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!
HARLEQUIN (_aside_). He takes me for a cat, I am lost if he
recognises me. Oh, poor Harlequin! who could have foretold you
that to see Olivette it would be necessary for you to play the
pig? The worst of it is that I do not know where I am going.
He hurtles against a pile of bottles and breaks the lot. Pantaloon
laments: “There goes my oil of frogs! My balsam of oysters is all lost!
My electuary of sepia is broken, I am sure!” He gets up, lights his
candle and looks about him; meanwhile Harlequin has slipped under the
bed. Pantaloon, after having deplored the loss of his drugs, which he
admits, however, will not be difficult to replace, seeing that in reality
they consist of no more than earth and water, returns to bed and puts
out the light. Harlequin attempts to rise, and in doing so lifts up the
bed. Pantaloon rolls along the ground with him, gets up and strikes out
haphazard, shouting: “The pig! The pig is strangling me! Help!”
When Fenocchio finds that he has not succeeded in disembarrassing himself
of Harlequin by this means, he suggests to him a third expedient; this is
to procure a deal of money with which to bribe Pantaloon, who will then
allow him to see Olivette. He announces that he knows a way to get the
money. “The Doctor is a collector of curiosities. We will go and sell him
one.”
He dresses up Harlequin as a clock, with a dial in the middle of his
belly, and carries him off to the Doctor, who admires this beautiful and
very curious piece of horology.
“This,” says Fenocchio to the Doctor, “represents, as you see, a man, and
it tells the minutes, the hours, the days, the months, the years and the
centuries; also it can predict the past, and it can say Papa and Mamma,
and it chimes.”
So saying, Fenocchio takes up a hammer and shows the Doctor that all
that is necessary to make it chime is to strike the head of the figure.
But Harlequin ducks his head and threatens to discover everything if
he is touched. Fortunately the Doctor has not perceived this movement.
Fenocchio, who loves money better than vengeance, begins to haggle with
the Doctor. But at this point a servant enters with the Doctor’s soup.
Harlequin is unable to resist the temptation, and throws himself upon the
soup, which he swallows greedily. The Doctor turns round, and cries: “Ho!
ho! ho! A clock that eats! Help! murder! thieves!”
iii
Louis Riccoboni says, in speaking of the costume of BELTRAME:
“His dress is not extraordinary, and I think that it is proper
to his day, or perhaps a little earlier. He wears a mask which
is the same as that of Scapin.... Beltrame, who was a Milanese,
and who spoke the language of his country, wore also the
costume of it.”
His dress is that of a servant of the end of the sixteenth century.
This type, more modern than Brighella, had no other employments in the
_Gelosi_ troupe than that of an astute and cunning gossip; but, like
Mezzetin, and the French Sganarelle later on, he played all the husband
parts, pretending at times to believe the stories that were told him. In
the middle of the nineteenth century, at Bologna, this personage, which
by then had passed into the marionettes, still represented the burgher,
the merchant or the old Jew, and shared the parentage of Columbine with
old Tabarino.
Niccolo Barbieri was the first actor to render the French acquainted
with this shade of Brighella. Under the name of _Beltrame da Milano_, he
went with Flaminio Scala and Isabella Andreini to play in Paris before
Henri IV., in 1600. After the _Gelosi_ troupe was dispersed, Beltrame
returned to Italy, and joined the _Fedeli_ company. In 1613 he was back
again in Paris with this company under the management of G. B. Andreini.
He remained until 1618, returned yet again in 1623 and continued in the
French capital until 1625, when he himself became the head of the troupe,
and rendered himself famous in Italy and in France, not only as an actor
but also as a writer.
His work: “_La Supplica_: a tract for all men of merit who have not set
up as critics and who are not entirely foolish,” is no more than a piece
of pleading in favour of the comedians and the comedy of his day; it is,
however, extremely interesting for the anecdotes included in it, which
give an idea of the manners of the time.
“All the authors who have written against comedy” (he says)
“have not always been equipped with knowledge of this art.
The science of all things is to be found among all men, but
no single man has the gift of knowing everything. Sacred and
profane authors cannot judge us. Saint Bonaventura draws such a
picture of comedians, that if you were to believe him you must
consider us all damned. Let me relate a little anecdote which
proceeds directly out of what I am saying.
“When I left Vercelli, my birthplace, in the year 1596, I
joined a mountebank known by the surname of Monteferrin.
We visited Aosta (anciently Augusta), a city of Savoy, and
Monteferrin begged the chief magistrate’s permission to set up
his trestles there. But, as this perhaps was not the custom in
that city, the magistrate, not knowing what to decide, went to
seek counsel of his spiritual superior, who plainly refused
this permission, saying that he did not desire the admission of
magicians into that country. The stupefied Monteferrin replied
that, being unable so much as to read, it was impossible for
him to work magic. The superior bade him be silent: ‘I know
all about that,’ he said. ‘I have seen in Italy charlatans who
took a ball in one hand and caused it to pass into the other,
or who threw a leaden bullet into one eye, and caused it to
come out of the other; who swallowed burning tow, ejecting the
fire from their mouths in a thousand sparks; who pierced their
arms with a knife and were instantly cured of the wound; and
all that by magic and other works of the devil.’ Thereupon the
superior dismissed Monteferrin without waiting for his reply,
and threatening him with imprisonment.
“This superior was a theologian, but he knew nothing of human
adroitness, and in that he greatly resembled those blessed
saints who have spoken so ardently against the art of comedy,
having never witnessed more than some stray farce or some
obscene nonsense performed by the marionettes of mountebanks
and charlatans.
“Many ignorant folk, who do not know the etymology of the
word _istrio_, nor its derivation, believe that by _istrioni_
(histrions) _stregoni_ (warlocks) is meant, magicians and men
abandoned to the devil; and it is as a result of this that
in some parts of Italy the ignorant people hold the belief
that comedians can command rain or summon a tempest at their
will. As a matter of fact they are very poor enchanters and
magicians, and very hungry ones, who have a deal of trouble to
command a little money to rain upon them so that they may live;
besides, if they had the power to summon rain they would be
careful not to exercise it, for when it rains no one comes to
their performances.”
To prove that comedy is not a vile and contemptible art, Beltrame cites
a large number of comedians who were honoured and held in high esteem,
mentioning among actors of antiquity Roscius, the friend of Cicero,
Aliturus and Æsop, and among actors of his own day Isabella Andreini,
Pietro-Maria Cecchini (_Fritellino_), Giovanni-Battista Andreini
(_Lelio_), Cintio Fidenzi, Maria Malloni (_Celia_), Nicolò Zeccha
(_Bertolino_), and himself. “Myself,” he says, “the least of all these,
I was appointed by King Louis the Just—a very good and very Christian
monarch—a soldier in his guard of honour, and I was jealous to show
myself worthy of that honour, as my captain, the illustrious Duc de la
Valette, will bear witness. The eminent Cardinal Ubaldini can also tell
how much His Very Christian Majesty was disposed to overwhelm me with
favours. I will not mention the princes, princesses, kings, queens and
emperors who have held the children of comedians at the baptismal font
and have called their parents gossip, both in speaking and in writing to
them, nor how, upon occasion, they have made them participate in their
fêtes, drive with them in their court carriages, gratified them with
presents from their own hands, regaled them with sumptuous banquets, and
invited them to participate in their amusements. Many princes and great
lords have played in comedies before their relatives and friends, and
have been eager to interpret in the best possible manner the characters
entrusted to them, and this entirely for their amusement. Are they on
that account to be deemed infamous and contemptible? No. Therefore, it
follows that comedy is not vile.
“How many princes, kings and emperors have played in public in their
own theatres? In my own day I have seen the Dukes of Mantua, Francesco,
Fernando and Vincenzo performing with our comedians, as well as the
Prince of Urbino and so many others whom I do not mention. If the great
lord may tread the stage for his amusement without derogating from his
nobility, why should honest folk be lost in reputation if they do the
same for their livelihood? Since the nobles are not ashamed of performing
in comedy, the art cannot be contemptible.
“I compare the efforts made to condemn comedy and comedians to those
butterfly hunts engaged in by children, who run furiously through fields,
heedlessly crushing plants and flowers under their feet, coming and
going and striking the air with their arms, holding the very wind in
their hands, and perspiring even unto blood. In their despair we see
them sometimes throwing stones or their hats into the air, and then
precipitating themselves upon their prey, without recking how they
tear their garments or perhaps even break a limb. And all this to what
purpose? To seize a thing which, living, is of little use and dead of
none. In short, the efforts of our denouncers resemble the prowesses of
Don Quixote of La Mancha.
[Illustration]
“Comedians study printed _libretti_ with the permission of their
superiors; it is true that they themselves invent a deal, but this
without departing from the subject. The authors of subjects or scenarii
seek the most likely stories and arrange them according to the rules of
humour, just as the dramatic authors arrange their subjects according to
the rules of poetry. Thereafter the actors undergo the necessary degree
of study so as to interpret as aptly as possible the characters which
they are to represent. Lovers and women study history, fable, rhymes and
prose so that they may exploit the wealth of the language. Those whose
aim it is to excite laughter ransack their brains to discover new jests,
not out of any desire to sin or to lead others into sin, not to extol
vice or error with obscene words, but that they may provoke laughter by
the employment of equivocal and bizarre inventions in the exploitation
of the characters entrusted to them. The Captain excites hilarity by his
hyperbolic extravagances; Doctor Graziano does the same by his garbled
quotations; the first lackey by his intrigues, his astuteness and his
lively rejoinders; the second lackey by his stupidity; Harlequin by his
tumblings; the Covielli by their grimaces and their macaronic language;
the old men by their ponderous manners and their old-fashioned idioms.