Chapter V: Introduction (5)

ARTOTROGUS. What should I say of Cappadocia had not the edge
of your sword become blunt after you had sliced off the heads
of five hundred men! But it was no more than a remainder of
infantry! Is it necessary that I should repeat to you what is
on the lips of all humanity? There is not, say all mortals, in
the whole world but one Pyrgopolinices, who excels in valour,
in beauty, in great actions and in heroism. All women love you;
and not without reason, faith, since you are of a dazzling
beauty; you should have seen the number of ladies who but
yesterday plucked at my cloak to question me concerning you.

PYRGOPOLINICES. What was it that they said? Tell me all. It
will give me pleasure.

ARTOTROGUS. One inquired: “Is not that perchance Achilles?”
“No,” I answered; “it is his brother.” Another ejaculated:
“How beautiful he is, how shapely and how gracious! Happy the
women who enjoy the honour of his choice. Assuredly it were
impossible to be too envious of their lot.”

PYRGOPOLINICES. Really now, did they say that?

ARTOTROGUS. Two amongst them implored me to see to it that you
should pass their door to-day, as if the mere sight of you were
as good as a whole procession, or an enchanted spectacle.

PYRGOPOLINICES. Confess now that an excess of beauty may often
cause chagrin and embarrassment.... I think it is time that
we repaired to the Forum to pay the soldiers whom yesterday I
enrolled. For you are to know that King Seleucus has begged
me instantly to raise an army for him, such high confidence
does he place in my knowledge and judgment. I have therefore
resolved to render to-day this good office to my friend the
king.

ARTOTROGUS. Since that is so, let us go.

PYRGOPOLINICES. Follow me, lackeys; and above all let it
be seen that you belong to me.... I may boast myself the
favourite of Venus. Who knows but that the goddess herself may
be enamoured of me?...

MILPHIDIPPA (_a waiting maid_). My Lord Beautiful, I greet you
very humbly.

PYRGOPOLINICES. Who told you my surname? May the gods love you,
my child, and may they give you what your heart desires!... I
do not for a moment doubt but that the girl is in love with me
herself.

MILPHIDIPPA. All my wish is to spend my life with you, sir.

PYRGOPOLINICES. You aspire too high! Your pretensions go too
far.

MILPHIDIPPA. It is not for myself that I speak; it could not
please the gods that I should be so daring. I speak for my
mistress, who is dying of love for you.

PYRGOPOLINICES. There are many others besides her who desire
the same happiness and may not attain to it. But who is your
mistress? For I am pestered by such a number of women that I
cannot remember them all.... Speak out, then. Tell me what you
want, little love-messenger.

MILPHIDIPPA. Ah! my famous Achilles, lend an ear to my
prayer; grant what I ask of you; generously save a loving
and a beautiful woman. Draw upon your heroic heart for some
sentiments of softness, of tenderness and of compassion. Do
that, O great demolisher of cities, illustrious slayer of kings.

PYRGOPOLINICES. By Hercules, this becomes tiresome and
importunate. (_To his lackey._) How often have I forbidden you
to promise thus easily and commonly my services to ladies?

PALÆSTRIO (_lackey_). None but brave warriors are born of the
woman whom he honours with his love; and his children live at
least eight hundred years.

MILPHIDIPPA. Misfortune catch thee, fool and mocker!

PYRGOPOLINICES. He is not mocking you. My children live a
thousand years by computations made from the first century to
the last.

PALÆSTRIO. I was afraid to state their number lest this
child should have thought that I was indulging in a gross and
impudent falsehood.

PYRGOPOLINICES. Do you know, child, that I was born on the
morrow of that memorable day on which the goddess Ops gave
birth to Jupiter?

PALÆSTRIO. That is the fact, and if the lord my master had
arrived but one day earlier, the empire of the heavens would
have been his.

After all his boast and brag of his exploits he is seized by the scullions of Periplectomene, receives from them an ignominious correction, and departs beaten, yet satisfied.

PERIPLECOMENUS (_to his lackeys_). Bring him away; if he won’t
follow you carry him. Bear him between heaven and earth, or
else tear him into pieces, cut him into shreds.

PYRGOPOLINICES. Oh! my Lord Periplecomenus, I implore you in
the name of Hercules!

PERIPLECOMENUS. There is no Hercules to help you; your prayer
is useless. See, Cario, if your knife is sharp.

PYRGOPOLINICES. I am lost, I am dead!

CARIO (_a scullion_). Not yet, you say that too soon! (_To
his master._) Shall I get to work, sir? Shall I commence the
operation?

PERIPLECOMENUS. No, first I want him beaten back and front.

CARIO. I will set my hand to it with the best will. (_He
strikes._)

PYRGOPOLINICES. Mercy! mercy, I implore you! you have beaten me
enough.

CARIO (_to his master_). Shall I cut? Shall I carve? Shall I
set my knife to the business?

PYRGOPOLINICES. My lord, before he does so, before he opens my
belly, have compassion to hear me....

CARIO. It would be best to let him experience another shower of
blows and then show him the door and give him his dismissal.

PYRGOPOLINICES. May the gods bless you, who plead so well in my
favour! In truth this cudgelling has entirely softened me; I am
metamorphosed into a lamb; let me go, I implore you.

PERIPLECOMENUS. Unbind him.

PYRGOPOLINICES. I am most deeply indebted! I thank you with all
my heart.

(_The Braggart Captain. PLAUTUS._)

The modern Captain’s utterances are very similar:

“To-day some lackeys, finding me alone, belaboured me with
cudgels—an affront which put me in such a passion that I
devoured the walls of a bastion. At last, swollen with
vexation, rancour, rage and fury, I broke Fortune on the wheel,
scourged Hazard and burned Misfortune.”

You see him strutting in the sun along the flagstones of a palace, his nose in the air, his eye on the trail of roast meat, his hand on his terrible rapier, dangerous only to the eyes of those who follow him. To see him bestride the ground you would suppose that the whole earth belongs to him; that if he wished he could overthrow the buildings by a flick. But he is magnanimous. How many insults and canings has he not permitted to fall into oblivion?

It is night! Who goes there? A rival beyond doubt. The Captain will fell him with a glance. No! He despises him too much; he does not consider it worth while; the man is but a simple mortal after all! If it were Jupiter now! We should see fine things. Not one but two men are approaching, and their gait is peculiar. Let him withdraw; it is the more generous behaviour towards these poor fellows who might die of terror at the simple sight of him. “Thus I save their lives,” adds our hero, stretching out his long legs until they look like a pair of compasses and accelerating his walk until it almost becomes a flight.

But at the corner of the street a shower of cudgel blows falls suddenly upon the shoulders of this demi-god. He is knocked down; rogues and vagabonds hasten to strip him of his riches. The famous coat of mail, fashioned out of the gold rings which his many mistresses have compelled him to accept, might have tempted these poor rascals; but, alas! under his slashed doublet, which they disdain, not so much as a shirt do they find. “We are robbed!” says one of the miscreants to his companions, and they vanish, despising their victim.

Hearing no further sound the Captain opens first one eye and then the other, raises his head, recognises that the danger is past, readjusts his rapier and turns his steps to other hunting grounds.

“Ce capitan fait grand éclat:
Et sa valeur est si parfaite,
Qu’il est des derniers au combat,
Et des premiers à la retraite.”

“The Captain,” says M. Frédéric Mercey, “antedates the Spanish dominion; we consider him the contemporary of all those formidable leaders of Italian bands who distinguished themselves at Anghiari and in those famous encounters in which a horse, by turning its head or its tail, might suffice to bring about the loss or gain of a battle. It is Macchiavelli who assures us of this.

“Under the new masters (_i.e._ the Spaniards) the Captain is transformed into _Matamoros_; he jabbers in Castilian, assumes the stateliness of Spain, and corrects as far as possible his poltroonery. Not a day passes now on which he does not slay a Moor, confound a necromancer or seduce a princess. His lackey’s garments are made from the material of the turbans of the infidels whom he has decapitated.

“To-day, after having undergone a further transformation, he still loves to entertain us with his prowess. One day, at the siege of Trébizonde, he penetrated alone into the tent of the Sultan, and, seizing him by the beard, he dragged him through the camp, whilst with his disengaged hand, he held off his assailants and compelled the entire infidel army to keep its distance. When he entered the city his cuirass bristled so with arrows that he might have been mistaken for a hedgehog. The hedgehog device on his coat of arms dates from that event....

“His gallantry equals his valour, and when beauty is the object of his onslaught he has such marvellous means of conquest that he never finds her unyielding. He overthrows towers, bursts through iron doors or, like a Greek god, descends upon her in the form of a golden rain. Many of his feats of gallantry have found imitators. Once, for instance, when he galloped along the banks of the Garigliano in the company of the princess Gilyme d’Apremont, she, being weary of his amorous insistence, said in jest: ‘The fire that consumes my knight is very ardent then?’

“‘Cruel, can you doubt it?’

“‘Not at all, but I know a means of relieving you. Fling yourself into the river.’

“‘Not all these waters could extinguish my flame.’

“‘That is but a gallant figure of speech; and I shall not believe it until I see you issuing from those waves still consumed by the same love.’

“‘Is that so, beautiful princess?’ he cries, whereupon the intrepid lover drives spurs into the flanks of his charger and leaps into the middle of the river.

“He ran great risk of drowning, and it was only by abandoning his horse that he was able to regain the shore with the water streaming from him, but still devoured by the same fire. The princess kept her word and rewarded so noble a devotion.

“Like the Captains his ancestors, Matamoros was magnificent in words, but his purse was always empty and under his beautiful richly damascened cuirass he wore but a frayed and tattered leather jerkin.”

The tradition of the theatre informs us that this rôle of Matamoros made the fortune of _L’Illusion Comique_.[3] The Captain’s formidable boasts and his piteous discomfiture had a comic interest which can scarcely be fully appreciated by us. Boastfulness reigned then in court and town, and even in the Academy; it may almost be said that it had passed into French manners. In witness to this may be cited the illustrious Scudéry, who held his pen in one hand and his sword in the other whilst challenging Corneille to single combat, so as to prove to him that _Le Cid_ was a detestable tragedy; or again that admirable eccentric named Cyrano de Bergerac. Cyrano at least was of no false courage; but if his valour produced high deeds, in what an extraordinary mass of fanfaronading gasconnades were they not served up. Corneille, to give words to his character, needed no more than to translate into verse the prose of this great duellist.

“It would be necessary, I think, sir, that God should
accomplish something as miraculous as the wish of Caligula if
he would make an end of my quarrels. If the entire human race
were assembled under a single head, or when but one should
remain of all living men, there would still be one duel left
for me. In truth it must be that your departure having made a
desert of Paris the grass is spreading in every street, since
wherever I go I find myself always on a lawn. Sometimes I
conceive that I am become a hedgehog; since no one may approach
me without being pricked. Had you not also noticed that there
is at present more shadow on the horizon than at the time of
your departure? It is because, since then, my hand has so
peopled hell that it regurgitates upon the earth.”

In the encounter in hell between Gaultier Garguille and Tabarin, Gaultier Garguille says:

“If you were still in the other world you would split your
sides with laughter to see the proud folk of to-day who,
striding superbly hand on hip, like pots with handles,
moustachiously disdain all whom they meet, whilst their
fulminating swords are filling all graveyards; and, what is
still worse, by their eyes, glowering fiercely under a trailing
plume, they cause Jupiter to tremble until he is on the point
of abandoning to them his lightning and his eagle, that he may
have peace, and this notwithstanding that they inspire fear in
none but snails and flies and frogs.”

No type was so successful in Europe in the sixteenth century, and more particularly at the beginning of the seventeenth, as that of the Captain, both in improvised and in written comedy. In Italy, Spain, France and England, the number of pieces in which the Captain, under very different names, played the principal rôle was very considerable. Scarron wrote round this character a sort of _tour de force_ in verse in one act and in one rhyme—_ment_—entitled _Les Boutades du Capitan Matamore_, 1646:

MATAMORE

J’ai de l’amour infiniment
Pour un bel œil qui, puissamment,
Me trouble impérieusement;
Il demeure en ce logement,
Marchons-y délicatement.
Holà! sortez hâtivement,
Sinon, parbleu! robustement
J’écraserai le bâtiment.

ANGÉLIQUE

Hé! que frappe si rudement!

MATAMORE

C’est un faiseur d’égorgement.

The first Italian Captains date from the fifteenth century, and their costumes have varied according to their epochs. At first they wore buff jackets, a long sword, a steel helmet or morion, and they were always masked. These masks were flesh-coloured, with a prominent nose and terrific moustachios.

“The ancient Italian Captain,” says L. Riccoboni, “was
succeeded by the Spanish Captain, who dressed himself in the
fashion of his country. Little by little the Spanish Captain
overthrew the ancient Italian Captain. At the time of the
passage of Charles V. into Italy this character was introduced
into the French theatre. Its novelty earned it the suffrages
of the public; our Italian Captain was silenced and the
Spanish Captain remained master of the battlefield. It was his
character to be boastful; but he was destined in the end to
receive a cudgelling from Harlequin.”

In Italy and in France the Captains bear such Hispaniolised names as: el Capitano Sangre y Fuego, el Capitano Cuerno de Cornazan, el Capitano Escobombardon della Papirotonda, el Capitano Rodomonte, el Capitano Parafante.

The Germans in the seventeenth century also had their Captain, _Horribilicribrifax_, who was but a copy of the Milanese Captain Spavento, the Castilian Matamoros, and the French Capitaine Fracasse.

In the sixteenth century the Capitan Spezza-Monti, known in France under the name of Tranche-Montagne, “closed his eyes when fighting his enemies, so as not to see their severed limbs as he sliced them off.”

Callot, in his _Petits Danseurs_, shows us some of these Italian Captains of the sixteenth century; among others is the Capitan Taglia-Cantoni, dressed in tight garments, wearing an enormously plumed hat, and shod in cannon boots, adorned with lace on the inside. His Captain Zerbino is distinguished by a triumphant panache and a mask adorned with spectacles. His Captain Cerimonia is represented with one leg advanced, and his hand on his rapier, so that, entirely thrusting up his cloak behind, the point of it menaces heaven. He is extremely ceremonious as is indicated by his name. Meeting Signora Lavinia (Diana Ponti), he seems to be bending a soft glance upon her through his mask, and he is in the act of doffing his slashed hat. The Captains Mala-Gamba and Bella-Vita, both knock-kneed, are saluting each other with precaution and defiance. They wear enormous ruffs and exaggerated garters on the outsides of their boots. Their sleeves and breeches are slashed after the fashion of the time of François I. The Captains Cardoni, Babeo Esgangarato, Cocodrillo and Grillo, wear the costume of dancers.

ii

In the Italian troupe of the _Gelosi_ which went to France in 1577, the rôles of Captain were played under the name of CAPITANO SPAVENTO della Valle Inferna (Captain Terror of the Vale of Hell), by Francesco Andreini, born at Pistoia, and already well known in Italy since 1558. He played all known musical instruments, and spoke six languages—Italian, French, Spanish, Slav, Greek and Turkish. He performed the parts of Doctors and Captains equally well, and he created the character of the Dottore Siciliano and that of a magician named Talcirone. On his return to Florence in 1578 he met in this same troupe Isabella, who was then sixteen years of age, and greatly admired for her beauty, her talents and her virtue. Francesco Andreini fell in love with her and married her. In the following year, 1579, Isabella, who was still in Florence, gave birth to a son, Gian Battista Andreini, known later on under the name of Lelio, and author of the _Teatro Celeste_ and _L’Adamo_. Andreini went again to France in 1600, with the second troupe of _Gelosi_, still under the direction of Flaminio Scala; but as the troupe was returning to Italy, Isabella died suddenly at Lyons (1604). Sorrow-stricken and inconsolable, Francesco Andreini quitted the theatre with his son; the latter, however, went back to it in the capacity of director in the following year. Andreini the elder never returned to the stage, nor concerned himself further with his art save as an author. He produced, in 1607, _Le Bravure del Capitano Spavento_, which was translated into French under the title of _Bravacheries du Capitaine l’Epouvante_. Francesco Andreini was a member of the Società degli Spensierati of Florence.

Whilst a comedian in the troupe of Flaminio Scala he was the author of the preface of Scala’s book, which contains some fifty scenarii. His son, Gian Battista Andreini, discharged the rôles of juvenile lovers under the name of Lelio, as we shall see.

Francesco Andreini died in 1624.

Fabrizio de Fornaris, a gentleman of Naples, born in 1560, was renowned for his comic spirit and his wit under the name of Capitan Cocodrillo. He went to France with the troupe of the _Confidenti_ in 1584 and 1585. He caused _La Fiammella_, a pastoral play by Bartolomeo Rossi, to be performed by his comrades, and he published it in 1584. In the following year he published a comedy of his own, entitled _Angelica_, which had been performed impromptu, scoring considerable success, particularly at the house of the Duke of Joyeuse, to whom it was dedicated. Fabrizio de Fornaris returned to Italy, and died there in 1637.

In 1618, the charlatan Mondor, born at Milan, who performed his farces on the trestles of the Place Dauphine with his associate Tabarin, played the rôles of Captain in certain Tabarinic farces, under the name of Rodomonte, an anagram upon his own name. As all the world knows, it was Ariosto who first gave to the world the terrible Saracen Captain Rodomonte.

RODOMONT. Cavaliers, musketeers, bombards, canons, morions,
corslets! Hither, comrades! I am Captain Rodomont, the bravery,
the valour of all the world; my sword has been triumphant
throughout the whole universe.

TABARIN. It is true, by my faith; there is none who can ply a
two-legged sword better than he.

RODOMONT. What are you doing in this house, Tabarin? What are
you doing, coward? I want to speak to you. Hither, coward!
Hither, pig! I want to kill you! Be dead![4]

Mondor was a man of handsome presence, who expressed himself extremely well, and who had received a good education, as may be judged from the lessons in science and philosophy which he delivered to his public in the form of dialogues with his lackey Tabarin.

In the _Opuscules Tabariniques_ is the following passage:—

“Mondor is a kind of wit and a man of some letters, capable
if he should wish it of a more honourable vocation. He is
well-bred and courteous, removing his hat very gracefully and
with a gentle smile when he returns a handkerchief or a glove.”

In the troupe of the _Fedeli_, which came to Paris in 1621 and again in 1624 under the direction of G. B. Andreini, the rôles of Captain were played by Girolamo Gavarini, of Ferrara, known in the theatre as _Capitano Rinoceronte_ (Captain Rhinoceros).

Niccolo Barbieri (Beltrame) relates in his _Supplica_ the death of this comedian on the 2nd October 1624, and says that upon his body was found “a very coarse hair-shirt, which occasions some surprise, for whilst we were well aware that he was pious and devout, we had no suspicion that he went to such lengths as this.” He adds that “people should not risk inconsiderately to speak evil of comedians, remembering that frequently there are very honourable men in their ranks and, better still, even saints at times, such as Saint Genest, Saint Ardélion, Saint Sylvain and San Giovanni Buono.”

Abraham Bosse performed the part of Matamoros from the beginning of the seventeenth century, armed to the teeth, in slashed and tight-fitting garments, and under a plumed hat of grey felt, similar to that worn by Spavento.

iii

CAPTAIN SPEZZAFER wore at first the costume of a gentleman of the court of Henry IV., a round, plumed hat, beard and moustachios, a heavy ruff and doublet, and very wide breeches, in keeping with the mode of the period. But in 1668 he modified the shape of his costume; and his manner of wearing the sword, very high up and suspended from a wide leather belt, gave him a certain similarity with Crispin of the French comedy. The colours he affected, however, were very different. Whilst Crispin is dressed from head to foot in black velvet, Spezzafer is arrayed in heavy silk of a bright yellow; his garments are cut after the fashion of those of soldiers of a few years earlier, under Louis XIII. He wears moustachios and a grey cocked hat, surmounted by a feather.

Spezzafer, whose name was Giuseppe Bianchi, was first seen in Paris in 1639, and again in 1645, with the troupe whose director he was and whose principal actors were the following:—Barbançois (_Polichinelle_), Bastona, Bonnetti, Caluci, Cialace (_Pantaloon_), Bonami (_dancer_), Franchi, Grandini, Micael Lardi, Merli, Magni, Nardo, Nicoli, Pozzi, Rinaldi, Usili; Mesdames Brigida Bianchi, Orsola Bianchi, Luigia Bianchi, Gambelli, Marizini, etc.

He died in Paris in 1680.

“His death being a subject of conversation at Versailles, M——,
a doctor, claimed to resemble him; but the Prince of —— assured
him of the contrary, upon the grounds that the Captain had
never killed anybody. This Spezzafer was married to a woman of
very equivocal conduct, and when in the comedy of _Arlequin
Roi par Hasard_ he came to solicit the governorship of a place
on the frontier, Harlequin would answer him: ‘How should you
be able to govern it, you, who in twenty years have never
succeeded in governing your wife?’ No doubt this pleasantry
never failed to provoke the laughter of the public, but it must
have been very bitter to him who was its butt.”

In one of Gherardi’s plays Captain Spavento finds it necessary to purchase under-clothing. It is what we may call a _scène intime_, for it is not customary to see Captains acting like simple mortals; they are always tuned to a diapason far too high ever to permit them to descend to the necessities of existence.

“It is said,” Harlequin tells him, “that you do not wear a shirt.”

“That was once my custom,” replies the Captain, “because then, being of an extremely furious nature, when once I was enraged, the hair of my body, which was abundant, stood up, piercing my shirt on every side, and putting so many holes in it that one might have taken it for a colander. But having become much more moderate since then, I now wear under-clothing like any other fellow.”

After the departure of Harlequin Spezzafer approaches a shop.

SPEZZAFER. Now here, opportunely, is a linen shop. Let me see
if they keep what I require.

A SEMPSTRESS. Sir, we have very beautiful Dutch linen and other
things.

SPEZZAFER (_taking up a shirt from the counter_). I shall be
delighted to buy something from you. (_Aside._) This girl is
pretty, well made, and her eyes are blue. (_Aloud._) This shirt
would do very well for me, but I think it is too small.

THE SEMPSTRESS. Too small! you cannot think that. It is three
quarters and a half long.

SPEZZAFER. How much do you want for it?

THE SEMPSTRESS. It will cost you ten ducats, not to overcharge
you.

SPEZZAFER. Ten ducats!

THE SEMPSTRESS. Yes, sir. I make only a livre on each sou.

SPEZZAFER. I will give you thirty sous.

THE SEMPSTRESS. Thirty sous! It is easily seen you’re not used
to wearing shirts.

SPEZZAFER. There! There is a ducat, not to haggle further. Do
not compel me to go elsewhere.

THE SEMPSTRESS. Oh, very well, take it then, on condition that
you will do me the honour to come again. This is the sign of
_La Pucelle_.

In the middle of the eighteenth century the costume of the Italian Captain resembles that of a soldier of the time. He wears a three-cornered hat, long hair tied in a queue, and coat, waistcoat and breeches of military cut. The long sword which he carries pointing upwards gives him still a little of the air of his ancestors.

iv

GIANGURGOLO—which is to say Jack Glutton—is the Calabrian type of Captain. Like Matamoros he is passionately devoted to women; but he is frightened of them; he is always afraid of discovering a man under the petticoat. Nevertheless he carries the great sword of the Captain and has adopted his soldierly gait. Like his primitive type he is boastful, a monstrous liar, timid beyond all measure, and moreover as famished as a savage. Yet he will go four days without eating for fear of meeting with a rebuff, which would make it necessary for him to become angry and perhaps to fight—in other words, to be beaten. Thus he has recourse to theft to nourish himself, because he never has a farthing. He prowls about the stalls of the macaroni merchants; lifting up his great cardboard nose, he sniffs and nourishes himself upon the smell of the edibles. If by good fortune he can put his hand upon victuals, it is amusing to see the quantity whose disappearance he can contrive. His stomach is a gulf. But, for the sake of a few pounds of macaroni, a few dishfuls of polenta, one or two _salami_, how much shame must he not endure! He is a compound of Gargantua, Matamoros and Pierrot. He is, moreover, foolish and vain and proclaims himself a Sicilian gentleman. “The earth,” he says, “trembles under me when I march.”

The members of the watch are a terror to him. He has a guilty conscience, and at their approach, notwithstanding his titles, his nobility and his redoubtable arms, he could gladly squeeze into a rat-hole. When he is quite certain that he is dealing only with poor inoffensive people he causes himself to be served on a grand scale, and repays them by enraging furiously. If in the moment of his fury a child to amuse itself should shout out behind him, he will disappear so quickly and for so long that years may pass before he is seen again in the country. He wears a long and pointed felt hat, a rapier, a scarlet doublet whose sleeves, matching his breeches, are of pale yellow striped with red. Francesco Ficoroni (in his _Dissertatio de larvis scenicis et figuris comicis_) gives the reproduction of an ancient mime engraved upon onyx, which very much resembles Giangurgolo in headdress, long nose and ungainly posture.

v

IL VAPPO, or Smargiasso (fanfaron), is a Neapolitan type, representing the spadassin of the end of the eighteenth century. He is a great brawler, an excessive boaster, and above all an incredible poltroon, like the other varieties of the Captain. He wears an ample square-cut riding-coat, a three-cornered hat of an exaggerated height, yellow breeches and a long rapier, whose old and rusty hilt rattles as he moves. He is a clumsy, awkward fellow, striking terrific postures, a Franca-Trippa of Callot, dressed in a slightly more modern manner.

vi

The Romans also have a sort of Captain, ROGANTINO, who has the same manners and the same character as their Marco-Pepe. In Bologna the Corporal Rogantino is the chief officer of the watch; he is brutal, speaks with a bizarre accent, vibrating his rs, and, when he has to effect an arrest, if the guilty escape him he will often seize an innocent man; should anyone attempt to hinder him, he wants to strike and incarcerate everybody.

His scenes conclude in a general mêlée from which Rogantino issues invariably in a pitiable condition. “They have beaten me,” he says, “but I told them what I thought of them.” This character is preserved in Rome to this day, together with Pulcinella and Cassandrino, as one of the heroes of the marionette booth.

IV

COLUMBINE

In the _Mostellaria_ of Plautus, Philematium, a musician, has for waiting-woman a certain Scapha, who converses with her in terms very similar to those in which Diamantine converses with Aurelia, or Columbine with Isabella. In the following scene we are permitted to be present at the toilet of a woman of antiquity.

PHILEMATIUM. See, I beg you, Scaphe, whether this gown suits
me. For it is my aim to please Philolaches, who is at once my
lover and my master.

SCAPHA. Why do you not seek to acquire provoking ways, since
in yourself you are entirely lovely? Lovers do not care for a
woman’s gowns, but for what they contain.

PHILEMATIUM. And now what do you say?

SCAPHA. Concerning what?

PHILEMATIUM. Look at me closely and you will agree that this
gown improves my beauty.

SCAPHA. The force of your beauty is greater and carries more
influence than your raiment. All that you put on borrows grace
and value from yourself.

PHILEMATIUM. I do not want you to flatter me.

SCAPHA. If I dared, my dear mistress, I should say that you are
very foolish, since you prefer to be wrongly criticised rather
than to be justly praised. Strange taste! As for myself—by
Pollux! I would rather receive praise which I do not deserve
than reproaches for faults of which I am aware.

PHILEMATIUM. I detest people who seek to please me by
falsehood. If you find me wanting in anything, have the
goodness to correct me.

SCAPHA. I certainly think that you act grossly against your
interests when you give yourself entirely to Philolaches. You
count upon none but him; you are so submissive, complaisant
and obedient to this young man that all other lovers count for
nothing with you; it does not become a courtesan to have but
one intrigue; she should leave that to ladies of high degree.

PHILEMATIUM. Since my dear lover has delivered me from shameful
bondage I do no more than my duty in showing him a hundred
times more tenderness than when I flattered him to obtain what
he has done for me.

SCAPHA. In that case consider him as a husband in conscience
and in honour as well as in tenderness and, upon that footing,
allow your hair to grow like that of a married woman.[5]

PHILEMATIUM. See whether my headdress is well arranged. Give me
my white.

SCAPHA. What for?

PHILEMATIUM. To rub it into my cheeks to beautify me.

SCAPHA. It is like whitening ivory with soot.

PHILEMATIUM. Give me also my rouge (_purpurismum_).

SCAPHA. With these colours you are about to spoil the most
beautiful work of nature. Confine yourself to the bright tints
of your youth. You require no white-lead nor rouge of Melos nor
any other sort of plaster.

PHILEMATIUM. Do you not think that I should do well to rub
myself with scent, and to perfume myself?

SCAPHA. Beware of doing it! A woman smells best when she smells
of nothing, for what can be thought of those women who perfume
themselves, and proclaim themselves by their scents? They are
treated as toothless hags, who seek to disguise themselves
under paint and perfume.

PHILEMATIUM. Consider well my long robe and my jewels. Do you
find me well adorned? Does everything suit me?

SCAPHA. It is not for me to judge; it is Philolache’s taste
alone that is to be consulted on that subject. Purple is
convenient for dissembling age, and as for gold, it suits no
woman.

ii

From the flattering, cynical and corrupted slave was born in the Italian theatre the _servetta_ or _fantesca_, a confidential waiting-maid, known later in France as the _soubrette_, a character confounded with that of sophisticated and malicious village girls. As early as 1528 we find women playing this rôle in the lively and noteworthy comedies of Angelo Beolco (Ruzzante) performed at the theatre of Padua. She is called Betta and Bettia (for Elisabetta), Gnua (for Genoveffa), Gitta (for Gianetta), Nina, Besa, etc. Usually these are peasant women, who betray their husbands or their lovers for very little, “a piece of bread or a ribbon,” or even, very often, merely out of a spirit of mischief. Thus Bettia is enclosed with her lover Tonin, a man-at-arms, and speaks from the window to Ruzzante, her husband, who bids her open the door and return home with him, in which case he will forgive her fault.

“I care nothing about your forgiveness; I do not need it. At home it is I who have to labour and I am sick of it. Whilst you are glued to a chair and never do anything I must set my hands to everything. Go and seek another servant to clean your pots and pans, and to do your house-work. Do you think that I, who am as fresh and lively as a fish, shall submit to having no society but yours? I am here, and here I remain. I am sorry about your honour; but you have brought this upon yourself.”

In 1530 we find waiting-women in the troupe of the _Intronati_ under the names of Columbina, Oliva, Fiametta, Pasquella, Nespola and Spinetta. But the most famous actress in this line was Silvia Roncagli, born at Bergamo, who, under the name of Franceschina, went to France in the troupe of the _Gelosi_ in 1578. She returned to Italy with that company and played in Florence the rôles of waiting-woman to Isabella (Isabella Andreini). She spoke French perfectly, and at times permitted herself entirely French improvisations. The soubrette in the troupe of the _Fedeli_, which went to Paris with G. B. Andreini, still bore the name of Franceschina.

The wife of Tabarin, who improvised on the trestles of the Place Dauphine, assumed also the same _nom de guerre_. L’Etoile claims that she was Italian; he is certainly confusing her with Silvia Roncagli. Her real name was Anne Begot, and her reputation was much better than was supposed, for the stupid people of Paris took the farces and the follies which she uttered literally as being expressions of herself.

iii

Patricia Adami, born at Rome in 1635, was known under the name of DIAMANTINA. She played first in Italy and later in France. In 1600, after the decease of her husband, Adami, a comedian who died young, she made her first appearance in Paris, and her versatile talents caused the public very quickly to forget the actress who had preceded her in 1653, summoned to France by Cardinal Mazarin. Of the latter no more than her theatre-name of Beatrix is known, and this from the quatrain of Foret:

“Mais pour enchanter les oreilles,
Pâmer, pleurer, faire merveilles,
Mademoiselle _Béatrix_
Emporta, ce jour-là, le prix.”

Patricia Adami was of slight stature and rather brown of skin, but extremely pretty, and of a great vivacity on the stage. Agostino Lolli, who played the parts of Doctor, fell in love with her and they were married. She continued her successes and persevered in her employment until a younger star rose to eclipse her—that is to say, until the début of Caterina Biancolelli (Columbine). In 1683, Diamantina, having grown old, withdrew altogether from the theatre.

iv

The type of soubrette remains always the same. From the days of Plautus to those of Gherardi, and from those of Gherardi down to our own, it has undergone but little variation; but the soubrette became personified in the character of COLUMBINE by Teresa, Caterina and the second Teresa Biancolelli—grandmother, granddaughter and great-granddaughter. The most remarkable of the three by her versatile talent and her numerous creation is Caterina Biancolelli, daughter of the famous Domenico, and wife of Pierre Lenoir de la Thorillière, a pupil of Molière’s and a distinguished actor in his company.

She is sometimes soubrette, sometimes mistress, advocate, dancer, singer and swaggering gallant. It is said of her that she filled with equal ease all rôles, and that she spoke fluently several languages, dialects and jargons. She appears to have been a very well-educated woman of real talent. “She was small and brunette, but of a very comely countenance. She had more than beauty; she had physiognomy, a fine air, easy gesture and a sweet and pleasant voice.” Born in 1665 of Giuseppe-Domenico Biancolelli and Ursula Corteze (known in the theatre under the name of Eularia), she took the surname of Columbina, a surname which had been in vogue in the theatre since 1560; her paternal grandmother had already borne it and had been painted in walking costume, holding a basket containing two doves (_colombes_) in allusion to this her stage name. This portrait was preserved in the house inhabited by Domenico in the village of Bièvre, near Paris.

Caterina made her début on the 11th October 1863, in _Arlequino Protèo_. She came on and in Italian addressed her father who was playing Harlequin: “I was told that your lordship desired to speak with me. But what a droll figure is your lordship’s! You have the air of a turkey-cock.”

“How? Of a turkey-cock?” replied Harlequin; “I am the chief comedian of a troupe of turkey-cocks—I mean of a troupe of comedians. But I sent for you because I know that you have great talent for comedy, and I am going to give you a rôle in _The Burning of Troy_: I will represent the horse, you shall represent the fire,” etc. Columbine rejects the piece, which, she says, would end in smoke and hurt the eyes of the spectators. Choice is made of _The Loves of Titus and Berenice_. Columbine announces that she is going to _imberenice_ herself (imberenicciarmi), and Harlequin goes off to _titusine_ himself (intitusinarmi).

She scored a great success, and from the moment of her début she gave a free rein to her wit and audacity in improvisation. As soubrette to Isabella she remonstrates with her mistress, who is desolated at the prospect of marrying a man whom she does not love.

“You will live” (she tells her) “as live the majority of wives
in Paris. In the first four or five years you will be prodigal,
and then when you shall have consumed the greater part of your
husband’s fortune in moveables, gowns, equipages and jewels,
you will part company with him; your marriage-portion will be
returned to you, and you will live thereafter as a great lady.
How simple you are! Do you think rich men are married to be
loved?”

Elsewhere she deals in home truths with her master:

“Quite frankly, sir, if you do not take care, you will, for
all your millions, become the laughing-stock of Paris. It is
well known that there is no man, be he great or little, who has
not sometimes something in his head; but it is a shame to see
you without occupation, lamenting your life and haggling from
morning to night about the merest necessities of the house!
Alas! for the days of your extravagance, when nothing was
talked of but your ostentation and good humour. Whenever you
returned from town you would always chat with me for a moment,
your hand under my chin. It was Columbine here, Columbine
there; now a ribbon, now a ring, now a fan. In short one had,
now and again, some little mark of your remembrance. Now you
come home a hundred times without once saying: ‘God keep you.’
You never cease from grumbling, you become as ugly as yellow
lard, as cantankerous as a devil. Of your fifty lackeys you
have dismissed fifteen; there remain only three coaches here,
and I think—God forgive me!—that you retrench your wife’s
expenditure in dress.”

On the subject of coquetry, Columbine thus admonishes Isabella:

“Things must never be allowed to go to extremes. But I assure
you that a little pinch of coquetry scattered through the
manners of a woman, renders her a hundred times more lovable
and desirable. I but repeat the words of my mother, who was
a marvellously well-informed woman on this subject. I have
heard her say a hundred times that it is with coquetry as with
vinegar: when too much is put into the sauce it becomes sharp
and detestable; when it contains too little it is so faint as
not to be tasted; but when you achieve that mediocrity which
arouses appetite, it will induce you to eat your very fingers.
It is the same with woman. When she is coquettish at the
expense of her honour, fie, fie! that is not worth a devil.
When she is not coquettish at all, that is still worse; her
virtue seems confounded with her temperament, and you would
suppose her merely a lethargic beauty. But when a beautiful
woman has just so much sparkle as is required to please, faith,
if I were a man, that should tell with me.”

In _Le Banqueroutier_ to prove to Isabella that her heart is more tender than she cares to confess, this is what she imagines:

COLUMBINE. Bring me a mantle, a scarf, a wig and a hat
belonging to mademoiselle’s brother. I will beguile our leisure
by counterfeiting one of these sighing lovers.

ISABELLA. But what shall I call you?

COLUMBINE. You shall call me “Chevalier.” And be on your guard,
for, faith, I shall press you closely. You laugh? Had God but
made a man of me I should have been a dangerous rogue. (_She
goes out, to return dressed as a man._) Faith! mademoiselle, it
is not without trouble that one penetrates to your apartments.
If your brutal porter but wore laced breeches he would be taken
for a Swiss. Do you know that I have spent literally two hours
at your door, and that this rascal would not have consented
to open if it had not occurred to me to tell him that I am a
relative of yours? Count me a rascal if I do not speak the
truth. By the way, have I told you that I love you?

ISABELLA. That statement has not yet reached me.

COLUMBINE. We men of feeling are sometimes so inattentive
that it is necessary to guess our meaning. I find you most
touchingly blossoming.

ISABELLA. Fie! Chevalier, you must not look at me. I am not
personable to-day. These last two nights I have been so ill
that I have not closed an eye. You will understand that one may
not be beautiful after such a defeat to one’s health.

COLUMBINE. You have, perdition catch me, more health than I
have need of. My only fear is lest your illness should be of
the heart. Lovable as you are it is not possible that you
should not bear some passion in your soul. Should it be so,
conceal it from me, for I would sooner that five hundred devils
should seize me than——

ISABELLA. How, Chevalier! Are you jealous?

COLUMBINE. As the devil! My beautiful, will you compel me to
sigh for ever? When will you sup with me, chez Lamy?

ISABELLA. Chevalier! You are wanting in respect. A lady of my
quality in a tavern!

Little by little Columbine becomes impassioned and plays so
well her rôle of a lover that Isabella sighs: “Alas, Columbine!
what a pity that you are not a boy!”

Columbine is frank, and calls all things by their proper
name. But if at times her mistress does not listen to her she
pretends that she desires to quit her service knowing full well
that this will never be permitted.

COLUMBINE. If you were to give me three times my present wages,
I would not remain another quarter of an hour in your service.
You may think that I am ruled by money. I love my reputation,
mademoiselle, and that is all that matters.

ISABELLA. I do not think, Columbine, that your reputation has
run any risks with me.

COLUMBINE. All that is very well, but I am going to leave you.

ISABELLA. How! without telling me the reason?

COLUMBINE. I leave you because my heart is in the right place,
and I am dying of shame to see how little progress you have
made in six months. From morning to night I wear myself out
body and soul to teach you that beauty unadorned makes no
dupes, and that a marriageable girl must adapt herself to all
sorts of rôles if she is to succeed. Instead of profiting by my
lessons you remain tranquilly confident of your charms and you
leave the care of your fortune to your star. A fine way that to
go about getting a husband!

ISABELLA. You are wrong to scold me, Columbine. Since you
have been with me I have been no more than the echo of your
remonstrances, and in company I never speak save on the lines
which you have indicated to me.

COLUMBINE. You go about it in a fine way! Virtue of my life!
When marriage is the aim, more artifice is necessary. I have
told you a hundred times to assume a severe and haughty air
with those who seek you in marriage. Man is an animal that
desires to be mastered. He attaches himself only to those
who repulse him. From the moment that you seem gentle and
complaisant any fatuous suitor may suppose your heart to
be garrotted by his charms. But when you treat him with
indifference, you will see him supple, arduous, attentive,
sparing no pains or expense to succeed in pleasing you.

ISABELLA. It seems, then, that I am still a novice, for I had
thought that sincerity sustained by honesty must most surely
win affection.

COLUMBINE. Whence are you with your honesty? Go on singing
that tune and you’ll die an old maid. Get it into your head,
mademoiselle, that with the man of to-day it is necessary to be
astute, alert, and roguish even, if necessary. The great thing
is to become a wife; the rest is in the hands of God.

In _L’Homme à Bonnes Fortunes_, Columbine is the younger sister of Isabella. She is but fifteen years of age, and desires already to be married.

_Columbine dressed as a little girl, and Isabella_

ISABELLA. You are really very foolish to stuff your head with
silly notions of love and marriage. Is such conduct becoming in
a younger sister? Were it not better that you should renounce
the world?

COLUMBINE. All that is very easy to say, my sister, but you
wouldn’t speak as you speak if you felt as I feel.

ISABELLA. And what do you feel, pray? And what do I feel who am
your elder? Do you hear me complaining of the tiresomeness of
the spinster state? You’re an amusing urchin!

COLUMBINE. An amusing urchin? I am not as much an urchin as I
seem: and I should have become a wife long since if my father
had permitted it, for I have been told that one may be married
at the age of twelve.

ISABELLA. But do you so much as know what a husband is, that
you talk like this?

COLUMBINE. Should I want one if I didn’t know?

ISABELLA. Hey! And where have you learned all these fine things?

COLUMBINE. One doesn’t need to learn them. Marriage must be a
very agreeable state, since the mere thought of it brings so
much pleasure.

ISABELLA. You are very much out in your reckoning if you think
marriage is agreeable. A fine thing to have a husband who is
always grumbling! A fine thing to have the care of servants! A
fine thing to suffer the inconvenience of pregnancy! That alone
were sufficient to make me renounce marriage for ever. You are
not fit for marriage. It is not a child’s game.

COLUMBINE. And I tell you that I am as fit for marriage as you
are. And although I may be wrong, if I were married at once I
am sure I should not die of it.

ISABELLA. Really! I think I am very patient to listen to all
these expressions of your petty humour! There is no one so
bereft of sense as to desire to take charge of you.

COLUMBINE. Eh! la, la, it is not such a heavy charge, and
everybody is not afraid of it. Less than a week ago, in a shop
at the Palais, a gentleman of condition told me how much he
liked me, and how glad he would be to marry me.

ISABELLA. And what did you answer him?

COLUMBINE. I told him that I was still very young for that, but
that next year——

ISABELLA. You will be older and more foolish. Can’t you see
that he was mocking you, and that you are becoming ridiculous?
You ought to die of shame.

PIERROT (_entering_). How now, mesdemoiselles! What a noise you
are making. You seem to be flattering one another after the
fashion of cat and dog.

COLUMBINE. Pierrot, it is my sister who is angry. She would
have no husbands but for herself.

PIERROT. The glutton!

COLUMBINE. My poor Pierrot. You who are so beautiful, tell me:
is it necessary that I should be a spinster all my life?

PIERROT. Impossible! Look now, girls should be married when
they are young; youth is game that won’t keep.

ISABELLA. But then, is it just that I should resign my rights
to a younger sister?

PIERROT (_to Columbine_). It is true that so far you are but an
embryo, and I have seen larger ones in bottles.

COLUMBINE. I admit, Pierrot, that I am still small, but——

ISABELLA. Silence! There is no enduring your impertinences. I
will leave you.

After the exit of Isabella, Columbine entrusts Pierrot with
the delivery of a letter to the gentleman whom she met at the
Palais. “Since I know how to write,” she says, “why should I
not write?”

“Quite so,” replies Pierrot, and he departs with the
love-letter, exclaiming: “A fine thing nature! It thinks of
marriage whilst in the shell!”

Some scenes later Pierrot brings the reply from this gentleman
of condition whom Columbine already loves, and who is none
other than Harlequin.

COLUMBINE. Well, my poor Pierrot, did you bear my letter to
this viscount?

PIERROT. I did, and he sends you a little note in return.

COLUMBINE (_snatching the letter from him_). Give it me quickly.

PIERROT. Peste! How sharp-set you are upon the quarry.

COLUMBINE (_reading_). “Love is like an itch; there is no
concealing it. Wherefore may the plague catch me if I do not
come and see you to-day.—VISCOUNT OF BERGAMOTTE.”

PIERROT. Now there is a man who writes tenderly.

COLUMBINE. He loves me, for he says so, and I hope that we
shall soon be married.

It is always Harlequin who is, will be, or has been the lover or the husband of Columbine. But Harlequin is not set upon being faithful. He courts other women, and goes even so far as to introduce one into the conjugal domicile, pretending himself a bachelor. But his duplicity is discovered, and Columbine comes to an understanding with Angélique, her rival, and they both avenge themselves by cudgelling the too-perfidious Harlequin.

Sometimes Harlequin has abandoned her in Venice, to go to seek his fortune in Paris under the dress and style of the Marquis Sbruffadelli. Columbine pursues him with her vengeance, and assumes all manner of disguises to frighten him, for she has given out that she is dead, thereby causing great joy to Harlequin, who is in haste to marry Isabella.