Chapter VIII: Part 8

There existed in the nineteenth century in Bologna a type which, like all the others, entered the realm of marionettes, representing the old man under the name of Tabarino or _Ser Tabarin_. He was nearly always a retired and ignorant merchant, who began all his sentences in Italian but, for want of practice in this language, invariably concluded them in the Bolognese dialect. Usually he was the father of Columbine, and allied with the Doctor. He is the Bolognese Cassandre or Pantaloon. He wears a powdered bag wig; his coat, waistcoat and breeches are snuff-coloured, his stockings red, coming above the knee and over the breeches; he is shod in buckled shoes and crowned by a round hat. He is always an old man of sixty.

The most famous of the Tabarins, the associate of the Italian Mondor, who from 1618 to 1630 attracted all Paris was, according to some, of Italian origin and born in Milan, whilst according to others he proceeded from Lorraine. His real name, however, has remained unknown, eclipsed by the glory of his patronymic. Was it by chance that he assumed that of Tabarino, as he might have assumed that of Burattino or Cavicchio—two other types greatly in vogue in the sixteenth century? Or did he deliberately choose a name that was already known throughout France from a member of Juan Ganassa’s company who had toured there under it?

Another itinerant troupe under the name of the _Comédiens de Tabarin_, and managed by a certain Tabarini, also toured part of France and of Germany in 1659, and ended by establishing itself at Vienna.

Tabarin, whose name is derived from _tabaro_ (a mantle or a tabard), went, as we have said, to Paris in 1618, and became associated with the charlatan Mondor, who, after the fashion of all charlatans of the sixteenth century, set up his stage under the open skies. Upon this farces were played with the object of attracting the crowd; that object achieved, the merchandise to be sold was put forward with quips and witticisms.

It was in this fashion that the Italian Cabotino (the probable source of the word _cabotin_, meaning an itinerant actor) acquired so great a reputation in the sixteenth century as a nomadic operator. He played farce from a scenario, sold his drugs during the interludes, and drew teeth at the end of the performance, all to the accompaniment of flutes and violins.

The number of these charlatan directors of theatres is considerable; the most famous were Scarniccia in the eighteenth century, in Italy, Armando Niasi, on the Place du Châtelet, in Paris, and Mondor who came in 1618 to replace, on the Place Dauphine, Jacques May and Dulignac, whose improvisatory wit had been amusing the gay people of Paris ever since 1598.

Tabarin reached the zenith of his glory in 1622. The Place Dauphine, the scene of his exploits, became too small to contain the spectators who flocked thither, far less for the purpose of buying his unguents than to procure a preservative against melancholy.

“The Pont Neuf in the seventeenth century,” writes M. Paul de
Saint-Victor, “was the caravanserai of Paris. There you would
find encamped beggars, gypsies and comedians; the seven deadly
sins kept open fair there; you would behold swarms of those
eccentric figures of which the satires and prints of the times
have left us such lively portraits, raffinés twirling their
moustachios, courtesans in chairs, quacks upon their mules. It
was there that you would meet the muddy poet with his owlish
eyes and his beard like an artichoke leaf.

“What a pantomime in the manner of Callot! Here two duellists
are engaged upon the pavement, there a tooth extractor gropes
with his butcher’s forceps in the jaw of a screaming peasant,
yonder a hawker of hunting dogs beats his pack, further on a
pickpocket appropriates the purse of a passer-by, and beggars,
dragging their crutches along the unpaved ground, cling to the
doors of heavy coaches and to the poles of chairs.

“But the king of this new Cour des Miracles was Tabarin, the
servant of the charlatan Mondor. Their glorious stage was
erected on the Place Dauphine, and for more than ten years
the people of Paris stood ranged about it, a thousand mouths
gaping to consume the nostrums of the empiric and the jests of
the buffoon. It had an attendance, a vogue, a success of which
some idea may be gathered from the jeremiad which a pamphleteer
puts into the mouths of the women of the Rue Dauphine, furious
to see their husbands waste their time upon this comedian. ‘My
husband does not budge from Tabarin. I spend my days without
seeing him; first to this beautiful farce; then to play with
other debauched fellows like himself; after playing they must
go to the tavern. All the evil proceeds from that dog Tabarin.
And whence do you suppose came last year’s illness but from
this fine buffoon? Such was the heat on the Place Dauphine that
the air was corrupted by it. And that was the reason why the
king remained out of Paris for so long, and why we suffered so
much poverty.’”

In 1625 Tabarin went to tour the provinces, and retired in 1630, peacefully to enjoy the fortune which he had amassed. He bought a feudal estate near Paris, and died there a very short time after having acquired it. There are two versions of the manner of his death: one has it that he succumbed in a drinking bout, the result of a tavern wager; the other that he was killed whilst hunting. The fact is reported in a book entitled _Parlement nouveau, ou centurie interlinaire de devis facétieusement sérieux et sérieusement facétieux_, by Daniel Martin, 1637, from which the following is an interesting passage on the subject:—

“Could you tell me the reason why the name of charlatan is
given to all vendors of theriacs, distillers, tooth-drawers,
vendors of powdered serpents, of unguents and balsams in the
market places, of comedians on a table, bench or scaffold.

“Indeed, sirs, this word charlatan means a man who by fine
words sells bad merchandise; a cajoler such as was seen in
Paris in the year 1623, in a man named Tabarin and an Italian
named Mondor, who, having set up a scaffold in l’Isle du
Palais, assembled the people by the music of their violins
and the farces which they played, whereafter they set about
praising their drugs, and said so much good of them that
the silly and stupid folk, believing them capable of curing
all ills, would strive with one another as to who should
be the first to throw his money knotted in the corner of a
handkerchief or in a glove on to the scaffold so as to obtain a
little box of unguent wrapped in a printed bill, setting forth
the virtues of it and the manner of using it.

“I have been told that this buffoon became in a few years so
rich with the money of fools that he bought a lordship near
Paris, which, however, he did not very long enjoy.

“Why so?

“Because his neighbours, who were gentlemen of good and ancient
houses, being unable to endure for their companion a pantaloon,
a fool who with his hat metamorphosed into a thousand shapes
had made so many others laugh, killed him one day while
hunting, it is said.

“His master had not sufficiently impressed upon him a proverb
of his native land: ‘_A cader va chi troppo sale._’”

“Tabarin had a tragic end,” says M. de Saint-Victor. “His
trestles had enriched him; the jests which throughout ten
years he had flung to the crowd had come back to him in a
shower of doubloons. Pride tempted him. He purchased a feudal
estate and set up there as a lord. The gentlefolk thereabouts,
indignant of such a neighbour, killed the buffoon one day at
the hunt, as though he had been a hare. _Poor Yorick!_”

Mondor and Tabarin had several competitors, amongst whom were the Sieur Hieronimo and his comedian _Galinette la Galina_; and Desiderio de Combes and his servant _Grattelard_, who set up their theatre at the entrance to the Pont Neuf. Desiderio was ugly and misshapen, and his jests were ponderous.

“As for Combes, he is coarse and rustic, he cannot read or
write or speak, and the little audience accorded him accounts
him what he is, an ignorant charlatan, and the most brazen liar
that ever mounted a bench.”

The populace admired Tabarin, who possessed in so high a degree the genius of farce, whilst people of condition were no less amused by him. It is conceived that some habitués of his entertainment, observing the attention which he excited, had the idea to collect his farces and impromptu jests. But they did not disclose themselves.

One only, a certain Guillaume, has issued from obscurity.

“There are five or six rascals” (it is Hortensius who speaks,
in the _Vraye histoire comique de Francion_, 1668) “who earn
their living by writing romances; and there was even a college
scout, who was in the service of the Jesuits after me, who
amused himself by spoiling paper. His first attempt was a
_Collection of Tabarinic Farces_ ... a book so successful that
twenty thousand copies were sold, whilst it is impossible to
sell six hundred of a worthy work.... The name of this scout
was Guillaume.... He contrived to get some other works printed.
But all his books are fit for nothing but to wrap up pounds of
butter.”

So that _The Complete Works of Tabarin_ did not contain a single line written by Tabarin or by Mondor, whose entire repertory was improvised; nevertheless, they were collected from the inspirations of Tabarin.

Neither the comedians of the Hôtel de Bourgogne nor Gaultier-Garguille assisted by Gros-Guillaume and Dame Perrine, who played the most famous farces that one could desire, were able, for the five sous which they charged each spectator, to afford their audiences the amusement and laughter afforded by Tabarin alone, gratis and with only his hat. For be it noted that his was a master hat which assumed all conceivable shapes; it was a veritable first matter, _indifferens ad omnes formas_. It was the chief property of an entire shop, the very foundation stone of his theatre.

“This venerable and wonderful grey felt came to Tabarin in
direct succession from Saturn. This god was the first to wear
it, not as wide as it is now, but in a lengthened shape. He
wore it when he came to Italy, fleeing before the choler of
Jupiter, and gave it then its pointed shape that he might
disguise himself. Until then there had been no hats but round
ones like that of Mercury. It was from that time forward that
pointed hats were worn in the Spanish fashion. Saturn presented
it to _Tabaron_, an ancestor of Tabarin’s, who until then had
gone bareheaded. He was glad to find this expedient to protect
him from the heat of the sun; it was from this felt hat the
invention of the parasol was derived. This hat was handed down
from father to son with respect and reverence like a holy
reliquary, in memory of Saturn who wore it on weekdays. But
some member or other of the Tabarinian race, through negligence
or absent-mindedness, permitted it to be lost. It was found
and carried to Jupiter, who, unable to conceive of a better
present for his Mercury, gave it to him as becoming the only
god who wore a hat. Mercury, vain and foolish, had its shape
altered, transformed it into a pyramid and attached wings to
it. Unfortunately, however, on the first occasion that he wore
it, upon taking flight from heaven, the wind got inside it and
it was lost. It is said that he would never afterwards wear a
high-crowned hat. Janus, who, we are told, was living at that
time, was so glad to find it that he put it on, but, having
two faces and an enormous head, he so deformed it that it
became then as wide as it is now on the head of Tabarin. Janus
concealed it under Mount Aventine. Romulus discovered it in
the course of building Rome, and it was long preserved at the
Capitol. It never issued thence but to figure in the triumphs
of the emperors, when they entered Rome laden with spoils and
trophies. The high priests were charged with the care of this
precious hat, but a member of the Tabarinic race secretly
abstracted it, and it was transmitted again from male to male
through the Tabarin family. At the time of the expedition of
François I. into Italy, the grandfather of the grandfather of
Tabarin gave it to a French soldier who was returning home.
Desiring to buy a drug which was a sure cure for an ill with
which he was afflicted, and having nothing with which to pay
for it but this hat, the soldier exchanged it for a medicine
to an apothecary of the Place Maubert, who made use of it for
filtering honey.

“Tabarin, upon his arrival in Paris, recognised this hat which
had been held in such high esteem by his family. Indignant
to discover the use that was being made of the head-gear of
Saturn, he repurchased it, and if he is the last to own it he
can boast that he is the first to have invented how to give
it new shapes. With this lunatic and fantastic hat he can
represent all manner of hats, and present himself to the eyes
of the admiring crowd now as a soldier, now as a courtier, now
as a coal-heaver, now as a Dutchman, now as a bear-leader, now
as a slinger, now as a servant lately from the wars, etc.

“In brief, Tabarin’s hat, assisted by him who bore it, has
caused more people to laugh in one day than ever the comedians
of the Hôtel de Bourgogne were able to do with their comedies,
tragi-comedies and pastorals.”

The farces of Tabarin are the source of all the trestle repertories of yesterday.

“It is rare to find a pearl amongst these” (says M. Paul de
Saint-Victor), “but on the other hand there is no lack of
salt. One is overcome with surprise when prowling through this
rubbish-heap to come suddenly nose to nose with Molière or La
Fontaine. Here a scene of Poquelin, there an apologue from the
Bonhomme have been taken from the farces of Tabarin as a pearl
is taken from the oyster. The sack in which Scapin encloses
Géronte plays its part in three or four of the farces of the
booth on the Pont Neuf.”

Tabarin proposes to his master a burlesque question; his master proceeds to resolve it by a doctoral explanation which Tabarin interrupts with his foolery.

_Question: How to make fifty pairs of shoes in half-an-hour_

TABARIN. It is a great secret. I do not think there is any man
in the world who has ever put this invention into practice.

THE MASTER. In truth, Tabarin, the solution of this secret
must be very ardently sought. It is one of the most clever
inventions seen for a very long time. As for me I am
constrained to acknowledge my ignorance save that to arrive at
this end I should take a hundred cobblers and I should entrust
to each the making of one shoe; then I think that in a very
short while I should arrive at what is desired.

TABARIN. That is not what I mean. I mean one man who alone,
in less than half-an-hour, should make fifty pairs of shoes.
There is nothing easier. You will yourself confess when you
shall have learned the secret that it is one of the finest
conceivable; cobblers should be able to extract great profit
from it. To begin with you must take fifty pairs of new boots
(if you desire that your shoes shall be new), and cut them all
equally across along the line of the ankle; by this means,
instead of fifty pairs of boots which we had before you will
find in less than half-an-hour fifty pairs of shoes ready made.
Is it not a fine invention?

_Who are those who desire to be one-eyed?_

TABARIN. My master, the other day I heard a certain fellow say
that he would give a hundred crowns to be one-eyed. Who are
those that may be considered entitled to express such a wish?

THE MASTER. A man must be quite beside himself to have so
great a cupidity in his soul. Sight is one of the first organs
of the body, and the most delicate part of it, being of an
incredible and admirable construction, in which the Author of
the Universe has enclosed all that is rarest and most excellent
in this world; for whether we consider the two pairs of nerves
which have their sources in the brain, and by which sight is
conducted, one of them being stronger to supply movement, the
other more delicate to supply sight; or whether we consider
the crystalline humour that is in the centre of the eye,
and its enveloping tunic which resembles a spider’s web, or
the other two humours that surround it and in which the eye
seems to swim; if afterwards we come to the consideration and
contemplation of the admirable retina and the films which
surround the whole body of the eye, the muscles which raise and
lower the eyelids, and all the artifice employed by Nature in
this admirable construction, we shall conclude that a man is
highly imprudent to desire the inestimable loss of the finest
part of him.

TABARIN. The men who desire to be one-eyed are the blind. If
you do not believe me go to the monastery of the Quinze-Vingts,
and I can assure you that you will not find there a single one
who would not be delighted to _see_ you hanged.

_Who are those who deride doctors and apothecaries?_

TABARIN. In your opinion, who are those who deride doctors and
apothecaries?

THE MASTER. Some very ill-advised people who, believing that
they will never need their services, deride their recipes;
they are people of nothing, ignorant of the fact that medicine
is an entirely celestial and divine art, which restores and
reintegrates Nature in her perfection and her apogee. Medicine
is the science of natural sciences, and ignorant are those who
despise it.

_Altissimus de coelo creavit medicinam, et vir prudens non
abhorrebit eam._

TABARIN. I said the same thing lately to a tailor who was
making me a pair of breeches: _Homerus et vir prudens non
abhorrebet eam._

THE MASTER. For my part I think that those who malign doctors
are the ignorant, and such folk as think never to need their
assistance.

TABARIN. You are wrong, for those who mock them are those who
most desire their aid, the people who are ill.

THE MASTER. The people who are ill, Tabarin! How can it happen
that a patient should mock a doctor, since he is so sorely in
need of one?

TABARIN. Is it not a piece of mockery to put out your tongue
half-a-foot to him who comes to visit you?

THE MASTER. Indeed to put out the tongue is a sign of derision.

TABARIN. Very well, when a doctor goes to see a patient to
ascertain his ailment, the sick man always puts out his tongue
at him. That is pure mockery.

_Dialogue between Mondor and Tabarin_

TABARIN. My master, let us consider things for once: it is high
time that I should become the master. I have been the servant
far too long.

THE MASTER. Get along, you rascal, you gallows bird! Do you
want to become the master, scullion that you are? You want to
give me orders, do you? And what then am I to become? Your
servant? Really, it would be a fine sight!

TABARIN. Yes, indeed, I should be a fine sight. Am I not as
much a man as you, and as great a master?

THE MASTER. What is one to say to a man who is persuaded of
something, and who gets some insolent notion into his mind?
Come here, rogue; who keeps you? who nourishes you? who
supplies you with all your necessaries?

TABARIN. It was but wanting that you should boast of feeding
me! A fine master you! When I came to see you, you made an
agreement with me, and you promised to dress me and to nourish
me. The devil take me if you’ve observed the hundredth part of
that! Every time that I have risen I have been compelled to
dress myself. When it was necessary to dine, did you feed me?
I have been constrained myself to go to the trouble of putting
my fingers in the dish and carrying them to my mouth. I have
endured far too much at your hands, but henceforward I shall
teach you what it means to be master.

THE MASTER. Is your brain so troubled and your judgment so
distorted that you do not know that I am your master?

TABARIN. Not at all, I maintain that I am as great a master as
you. Tell me, pray, how you can distinguish between master and
servant?

THE MASTER. It is easy to recognise the one from the other,
whether at rising or going to bed or even in the street: the
master always goes ahead.

TABARIN. I have got you. Now listen. You say that the master is
always to be recognised because he walks ahead; tell me now,
every time you go to sup in town and that you return after dark
by torchlight, which of us two walks ahead?

THE MASTER. It is you, Tabarin, since bearing the torch it is
your duty to light my way.

TABARIN. It follows then that I am the master, for I walk
ahead. Oh! the fine lackey that follows me then!

_The most daring animal_

TABARIN. Since you have some slight knowledge of the nature
of animals, will you kindly tell me which is the most daring
animal, and which the most generous?

THE MASTER. That is a matter beyond all doubt, Tabarin; it
is the lion; for just as he is the most furious of all so is
he the most daring. The daring and generosity of anything is
to be recognised by the heights of the enterprises which it
undertakes. Now among all species of animals, of which the
number is almost infinite, there is none that shows so great
generosity and daring as the lion. He is equipped with a male
courage which distinguishes all his actions. There is no other
beast, however furious it may be, that dares to stand before
his face. In short, to be brief, he is the most daring of all
animals.

TABARIN. You are wrong, my master. I do not go so far as to
say that you are lying, but it really amounts to no less. The
most daring animal on earth is the miller’s donkey, my master,
because every day of his life he is amid robbers and knows no
fear.

A collection attributed to Tabarin is entitled: “Jardin, récueil, trésor, _abrégé de secrets, jeux, facéties, gausseries, passe-tems_, compozéz, fabriquéz, experimentéz, et mis en lumière par votre serviteur Tabarin de _Valburlesque_, à plaisirs et contentements des esprits curieux.”

Here are some brief extracts from it:

_To contrive that all those who are at a ball or other assembly
shall sneeze at once_

Take spurge, pirètre and white hellebore, in equal quantities
of each. Reduce the whole to finest powder and blow it through
a quill about the room where people are assembled and watch the
result.

_To contrive that meat brought to table shall seem full of
worms_

Take a lute cord, cut it into little pieces and put these upon
the meat while it is still hot, and the heat will set these
pieces jumping and moving as if they were worms.

This is followed by several jests and secrets to amuse the company, such as:

“Recipe to prevent a pot from boiling.”

“How to make an egg run through the room without anyone
touching it.”

“How to kill and pluck a bird all in one stroke.”

“How to cut a string into several pieces and immediately to
make it whole again.”

“Admirable secret for cutting an apple in four, eight or more
pieces without damaging the skin.”

“How to contrive that he or she whom you appoint in drying the
face with a cloth shall become black. A very amusing secret,”
etc., etc.

Even a prophetic almanac for 1623 appeared under the name of Tabarin with admirable predictions for every month of the year. It is a collection of sentences and predictions after the manner of _La Palisse_.

“First of all should no timber or faggots arrive in port we
shall be in danger of paying high prices for fuel, etc. The
month of March will commence immediately after the last day of
February, and the weather will be very variable. The month of
April will follow after, etc. In the month of June the grass
will be cut. In July there will be a great war between dogs and
hares. Bulls will be twice as big as sheep and donkeys will be
as stupid as usual, whilst diminishing nothing in the length of
their ears. In the month of October the Normans will be busy in
their orchards. The month of December will be the last month of
the year. In this year no rustics will be ennobled,” etc., etc.

All such prognostications, like many others of Tabarin, come in direct line from Rabelais, who himself imitated in his _Pantagrueline prognostication_ the collection of _facéties_ of Henri Bebelius.

“This year the blind will see very little, the deaf will hear
very badly and the dumb will not speak at all. Many sheep,
bulls, pigs, geese, pullets and ducks will die. Fleas will
mostly be black. There will be horrible sedition between dogs
and hares, between cats and rats, between moles and eggs. In
all this year there will be but one moon, and it will not be a
new one. In winter, according to my little judgment, those who
sell their furs to buy wood will not be wise. Should it rain
do not be melancholy, for there will be the less dust on the
roads. Keep yourselves warm, avoid catarrhs and drink the best.”

The costume of Tabarin was composed of his mirific hat, of a felt which was red rather than grey, of a short cloak in old green serge, and jacket and trousers of linen.

iv

BURATTINO is a famous mask of the _Gelosi_ troupe. It was somewhere about 1580 that this personage appeared in Florence and scored so great a success that very soon he passed into the marionette theatres, and his name became the denomination of all marionettes, _Fantoccini_, _Puppi_, _Pupazzi_ and _Bamboccie_. In 1628 a piece was even written about this personage by Francesco Gattici, entitled _Le Disgrazie di Burattino_ (_The Misfortunes of Burattino_).

In the scenarii of Flaminio Scala, Burattino is a comical character, addicted to tears, a glutton, a coward and always a dupe. He is a servant, sometimes of Captain Spavento, sometimes of Isabella and sometimes of Pantaloon. In fairy plays he intrudes upon the action to deliver his jests, which have absolutely no connection with the plot. He is a sort of ancient Stenterello. In _L’Innocente Persiana_, Burattino is the servant of the Prince of Egypt, and his rôle consists of losing and finding his master. In some plays he is a courier bearing letters, booted, wearing a wide felt hat, and carrying a whip; he loses his letters, or permits them to be stolen from him, which disheartens him, and, crossing his legs, he refuses thereafter to be entrusted with any commission.

At other times he is a gardener, the father of Olivetta, an indolent girl, little given to work. He reproaches her with being unable to do anything. “How,” he cries, “at your age and as big as you are, and, my faith, fit to be married, you still do not know how to use a mattock or how to plant a cabbage!” Thereupon he submits her to a course of burlesque horticulture, naming to her one after another the garden implements, and telling her how to use them.

Very often he is an innkeeper, and married to Franceschina, who leads him by the nose. The Captain, having dined at his inn, departs after having paid. Burattino is so surprised that he takes up a spade, shoulders it, and thus escorts the Captain home to do him honour; but he is careful to take with him Grillo, the pot-boy, so that he shall not be compelled to return alone. When he gets back he perceives Pantaloon whispering with his servant Pedrolino; the latter, perceiving Burattino, with whose wife he is in love, raises his voice and reproaches Pantaloon with attempting to betray the wife of that poor fellow Burattino. Pantaloon beats his servant for having disclosed his intentions before the husband and departs. Burattino comforts Pedrolino who has suffered for the sake of the honour of his friend the innkeeper; he takes him inside, feeds him, and then, with the greatest confidence, entrusts him with the vigilance of his wife during his absence.

No sooner has our innkeeper departed than Madame Franceschina makes unmistakable advances to Pedrolino. It is Pantaloon who seeks to convince Burattino of the treachery of his friend and of his wife. Furious, the innkeeper demands an explanation of Franceschina, who assures him mockingly that he is mistaken. He believes her and returns to his affairs, but Pantaloon, grown jealous on his own account, returns to the assault, and compels the husband to surprise the two lovers. Burattino seeks various ways of vengeance; he decides for poison and spends half the piece seeking a suitable one; being unable to find any, he decides to call the watch, and it is before the justice that he demands explanations of his wife and Pedrolino. The result is that Burattino is persuaded that he misunderstood what he heard and what he saw, which was no more than a pleasantry. He believes and begs forgiveness of his wife, whom he continues to account virtuous.

The actor who played the rôle of Burattino in the _Gelosi_ troupe must very long have been absent from it, for he is not found to be included in a whole series of scenarii which must cover a space of some six to eight years.

v

CAVICCHIO was in the _Gelosi_ troupe in the sixteenth century, a sort of imbecile and rustic servant. His rôles are short, and they consist mainly in his coming on to sing and to relate some story after the fashion of the peasants.

In _Gli Avvenimenti Comici_, Cavicchio is carrying soup to the harvesters when he pauses before Mezzetin and Harlequin, who, dressed as labourers, are making love to Lisetta, a young shepherdess. He mocks them, and from injurious expressions they come to blows. But the shepherdess and her friends, who arrive at the noise, separate the brawlers, and compel them to make friends. Lisetta, desiring to cement the harmony between Mezzetin and Harlequin, exacts from them a promise that, for love of her, they will eat Cavicchio’s soup in the position that she shall indicate. Lisetta then places them back to back and ties their arms. She then places the bowl on the ground, bidding them eat, and departs, enjoining Cavicchio to give them drink after they have finished the soup. Mezzetin and Harlequin then attempt to pick up the soup, but each of them, every time that he stoops, lifts his companion upon his shoulders, which is a source of jests for Cavicchio, who looks on with bursts of laughter. Harlequin ends by picking up the bowl and runs off eating, carrying Mezzetin on his back.

In the third act it is night; Cavicchio is in his hut with his children who are weaving baskets whilst he sings to the accompaniment of a hornpipe, so as to maintain the family gaiety. Hearing a noise without, he takes up a lamp and goes outside, to find himself face to face with a military patrol. He cries out and calls his wife to his aid, but the captain having reassured him, Cavicchio takes up his hornpipe and sets them all dancing, his wife, his children, the soldiers and even the captain.

vi

FICCHETO is a simpleton who wearies his master, the innkeeper, and his customers by gross proverbial comparisons and ponderous quotations. To listen to him you would suppose that he had been in the Doctor’s service, and that he had profited by his lessons. Extremely timid, he goes greatly in fear of thieves, and so as to deceive them he never sleeps in the same part of the house on two consecutive occasions; every evening he is engaged in removing his bed. His master, intrigued by these nightly removals, inquires the reason.

“It is on account of thieves,” replied Ficcheto. “They will be finely trapped——”

“I hope so indeed,” replies his master, a man of sense.

“I say that they will be finely trapped. A rolling carcass gathers no flies, as my father was wont to say.... And then again I like to sleep as far from you as possible, for, as the proverb has it: Who lies down with dogs gets up with fleas, and then——”

“That will do!” says his master, pushing him rudely aside. “Sleep where you will.” And thereupon Ficcheto begins once more to transport his mattress.

Among the less known Italian buffoons may be cited Gian Manente and Martino d’Amelia.

In _La Calandra_ of the Cardinal of Bibbiena, the servant Fessenio compares Calandro, the ridiculous and deceived husband, to these two buffoons. “The thing that above all others makes me laugh at the expense of Calandro,” he says, “is that he believes himself to be so beautiful and lovable that all the women that see him are immediately enamoured of him, as if the world did not possess such another model of perfection. In short, as a popular proverb runs, if he ate hay he would be a bull; in his own way he is almost as good as Martino d’Amelia or Giovanni Manente.”

“He is more simple than Calandrino,” is a proverb based upon the two models of Boccaccio in which the simplicity of the painter Calandrino impinges upon imbecility. _Far Calandrino qualcheduno_ means to make a fool of someone. Bibbiena gives this popular name to the old man of his comedy _La Calandra_.

Cortavoce, also called _Courtavoz_, was one of the first Italian mimes to go to France in 1540. His costume with its grey hood and his long cardboard nose earned him the surname of _the pilgrim_.

Rabelais, describing in his _Sciomachie_ (1569) the fêtes held in Rome on the occasion of the birth of a dauphin of France, speaks of “Bergamese mimes and other _matachins_, who came to perform their jests and somersaults” before the court of Rome. Among others he cites Il Moretto, the archbuffoon of Italy.

Il Moretto is also cited several times by Ludovico Domenichi in his collection of _Facétie_, 1565, as a famous utterer of witticisms and a master of his art.

XVI

TARTAGLIA

IL TARTAGLIA (the stutterer) is a mask of Neapolitan origin. Sometimes he is a gossiping servant who, unable to complete the articulation of his words so as to convey his ideas, flies into perpetual rages with himself and with others. Nevertheless he is fat. Enormous spectacles conceal three-quarters of his countenance, to suggest that he is short-sighted, and that he has no desire to be surprised by danger; for however ready he may boast himself to brave anything, from an elephant downwards, he will usually conceal himself behind a hayrick if he hears a cock crow.

The type is one that was but little seen out of Italy. He filled utility rôles and had never more than one scene in a scenario. He would play moreover the parts of notary, of constable, of advocate, of judge, and sometimes of apothecary; but he was invariably a ridiculous and ridiculed personage.

Favart writes in 1761:

“The farce _I Tre Gobbi_ (”The Three Hunchbacks“), translated
into French by Lelio Riccoboni, is being repeated at the
Théâtre; this farce develops badly; but if it succeeds, that
at least will be a good development. I fear in this _facétie_,
the character of Tartaglia. One of the three hunchbacks is a
stammerer who always halts upon indecent syllables. That is to
venture a great deal in a nation whose ears are as chaste as
their morals are corrupt.”[5]

Tartaglia’s characteristic costume has always presented a great deal of analogy with that of the _Zanni_. Created, it is said, by Beltrani da Verona in 1630, an epoch in which lackeys such as Scapino and Mezzetino began to discard the mask, Tartaglia assumed as his characteristic device no more than the enormous blue spectacles, without which he cannot play. His face is beardless, his head bald and covered by a round grey hat; he wears an enormous linen collar; his cloak, coat and pantaloon are green, striped transversely with yellow; his stockings are white and his shoes are of black or brown leather. Such at first was Tartaglia.

But like all the others he underwent modifications suggested by changing fashions. In 1750, Fiorilli, a very talented Neapolitan actor, a member of Sacchi’s troupe, played this type in short breeches and cap; by giving the garments of Tartaglia the form proper to Scapin he eliminated the yellow stripes, and embroidered his green livery with silver frogs.

In the nineteenth century in Naples this personage, whose character is to be nothing in particular so that it may be anything he chooses according to the actor undertaking it, wore the white wig, the three-cornered hat and the green coat in the Louis XV. fashion; he was the modern Tartaglia, stammering the emphatic dialect of Naples. He delivers himself of the most outspoken and buffoon sayings, with a nonchalance and calm that are imperturbable. It is also a very common thing for the actor who plays Tartaglia to go and spend a night, or perhaps four or five days, in prison. It is a state of things accepted by the actors and the public, and no one troubles about it.

At every undesirable word he stops as if to seek the proper one, and when he has found it he falls upon it heavily, as it were. It is difficult to give a specimen of the excessively free subjects which lead to his arrest. There was one which assumed the importance of a political fact. In the piece in which it was delivered Tartaglia was returning from Spain, and attempted to inform the audience that the queen had just opened the Cortes, being attended by the leaders of all political opinions. The manner in which he garbled the word _Cortes_ and several others remained stamped upon the memory of those present, and the jest created some sensation, seeing that the Queen of Spain was then the beautiful Christina, sister to the King of Naples. Tartaglia was sent to prison for a week, and deprived of his favourite spectacles for a month. The latter was the most cruel punishment possible to inflict upon the actor and the public; for without his enormous spectacles Tartaglia is paralysed.

Tartaglia is not always a fat fellow. Sometimes he is so dry, so long and so lean, and adorned with so prominent a nose, that he resembles a walking-stick. He then enjoys a singular prerogative; he is a _jettatore_, he has the evil eye, or rather he has two evil eyes, for he can see nothing behind his great spectacles.

“Tartaglia,” says M. Paul de Musset, “is a Neapolitan, enjoying
as great a favour as Pancrace. He represents the southerner
worn out by the climate, suffering from chronic ophthalmia, and
in a condition bordering upon cretinism. His hollow cheeks, his
long nose surmounted by enormous blue spectacles, his sickly
air and his vice of pronunciation make up the particular signs
of a _jettatore_ whom it is dangerous to encounter.”

In the comedy _Il Re Cervo_ of Carlo Gozzi, Tartaglia, his stammering and stupidity notwithstanding, is the prime minister of the kingdom of Serendippe. He desires to marry his daughter to the king, his master. The king, however, loves another, the beautiful Angela. He marries her and becomes jealous. To satisfy his desire to test the sentiments of his wife, the magician Durandarto gives him a formula by means of which his soul can introduce itself into any dead body that he desires to resurrect.

The imprudent monarch confides this important secret to Tartaglia, who is not only furious at the marriage of the king, but further has permitted himself to fall in love with the queen. We behold the injudicious king and his perfidious minister in a forest. A hunted stag falls dead at their feet. Tartaglia persuades his master to put his magic formula to the test upon this animal. The formula is terribly efficacious, for, simultaneously with the passage of the soul of the king into the body of the stag, the body of the king falls dead. So far the evil is of little account, for the king, who has become a stag, may return his soul into his discarded inanimate body. But Tartaglia has been made aware of the formula. He makes use of it immediately to cause his unworthy soul to pass into the body of the king, and, whilst the latter bounds away though the forest, Tartaglia returns to the palace and orders the massacre of all stags, young and old, in the kingdom of Serendippe.

The scene in which Angela beholds the return of her husband, now stammering and unbearable in his behaviour, is extremely amusing. She drives him from her chamber, and finds herself at the door face to face with a poor beggar whom, by force of instinct, she immediately begins to love. This mendicant, of course, is none other than her real husband. The king had found in the forest a poor devil dead of cold, and he had taken possession of his body, thinking it but little suitable to reappear before his better half in the shape of a stag.

Explanations follow, and Angela, to be rid of the odious Tartaglia, promises him her caresses if he will consent to resurrect the little dog which she has just lost. Tartaglia submits to this caprice, but scarcely has he left his body than the legitimate king resumes it by means of the formula, whilst Tartaglia yelps and whines in the body of the dog. That is the last effort of his eloquence, for the king immediately strangles him, and thus ends the comedy.

In Bologna the office of Tartaglia is to provoke laughter at the expense of the law. It is sometimes the commissary himself, sometimes merely the police agent who is held up to ridicule. But the Corporal of the _sbirri_ is his triumph. If he goes to arrest a guilty man his stammering renders him so ridiculous that everybody falls to mocking him. His choler rises to heights of fury when he perceives that the more he speaks the more the laughter increases. We hear then inarticulate cries and unearthly roars issuing from his throat. At last he departs, consigning everybody to the devil, and from a distance we still hear his bizarre ejaculations which it would be idle to attempt to reproduce.

ii

Can we dispense with THE NOTARY? Impossible. Does not love play its part—the principal part—in every piece? And if love is to be succeeded by Hymen must not Hymen be preceded by a notary?

It is necessary, therefore, to the end that the scenario of a gay piece shall satisfy the public, that when the dénouement is reached Ottavio shall wed Isabella, and his servant shall wed the soubrette. The notary comes to prepare the contract and to marry these young people. The old men never marry, and all their needs are to be satisfied by the apothecary. Should the notary by chance arrive in answer to their summons, it is for the purpose of drawing up their wills.

A wig with eight curls, a black gown, a bourgeoning nose pinched by enormous spectacles, an empty belly, a great foot, a cane in one hand to sustain this ponderous individual, and a portfolio in the other to balance him, shaking his head, smiling at everyone, he enters—the desired, the indispensable, the triumphant notary! He salutes the company, blows his nose and mops his brow, for he is a man of importance. After the customary pinch of snuff proffered him by Cassandro, he takes a chair, extracts his papers from his portfolio, seeks for a long time his pen which is behind his ear, and on the score of which he disturbs the entire household. It is Columbine who eventually finds it, thrust into his wig. The company sits; a circle is made, whilst the Notary cuts his pen, plucked, he says, from the right wing of Eros, and destined to cement the happiness of the future spouses. Finally, after testing the point upon his nail, and then trimming and retrimming it a little, after having taken off and replaced his spectacles a dozen times, as if to test the patience of his clients, he makes up his mind to receive the names, patronymics and qualities of the one part and the other part.

The actual business is speedily despatched, particularly if he has been primed beforehand. Sometimes, it is true, discussions arise, and everything is on the point of being broken off. Throughout these he remains impassive. Sometimes he comes to draw up the contract of the guardian, and it is signed by the lover. This may enrage others, but it matters not at all to him. All that concerns him is to have two signatures. With these he will depart quite satisfied, particularly if he has been well paid. Having pocketed his fee he will discuss the weather, he will yawn more than is polite, and he will sometimes permit himself to accept refreshment, and even to caress the chin of the soubrette, throwing her a roguish glance over the top of his spectacles. He never refuses to join the nuptial banquet, and he is capable of remaining at table for three days and three nights without weariness; he will never fail at each dessert to sing in a falsetto voice some old and playful couplet upon the charms and graces of the bride. Thereafter, pleased with his alleged witticisms, he will resume his eating.

There is, however, no company so good but that in the end it must be quitted. A nuptial banquet cannot last six years. The Notary will return home, supported by some of his clients, for his desire to return to his wife has been left in some of the bottles he has emptied.

Not always, however, does it happen that he is so hospitably treated. In those houses into which he comes to contravene by his ministry the desires of the true lovers, if he dares to rise from his chair to make a bow he will invariably sit down again upon nothing, to the great satisfaction and hilarity of the servants. Sometimes also his fee is laid across his back for him, after which he will not be seen again until the storm is over. At bottom he is always a good fellow, fearing his wife and the king, without any real evil in him, and residing at the corner of a street in all the cities of the world.

In the _Intronati_ company, the Notary was sometimes called Ser Neri, sometimes Ser Ghello, Ser Agapito or Ser Ciappelletto.

iii

In many Italian pieces the _Podestà_ or the _Bargello_ plays his part in the dénouement. Neither is ever loaded with a long or a difficult rôle. Their dress is severe, their manners insignificant, they represent the law in all its rigidity.

THE COMMISSARY, being of an inferior order, is treated more cavalierly in the Italian scenarii, as in the farces of Polichinelle.

THE COMMISSARY (_to his clerk_). Come, let us make haste, open
your desk, shut the door, drive away the dogs, take a chair,
blow your nose, leave a wide margin and write a large hand.

THE CLERK (_producing a large pen and a very small ink-horn_).
Sir, let us get on if you please.

THE COMMISSARY. I shall soon be done. Accused, what is your
name, surname, quality, birthplace, street, parish and lodging?
Have you a father, a mother, brothers or relations? What are
you doing in this town? Have you been here long? Whom do you
visit? Where do you go? Whence are you come? Set it down,
scribe. (_He strikes the shoulder of his clerk._)

THE CLERK (_dropping his ink-horn_). Oh, my shoulder is broken!
Behold a crippled clerk!

THE COMMISSARY. That is _punctum interrogationis_, you ignorant
devil! And you, accused, are you going to answer? Set it down
that he has said nothing.

THE ACCUSED. How could I, sir, when——

THE COMMISSARY. Enough! Do you think I have time to listen to
all your idiocies? Don’t you know that I have to see three
rascals hanged to-day without counting you? Send word that the
gang is not yet to set out. I have something here by which to
increase it.

THE CLERK. Sir, the gang will not start until you join it.

(_Collection of Gherardi._)

iv

“_Avocats, procureurs and gens de chicane_,” as the song has it, received fairly sharp treatment in the Italian buffooneries and the French farces alike. In these the man of the robe is represented as more grasping and thieving than his clients. They were always mocked, ridiculed and presented with malice by the actors, to the delight of the audiences that witnessed their scenic misfortunes.

“The Chicanoux earned their living by being beaten,” says
Rabelais. “The manner of it is as follows: When a monk,
a priest, a usurer or a lawyer is ill-disposed towards a
gentleman of his country, he sends him one of his Chicanoux.
Chicanou will cite him to appear, will outrage him and utter
impudent injuries against him according to his resources and
instructions, until the gentleman, if he be not paralysed of
wit and more stupid than a frog, is compelled to answer him
with blows and sword-thrusts, or, better still, to fling him
through a window or from the ramparts of his castle. That done,
Chicanou becomes rich for four months, as if beatings were his
proper harvests. For he will receive sound compensation from
the monk, the usurer or the lawyer, and from the gentleman a
reparation sometimes so excessive that the latter will lose
all his property in it, with danger of perishing miserably in
prison, as if he had struck the king.”

Many a spectator, after applauding the shower of blows with which Polichinelle rewarded this Grippeminaud or that Grapignan, would return home, considering with rage that a real Grippeminaud would come to summon him on the morrow. In Italy the naïve public would still to-day applaud the prowess of the “Seigneur de Basché daulbant sur Chicanoux,” especially in certain remote districts, where law and justice are no better loved or respected than they were of old; and in such places it is not always without danger for the manager or for the actor himself when a gentlemen in black comes to parade his venality and absurdities upon the boards. On the Italian stage in Paris these caricatures of men of the robe were usually played by Harlequin or Mezzetin, and Louis XIV., far from having any notion of reprimanding their satirical allusions, laughed at them and applauded them heartily.

In the following scene Grapignan is played by Harlequin.

THE THIEF. Is Master Grapignan at home?

GRAPIGNAN. Yes, sir. I am he.

THE THIEF. Sir, I am your servant.

GRAPIGNAN. Sir, I am yours.

THE THIEF. Knowing you to be the most honest advocate amongst
advocates, I come to beg you to enlighten me by your advice on
a little matter which has just happened to me.

GRAPIGNAN. What is the question?

THE THIEF. Sir, I was walking along the highway, when I was
very roughly struck by a merchant, mounted on an old screw.
When I asked him what he meant by it, he sided with his horse,
got down and told me that the animal was not an old screw and
that it was I myself who was that. Thereupon we quarrelled, and
we came to blows, and as he did not happen to be the stronger
I knocked him down. He got up and ran away. I ought to add
that as we rolled along the ground some twenty-five or thirty
pistoles fell from his pocket.

GRAPIGNAN. Ho! ho!

THE THIEF. I picked these up, and seeing that he had already
run away I got on to his horse, and I rode on as if nothing
had happened. Presently I learn, sir, that this rascal has
been lodging a complaint against me, charging me with being a
highway robber. I beg you to tell me whether there is about my
action the least appearance of such a thing! Inform me, I beg
of you, whither this affair is likely to lead me?