Chapter I: Part 1

THE HISTORY OF THE HARLEQUINADE

THE HISTORY OF THE
HARLEQUINADE

BY MAURICE SAND

VOLUME
TWO

LONDON: MARTIN SECKER
NUMBER FIVE JOHN STREET ADELPHI

_First Published 1915_

CONTENTS

PAGE

VIII. PANTALOON 9

IX. THE CANTATRICE 53

X. THE BALLERINA 75

XI. STENTERELLO 89

XII. ISABELLE 121

XIII. SCAPINO 161

XIV. SCARAMOUCHE 207

XV. COVIELLO 231

XVI. TARTAGLIA 259

XVII. SOME CARNIVAL MASKS 275

XVIII. CARLO GOZZI AND CARLO GOLDONI 281

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

PANTALOON _Frontispiece_

FACING PAGE

THE DOCTOR 48

STENTERELLO 96

ISABELLE 128

SCAPINO 176

SCARAMOUCHE 208

COVIELLO 240

THE APOTHECARY 272

THE HISTORY OF THE HARLEQUINADE

VIII

PANTALOON

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TRANIO. You could not be in better.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TRANIO. Oh, gods!

THEUROPIDES. What’s the matter?

TRANIO. By Hercules, you are wrong.

THEUROPIDES. What are you telling me?

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

THEUROPIDES. How?

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

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

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

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

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

THEUROPIDES. The reason, quickly!

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

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

TRANIO. Take the trouble to look yet again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

THEUROPIDES. And killed him?

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

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

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

THEUROPIDES. Still whilst he was asleep?

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

THEUROPIDES. I am silent.

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

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

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

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

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

THEUROPIDES. Tranio!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ii

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To one capon and one belt for Master
Pantaloon 12 livres

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

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

To tripe and a mouse-trap 10 sols.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BROCANTIN. What is that work you are doing?

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

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

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

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

ISABELLA _and_ COLUMBINE (_together_). Oh, father!

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

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

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

COLUMBINE. To a woman?

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

ISABELLA. You are marrying a woman?

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

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

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

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

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

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

BROCANTIN. Oh, my daughters!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

iii

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PIERROT. Let us hear.

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

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

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

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

THE DOCTOR. Most certainly.

PIERROT. Now listen to Pierrot.

THE DOCTOR. Let us hear.

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

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

PIERROT. Yes, sir.

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

PIERROT. There is something in that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

iv

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

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