Chapter V: Part 5

Agata Calderoni, known under the name of Flaminia in Italy, was the grandmother of Virginia Baletti, the wife of Riccoboni (Lelio), and she took the theatre name of Flaminia, which had become hereditary in the family.

iii

“Is it you, AURELIA—beautiful Aurelia?—you, whose riches are your least attraction, and heaven alone knows how rich you are! You, whose beauty and goodness match your wealth and generosity, deign to answer me, O my hope, my future! Deign to accept my services! Permit me to follow you that I may read in your eyes your least desire! Command of me all that it is humanly possible to do! I deliver myself up to you, body and soul; I am your slave.”

Aurelia replies: “Are you Horace? No! You are not the man I love, who will be my slave only in becoming my master. Withdraw, I must not listen to you! If you are come to demand of me nothing but my love, I answer you that you may claim of me any other alms but not that of my heart.”

Whilst in Italy the rôles of leading lady were being interpreted by Orsola Bianchi, born in Venice, they were being filled in France by her sister, Brigida Bianchi, known by the name of Aurelia. She went to Paris in 1640 with Tiberio Fiurelli, left it in the following year, to return again in 1645, with her father, Giuseppe Bianchi, the director of the troupe, her sisters Luigia and Orsola and her husband, Marco Romagnesi.

In 1659 Aurelia wrote a piece, _L’Inganno Fortunato_, which she dedicated to the queen-mother. The queen-mother found the piece to her taste and conveyed her thanks to Aurelia in the shape of a present consisting of a pair of diamond earrings of exquisite workmanship, said by Loret to be worth three hundred pistoles.

Aurelia left Paris at the end of June of 1659, but was absent only a year. Upon learning of the death of Romagnesi, her husband, she returned there in 1660, re-entered the theatre and did not retire until 1683. She remained in Paris after going into retirement; she resided in the Rue Saint-Denis, near the convent of the great Saint-Chaumont, where she passed away at the age of ninety, in 1703.

She was a very beautiful woman, with great taste in dress, and passionately addicted to her toilet. Mademoiselle Belmont, the wife of Romagnesi de Belmont (Léandre), her grandson, says that she found her upon her deathbed beautifully dressed in the very latest mode.

Aurelia had been very much beloved by Anne of Austria; like Scaramouche she was admitted to the intimacy of the queen.

Orsola Corteze, known in the theatre under the name of Eularia, made her début in Paris in 1660 at the age of twenty-three. Her mother, Barbara Corteze, known under the name of Florinda, claimed for her husband descent from Hernando Cortez, the conqueror of Mexico. Orsolo Corteze married Giuseppe-Domenico Biancolelli (Harlequin), at Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois, and bore him twelve children.

“She was tall and well made without being beautiful; and of an extremely amiable disposition.” She undertook the parts of leading lady after the retirement of Aurelia, and remained in the theatre until 1680. In 1704 she withdrew to Montargis, to the convent of the Sisters of the Visitation of Mary, and died there in 1718 at the age of eighty-six.

iv

Françoise-Marie-Apolline Biancolelli, the daughter of the famous Harlequin Domenico Biancolelli and of Orsola Corteze, was born in Paris in 1664, and made her first appearance there in 1683 in the rôles of leading lady, under the _nom de guerre_ of ISABELLE. At the same time her younger sister undertook the parts of soubrette under the name of Columbine.

“Never” (says Devizé) “was the Comédie-Italienne so applauded
as it is now. If Harlequin is inimitable in the various rôles
in which he is to be seen performing, his two daughters are
no less so; the various characters which they play are so
admirably rendered that they have earned the applause of all
Paris, which never wearies of admiring them. Never has one
beheld so much intelligence for comedy combined with so much
youth. There is no part undertaken by them of which they do not
acquit themselves with such a grace that when they appear upon
the stage it almost seems that they must have been born solely
for the character which they represent.”

The following monologue from Gherardi presents a resumé of the dominant character of the Isabella type:

“Sirs, in the deplorable state into which gallantry has fallen,
it is not surprising that a woman should be compelled to uphold
the cause of all her sisters. Our sex might wait long and in
vain for the other to undertake the task of avenging it. Since
taverns and tobacco-shops have become so fashionable women have
ceased to please; and love, powerful though he be, is unable in
the minds of young men to offer adequate compensation for the
fatuous and brutal pleasure of a debauch at _l’Alliance_ or _la
Galère_.

“Where are the days when the fair sex beheld the flower of
youth assiduously at its feet?—those days which might rightly
be called the golden age of tenderness, when hearts came in
squadrons to reconnoitre our power! In those happy days none
was sure of conquering us, and banishment followed quickly upon
the least wrong that should be done us. But the face of things
is changed. We no longer behold at this time of day a thousand
indefatigable adventurers ready to sustain our cause against
all the world; and love, which in other times was a source of
riches to our sex, is to-day no more than a source of ruin.

“It is not in our century that you must seek those magnificent
heroines who came forward to repair, at the price of their
jewels, the most cruel desolations of war, and thus to place
themselves side by side with the most famous conquerors.
Gallantry to-day is no longer recognisable, or else it haggles
even in the matter of little favours; and far from stripping
oneself of everything in the service of love, one’s heart
is given only with reservations. But that which has most
contributed to decry gallantry is the unworthy profanation
of our attractions by uniting us daily to imbecile old men,
members of a nation which in all times has been contemned by
the kingdom of love. These bizarre matches, which avarice
suggests to our parents, open the door to innumerable abuses.
They constitute a nursery for separations, and a clear source
of profit to so many coquettish abbés who are everlastingly
lying in wait for marriages of this description.

“Is it credible that there should be girls so innocent as
to accept without vexation these changes in the matter of
marriage? And is not the sweet idea of matrimony which we
form for ourselves incompatible with the austerities to which
bespectacled husbands would subject us? Are we not aware that
Hymen’s is a sort of warfare from which old men and children
are disqualified? What sort of a figure can an old dodderer
be expected to cut under the banner of Hymen, or rather what
sort of a figure can a young girl be expected to cut beside a
husband who catechises her at every hour, who counts the steps
she takes, who does not open his lips save to contradict her or
to beguile her with tales of his bygone prowess? a sour-faced
fellow who accounts the addition of a ribbon to his wife’s
head-dress as a crime, and who sets questions to his servants
on the score of the most innocent movements of his better half?
I do not even touch upon that legion of infirmities of which
old age is the prey, nor the unbearable cough which is the
music to which an old man invariably treats his young wife.
You are not to suppose that I do not see something heroic in
the sad fidelity of which a woman has the courage to pride
herself towards husbands of this kind, but it is necessary
that I should frankly confess my own weakness. In a similar
extremity I could answer only for a stony inflexibility never
to depart from the hatred which at the outset I must conceive
for any old man who should dare to attempt my liberty.”

When she is in love she recoils before nothing to disembarrass herself of the fetters imposed upon her by the paternal will:

ISABELLE (_dressed as a man, before the mirror adjusting her
cravat_). Give me that hat, Pierrot. Do you find in me a
cavalier to your taste?

PIERROT. Pardi, mademoiselle, you are charming. You might be
mistaken for me. Yet there is a little difference. Are you
going to raise a company of infantry?

ISABELLE. Do not think to mock me. I should not tremble more
than another under fire.

PIERROT. If all captains were of your kind they might save
enlisting expenses and produce their own soldiers.

ISABELLE. I do not assume this costume without reason. You know
that my father wants me to marry M. Bassinet.

PIERROT. Your father? Good! He is a drivelling old fool, as I
have told him.

ISABELLE. I am making use of this disguise to avoid that
marriage. M. Bassinet has never seen me. He is coming to pay me
a visit, and I shall await him in this apparel. I am going to
give him news of Isabelle, and—by heaven!—I shall quench his
desire to marry her.

PIERROT. Mordi, now, there’s a daring girl! I have always told
your father that I never believed he was your mother’s husband
when you were born. You have too much spirit. Don’t you think
so?

ISABELLE. Oh, as for me, Pierrot, that does not trouble me. I
am concerned only to put an end, if I can, to this impertinent
marriage by which I am threatened. But here comes, I think, M.
Bassinet. Leave me with him; I shall play my part.

PIERROT (_going off_). Pardi, it is the man himself. He looks
like an old boar.

ISABELLE (_seats herself nonchalantly in an arm-chair. The
Doctor enters_). Your servant, sir; your servant.

THE DOCTOR (_perceiving ISABELLE, and mistaking her for a
man_). Sir, I beg your pardon. I was told that Mademoiselle
Isabelle was in her chamber. (_Aside._) What the devil’s this
coxcomb doing here?

ISABELLE. Sir, she is not here, and I am awaiting her. But
you, sir, what do you seek? Is mademoiselle ill? From your
countenance I take you to be a doctor, and you have all the
appearances of a member of the faculty.

THE DOCTOR. You are not mistaken, sir. I am a nursling of
Hippocrates. But I am not here to feel the pulse of Isabelle.
My pretensions are quite otherwise.

ISABELLE. Indeed. And of what nature, pray, are the pretensions
of a doctor towards a young girl?

THE DOCTOR. I seek to marry her.

ISABELLE (_laughing_). Ah! ah! ah!

THE DOCTOR. You find it droll?

ISABELLE. Not at all; but it is that ... ah! ah! ah! I laugh
like that sometimes, ah! ah! ah!

THE DOCTOR (_considering himself in a mirror_). Is my face
dirty?

ISABELLE. No, I am just laughing. Ah! ah! ah!... Tell me, sir,
in determining to take so perilous a leap, I hope that you have
properly sounded yourself? You have not, perchance, discovered
any little headache, eh? You understand me?

THE DOCTOR. Not at all, sir. I am very well. I am not subject
to headaches.

ISABELLE (_placing her hand upon his brow_). My faith! You
will be able to wear them very well, and I would as soon that
you should marry that girl as another.

THE DOCTOR. And so would I.

ISABELLE. But when she is your wife do not spoil her by your
ridiculous manners. We have had a good deal of trouble to
bring her to her present state. I shall be accounted among
your friends, and I intend when you are married to come to you
without ceremony to eat your capon.

THE DOCTOR. Sir, you do me too much honour, but I never eat
poultry. From what I hear, you are perfectly acquainted with
the lady in question?

ISABELLE. Our acquaintance does not date from yesterday, and if
you are discreet I can tell you something concerning her which
I am sure you do not know.

THE DOCTOR. Oh, you can tell me everything and depend upon my
discretion. You know that doctors——

ISABELLE. I spend ... but I must take care that no one
overhears us.... I spend every night in her chamber.

THE DOCTOR (_stupefied_). In her chamber?

ISABELLE. In her chamber, and I could even tell you—— But you
are sure to talk?

THE DOCTOR. No, no, I swear it!

ISABELLE. Last night my head reposed upon the same pillow. Draw
your own conclusions from that.

THE DOCTOR. On the same pillow?

ISABELLE. And it will be the same again to-morrow. Still, what
I have told you should not hinder you from carrying through the
affair. A real lover is not to be put off by trifles.

THE DOCTOR. Trifles! Fine trifles! After all, nothing presses
yet in the matter of this marriage. Farewell, sir. Heaven has
befriended me. Here is a young man who loves me. (_Exit._)

ISABELLE. I think that his vapours of love for Isabelle are
over now. In the quarter of an hour during which I have played
the man, I have been a fairly complete rascal.

The rôles of Isabelle are usually purely comedy ones. It is no part of her business to affect her audience or even to engross it. She is concerned to enliven the stage with her satires, her fantasies and her wit. She speaks like a man, and she has the knowledge, the audacity and the self-assertion of one.

ISABELLE. Do you not know, Columbine, that prose is the very
offal of wit, and that a single madrigal can infuse more
tenderness into a heart than thirty of the best-balanced
periods? It is only the very base who do not love poets to
the point of folly. Ah, Columbine! how charming is a man when
he offers us his vows after having passed them through the
sieve of the Muses. How is one to resist the declaration when
it strikes the ear in rhythm, and when its imagery forces
sensibility into the wildest and most rebellious soul? What
joy, Columbine, to rejoice the heart with these ingenious
novelties that enclose a deal of passion in very little space.
Oh, the happy talent to be able to restrict your movements and
thoughts to the feet and measures prescribed by poetry!

COLUMBINE. Do you realise, mademoiselle, that such feet might
lead you straight to the Petites-Maisons! Wit is all very well,
but something else is needed in marriage. Waiting-woman though
I be, I would not take a poet either to lover or to husband.
What profit is there in being the wife of a rhymer? Is a room
to be furnished with epigrams? Is a butcher to be paid with
sonnets? My faith! if I were in your place I should throw
myself at some good financier, who would cause my merit to roll
in a coach, and who——

ISABELLE. A financier! Horror!

Françoise Biancolelli, although not endowed with great beauty, had a “gift of pleasing spread over all her person.” She was full of grace, very well made and had a physiognomy that was sweet and charming. M. de Turgis, an officer in the Gardes-Françaises, fell madly in love with her and married her in 1691. She was twenty-seven years of age and her husband was twenty-one. The father and mother of M. de Turgis entered in 1693 a plaint against their daughter-in-law, accusing her of the subornation of their son. The mother of Françoise Biancolelli, in her ignorance of the laws of France and to defeat the parents of her daughter’s husband in their plaint, announced to them that between her daughter and their son there existed no convention, treaty or celebration of marriage. In 1694, the father and mother of M. de Turgis made a will disinheriting their son “to punish him for his shameful alliance with Françoise-Marie-Apolline Biancolelli, protesting, for the rest, to declare null the marriage which he might have contracted with her did they come to discover it.”

Coming into possession of proofs of the marriage, they had their son removed to Angers, and they enjoined upon him to declare that he had been abused and suborned. Of a weak character, he gave way and signed this declaration. Nevertheless he repaired immediately to a notary to protest against the step he had just taken.

The Parliament gave judgment on the 11th February 1695, declaring the marriage null, and forbidding the Sieur de Turgis and Mademoiselle Françoise Biancolelli “to cohabit, under pain of corporal punishment, or to enter into a fresh contract of marriage, under pain of its nullity.” And this “whether during the lifetime or after the death of his father and mother.” Against this Constantin de Turgis lodged a yearly protest with his notary—there are seven of them in existence.

Françoise Biancolelli had left the theatre in 1695. The father of M. de Turgis died in the same year, but the fate of the young couple was not ameliorated until 1701. They were then remarried under a dispensation from the Cardinal of Noailles, and they declared that “there had been born of them under faith of marriage two children then living, namely: Charles-Dominique de Turgis des Chaises, born in 1692, and a daughter who later on became Madame Millin de Tressolles.”

“From that time onwards, M. de Turgis went publicly to visit his wife, and even appeared with her in public places.” Although he continued to make use of rooms at his mother’s house, he lived with his wife in the Rue des Petits-Pères, received there, and spent there most of his time, whilst Françoise Biancolelli publicly bore his name.

The mother of M. de Turgis died on the 2nd February 1704, and renewed in her will the two acts of disinheritance should her son remarry Mademoiselle Biancolelli, as if she were in ignorance of the fact that they were already remarried, an ignorance hardly possible considering that they lived in the same parish.

M. de Turgis died on the 29th April 1706. Perceiving that his end was approaching, he sent for his nephew, de Turgis de Canteleu, then in his fourteenth year. He represented to him in a touching manner the sad position of his wife and children, caused him to embrace them and recommended them to him. Young Canteleu promised that he would never abandon his aunt and cousins. He kept his word for, dying at the age of twenty-one, he left to Charles-Dominique, his cousin, an income of eight thousand livres to sustain his name, and an income of four thousand to the sister.

After the death of her husband, who left nothing but debts, seeing that he died disinherited, Françoise Biancolelli was reduced to seek assistance, having spent her own possessions to support her husband in military service. The courts pronounced a judgment in 1709, granting her a pension of a thousand livres for herself and her children, and in 1713 the king, desiring to recompense the services of Constantin de Turgis in the person of his widow, awarded her a further pension of three hundred livres.

Madame de Turgis left two children, Charles-Dominique de Turgis, chevalier of Saint-Louis and an officer in the royal navy, and Marie-Anne-Reine de Turgis, the wife of the Sieur Millin de Tressolles.

v

Giovanna Rosa Benozzi, celebrated under the name of SILVIA, went to Paris with the troupe summoned by the Regent in 1716. She played for forty-two years the parts of leading lady with the same vivacity, the same shrewdness, and always producing the same illusion. The inconstant public never cooled towards her. She enjoyed applause until the hour of her death, and was mourned with the liveliest regrets. She excelled especially in the plays of M. de Marivaux, of whose fine and witty dialogue she had a perfect grasp. A volume would hardly suffice to contain all the praise which she received in prose and verse.

The rôles of Silvia were very diverse. In the plays of Marivaux, like _Le Jeu de l’Amour et du Hasard_, she is at once mistress and soubrette. In other pieces she is just a soubrette, sometimes a simple naïve peasant girl, or an innocent shepherdess, as in _Arlequin Poli par l’Amour_, the first play which Marivaux produced at the Comédie-Italienne.

Harlequin enters, playing with a battledore and shuttlecock, and in this fashion advances to the feet of Silvia. There, still playing, he lets the shuttlecock fall, and in stooping to pick it up he perceives Silvia; astonished, he remains arrested in his stooping attitude; little by little he comes jerkily erect again; then he looks at her. She, in an access of shyness, attempts to withdraw; he arrests her with the words: “You are in a hurry then?”

SILVIA. I withdraw because I do not know you.

HARLEQUIN. You do not know me? So much the worse. Let us make
acquaintance, shall we?

SILVIA (_shyly_). Certainly.

HARLEQUIN (_approaching her, and signifying his joy in little
bursts of laughter_). You are very pretty!

SILVIA. You are very amiable.

HARLEQUIN. Not at all, I speak the truth.

SILVIA (_laughing a little in her turn_). You are very pretty
too.

HARLEQUIN. So much the better. Where do you live? I shall come
and see you.

Silvia tells him that she is beloved of a shepherd who might spy upon them, which afflicts Harlequin; but she assures him that she does not love the shepherd, and Harlequin is consoled. He informs her in his turn that he lodges with the Fairy, which arouses jealousy in Silvia because, she says, the fairy is more beautiful than she. Harlequin reassures her. Soon Silvia has no uneasiness other than that occasioned her by her sheep; they are straying and she is obliged to follow them. Harlequin takes her hand and kisses it, saying: “Oh! the pretty little fingers! I never had sweetmeats as good as these!” And thus they separate.

In another scene Silvia returns with a cousin, another shepherdess, whose advice she asks. “Harlequin has already kissed my hand,” she says, “and he will want to kiss it again. Advise me, you who have had so many lovers. Shall I allow him?”

“Beware of doing so,” replies the cousin. “Be very severe, for that ferments the affection of a lover, and beware of telling him that you love him.”

“But how can I help it?” asks Silvia.

Harlequin returns; tendernesses between the two lovers; jealousy of the fairy, who causes the disappearance of Silvia; then ruses of Harlequin, to whom love has given so much spirit that he purloins the magic wand of the fairy, leaving her impotent; he presents it to Silvia, who employs it to evoke spirits and devils, which are beaten by Harlequin.

In _L’Amante Romanesque_ (1718) Silvia confesses to her waiting-woman, Spinette, that she is still in ignorance of what love may mean notwithstanding that she has been married; but, in the solitude in which her husband left her, she spent her time in reading romances which have turned her head. She detests all men, she says, and she is to take into her service a certain Marinette who speaks, perhaps, more ill of the male sex than she does herself. This Marinette is no other than Mario, who, in the disguise of a waiting-woman, seeks to gain the presence of Silvia whom he loves. Spinette opposes herself at first, but, after many promises from Mario, and after he has sworn that he has no design beyond that of seeing Silvia, Spinette presents him to her mistress and he is engaged as a waiting-woman. Wishing, however, to be faithful to his word to Spinette, Marinette (Mario) excuses himself from entering the service of Silvia, saying that he has just come into an inheritance from an aunt, who has left him an income of twelve thousand livres. “That,” he says, “is the wherewithal to seek a husband.”

SILVIA. I am charmed by what you tell me, and you are not to
doubt that it was my aim to care for your fortune by attaching
you to myself.

MARINETTE (Mario). Madame, I am already more attached to you
than you think.

SILVIA. But you speak already of seeking a husband, and you
hated men so bitterly.

MARINETTE. Nevertheless one always ends that way. Still, I
shall hold back as much as possible and perhaps all my life; I
am very difficult to please.

SILVIA. What is your taste? Let us hear.

MARINETTE. I desire one who has the heart of an Italian and the
manners of a Frenchman.

Silvia approves these ideas, nevertheless she continues to denounce all men. Spinette and Marinette in an even greater degree follow her example. In the end Marinette says so much ill of them that Silvia embraces him with fervour.

SILVIA. Come, my dear Marinette, let me embrace you. I love
you with all my heart. I find in you my own thoughts, my
sentiments, my humour. (_To SPINETTE, who attempts to check
her._) Stand aside, Spinette. I want to kiss her a thousand
times.

SPINETTE. Madame, spare me the sight of it.

SILVIA. Why should you oppose it?

SPINETTE. I’m jealous.

SILVIA. Withdraw, silly. Approach, my heroine, let me stifle
you with caresses. (_To SPINETTE._) What does that mean? Why
do you tear her from my arms? Release me, I tell you, and stand
aside.

SPINETTE. But, madame, you have read romances; do you not
remember Céladon who disguised himself as a girl to approach
his mistress Astræ?

SILVIA. What then?

SPINETTE. If perchance Marinette were a boy who had had the
same idea, should I be right to allow you to continue as you
are doing?

SILVIA. Ha, ha! You are still making fun of my romances. If
Marinette, with the spirit and the sentiments which are hers,
were a boy, that boy to-morrow would be my husband.

Mario goes down upon his knees and declares himself. Silvia forgives, and accepts him for her cavalier pending that he shall become her husband.

In _The Portrait_ (1727), a play by M. Beauchamp, Silvia has assumed the garments of her soubrette Columbine, and passes herself off as Columbine. She gives a very bad reception to Valerius, the future husband destined her by her father. Valerius is not duped; but he pretends to mistake her for her waiting-woman, and thus discloses to her his sentiments in a more delicate manner. But the more Valerius displays his submission to the orders of the beautiful Silvia, the more does she, believing him to be indifferent, attempt to turn him aside. With this aim in view, she herself sketches her portrait for him:

“First of all she is neither tall nor short, neither well made
nor ill made. She is fat rather than thin, and notwithstanding
all that, a rare thing to-day, she has a figure, and she has
a little air of recklessness and youth that is arresting.
It is perhaps neither wit nor brilliance, yet it partakes
of both. She is white and rosy; she has eyes and teeth; she
dances passably; in a word she is like a thousand others.
On the subject of her conduct there is nothing to tell you.
She lives as all girls live to-day. As for her temper, faith,
it is not easy to define it. She is gentle by reflection,
sharp by temperament, timid in the things which she knows,
decided in those of which she is ignorant, imperious with
those who owe her nothing, exigent without friendship, jealous
without passion, absent-minded to the point of forgetfulness,
and unequal to the point of brusqueness; in short it is so
difficult to live with her that I cannot bear to be with her
most of the time. Do you know who is the master, the guide,
the director of all her actions and of all her sayings? It is
Caprice.”

Valerius pretends to attach faith to this portrait, which he knows does not at all resemble her since he has the original under his eyes; to pique her he says that he will renounce Silvia, an announcement which angers her.

Silvia was the subject of many madrigals, sonnets and epistles composed in her honour. She was born in Toulouse, of Italian parents. She was married in Paris, in 1720, to Giuseppe Baletti, known by the name of _Mario_. Of this marriage was born Antoine-Louis Baletti (_Lelio_), who entered the Théâtre-Italien in 1742, Louis Baletti, who became a dancer, and Jeanne Baletti, who married Blondel, the royal architect. Silvia died in 1759.

vi

At the time that the famous Silvia was undertaking rôles which demanded such versatility, FLAMINIA, the wife of Louis Riccoboni (Lelio), was playing the parts of leading lady.

Elena-Virginia Baletti was born at Ferrara in 1686. She visited in her childhood the various theatres of Italy. Her parents, although poor, gave her an education calculated to place her above the majority of her class. From her most tender youth she passed for one of the best actresses of her country.

Louis Riccoboni, already at the age of twenty-two the director of a company, perceived in the talents of Mademoiselle Baletti a means of reintroducing to the Italian stage the qualities that it had lost. He sought and obtained her in marriage. She went to Paris with her husband in 1716 to contribute with him to the academic reformation of the theatre, after having vainly attempted it in Italy, where the masks had remained masters of the field; but the French public also loved Harlequin and Scaramouche, and the performances of Italian masterpieces could never have sufficed for the success of this new company. It was necessary to give way to the demand for the masks. Flaminia retired with Riccoboni in 1732. Justice was done to her talents, and she was esteemed not only as an excellent actress but also as a very learned woman. She spoke Spanish and French quite as well as her mother tongue, and made considerable progress in a serious study of Latin.

Flaminia drew from the _Rudens_ of Plautus the subject for her comedy _Naufrage_, which was not a success. Her play _Abdilly, Roi de Grenade_, a tragi-comedy written in collaboration with Delisle, was also not a success. Out of conceit with the theatre she left it entirely in 1733 and dwelt in retirement until 1771, the epoch of her death.

Marie Laboras de Mézières, born in Paris in 1713, made her first appearance on the 23rd August 1734, in the rôle of Lucile, in _La Surprise de l’Amour_. She married François Riccoboni the son, and withdrew from the Théâtre-Italien in 1761. She wrote various French scenes to be introduced into the Italian scenarii, but it is as a French novelist that Madame Riccoboni earned the durable celebrity of her name: _Lettres de Fanny Butler_, _Ernestine_, _Histoire du Marquis de Catesby_, were her principal works. She also translated several English pieces: _La Façon de se Fixer_, _La Femme Jalouse_, _La Fausse Délicatesse_ and _Il Est Possédé_. She was one of the greatest wits of her day. She died in 1792.

On the 3rd May 1730, Anna-Elisabeth Constantini, the daughter of Giovanni-Battista Constantini (the _Ottavio_ of the old company), made her début at the Comédie-Italienne to play such characters as Isabelle and Silvia.

vii

Giacometta-Antonia Veronese, known under the name of CAMILLE, was born in Venice in 1735. She went to France in 1744 with her father Veronese (Pantaloon) and her sister Anna Veronese (Coraline), being then no more than nine years of age. Camille made her début as a dancer on the 21st May 1744, at the same time that her sister and father were making their first appearance in _Coraline, Esprit Follet_, a piece which enjoyed a great vogue. Subsequently she was seen in the rôles of leading lady, in 1747, at the age of twelve, in a scenario (_Les Sœurs Rivales_) written expressly for her by her father.

“Camille,” says an author of that time, “had a gesture of an expressiveness such as is not to be learned before a mirror, and an accent of a naturalness such as art can never yield, but such as the heart may prompt when it is moved. Free from ambition and jealousy, she was innocent of those rivalries which nearly always spring up among women of her condition. Her character was in her face, and one saw imprinted there nobility, frankness, wit and gaiety; no woman of her state ever carried disinterestedness further, nor did ingratitude succeed in turning her aside from beneficence. With a beneficent soul it is almost impossible not to have a tender heart; these qualities are nearly always inseparable, and if her sensibility permitted her some weaknesses she knew how to earn pardon for them by the constancy of her attachment.”

“The Sieur Billioni has just produced at the Théâtre-Italien
the ballet _Pygmalion_ with success. The subject is so well
known that it is unnecessary for me to enter into details of
it. I will remark only that the Demoiselle Camille, who plays
the part of the statue, renders it with the most singular
truth. Nothing can equal the delicacy of her pantomime,
particularly in the scene when the statue gradually becomes
animate; she depicts her surprise, her curiosity, her nascent
love, and all the sudden or graduated movements of her soul,
with an expression such as has never yet been equalled. I think
that the art of the ancient Greek and Roman mimes could not
surpass the talents of Camille in this style of work” (Letter
of FAVART to M. de Durazzo, 27th December 1760).

“‘_Thémire Délivrée_, such is the title of the ballet-pantomime
performed by Billon,’ says Biglioni, the erstwhile
ballet-master of the Opéra-Comique. Thémire (Mademoiselle
Camille), amidst a troop of hunters, delivers her orders,
departs with them to beat the countryside, and leaves the
stage empty (a gross fault). Two woodcutters and the wife of
one of them dance a _pas de trois_. They go off as they came
on without explaining the reason of their appearance. Thémire
reappears; she has been involuntarily separated from the hunt.
She finds herself alone and expresses her fears. A savage
perceives her from the height of a hill, comes abruptly down
and seizes her; she swoons in terror; the savage binds her with
slender branches of willow and drags her into his cave. At this
critical moment the hunters arrive and perceive the danger of
Thémire; they charge up the hill; savages armed with clubs hurl
themselves upon them. Ah! what is happening during this time to
poor Thémire? Finally, luckily or unluckily, the savages are
routed and Thémire is delivered. Were they in time or were they
not in time? That is what remains to be explained. Be it as it
may Thémire is brought on in triumph to the sound of cymbals.
(Why cymbals?) There are rejoicings on the deliverance of
Thémire. The conquered savages also rejoice. (Wherefore?)

“Notwithstanding these absurdities the ballet gives great
pleasure. That is because it is perfectly executed. It is
because Camille, who represents Thémire, is an excellent
comedienne” (FAVART, 1st August 1760).

Camille died in 1768 at the age of thirty-three.

Among other actresses of fame who played in Italy during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries let us cite those who played under the names of Clarice, Angela, Graziosa, Rosaura, Eleonora, Diana, Beatrice or Isabella, the Signore Alborghezzi, 1600; Armelini, 1600; Andreoletti, 1602; Garziani, 1610; Aspontini, 1630; Pazzighetti, 1661; Teresa-Corona Sabolini, who played in 1688 under the name of Ottavia Diana; Giovanna Amatis, 1695; Anziani, 1715; Malatesta, 1720; Albertini, 1706; Antonia Albani, 1760; Teodora Ricci of Padua, who exercised so great an influence on the talent of Carlo Gozzi, 1760; Felicita and Rosalie Bonami, 1775; Marianna Bassi, 1750; etc.

XIII

SCAPINO

Endowed with honeyed language, engaging manners and a sycophantic politeness, BRIGHELLA is the most infamous rascal that ever drew breath. He does not even display the brutal frankness of Polichinelle to counterbalance the baseness of his sentiments. He is a smirking cat concealing vicious claws in pads of velvet. Lively and insolent with women, braggart and boastful with old men and cowards, he decamps on the approach of any of those who do not fear him. There is a great deal to be dreaded from him; the more you have frightened him the less disposed is he to forgive you, and if you should receive a stab in the dark, be sure that his was the hand that dealt it. A singer, a dancer and a musician, when he desires to do anyone an evil turn there is no house into which he is not able to insinuate himself. He is a valuable servant to the man who knows how to employ his talents. As his needs are many, he requires a deal of money, and if you know how to flatter his self-love and to pay him well, there is neither girl nor woman in Italy whom he is not able to wheedle for you. He has discharged all kinds of offices; he has been a soldier, an attorney’s clerk, and he has even turned hangman’s assistant so as to abstract himself from the attentions of justice. The service he prefers to all others is that of lovers, and it is rather from inclination than from necessity that he loves what he calls _his estate_. For if there is no one to serve he will work for his own account to keep himself in practice, and then woe betide the young girls who fall under his claws! They are for ever lost if they lend an ear to his proposals and his sophisms. Brighella believes absolutely in nothing but the rope which is one day to hang him; hence a glimpse of a watchman will reduce him to a condition which it is impossible to describe.

Such was the old Brighella; but in the course of centuries and of civilisation he has improved a little. He is still imbued with the same instincts, but he does not assassinate quite so freely. To-day many women are able to look him in the face without trembling and to listen to him without believing. He is far more terrible to the purses of old men, which he purloins with incredible dexterity. His dreams are of nothing but thefts like the Epidicus of Plautus, from whom he descends in direct line.

“As for me,” says Epidicus, “I am going to assemble the Senate of my mind to deliberate upon what I shall do. For it is upon money (however much it may be our best friend) that I am going to declare war. What source shall I tap? I must neither fall asleep nor draw back. I am resolved to make a fresh attempt upon my old master. I have procured a sharp knife to disembowel the old man’s purse. But what do I see? Two old men at once! What a capture! I shall transform myself into a leech and suck their blood....”

Later, when he is content with his misdeeds:

“I do not believe that in all Attica there is a soil more fruitful than my old master. I take all the money I want from his cupboard, however locked and sealed he may leave it. But should the old man come to perceive it, ’ware the rod!”

Brighella, whose name signifies intriguer, is as old as Harlequin, his compatriot. We have already said that both were natives of Bergamo. The Slaveró of _La Piovana_ of Angelo Beolco is a true Brighella.

“As for me,” he says, “I find nothing difficult; I am accustomed to despise things. I want two young girls, and if it be not sufficient to kill one man I shall kill two. Do you not remember that dispute in which I stabbed a man as easily as you prick a bladder, and of that other fellow whose bones I broke as you squelch a bean?”

Elsewhere we hear him declaring: “I am now going to seek Sittono, into whose hands the girl must have fallen by now. I shall so contrive with amiable words that he shall give me the fifty livres promised me so that I may get me hence. And should anyone suggest that I have acted badly, I shall throw the entire fault of it upon my gossip.”

Slaveró recks nothing of being a perjurer like Brighella. A purse has been stolen, and Bertevello, the fisherman, knows who has it.

BERTEVELLO. Good-morrow, comrade. What is your name?

SLAVERÓ. My name is Slaveró.

BERTEVELLO. Slaveró. Very good. I am resolved to conceal
nothing from you because I have no desire to go to prison.
Since you say that the purse is yours, swear to me that if I
tell you who has it you will give me what you promised.

SLAVERÓ. On the faith of an honest man.

BERTEVELLO. Swear it on your soul.

SLAVERÓ. Since I give you my assurance, why should you require
an oath?

BERTEVELLO. Swear as I shall bid you.

SLAVERÓ. Very well.

BERTEVELLO. Say: I, Slaveró, I swear——

SLAVERÓ. I, Slaveró, I swear——

BERTEVELLO. —that I will give you what I have promised you——

SLAVERÓ. —that I will give you what I have promised you——

BERTEVELLO. —of whatever is in the purse——

SLAVERÓ. —of whatever is in the purse——

BERTEVELLO. —in livres, sous and deniers——

SLAVERÓ. —in livres, sous and deniers——

BERTEVELLO. —upon burning coals——

SLAVERÓ. —upon burning coals——

BERTEVELLO. —burning and scorching me at once——

SLAVERÓ. —burning and scorching me at once——

BERTEVELLO. —that by a miracle may the living and the dead——

SLAVERÓ. —that by a miracle may the living and the dead——

BERTEVELLO. —leap at my eyes, tear them out, and burn them, and
wither my hands.

SLAVERÓ. —leap at my eyes, tear them out and burn them, and
wither my hands.

BERTEVELLO. And that the devil himself may bear me off——

SLAVERÓ. And that the devil himself may bear me off——

BERTEVELLO. —into the depths of misfortune——

SLAVERÓ. —into the depths of misfortune——

BERTEVELLO. —so that not a fragment of my person shall survive.

SLAVERÓ. —so that not a fragment of my person shall survive.

BERTEVELLO. Very good. Await me here and I will bring the man
with the purse to you.

SLAVERÓ. I shall wait. Ah, purse! You see how strongly I desire
you. Have no fear, we shall depart together. Otherwise I
should not have sworn as I have done. And I do not consider
myself under any obligation of giving what I promised to this
fellow for having sworn what I swore. Moreover I swore with my
tongue and not with my conscience. Is not my tongue free? Can I
dispose of it? My tongue can say what it pleases.

In a more modern Italian scenario which has done duty in various forms, always with success, “some young Venetian gentlemen are in a villa on the banks of the Brenta. To amuse themselves and to dispel the sadness which might result from the death of their butler, Meneghino, they take it into their heads to make fun of three poltroons who are in their service: Pantaloon, Harlequin and Brighella. They make the pretence to believe in the boastful valour of Pantaloon, and they beg of him to spend the night watching over the body of the dead butler. Pantaloon consents against his will; but it is Harlequin who has been put to bed on the bier instead of Meneghino. They have covered him with a sheet and painted his face white. Harlequin is no more at ease than he who watches over him. He fears lest this farce should bring some misfortune; nevertheless he makes merry at the expense of his comrade, performs a somersault on his bed, and heaves great sighs. Soon, however, his laughter ceases, and he thinks only of following the example of Pantaloon, who has gone into hiding, for Brighella appears, dressed as a devil, and pursues them with a torch. Brighella, however, imagined that he would have to do only with Pantaloon, and did not expect to find Harlequin in the place of the dead man, still less to find a corpse running in this scared fashion about the chamber. In his fright he falls down, and we behold the three of them rolling on the ground possessed by terror ineffable. Finally the entrance of their masters, who come to mock them, brings about their return to reason, at the end of a long series of jests which the public receives ever with uproarious laughter.”

The costume of Brighella in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries consisted of a sort of jacket and a wide pantaloon in white linen to suggest his rustic origin, a cap laced in green, and a cloak; the coat and pantaloons were laced at the seams with green cloth so as to make the costume represent a sort of livery. His olive-tinted and bearded mask conforms, like that of Harlequin, with the tradition of the ancient _Sanniones_.

In the nineteenth century his costume became a bizarre combination of old and new fashions. His jacket took the form of a riding-coat made of wool or white flannel with three collars; further he wore a waistcoat and pantaloons of the same material laced with green. He preserved his traditional white cap trimmed with green and his brown half-mask, whose beard was arranged so as to imitate heavy whiskers and a slight moustache. The chin was shaven. In this costume he looks very much like a negro arrayed in a ridiculous livery.

Brighella is the stock from which are sprung Beltrame, Scapino, Mezzetin, Flautino, Gradelino, Truccagnino, Fenocchio, Bagolino, and all the shrewd and intriguing lackeys of the Comédie-Française, from _Sbrigani_ (a variant of the name of Brighella), _Sganarelle_, _Mascarille_ and _La Montagne_ to _Frontin_ and _Labranche_; the livery only has changed; the character is always that of Brighella, and from Pseudolus, the Greek slave, down to Figaro, the factotum, the type has always been a liar, a drunkard, a thief, a debauchee and more or less a murderer.

An Italian comedian, known under the name of Briguelle, appeared in 1671 on the stage of the Comédie-Italienne to replace Locatelli (_Trivelin_), lately dead, in the parts of first _Zani_. According to Robinet, this character became the rage, and, after his portrayer’s death, Louis XIV., seeking to replace him, requested another actor from the Duke of Modena. The duke sent him Giuseppe Cimadori, who played under the name of Fenocchio the same rôles as those of Brighella. This actor, however, died on the journey.

The two most famous players of Brighella during the eighteenth century in the Italian troupes were Giuseppe Angeleri, who from 1704 to 1752 undertook the improvised parts in the comedies of Goldoni, and Atanasio Zanoni of Ferrara, who was one of the best comedians of the eighteenth century. “Zanoni received a very good education, but his taste for declamation having urged him to embrace a theatrical career, he joined the troupe of the famous Antonio Sacchi, whose sister he married. Zanoni was unrivalled in the grace of his enunciation and the vivacity and wit of his repartees. To the qualities natural to his state he added those of a lofty character. On the 22nd February 1792, on his way home from a splendid supper, he fell into a deep canal and died soon afterwards.” In 1787 a collection was published in Venice of the mordant, allegorical and satirical Brigelleschi witticisms. We will cite some fragments.

“One should not say ‘a thief,’ but ‘an ingenious mathematician who finds a thing before its owner has lost it.’ Appropriated objects are the things which we inherit before the death of those who possess them. To conduct a theft with propriety it is necessary to be assisted by three devils: one who will teach you how to purloin adroitly, one who will show you how to conceal effectively, and a third who will persuade you never to make restitution. When I am compelled to _travel_—that is to say, to decamp—I console widowed hens by adopting their chickens. I deliver purses and watches from captivity. I am very talkative because my father was dumb and he left behind him a capital of new words which had never been used. For the rest, I am a bastard. Out of charity I was once given a bowl of soup, but so extremely limpid that the beautiful Narcissus might have seen himself mirrored in it more clearly than in his fountain. My shirt is become a romance; it is full of knights-errant and the washerwoman refuses to wash it for fear of poisoning the river. My supper is the supper of Bertoldo: a plate of peas _ventosissimi_, with some boiled hope, a ragout of desires and a piece of roast expectation. My debts have transformed me into a star that is seen only at night.”

ii

FENOCCHIO, a variant of the type of Brighella, made his appearance on the Italian stage as early as 1560. Like Brighella, he finds employment in amorous intrigues, and he acts in these not only on behalf of Celio, Leandro or Zerbino, but also on his own. We behold him in a Venetian play of the seventeenth century, written in dialogue upon an old scenario, as the lover of Olivette, the servant of Pantaloon’s daughter Beatrice. Harlequin, another lackey in the piece, is so naïve as to take him into his confidence, never suspecting that Fenocchio is his rival. From that moment Fenocchio swears to be avenged upon Harlequin, and seeks for means to be rid of him. He begins by playing nasty tricks upon him. Harlequin is bearing Olivette two birds alive in a basket; Fenocchio takes possession of it, and replaces the birds by a cat. He is present at the compliments by which Harlequin accompanies his gift and those returned him by Olivette, who adores birds, and he is the sniggering witness of her disappointment when she beholds a furious tabby escaping from the basket, after having scratched her. The anger of Olivette and the tears of Harlequin rejoice the heart of Fenocchio. Harlequin, wondering who can have done him such an evil turn, suspects his confidant. But Fenocchio swears by all that there is most sacred (in which he does not compromise himself, seeing that he believes in nothing) that he is incapable of a farce which could result in spilling the blood of the beautiful Olivette.

By force of circumstances Harlequin is unable to continue to see Olivette, whom Pantaloon keeps in duress with his daughter. He has recourse to the expedients of Fenocchio. The latter takes advantage of the situation to rid himself of his preferred rival.

“Pretend to be dead,” he advises him. “I shall put you in a coffin and take you to Pantaloon the apothecary upon the pretext of getting him to make your autopsy. During the night, when everyone is asleep, you can go and seek Olivette.”

Credulous Harlequin consents. Fenocchio carries him to Pantaloon’s house, and, after having related to the latter an unlikely story, which Pantaloon readily believes, he withdraws, hoping that the apothecary will deprive Harlequin perhaps of a leg or an arm. But Harlequin, being alone with Pantaloon, who is admiring the beautiful body which has been brought him for dissection, cannot resist the need to scratch himself. This occasions some surprise to the apothecary, who has never seen the like. Trembling, he seizes a scalpel, and is about to make a large incision in Harlequin, when the latter leaps up in his alarm, and, shouting for help, throws himself upon Pantaloon, who swoons in terror.

Harlequin goes to Fenocchio to discover a fresh expedient. Fenocchio reproaches him with his lack of patience. “You should have let the apothecary bleed you a little,” he says, “and thus you would have seen Olivette. However I have found a better way: you shall disguise yourself as a pig, and I shall take you to Pantaloon as a present from the doctor.”

Harlequin again consents. Fenocchio disguises him, and leads his pig to Pantaloon, who admires this beautiful animal.

“It is a pity to kill it,” he says. Again Harlequin is taken with the need to scratch himself, and he does this in a fashion so singular in a pig that Pantaloon is surprised.

Fenocchio explains that this is a trained pig, and he makes Harlequin go through several performances, such as that of walking upright, of taking snuff from the apothecary’s box, and replying by signs to questions that are addressed him.

Pantaloon exclaims: “What an admirable pig! What a rare animal! I shall not have him killed until to-morrow morning,” and he causes Harlequin to be shut up in a sty, whilst Fenocchio slips into the house in quest of Olivette, certain that this time he is rid of his rival, and confident that he will see him disembowelled on the morrow.

During the night Harlequin finds a way out of the place where he has been imprisoned. Always in his bizarre disguise, he wanders forth in quest of Olivette’s chamber. But he gets into the apothecary’s shop, where Pantaloon sleeps on his camp bed. Whilst groping his way about, Harlequin knocks over some vessels, which are broken in their fall.

PANTALOON (_waking with a start_). Nane! Nane! Drive out the
cats that have got into my shop!