Chapter II: Part 2

The particular merit of Pangrazio Biscegliese lies in the whining intonation of the dialect of his locality, and in the exhibition of the usual absurdities which provincials bring into a capital. The life of the great cities, the luxury, the costumes, the somewhat relaxed morals, cause him at every step to break into ejaculations of surprise. “We don’t do that sort of thing at home,” he says at every moment; or else: “At home there is not so much noise, there are not so many people to elbow us as here, but at least everybody knows everybody. Nor is your Naples as beautiful. I would that you could have seen Bisceglia built upon her rock. That now is a lovely country covered with rich villas and famous for her grapes and wines. You cannot say as much. And then in Bisceglia you don’t see all this filth that is everywhere to be met in Naples. If I could but finish my business I should not be long in getting away from your noise, your fleas, your lazzaroni and your abandoned women.” The native of Bisceglia is very often right, but his criticisms under the ægis of his absurdities and his comical language pass for mere stupidity on his part.

Like Pantaloon he represents several provincial types, tradesmen, burgesses or old peasants; but fundamentally his character is always the same: rather miserly, credulous and easy to deceive.

His black velvet doublet and breeches are old fashioned. The sleeves of his coat and his cap are of red cloth, his stockings of red cotton. To-day Il Biscegliese whom the Neapolitans also call _Pangrazio Cucuzziello_ (Pangrazio the Cuckold), has undergone a change of costume like most of the other Italian masks. He wears a red wig with a queue _en salsifis_, and an embroidered waistcoat of the days of Louis XV. which looks like a piece of tapestry. His coat and breeches are black, his stockings red and his shoes buckled.

_Le Jettaturi, con Pangrazio Biscegliese_ is the title of a piece in which M. Paul de Musset shows us Il Biscegliese as he was to be seen on the stage of the San Carlino in Naples.

“The three knocks have been sounded. The little orchestra is
playing the overture. At last the curtain rises and we see Don
Pangrazio arriving laden with all his preservatives against
ill-luck: the horns of a bull, coral hands, a rat made out of
Vesuvian lava, a heart, the forks and the serpent. A burst of
laughter greets his entrance according to custom. Whereupon
he advances with a piteous air to the edge of the stage to
take the public into his confidence on the score of his
superstitious terrors.

“‘Sirs,’ he says, ‘if I have forgotten anything let me know,
of your charity. These big horns which I carry, one under each
arm, preserve my brow from a similar decoration. That, however,
is not what most torments me; for Dame Pangrazio is incapable
of wanting in fidelity to me. By turning this coral hand,
whose index and little finger are extended towards folk of a
suspicious countenance, I shall avoid pernicious influences.
My outfit is complete, and I have been told that I might thus
venture to show myself even in the streets of Toledo. I see
with satisfaction that one is safe in Naples ... a prudent man
never runs any risks in this capital; nevertheless I am not
quite easy. I have had an evil dream, and I am very anxious to
return to Bisceglia.’

“Thereupon Don Pangrazio relates his dream, from which he draws
all manner of prognostications. In fact all possible accidents
happen in the one day to poor Pangrazio. Whilst he is rubbing
up his amulets a thief steals his handkerchief, another his
snuffbox, a third his watch. Pulcinella disguises himself as an
usher to relate to him a false exploit. A wily girl pretends
to mistake him for her lover who was carried off to Barbary
by Corsairs; she embraces him and overwhelms him with her
caresses. Pangrazio attempts to escape, when a cart knocks
him over into the mud. He gets up furiously, cursing clumsy
folk, thieves and the abandoned girls of Naples, whereupon
two charming young men in yellow waistcoats with seals, gold
chains and quizzing-glasses politely accost him, and assist him
to cleanse himself of the mud. This happy encounter charms Il
Biscegliese, who is in ecstasy with the fine manners and the
politeness of the gentlemen of Naples. With their canes they
knock upon the table of the inn and command the waiter to
serve Signor Pangrazio with the best and the most expensive in
the house: sweetbreads and peas, Milanese fried cutlets, boiled
eggs, beetroots and cucumber salad. To all this Pangrazio
prefers the classical macaroni; he is served with a _rotolo_,
which he consumes, eating it with his fingers. Meanwhile the
two fashionable fellows dine and consume the more refined
dishes which Il Biscegliese has declined; then they exchange
a signal; they rise, take up their hats, overwhelm the other
in salutations and depart. The old man finds it impossible
to believe that he should again have fallen a victim to his
credulity. With his bizarre conjectures upon the cause of the
absence of the young men he amuses the public, and ends by
paying the bill, not, of course, without a deal of haggling.”

v

An old yellow wig showing the weft; and surmounted by a nightcap with a greasy ribbon, upon a bald head, whose red ears they barely conceal; two eyebrows shaggy and grey shading the little eyes so suspicious and mistrustful in their glances; a rubicund nose smeared with snuff; coarse fleshy lips gaping stupidly when their owner listens or watches what is happening about him; a short thick neck denoting a choleric irascible temperament; a prominent abdomen encased in a waistcoat that was erstwhile embroidered, and a pair of old red breeches; the whole enveloped in a make-believe dressing-gown, a soiled yellow rag which fifty years ago was plush; a pair of thick legs in woollen stockings, ending in feet of an abominable size and length, these thrust into shoes which remind us of charcoal boats; a ponderous gait and a continual grumbling; and there you have CASSANDRO.

No one has risen yet; it is hardly day, and already Cassandro is complaining of the laziness of his servant and his daughter. So much the better, when all is said! He will have time in which to contemplate his money. Having taken a discreet pinch of snuff, from a box that creaks like a wheel in need of greasing, he slyly opens a hiding place known to himself alone; but a startled fly is on the wing, and Cassandro prudently shuts up his treasure once more. Next it is his servant, Pierrot, asleep on his feet, who blind and yawning comes to strike his head against his master, crushing underfoot Cassandro’s corns and bunions ill-protected by the enormous shoes. A splendid kick administered to Pierrot, who responds at hazard by a buffet which never misses the face of his master, is the affair of a moment.

Pierrot recognises his mistake and repents his precipitancy. He begs pardon of his good master and all is forgotten. “It is already light,” says Cassandro, “and I must go out; bring me my things and particularly my spectacles which I left in my room. Be quick!” Cassandro is no longer alone, therefore he must pretend in the presence of others to be deaf and short-sighted—an old ruse, but an unfailing one.

Whilst recommending his servant not to cook anything for breakfast and to lock the door upon his daughter, he assumes his fine coat. He takes his looped hat, his cane with its ivory head, his green gloves, his colossal watch, which himself he has mended to avoid useless expenditure. The movement of this watch of his makes such a tic-toc that when he passes in the street the neighbours, attracted by the noise, come to the thresholds of their shops and say: “There is Messer Cassandro. Where is he going?” “To see his mistress,” reply the wits.

To behold him as he comes adown the street you might be moved, notwithstanding his dashing toilet, to give him alms; and, what is worse, he would accept them. Nevertheless he is the richest man in this parish, just as he is the most miserly. There is nothing that he will not do for money. He would even give his daughter to Polichinelle. He considers him, however, somewhat debauched, and prefers Leandro, the hidalgo, the man of wealth, the pretty fellow. It is at the house of this prospective son-in-law that he goes to seek a breakfast, to avoid, so he says, giving trouble to his servants. “And then,” he adds, “we shall be better able to talk over our little affairs at table.”

Meanwhile what is happening at his home? His daughter Columbine has employed her charms to corrupt Pierrot; she has added to them a venison pasty and a bottle of old wine which have put to sleep all the scruples of her gaoler, and she abandons herself to mirth and dancing with her lover, Harlequin.

It rarely happens that Cassandro does not return at this moment, accompanied by his amphitryon, who struts like a cock and is laden with gifts for the seductive Columbine. Thereupon the lovers take flight. Columbine is to be sacrificed; but Harlequin, protected by a fairy whose talisman he saved, holds his own against Cassandro, and battles in point of wealth with Leandro. Cassandro does not hesitate. The richer of the twain shall have his daughter, his little doll; and as the treasures of fairies are inexhaustible, Leandro defeated, retires in a fury, reproaching the old man with his lack of faith. Cassandro shrugs his shoulders, laughs in his sleeve, and blesses the lovers.

The character of Cassandro was created in 1580, in the _Gelosi_ company, under the name of Cassandro _da Sienna_. His were the parts of the serious fathers, whilst Pantaloon, in the same complicated intrigues, presented, together with the Doctor, the absurd personages, the jealous husband, betrayed, beaten and contented. This character of Cassandro disappeared from the Italian scenarii for more than a century, and it was only in 1732 that Périer revived the name to perform under it the rôles of ridiculous father in the forain theatres. He was imitated by Desjardins, in 1736, and Garnier, in 1739. On the Franco-Italian scene, Robert des Brosses, a native of Bonn, in Germany, who had joined the theatre as a musician in the orchestra, made his first appearance on the stage in 1744 in this rôle. This actor, estimable for his character and his talents, added musical composition to his other gifts. He wrote the music of a great number of ballets and comic operas.

In 1780, Rozière was playing the same parts in the Théâtre-Italien. But the most famous of all Cassandri was Chapelle, whose credulity and naïveté were proverbial in the theatre. Chapelle was short and fat; his eyes, which were continually blinking, were crowned by thick, black eyebrows; his mouth, always agape, lent him a stupid air. His legs resembled those of an elephant. If you will add to all this a clumsy, heavy shape, you will have some notion of Chapelle. One might imagine that Nature, beholding him after she had made him, said to him: “I aimed at making you a man, I have made you a Cassandro; forgive me, Chapelle.”

It was to Chapelle that the elder Seveste related on his return from a tour in Normandy the story of how, during his sojourn in Rouen, he had educated a carp, which followed him everywhere like a dog, but that unfortunately he had just lost it, at which he was very much troubled.

“And how did you lose this carp?” inquired Chapelle.

“Mon Dieu!” said Seveste, “I was so imprudent as to take it with me one night to the theatre. A terrible storm came on after the show. My carp followed me without trouble down to the street, but there the poor beast was drowned in attempting to leap across the gutter.”

“How unfortunate,” said Chapelle; “I thought that carp were able to swim like fish.”

People had made him believe so many things that during the last years of his life he had become so mistrustful and sceptical that when one of the theatre boys would say to him: “You are to play to-morrow,” he would reply: “Be off with you; I am not to be taken in!” Whenever he was asked how he fared, he would turn his back upon the inquirer, saying: “That is not true.” Chapelle, who added the trade of grocer to the profession of actor, retired in 1816, and went to live with an uncle, who was a canon in Versailles. He died at Chartres in January, 1824.

vi

The Romans have a type called CASSANDRINO, who is the same as their Pasquale. He is a worthy citizen of Rome, of a ripening age of some fifty years or so, but still young in his ways: agile, sedulously curled and powdered, his linen always irreproachable, his white stockings immaculate, his silver-buckled shoes well lacquered. He wears a light three-cornered hat; his coat and breeches are of fine red cloth which throws into relief his spangled white satin waistcoat, with its ample skirts. In character he is charming; he is never angry whatever betide, and he turns a deaf ear upon all jests at his expense. Courteous, well-bred, astute and witty, it is not difficult to perceive in this type the personification of one of the handsome curial _Monsignori_.

“Yesterday, towards nine o’clock” (says the author of the
_Chartreuse de Parme_), “I was issuing from those magnificent
rooms overlooking a garden full of orange-trees, known as the
Café Rospoli, opposite the Fiano Palace. A man at the door of
a sort of cave was saying: ‘_Entrate, o signori!_ Enter, sirs,
we are about to begin.’ I obtained admission to this little
theatre for the sum of twenty-eight centisimi, a price which
made me fear low company and fleas. I was soon reassured. I
had for neighbours some worthy citizens of Rome.... The Romans
are, perhaps, of all the people of Europe, those who most
love and are quickest to perceive fine shades of satire. The
theatrical censorship in Rome is more meticulous than in Paris,
and consequently nothing can be more flat than the comedies
performed there. Laughter has been driven to seek refuge with
the marionettes, where pieces more or less improvised are
presented. I spent an extremely pleasant evening at the Fiano
Palace. The theatre upon which the actors parade their little
persons may be some ten feet wide and some four feet high. The
mounting is excellent, and carefully calculated to suit actors
who are twelve inches tall. The fashionable personage among
the people of Rome is Cassandrino, a coquettish old gentleman
of some fifty-five to sixty years of age, quick, agile, his
white hair very carefully powdered, well groomed, and in
general more or less like a cardinal. Moreover Cassandrino
is trained in affairs and polished by rubbing shoulders with
the great world; he would in truth be an accomplished man but
for his weakness of falling regularly in love with all the
women whom he meets. You will agree that such a character is
extremely well invented in a country governed by an oligarchic
court, composed of celibates, where the power is in the hands
of age. It goes without saying that Cassandrino is secular; but
I will wager that in all the auditorium there is not a single
spectator who does not in his mind invest him with the red
skull-cap of a cardinal, or at least with the violet stockings
of a _monsignore_. The _monsignori_ are, as is known, young
men of the pope’s court, the auditors of this country; their
rank is a step which leads to all the others. Rome is full of
_monsignori_ of the age of Cassandrino, who have failed to make
their fortune, and who seek what consolation they can find
whilst awaiting the red hat.”

M. Frédéric Mercey gives us in his _Théâtre en Italie_ several accounts of the pieces which were performed at the Fiano Theatre: _Il Viaggio a Civita-Vecchia_, _Cassandrino Dilettante_, _Cassandrino Impresario_, etc.

In 1840 this theatre was directed and worked by a jeweller of the Corso who, by a curious chance, was homonymous with the hero of his improvisations—Signor Cassandro.

vii

The spirit of Venetian mischief and Venetian quaintness appears to be personified in the mask of FACANAPPA, the leading character in the marionette troupes. His success in Venice is equal to that of the Biscegliese in Naples. The bills never fail to indicate that he is included in the piece; it is _Harlequin the Bankrupt, with Facanappa_; _Pantaloon the Grocer, with Facanappa_, etc., etc. His every entrance is greeted with applause and anticipatory thrills of mirth. It is he who comes to notify the public of changes made during the performance, and who at the final curtain comes forward again to announce the pieces of the morrow, which, as usual, are _with Facanappa_. His is the privilege of saying everything he pleases, and he is not backward in making numerous allusions, employing the most current words in his Venetian dialect, and manufacturing new ones when the need arises.

A long parakeet nose, surmounted by a pair of green spectacles like those of Tartaglia, a flat wide-brimmed hat, a red cravat, an enormous waistcoat with tinsel buttons and a long white coat, the tails of which trail along the ground—such is the appearance of this personage, whose offices are very varied, but whose character at bottom seems to be that of a sort of Venetian _Monsieur Prud’homme_.

In the beginning of the eighteenth century this type bore the name of Bernardone. In 1705, the actor Leinhaus played in the improvising company of Venice the rôles of ridiculous parents under this name, with a Venetian accent, so as to be as reminiscent as possible of the classical Pantaloon.

Zanobio is another type of old man of the same sort, but dating back to the fifteenth century. This personage parodied the citizens of Piombino, and his rôle was extremely characteristic. In the _Gelosi_ troupe, which played in Florence in 1578, Girolamo Salimbeni, a Florentine, was engaged by Flaminio Scala exclusively for this character.

viii

There existed once in Palermo a national theatre, like that of Naples, but with types that were entirely different. Thus the father of the family, the Baron (IL BARONE), a Sicilian lord, the dupe of his servants and his daughter, was the personification of the nobility of the land, and of the bourgeoisie aiming at aristocratic distinctions. It is not known whether Lappaio and his successor Pasquinio, two famous Sicilian actors, preserved this type, but down to the latter half of the nineteenth century there were still no Sicilian marionette pieces that did not include the Baron.

ix

Under the name of Fleschelles in serious rôles, and under that of Gaultier-Garguille in farces, Hugues Guéru, who was born in Normandy, played the parts of father and of old man, at first in the Théâtre du Marais in 1588, and later at the Hôtel de Bourgogne.

His name, GAULTIER-GARGUILLE, is derived from _gaultier_, meaning _bon vivant_, from the old French verb _gaudir_ (to rejoice or to enjoy) and from _garguille_ which means _gargoyle_ or wide-throat. Guéru married the daughter of Tabarin somewhere about 1620. He must then have been at least fifty years of age (he was of the same age as his father-in-law), whilst his wife was very young and very wealthy. After the death of Gaultier-Garguille she was able, through her own wealth and that bequeathed her by her husband, to marry a gentleman of Normandy. Gaultier was a good and worthy husband, and in fine weather he would leave his house in the Rue Pavée-Saint-Sauveur to repair to his country villa, near the Porte Montmartre, there to live as a _franc bourgeois_.

He was lean of body, long of leg, and broad of face. He wore a greenish demi-mask with a long nose and cat’s whiskers; his hair was stiff and white, his beard pointed like that of Pantaloon, his breeches and shoes were black, and he wore a black doublet with red sleeves; he was equipped with a pouch, a dagger and a cane.

In 1622, the Hôtel de Bourgogne was in the apogee of its success. The best farces performed were, according to the critics of the day: _La Malle de Gaultier_, _Le Cadet de Champagne_, _Tire la Corde_, _J’ai la Carpe_, _Mieux que Devant_, _La Farce Joyeuse de Maistre Mimin_, etc.

Gaultier-Garguille enjoyed in particular a great reputation as a singer of absurdities, and somewhere about 1630 a collection of songs was published, mostly of an obscene character, approved by Turlupin and Gros-Guillaume. Hugues Guéru died in 1633.

He was replaced after his death by Jacquemin Jadot, who, however, never reached the level of Gaultier-Garguille.

x

In the French company at the theatre of the Hôtel de Bourgogne in 1634, GUILLOT-GORJU was the personification of the Doctor. The part was played by Bertrand Haudouin de Saint-Jacques who, according to Guy-Patin, had been dean of the faculty of medicine. He played for eight years at the Hôtel de Bourgogne, then withdrew and went to Melun, where he resumed his medical profession. But, seized with melancholy, he returned to the Hôtel de Bourgogne.

“He was a big man, dark and very ugly: his eyes were sunken
and his nose resembled a trumpet, and although in general
appearance he was not unlike an ape and there was absolutely
no necessity for him to wear a mask in the theatre, he
nevertheless never appeared without one.”

Doctor Guillot-Gorju was dressed from head to foot in black. He wore the ancient costume of the time of Henri IV. The doublet buttoned to the chin, trunks like a pair of melons and tight stockings; he wore two garters on his left leg, one above and the other below the knee.

He died in 1643 at the age of fifty.

IX

THE CANTATRICE

It was the custom of the Greeks to sing all their poetry and they gave no theatrical pieces that were not sung and accompanied by instruments.

“In Homeric days,” says M. Charles Magnin, “the singers went
about like the troubadours in the Middle Ages, celebrating the
exploits of heroes in festivals, in public assemblies and in
the palaces of kings, and always preferring the very latest
songs.”

Thespis, in the scenarii which he composed, caused his songs to be sung by a chorus; this, for instance, was the case with the songs to Bacchus and Silenus in the scenarii entitled _The Vintage_. Thereafter the actors would declaim. He was the first to draw from the chorus a solo singer who was known as a _corypheus_. Æschylus added a second singer, and when Terpander had introduced lyre accompaniments for the songs the foundations of opera were laid.

The Latins failed to develop that taste and fashion for music which had characterised the Greeks. With them songs and accompaniments were things apart from poetry. We know that the Atellanæ were composed of farces, pantomimes, dances and music. Many of their plays must greatly have resembled our modern comic operas or, rather perhaps, those pieces which once were called _interludes_ in Italy, and are known to-day as _opera buffa_. In antiquity this name of _interlude_ was given to all pieces that were played or sung during the intervals in the main performance. The tragic or comic chori would come upon the proscenium between every two acts. Little by little these chori were replaced by mimes, buffoons or dancers, and then by short pieces mingled with songs to sustain the patience of the spectators during the wait.

“After the fashion of the ancients,” says M. Castil-Blaze,
in his _Histoire de l’Opéra Italienne_, “who brought on the
chorus during the entr’actes of their dramas, the Italians
gave madrigals and songs to fill up the same spaces. These
interludes, unconnected by any dialogue, did not long retain
the suffrages of the public. _La Flora_ by Alamanni, _Il
Granchio_ by Salviati, and _La Cofanaria_ by Ambra, which
were performed and published in Florence in 1566, with the
concert interludes written by Lori, Nerli and Cini for these
gay comedies, led the public to exact something better. _Il
Mogliazzo_ and _La Cattrina (atto scenico rusticale)_, by
Francesco Berni, produced in Florence in 1566 were extremely
successful because a remarkable dramatic action with two or
three characters was unfolded in these harmonious interludes.
This was the dawn of the _opera buffa_, a happy prelude to the
_Gallina Perduta_ of Francesco Escolani, which soon took Italy
by storm, and to _La Serva Padrona_ which was greeted with
enthusiasm, by the whole of Europe.”

The Président de Brosses, writing of this little masterpiece of Pergolese’s, says:

“There are a male and a female buffoon who play a farce in the
entr’actes in a manner so natural, and with an expression so
comical, that it is impossible to conceive the like. It is not
true that it is possible to die of laughter, for if so I should
now be dead, notwithstanding that the pain I experienced in the
expansion of my spleen hindered me from hearing as well as I
desired the celestial music of this farce.”

In the nineteenth century, between the lowering and raising of the curtain, the entr’acte existed in all its tiresomeness. The boredom begotten of these long waits was frequently a source of ill-will on the part of the public, who spent half the evening yawning. It was necessary that a piece should be very good to survive these entr’actes. It was generally deplored in France that the custom of filling these gaps as in the eighteenth century should have passed from fashion. It was in these interludes that the Italians showed, more even than in their dramas and tragedies, how great they are as composers, as actors, as mimes and as singers.

“The Italians” (says the Président de Brosses) “have cultivated
a taste for the theatre which is above that of any other
nation; and as they are no less gifted in the matter of music,
they never divorce the one from the other; thus most often
tragedy, comedy and farce are all opera in Italy.”

The first _opera buffa_ was performed in Rome at the beginning of the sixteenth century on the occasion of the fêtes given by Giuliano de’ Medici, the brother of Leo X. The comedy of Plautus, _Pœnulus_, was set to music and performed on two consecutive days in an immense theatre expressly built in the square of the Capitol.

In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, there were no pieces, whether scenarii for improvisors or fully written plays, that did not conclude with dancing or singing, either of a popular character or else drawn from tragedies set to music by such famous composers as Peri, Crosi, Monteverde, Soriano, Emilio del Cavaliere, Marco Antonio Cesti and Giovanelli, Cavalli; these did then for the theatre what was done in the following century by Scarlatti, Pergolese, Jomelli, Piccinni, Paesiello, Cimarosa, and, in the nineteenth century, by Cherubini, Rossini, etc.

In the beginning of the sixteenth century—in 1526—La Barbera created a sensation in Italy. She was a Florentine, and she travelled from city to city at her own charges, accompanied by a chorus, with the support of which she gave those interludes, for which the taste amounted then to a veritable passion. Macchiavelli has a deal to say of her in his letters. “La Barbera should be at this moment in Modena,” he writes to Guicciardini, at the end of a long political letter, “and if you can serve her in any way I recommend her to you, for she engages my thoughts a deal more than does the emperor.”

Florence, Turin, Venice, Bologna, Rome and Naples were the first cities in which the Italian opera was established, and in which fame was achieved for the beauty of their voices by the _Signore_ Catarina Martinella, Franceschina Caccini, Giulia and Vittoria Lulle, La Moretti, Adriana Baroni, Checca della Laguna, Margherita Costa, Petronilla Massimi, and Francesca Manzoni. All these _virtuose_, in addition to being singers, were actresses and performers upon several instruments: for in the _Farsa_ or _Festa Teatrale_ of Jacopo Sannazaro, performed in Naples at the palace of the Prince of Calabria, in 1492, an actress representing Joy sang, to her own accompaniment on a viol, whilst her three followers played the flute, the fiddle and the pipe. This custom of combining talents and of a singer’s sometimes being his or her own accompanist, continued in Italy down to the end of the eighteenth century.

The greater part of these operas were intermingled with improvised scenes, and farces performed by the characters of the Commedia dell’Arte. In _L’Anfiparnasso_—a harmonic opera by Orazio Vecchi, performed in Modena in 1594—Brighella, Pantaloon, a lackey named Pirolino, and the Captain, move as freely as in their own improvised farces.

“Pantaloon calls Pirolino. The greedy servant answers him from
afar with his mouth full. Pantaloon cries: ‘Holla, Pirolino!
Where are you then? Pirolino! Pirolino! Ah! thief, what are you
doing in the kitchen?’ ‘I am filling my stomach with birds,’
says Pirolino, ‘with birds which used to sing: _Pipiripi!
cucurucu!_’”

On the 14th December 1645, Cardinal Mazarin commanded a performance to be given in Paris at the Petit-Bourbon Theatre, of _La Finta Pazza_ of Giulio Strozzi, with music by Francesco Socrati, and machinery by Torelli.

Margarita Bartolazzi was the CANTATRICE in this troupe. Her voice, says a contemporary author, was so charming that it would be impossible worthily to praise her.

Luigia Gabriella Locatelli and Giulia Gabrielli were also included as Cantatrices in this same company, which continued its performances down to 1652.

In 1658, at the Petit-Bourbon, a great performance was held of _La Rosaura_, a lyric tragedy by Antonio Arcoleo, with music by Antonio Perti, originally given in Venice. The interludes were filled by Fiurelli (Scaramouche).

The word _opera_ was then used in its true sense of “work.” It was customary to say _opera musicale_, _opera tragica_, _sacra_, _comica_, _scenica_, _armonica_, etc. Works such as _La Rosaura_, _Orfeo_, _Ercole Amante_ and _Serse_ were announced with the word _Machines_ at the head of the bill, and the room in the Louvre where these Italian operas were performed bore the name of the _Salle des Machines_. The opera _Serse_ (Xerxes), first given in November, 1660, was so long that it took more than eight hours to perform.

The players in this piece were Signora Anna Bergerotti, Signor Melone, who was an abbé, and who played feminine rôles, Bordignone, Atto, Tagliavacca, Zanetto, Chiarini, Piccinni, Assalone, Rivani and Augustino.

In the interludes, “Scaramouche (Tiberio Fiurelli) appeared in disguise, and danced between two Doctors; he was recognised by his companions, Trivelino and Pulcinella, who stripped and beat him.”

To the company of Italian singers Louis XIV. united for these performances that of the Italian buffoons as well as the French dancers and musical performers. Of these royal fantasies were soon born the French opera and the permanent installations of the French and Italian comedies.

After the demolition of the Petit-Bourbon, Louis XIV. lent the hall of the Palais-Royal to Molière and to the troupe of Italian comedians who also sang, but whose singing was confined to couplets.

In Gherardi’s collection we see that at the end of the seventeenth century some of the airs fitted to the comedies are Italian and others French. They are mostly melodies drawn from the old Italian operas of the beginning of the century, and from French rigadoons and Italian couplets, many of which have a deal of _maestria_. In the case of some pieces, however, like _Les Originaux_ (1693), the music of which was written by M. Masse, the airs were specially composed for the occasion.

The rôle of La Chanteuse or Cantatrice was really a very limited one and demanded no more than a pretty voice and a pretty face. Such attributes were supplied by Elisabeth Danneret, known then under the name of _Babet la Chanteuse_, who made her début at the Italian comedy on 8th July 1694, in _La Fontaine de Sapience_. She was short of stature, but extremely well made and very pretty. Her duties consisted in appearing dressed as a shepherdess—as shepherdesses were dreamed of in those days—to proffer a cup of a miraculous water whilst singing:

“Qui goûte de ces eaux ne peut pas plus se méprendre
Quand l’amour lui demande un choix;
Buvons-en mille et mille fois;
Quand on prend de l’amour, on n’en saurait trop prendre.”

And, at the end of the piece, when shepherds and shepherdesses have chosen one another with _sapience_ and are dancing together, the cantatrice shepherdess returns, and sings:

“Amanti, ci vuole costanza in amor’,
Amando,
Penando,
Si speri, si, si;
Che basta sol un di,
Un’ hor’, un momento,
Per render contento
Un misero cuor’.”

In _Le Départ des Comédiens_ (1694), Gherardi, as Harlequin, says to the Doctor: “As for you, sir, you are going to live on your rents. I should like to associate myself with you, but it is forbidden to an Italian comedian to go into retirement before the age of a hundred and twenty, and it was only out of kindness that Scaramouche was permitted to retire at ninety-four.”

Then, turning to Babet: “And you, mademoiselle, what are you going to do?” he would inquire. Babet answered him in song:

“Quand une fille,
Jeune et gentille,
Voudra,
Bientôt elle parviendra.
J’en connais une,
Que la fortune
Jusques aux cieux élèvera ...
Dans un nuage, à l’Opéra.”

Babet hardly realised the truth of the fiction which she sang. After the death of Gherardi, with whom she had lived as a wife, and by whom she had had a son, she did indeed join the opera.

Sometimes Babet was dressed as a sibyl, as an ancient priestess, as Bellona, the goddess of war, as a Naïad, as an Egyptian, etc.

Some wits on the subject of the Cantatrice announced that an abbé formed part of the new company in the capacity of almoner. “They have a Cantatrice, a Doctor and an Almoner; therefore the company is complete.” We do not know whether an abbé did indeed accompany the comedians, but if so that would not have been the first case of its kind in an Italian troupe. The Italians frequently mingled religious practices with the most profane things. The first register of the new troupe was conceived as follows:—

“In the name of God, of the Virgin Mary, of Saint Francis, of
Paul, and of the souls in Purgatory, we start our performances
on this eighteenth of May, 1716, with _L’Inganno Fortunato_.”

A story related by the Président de Brosses, in speaking of a performance in the amphitheatre of Verona, in 1740, is no less curious.

“Let me not forget to tell you of a singular surprise I
experienced at the comedy, on the first occasion that I went
there. A bell in the city having sounded, there was so sudden
a movement about me that I thought the amphitheatre was
tumbling into ruins, particularly as I saw that the actresses
were running away, and one of them notwithstanding that at
the moment, in accordance with the prescriptions of her rôle,
she was in a swoon. The real cause of all this was that the
_Angelus_ had just sounded, and that the whole assembly had
knelt down facing the East, whilst the actors vanished into the
wings and an _Ave Maria_ was sung. After this, the swooning
actress returned, very properly performed the usual obeisance
after the _Angelus_, resumed her condition of unconsciousness,
and the piece continued.”

In the performance of the company of 1716 we find _Les Stratagèmes_, music by Plagliardi (1716); _Alcyone_, a parody (1741), music by M. Blaise; _La Serva Padrona_ (1756), music by Pergolese. Other musical composers of the Italian comedy were: Tarade, Kohot, Philidor, Gibert, Sodi, Monsigni, Chardini, Lamette, Duni, Clément, Grétry, Le Chevalier d’Herbain, Bambini, Gossec, Garnier, Desbrosses, etc.

Rosalia Astraudi made her début on the 30th April 1744. She was eleven years of age at the time, and she was engaged to sing in parodies and interludes, to play lovers and soubrettes and to dance in the ballet. She discharged all these offices to the satisfaction of the public, married a nobleman, and left the theatre in 1755.

Justine-Benoîte du Ronceray, known as Mademoiselle Chantilly, born at Avignon in 1727, was the daughter of Du Ronceray, sometime musician of the chapel of the King of France, and later choir-master to Stanislas, King of Poland. In 1744 she was a dancer in the service of this monarch, when she obtained leave to visit France, accompanied by her mother, Claudine Bied, who was also in the employ of the King of Poland as a musician. She made her début in the theatre of the Opéra-Comique at the fair of Saint-Laurent, under the management of Favart. Favart fell seriously in love with her, and married her at the end of that year. He was summoned later on by the Maréchal de Saxe, to undertake the management of the theatre which was to follow the French army into the Low Countries.

The marshal’s camp was never without its comic opera. It was from its stage that the battle orders were issued. In the interval between two pieces the principal actress—a part long filled by Madame Favart—would come to make such an announcement as: “Gentlemen, there will be no performance to-morrow as M. le Maréchal is delivering battle. On the next day we shall give _Le Coq du Village, Les Amours Grivois_.”

From principles both of taste and of system, the Maréchal de Saxe insisted upon gaiety in his armies. He said that the French never conducted themselves so well as when they were gaily led, and that what they most feared in time of war was boredom. Mademoiselle Chantilly, therefore, followed her husband to headquarters in Brussels. It was there that the Maréchal de Saxe fell in love with her (1746).

“Mademoiselle de Chantilly” (he wrote one day), “I take my
leave of you. You are a more dangerous enchantress than the
lady Armida. Now as Pierrot, now as Love, now as a simple
shepherdess, you bear yourself so charmingly that you enchant
us all. I, too, have beheld myself at the point of succumbing,
I whose sinister art affrights the universe. What a triumph
for you had you been able to subject me to your laws! I am
grateful to you for not having exerted all your arts. For a
young sorceress you contrive very well with your crook, which
is no less, I think, than the wand by which that poor Prince
Renaud was stricken. Already I have beheld myself surrounded
by blossoms and petals, sinister equipment for a favourite
of Mars. I tremble to think of it. And what would the King
of France and Navarre have said if he had found me grasping
a garland instead of the torch of vengeance? Notwithstanding
the danger to which you have exposed me, I cannot bear you any
grudge for my error; it is charming! But it is only by flight
that so great a peril is to be eluded:

“Adieu, divinité du parterre adorée;
Faites le bien d’un seul et les désirs de tous;
Et puissent vos amours égaler la durée
De la tendre amitié que mon cœur a pour vous!”

“Forgive, Mademoiselle, this rhymed prose which your talents
inspire from the lingering remains of my intoxication; the
liquor I have drunk lasts, it is said, often longer than we
think.

“MAURICE DE SAXE.”

Madame Favart made her début at the Comédie-Italienne on the 5th August 1749. “There is no other instance of so great a success.” Grimm says that her celebrity was the result of the passion she had inspired in the hero of Fontenoy.

Her talents were variously appreciated. She had, we are assured, a frank and natural gaiety, an agreeable and piquant manner. Fitted for any character, she rendered all with a surprising truth: soubrettes, leading ladies, peasant girls, naïve parts, character parts, she made them all her own; in a word, she could multiply herself without end, and audiences were amazed to see her play on the same day, in four several pieces, four entirely different rôles. She was able so perfectly to imitate the various dialects that people whose accent she borrowed imagined her their compatriot.

“We emphatically assert,” wrote the brothers Parfait, in 1769,
“notwithstanding the sentiments of those who are always greedy
of novelty, that this amiable actress has not yet been equalled
in these rôles; and to convince all who might doubt it there
is no need to do more than to send them to witness the first
performance of _La Fée Urgèle_, which is about to be given.”

In June of 1771 the first symptoms of the disease that was to kill her made their appearance; and although she was well aware of her desperate case she continued to play until the end of the same year, out of interest for her comrades. Of her death in 1772 Grimm wrote as follows, very harshly disparaging her talents:—

“The theatre of the Comédie-Italienne has just lost a
celebrated actress in Madame Favart. Throughout all her
protracted sufferings she showed a great deal of fortitude
and patience. Upon recovering one day from a long swoon she
perceived, among those whom her danger had hastily brought
about her, one of her neighbours in grotesque accoutrements.
She smiled, and said that she had thought to behold the Clown
of Death (_le Paillasse de la Mort_)—a jest full of character
from the lips of a dying actress. The priests were never able
to induce her to renounce the theatre. She said that she would
not be forsworn; that the theatre was her state; that if she
were to recover she would be compelled to play again, and
that consequently it was impossible for her to renounce her
profession in good faith; she preferred to die without the
sacraments. When, however, she felt herself to be expiring she
exclaimed: ‘_Oh! pour le coup, j’y renonce._’ Those were her
last words. Madame Favart was somewhere about fifty years of
age. She was a bad actress. Her voice was harsh and her manner
coarse and ignoble. She was only endurable in exaggerated
characters and not long in those; she was very superior in
the part of the _Savoyard Montrant la Marmotte_: that was her
great talent, and it made her fortune in the theatre at the
time of her début in 1749. She was then called Mademoiselle de
Chantilly; she danced and sang and her dancing sabots turned
the head of all Paris.”

Between August 1752 and March 1754, Monelli, Guerrieri, Lazzari and the Signore Anna Tonelli, Catarina Tonelli and Rosa Lazzari were seen as singers on the stage of the Comédie-Italienne. They presented Pergolese’s _La Serva Padrona, Il Maestro di Musica_ by Scarlatti, _Serpilla et Bajocco_ by Ristorini, and other interludes set to music by Cocchi, Selleti, Rinaldo di Capua, Latilla, Jomelli, Ciampi and Leo. As these Italians sang only in _opera buffa_, the name of _buffoons_ came to be given them. Hence it is that still to-day we speak of _buffi_ in the Italian companies, although there is usually nothing of the buffoon in their performances.

In the middle of the eighteenth century war was declared between French music and Italian music. French music, with the King and Madame de Pompadour at its head, carried the day. The Italian singers quitted Paris, but the Comédie-Italienne seized upon their repertory, appropriated subjects and music, and translated all their pieces, such, for instance, as _La Serva Padrona_, which became a French comic opera under the title of _La Servante Maitresse_.

Laruette, Rochard, Bouret, Mesdames Favart, Rosalie Astraudi, Foulquier (_Catinon_), and Superville sang in French, and bolstered up the weakness of their singing by the liveliness and dash of their performances. This was the true cause of the failure in Paris of the Signora Deamicis on the 20th June 1758, when she made an attempt to restore to the esteem of the French public the Italian music which five years before had yielded so many comic operas.

After only one performance lasting four hours, and consisting of _La Serva Padrona_ and _Gli Raggieri della Femina Scaltra_, the Signora Deamicis and her father understood that further efforts would be useless. She crossed to England, where she abandoned the line of _prima comica_ and took up the serious music of Bach.

Mademoiselle Foulquier made her first appearance in 1753, in the rôles of Angélique, and was seen later on in those of Silvia. She added to circumspection of behaviour and natural graces in singing and in declamation, a superlative degree of talent as a dancer. Her elder sister, Madame Bognoli, was seen as Silvia in 1758.

On the 6th May 1761, Mademoiselle Piccinelli made her début as an Italian Cantatrice. Favart, in a letter to the Count of Durazzo, relates as follows the history of Mademoiselle Piccinelli:—

“Here is what is said: One day a poor village woman found a
new-born child abandoned in a field; this was our Signora. The
peasant woman took charge of her out of charity, fostered her,
and brought her up as best she could as her own child until the
age of eight. Then one of those women who seek in the youth
and beauty of members of their own sex a means to their own
fortunes chanced to pass through the village, saw the little
one, was impressed by her natural graces, and proposed her
purchase for a moderate sum. The bargain was concluded. This
third mother spared nothing to give her adopted daughter an
education suitable to the state of life which she had in view
for her. The child profited beyond all the hopes that had been
entertained. Already the _matrone_ entertained visions of
fortune; she caused the girl to enter the theatre; she arranged
to procure for her an opulent protector; but the young actress,
whose tastes did not incline to these dispositions, decided
to choose for herself. This of course was opposed. To the end
that she might have peace, the girl then left her third mother
and voluntarily placed herself under the protection of another
adoptive one, so that she might appear becomingly in the world;
this last conducted her to Paris. There Mademoiselle Piccinelli
was well received at the Comédie-Italienne, and her success
was everywhere proclaimed. Thereupon the various mothers of
the cantatrice sought her out and each one claimed her. The
first one said: ‘She is mine, I gave her life.’ The second one
said: ‘I saved that life; I fostered her; she belongs to me.’
The third one: ‘I bought her; I educated her; who can dispute
my rights?’ The fourth one added: ‘She gave herself freely to
me, and I am working daily to make her fortune, which is the
best claim of all. I will tear out the eyes of any one of you
that disputes her with me.’ Our Cantatrice, to make the peace
amongst them, gave an equal sum of money to each. The first
three withdrew; the fourth remained with her as her counsellor.
La Piccinelli, fatigued by these little family vexations, ended
by renouncing all her mothers, and placed herself under the
authority of a husband. She chose M. Vezian, the brother of a
very pretty girl who was with us at the Comédie-Italienne, and
to whom he owes the considerable position which he fills.”

Mademoiselle Piccinelli added to a charming presence “a voice of great range and flexibility, of a silvery and pleasant timbre. She was able to please French ears. With this gift she combined that of playing comedy with great nobility.”

Mademoiselle Collet made her début on the 21st January 1721, in _La Fille Mal Gardée_.

“Her infantile performances obtained her the applause of
the public, which was redoubled when she was seen in the
rôle of Betzi in _Le Roi et le Fermier_. These are about the
only characters in which she achieved distinction. Her voice
was poor, and she replaced by mannerisms what she lacked in
expression.”

In 1762, Signorina Colomba, a Venetian, successfully made her début at the Comédie-Italienne in Paris. An Englishman fell in love with her and attempted to carry her off. She left the theatre to escape from him, and did not return to it until 1772.

“Her début was of the most brilliant,” says Grimm in his
correspondence. “She is no longer in her first youth; at least
she has the air of being about thirty years of age. Her only
fault is that she is invested with too much nobility and too
much beauty for the rôles of comic opera; her carriage, her
walk, her air, are those of a queen. Her glance is august,
noble and tender; her great eyes, the most beautiful in the
world, seem to suggest that the proper place for her is
tragedy. Her play is not without mannerisms, but they are
mannerisms that are pleasing.... She has a charming voice, and
an excellent way of singing, full of that grace, sweetness
and facility which French singers can never achieve. Speaking
for myself, this is the first, and perhaps the last time that
I have heard anyone sing in a Parisian theatre with such
ravishing charm and grace.”

The Italian comedians, to repair the loss which they suffered in the retirement of Mademoiselle Piccinelli, and the death of Madame Savi—who had made her début in 1760 in the parts of leading lady—charged Colalto, who played Pantaloon parts, to go to Italy to find two actresses. He left in April of 1766 and returned in August with the Signore Zanarini and Bacelli, mother and daughter. They made their début as first and second ladies in _Gli Amori d’Arlequino_ of Goldoni. Those who understood Italian applauded them heartily, especially the mother; the others withdrew but indifferently satisfied. Madame Zanarini was engaged to play leading rôles, and her daughter, Mademoiselle Bacelli, for those of soubrettes.

In 1770 Paris received Mademoiselle Mesnard, a young and pretty Cantatrice, who had begun life as a shopkeeper and then entered the theatre under the protection of the Duke of Chaulnes, who had her portrait painted by Greuze. It was she who was the mistress of Beaumarchais, and the cause of that scandalous rough-and-tumble between the “duc et pair crocheteur” and the author of _Figaro_. We know that, as a consequence of this affair, Beaumarchais, although acquitted by the tribunal of the Marshals of France, which had sent M. de Chaulnes to the prison of Vincennes under a _lettre de cachet_, was sent to Fort-l’Evêque by M. de la Vrillière for the sole reason that it was impossible for the son of a clockmaker to be in the right in a quarrel with a duke and peer.

Of Madame Ruette, Grimm writes on the occasion of her retirement in 1777:

“This charming actress united to the most engaging of voices
and the finest of countenances, a tact that is infinitely rare,
and a most naïve and delicate sensibility. It is hopeless to
expect to see again the rôles of Isabella and Columbine played
as they were played by her. The delightful scene of the Rose
in _Le Magnifique_ was entirely her own work; she diffused
into it a mixture of propriety and interest whose magic is
inexplicable. A singular saying, perhaps, but one full of
truth, was that of Madame d’Houdetot when she declared that,
‘_in that moment Madame La Ruette expressed modesty even in her
back_.’”

The theatres of the fair of Saint-Laurent took possession of the types, the pieces and the music of the Italians. They played and sang French recitatives with Italian music, French dance music and French romances. Down to 1721 we can find only couplets upon ancient airs, or those which already had been sung elsewhere.

In 1737, Monsigny wrote the music of _On Ne S’Avise Jamais de Tout_, and of several other comic operas. In 1759, Duni composed _La Veuve Indécise_, and Laruette wrote _Le Boulevard_ in 1753. Other composers of music for the Opéra-Comique were MM. Lacoste, Gillier, Aubert, Delacroix, etc.

Since the Opéra-Comique manifested too great a development, and the Italian troupe fell short of what was necessary, the two companies united their forces in 1761. The troupe of the Opéra-Comique was then composed of Mesdemoiselles Deschamps, Rosaline, Nessel, Luzi, Arnoult, Dezzi, Florigny. The men were Laruette, Bourette, Delisle, Audinot, Parau, Saint-Aubert, Clairval and Guignes.

In the forain theatres the principal actresses singing in comic opera or in parodies were:

Mademoiselle Maillard, the daughter of a cook and a lace-mender. She began in 1696 with Bertrand, who perceived her talent and gave her an engagement in his company, in which she remained for eight years. She married a young man named Cavé, at Besançon. He took the name of Maillard and became an actor (see Scaramouche). She retired when Mademoiselle de Lisle entered the theatre in 1716. On the point of being confined, she was accidentally wounded, and died in September, 1721.

Mademoiselle de Lisle, born in 1684, was barely eleven years of age when she made her first appearance as a soubrette at the Opéra-Comique. She reappeared in 1716, played until 1740, and died in 1758.