Chapter VII: Part 7

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

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

“‘Is he far from here?’ she asks.

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

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

xi

JODELET, a clownish lackey, ingenuous and stupid of appearance, was played in the French troupe of the Hôtel de Bourgogne by Julien Geoffrin, from 1610 to 1660. In shape his costume is that of Beltrame; as to its colour, he wears a black cap, striped doublet, trunk and hose, the mask of Brighella and the black chin-piece, the cloak, purse and wooden sabre of all similar types.

It was for the character of this personage that Scarron wrote _Jodelet Duelliste_ and _Jodelet Maître et Valet_ in 1645.

We have also _Jodelet Astrologue_, a comedy by d’Ouville, 1646; and _La Feinte Mort de Jodelet_, a comedy by Brécourt, 1660.

Julien Geoffrin was the last to play _la farce_ in France.

“For one who plays the naïve with his face plastered with
flour” (says Tallemant) “he is a good actor. Farce is no longer
played save at the Marais, where he is, and it is on his
account that it is played there. Jodelet speaks through his
nose in consequence of not having been properly treated ... and
that lends him a certain quaintness.”

Jodelet played also sometimes with the Italian troupe.

Gilotin, Tripotin and Filipin played in farces at the French theatre of the Hôtel de Bourgogne (1655). Filipin, whose real name was Villiers, played the same rôles as Jodelet. Scarron wrote for him _Le Gardien de Soi-Même_. He wore the black mask of the Italian lackeys, and a red cap adorned by two feathers.

(1635) Goguelu was a French mask who appears to have attempted to replace Gros-Guillaume at the theatre of the Hôtel de Bourgogne. He wore wide pantaloons, a doublet like that of Brighella, the cloak, skull cap and exaggerated moustache of the Italian buffoons.

Bruscambille, another type of the Hôtel de Bourgogne, was created by Deslauriers. He was a native of Champagne, an actor and an author, and he made his first appearance in 1598, on the trestles of Jean Farine, joining the company of the Hôtel de Bourgogne in 1634.

XIV

SCARAMOUCHE

SCARAMOUCHE is the son or the grandson of Matamoros. His name, which signifies “little fighter” or “skirmisher,” and his primitive Neapolitan type, would place him in the category of Captains, if Tiberio Fiurelli had not endowed him in France with every shade of character.

The costume of Scaramouche has never varied in point of colour; he has always been dressed in black from head to foot. Riccoboni says that “in point of cut it is an imitation of the Spanish dress, which, in the city of Naples, had long been the dress of courtiers, of magistrates and men of war. Towards 1680 the Spanish Captains came to an end in Italy, and the old Italian Captain having long been forgotten, it became necessary to find in the companies of Neapolitan comedians an actor to replace the Spanish Captain; thus Scaramuccia was created. In Italy this personage has never had any character other than that of the Captain; he is at once a boaster and a coward.”

Originally he wore a mask, like all the types that date back to this epoch. In his _Petits Danseurs_, Callot represents the Scaramuccia of the _Fedeli_ company (whose real name was Goldoni) wearing a mask and brandishing a sword. His costume differs but little from what it afterwards became with Fiurelli, excepting the slashings in his doublet and in his plumed cap, which suggest that the date of the creation of this type is the end of the sixteenth century.

Tiberio Fiurelli, the most famous of all Scaramouches, discarded the mask, floured his countenance and, by his facial play, “was the greatest mime in the world.” The breeches that he wore at first were wide, afterwards he assumed those which remained traditional to the type. The girdle has sometimes been of cloth like the costume, sometimes of leather. Trimmings and buttons were always of the colour of the dress.

Scaramouche proclaims himself marquis, prince or lord of several countries which have never existed in any geographical chart. He was, he says, abandoned in his early youth by his illustrious father, and reared at the expense of some king or other, who caused him to spend his early years at the oar of a royal galley. It is not to be doubted that he found his way to the galleys later on, for he is the greatest thief that ever breathed. He inherits all the boast and brag and poltroonery of his father the Captain. Like him he is in love with all women; but his pale countenance and evil reputation afford him few chances with the fair sex. He avenges himself for his rebuffs by boasting of illusory favours and by maligning the women whom he pretends to have jilted.

Notwithstanding his pretensions to nobility, for he claims to be as noble as Charlemagne, and as rich as another ancestor of his named Crœsus, he is nearly always the servant of a very minor gentleman, or of a poor bourgeois, who employs him in the conduct of his love affairs. But instead of doing his duty he prefers to amuse himself by beating the watch and thieving from passers-by. In short, Scaramouche is a good-for-nothing who finds delight only in disorder. If there are any blows to be received in payment for his rascalities, he is sly enough to procure for some neighbour the windfall that was destined for himself. There is a perfect understanding between him and Pulcinella, who is another rogue of his kidney. It is thus that, arm-in-arm, the one shouting and gesticulating brutally, the other bellowing, leaping and wheeling his sword about the ears of peaceful citizens, they sweep the pavement, ogling the same women and thirsting for the same bottles. It is rarely that the matter does not end in a dispute between these two gossips. Pulcinella becomes angry, and Scaramouche vanishes.

“Where is that poltroon, that coward?” cries Pulcinella, pounding the tables with his great knotted cudgel.

When the formidable fellow’s anger is spent Scaramouche returns to reprimand his friend upon his evil inclinations, his irascibility, drunkenness and egoism; it is a speech full of good sense and morality, to which Pulcinella listens absent-mindedly rubbing his hump. Most of the time he does not listen at all, for he has no esteem whatever for this poltroon. The matter, however, ends invariably in libations, and it is glass in hand and his brain a little heated that Scaramouche gives a free rein to his brilliant imagination. He will thus relate all his exploits of gallantry to Pulcinella, who does not interrupt him save by occasional exclamations of admiring astonishment, or by little mocking laughs, which indicate his incredulity.

Suddenly, however, pots, glasses and bottles fly into fragments. Pulcinella, wearied by all this chatter of Scaramouche, swings his devastating club to put an end to the conversation; then he gets up and, without paying his share, departs sneering.

Scaramouche has gone into hiding at the crash, and does not show himself again until his comrade is far away.

“What an ass!” he exclaims. “What an animal! What rude, unmannerly ways! Next time I shall correct him thoroughly; I shall pull his ears.”

Upon the remark of a third party, who accuses him of having been afraid, he replies like Panurge: “Afraid? I? I have a deal of courage. I do not mean the courage of the lamb, but the courage of the wolf, and even more the courage of the slayer.”

Scaramouche is like the bowman of Bagnolet, “he fears nothing but danger.”

Tiberio Fiurelli was born in Naples on the 7th November 1608. Although the son of a cavalry captain, he was, at the age of twenty-five, employed as a servant by the leading lady of a company that then enjoyed a good repute in Naples. He was a utility man, and played small parts from time to time.

One day the laundress of the comedienne who employed him told Fiurelli that her daughter’s best friend was about to be married and that her daughter was to be one of the bridesmaids; she invited him to the nuptials, knowing him for a young man of jovial humour. The marriage was a brilliant affair; there was a deal of drinking and dancing; Fiurelli distinguished himself by eating as much as two and drinking as much as four. As a result, in the course of the dance, driven no doubt largely by the wine into an amorous transport, he kissed the bridesmaid notwithstanding her resistance. The insult was considered of a grave character, particularly as it had been offered in public, and it was judged to be reparable only by marriage. On the morrow the laundress, having assembled witnesses and the members of her family, came to demand justice from the mistress of Fiurelli. The accused appeared, but had nothing to say. He could remember nothing of what had happened yesterday. The laundress, having reminded him of everything, threatened to lay a plaint before the magistrates if he did not repair his fault and make the amend demanded by the honour of the family. Having taken counsel with the actress whom he served, Fiurelli decided to marry the young laundress, who was very pretty.

Some time after their nuptials, Fiurelli and his wife joined a company of comedians. Madame Fiurelli took the name of _Marinette_, which was probably her own, for she was the first soubrette to bear it. Fiurelli himself assumed the name of Scaramouche. Angelo Constantini, the author of _The Life, Loves and Deeds of Scaramouche_, says that Fiurelli was the creator of this type; but he is at fault in this statement as in several others in his biography. Evaristo Gherardi severely trounces this work of Constantini’s: “If those,” he says, “who have spoken so unworthily of Fiurelli, and who have made use of his name to produce an infinity of wretched quips and bad jests are capable of shame, let them come candle in hand to make reparation to the manes of so great a man, that they may avoid the punishment which impostors deserve before God and humanity. There is nothing more impious than to exhume a man for the purpose of covering him with calumny.”

Nature had marvellously endowed Fiurelli, and his name very quickly became famous throughout all Italy as that of the most perfect and witty mime that had ever existed. After having visited most of the great cities of Italy, he went to Paris in the reign of Louis XIII., in 1640, and enjoyed there an equal degree of success.

The queen took great pleasure in his mimicries. One day, when he and Brigida Bianchi (an actress known—as we have seen—under the name of Aurelia) were in the chamber of the dauphin (afterwards Louis XIV.), the prince, who was then but two years old, was in such evil temper that nothing could appease his rage and his cries. Scaramouche told the queen that if she would permit him to take the royal child in his arms he would undertake to calm him. The queen having permitted this, he made so many grimaces, performed so many apish tricks, that not only did the child cease to cry, but he was seized with a hilarity whose results ruined the garments of Scaramouche, to the great bursts of laughter of all the ladies and gentlemen present at this scene.

From that day Scaramouche received the order to visit the dauphin every evening to amuse him, together with his dog, his cat, his monkey, his guitar and his parrot. Scaramouche would then be about thirty-three years of age. He was invariably summoned to Paris whenever any Italian troupe was commanded to appear there. Many years later Louis XIV. used to take pleasure in reminding Fiurelli of their first interview, and the great king would laugh heartily when Fiurelli mimed the story of that adventure.

On the subject of Scaramouche, Gherardi writes as follows in the scenario of _Colombine Avocat Pour et Contre_:—

“After having mended everything that is in the chamber, he
takes his guitar, drops into an arm-chair and plays whilst
awaiting the arrival of his master. Pasquariello comes up
softly behind him and beats the time of his music on his
shoulders, which terribly frightens Scaramouche. In a word it
is now that this incomparable Scaramuccia, who was the ornament
of the theatre and the model of the most illustrious comedians
of his day—having taught them that art so difficult and so
necessary to persons of their _character_, how to stir up
passions and to depict them—it is now, I say, that for a long
quarter of an hour he could shake the audience with laughter at
a scene of terror in which he did not utter a single word. It
must also be agreed that this excellent actor possessed this
marvellous gift in so high a degree that he could move the
hearts of his audience by the simplicity and naturalness of
his mimicry far more than they are ordinarily to be moved by
the most able orators or by the charms of the most persuasive
rhetoric. A great prince, seeing him play once in Rome, said
of him: ‘Without speaking Scaramouche says the most beautiful
things in the world.’ And to mark the esteem conceived for him,
the prince sent for him when the comedy was ended, and made
him a present of the coach and six horses in which he had had
him fetched. He was always the delight of all the princes who
knew him, and our invincible monarch never wearied of heaping
favours upon him. I dare even to persuade myself that if he
were not dead the company would still be in existence.”

In 1659 a rumour was abroad that in the course of journeying into Italy Fiurelli had been shipwrecked and drowned whilst crossing the Rhone, an adventure which was celebrated in verse by Loret.

Fiurelli made frequent journeys into Italy to visit his wife Marinette. His last visit was a very protracted one; he remained with her for seven years, and returned to Paris only after her death. He established himself there permanently, and remained on the stage until the age of eighty-three. Having then retired, he fell in love with a young girl named Mademoiselle Duval, who was tall, well made and very beautiful, the daughter of a servant of the Président de Harlay. He sought her in marriage and obtained her.

The first months of the honeymoon were spent peacefully; but soon Fiurelli’s jealous and avaricious nature was revealed. After all, he was perhaps right to suspect and to complain. There was too great a difference in age between them and the young woman was coquettish. Scaramouche sought to enforce his rights and his authority; but his young wife refused to endure lessons and corrections; she sought shelter with her parents and took proceedings against him to obtain a separation. Fiurelli on his side accused her of infidelity, and demanded that her hair be cut and she be sent to a convent. The affair made a deal of noise, and four years were spent in preparing the case for the courts. Before it was completed Fiurelli died, on the 5th December 1696, at the age of eighty-eight.

At eighty-three he still displayed such agility that in his pantomime scenes he could box the ears of a fellow-actor with his foot. With a slight and supple body he combined a strength and litheness that were extraordinary.

We know that Molière testified ever for Fiurelli an unlimited admiration. It has been said, and there is reason to believe it, that it was the incomparable Scaramouche who determined the vocation of this illustrious child when he was taken by his grandfather to witness Fiurelli’s performances. It was by these that Molière was inspired to embrace the profession of the theatre. It has also been said that as a comic actor Molière always sought to imitate the Italians, Trivelino in particular, but Scaramouche above all. It is well known that Molière was Italian rather than French in his ways, both as author and comedian; that for his first essays, not only for his scenarii but still more for his written pieces, he tapped the sources afforded by the Italian repertory, and that the two companies played in his day the same subjects in the same theatre, whilst the Italians made no affectations of claiming priority, and Molière did not dream of contesting it them. For the rest these borrowings became reciprocal, as may be gathered from the fact that _Scaramouche Ermite_ scored a success at court, whilst _Tartuffe_ gave rise there to indignation.

At the foot of a portrait of Fiurelli in the dress of Scaramouche is the legend:

_Tibère Fiorilli, dit Scaramouche, le grand original des
théâtres modernes._

“Cet illustre comédien
Atteignit de son art l’agréable manière:
Il fut le maître de Molière,
Et la nature fut le sien.”

Let us take a glimpse of him at work in some entirely Italian scenes preserved in Gherardi’s collection.

“Ottavio, having given Angélique an assignation in the
Tuileries, desires that a gallant collation shall be prepared
so as to afford her a pleasant surprise. He begs Scaramouche to
attend to it and departs. Scaramouche, left on the stage, falls
into a reverie. Harlequin enters and Scaramouche begs of him
to think of a way but without telling him what is the subject.
Thereupon the two of them walk up and down the stage, their
heads in their hands, and from time to time one turns to the
other exclaiming: ‘Faith, I have it!’ to add afterwards: ‘No,
that idea is worth nothing,’ and to recommence their goings
and comings in silence. Suddenly they meet, and Scaramouche
exclaims: ‘Ah, this is sure to succeed!’ Whereupon they depart
without any further explanations.”

In another scene:

CINTHIO (_approaching SCARAMOUCHE_). _Come vi chiamate?_ (What
is your name?)

SCARAMOUCHE. What is my name?

CINTHIO. _Si, il vostro nome, qual è?_ (Yes, what is your name?)

SCARAMOUCHE. _Il mio nome, signor, è_ (My name, sir, is)
Scaramuzza, Memeo Squaquara, Tammera, Catambera, _e figlio di_
(a son of) Cocumaro and of Madonna Papara Trent’ova, e Iunze,
e Dunze, e Tiracarunze, _per servire a vossignoria_ (to serve
your lordship).

CINTHIO. _O che bel nom! in verità, non si puo far de più!_
(What a beautiful name! A better were impossible!) (_He pulls
out his purse._) Here, this is for Scaramouche. This is for
Memeo Squaquara. This is for Tammera and Catambera. (_At each
name he gives him a coin._) And the rest of the purse for the
rest of your name.

SCARAMOUCHE (_aside_). This fellow must be a collector of
names. (_To CINTHIO._) Sir, I have still several other names in
my family as beautiful and as long as my own. If you want them
you have but to mention it.

Scaramouche, having heard of the issue of a warrant for the arrest of Harlequin, his master, under his assumed name of the Marquis of Sbrufadelli, dresses himself as a woman so as to escape.

HARLEQUIN. Ha! Ha! here is some demoiselle from the Pont Neuf.
Good-morning, madam. Your servant.

SCARAMOUCHE. Sir, indicate to me, if you please, the way to La
Grève?[4]

HARLEQUIN (_mockingly_). You have but to go on as you have
started. Stick to your present ways and you will go straight
there.

SCARAMOUCHE. I will hurry then, for I fear lest I should not
find room.

HARLEQUIN. There is no need to hurry, there will always be room
for you.

SCARAMOUCHE. The truth is, sir, that they are going to hang
the Marquis of Sbrufadelli, and he will be, they say, the most
comical corpse in the world, so that everyone is hurrying to
see him.

HARLEQUIN (_angrily_). Those who told you that are
ill-informed. The Marquis of Sbrufadelli is a man of honour and
he will not be hanged. Do you understand?

SCARAMOUCHE. But I tell you that he will be. That it is
absolutely necessary that he should be, since all the windows
are already let.

HARLEQUIN. That is a fine necessity—to hang a man because the
windows are let. Go your ways, madam, you don’t know what you
are saying.

SCARAMOUCHE. It will be a very pretty show. I am dying to
see it. He married two wives and they are going to hang two
petticoats beside him. Oh, what a pretty show to see! Oh, how
droll it will be!

HARLEQUIN. I shall end by losing my temper. I tell you again
that I know the Marquis of Sbrufadelli, and——

SCARAMOUCHE (_revealing himself_). Yes, and I know him too.

HARLEQUIN. Scaramouche?

SCARAMOUCHE. Yes, sir. I have disguised myself in this fashion
because I know that the Doctor is seeking you to have you put
in prison. He is at the head of twenty archers, and I should be
sorry if they compelled me to keep you company. You know very
well that I have had nothing to do with your affairs, and that
this would never have happened to you if you had followed my
advice.

HARLEQUIN. This is not a time to be moralising——

SCARAMOUCHE. Oh, sir, you have waited too long, we are lost.
Here comes the Doctor.

The archers arrive with the Doctor. Harlequin, not knowing where to conceal himself, dives under the petticoats of Scaramouche. The Doctor is furious. He seeks Harlequin and comes face to face with Scaramouche. He gives him good-day with a mocking air, and, observing that he is holding his sides and groaning, asks him what is the matter.

SCARAMOUCHE. I beg you to let me go, sir. I am pregnant and in
pain.

THE DOCTOR. This is very distressing! But we must see about
getting you away from here because I am looking for a certain
man whom I am going to arrest, and if he should come this way
the archers might hurt you in the tumult.

SCARAMOUCHE. And what is the name, sir, of him you are seeking
to arrest?

THE DOCTOR. He is called the Marquis of Sbrufadelli.

HARLEQUIN (_thrusting his head from under the petticoat_). The
Marquis of Sbrufadelli, sir? The Marquis of Sbrufadelli is gone!

THE DOCTOR (_hearing a voice but seeing no one_). Who spoke
then?

SCARAMOUCHE. It is my unborn child, sir. (_Aside to
HARLEQUIN_:) Be quiet, animal, or you will be discovered.

THE DOCTOR (_suspiciously_). Your unborn child, is it? He is a
well-nourished child.

SCARAMOUCHE. Indeed yes, sir. I have never spared my children
anything.

THE DOCTOR. So I perceive, since they talk before birth.
(_Leaning over SCARAMOUCHE._) Master child, you say then that
the Marquis of Sbrufadelli is gone?

HARLEQUIN (_thrusting out his head_). Yes, sir, he departed by
the mail coach. It should suffice you to be told once.

THE DOCTOR. That is very true, sir. I beg your pardon for my
importunity. (_To the archers._) Corporal Simon! Take me that
child and put him in prison at once. He is a little debauchee
at much too early an age, and must be sent to a reformatory.

The archers seize Harlequin and bear him off; Scaramouche escapes crying: “_Salvo! salvo!_”

When Tiberio Fiurelli withdrew from the Théâtre-Italien in 1694, the rôles of Scaramouche were filled by Giuseppe Tortoretti, who had been playing Pasquariello until then.

ii

“On the day of PASQUARIELLO’S birth, the cat stole the roast meat, the candle turned pale thrice, the wine turned sour in the cellar, and—incredible prodigy!—the stock-pot emptied itself into the ashes. Evil prognostications! Faithful to them Pasquariello was ever a glutton, a drunkard and a devastator, the ruin and the terror of kitchens.”

This name of Pascariel, or Pasquariel as it is written by Gherardi, is no doubt a diminutive of Pasquino, the Roman emblem of satire.

In the sixteenth century Pasquariello was a dancer and a mountebank like Meo Squaquara, from whom Scaramouche claims descent. These personages are depicted by Callot. They are dressed in tight garments, with hawk-bells on their legs, they carry sabre and cloak, and wear a mask with a fantastical long nose, but they appear to be without head-dress. Meo Squaquara in particular seems to be bald-headed. Pasquariello bears the surname of _Truonno_—that is to say, the Terrible. It is a type that was not seen in France until 1685, when it was borne thither by Giuseppe Tortoretti. Like its ancestors, his Pasquariello was particularly a dancer and a very clever equilibrist. The rôle is always that of a servant.

The _Mercure Galant_ for March of 1685 says:

“The Italian company has been increased by a new actor who
earns the applause of all Paris, and who has given similar
pleasure at court. He is of a surprising agility and admirably
supports the incomparable Harlequin.”

Notwithstanding, however, the felicitous débuts of Pasquariello, this actor was never more than mediocre, and his talents lay largely in the suppleness of his limbs. His type is a variant of Scaramouche, whom—as we have mentioned—he came to replace in the Italian company after the death of Tiberio Fiurelli in 1694.

After the suppression of the Théâtre-Italien (1697), Giuseppe Tortoretti (_Pasquariello_) obtained from the king the privilege of performing the plays of his repertory throughout France, but with the reservation that he was not to bring his company within thirty leagues of Paris.

Thereupon he engaged a company and toured the provinces, but did such poor business that he died in want. Giuseppe Tortoretti had married in Italy Angelica Toscano, who was known at the Théâtre-Italien under the name of Marinetta; she went with him into the provinces and shared his ill luck.

Pasquariello is dressed more or less like Scaramouche, saving that he does not always wear the cap and cloak; he replaces cloth by black velvet, and sometimes wears red stockings. His simple and severe appearance permits him to play the same parts as Scaramouche, and to replace Scapin under the name of Pasquin.

It is chiefly in _L’Avocat Pour et Contre_ that Pasquariello has an important part; it is he who develops the plot of the piece; he enters at every instant to terrify Harlequin, who has become a great lord, and his servant Scaramouche. Now he appears as a Captain, to compel Harlequin to marry Columbine whom he has betrayed; at other times he is seen as a dancer, a Moor, a devil and even as a painter, for Harlequin has demanded a painter to paint his portrait.

Pasquariello enters. He has donned a waistcoat splashed and smeared with paint; he walks clumsily by the aid of crutches, and his eyes are almost hidden under a green visor.

“What is this?” demands Harlequin. “A painter of invalids? He is paralysed and he will paint me upside down.”

Pasquariello attempts to doff his hat to salute the Marquis Arlecchino, but he trembles to such an extent that, at his movement, the crutches, being unable to support him, one slips forward and the other backward and he tumbles upon Harlequin, who also falls. In the very act of falling this courteous painter greets Harlequin, wishing him good-morning, and announces himself his servant.

Harlequin, bruised and crippled, enlists the assistance of Pierrot to pick up the painter, and then says to him: “Without ceremony, sir, go and do your dying first, and then come back to paint my picture.”

But Pasquariello, or rather the painter, evidently adds deafness to his other infirmities; for without being at all disconcerted he sits down, places an enormous pair of spectacles on his nose, and, after having mixed some colours on his palette with a brush that is something like a broom, he daubs the face of Pierrot, who was standing open-mouthed before him, watching him mix his red and black. Pierrot departs in tears. Harlequin becomes angry. The painter makes no answer; he considers Harlequin, and, brush in one hand and palette in the other, he drags himself on his knees to Harlequin, who, scared, asks him what he is going to do.

“I am going to paint your lordship,” replies Pasquariel. But Harlequin draws his attention to the fact that his canvas is on the other side of the stage. The painter gets up, attempts to turn towards his canvas, but misses his step, and falls full length upon the stage. Harlequin exclaims: “Oh, here is a broken painter! I shall have to pay for a painter!” But Pasquariel is up again, and is taking his leave preliminary to departing. He balances himself upon his feet, then lets himself hurtle against Harlequin, who, being pushed thus unexpectedly, falls once more. Pasquariello falls on top of him as heavily as possible. He then gets up and departs, pursued by Harlequin’s imprecations.

In another scenario, _La Precaution Inutile_, Pasquariello is a lackey. He has been placed on duty together with Pierrot at Isabella’s door, and they have been expressly commanded not to allow any love letters to pass in. A butterfly flutters towards them. Pasquariel lifts up his nose and observes to Pierrot that perhaps this is a love messenger. Pierrot is absolutely of the same opinion. Thereupon a chase is set on foot, their object being to seize the papers which the butterfly no doubt carries. We have bounds and leaps, and we see one climbing upon the shoulders of the other to reach the butterfly, but the butterfly rises ever higher and higher. Both of them, nose in the air, fling up their hats, and end by colliding with each other so violently that both are knocked over and roll on the ground.

In _Le Grand Sophy_, Pasquariello, the valet of Ottavio, says to Mezzetin:

“Become but a captain of dragoons, and pleasure and good living
will follow you everywhere. No troubles, no sorrows, nothing
but joy. What happiness! You receive an order to join the army.
Immediately you take the coach, and all along the road you have
partridges and quails and ortolans for your everyday food. Just
taste me this wine.” (_He pretends to uncork a bottle and to
pour wine into a glass. MEZZETIN opens his mouth to receive the
wine._) “Well, what do you think of it? That is the least of
all the wines that you will drink on the way. Then you arrive
in camp. To begin with you are given very handsome apartments
on one floor.”

MEZZETIN. So much the better, for I do not care about going
upstairs, I think it is a bad omen.

PASQUARIELLO. A number of officers will come to visit you. You
play, you smoke, you sing, you drink liqueurs.

MEZZETIN. The devil! That is the life of a prelate! And people
say that there are evils in war!

PASQUARIELLO. Well, well! It is only people who have never been
there who speak ill of it. Meanwhile the enemy advances, and
the captain of dragoons is ordered to go and reconnoitre—that
is, to ascertain where the enemy is encamped, what movements
they are making, and the number of the troops that compose
their army. There is nothing easier. First of all you will
march in fine order at the head of your company. Oh! I can see
you on horseback, what a heroic air! What majesty! Do you dream
of it? Do you shake your ears?

MEZZETIN. Ay. I know how it hurts me to go on horseback, and
yet I have never mounted anything more than a donkey. It makes
my shoulders ache. Couldn’t we cut that out?

PASQUARIELLO. Indeed no, it is an honour. You advance thus
upon the enemy. As soon as they see you appear, they detach
a company of carabineers to come and meet you. When you are
within range of one another you begin to exchange salutes in
pistol shots, zin! zan! The captain of the carabineers draws
his sword, runs upon you and—tac!

MEZZETIN. Woe me!

PASQUARIELLO. Oh! that is nothing, only an arm lopped off.

MEZZETIN. And you call that nothing! I think it is something
myself!

PASQUARIELLO. Pooh! pooh! a mere trifle. The action is reported
to the court, and you become a colonel in another regiment.
The general orders his army to deliver battle, and to come to
blows; the enemy are firing like all the devils, zi! zi! pi!
pa! bon! ban! tac!

MEZZETIN. Heavens, I am lost! Another tac!

PASQUARIELLO. It is a grenade shot, which carries away one of
our colonel’s legs. But that is a trifle.

MEZZETIN. Devil take me if I didn’t suspect it when I heard
that tac of yours!

PASQUARIELLO. What would you? These are the fruits of war.
Your wound will be treated. Your name will be published in the
gazette, and you will become a brigadier.

MEZZETIN. A still greater charge?

PASQUARIELLO. Faith, I should think so! All the officers will
come to compliment you upon your new rank, and they will envy
your good fortune. The enemy rallies and returns to the charge.
First of all our brigadier runs from side to side, issuing
the necessary orders. The fight becomes obstinate, then the
enemy is routed, victory is shouted, the fugitives are pursued
sword in hand. At that moment a battery of twelve pieces of
cannon, which the enemy had mounted on a little prominence, is
discharged, bon! don! don! tac! tac!

MEZZETIN. Mercy! Ah! I am dead, there were two tacs!

PASQUARIELLO. You were very unfortunate. What a pity! Our poor
brigadier has had his remaining arm and leg carried away by a
cannon shot.

MEZZETIN. I am not in the least surprised, tacs have always
been fatal to me. (_Kneeling down with his two arms behind
him._) Now here is a pretty man!

PASQUARIELLO. You must be patient, my friend. These are marks
of your valour. You will have appeared again in the gazette,
and you will be made a general, the highest rank of all.

MEZZETIN. There is one thing I notice: the more my rank
increases, the more my limbs diminish.

PASQUARIELLO. From the moment that you are a general you mount
on horseback.

MEZZETIN. A moment, please. How am I to mount on horseback if I
have neither legs nor arms?

PASQUARIELLO. You are afforded a fresh occasion on which to
cover yourself with glory. The enemy is badly placed, you
have closed round them, and, after issuing your orders for
the fight, you run hither and thither, giving courage to your
soldiers.

MEZZETIN. Good! I shall be giving courage to others whilst
myself I am dying of fright.

PASQUARIELLO. The battle is over: turn what way you will there
is nothing but carnage; grenades, bombs, carcasses, cannon
balls, all come hailing down. Pif! paf! zin! zan! bon! don!
don! tac!

MEZZETIN. Ah me! We have come to it again!

PASQUARIELLO. It is a bullet that has carried away the
general’s head.

MEZZETIN. Trivial, eh?

PASQUARIELLO. Exactly.

MEZZETIN. I shall be happy to know what rank you will give me
now.

PASQUARIELLO. Oh, as soon as your wounds are healed, peace will
be made, and you will go and serve in Hungary against the Turks.

MEZZETIN. I am to go and serve in Hungary without arms, legs
or head. Oh, go to the devil with your company! If ever I
become a captain of dragoons may all the tacs in the world
strike me at once!

In _La Fausse Coquette_, Pasquariello is again a servant, and in the service of I know not what Polish prince, who is none other than Ottavio.

“He comes on with a lighted torch followed by one of his
friends who carries a bottle and a glass. And as Pasquariello’s
entire attention is engaged by the bottle, he thinks only
of emptying it, without paying attention to what his master
is saying. Hence it follows that he never returns proper
answers to the questions of the prince who, wearied by his
impertinences, looks at him closely, and, surprising him
glass in hand, delivers him a kick in the stomach and goes
off. Pasquariello falls backward, turns a somersault without
upsetting his glass, gets up, drains it, and goes off saying:
_Gran sventura di servire un giovane senza cervello!_ (What a
misfortune to serve a witless young man!)”

In the Regent’s troupe (1716) Giacopo Rauzzini was entrusted with the rôles of Scaramouche. According to the brothers Parfait,

“He was an intruder in the troupe of the Italian comedians.
A hundred pistoles presented by him to the man who had been
charged by Riccoboni (_Lelio_) to find a good Scaramouche
obtained him the position. He had been an usher in Naples
before taking to the stage, and he was but a very mediocre
comedian. He was addicted to gambling, ostentation and
extravagance; he set up a coach, kept open house, and in
consequence made many debts. Riccoboni the elder was obliged
to apply to the court for an order to inhibit his comrade’s
creditors to stop persecuting him, and, being himself an honest
man, he compelled Rauzzini to pay three-quarters of his debts.
This state of things continued down to the death of this
comedian, who was stricken by an apoplexy in the church of
Saint-Eustache, where he died on the 24th October 1731. He was
buried on the morrow at the expense of the troupe.”

In 1711, Cavé, known as _Maillard_, made his début at the fair of Saint-Germain in the rôles of Scaramouche. He toured the provinces but was never seen at the Théâtre-Italien. One day at the fair of Saint-Laurent, Maillard was in the shop of Dubois, the lemonade vendor; his wife, who was playing Columbine, happened to pass by on her way to the theatre, and gave him good-day in a friendly and coquettish manner.

“Do you by chance know that lovely comedienne?” Maillard was asked by one who happened to be in the shop at the same time.

“Eh! Cadedis,” he replied, affecting a Gascon accent, “if I know her?

“... Au gré de mes désirs,
J’ai goûté dans ses bras mille et mille plaisirs.”

“Shake hands,” said the other, “for I can say the same.”

Maillard abandoned his tone of raillery to inform this indiscreet fellow that he was the husband of the calumniated Columbine.

“Faith,” replied the other, “I am sorry to have been so frank; but I cannot possibly retract a statement of fact.”

It was then that Maillard became really angry and demanded satisfaction. Swords were drawn. Maillard was wounded and disarmed. His adversary himself conducted him to a surgeon in whose care he left him, taking his leave in the terms of the following mocking allusion from La Fontaine upon deceived husbands:

“Quand on le sait, c’est peu de chose:
Quand on l’ignore, ce n’est rien.”

In 1745 Gandini made his début at the Théâtre-Italien in _La Vengeance de Scaramouche_ and was very well received.

Other famous players of the part were Carlo Agati and Bertinelli, who achieved a deal of success in Italy somewhere about 1715.

iii

PASQUINO is an intriguing lackey, who talks a deal and lies as much. His reputation is detestable. He is a nincompoop who makes a ruin of everything to which he sets his hands, including his own affairs, for he spends far too much time in chattering with the waiting-women. Nevertheless he is concerned with only one thing in the world—his own interest. Pasquino is no more than a pale shadow of Brighella, or perhaps he is the same type as Pasquariello.

PASQUINO (_as a traveller_). Ah, Fortune, Fortune! will
you always turn a pirouette at the pasquinades of the
unfortunate Pasquino? And will you never steer the wheel of
your inconstancy into the rut of my merit? Driven from Rome
by kicks, I have trailed my shoes from hostelry to hostelry,
having no other payment to offer for my lodging than that of
liberally maligning those who give me food. At last I arrive
here without money, with the hunger of a dog, and unable to
appease the starving murmurs of my languishing inside.

Oh, sweet Olivetta, my dear mistress, whose pretty and
coquettish ways so often contrived that I should find credit in
the hostelries, you should have mended my fortunes. But, since
all things are mutable, and since your beauty could but grow
pale before the inhumanity of innkeepers, I was compelled to
leave you. What should you say, O beautiful forsaken one, if
you could see your tender Pasquino, his stomach as hollow as
his purse, you who found me a hundred times lying gorged with
wine upon your door-sill, as upon a feather bed? It was then
that in assisting me to rise you were able with such charming
discrimination to distinguish between the hiccoughs of my
vinous plenitude and the sighs of my burning love. Oh, Kitchen!
enchanting and delicious retreat! Thou erstwhile favourable
asylum for my appetite, thou, the usual sojourn of my charming
Olivetta! Happy the peaceful stew-pans that are scoured by her
lovely hands! Grills, cauldrons, pots and frying pans, warlike
ministers to the jaws, you that are the usual trophies of my
lovely mistress. Alas!—for pity’s sake revolt against all the
roasts and the ragouts of which you are the secondary causes
and by a general and harmoniously funereal rattle inform my
dear Olivetta that a desperate hunger is about to break the
springs of the turnspit of her love!

iv

The costume of CRISPIN, of the French comedy, created by Raymond Poisson in the middle of the seventeenth century, is borrowed from that of Scaramouche, and particularly from that of the Neapolitan Scaramouche, who, in imitation of the Captains, wears a long rapier and displays all the arrogance and cowardice of that character. This type, which is that of a lackey, more or less faithful according to the wages which he earns, a flatterer, a drunkard, a liar and a thief like Brighella, is none the less an entirely French creation which we owe to Poisson. We mention the character as a transformation of that of Scaramouche, by which it was inspired. Crispin was very quickly admitted to the forain theatres, and was seen in the same pieces as Mezzetin, Harlequin, Polichinelle, Scaramouche, Pantaloon and the other Italian types. Being of a more modern creation, he wears no mask; he is dressed in black, with boots or shoes, ruffle, gloves, a wide leather belt and a rapier.

Poisson was a tall and well-made man. Some say that to the costume of Crispin he added boots to conceal the excessive thinness of his legs, but it is more likely that he appeared thus upon the stage because, in his youth, the streets of Paris, of which not more than one half were paved, compelled footmen and servants to go booted.

XV

COVIELLO

CALLOT has left us engravings of the principal dancers, buffoons, mimes and masks of the ancient Italian comedy, in his series known as _Les Petits Danseurs_, but whose real title is _I Balli di Sfessania_ (_The Dances of Fescennia_). All the world knows that the inhabitants of Fescennia, whose ruins are still to be seen a quarter of a league from Galesa in Piedmont, invented a style of verse which enjoyed a great vogue in Rome, in which satire, allied with a primitive coarseness, called things by their proper names. These verses were laden with raillery, jests and buffooneries; they were accompanied by grotesque dances and improvised scenes, absolutely like the Atellanæ, but of a more trivial humour. In a letter addressed to Augustus, Horace writes:

“_Fescennina per hunc inventa licentia morem_
_Versibus alternis, opprobria rustica fudit._”

“The people of Fescennia,” says the Chevalier de Jaucourt,
“accompanied their fêtes and public rejoicings by pastoral
performances in which comedians declaimed an extremely
licentious sort of verse, and went through a thousand
buffooneries in the same taste. These verses were imported
into the theatre, and held the place of regular drama for over
a hundred years with the Romans. The biting satire for which
they were employed, discredited them still more than did their
primitive coarseness, so that they became really formidable.

“Catullus, seeing that the Fescennian verses were proscribed
by the public authorities, and that their coarseness was no
longer in the taste of his century, perfected and chastened
them in appearance. In their meaning, however, they remained no
less obscene, and they became far more dangerous to morals. The
frank, rude terms of a soldier are less hurtful to the heart
than the fine, ingenious and delicately turned speeches of the
man who follows the trade of a gallant.”

The Fescennian actors were still called in Rome _Mimi septentrionis_. They were either naked or dressed in very tight garments, their waists girt with a scarf whose ends floated in the wind. They danced, accompanying themselves upon castanets very similar to those that are in use to-day.

It is, then, under this title of _I Balli di Sfessania_ that Callot reproduced some fifty actors, dancers and buffoons of the end of the sixteenth and the beginning of the seventeenth centuries. In the main he represents actual personages, derived haphazard from the various Italian troupes, such as the _Gelosi_, the _Accesi_, and the _Fedeli_, who visited Florence when Callot was a student there.

These personages may be divided into two classes, rendered very distinct one from the other by the garments worn by each: that of the jugglers and tumblers, who were exclusively dancers or mimes, and that of the buffoons, _zanni_ and comedians playing given parts.

The members of the former class wear skull caps like the ancient mimes, or else caps decked with long feathers, the half mask with a very long bottle nose, without beard, and tight garments, adorned by a line of large buttons; they recall the costumes in fashion for court fools and buffoons of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. In the main they are merely tumblers, addicted to contortionistic poses and wild dances, equilibrists, sword swallowers and strong men. They are the descendants of the real _funambuli_ and _acrobates_ of the ancients, and like them they are phallophores.

Thanks to Callot, we find among these the following types that would otherwise be lost to us: Ciurlo in an extravagant posture, inviting Gian-Fritello, who disdains him, to the dance; Ratsa-di-Boio, abandoning himself to a picturesque dance, whilst several kindred fellows, holding hands, form a ring about a Smaraolo-Cornuto, perched upon stilts, beating a drum; Pasquariello Truonno and Meo-Squaquara imitating by their gestures a sort of _cancan_; Esgangarato and Cocodrillo as well as Bello-Sguardo, wearing bracelets and hawk-bells on their arms and legs; Razullo scratching, as his name suggests, his guitar, to the sound of which Cucurucu, in fine spectacles, is striking a modest pose. Cicho-Sgarra threatens Collo-Francisco, who trembles before him; Babeo is seen with his friend Cucuba; Cardoni pursued by Maramao; Grillo, a crippled, misshapen fellow; Cucorongna and Pernovalla, each going through contortions; and lastly Coviello, famous for his grimaces and his confused language.

This personage, according to Salvator Rosa, was one of the seven masks of the ancient Commedia dell’Arte. The description which he affords us proves that already in his day the costume of this buffoon had been transformed, and probably by himself, for we know that, under the mask of Coviello, Salvator Rosa earned the applause of all Rome in a character of his own creation, _Il Signor Formica_. In Hoffman’s tale entitled _Salvator Rosa_, a pleasant fiction is intermingled with the details of historic reality on the subject of the transformations and disguises of Salvator Rosa.

According to Salvator Rosa, Coviello is a native of Calabria; “his wit is sharp and subtle; he is shrewd, adroit, supple and vain. His accent and dress are those of his country—doublet and breeches of black velvet laced with silver. He wears a mask with encarnadined cheeks and black brow and nose.”

Apart from the mask there is nothing resembling this description in the personage engraved by Callot, nor in all his collection of dancers in extravagant poses, their tight-fitting and ridiculous garments adorned by a row of enormous buttons running the whole length of the body, their hats heavily plumed, their limbs charged with hawk-bells to render the dance noisy as that of savages, each mask adorned by a nose like an elephant’s trunk, some jumping and leaping, some playing the guitar or mandolin, some threatening invisible enemies with their wooden sabres.

“_C’è un Coviello_” (He is a Coviello) is an old Italian saying applicable to a boastful fool. Molière, in his _Bourgeois gentilhomme_, has made of his Coviello a lackey after the fashion of Scapin, who repeats everything said by his master, if not word for word at least idea for idea. According to some Coviello is a nincompoop who affects to be valiant; according to others he is an astute observer. In reality he is a type that has already passed from fashion. In the early years of the nineteenth century he still appeared from time to time in some marionette scenario to discharge a rôle similar to that of the Captain. His costume also had undergone considerable change: his black hat was adorned by three red feathers, his doublet was slashed with red, his shoes were black, his breeches red and yellow, his cloak red, he wore gloves, cannon boots and the baldric and sword of the Captains. Even his bizarre mask was gone and replaced by a flesh-coloured mask adorned with moustachios.

ii

The dancers in Callot’s second class above mentioned consist of those comedians and buffoons who bring to mind Pulcinella by their simple and ample garments—a wide pantaloon and a sort of blouse, gripped at the waist by a girdle—carrying the wooden sabre and wearing the incomparable plumed hat which takes the form of an enormous cap like that of FRITELLINO. Also they have beards and masks.

In this fashion does Callot show us, at the beginning of the seventeenth century, Pulcinello talking with Lucretia; Mezzetin playing the guitar to Riciulina (a soubrette of the _Gelosi_ troupe); Guatsetto (a lackey in the _Fedeli_ troupe) and Mestolino grimacing at each other; Fricasso in rags, seeking sword in hand his adversary whilst taking care to turn his back upon him. Bagattino mocking Spezza-Monti, who is furiously endeavouring to draw a sword which has rusted in its scabbard; Fracasso, sword in hand, and very different from the French Fracasse; Gian-Farina, wielding his bat whilst dancing with Franceschina (the famous Silvia Roncagli); Bernovalla, a dancer and tambourine player; Trastullo making a declaration to Lucia, who is commanding him to kiss her slipper; Scapino wrangling about a bottle with Zerbino; Franca-Trippa and Fritellino dancing, the first accompanying himself upon his sabre, the second upon a mandolin.

Franca-Trippa, whose real name was Gabriello di Bologna, was engaged in the _Gelosi_ troupe in 1576 for the parts of _Zanni_. He went to France in 1577 and played in the scenarii which were the delight of the court of Henri III. at Blois.

The type of Fritellino, or Gian-Fritello, scored in Italy in the sixteenth century a success equal to that enjoyed by Harlequin in the century following.

In 1560, Pietro-Maria Cecchini, known by the name of Fritellino, was playing in the _Accesi_ troupe rôles identical with those that were being filled by Harlequin in the company of the _Gelosi_; thus, in the scenarii of _Arlequin Maître d’Amour_ and _Arlequin Valet Etourdi_, the character of Harlequin is played by Fritellino.

Towards 1612, Cecchini was summoned to the court of Matthias, Emperor of Germany. He scored there so great a success that the emperor ennobled him. He published in Venice in 1614 a small treatise: _Discorso intorno alle commedie, commedianti e spettatori_, which he dedicated to the Marquis Clemente Sanezio, and issued a second edition in 1616 dedicated to the Cardinal Borghesi.

Some years later, in France, the character of Fritellino, then called Fritelin and Fristelin, was entrusted with the rôles of lackey in the Tabarinic farces.

Fritellino is dressed in ample garments, and wears the extraordinary hat which, in the hands of Tabarin, assumed—as we shall see—a great variety of forms. He wears the brown mask of the Bergamese mimes and the mantle traditional to all the _Zanni_ of the sixteenth century, as well as the wooden sabre and purse, which last, always empty, plays so great a part in his existence.

iii

In 1570 an Italian troupe toured in France and even went to Paris to play farces and comedies half in French and half in Italian, and sometimes partly in Spanish. This was the company of Juan Ganassa. In it were to be seen the Doctor in his black robe, Pantaloon with his red shoes, Harlequin in his rags, and the Captain on his long legs. Pagliaccio played the leading part and TABARINO was the _Zanni_. But this Tabarino was not yet the famous Tabarin who, some fifty years later, with his master Mondor, was to draw such crowds to witness his farces on the Place Dauphine.

The Tabarino of 1570 was probably entrusted to double rôles, such as that of servant with that of father or husband, like many other masks of the Italian comedy.