Chapter VI: Introduction (6)

Columbine unites herself with Pasquariello, and they vie with each other as to which shall play the more tricks upon the ungrateful Harlequin. First she comes as a Spaniard, addressing Harlequin in Castilian; he does not understand a word of it, and interprets what she says in his own fashion. After putting him in a rage, she discloses herself, crying: “_Perfido traditore, m’avrai negli occhi, se non m’hai nel cuore!_” (Perfidious traitor, you shall have me in your sight if not in your heart). Harlequin, terrified, cries for help. She runs away to return as a soubrette and enter the service of her rival, Isabella. There Harlequin attempts to flirt with her, and implores her to come and mend and starch the only three shirts that he possesses. Columbine, pretending not to know him, speaks to him of Harlequin, alluding to him as a wretch, a villain, who caused the death of a certain heart-broken Columbine.

“In truth,” says Harlequin, “there are great villains in the world! But is she really dead?”

“Alas, it is but too true,” she replies. Whereupon Harlequin makes philosophy upon love and death.

Columbine interrupts him by revealing herself: “_Perfido traditore, m’avrai negli occhi, se non m’hai nel cuore!_” This threat comes up again and again; it is the drop of water which, falling incessantly upon the rock, ends by piercing it. She reappears as a girl from Gascony and speaks its dialect; again as a Moorish girl, in which character she dances and pulls the beard of Harlequin. She turns up as a master of arms, as a picture, as a doctor; as a woman she lodges a complaint against Harlequin, and returns as a lawyer to plead against him. Finally Harlequin, worn out by this unceasing persecution, marries her.

Caterina Biancolelli played in Paris until the closure of the Comédie-Italienne in 1697, whereupon she withdrew entirely from the theatre.

It was on the stage of the Comédie-Italienne that Columbine assumed for the first time the costume of Arlequine in _Le Rétour de la Foire de Besons_, in 1695. Afterwards this costume became a favourite one in the fairs. The popularised character of Columbine was traditionally dressed as Arlequine on the trestles in the farces, and very often in pantomime. It was the same in the case of Pierrette, who became the familiar companion of Pierrot, dressed in white with powdered face.

The costume of Columbine is very varied: now a soubrette, now a cavalier, now a little girl, now a lawyer, now a doctor, now the wife of Harlequin, whose mask and costume she wears. In the plays of Gherardi she wears the high comb of the period and a costume which would leave her undistinguishable from the leading lady but for the little apron, traditional in the theatre, and characteristic of the soubrette.

In more modern pantomime Columbine is usually the daughter, niece or ward of Cassandre. Her love affairs with Harlequin are nearly always crossed by the paternal will, which favours Léandre, the rich and powerful Léandre, the beautiful Léandre, so called in derision. But she has also, nearly always, a good fairy, or magic godmother, who saves her, and notwithstanding Cassandre, Pierrot and Léandre, she marries the Harlequin of her dreams.

v

In 1716, Margherita Rusca went to Paris as a member of the Regent’s Italian Company. Wife of the famous Harlequin Antonio Vicentini (_Thomassin_) she played the parts of waiting-maids under the name of VIOLETTE. She was born at Bologna in 1691, and died on the 28th February 1731, in Paris.

Violette’s character is practically the same as that of Columbine. Like Columbine she is Harlequin’s mistress, but in point of malice she returns him as good as he gives.

VIOLETTE. Good morning, my dear Harlequin. What sort of a night
have you had?

HARLEQUIN. I do not know, for I was asleep, and therefore can
tell you nothing about it. And you?

VIOLETTE. Oh, as for me, I don’t know whether I slept, for I
did but dream all night, and when you dream you don’t know what
you are doing.

HARLEQUIN. And you dreamed of me, no doubt?

VIOLETTE. No, I dreamed of that great baker lad who was your
rival in Rome.

HARLEQUIN. Traitress! And what did you dream touching this
baker boy?

VIOLETTE. I dreamed that I received a letter from him in Lyons,
in which he promised to come instantly to Paris.

HARLEQUIN. Fie! I don’t like it at all. Such dreams are
_cornuti_.

In the eighteenth century we find the soubrettes taking the names of Zerbinette, Olivette, Tontine, Mariotte, Genevotte, Babet, Farinette, Perette, Finebrette, Fiametta, Giannina, Catte, Ghitta, Checchina, Smeraldina, etc. Amongst the principal actresses performing these parts in the Italian comedy in Paris was Hippolyte de la Tude, known by the name of Clairon, who made her début at the Théâtre-Italien on the 8th January 1736, in the soubrette rôle in _L’Isle des Esclaves_. Of the début she speaks herself in the following terms:—

“... I was taken to the house of my benefactress, where
Deshayes, an actor of the Comédie-Italienne, gave me a hearing.
He was so pleased with me that he presented me to all his
associates. I was admitted to this theatre, and I was given
a part to study. Permission for my début was obtained, and
finally I made my appearance on the stage before I had reached
the age of twelve.

“The applause which I received reconciled my mother to the
career which I had chosen. I was given preceptors in writing,
dancing, music and the Italian language; my industry, my ardour
and my memory amazed my teachers. I devoured everything; I
retained everything. But my excessive youth, my short stature,
the lack of protection, and the fear entertained by the famous
Thomassin lest my talent should be hurtful to his daughters,
who were not yet established, compelled me at the end of a year
to seek my fortune elsewhere. I was engaged in the company of
Rouen to perform all the parts suitable to my years, and to
sing and dance. I was intent upon playing comedy and nothing
else mattered to me.”

vi

On the 6th May 1744, Anna Veronese, having adopted the stage name of CORALINE, made her first appearance as a soubrette. She was born in Venice, and was a daughter of Carlo Veronese (_Pantaloon_). “Both made their début in the same piece, _Le Double Mariage d’Arlequin_. The father was about forty-two years of age, and the daughter hardly fourteen; they gave the greatest possible satisfaction, and both were equally well applauded.” The talents, like the beauty of Coraline, increased from day to day, and she was long without a rival in the theatre.

Her gifts inspired Marmontel, whilst Jean-Jacques Rousseau has the following to say of her in his _Confessions_ (1743-1744):—

“None would suspect that it is to me that lovers of the theatre
in Paris owe Coraline and her sister Camille. Yet, nothing
could be more true. Veronese, their father, was engaged,
together with his children, for the Italian troupe; and, after
having received two thousand francs for the journey, instead
of setting out, he remained coolly in Venice, at the theatre
of San Luca (or possibly it may have been San Samuele, for
proper names elude me). Thither Coraline, no more than a child
at the time, was drawing a large number of people. M. le duc
de Gesvres, as first gentleman of the chamber, wrote to the
ambassador, claiming the persons of father and daughter. M.
de Montaigu, in giving me the letter, gave me no instructions
beyond saying, ‘Look at that.’

“I repaired to M. le Blond to beg him to speak to the patrician
who owned the theatre of San Luca, and whose name, I think,
was Zustiniani, to the end that he might dismiss Veronese, who
was engaged for the service of the King of France. Le Blond
performed the commission indifferently, Zustiniani temporised
and Veronese was not dismissed. This made me angry. The season
was that of carnival. I put on a mask and had myself borne to
Zustiniani’s palace. All those who observed the entrance of my
gondola and the ambassador’s livery were astonished. Venice had
never seen the like. I enter, I am announced under the name of
a masked gentleman (_una siora maschera_). The moment I was
introduced, I removed my mask, and named myself. The senator
turned pale in his stupefaction. ‘Sir,’ I said to him in
Venetian, ‘it is with regret that I importune Your Excellency
with my visit, but you have in your theatre of San Luca a man
named Veronese, who has been engaged for the service of the
king, and whom you have vainly been requested to surrender. I
come to claim him in the name of his Majesty.’

“My short speech took effect. No sooner had I departed than
Zustiniani ran to give an account of his adventures to the
inquisitors of State, who gave him a wigging. Veronese was
dismissed that very day. I sent word to him that if he did not
set out within a week I would have him arrested. He set out.”

In 1749 Collé, in that satirical and unjust journal of his which, published after his death, came somewhat to modify men’s opinion of him, wrote on the subject of the first performance of the _Rétour de la Paix_, of Boissy, at the Théâtre-Italien:

“... It must also be agreed that the actors and actresses,
not excluding Coraline and Camille, are very, very mediocre
at their best, and thence descend to the detestable. Yet this
theatre is well frequented notwithstanding that its comedians
are fatuous, ridiculous and bad, and that they never know a
word of their parts; Harlequin is cold, Scapin has but one
scene and some grimaces; the women inspire horror with the
exception of Coraline, who has the graces of youth and of
beauty and some spirit, but who, notwithstanding that, is of no
intelligence, and has the bad habit of giggling when she is on
the stage. Sylvia is old, and Deshayes extremely mediocre. None
the less theirs is to-day the best frequented spectacle. What
can one say to it? Although the French comedians have fallen
low, and are impossible in tragedy, they are at least endurable
in comedy by comparison with the Italians; and to say this is
to say much, for they are worth very little.”

Notwithstanding the judgment of Collé, the vogue of Coraline was enormous, and we are compelled to think that she had more than youth and beauty, since a whole series of plays was written specially for her. A great number of pieces appeared one after the other, bearing such titles as: _Coraline Magicienne_, _Coraline Jardinière_, _Coraline Protectrice de l’Innocence_, _Coraline Fée_, _Coraline Intrigante_, _Coraline Esprit Follet_, _Les Folies de Coraline_, _Arlequin-Coraline_, _L’Heureux Désespoir d’Arlequin et de Coraline_, etc.

Anna Veronese left France probably in 1750, for, under the name of Coralina, she was playing in the comedies of Carlo Goldoni at Venice in the years 1751 and 1752. Camille, who had been for several years playing the same parts, quitted the company and entered that of Sacchi, in which she shone until 1769 in the improvised fairy spectacles of Carlo Gozzi.

It will be seen that in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries the type of soubrette, daring in her language and in her actions, is to be confused and identified with that of the waiting-woman of Molière and his successors. This type retains to-day in Italy nothing peculiarly its own.

vii

The frank speech and the free ways of the woman of the people were personified in Naples in the character of LA GUAIASSA, a type speaking and acting like the matronly women of that class and country. She was compounded of triviality and a certain natural wit which reminds us of the chatterings of the ancient Citeria of the Latin farces. But the chief characteristic of La Guaiassa was a real and great goodness of heart under a gross exterior; ignoring everything that is beyond the narrow horizon of her alley (_vicolo_), and never having journeyed beyond the neighbouring street, hers was the good sense of honesty. This rôle was played in the first thirty years of the nineteenth century by a celebrated woman, who captured the hearts of the Neapolitan public fully as much as did Pulcinella. She expressed herself admirably in the dialect of the Neapolitan streets. Though handsome, her countenance lent itself marvellously well to her rôle. She was a Roman, and off the stage spoke the purest Italian. The news of her death in the fifties carried with it a sense of loss to the entire kingdom of Naples.

The unlimited licence allowed to the Italian soubrette and to La Guaiassa was never fully admitted in the French theatre; not even in the days when the public taste itself was least refined and its ears least prudish. Molière and Gherardi are contemporaries, but it is easily seen how much the Columbine of the latter exceeds in crudity the Dorine of the former. It is not only to the superiority of the talent of Molière that we must attribute his inferior audacity; the same public which, in the same theatre, on alternate days attended the performances of the Italians and the French, would never have tolerated in the French Company the same freedom of speech which they permitted to the Italians.

This is the more remarkable because, by a singular but verified anomaly, the morals of the Italian actresses, singers and dancers have always been superior to those of the French, and their domestic conduct better. The Marquis d’Argens, in his very philosophical—as the word was understood in his day—letters, gives the following certificate of good conduct to the Italian actresses:—

“There is a greater difference between the characters of the
Italian and French comédiennes than there is between our opera
and theirs. Education, prejudice, custom and remuneration are
the four things which produce the difference existing between
the morals and the habits of life of the two. It has been one
of our affectations to cast ignominy and infamy upon those who
by their talents render our country illustrious. The Italians
are very far from having any such ridiculous prejudices. True
lovers of art, they are careful not to wither those who produce
it. Senesini, Scalsi and Farfalini are beloved and cherished
in Rome; not only are they not considered unworthy of burial,
but, when one is compelled to render them the last honours, to
the sorrow of losing them will be united all that will go to
proclaim how much they were esteemed.

“It is by these distinctions and these rewards that the Italian
comédiennes are inspired with sentiments unknown to our own;
they share in the honours of civil society; they are encouraged
by the respect in which their talent is held, and, since their
profession includes nothing that is not brilliant, they are
careful not to render themselves contemptible by debauchery.

“Our French comédiennes, on the contrary, seem to wish to
profit by the idea which we have of them; they avail themselves
of the advantage of being regarded as libertines and, since
their art exposes them to contempt, they cease to be restrained
by sentiments which would be useless.

“It would be ridiculous to demand that Italian actresses should
conduct themselves better than other women; it is more than
sufficient that, being more exposed than ordinary women, they
should, nevertheless, be as virtuous. If after reading my
letter you do not agree with me, examine the French and Italian
troupes in Paris, and you will perceive living arguments to
support me.”

V

PIERROT

There was in the sixteenth century, in Bologna, a sort of improviser, or popular poet, named Giulio-Cesare Croce who sang in the public places to the accompaniment of stringed instruments, which caused him to be given the surname of _Della Lira_. The burden of his songs was a lament on the life and adventures of a fictitious personage named Bertoldo. Perceiving that the crowd listened attentively and took pleasure in his burlesque epic, he conceived the notion to print his songs in prose and to offer them for sale. The public snatched at these books with enthusiasm, a circumstance which led to his increasing the _Life of Bertoldo_ and adding that of his son _Bertoldino_, which latter enjoyed no less success than the former.

Croce was born in 1550 in the Bolognese village of Persiceto. At the age of seven he lost his father, and went to live with an uncle, a farrier at Castel-Franco. After having been admitted as a master of his trade of blacksmith, he settled in Bologna, was twice married, and became the father of fourteen children. It was there that the spirit of improvisation seized him and brought him his great reputation. The _Cavalieri_ of Bologna paid him a pension in his old age, and he died in 1609.

Some years after the death of Croce _Della Lira_, Camillo Scaligero _Della Frata_ composed a third volume, containing the _Life of Cacasenno_, the son of Bertoldino. This series enjoyed such a success in Italy that it ran into a large number of editions, and at the end of the seventeenth century the Bolognese painter, J. M. Crespi, illustrated various passages of these popular ballads; these were engraved by Lodovico Mattioli, and, instead of issuing a new edition of the romance in prose, several wits shared among themselves the labour of composing a poem in twenty cantos. Twenty-six authors, all of them Bolognese, Ferrarese or Lombards, co-operated in this task. The result was a superb volume _in quarto_, adorned with pictures and accompanied by notes, arguments and allegories, with Tuscan and Bolognese texts and a Bolognese vocabulary. This work appeared first in 1736 and then in 1740, published by Lelio della Volpe, “At the Sign of the Fox.” A third edition appeared in 1747 in Venice, printed in Bolognese and in Venetian. Such was the vogue of this little poem that it was translated into modern Greek and enjoyed the greatest success in Greece and in Turkey. The fame of this buffoon creation has not yet ceased; to this day in Italy all who can read have read _La Vita di Bertoldo_, and nurses relate it to their nurslings. Bertoldo is better known in Italy than Bluebeard or Tom Thumb elsewhere. In general the principal features, sallies, retorts, witticisms or episodes of _La Vita di Bertoldo_ are so celebrated that they have become proverbial, like “the peace of Marcolfa.”

Marcolfa was Bertoldo’s wife, a good woman, who, after quarrelling during the day with her husband, made the peace with him in the evening, and she found this peace-making so pleasant that, so as to provide occasion for it, she would frequently set up little disputes.

Croce _Della Lira_’s little poem begins as follows:—

“In the tenth century of our era, King Alboin reigned over
Lombardy and resided in Verona. This prince, who had conquered
all Italy, was none the less very good, very gentle and very
just.

“At the same time there lived in a little Veronese village
a peasant named Bertoldo, whose countenance was ridiculous,
whose head was as big as a pumpkin, whose hair was flat and
red, whose ears were enormous and whose little eyes were
red-rimmed; his nose was thick and flat, and red as a beetroot;
his wide mouth was a slit from ear to ear; he displayed two
teeth like the tusks of a boar, and his beard was coarse and
dirty. His figure was no better than his face; his hands were
large, his legs massive and crooked and his skin rough. But
his wit was sharp and subtle, his judgment sound, and he was
the pleasantest fellow in the village of Bertagnana, in which
he lived. His fellow-citizens preferred his moralisings and
his discourses to those of their priest. He adjusted their
differences more satisfactorily than their lords and judges;
and, lastly, he made them laugh more than the charlatans and
buffoons who sometimes passed through the village.

“He was the youngest of ten brothers and had barely enough for
his own subsistence, that of his wife, Marcolfa, and a child
named Bertoldino.

“One day Bertoldo was taken with a fancy to see the city and
the court, this from mere curiosity, without any particular
intention.

“Arrived in the market-place in Verona, he was in the act of
looking at the king’s palace, which he took for a great church,
when he perceived two women who were fighting for a mirror. An
officer of the guards came to inform them that the king desired
to know the subject of their difference. Thus Bertoldo learned
that Alboin was a good prince, who lent an ear to everybody. He
saw that the gates of the palace stood open and that the guards
hindered none from entering. He went in and penetrated to the
audience chamber where the king was enthroned. There were
some other seats, placed below and destined for the greater of
his lords, who, nevertheless, remained respectfully standing.
Bertoldo sat down without ceremony. Some courtiers, observing
the impertinence of the peasant, and his grotesque countenance,
admonished him that it was indecent to sit in the presence of
the king.

“‘Why so?’ demanded Bertoldo. ‘I sit down in church in the
presence of God!’

“‘But do you not know that the king is a personage elevated
above all others?’

“‘Per Bacco, he is not as high as the cock on our village
steeple, which even tells us what the weather is going to do.’

“These words are reported to the king, who then questions
Bertoldo:

“‘Who are you?’ he demands.

“‘A man.’

“‘When did you come into the world?’

“‘When it pleased the good God to send me, and my parents to
bring me into it, for it is a matter with which I was not
concerned.’

“‘What is your country?’

“‘The world.’

“These replies stimulated the good king’s curiosity. ‘What,’ he
asked, ‘is the fleetest thing in all the world?’

“‘Thought.’

“‘Which is the best wine?’

“‘That which is drunk in your neighbour’s house, for it costs
nothing.’

“The king’s fool was named Fagotto. He became extremely jealous
of the friendship which the king began to show Bertoldo and of
the credit which the latter began to enjoy at court. He had the
audacity to pit himself against him, thinking to surpass him in
wit.

“‘How,’ quoth the fool, ‘would you set about carrying water in
a sieve?’

“‘I should wait until it was frozen.’

“‘How would you catch a hare without running?’

“‘I should wait until it was on the spit.’

“Fagotto set him no riddle which he could not answer on the
spot. In the heat of the dispute Bertoldo desired to spit. He
begged permission of the king.

“‘I grant it willingly,’ said the king, ‘but choose a place in
my palace where there will be nothing to spoil.’

“Bertoldo, after having sought awhile, spat upon Fagotto.

“Alboin the Debonnaire conceived a friendship for Bertoldo,
perhaps because the latter did not conceal the truth from him,
and set about inducing him by facts to contradict the things he
had said the day before.

“Bertoldo, to afford the king a proof of the inconsequence, the
indiscretion and the inquisitiveness of the fair sex whispered
in the ear of a woman of the town that the king had pronounced
a decree according seven wives to every husband. The revolted
sex came in a crowd, shouting, screaming and insulting the
King Alboin, to demand the revocation of his absurd decree.
The king had a great deal of trouble to make himself heard,
but he contrived it in the end, and informed them that they
had been misinformed. On another occasion the ladies of the
court claimed the exercise of political rights. Bertoldo gave
them a box inclosing a bird, with the prohibition to open it
within the following twenty-four hours. Two hours later the
bird had taken flight. Thus Alboin proved to them that their
inquisitiveness and their disobedience excluded them from
affairs of state. But the Lombard monarch had a proud and
haughty wife, who determined to avenge herself upon Bertoldo.

“Bertoldo was summoned to the presence of the queen and, after
insults and blows administered by the ladies of the court, he
was thrust into a great sack, which was tied at the neck, and
in which he was left, the intention being to throw him into the
river that night. A guard was set to watch him. The unfortunate
Bertoldo ransacked his mind for a way out of the worst pass in
which he had ever found himself.

“He persuaded the guard that he was thus imprisoned for very
singular reasons, and that he would explain them if the fellow
would untie the sack, and permit him to whisper in his ear the
truth of the matter. The guard believed him and permitted him
to put his head out of the sack. Bertoldo then told him that
he was a great nobleman, that it was desired to compel him
to marry a lady who was rich and beautiful, but of suspected
chastity; that he preferred to drown sooner than make such a
marriage, and that he had been imprisoned by way of compulsion;
that in the evening they would come again to seek to drive him
into this marriage, but that he would prefer to drown. The
guard answered him that he was a fool, and offered to take his
place and marry the damsel. Bertoldo got out of the sack, tied
up the guard in it and departed from the palace.”

This farce of the sack has since been transported into many Italian scenarii and French farces, and Molière, in _Les Fourberies de Scapin_ has written round it a whole scene in the Italian manner.

“Bertoldo was recaptured and taken back to the palace. The
queen obtained her complacent monarch’s consent that her enemy
should be hanged, and the king announced this to his dear
Bertoldo, excusing himself by the fact that he was compelled to
the step so as to be agreeable to his wife.

“‘Sir,’ said Bertoldo, ‘I understand your reasons. It is
necessary that the little should suffer for the caprices of
the great. But, since I am to hang, I ask a favour: It is that
I myself shall have the choice of the tree; for after all if
a man is hanged to his own taste he is in part consoled.’ The
king consented.

“Bertoldo found fault with every tree proposed to him, and
discovered none that suited him. This one was too high, that
one too low. The branches of this one were too weak, the
branches of that one too strong. The leaves of a cypress
were of too sombre a green, and those of a lime too bright.
Bertoldo promenaded thus his escort, which consisted of an
officer, two soldiers and the hangman, for several days, and
visited every wood in the country. They tramped all day and
stopped only to dine and sup in the villages. Bertoldo kept
his guards in good humour, telling them fine stories of old
times, the merriest tales in the world, and thus causing them
to forget the object of their commission. When, in the end,
they bethought them of it, they could not reconcile with their
consciences the hanging of so merry a fellow. They advised him
to return home, and themselves went back to the city.

“The queen, persuaded that her orders had been carried out,
repented of having enforced the death of the unfortunate
Bertoldo, and testified her repentance to the king. The king,
who knew that the sly peasant was not dead, arranged things
in such a fashion that the queen was the first to demand his
recall. The monarch sent to fetch Bertoldo. He was slow to
decide to return to court, insisting that soup and friendship
are never worth anything when warmed up, and that an ounce of
liberty is better than a hundredweight of gold. He received,
however, so many proofs of friendship on the part of the king
and queen that he went; but he bargained: firstly that his wife
Marcolfa and his son Bertoldino should remain in the village,
and continue to cultivate the little corner of land which they
owned in Bertagnana; secondly that he should always retain his
peasant garb, consenting, however, to wear garments without
patches and stockings without holes; thirdly that he should be
permitted always to eat his bread and onion, and his cheese
soup.

“But Bertoldo did not long enjoy the royal favour. Compelled
to go to bed later than was his custom, because often the king
retained him until after sunset; compelled instead of delving
the earth to charge himself with serious affairs, to reason
upon them and to talk himself hoarse (because he could not
write) his health broke down. The doctors compelled him to take
medicine, a thing he had never done in his life, and so he died.

“King Alboin, in memory of the services which Bertoldo had
rendered him, brought Marcolfa and Bertoldino to court. He had
them properly dressed and presented them with a little farm at
the gates of Verona, adding to the gift a coffer filled with
gold pieces.

“Near the farm there was a pond in which the frogs made a noise
such as Bertoldino had never heard in Bertagnana. He conceived
a desire to silence them, and looked round for something to
throw at them so as to scare or kill them. He came upon the
coffer, took the gold pieces, and flung them into the pond at
the aggravating beasts. Some few were killed, but the others
croaked more loudly than ever. Thus he flung away all the gold
that had been given to him. Marcolfa, perceiving what was done,
reproached him bitterly, saying, amongst other things, that if
men were to be silenced with money, such was not the case with
frogs.

“Bertoldino, reasoning from this that animals preferred to be
fed rather than paid, took all the provisions of the house and
flung them into the pond. Fresh remonstrances from Marcolfa:
‘Since we have no more flour we shall be forced to eat the
chickens, and we have but few hens, and they can only hatch a
few eggs at a time.’

“‘Leave it to me,’ said Bertoldino. ‘I am bigger than a hen,
I shall be able to hatch more.’ And driving away all the hens
from their eggs, he gathered the lot into a heap, sat upon it,
and reduced it to a horrible omelette.

“Although admonished and sermonised by the king, who perceived
that the son was as stupid as the father had been shrewd,
Bertoldino continued to commit folly upon folly. He whipped
himself with nettles to drive away the flies. Wishing to hinder
a hawk from taking little birds from a nest he tied them all
together; as a consequence the bird of prey, which had been
taking but one every now and then, carried off the lot at
once. Having seen at court some little pug dogs whose ears
had been clipped to improve their appearance, he cut the ears
of his donkey, and paraded it with ostentation, that it might
be admired. This last deed was the cause of his being sent
back to his village. Marcolfa followed him thither, and they
lived there very happily. Bertoldino married a peasant girl
named Menghina, who bore him Cacasenno, the third hero of this
history. Alboin the Debonnaire, curious to know whether the
grandfather’s wit might not have skipped a generation, summoned
Cacasenno to court with the good Marcolfa. But the grandson was
no greater success than his father. He was lazy and greedy, and
all that is related of him turns upon these two faults. His
last feat, and that which brings the epic to a close, was his
eating a plate of glue which he mistook for broth. He died of
it, or was reduced to the point of death.”

There is nothing surprising in the success scored by this peasant Bertoldo, who, solely by his wit and his naïve simple sense, makes his fortune at the court of a great king, soars above all the ridicule which it is sought to heap upon him, issues cleverly and wittily from all the traps that are set for him, and surmounts by his wit the short-comings of his education. Is it possible that Cervantes was acquainted with the doings of Bertoldo when he created that other type of naïve good sense, Sancho Pança?

Bertoldo was not long in being transferred from fiction into life. The types of Bertoldo, of his son Bertoldino, and even of his grandson Cacasenno, passed on to the trestles of Italy towards the end of the sixteenth century. In Florence, in Bologna and in Lombardy there was no troupe of actors without a _Bertoldo_, a sort of lackey, a famous utterer of truths; but _Bertoldino_ appears to have had a much more enduring vogue in the theatre. This type, entirely doltish in the original, becomes, according to the actors by whom it was played, a mixture of rustic artlessness and shrewdness; he displays a sententiousness akin to Bertoldo’s, whilst at the same time flinging his gold to the frogs to silence them. For the rest, the adventures of our two heroes have furnished a goodly number of scenes, and even of scenarii, in the three hundred years during which they have been reaping success under different names, such as Pirolino and Bigolo.

In the sixteenth century the Comédie-Italienne performed in Paris a comic opera entitled _Bertholde à la Ville_, drawn from an interlude entitled _Bertoldo in Corte_. This was sung by the Italian Company at the Opéra in 1753.

Nicolò Zeccha was playing these naïve rôles under the name of Bertoldino at the end of the sixteenth century. Nicolò Barbieri (Beltrame) says, in speaking of him, that he was a young man of great courage, very skilled in the use of weapons, and a fine dancer. He was skilled too in killing birds on the wing, and so fleet a runner that he had many times brought down stags by pursuing them. Victor Amédée I., Duke of Savoy, invited him often to take part in his hunts, and accorded to him, in addition to this honour, full permission to take such horses from his stables as he might desire, and to hunt when or where he should please in the ducal preserves, with the right to banish from them all those who enjoyed this privilege before him. Zeccha was still a member of the _Fedeli_ troupe in 1630.

ii

PAGLIACCIO first made his appearance in the troupe of Juan Ganassa, and travelled through Italy, France and Spain in 1570.

The name of Pagliaccio (literally, cut straw), which has become the synonym of madcap or giddy fellow, is no more than a corruption of Bajaccio (a bad jester): it is the pejorative of _baja_ (mockery), signifying an utterer of raileries, good or bad.

In one of the Italian troupes that passed through Florence at the end of the sixteenth century, in 1598, there appeared a personage named Gian Farina, his countenance white like Pagliaccio’s and dressed in very ample linen garments, but wearing in addition the _tabaro_ and a wooden sword. We cannot ascertain the real name of this actor, who, under his sobriquet of Gian Farina, enjoyed a certain celebrity as a comedian and was the director of an itinerant troupe. Like Pagliaccio he was dressed in white, and his face—as his name implies—was whitened with flour. That it was also the custom of the French comedians thus to whiten their faces so as to give more character to their grimaces, we may gather from Montaigne:

“These men of vile condition who seek to recommend themselves
by dangerous leaps and other strange mountebank movements
were compelled to whiten their faces and to indulge in savage
grimaces to induce us to laugh.”

The custom was anterior to Montaigne, for as early as 1502 we find Jean Serre, and his son Auguste Serre, parading under costumes analogous to those transmitted to us by Callot.

In point of costume, Pagliaccio is but a variant of Pulcinella; his pointed hat of white wool and his garment of white linen seem to be no more than the undress of the Neapolitan macaroni eater. His character, however, is quite different.

Salvator Rosa, who was deeply interested in the theatre and in its costumes, has left us the following description:—

“Pagliaccio is dressed in a coat that is extremely full and
pleated, and fastened by enormous buttons; his hat is soft
and white and capable of assuming any shape; he wears a mask,
yet his face is covered with flour. He is stupid, giddy and
awkward, and whilst for ever urging others to the most daring
measures, he is himself the greatest poltroon on earth; he
affects agility, merely to tumble incessantly and drag down
with him his old master, whom he has the air of endeavouring to
support.”

His flour-covered face and his white mask particularly distinguish him in point of external features from the Neapolitan Pulcinella. In point of character he differs to a still greater degree. Pagliaccio, the stupid lackey, is no more than a trestle jester, whose rôle consists in clumsily imitating, like the English clown, the gestures and movements of the other mimes, and in receiving constant beatings, to the great amusement of the audience.

In Italian pantomimes, Pagliaccio fills the place occupied by Pierrot in France; he no longer wears a mask, his face being merely covered with flour. He is the rival of Harlequin, and the lackey of Pantaloon. He is in love with Columbine, but—like the French Pierrot—he is never successful in carrying her off from Florindo, the lover who is always dressed in the latest fashion of his time and place. In these pantomimes the rôles of father fall to the lot of the Doctor or old Tabarino.

In 1670 Zaniazi, half Gilles, half Pulcinella, performed rôles which greatly resembled those of the doltish Harlequins.

In 1770 Natocelli achieved renown in Italy as a good Bajaccio, whilst in Paris in 1803 Martini was performing his farces with Podesta, Vanini and other Italian buffoons in the ancient gardens of Tivoli.

The French Paillasse is of very much more recent date. It would be towards the end of the eighteenth century that this character made its appearance in the Nicolet Theatre (La Gaîté) in a sort of satire upon the debauched young nobility, a piece based upon the _Festin de Pierre_, and coarsely adapted to the tastes of the boulevard public. Paillasse took the place of Sganarelle.

Reduced to the utmost misery in consequence of the follies and excesses of his master, having nothing left in which to dress himself, Paillasse would assume the tattered covering of an old mattress and successfully array himself in it to perform his tricks of equilibrium and juggling. Hence the costume, with blue and white or red and white squares, which from that date has been favoured by itinerant jugglers and knife throwers.

Paillasse neither wears a mask nor powders his face with flour. His Indian camisole in squares is short, tight to the figure, with shoulder-of-mutton sleeves fastened at the wrists; his breeches are wide and full, but tight below the knee. He wears the white collar and the black skull-cap.

Brazier says, in his _Histoire des Petits Théâtres de Paris_, when speaking of the Boulevard du Temple:

“This famous boulevard was a Parisian kermesse, a perpetual
fair, an all-the-year-round market. Here you would find matter
for laughter and amusement by day and by night; it was the
rendezvous of the best society; a crowd of brilliant equipages
were constantly stationed there. Cold and heat were braved for
the sake of listening to a Paillasse who, in spite of Deburau,
was not without merit. This Paillasse, who was named Père
Rousseau, had made himself a reputation by singing in the open
air:

“‘C’est dans la ville de Bordeaux
Q’est z’arrivé trois gros vaisseaux,
Les matelots qui sont dedans,
Ce sont, ma foi! de bons enfants.’

“I myself have beheld the remains of this good fat Paillasse,
and I have bowed respectfully before him.

“I can affirm that never was there a Paillasse more complete
or more amusing; it was not a case of the pale and livid
countenance of Deburau; it was not his wise and grave
performance nor his artistic poses, nor his expressive winks.
Here instead was a full, red, plethoric countenance; it
symbolised the gaiety of the populace at its fullest. It was
impossible not to laugh like a king’s fool at the sight of
his grimaces, at the sound of his hoarse and broken voice; he
achieved in song what Deburau achieved in pantomime, for this
Paillasse of mine was also a great actor. Do not suppose that
he recited like a pupil of the Conservatoire; he knew how to be
witty and mordant in his declamation; his physiognomy was of an
astounding mobility.... We would remain by the hour watching
Père Rousseau, that classic Paillasse! We hardly dared to
breathe, such was our fear of missing one of his gestures, one
of his contortions!”

The farces performed by Rousseau in public at the close of the eighteenth century were very much what they are still to-day, a tissue of imbecilities and gross ineptitudes.

PAILLASSE. Sir, since you are so kind, I beg of you to do me a
service.

CASSANDRE. What service?

PAILLASSE. To compose me a compliment for a lady with whom I am
madly in love.

CASSANDRE. It is first necessary that I should know her
qualities. Is she lovable, beautiful?

PAILLASSE. Oh, as for her beauty, there can be but one opinion.
First of all, let me tell you that she has only one eye; but
the one that remains is so engaging, so witty, so seductive,
that it is without equal, and I really think that if it is
alone it is because Nature was incapable of producing such
another.

CASSANDRE. She has only one eye! Well, well, that at least is
one charm.

PAILLASSE. Oh, and her mouth, sir! Oh! you cannot picture it.
She can thrust a whole apple into it without the least trouble.

CASSANDRE. Another advantage; so that, when she wishes to tell
herself a secret, she can whisper it in her own ear.

PAILLASSE. True, sir. And then her nose! It is a model nose,
a curiosity; it has something of the pear, something of the
mulberry, and something of the beetroot.

CASSANDRE. Ah, I see; it is a rarity.

PAILLASSE. Oh, and then her feet! They are so small that I
assure you I can hardly get her shoes on over my own boots.

CASSANDRE. And her figure?

PAILLASSE. Her figure? She is built like a tower; she is quite
round. I beg you, sir, to compose me this compliment, which I
am burning to address her.

CASSANDRE. I consent; but first invite the present company to
come inside and see the extraordinary spectacle which we are
going to give this evening.

PAILLASSE (_brusquely_). Hey, there, you others! come inside!

CASSANDRE (_kicking him_). Animal! Is that the way to address
polite society?

PAILLASSE. You are right. I made a mistake. Hi, there, you
others! come inside!

(_CASSANDRE chases him off._)

iii

At the end of the sixteenth century the French _enfariné_ or the _barbouillé_, as he was then called, was Robert Guérin, named _Lafleur_, but better known as GROS-GUILLAUME. He was a comedian of the Hôtel de Bourgogne, then managed by Valeran, named the _Picard_, which was as much as to say, a jester and a wit.

Valeran’s real name was Lecomte. “He was,” says Tallemant, “a tall handsome man. He was the head of the troupe and very generous towards its members, and he himself took the money at the door.”

Gros-Guillaume was more than a jester; he was a remarkable actor, greatly esteemed by Henry IV. and by Richelieu, and often commanded to the Louvre to amuse the Béarnais, who enjoyed performances which ridiculed the language and affectations of the gentlemen of his court, particularly those of the Marshal de Roquelaure, concerning whom Tallemant des Réaux relates the following anecdote:—

“One day the king held him between his knees whilst witnessing
a command performance by Gros-Guillaume of the farce of the
_Gentilhomme Gascon_. Every now and again, to amuse his
master, the Marshal pretended to want to get away to thrash
Gros-Guillaume, shouting, ‘_Cousis, ne bous fâchez_.’ It
happened that after the king’s assassination, the comedians,
not daring to perform in Paris in view of the general
consternation there, repaired to the provinces and made their
way to Bordeaux. There the Marshal was the king’s lieutenant.
It was necessary for the players to obtain his sanction. ‘I
give it you,’ said he, ‘on condition that you will play the
farce of the _Gentilhomme Gascon_.’ They imagined that a sound
cudgelling awaited them, and sought to excuse themselves. They
were, however, prevailed upon to perform. The Marshal went to
see the farce; but the memories it evoked of the good master he
had lost occasioned him so much pain that he departed in tears
almost immediately after the beginning of the play.”

Gros-Guillaume had been a baker. Fat beyond all measure, he wore two girdles, one above, the other below, his belly. Dressed in white, he discarded the usual mask of Pagliaccio, but covered his face with flour, which he would cause to fly all about him by blowing out his cheeks and by other grimaces. Turlupin, Gaultier-Garguille and he were the only real French buffoons. With Gaultier-Garguille and Gros-Guillaume, who died within a few months of each other, the French farce died also.

Gros-Guillaume wore a white linen blouse, pantaloons with wide brightly coloured stripes, and a red cap. “... This is my valet, Guillaume le Gros,” says Gaultier-Garguille when speaking of him, “and he is to be known by his piebald costume in the fashion of the Swiss of Francis I., and by his belly, copied from a calabash.”

iv

Pedrolino, Piero and Pierrot are all one and the same personage. Under the designation of Piero, a lackey, he was seen on the Italian stage as early as 1574 in a comedy of Cristoforo Castelletti; we find him filling the same character in _I Bernardi_, by Giovanmaria Cecchi, in 1563, and in the plays of Luigi Grotto, _La Altiera_ amongst others, in 1587. Under the name of Pedrolino we find him playing rôles of naïve lackeys with Bertolin (Zeccha). In the _Gelosi_ troupe, from 1578 to 1604 inclusive, the rôles of lackey are played by Pedrolino, Burattino and Arlecchino.

PEDROLINO is a very complex type, presenting, in point of character, the greatest resemblance to the modern French Pierrot; his especial characteristic is his honesty. In the fifty scenarii of Flaminio Scala he is almost always the preferred lover of the soubrette Franceschina, who, none the less, receives the homage of Pantaloon without prejudice to that of Arlecchino and Burattino. Sometimes he is the husband of Franceschina, and then he plays the rôle of a Sganarelle; betrayed by his wife and discovering it, he rebukes her coquetry, but ends by recognising that the fault is his own, and begs her pardon, which he obtains only after a deal of trouble.

Lackey to the coquette Flaminia, he refuses to undertake the delivery of her love letters to her lover Orazio. Flaminia and Orazio abuse him and call him a rascal. He becomes furiously enraged, whereafter he weeps upon the bosom of Harlequin, bewailing the loss of his reputation.

As the lackey of Pantaloon, and trusted to keep watch over the wife of his master whilst the latter sleeps, Pedrolino also falls asleep, or else he drinks with Captain Spavento and the Doctor, and all three, “drunk as monkeys,” commit the wildest extravagances and end by falling to the ground, “where they remain.” On the morrow, Pantaloon, furious to learn that whilst he slept his wife has been abroad, reproaches Pedrolino, who is still somnolent and weary from yesterday’s drunkenness. Pedrolino, remembering nothing, understands nothing of his master’s complaints. Pantaloon, beside himself with anger, beats him and bites him, to wrest him from his torpor, and ends by leaving him in tears; but the first pangs of sorrow being over, Pedrolino swears vengeance. He contrives so cleverly that all the characters of the piece mystify Pantaloon, and persuade him that his breath is very unpleasant. Pantaloon ends by believing it, and submits to the extraction of four excellent teeth. After that he understands that he has been fooled, and that Pedrolino is the author of this practical joke. Pedrolino simulates madness to escape the blows which threaten him.

He is a poltroon and a boaster. Bent upon avenging the wrong done him by Harlequin, he arrives armed to the teeth, perceives his enemy and hurls himself upon him with drawn weapons. Harlequin, armed with a door-bar, receives him firmly. Then, face to face, they heap abuse each upon the other, whilst depending upon those present to hinder them from coming to blows. The Captain seeks to separate them, whereupon they strike out furiously, with the result that it is the Captain who receives this shower of blows.

Elsewhere, after having boasted that he fears nothing, Pedrolino perceives Harlequin covered by a white garment, lantern in hand; at sight of him he interrupts his conversation and flees as fast as his legs will carry him.

His sorrows do not affect his appetite. We behold him weeping and complaining after having received a beating. He meets Harlequin, who brings him on behalf of the Captain a plate of macaroni. Pedrolino accepts it and continues to weep uninterruptedly whilst eating like an ogre; Harlequin, deeply affected, weeps also and begins to eat with him. Burattino arrives and, beholding them eating and weeping, he too bursts into tears and puts his hand into the dish. Not one of them says a word. The macaroni, watered by their tears, is soon swallowed, whereafter Pedrolino, weeping, turns to Harlequin. “Kiss the Captain’s hands for me,” he says, and goes off. Burattino entrusts Harlequin with a like commission on his own behalf and makes his exit on the other side, also weeping. Harlequin, bursting into fresh sobs, goes off licking the plate.

Pedrolino is utterly the slave of fear. Whilst dining under a tree with Harlequin and the beautiful Dorinda, the repast is interrupted by a gigantic bear which advances upon them. Pedrolino leaps up; the bear does the same; and whilst Harlequin, to hold its attention, throws at it one by one all the apples of the dinner, which the bear very adroitly catches in its jaws, Pedrolino decamps; Harlequin follows him and the bear carries off Dorinda, who lends herself without protest to this abduction.

Arrayed in a long white shirt, wearing a straw hat and carrying a huge staff, Pedrolino is entrusted by his master with a love letter which he is to deliver to Isabella; but as a result of his habitual absent-mindedness he loses the letter; he perceives his loss and, in casting about him for some means of discharging his commission, he is inspired with the happy notion of committing a theft upon a letter-carrier. He purloins from the basket the first letter that comes to his hand and delivers it to Isabella, whence ensues an intrigue of extreme complication.

In another scenario, dressed as a beggar, with a patch over one eye, he meets the Captain and begs alms from him whilst regarding him fixedly with his uncovered eye. The Captain, wearied and rendered impatient by his steadfast glance, demands the reason of it.

“It is,” replies Pedrolino, “that I am a physiognomist and that I perceive from your face that you will shortly be hanged.”

The Captain, to rid himself of such disagreeable prognostications, gives him some money. Another person, for the sake of peace, gives him bread and wine. Pedrolino sits down in a corner to eat and drink, but, finding the bread not clean and the wine not good, he throws one and the other at the legs of him from whom he received them, and goes off to get drunk at the hostelry.

He is mischievous and he plays practical jokes upon everybody. He dons the clothes of Cassandre, his master, and impersonates him; he dresses up as a woman and induces the Captain to abduct him; he gives Harlequin or Burattino filth to drink; he dresses Pantaloon as a woman to lead him to a supposed rendezvous, assuring him that such is the caprice of the lady who awaits him, in her anxiety to save appearances; at the same time he relates some fable to the Doctor, to lure him to the same rendezvous at which he himself is present in hiding. After many amorous proposals between the two cozened old men they finally recognise each other and almost come to blows.

In some pieces he is an intriguer and a lackey in the service of young people. But even then his real nature is preserved and he conforms to his type by his mischievousness and his buffooneries, when, for instance, morion on head and sword at his side, he imitates the roaring furies of Captain Spavento.

Such is the rôle of Pedrolino in the collection of Flaminio Scala. It will be seen therefore that it is quite wrong to attribute to the type of Pierrot a modern and entirely French origin.