that her daughter’s best friend was about to be married and that her
daughter was to be one of the bridesmaids; she invited him to the
nuptials, knowing him for a young man of jovial humour. The marriage
was a brilliant affair; there was a deal of drinking and dancing;
Fiurelli distinguished himself by eating as much as two and drinking as
much as four. As a result, in the course of the dance, driven no doubt
largely by the wine into an amorous transport, he kissed the bridesmaid
notwithstanding her resistance. The insult was considered of a grave
character, particularly as it had been offered in public, and it was
judged to be reparable only by marriage. On the morrow the laundress,
having assembled witnesses and the members of her family, came to
demand justice from the mistress of Fiurelli. The accused appeared, but
had nothing to say. He could remember nothing of what had happened
yesterday. The laundress, having reminded him of everything, threatened
to lay a plaint before the magistrates if he did not repair his fault and
make the amend demanded by the honour of the family. Having taken counsel
with the actress whom he served, Fiurelli decided to marry the young
laundress, who was very pretty.
Some time after their nuptials, Fiurelli and his wife joined a company
of comedians. Madame Fiurelli took the name of _Marinette_, which was
probably her own, for she was the first soubrette to bear it. Fiurelli
himself assumed the name of Scaramouche. Angelo Constantini, the author
of _The Life, Loves and Deeds of Scaramouche_, says that Fiurelli was the
creator of this type; but he is at fault in this statement as in several
others in his biography. Evaristo Gherardi severely trounces this work
of Constantini’s: “If those,” he says, “who have spoken so unworthily of
Fiurelli, and who have made use of his name to produce an infinity of
wretched quips and bad jests are capable of shame, let them come candle
in hand to make reparation to the manes of so great a man, that they may
avoid the punishment which impostors deserve before God and humanity.
There is nothing more impious than to exhume a man for the purpose of
covering him with calumny.”
Nature had marvellously endowed Fiurelli, and his name very quickly
became famous throughout all Italy as that of the most perfect and witty
mime that had ever existed. After having visited most of the great cities
of Italy, he went to Paris in the reign of Louis XIII., in 1640, and
enjoyed there an equal degree of success.
The queen took great pleasure in his mimicries. One day, when he and
Brigida Bianchi (an actress known—as we have seen—under the name of
Aurelia) were in the chamber of the dauphin (afterwards Louis XIV.), the
prince, who was then but two years old, was in such evil temper that
nothing could appease his rage and his cries. Scaramouche told the queen
that if she would permit him to take the royal child in his arms he would
undertake to calm him. The queen having permitted this, he made so many
grimaces, performed so many apish tricks, that not only did the child
cease to cry, but he was seized with a hilarity whose results ruined
the garments of Scaramouche, to the great bursts of laughter of all the
ladies and gentlemen present at this scene.
From that day Scaramouche received the order to visit the dauphin every
evening to amuse him, together with his dog, his cat, his monkey, his
guitar and his parrot. Scaramouche would then be about thirty-three years
of age. He was invariably summoned to Paris whenever any Italian troupe
was commanded to appear there. Many years later Louis XIV. used to take
pleasure in reminding Fiurelli of their first interview, and the great
king would laugh heartily when Fiurelli mimed the story of that adventure.
On the subject of Scaramouche, Gherardi writes as follows in the scenario
of _Colombine Avocat Pour et Contre_:—
“After having mended everything that is in the chamber, he
takes his guitar, drops into an arm-chair and plays whilst
awaiting the arrival of his master. Pasquariello comes up
softly behind him and beats the time of his music on his
shoulders, which terribly frightens Scaramouche. In a word it
is now that this incomparable Scaramuccia, who was the ornament
of the theatre and the model of the most illustrious comedians
of his day—having taught them that art so difficult and so
necessary to persons of their _character_, how to stir up
passions and to depict them—it is now, I say, that for a long
quarter of an hour he could shake the audience with laughter at
a scene of terror in which he did not utter a single word. It
must also be agreed that this excellent actor possessed this
marvellous gift in so high a degree that he could move the
hearts of his audience by the simplicity and naturalness of
his mimicry far more than they are ordinarily to be moved by
the most able orators or by the charms of the most persuasive
rhetoric. A great prince, seeing him play once in Rome, said
of him: ‘Without speaking Scaramouche says the most beautiful
things in the world.’ And to mark the esteem conceived for him,
the prince sent for him when the comedy was ended, and made
him a present of the coach and six horses in which he had had
him fetched. He was always the delight of all the princes who
knew him, and our invincible monarch never wearied of heaping
favours upon him. I dare even to persuade myself that if he
were not dead the company would still be in existence.”
In 1659 a rumour was abroad that in the course of journeying into Italy
Fiurelli had been shipwrecked and drowned whilst crossing the Rhone, an
adventure which was celebrated in verse by Loret.
Fiurelli made frequent journeys into Italy to visit his wife Marinette.
His last visit was a very protracted one; he remained with her for
seven years, and returned to Paris only after her death. He established
himself there permanently, and remained on the stage until the age of
eighty-three. Having then retired, he fell in love with a young girl
named Mademoiselle Duval, who was tall, well made and very beautiful,
the daughter of a servant of the Président de Harlay. He sought her in
marriage and obtained her.
The first months of the honeymoon were spent peacefully; but soon
Fiurelli’s jealous and avaricious nature was revealed. After all, he
was perhaps right to suspect and to complain. There was too great a
difference in age between them and the young woman was coquettish.
Scaramouche sought to enforce his rights and his authority; but his young
wife refused to endure lessons and corrections; she sought shelter with
her parents and took proceedings against him to obtain a separation.
Fiurelli on his side accused her of infidelity, and demanded that her
hair be cut and she be sent to a convent. The affair made a deal of
noise, and four years were spent in preparing the case for the courts.
Before it was completed Fiurelli died, on the 5th December 1696, at the
age of eighty-eight.
At eighty-three he still displayed such agility that in his pantomime
scenes he could box the ears of a fellow-actor with his foot. With a
slight and supple body he combined a strength and litheness that were
extraordinary.
We know that Molière testified ever for Fiurelli an unlimited admiration.
It has been said, and there is reason to believe it, that it was the
incomparable Scaramouche who determined the vocation of this illustrious
child when he was taken by his grandfather to witness Fiurelli’s
performances. It was by these that Molière was inspired to embrace the
profession of the theatre. It has also been said that as a comic actor
Molière always sought to imitate the Italians, Trivelino in particular,
but Scaramouche above all. It is well known that Molière was Italian
rather than French in his ways, both as author and comedian; that for his
first essays, not only for his scenarii but still more for his written
pieces, he tapped the sources afforded by the Italian repertory, and
that the two companies played in his day the same subjects in the same
theatre, whilst the Italians made no affectations of claiming priority,
and Molière did not dream of contesting it them. For the rest these
borrowings became reciprocal, as may be gathered from the fact that
_Scaramouche Ermite_ scored a success at court, whilst _Tartuffe_ gave
rise there to indignation.
At the foot of a portrait of Fiurelli in the dress of Scaramouche is the
legend:
_Tibère Fiorilli, dit Scaramouche, le grand original des
théâtres modernes._
“Cet illustre comédien
Atteignit de son art l’agréable manière:
Il fut le maître de Molière,
Et la nature fut le sien.”
Let us take a glimpse of him at work in some entirely Italian scenes
preserved in Gherardi’s collection.
“Ottavio, having given Angélique an assignation in the
Tuileries, desires that a gallant collation shall be prepared
so as to afford her a pleasant surprise. He begs Scaramouche to
attend to it and departs. Scaramouche, left on the stage, falls
into a reverie. Harlequin enters and Scaramouche begs of him
to think of a way but without telling him what is the subject.
Thereupon the two of them walk up and down the stage, their
heads in their hands, and from time to time one turns to the
other exclaiming: ‘Faith, I have it!’ to add afterwards: ‘No,
that idea is worth nothing,’ and to recommence their goings
and comings in silence. Suddenly they meet, and Scaramouche
exclaims: ‘Ah, this is sure to succeed!’ Whereupon they depart
without any further explanations.”
In another scene:
CINTHIO (_approaching SCARAMOUCHE_). _Come vi chiamate?_ (What
is your name?)
SCARAMOUCHE. What is my name?
CINTHIO. _Si, il vostro nome, qual è?_ (Yes, what is your name?)
SCARAMOUCHE. _Il mio nome, signor, è_ (My name, sir, is)
Scaramuzza, Memeo Squaquara, Tammera, Catambera, _e figlio di_
(a son of) Cocumaro and of Madonna Papara Trent’ova, e Iunze,
e Dunze, e Tiracarunze, _per servire a vossignoria_ (to serve
your lordship).
CINTHIO. _O che bel nom! in verità, non si puo far de più!_
(What a beautiful name! A better were impossible!) (_He pulls
out his purse._) Here, this is for Scaramouche. This is for
Memeo Squaquara. This is for Tammera and Catambera. (_At each
name he gives him a coin._) And the rest of the purse for the
rest of your name.
SCARAMOUCHE (_aside_). This fellow must be a collector of
names. (_To CINTHIO._) Sir, I have still several other names in
my family as beautiful and as long as my own. If you want them
you have but to mention it.
Scaramouche, having heard of the issue of a warrant for the arrest
of Harlequin, his master, under his assumed name of the Marquis of
Sbrufadelli, dresses himself as a woman so as to escape.
HARLEQUIN. Ha! Ha! here is some demoiselle from the Pont Neuf.
Good-morning, madam. Your servant.
SCARAMOUCHE. Sir, indicate to me, if you please, the way to La
Grève?[4]
HARLEQUIN (_mockingly_). You have but to go on as you have
started. Stick to your present ways and you will go straight
there.
SCARAMOUCHE. I will hurry then, for I fear lest I should not
find room.
HARLEQUIN. There is no need to hurry, there will always be room
for you.
SCARAMOUCHE. The truth is, sir, that they are going to hang
the Marquis of Sbrufadelli, and he will be, they say, the most
comical corpse in the world, so that everyone is hurrying to
see him.
HARLEQUIN (_angrily_). Those who told you that are
ill-informed. The Marquis of Sbrufadelli is a man of honour and
he will not be hanged. Do you understand?
SCARAMOUCHE. But I tell you that he will be. That it is
absolutely necessary that he should be, since all the windows
are already let.
HARLEQUIN. That is a fine necessity—to hang a man because the
windows are let. Go your ways, madam, you don’t know what you
are saying.
SCARAMOUCHE. It will be a very pretty show. I am dying to
see it. He married two wives and they are going to hang two
petticoats beside him. Oh, what a pretty show to see! Oh, how
droll it will be!
HARLEQUIN. I shall end by losing my temper. I tell you again
that I know the Marquis of Sbrufadelli, and——
SCARAMOUCHE (_revealing himself_). Yes, and I know him too.
HARLEQUIN. Scaramouche?
SCARAMOUCHE. Yes, sir. I have disguised myself in this fashion
because I know that the Doctor is seeking you to have you put
in prison. He is at the head of twenty archers, and I should be
sorry if they compelled me to keep you company. You know very
well that I have had nothing to do with your affairs, and that
this would never have happened to you if you had followed my
advice.
HARLEQUIN. This is not a time to be moralising——
SCARAMOUCHE. Oh, sir, you have waited too long, we are lost.
Here comes the Doctor.
The archers arrive with the Doctor. Harlequin, not knowing where to
conceal himself, dives under the petticoats of Scaramouche. The Doctor is
furious. He seeks Harlequin and comes face to face with Scaramouche. He
gives him good-day with a mocking air, and, observing that he is holding
his sides and groaning, asks him what is the matter.
SCARAMOUCHE. I beg you to let me go, sir. I am pregnant and in
pain.
THE DOCTOR. This is very distressing! But we must see about
getting you away from here because I am looking for a certain
man whom I am going to arrest, and if he should come this way
the archers might hurt you in the tumult.
SCARAMOUCHE. And what is the name, sir, of him you are seeking
to arrest?
THE DOCTOR. He is called the Marquis of Sbrufadelli.
HARLEQUIN (_thrusting his head from under the petticoat_). The
Marquis of Sbrufadelli, sir? The Marquis of Sbrufadelli is gone!
THE DOCTOR (_hearing a voice but seeing no one_). Who spoke
then?
SCARAMOUCHE. It is my unborn child, sir. (_Aside to
HARLEQUIN_:) Be quiet, animal, or you will be discovered.
THE DOCTOR (_suspiciously_). Your unborn child, is it? He is a
well-nourished child.
SCARAMOUCHE. Indeed yes, sir. I have never spared my children
anything.
THE DOCTOR. So I perceive, since they talk before birth.
(_Leaning over SCARAMOUCHE._) Master child, you say then that
the Marquis of Sbrufadelli is gone?
HARLEQUIN (_thrusting out his head_). Yes, sir, he departed by
the mail coach. It should suffice you to be told once.
THE DOCTOR. That is very true, sir. I beg your pardon for my
importunity. (_To the archers._) Corporal Simon! Take me that
child and put him in prison at once. He is a little debauchee
at much too early an age, and must be sent to a reformatory.
The archers seize Harlequin and bear him off; Scaramouche escapes crying:
“_Salvo! salvo!_”
When Tiberio Fiurelli withdrew from the Théâtre-Italien in 1694, the
rôles of Scaramouche were filled by Giuseppe Tortoretti, who had been
playing Pasquariello until then.
ii
“On the day of PASQUARIELLO’S birth, the cat stole the roast meat,
the candle turned pale thrice, the wine turned sour in the cellar,
and—incredible prodigy!—the stock-pot emptied itself into the ashes. Evil
prognostications! Faithful to them Pasquariello was ever a glutton, a
drunkard and a devastator, the ruin and the terror of kitchens.”
This name of Pascariel, or Pasquariel as it is written by Gherardi, is no
doubt a diminutive of Pasquino, the Roman emblem of satire.
In the sixteenth century Pasquariello was a dancer and a mountebank like
Meo Squaquara, from whom Scaramouche claims descent. These personages are
depicted by Callot. They are dressed in tight garments, with hawk-bells
on their legs, they carry sabre and cloak, and wear a mask with a
fantastical long nose, but they appear to be without head-dress. Meo
Squaquara in particular seems to be bald-headed. Pasquariello bears the
surname of _Truonno_—that is to say, the Terrible. It is a type that was
not seen in France until 1685, when it was borne thither by Giuseppe
Tortoretti. Like its ancestors, his Pasquariello was particularly a
dancer and a very clever equilibrist. The rôle is always that of a
servant.
The _Mercure Galant_ for March of 1685 says:
“The Italian company has been increased by a new actor who
earns the applause of all Paris, and who has given similar
pleasure at court. He is of a surprising agility and admirably
supports the incomparable Harlequin.”
Notwithstanding, however, the felicitous débuts of Pasquariello, this
actor was never more than mediocre, and his talents lay largely in the
suppleness of his limbs. His type is a variant of Scaramouche, whom—as we
have mentioned—he came to replace in the Italian company after the death
of Tiberio Fiurelli in 1694.
After the suppression of the Théâtre-Italien (1697), Giuseppe Tortoretti
(_Pasquariello_) obtained from the king the privilege of performing the
plays of his repertory throughout France, but with the reservation that
he was not to bring his company within thirty leagues of Paris.
Thereupon he engaged a company and toured the provinces, but did such
poor business that he died in want. Giuseppe Tortoretti had married in
Italy Angelica Toscano, who was known at the Théâtre-Italien under the
name of Marinetta; she went with him into the provinces and shared his
ill luck.
Pasquariello is dressed more or less like Scaramouche, saving that he
does not always wear the cap and cloak; he replaces cloth by black
velvet, and sometimes wears red stockings. His simple and severe
appearance permits him to play the same parts as Scaramouche, and to
replace Scapin under the name of Pasquin.
It is chiefly in _L’Avocat Pour et Contre_ that Pasquariello has an
important part; it is he who develops the plot of the piece; he enters
at every instant to terrify Harlequin, who has become a great lord, and
his servant Scaramouche. Now he appears as a Captain, to compel Harlequin
to marry Columbine whom he has betrayed; at other times he is seen as a
dancer, a Moor, a devil and even as a painter, for Harlequin has demanded
a painter to paint his portrait.
Pasquariello enters. He has donned a waistcoat splashed and smeared with
paint; he walks clumsily by the aid of crutches, and his eyes are almost
hidden under a green visor.
“What is this?” demands Harlequin. “A painter of invalids? He is
paralysed and he will paint me upside down.”
Pasquariello attempts to doff his hat to salute the Marquis Arlecchino,
but he trembles to such an extent that, at his movement, the crutches,
being unable to support him, one slips forward and the other backward and
he tumbles upon Harlequin, who also falls. In the very act of falling
this courteous painter greets Harlequin, wishing him good-morning, and
announces himself his servant.
Harlequin, bruised and crippled, enlists the assistance of Pierrot to
pick up the painter, and then says to him: “Without ceremony, sir, go and
do your dying first, and then come back to paint my picture.”
But Pasquariello, or rather the painter, evidently adds deafness to his
other infirmities; for without being at all disconcerted he sits down,
places an enormous pair of spectacles on his nose, and, after having
mixed some colours on his palette with a brush that is something like
a broom, he daubs the face of Pierrot, who was standing open-mouthed
before him, watching him mix his red and black. Pierrot departs in tears.
Harlequin becomes angry. The painter makes no answer; he considers
Harlequin, and, brush in one hand and palette in the other, he drags
himself on his knees to Harlequin, who, scared, asks him what he is going
to do.
“I am going to paint your lordship,” replies Pasquariel. But Harlequin
draws his attention to the fact that his canvas is on the other side of
the stage. The painter gets up, attempts to turn towards his canvas,
but misses his step, and falls full length upon the stage. Harlequin
exclaims: “Oh, here is a broken painter! I shall have to pay for a
painter!” But Pasquariel is up again, and is taking his leave preliminary
to departing. He balances himself upon his feet, then lets himself hurtle
against Harlequin, who, being pushed thus unexpectedly, falls once more.
Pasquariello falls on top of him as heavily as possible. He then gets up
and departs, pursued by Harlequin’s imprecations.
In another scenario, _La Precaution Inutile_, Pasquariello is a lackey.
He has been placed on duty together with Pierrot at Isabella’s door, and
they have been expressly commanded not to allow any love letters to pass
in. A butterfly flutters towards them. Pasquariel lifts up his nose and
observes to Pierrot that perhaps this is a love messenger. Pierrot is
absolutely of the same opinion. Thereupon a chase is set on foot, their
object being to seize the papers which the butterfly no doubt carries.
We have bounds and leaps, and we see one climbing upon the shoulders of
the other to reach the butterfly, but the butterfly rises ever higher
and higher. Both of them, nose in the air, fling up their hats, and end
by colliding with each other so violently that both are knocked over and
roll on the ground.
In _Le Grand Sophy_, Pasquariello, the valet of Ottavio, says to Mezzetin:
“Become but a captain of dragoons, and pleasure and good living
will follow you everywhere. No troubles, no sorrows, nothing
but joy. What happiness! You receive an order to join the army.
Immediately you take the coach, and all along the road you have
partridges and quails and ortolans for your everyday food. Just
taste me this wine.” (_He pretends to uncork a bottle and to
pour wine into a glass. MEZZETIN opens his mouth to receive the
wine._) “Well, what do you think of it? That is the least of
all the wines that you will drink on the way. Then you arrive
in camp. To begin with you are given very handsome apartments
on one floor.”
MEZZETIN. So much the better, for I do not care about going
upstairs, I think it is a bad omen.
PASQUARIELLO. A number of officers will come to visit you. You
play, you smoke, you sing, you drink liqueurs.
MEZZETIN. The devil! That is the life of a prelate! And people
say that there are evils in war!
PASQUARIELLO. Well, well! It is only people who have never been
there who speak ill of it. Meanwhile the enemy advances, and
the captain of dragoons is ordered to go and reconnoitre—that
is, to ascertain where the enemy is encamped, what movements
they are making, and the number of the troops that compose
their army. There is nothing easier. First of all you will
march in fine order at the head of your company. Oh! I can see
you on horseback, what a heroic air! What majesty! Do you dream
of it? Do you shake your ears?
MEZZETIN. Ay. I know how it hurts me to go on horseback, and
yet I have never mounted anything more than a donkey. It makes
my shoulders ache. Couldn’t we cut that out?
PASQUARIELLO. Indeed no, it is an honour. You advance thus
upon the enemy. As soon as they see you appear, they detach
a company of carabineers to come and meet you. When you are
within range of one another you begin to exchange salutes in
pistol shots, zin! zan! The captain of the carabineers draws
his sword, runs upon you and—tac!
MEZZETIN. Woe me!
PASQUARIELLO. Oh! that is nothing, only an arm lopped off.
MEZZETIN. And you call that nothing! I think it is something
myself!
PASQUARIELLO. Pooh! pooh! a mere trifle. The action is reported
to the court, and you become a colonel in another regiment.
The general orders his army to deliver battle, and to come to
blows; the enemy are firing like all the devils, zi! zi! pi!
pa! bon! ban! tac!
MEZZETIN. Heavens, I am lost! Another tac!
PASQUARIELLO. It is a grenade shot, which carries away one of
our colonel’s legs. But that is a trifle.
MEZZETIN. Devil take me if I didn’t suspect it when I heard
that tac of yours!
PASQUARIELLO. What would you? These are the fruits of war.
Your wound will be treated. Your name will be published in the
gazette, and you will become a brigadier.
MEZZETIN. A still greater charge?
PASQUARIELLO. Faith, I should think so! All the officers will
come to compliment you upon your new rank, and they will envy
your good fortune. The enemy rallies and returns to the charge.
First of all our brigadier runs from side to side, issuing
the necessary orders. The fight becomes obstinate, then the
enemy is routed, victory is shouted, the fugitives are pursued
sword in hand. At that moment a battery of twelve pieces of
cannon, which the enemy had mounted on a little prominence, is
discharged, bon! don! don! tac! tac!
MEZZETIN. Mercy! Ah! I am dead, there were two tacs!
PASQUARIELLO. You were very unfortunate. What a pity! Our poor
brigadier has had his remaining arm and leg carried away by a
cannon shot.
MEZZETIN. I am not in the least surprised, tacs have always
been fatal to me. (_Kneeling down with his two arms behind
him._) Now here is a pretty man!
PASQUARIELLO. You must be patient, my friend. These are marks
of your valour. You will have appeared again in the gazette,
and you will be made a general, the highest rank of all.
MEZZETIN. There is one thing I notice: the more my rank
increases, the more my limbs diminish.
PASQUARIELLO. From the moment that you are a general you mount
on horseback.