Chapter III: Introduction (3)

Harlequin, having become a doctor, prescribes as follows for the Captain, who has asked him for a remedy for toothache. “Take,” says Harlequin, “some pepper, garlick and vinegar, and rub your back with them; that will make you forget your pain.”

As the Captain is about to depart, Harlequin calls him back. “Sir, sir,” says he, “I was forgetting the best; take an apple, cut it into four equal parts, put one of these in your mouth, and then thrust your head into an oven until the apple is baked, and I will answer for it that your toothache will be entirely cured.”

In the very curious pictures possessed by the Théâtre-Français, bearing the inscription in gold letters: “_Farceurs françois et italiens, depuis soixante ans_,” we find Domenico in his costume of Harlequin together with several other Italian types—Brighella, Scaramouche, the Doctor, Pantaloon, Mezzetin, Matamoros—mingling with the French types: Turlupin, Gros-Guillaume, Gaultier-Garguille, Guillot-Gorju, Jodelet, Gros-René and Molière.

iii

In 1689 Evaristo Gherardi took up and continued the performances of the rôles of Harlequin. He was the son of Giovanni Gherardi, born at Prato, in Tuscany. He made his first appearance in the revival of _Divorce_, in the rôle of Harlequin created by Domenico in the preceding year. Here is what he himself has to say of it:

“This comedy had not succeeded in the hands of M. Domenico.
It had been struck out of the catalogue of the plays which
were revived from time to time, and the parts had been burnt.
Nevertheless (notwithstanding that I had never been on the
stage in my life, and that I had but left the college of La
Marche, where I had just concluded my course of philosophy,
under the learned M. Bublé), I chose it for my first
appearance, which took place on the 1st of October 1689. The
piece was so successful in my hands that it gave pleasure to
everyone, was extraordinarily well attended, and consequently
earned a great deal of money for the company.

“If I were the man to derive vanity from the theatrical talents
which nature has given me, either with face uncovered or
under a mask, in the leading serious or comic rôles, I should
have in this the most ample grounds upon which to flatter my
self-love. I should say that I did more in my beginnings and
in my first years than the most illustrious actors have been
able to do after twenty years of experience, and in the full
prime of their lives. But I protest that very far from having
ever become elated by these rare advantages, I have always
considered them to be the results of my good fortune, rather
than the consequences of my merits; and if anything has been
able to flatter my soul in this connection, it is the pleasure
of seeing myself universally applauded after the inimitable M.
Domenico, who went so far in the expression of the naïveté—that
which the Italians call _goffagine_—of the character of
Harlequin, that all those who witnessed his performances must
always find some fault with the most famous Harlequin of any
later day.”

It will be seen that Gherardi praises himself quite naïvely. It is true that this self-praise was not exaggerated, that he had great talents, and that he was attended by constant success until the theatre was closed in 1697. He hoped to bring about its reopening by his protectors at Court; but in this he was disappointed. He then produced a very interesting collection of the memorised French scenes, which were frequently interpolated into the Italian scenarii.

Some months before the publication of this collection, in the course of a show given at Saint-Maur, with Poisson and la Thorillière, Gherardi happened to fall upon his head. He neglected to have his hurt properly cared for, and on the very day on which he had been to present his book to Monseigneur he was holding between his knees his son (borne him by Elizabeth Danneret) when he had a seizure, and suddenly expired. That was on the 31st of August 1700.

“Il n’était ni bien ni mal fait,
Grand ni petit, plus gras que maigre.
Il avait le corps fort allègre,
Le front haut, l’œil faible, mais vif.
Le nez très-significatif.
Et qui promettait des merveilles.
La bouche atteignait les oreilles.
Son teint était d’homme de feu;
Son menton se doublait un peu;
Son encolure, assez petite
Le menaçait de mort subite.”

From an engraved portrait he resembles this description but little. His forehead is high, it is true, but his eyes are very large and lively, his nose aquiline and sensitive, his mouth small and well formed, and not a gash from ear to ear; the jaw is strongly outlined. In short, it presents a very intelligent countenance, full of finesse, advertising a lively and caustic spirit.

Here are some passages from the book of Gherardi—that is to say, from the scenes collected and performed by him:

DESPAIR OF HARLEQUIN IN _L’EMPEREUR DANS LA LUNE_

HARLEQUIN. Ah! unfortunate that I am! The doctor wants to marry
Columbine to a farmer, and how can I live without Columbine? I
shall die. O ignorant doctor! O inconstant Columbine! O knavish
farmer! O extremely miserable Harlequin! Let me hasten to die.
It shall be written in ancient and modern history: “Harlequin
died for Columbine.” I shall go to my chamber; I shall attach
a rope to a beam; I shall get upon a chair; I shall fit the
rope round my neck; I shall kick away the chair; and behold me
hanged! (_Mimicry of hanging._) It is done; nothing can stop
me; let us hasten to the hanging crutch....

“To the hanging crutch? Fie, sir, you must not think of it. To
kill yourself for a girl! It were a great folly....”

“Yes, sir; but for a girl to betray an honest man is a great
wickedness....”

“I agree; but when you shall have hanged yourself shall you be
any fatter?”

“No, I shall be thinner; I desire a slender shape! What have
you to say to that? If you want to join me you have but to
come....”

“Oh! as for that, no; you are not going....”

“Oh! but I am....”

“Oh! no, you are not....”

“But I _am_ going, I tell you.” (_He draws his sword, strikes
himself and then exclaims_:) “There! I am rid of that tiresome
fellow. Now that there is no one to interfere with me I will
go hang myself.” (_He makes as if to depart, and then stops
short._) “Ah! but no! To hang is a very ordinary death, the
sort of death one sees every day; there is no glory in it.
Let us seek some extraordinary death, some heroic death, some
Harlequinic death.” (_He considers._) “I have it! I will stop
up my mouth and my nose, so that the air may not pass through
and thus I shall die. Behold, it is done.” (_He stops his nose
and mouth with both hands, and, after remaining thus for some
time he says_:) “No; the air still escapes; it is not worth
while. Alas! what a trouble to die! Sirs, if any amongst you
would be so good as to die, so as to afford me a model, I
should be infinitely obliged.... Faith, I have it! We read in
history that there are people who have been killed by laughter.
I am most sensitive to tickling; if some one were to tickle me
for long they would make me die of laughter. I shall go and
tickle myself, and thus I shall die.” (_He tickles himself,
laughs and falls down._)

In the same piece, a few scenes later, he goes to visit the
Doctor, and announces himself as Colin, the farmer’s son who is
to marry Columbine. The Doctor is his dupe until the arrival
of the carrier, who announces that the farmer’s son is ill and
cannot come. The Doctor turns upon Harlequin, eyeing him from
top to toe, and says to him: “You are not Colin!”

“Forgive me, sir,” replies Harlequin, “I thought I was.”

Chagrined at not yet having succeeded, he seeks a new way to
obtain Columbine. He runs backwards and forwards across the
stage until he is out of breath, when he exclaims: “Will some
one of his charity inform me which is the residence of Doctor
Grazian Balouard?” (_He puts his hand to his mouth and imitates
the sound of a trumpet_). “Pu, pu, pu! Doctor Balouard, a
doctor at fifteen sous!”

THE DOCTOR (_aside_). What is the meaning of this? (_To_
HARLEQUIN.) Doctor Grazian Balouard? He is here, sir; what do
you want with him?

HARLEQUIN. Oh! sir, you are choicely found. Address me your
best compliments and bows. I am ambassador extraordinary, envoy
from the emperor of the world of the Moon, and I am come to ask
of you the hand of Isabella in marriage.

THE DOCTOR. Address yourself to others, my friend. I am not
so easily taken in. An emperor in the moon! (_Aside._) Yet
such a thing might be possible; since the moon is a world like
ours, presumably there must be some one to govern it. (_To
HARLEQUIN._) Are you really from that country, my friend?

HARLEQUIN. No, sir, I am neither from that country nor from
this country. I am an Italian of Italy, at your service, born a
native of the city of Prato, one of the most charming cities in
all Tuscany.

THE DOCTOR. But how, then, did you contrive to ascend to the
world of the moon?

HARLEQUIN. I will tell you. We had arranged a party—three of
my friends and I—to go and eat a goose at Vaugirard. I was
deputed by the company to go and buy the goose. I transported
myself to the Valley of Misery; I there made my purchase,
and I was wending my way thence to the rendezvous. As I was
entering the plain of Vaugirard, behold! six ravenous vultures
came swooping down upon my goose, and carried it off. I, who
feared to lose it, clung firmly to its neck, so that in a
measure as the vultures carried up the goose they carried me
up with it. When we had got very high, a further regiment of
vultures came to the assistance of the first, hurled themselves
upon my goose, and in an instant caused me to lose sight of
the highest mountains and the highest steeples. I, obstinate
always as the devil, would not let go. I hung on until the
neck of my goose failed me, and I tumbled into a lake. Some
fishermen, luckily, had spread their net, and I fell into it.
The fishermen drew me out of the water, and, supposing me to be
a fish of consequence, took me upon their shoulders, and bore
me as a present to the emperor. Behold me lying on the ground
and the emperor coming with all his court to view me. It is
asked, “What sort of a fish is that.” The emperor replies, “I
think it is an anchovy.” “Your pardon, Monseigneur,” says a fat
gentleman, who accounted himself witty, “rather is it a toad.”
“Anyway,” said the emperor, “bid them fry me this fish such as
it is.” When I heard that they were going to fry me, I cried
out: “But, Monseigneur....” “How,” says he, “do fishes speak?”
Thereupon I assured him that I was not a fish, and further I
informed him in what manner I had been brought to the Empire of
the Moon. He asked me at once: “Are you acquainted with Doctor
Grazian Balouard, and his daughter Isabella? Then go and ask
her of him in marriage on my behalf.” But I replied, “I shall
never be able to find my way there, because I do not know which
way I came.” “Do not let that embarrass you,” he replied, “I
shall send you to Paris by means of an influence that I am
sending thither, laden with rheumatism, catarrhs, pneumonias
and other little trifles of that kind.” Further he said: “I
reserve for the doctor one of the best places in my empire.”

THE DOCTOR. Is it really possible? Did he tell you what it was?

HARLEQUIN. Indeed yes. He says that about a fortnight ago one
of the twelve signs of the Zodiac, the Scorpion, died; and he
wants to put you in its place.

The Doctor believes everything, asks a thousand questions
concerning this lunar sovereign, inquires what like are the
houses, the cities and the habits of life in the Court of that
country. Harlequin gives him details of the manner in which the
emperor eats. His food is shot at him from arbalists, and he is
given to drink from a syringe. “It is very curious,” says he.
“One day an awkward arbalister missed the emperor’s mouth and
fired a buttered egg into his eye. Hence such eggs have ever
since been called _œufs pochés_.” After this he induces the
Doctor to give him a purse and some jewels, and he departs, to
return presently dressed as the Emperor of the Moon.

The Doctor addresses several questions to him concerning his
empire and his subjects.

HARLEQUIN. My subjects? They are almost without defects,
because they are governed solely by interest and ambition.

COLUMBINE. That is exactly as here.

HARLEQUIN. Everyone seeks to do the best he can for himself
at the expense of his neighbour, and the highest virtue in my
empire is to be wealthy.

THE DOCTOR. That is exactly as here.

HARLEQUIN. In my country there are no executioners; instead
of dispatching people in a quarter of an hour on a scaffold,
I hand them over to be killed by the doctors, who do them to
death as cruelly as they do their patients.

COLUMBINE. What, sir! Do the doctors up there also kill the
people? That is exactly as here.

ISABELLA. And in your empire, sir, are there any wits?

HARLEQUIN. My empire is the source of them. For over seventy
years, now, we have been working upon a dictionary which will
not be finished in two centuries.

COLUMBINE. It is exactly as here. And is justice properly
administered in your empire?

HARLEQUIN. It is administered by hanging.

ISABELLA. And the judges, sir, do they not permit themselves to
be corrupted?

HARLEQUIN. Women there, as elsewhere, importune them. Sometimes
presents are made to them; but in general they behave properly.

THE DOCTOR. It is exactly as here. Sir, in your empire, are
husbands accommodating?

HARLEQUIN. That fashion arrived there almost as soon as in
France. At the beginning we had a little trouble in making up
our minds to it, but at present all the world is proud of it.

COLUMBINE. It is exactly as here.... And the women in your
empire, are they happy?

HARLEQUIN. It is they who handle all the money and spend it
all. The husbands have no concern save that of paying the taxes
and repairing the houses.

COLUMBINE. It is exactly as here.

HARLEQUIN. Our women never rise until the afternoon. They
invariably take three hours over their toilet; then they enter
a coach and repair to the comedy, to the opera or to the
promenade. Thence they go to sup with some chosen friend. After
supper they play or they attend an opera, according to the
season; and, towards four or five o’clock after midnight, they
return home, so that a poor devil of a man may sometimes go for
weeks without meeting his wife in the house, and you may see
him hanging about the streets on foot, what time madam employs
the coach for her pleasures.

ALL. It is exactly as here!

iv

When a new Italian troupe, summoned by the Regent, arrived in Paris, in 1716, Antonio Vicentini (styled Thomassin) made his first appearance in the rôle of Harlequin, supported by the entire troupe, on the 8th of May of that year, in the theatre of the Palais-Royal, in _L’Inganno Fortunato_.

“The famous Domenico, who had made himself so great a reputation in France, had a defect in his voice to which he had so thoroughly accustomed the public that it was never afterwards conceived that a Harlequin might be endurable who did not speak in his throat, and affect the tones of a parrot.”

Riccoboni and Thomassin were very uneasy as to the manner in which the public would receive a new Harlequin, gifted with a clear and natural voice. There were several night-scenes in _L’Inganno Fortunato_. “One of these occurred at the commencement of the piece. Lelio called his lackey Harlequin, who at first did not answer, and who then answered at intervals, appearing to fall asleep again after each reply. Lelio went in quest of him, and dragged him on to the stage whilst still asleep though on his feet. Harlequin, awakened, answered and, then letting himself fall down, would drop off to sleep again. His master would awaken him once more. Harlequin would then go fast asleep upon his master’s arm. The public were put in a good humour by this scene, and after having laughed and applauded for a quarter of an hour without the new Harlequin’s having uttered a single word, they had not the courage to censure him upon his voice when at last they heard it.”

Vicentini was born at Vicenza, and had long been playing in Italy when Riccoboni made him offers to induce him to come to Paris. Marivaux wrote several pieces for Thomassin, amongst which were _La Surprise de l’Amour_, in 1722, and _Le Prince Travesti_, in 1724. It was no longer a question of improvisation, but of memorised comedy, and Harlequin’s business was solely to get full value out of the author’s wit. Marivaux, whilst preserving to this type his original colour, causes him to appear sometimes scintillant with wit, sometimes entirely stupid. He is a mixture of Sganarelle, Sancho Pança, Crispino and Figaro. In the _Prince Travesti_, Harlequin is the lackey of the Prince of Léon, who conceals his identity under the name of Lelio. He meets the Princess of Barcelone, who is in love with Lelio, and who puts questions to him on the subject of his master.

THE PRINCESS. What do you seek, Harlequin? Is your master in
the palace?

HARLEQUIN. Madam, I implore Your Principality to pardon the
impertinence of my stupidity; had I but known of your presence
here I should not have been so foolish as to have brought my
person hither.

THE PRINCESS. You have done no harm. But tell me, are you
seeking your master?

HARLEQUIN. Exactly. You have guessed it, madam. Since he spoke
to you a while ago I have lost him in this plaguey house and,
saving your presence, I have lost myself also. If you would
show me the way you would be doing me a kindness; there are
here so many chambers that I have been travelling for an hour
without coming to the end of them. _Par la mardi!_ if you
prize all this it must mean that it brings you a lot of money.
Nevertheless, what a jumble of furniture, of oddities, and of
kickshaws! A whole village might live a year upon the value of
it all.... It is so beautiful that one does not dare to look
at it; it instils fear into a poor man like me. How rich you
are, you princes, and I, what is it that I am by comparison
with this! But surely it is another impertinence on my part to
reason with you as with an equal. Your companion is laughing,
perhaps I have said something foolish.

HORTENSE. You have said nothing foolish; on the contrary, you
seem to me of an excellent wit.

HARLEQUIN. Pardi! I laugh always: what would you? I have
nothing to lose. You amuse yourselves with being rich, you
others, and I—I amuse myself with being gay; to every one his
own amusement in this world.

With his master Harlequin shows himself to be no less critical and profound.

LELIO. I am disposed to confide in you that I am a person of
condition, who amuse myself by travelling incognito. I am
young; it is a study that will be useful to me some day.

HARLEQUIN. My faith, it is a study that will teach you nothing
but poverty; it was hardly worth while to travel post for the
sake of studying all this rubbish. What will you make of all
this knowledge of men? You will learn but poor things.

LELIO. But they will cheat me no more.

HARLEQUIN. That will spoil you.

LELIO. Why?

HARLEQUIN. You will no longer be so kindly when you are learned
on that subject. By dint of seeing so many scoundrels, in
truth, you will become a scoundrel yourself.... Good-bye! Which
is the way to the kitchen?

Comical scenes follow between Harlequin and Frederick, an ambitious courtier who seeks to seduce Harlequin. The latter thereupon becomes again the loutish lackey, opposing to Frederick’s attack the ponderous and ingenious probity of the peasant.

HARLEQUIN. Pardi! You treat me like your own child. There is
no boggling at that. Wealth, employment, and a pretty girl;
that means a whole shipload of victuals, money and delicacies.
It is clear that you love me very dearly!

FREDERICK. Yes; your physiognomy pleases me; you are a good lad!

HARLEQUIN. Oh! as for that, I am as droll as a box; leave it to
me and we shall laugh like mad together; but let us behold at
once this wealth, these employments and this pretty girl, for I
am in haste to be rich and at ease.

Frederick has a small service to ask of him. It is that of
spying upon his master, and to report to him his words and
actions. “Observe all very carefully, and as an earnest of the
recompense ultimately to be yours, here is some money for you
in advance.”

HARLEQUIN. Can’t you advance me the girl also? We will deduct
her from the rest.

FREDERICK. A service, my child, is never paid for until it is
rendered; that is the custom.

HARLEQUIN. A villainous custom!... I prefer to give you my
note of hand to the effect that I have received this girl on
account.... But, when I come to think of it, I am afraid you
want me to do dirty work for you. What do you want with the
words of my lord Lelio, my master?

FREDERICK. Mere curiosity.

HARLEQUIN. Hum.... There is malice under all this. You have
a sly look. I will bet you ten sous that you are a worthless
fellow.... Get along! you should not tempt a poor lad who has
no more honour than is necessary to him, and who is fond of
girls. I have all the trouble in the world to prevent myself
from being a scoundrel. Must my honour be the ruin of me, to
deprive me of wealth, employment and a pretty wench. _Par la
mardi!_ you are very wicked to have invented this girl.

FREDERICK. Consider that I am offering you your fortune, and
that you are losing it.

HARLEQUIN. I am considering that your commission smells of
trickery, and luckily this trickery fortifies my poor honour
which was wavering. Bah! your pretty girl is no better than a
drab; your employments are concerned with some dogs’ traffic.
That is my last word, and I am going straight to find the
princess and my master to relate to them my disaster and all
your proposals.

FREDERICK. Wretch! are you resolved then to dishonour me?

HARLEQUIN. Good! when one has no honour is it necessary to have
reputation?

Thomassin would execute at times highly extraordinary turns of strength and of agility.

“He would run round the outside of the boxes of the first,
second and third tiers; but the public, too deeply interested
in the life of this amiable actor, compelled him to cut
out a turn so dangerous which invariably had the effect of
frightening the spectators far more than it amused them.

“His natural gaiety and the graces of his clowning would in
themselves have sufficed to have charmed the public, even had
not nature made him an excellent actor, which is to be taken in
the widest sense of the term as meaning that he was natural,
naïve, original and pathetic.”

Amid the laughter excited by his buffoonery he would at times suddenly surprise his audience into tears. “Often, after beginning by laughing at the manner in which he expressed his pain, one ended by experiencing the emotion by which he was penetrated.”

Like Domenico, in the matter of pupils, Thomassin produced only very bad copies, and “one saw nothing but pitiful attempts in the rôle of Harlequin” until the day when Carlo Bertinazzi came to succeed him.

Thomassin had married Margarita Rusca, who played waiting-woman parts under the name of Violetta. He died on the 19th of August 1739 at the age of fifty-seven, after a long illness. Among the many children he left and who have appeared on the Italo-French stage, the best known was Madame de Hesse, wife of the actor of this name.

On the 21st of November of 1739 Antonio Constantini, a brother of the celebrated Angelo Constantini, who had created the rôle of Mezzetin in Paris, made his first appearance in the part of Harlequin. He played “with great vivacity,” and held out some hope that he would repair the loss which the theatre had sustained by the death of Thomassin; he did not, however, fulfil this promise, and he was not accepted for the rôles of zany.

The feeble début of the Alsatian, Théodorak—anagram of Cadoret—in 1740, met with no better success.

“It is altogether incredible what a number of Harlequins
appeared within the space of three or four years; they seemed
to rise from the ashes of Thomassin: but, similar to those
shadows which are formed from the exhalations of tombs, and
which the least sound dissipates, so all these disappeared
before the booings of the groundlings.”

In 1741, Gioachino Vicentini, the youngest son of Thomassin, aged eighteen, made his début as Harlequin, on the 26th of August. “But, as talents are not always hereditary, he was not accepted at the Comédie-Italienne, and he confined himself thereafter to playing in the provinces.”

In the same year the Sieur Molin also attempted the rôle of Harlequin with no better reception. He also repaired to the country.

v

At last, on the 10th of April 1741, Carlo Bertinazzi, born at Turin, 1713, made his début, and was received into the troupe in the month of August 1742, after having played with success the famous character of Harlequin for more than a year, and having surpassed the hopes which had been founded upon his talent. This brilliant début was thus chronicled in the _Mercure_:

“On Thursday, the 10th of April 1741, the Italian comedians
opened their theatre with an Italian piece in prose and in
three acts, in which the Sieur Carlin Bertinazzi, born at
Turin, some twenty-eight years ago, performed for the first
time the rôle of Harlequin, the principal character in the
piece. The Sieur Richard, who had addressed the public on the
closure of the theatre, addressed it again on the opening, and
expressed himself in the following terms:—‘Gentlemen, this
day, which renews our efforts and our homage, was to have been
marked by the novelty which we had prepared for you; but the
actor who is going to have the honour of appearing before you
for the first time was too deeply interested, and too impatient
to learn his fate, to permit us to postpone his début. “Should
your novelty fail,” said he, “I shall learn how your public
hisses, and that is something that I do not want to learn;
should it succeed I shall know how they applaud, and I shall
draw, perhaps, a sad comparison between its reception and that
which may be accorded to me.” So as not to give this new actor
any grounds for reproach, we have conformed entirely with his
wishes. He knows, gentlemen, not only what he has to dread in
appearing before you, but also in following that excellent
actor whom we have lost (Thomassin) in whose rôle you are
about to see him. These just causes of apprehension would be
counterbalanced in his mind if he were aware of the resources
which await him in your indulgence; but it is in vain that
we have endeavoured to reassure him on this score; he can be
convinced of the truth of it only by yourselves, and we hope,
gentlemen, that you will be disposed to fulfil the promises
which we have made to him on your behalf. They are founded
upon an experience so long and so happy that we are as assured
of your kindliness as you must be of our zeal and profound
respect.’”

It was in such terms that the public was flattered in those days. And being thus flattered, it received Carlin with an indulgence of which he was very far from standing in need.

Carlin’s performance was easy, natural and comical. Garrick, seeing him in a scene in which he had just received a correction from his master, menacing this last with one hand, whilst rubbing his side with the other, was so charmed by the naturalness of his miming that he exclaimed: “Behold, how the very back of Carlin has a physiognomy and an expression!”

Carlin Bertinazzi was, like Domenico and all great buffoons, of a very melancholy character; he depended upon his wit and not upon his temperament.

Of Domenico it is related that, being intensely troubled with his spleen, he went to consult Dumoulin, a celebrated doctor, who prescribed for him as a remedy that he should go and see Domenico at the Comédie-Italienne, because Domenico made all the world laugh. “Alas!” replied the poor actor, “I am Domenico, and from now onwards I must look upon myself as a lost man.”

To his histrionic talents Carlin united considerable knowledge on various subjects and all the qualities that go to make a good member of society.

It is related that on a lovely summer evening, when the heat was suffocating, and Carlin was to perform in two plays, Camerani, the manager, came to inform him that there was but one spectator in the theatre, and that there was no occasion to give a performance. Carlin laughed, and replied that it was necessary to play none the less since there was _a_ public (un _public_). The curtain rose; Carlin appeared, drew his wooden sword, took a turn round the theatre, and after a thousand capers which provoked great bursts of laughter from a fat gentleman seated in a corner of the orchestra, he advanced to the footlights and addressed him:

“Monsieur Tout-Seul, we are desolated, my comrades and I, to be compelled to play in such weather as this to one single spectator; nevertheless, if you demand it, play we will.”

The spectator entered into conversation with the actor, informed him that he was from the country, and that he had come to Paris for no other purpose but that of seeing him perform, and implored Carlin to grant him this favour. Carlin resigned himself and began his performance. All at once the sky became overcast, thunder rumbled and rain came down in torrents. The theatre filled itself as by enchantment, and in less than an hour the receipts rose to nine hundred livres, an enormous figure at this epoch. At the end of the second and last piece, Carlin came forward again to the footlights and sought his fat gentleman, who had been convulsed with laughter throughout the performance. “Monsieur Tout-seul, are you still there?” he cried. The man from the provinces rose to reply: “Yes, M. Carlin, and you have made me laugh very much.” “Monsieur Tout-seul, I come to thank you for having compelled us to perform; as a consequence our receipts are enormous. Thank you then once more, Monsieur Tout-seul.” “I am enchanted, M. Carlin. Au revoir,” replied the fat country gentleman, striding across his bench to depart, whilst the audience shook with laughter.

When there was hesitation to announce a performance, either on account of the heat or from any other cause, Carlin would say to Camerani: “Let us put up our bills, none the less. Who knows?—perhaps Monsieur Tout-seul will come this evening.”

Carlin died in Paris in 1675. He was still playing within a very short time of his death. His advanced age had robbed him of none of his vivacity, mirth and suppleness. The following epitaph was written in his honour:

“De Carlin pour peindre le sort,
Très peu de mots doivent suffire:
Toute sa vie il a fait rire,
Il a fait pleurer à sa mort.”

As author he has left us _Les Métamorphoses d’Arlequin_.

Modern literature has made of him an historical personage. A very remarkable novel of M. de Latouche attributes to him a regular correspondence with Pope Clement XIV., who was in fact an old schoolfellow of his. MM. Rochefort and Gustave Lemoine wrote some years ago a very pretty piece on this subject. Carlin, ignorant that the new pope was that same Lorenzo Ganganelli, the friend of his youth, received a visit from him, addressed him familiarly in the second person singular, and performed with him a scene of which Ganganelli held the manuscript, laughing so heartily the while that he kept forgetting to take up his cues.

On the subject of the début of a Harlequin at the Théâtre-Italien, Collé, in his _Journal Historique_, speaks as follows of the masters of the burlesque art:—

“On Monday, the 21st inst. (June 1751), I went to the Comédie
to see a new Harlequin who has been playing there for several
days. He is a very nimble rascal, a mountebank, a sort of rope
dancer, a buffoon and a sound comedian; as he is merely a bird
of passage, the Italians would not have been so ill-advised
as to have permitted him to appear upon the stage if he had
been better than, or even the equal of Carlin, their present
Harlequin. The latter, who for some years now has been in
possession of this rôle, does not acquit himself at all badly,
although he is sometimes ponderous in his action and always
stupid in his subjects, whatever may be said to the contrary
by the partisans of these paltry spectacles. But we may say
at least that Thomassin, his predecessor was quite as stupid
as Carlin, and even perhaps more so, although he repaired his
short-comings by an unflagging energy and inimitable grace.
This comedian even went so far as to endow his Harlequin with a
singular attribute; he gave him a pathetic side; he could move
his audience even to tears in certain pieces such as _La Double
Inconstance_, _Timon_, _L’Isle des Esclaves_, and others; this
has always seemed to me a prodigy to perform under the mask of
Harlequin.”

In 1777 Bigottini took up the rôles of Harlequin. Grimm refers to him as follows:—

“A young Harlequin of sixty odd summers, the Sieur Bigottini,
has made his début on the stage of the Comédie-Italienne in
a piece of his own, entitled _Arlequin Esprit Follet_. The
performance of the Sieur Bigottini has no analogy with that
of the actor he is replacing; he has not the same grace nor
the same subtlety, nor yet the same naïveté; nevertheless his
metamorphoses are ingenious and varied, and his movements,
without having the suppleness which characterised the
slightest gestures of Carlin, are of extraordinary precision
and lightness. Nothing could equal the swiftness with which
he changes his costume and his mask; his talent on this point
approaches prodigy, but it is a style of merit which must fail
to amuse for very long. It is only wit that may be infinitely
varied, it is only grace whose charm never stales.”

At the end of the eighteenth century, one of the most celebrated Harlequins of Italy was Golinetti.

The character of Harlequin, which underwent as many variations in its type as in the orthography of the name, which from _Harlequino_ became _Arlechino_, _Arlichino_ and, to-day, _Arlecchino_, has more or less passed from fashion in Italy. Meneghino and Stenterello have taken his place. Nevertheless he is still to be found in the marionette theatres. There he is dressed in garments broken into squares of yellow, red and green. He still wears his mask and his black chin-piece to simulate a beard; but, perhaps to indicate his great age, his moustachios and his eyebrows have become white.

In France the type is more or less extinct. The wit which he developed in the eighteenth century has descended once more to his legs. He is no more than a traditional mime, more or less graceful. His last successes were leaped and danced by Cossard and Derruder.

In Italy the principal actors who filled the part were: Fremeri, in 1624; Belotti, in 1625; Girolamo Francesco, in 1630; Astori of Venice, in 1720; Bertoli, in 1730; Ignazio Casanova, of Bologna, in 1734.

vi

Trivelino is, under another name and in a different costume, what Harlequin was before Domenico gave him that attribute of subtlety which his successors have always preserved.

Instead of lozenges arranged symmetrically, we find small triangles over the seams of his garments and suns and moons scattered here and there upon his coat and breeches. He too wears the soft hat with the rabbit-tail, but he does not carry a bat. For the rest his name, which signifies a wearer of rags, is perhaps the real name borne by Harlequin before the sixteenth century.

We have said that in 1635 Domenico Locatelli (Trivelin) was performing on the stage of the Comédie-Italienne in Paris, when Domenico Biancolelli went there to make his début under the name of Arlechino. They were both lackeys, and they portrayed more or less the same character. They presented a sort of duplicated rôle and they were known as first and second zany, for in many of the pieces of the Italian troupe which went to Paris in 1716 the rôles of zanies are played under the names of Trivelino, Arlechino and Scapino indifferently.

In the companies that roved through Italy in the seventeenth century the rôle of Trivelino was that of an intriguer who incessantly tormented that poor fool Arlechino. He was in league with Fritellino and Truffaldino to play the most damnable tricks upon the Doctor and upon Pantaloon; he was, in short, a thorough-paced rascal, a worthy rival of Brighella.

Thus, in _Artémire_, a parody given at the Théâtre-Italien in 1720, we have the following scene:—

TRIVELINO. The goods of Pantaloon shall be my salary. Crime is
to be approved when it is necessary. But here comes Harlequin;
though something of a fool, I would have him join us in this
plot. (_To HARLEQUIN._) Are you brave?

HARLEQUIN. Yes, particularly at table.

TRIVELINO. I know your talents for eating and for drinking, and
I know the activity of your jaws, but I want other exploits
from you at present. I have chosen you for a daring enterprise.

HARLEQUIN. Pantaloon is alive....

TRIVELINO. That does not worry me. I have determined to murder
him.

HARLEQUIN. Fie! that smells of the gibbet.

TRIVELINO. I want you, my dear Harlequin, to second me.

HARLEQUIN. In the art of murder I am still a novice. Do not
reckon upon me.

TRIVELINO. You are a coward.

HARLEQUIN. Better words, my friend! I am prudent.... But, to
assassinate Pantaloon—no, no.... I cannot without sorrow behold
the slaughter of a pig. How then can I murder Pantaloon?

Domenico Locatelli, who performed the rôles of Trivelino at the Petit-Bourbon Theatre, went to France in 1645. He was an excellent comedian. He wrote a very spectacular French piece entitled _Rosaure, Impératrice de Constantinople_, which was performed in 1658. After a brilliant career he died in March of 1671.

Pierre-François Biancolelli, born in 1681, and known under the name of Domenico, which had been borne by his father, was educated at a Jesuit college. Upon leaving school he joined Giuseppe Tortoretti (Pasquariello) who was then touring the provinces. He made his début with success as Trivelino at Toulouse. He then went to Montpellier, where he married Tortoretti’s daughter, with whom he had become enamoured in Paris, and for whose sake he had turned comedian.

He repaired immediately to Italy with his wife, and performed in Venice, Milan, Parma, Mantua and Genoa, returning afterwards to France, where he played in the provinces until 1710. He returned to Paris and performed until 1717 at the fairs of Saint-Germain and Saint-Laurent, after which he entered the Italian company of the Regent. This Biancolelli was the author of more than eighty pieces for the Italian repertory. He died in Paris in 1734.

vii

The first creation of TRUFFALDINO took place somewhere about 1530 in the troupe of the famous Angelo Beolco (Ruzzante). He represents the sly and lying servant under the name of _Truffa_ (the crafty). This type achieved popularity in Italy, and towards the middle of the seventeenth century it became one of the varieties of Harlequin, under the diminutive of Truffaldino.

In _La Vaccaria_ of Ruzzante, Truffa is the servant of Flavio, a young lover, and in _La Rhodiana_ by the same author, he is the servant of Roberto, whom he aids in his amours.

“You may trust me entirely” (he assures his master),
“because, although you see me in these peasant garments, I am
nevertheless of anything but low extraction. I disclose myself
to you alone, assured that you will not betray my secret.
Learn that my real name is Gasparo, and that I am the son of
Roberto San-Severino; I was compelled to flee my country on
account of a love affair with a beautiful lady whose relatives
sought my life. I have travelled in Italy, in the East and in
the West, and I have learnt several languages that have proved
very useful to me. Finally, being in Venice, I fell in love
with the daughter of my mistress, named Lucretia, and so that
I might commune with her in secret, I assumed the garments of
a peasant. Do not be offended if, whether alone with you or in
company, I employ a language that corresponds with my dress.”

Towards 1738 the actor Sacchi was playing in Italy, and particularly in Venice, rôles similar to that of Harlequin, under the name of _Truffaldino_, a Bergamese caricature. Goldoni and the Abbé Chiari had boasted that they would drive the Commedia dell’ Arte and the leather masks from the theatre. Sacchi, seeing the national company disappearing, quitted Venice with his troupe and his friends, Brighella, Tartaglia and Pantaloon, to seek his fortune beyond the seas. But the great earthquake at Lisbon drove them out of Portugal. Sacchi then returned to Venice with his troupe, and, in 1761, the theatre of San-Samuele, which had been closed for five years, was put into repair and reopened with _L’Amour des Trois Oranges_, a fable in five acts, by Carlo Gozzi. The marvellous genre being supported by Gozzi, became a subject of enthusiasm in Venice until 1769, in which year a rival troupe appropriated Sacchi’s pieces and actors, opened the theatre of Sant’ Angelo, and brought about his ruin, notwithstanding the endeavours made by Sacchi in giving the public _commedie sostenute_. “But,” says M. Paul de Musset, “the decadence and the dispersion of Sacchi’s company was none the less inevitable. Truffaldino was growing old and infirm. Further to complicate matters the old fool fell in love with La Ricci (Gozzi’s mistress), and notwithstanding his seventy years, he gave umbrage to our poet. One day Gozzi discovered La Ricci in the act of cutting out some white satin to make a gown. The material was a present from Sacchi, and the young leading lady would have desired, with Italian naïveté, to have retained at one and the same time the lengths of satin and her virtue. So much was decidedly impossible. She kept the satin.”

The character as performed by Sacchi was that of a poltroon, who is beaten and deceived. Bombastic, very proud of his birth, and calling all others low born, he was nevertheless the butt of the piece. Sacchi was an admirable improvisor, and the rôles destined for him in the plays of Carlo Gozzi are not written _in extenso_.

“No one,” says Gozzi, “may write the rôle of Truffaldino, either in prose or in verse. It suffices Sacchi to know the intention of the author, so as to enable him to improvise scenes superior to any which a writer might have prepared him.”

Those passages which are intended to be performed by Truffaldino are merely indicated as follows:—“Truffaldino enters, goes through his pleasantries,” or even more simply: “Enter Truffaldino,” and then “Exit Truffaldino.” In certain pieces nevertheless his rôle is more fully set forth.

TRUFFALDINO. You ask me what I am and what I am going to do. I
am going to tell you; and I shall sincerely relate to you the
story of my life. I came from the foundling hospital. Let me
consider a moment my genealogical tree. It is most probable
that I am the son of a king, because I have always experienced
in my blood a great superiority. In the foundling hospital they
attempted to teach me to read and to write, but my greatness of
soul could never permit me to lower myself to such meannesses.
In consequence of a certain inherent royal ferocity, it was my
fate to break the skull of a teacher. After that I ran away
and by virtue of my heroism I became a mendicant. Taken by
corsairs I was sold as a slave. The Turks, perceiving in my
physiognomy the indelible signs of my noble origin and admiring
the majesty of my stomach, valued me in the market at the price
of fifty philippes. My buyer, having thoroughly experienced
how monarchically I was disposed to despise all such work as
was set me, sold me again for fifty livres. My third buyer
harnessed me with a donkey. In this situation I became so
celebrated for my indifference to any kind of occupation
other than that of eating that my latest buyer sold me for
twenty-seven livres and a half. At last I was decorated with
an honourable kick and thus I quitted slavery with honour and
glory. I was as much out of place there as a fish in a meadow
or a cheese in a library. After all that I have told you, you
will readily see for yourself the nature of the employment for
which I am fitted.

II

POLICHINELLE

“B-r-r-r-r-r.... B-r-r-r-r-r.... Yes, my children! Here I am!
I, Polichinelle with my big stick! Here I am! The little man
is still alive, you see. I come to amuse you, as pleasantly as
I can, for certain _quidams_ have told me that you are sad!
Now, why should you be sad? Is not life a pleasant thing, an
idle jest, a veritable farce, in which all the world is the
theatre and where there is plenty to excite your laughter, if
you will but take the trouble to look? It is getting on for
four thousand years, my children, that I have been parading
my humps about the surface of the globe, among men who are no
whit less ferocious and savage than tigers and crocodiles;
and it is getting on for four thousand years that I have been
laughing, sometimes until I have had a pain in my back. Is it
not droll, is it not very droll, tell me, to see upon such a
little space as that which we call the world, this ant-heap of
creatures, each of which, taken separately, conceives itself
to be privileged by all nature? Ask one of these atoms if it
would change its skin with its neighbour. Ah no, be easy, its
own skin pleases it too well. But ask it if it would change its
purse with that of its neighbour. ‘Oh yes, if his is fatter
than mine,’ it will answer you. And each one strives, comes,
goes, amasses, stirs up, rolls, grovels, and gives more thought
to to-morrow than to yesterday. You would suppose to look at
them that they must live for ever. They are all mad! Observe me
this one, he amasses and piles up ducat upon ducat, waiting
until the hour of his death to make use of this fortune. His
son makes haste to scatter it all, and goes to a deal of
trouble to ruin himself in body as well as in purse; sometimes
he dies before having succeeded. That is the law; to make and
to unmake. Behold me this fellow, who plagues his brains to
discover some means of attracting the attention of some other
unfortunates who do not wish to be turned aside from the road
which they follow, which their fathers followed, and which
their children will follow. He has had some sort of a notion
to disturb his neighbours; they seize him, shut him up, or
have him burnt or drowned. Is it not droll? Ah! you would have
laughed to have seen thousands of human carcasses hanging from
the trees by the roadside after I know not what jest had gone
through the minds of some lunatics. I never laughed so much
as some fifteen centuries ago. There were whole roastings of
people whose tort it was to be weaker than those who were the
stronger at that time. It was very amusing to see them rent
and devoured by wild animals. You’re going to call me a dull
fellow, a fool, and to tell me that I have not understood what
I have seen. Pish! my children! it is best to laugh at things,
for the children of these disembowelled wretches avenged
themselves later on.

“But droller still, the drollest thing of all, is woman.
Ah! now there we have a strange animal! Oh, the vanity, the
malice of these little beings, for whom I am still capable of
committing follies! By Pluto or by Satan! (they are both one,
and I don’t think much of either, for after all they are but
human inventions) it is good to watch men and women desiring
each other, deceiving each other, hating each other. The two
sexes have declared war, and yet neither can live without the
other. Ask a man what he thinks of women. He will reply: ‘They
are vain and untruthful.’ Ask a woman what she thinks of men.
She will say: ‘They are egotistical and perfidious!’ Come,
come! there is truth on both sides, because with gold either
may be bought. Be rich and you shall be honoured, loved and
flattered; you shall be beautiful, even young if you please;
you shall find love, consideration and honours. Be poor and you
shall not be worth a string of onions!

“I can see from here one or two who do not share my opinion.
They may please themselves; they are still young. If, like me,
they had seen whole cities disappear under volcanic ashes, if
their shoes had been scorched by the hot lava of Vesuvius,
if they had seen the sanguinary people of the south hurl
themselves upon the ferocious people of the north, and vice
versa; if they had spoken the truth in three words, as I did,
to the mighty ones of the earth; if they had told the proudest
nations of the world that they were no better than savages and
brutes, they would think differently, and they would consider
the matter carefully before contradicting me.

“Is my conscience wide and easy? Of course it is! that which
belongs to others belongs to me; and I have only to stoop so as
to fill my hat with the gold and the wealth of my neighbours.
You find that wrong? It is my point of view; I have such a
contempt for men that I am little concerned with what they may
think or say of me.

“But do not dare to call me a thief! It is not the word that
wounds me, it is the intention. Take care! I have never been
insulted with impunity, and I am never more to be feared than
when I am in a good humour. You do not deserve that I should
waste my merry words upon you, because that which should make
you laugh seems, instead, to annoy you. What! would you weep
because everything goes wrong? Look at me! I have suffered
as much as any man, but I cover my hump and my heart with a
cuirass. I am laughter incarnate, laughter triumphant. So much
the worse for those rows of paper capuchins which are to be
overthrown by the first breath that blows. I am of wood and
iron, and as old as the world!”