"I know a Pulcinella," the Moon told me. "The public applaud
vociferously directly they see him. Every one of his movements is
comic, and is sure to throw the house into convulsions of laughter;
and yet there is no art in it all--it is complete nature. When he
was yet a little boy, playing about with other boys, he was already
Punch. Nature had intended him for it, and had provided him with a
hump on his back, and another on his breast; but his inward man, his
mind, on the contrary, was richly furnished. No one could surpass
him in depth of feeling or in readiness of intellect. The theatre
was his ideal world. If he had possessed a slender well-shaped figure,
he might have been the first tragedian on any stage; the heroic, the
great, filled his soul; and yet he had to become a Pulcinella. His
very sorrow and melancholy did but increase the comic dryness of his
sharply-cut features, and increased the laughter of the audience,
who showered plaudits on their favourite. The lovely Columbine was
indeed kind and cordial to him; but she preferred to marry the
Harlequin. It would have been too ridiculous if beauty and ugliness
had in reality paired together.
"When Pulcinella was in very bad spirits, she was the only one who
could force a hearty burst of laughter, or even a smile from him:
first she would be melancholy with him, then quieter, and at last
quite cheerful and happy. 'I know very well what is the matter with
you,' she said; 'yes, you're in love!' And he could not help laughing.
'I and Love," he cried, "that would have an absurd look. How the
public would shout!' 'Certainly, you are in love,' she continued;
and added with a comic pathos, 'and I am the person you are in love
with.' You see, such a thing may be said when it is quite out of the
question--and, indeed, Pulcinella burst out laughing, and gave a
leap into the air, and his melancholy was forgotten.
"And yet she had only spoken the truth. He did love her, love
her adoringly, as he loved what was great and lofty in art. At her
wedding he was the merriest among the guests, but in the stillness
of night he wept: if the public had seen his distorted face then, they
would have applauded rapturously.
"And a few days ago, Columbine died. On the day of the funeral,
Harlequin was not required to show himself on the boards, for he was a
disconsolate widower. The director had to give a very merry piece,
that the public might not too painfully miss the pretty Columbine
and the agile Harlequin. Therefore Pulcinella had to be more
boisterous and extravagant than ever; and he danced and capered,
with despair in his heart; and the audience yelled, and shouted
'bravo, bravissimo!' Pulcinella was actually called before the
curtain. He was pronounced inimitable.
"But last night the hideous little fellow went out of the town,
quite alone, to the deserted churchyard. The wreath of flowers on
Columbine's grave was already faded, and he sat down there. It was a
study for a painter. As he sat with his chin on his hands, his eyes
turned up towards me, he looked like a grotesque monument--a Punch
on a grave--peculiar and whimsical! If the people could have seen
their favourite, they would have cried as usual, 'Bravo, Pulcinella;
bravo, bravissimo!'"