain, played by Fiorello, i. 112;
his Spanish origin, 143;
Scarron’s play on, 147;
played by Bosses, 152

Matterazzi plays Doctor, i. 49; ii. 27

Mazarin, Cardinal, summons Italian comedians to Paris, i. 41, 51;
summons Domenico, 66

Mazurier plays Polichinelle, i. 124

Meneghino, of Milanese origin, i. 28;
described, ii. 101;
descended from Menego, 102;
akin to Stenterello, 106

Menego, dialogue of, ii. 102

Meo-Patacca, of Roman origin, i. 28;
variant of Polichinelle, 128;
peculiarity of speech of, 129;
in Theatre of Palla Corda, 130;
costume of, 131

Mercey, Frédéric, on Polichinelle, i. 115;
on Meo-Patacca, 129;
on the Captain, 143;
on Pantaloon, ii. 18;
on the Italian masks, 24;
on the Doctor, 31;
on Stenterello, 89, 94;
on Meneghino, 106

Metrobius, i. 18

Mézières, Marie Laboras de, her career, i. 156

Mezzetino, in Scala’s scenarii, i. 29, 41;
played by A. Constantini, 44;
described, ii. 185;
and Isabelle, 188;
and Harlequin, 189;
and Cinthio, 190;
and Pasquariello, 223

Mimes, in Rome, i. 14;
their masks, 15;
their status, 17

Molière, creates Pierrot, i. 205;
his Scapin, ii. 181;
plays with mask, 186;
his admiration of Fiurelli, 214;
inspired by the Italians, 215

Mondor, the charlatan, i. 41;
plays Captain Rodomonte, 150;
dialogue of, 151;
the associate of Tabarin, ii. 238 _et seq._

Montaigne, on Italian comedy, i. 26;
on comedians, 193

Musset, Paul de, on the four Venetian masks, ii. 17;
on Il Biscegliese, 38, 40;
on Tartaglia, 262

Mystery plays, i. 24

NARCISINO, the modern planipes, i. 28;
of Bolognese origin, 28;
character, ii. 195;
monologue of, 196

Natocelli plays Pagliaccio, i. 195

Nobili, Orazio, i. 35

_Noces de Pierrot, Les_, i. 226

Nodier, Charles, on Polichinelle, i. 125

Nonnus of Panopolis on pantomime, i. 14

Notary, the, described, ii. 265

Opera Buffa, created, ii. 54;
first performed, 55

Opéra-Comique, i. 47;
amalgamated with the Comédie-Italienne, 52;
composers at the, ii. 71

Orazio, in _The Wiles of Isabella_, i. 242;
played by Marco Romagnesi, 258;
character and costume, 258

Orléans, Duc d’ (The Regent), summons Italian players to Paris, i. 84

_Orpheus_ performed in Paris, i. 51

Ottavio played by G. B. Constantini, i. 265

PAGLIACCIO, first appearance of, i. 192;
costume of, 193;
actors playing, 195

Palais Royal, Italian players at, i. 44, 84

Paillasse, i. 195;
played by Père Rousseau, 196

Palla-Corda, Theatre of, Meo-Patacca in, i. 130

Palladio, theatre by, at Vicenza, i. 33

Pangrazio il Biscegliese. _See_ Il Biscegliese

Pantalone. _See_ Pantaloon

_Pantalone Spezier_, ii. 21

PANTALOON, origin of, i. 27;
Venetian, 28;
in Scala’s scenarii, 29, 41;
played by Alborghetti, 49;
in _The Wiles of Isabella_, 242;
chapter on, ii. 9;
descended from Pappus, 10;
origin of his name, 17;
his character, 18;
and Harlequin, 19;
in _Pantalone Spezier_, 21;
Don Pantaleone, 23;
of every social condition, 24;
change in his costume, 25;
variants of name, 26;
Brocantin, 26;
played by Sticotti, 28;
by Colalto, 29;
by Darbés, 30;
the Doctor, 31;
Il Biscegliese, 38;
Cassandro, 42;
Cassandrino, 46;
Facanappa, 49;
the Baron, Gaultier-Garguille, 50;
Guillot-Gorju, 52

Pantomime in Rome, i. 13, 14

Pappus, i. 27, 107;
ancient Pantaloon, ii. 10

Parasolz, his drama on Jeanne of Naples, i. 24

Pasquariello, i. 44;
scene with Harlequin, 73;
in league with Columbine, 172;
and Scaramouche, ii. 212

Pasquino described, ii. 228

Passion, la, Confraternity of, close the Italian theatres in Paris,
i. 35;
drive out the Confidenti, 38

Pedrolino, character of, i. 200;
lackey of Pantaloon, 201;
his appetite, 202;
his mischievousness, 203;
derived from the Italian peasant, 208;
in _The Wiles of Isabella_, 242

Peppe-Nappa, of Sicilian origin, i. 28;
variant of Pierrot, 216

Personæ, masks so called, i. 12

Phallophores, i. 10;
Sycionian, 59;
in Rome, 60

Piccinelli, La, her history, ii. 67

Pierò, i. 200. _See_ Pierrot

Pierrette, i. 173

PIERROT, played by Giaratone, i. 44, 207;
described, 54;
in _L’Homme à Bonnes Fortunes_, 170;
chapter on, 183;
Pagliaccio, 192;
Gros-Guillaume, 198;
Pedrolino, 200;
derived from Pedrolino, 204;
created by Molière, 205;
played by Hamoche, 206;
derived from French peasant, 208;
in dialogue with Cassandre, 209;
and Cinthio, 210;
his character, 211;
players of, 212;
Gilles, 213;
Peppe Nappa, 216;
character transformed by Deburau, 219;
in _Les Épreuves_, 223;
played by Legrand, 230;
the English Clown, 231;
in _L’Empereur dans la Lune_, ii. 35;
and Cassandro, 43;
in dialogue with Isabelle, 44;
in _L’Avocat Pour et Contre_, 222

Pindar quoted, ii. 76

Planipes, i. 11, 60

Plautus, _The Braggart Captain_ quoted, i. 138;
_Mostellaria_ quoted, 159;
_Pœnulus_ set to music, ii. 55

Pliny on actresses, ii. 77

POLICHINELLE. _See_ Pulcinella
Chapter on, i. 103;
his character, 106;
Riccoboni on origin of, 110;
Sand on origin of, 111;
Riccoboni on, 114;
variations of his name, 115;
Polliciniella, 118;
Magnin on, 121;
his song, 122;
plays written round, 123;
competes with guillotine, 123;
Arnault on, 124;
Mazurier’s performance, 124;
Ély’s performance, 125;
Nodier on, 125;
Magnin on, 125;
Punch, 126;
Hanswurst, 127;
Meo-Patacca, 128;
Marco-Pepe, 132;
Il Guapo and Il Sitonno, 133;
Birrichino, 134

Polliciniella. _See_ Polichinelle

Polidoro in comedy by Beolco, i. 276

Ponti, Diana, ii. 137

Porbus quoted, i. 34

Prehauser plays Hanswurst, i. 128; ii. 286

_Prince Travesti, Le_, i. 85

Pulcinella, lineal descendant of Maccus, i. 26;
Neapolitan, 28;
played by Fracassano, 45;
origin of, 107;
etymology of, 109;
introduced by Fiorello, 112.
_See_ Polichinelle

Pulcinello, played by Coleson, i. 114. _See_ Polichinelle

Pulliciniello. _See_ Polichinelle

Punch, the English Polichinelle, i. 115, 126;
Magnin on, 127

Pylades, mime of the first century, i. 19

Quinault befriends G. A. Romagnesi, i. 269

Quintus Roscius, earnings of, i. 18

Rabelais, quoted, i. 20;
his _Sciomachie_ quoted, ii. 133;
Turlupin and, 198;
his _Sciomachie_, 257;
on Chicanoux, 268

Ranieri, Bartolomeo, plays Aurelio, i. 44;
his career, 261

Rauzzini, Giacopo, plays Scaramouche, i. 49; ii. 226

Réaux, Tallemant des, on Gros Guillaume, i. 198

_Re Cervo, Il_, sketched, ii. 263

Reynie, La, interdicts foreign players in Paris, i. 45

Rhinthonus, i. 12

_Rhodiana, La_, i. 99

Ricci, La, Gozzi’s mistress, i. 100; ii. 284

Riccoboni, Antonio, disregards royal summons to Paris, ii. 26

Riccoboni, Francesco, plays Lelio, i. 49, 271;
his career, 272

Riccoboni, Luigi, on F. Scala, i. 29;
on improvisation, 31;
director of the Regent’s Company, 49;
on zanni, 60;
on Harlequin, 63;
on image of Maccus, 110;
on Polichinelle, 114;
on the Captain, 147;
on G. B. Andreini, 256;
plays Lelio, 264;
his career, 265;
his History of the Italian Theatre, 266;
his mania for tragedy, 267;
his History criticised, 268;
on Ruzzante, 283;
on Pantaloon, ii. 24;
on the Doctor, 32

Richelieu, Cardinal de, summons Italian players to Paris, i. 51

Rinoceronte, Captain, described, i. 152

Rodomonte, Captain, described, i. 148;
played by Mondor, 150;
dialogue of, 151

Rogantino described, i. 157

Romagnesi, Carlo Virginio, plays Leandro, i. 45, 264

Romagnesi, Giovanni-Antonio, plays Lelio, i. 49;
early adventures of, 268;
his début at Strasburg, 270;
his success in Paris, 271

Romagnesi, Marco, plays Orazio, i. 44, 257

Romagnesi, Marco Antonio, plays Cinthio, i. 44, 259;
his career, 268;
plays the Doctor, ii. 37

Roncagli, Silvia, in Scala’s company, i. 37;
plays Franceschina, 162

Roquelaure, Maréchal de, anecdote of, i. 198

Rosa, Salvator, i. 28;
on Pagliaccio, 194;
plays Coviello, ii. 233

_Rosaura, La_, performed in Paris, i. 51; ii. 58

Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, and the sisters Veronese, i. 176

Rousseau, Père, plays Paillasse, i. 196;
dialogue of, 197

Ruette, Madame, her talent, ii. 71

Ruine di Pompeia, Le, sketched, i. 118

Rusca, Margarita, plays Violette, i. 49, 174

RUZZANTE, chapter on, i. 279. _See_ Angelo Beolco

Sacchi, plays Truffaldino, i. 99;
his ruin, 100;
Gozzi’s praise of, ii. 281

St Victor, Paul de, on Tabarin, ii. 239, 241, 245

San Carlino, Theatre of, i. 115

Sand, George, and Deburau, i. 228

Sanniones, i. 60

San Samuele, Theatre of, i. 99;
Anna Veronese at, 176

Sant’ Angelo, Theatre of, i. 100

Saturæ, i. 12

Saxe, Maréchal de, opera in his camp, ii. 62;
in love with Mme Favart, 63

Sbirro, Il, described, ii. 272

Scala, Flaminio, his company, i. 29;
heads the Gelosi, 35;
actors engaged by, 37;
retires, 38;
Pedrolino in his scenarii, 200;
plays lovers, 238;
appearances of, in France, 239;
his collection of scenarii, 239;
his _The Wiles of Isabella_, 242;
engages Isabella Andreini, ii. 135

SCAPINO, of Milanese origin, i. 28;
played by Bissoni, 49;
chapter on, ii. 161;
Brighella, 161;
Fenocchio, 168;
Beltrame, 172;
his address to travellers, 179;
his character, 180;
played by Bissoni, 182;
played by Camerani, 183;
Flautino and Gradelino, 184;
Mezzetino, 185;
Narcisino, 195;
Turlupin, 198;
Grattelard, 200;
Jodelet and other variants of, 204

SCARAMOUCHE, i. 26;
of Neapolitan origin, 28;
played by Rauzzini, 49; and ii. 226;
chapter on, ii. 207;
and Pulcinella, 209;
in scenes from Gherardi’s collection, 215 _et seq._;
Pasquariello, 219;
played by Cavé, 227;
Pasquino, 228;
Crispin, 229

Scardeon, Bernardino, on Beolco, i. 279, 281, 282

Scarron quoted, i. 147

Schœnobates, i. 10, 109

Scudéry, i. 145

_Serva Padrona, La_, ii. 54;
translated, 66

Shakespeare, the Clowns of, i. 233

Simodes, i. 19

Sitonno, II, rôle of, i. 133;
source of, in Ruzzante, 134

Smargiasso, described, i. 156

Soubrettes, i. 161;
Columbine, 163;
names of, 174;
Coraline, 175

Spanish Comedians in Paris, i. 43

Spavento, Captain, i. 148;
played by F. Andreini, 149;
and Pedrolino, 201;
in _The Wiles of Isabella_, 242

Spezzafer, Captain, his dress, i. 152;
played by G. Bianchi, 153;
dialogue of, 154

Spezza-Monti, Captain, described, i. 148

Spinetta, i. 45

STENTERELLO, of Florentine origin, i. 28;
comparable with English Clown, 231;
chapter on, ii. 89;
appearance of, 90;
etymology of, 92;
costume of, 92;
character of, 93;
an episode of, 94;
the Bolognese, 98;
monologue of, 99;
Meneghino, 101;
Gianduja and Girolamo, 108;
Zacometo, 113;
Jeannot, 114;
Jocrisse and other variants of, 118

Sticotti, Antonio, plays Pierrot, i. 212

Sticotti, Fabio, plays Pantaloon, ii. 29

Strozzi, Giulio, author, i. 42

Suppositi, I, produced, i. 280

_Surprise de l’Amour, La_, i. 85

Susarion, i. 9

Sycionian phallophores, i. 59

Tabarin, i. 41;
and Rodomonte, 151;
a charlatan, ii. 238;
St Victor on, 239;
the story of his death, 240;
rivals of, 242;
complete works of, 243;
quoted, 246;
prophetic almanac of, 251;
costume of, 253

Tabarini, his troupe in Vienna, i. 66; ii. 238

Tabarino described, ii. 237

Tabernariæ, i. 12

_Taking of Delhi, The_, Gianduja in, ii. 112

Tarentum famous for its actors, i. 18

TARTAGLIA, i. 27;
of Neapolitan origin, 28;
in Venice, ii. 17;
chapter on, 259;
in _Le Collier de Perles_, 260 _f.n._;
costume of, 261;
frequent imprisonments of player of, 262;
in _Il Re Cervo_, 263;
the Notary, 265;
Il Sbirro, 272;
the Apothecary, 273

Terence on funambuli, i. 15

Terpander introduces the lyre, ii. 53

_Thémire Délivrée_ criticised by Favart, ii. 158

Thespis, i. 9;
creates the corypheus, ii. 53

Thomas Aquinas quoted, i. 23

Thomassin. _See_ Antonio Vicentini

_Three Hunchbacks, The_, ii. 201 _et seq._;
Tartaglia in, 259

Titus Livy quoted, i. 11, 13

Togatæ, i. 12

Toneelgek, the Dutch Polichinelle, i. 115

Tortoretti, Giuseppe, plays Pasquariello, i. 44;
touring, 98;
his career, ii. 220

_Triumph of Bacchus, The_, Louis XIV. plays in, ii. 82

Trivelino, i. 41;
a variant of Harlequin, 96;
in _Artémire_, 97

Truffaldino, a variant of Harlequin, i. 98;
played by Sacchi, 99;
quotation from rôle of, 101;
in Venice, ii. 17

Tude, Hippolyte de la, on her début, i. 175

Turgis, M. de, his marriage with Françoise Biancolelli, ii. 147 _et
seq._

Turi, Nicolò, plays Pantaloon, i. 43

Turi, Virginio, plays lovers, i. 44, 259

Turlupin, played by H. Legrand, ii. 198

Tusculum, theatre at, i. 11

Uniti Troupe, i. 35, 39

_Vaccaria, La_, i. 99;
quotation from, 235;
outlined, ii. 121;
contrasted with _Asinaria_, 128

Valerini, Adriano, plays Aurelio, i. 35;
forms the Uniti Troupe, 39;
plays lovers, 238;
and Lidia di Bagnacavallo, ii. 134;
and Charles Borromeo, 137

Vappo, Il, one of the captains, i. 156

Varchi, Benedetto, on Beolco, i. 212

_Verità, La_, scenario of, ii. 81

Veronese, Anna, Coraline, i. 50;
a soubrette, 175;
Rousseau and, 176;
Collé’s criticism of, 177;
great vogue of, 178;
her dancing, ii. 80

Veronese, Carlo, plays Pantaloon, i. 176;
and Rousseau, 176;
overshadowed by his daughters, ii. 29

Veronese, Giacometta-Antonia, Camille, i. 50;
and Rousseau, 176;
Collé’s criticism of, 177;
in Sacchi’s company, 178;
her dancing, ii. 80;
her career, 157

Vicentini, Antonio (Thomassin), plays Harlequin, i. 49;
in _L’Inganno Fortunato_, 84;
plays for, by Marivaux, 85;
his agility, 88;
his death, 89;
Collé’s criticism of, 94;
married to Margarita Rusca, 174

Vicentini, Gioachino, plays Harlequin, i. 89

Vicenza, theatre at, i. 33

Vieux Cordelier quoted, i. 123

Violette, Margarita Rusca, i. 49;
a variant of Columbine, 174

Volange, plays Jeannot, ii. 116;
his failure, 117

Voltaire, on mystery plays, i. 24;
on La Camargo, ii. 84

_Wiles of Isabella, The_, Scala’s scenario of, i. 242

Xenophon quoted, ii. 175

ZACOMETO, of Venetian origin, i. 28;
described, ii. 113

Zanarini, La, a cantatrice, ii. 70

Zanobio, a variant of Pantaloon, ii. 50

Zanoni, Atanasio, plays Brighella, ii. 167;
Gozzi’s praise of, 281

Zanotti, Andrea, plays Valerio and Ottavio, i. 44, 259

Zeccha, Nicolò, plays Bertoldino, i. 192

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