Pierrot. But, sir, how is it possible that I should be silent? I am not allowed a moment’s rest. As long as the day lasts I am made to run after your daughter, your niece and your waiting-woman; whilst at night I am made to run after you? No sooner am I in bed than you begin: “Pierrot! Pierrot! Quick! Get up. Light the candle and give me my telescope. I want to go and observe the stars!” And you want me to believe that the moon is a world like ours! The moon! Hah! You’ll drive me mad.
The Doctor. Hold your tongue, Pierrot, or I will beat you.
Pierrot. Although you should kill me I must vent my feelings! I could never be such a fool as to agree that the moon is a world. The moon, the moon! Morbleu! And the moon no bigger than an omelette of eight eggs!
The Doctor. You impertinent fellow! If you had ever so little understanding I should condescend to reason with you, but you are a fool, an ignorant animal, and you only know you have a head because you can feel it; so hold your tongue. Yet again I tell you, be silent! Tell me, have you noticed those clouds that are to be seen round the moon? Those clouds are called crepuscules. Now it is those which I argue——
Pierrot. Let us hear.
The Doctor. Now if there are crepuscules in the moon, it follows that there must be a generation and a corruption; if there is corruption and generation, it follows that there must be animals and vegetables; ergo, the moon is an inhabited world like this.
Pierrot. Ergo, as much as you like! But as far as I am concerned, nego; and this is how I prove it. You say that in the moon there are tres ... cus ... tres ... pus ... les trois pousse-culs.
The Doctor. Crepuscules, and not pousse-culs, fool!
Pierrot. Anyhow, the three—you know what I mean; and you say that if there are three puscuscules it follows that there must be a generation and a corruption.
The Doctor. Most certainly.
Pierrot. Now listen to Pierrot.
The Doctor. Let us hear.
Pierrot. If there is a generation and a corruption in the moon it must follow that worms are born there. Now is it possible that the moon is worm-eaten? What do you say to that? Heh? By heaven it is unanswerable.
The Doctor (laughing). Oh, assuredly not. Tell me, Pierrot, are not worms born in this world of ours?
Pierrot. Yes, sir.
The Doctor. Does it follow thence that our world is worm-eaten?
Pierrot. There is something in that.
After this discussion on the moon, the Doctor informs Pierrot of his matrimonial plans for his daughter. Harlequin appears and so plagues Pierrot with questions that the latter answers the Doctor upon the matters raised by Harlequin. The Doctor, exasperated by the seeming impertinences of his servant, lets fly a buffet fit to break his teeth. Pierrot falls down, picks himself up and goes off saying: “That is an effect of the moon.”
In the Gelosi troupe, which went to France in 1572, the part of Doctor Graziano was played by Lucio Burchiella, an actor of great wit and liveliness, who was replaced in 1578 by Lodovico, of Bologna.
In the same year, 1572, Bernardino Lombardi went to France to play the rôles of Doctors in the Confidenti troupe. A clever poet as well as a distinguished actor, he published in Ferrara in 1583 L’Alchemista, a five-act comedy which was several times reprinted. You will find in it, as in most of the pieces of those days, various Italian dialects, Venetian, Bolognese and others.
Doctor Graziano Baloardo was played in the company of 1635 by Angelo Agostino Lolli, of Bologna. De Tralage speaks with praise of his manners. His comrades called him the angel, no doubt in consequence of his name of Angelo. He married the Signorina Adami, who played soubrettes in the same company. He died at an advanced age on the 29th August 1694.
In 1694 Marco-Antonio Romagnesi (Cinthio), having undertaken to perform old men, sometimes played Doctor under such Gallicized names as Bassinet.
In 1690, Giovanni Paghetti and Galeazzo Savorini were playing Doctors in Italy. Paghetti was also seen in France in the forain theatres.
In 1716 Francesco Matterazzi filled these rôles in the Regent’s company, and at the same time Ganzachi and Luzi, of Venice, were performing them in the German improvising troupe of Vienna.
Other famous exponents of the character were Bonaventura Benozzi, brother of the celebrated Silvia, in 1732; and Pietro Antonio Veronese, son of Carlo Veronese (Pantaloon), in 1754.
iv
In the Neapolitan theatre there was a type which very greatly resembled in character and in costume the old men of the old Italian comedy in France, such as Pandolfo and Gerontio, who wore the same dress as the old men in the comedies of Molière. This type was called Pangrazio il Biscegliese, so named because he was a native of Bisceglia.
“It is necessary to know” (says M. Paul de Musset) “that Bisceglia is a little town of Apulia where a dialect is spoken which has the privilege of amusing Neapolitans however vaguely they may discern the accent. From time immemorial the character of Don Pangrazio in the theatre of San Carlino has been played by natives of Bisceglia or else by Neapolitans who know how to reproduce to perfection the speech of Apulia. Their succès-de-ridicule depends as much upon the accent as upon the talent of the actors, who, for the rest, are incomparable comedians. The public laughs with confidence from the moment that Pangrazio makes his appearance. The bills of the play never fail to add to the title of the piece these words, which constitute a particular attraction to the crowd: Con Pangrazio biscegliese (with Pangrazio of Bisceglia). The effect produced in our theatres by the dialects of our peasants cannot approach the wild laughter excited by this Pangrazio; it would be necessary to go back to the days of Gros-Guillaume and the Gascon Gentlemen to find an equivalent to this personage, who still sustains with the illustrious Pulcinella the national Commedia dell’ Arte, that precious and charming tradition of which the booth of San Carlino is the last asylum. This feature of the popular taste is, however, a source of bitter and cruel injustice: the native of Bisceglia cannot show himself in Naples but that all the world bursts into laughter as soon as he utters a word; the tyranny of custom and of prejudice condemns him to the profession of buffoon; it were idle for him to become angry, for the only result would be that the laughter would grow still more unrestrained before an access of choler in a Biscegliese.”
The particular merit of Pangrazio Biscegliese lies in the whining intonation of the dialect of his locality, and in the exhibition of the usual absurdities which provincials bring into a capital. The life of the great cities, the luxury, the costumes, the somewhat relaxed morals, cause him at every step to break into ejaculations of surprise. “We don’t do that sort of thing at home,” he says at every moment; or else: “At home there is not so much noise, there are not so many people to elbow us as here, but at least everybody knows everybody. Nor is your Naples as beautiful. I would that you could have seen Bisceglia built upon her rock. That now is a lovely country covered with rich villas and famous for her grapes and wines. You cannot say as much. And then in Bisceglia you don’t see all this filth that is everywhere to be met in Naples. If I could but finish my business I should not be long in getting away from your noise, your fleas, your lazzaroni and your abandoned women.” The native of Bisceglia is very often right, but his criticisms under the ægis of his absurdities and his comical language pass for mere stupidity on his part.
Like Pantaloon he represents several provincial types, tradesmen, burgesses or old peasants; but fundamentally his character is always the same: rather miserly, credulous and easy to deceive.
His black velvet doublet and breeches are old fashioned. The sleeves of his coat and his cap are of red cloth, his stockings of red cotton. To-day Il Biscegliese whom the Neapolitans also call Pangrazio Cucuzziello (Pangrazio the Cuckold), has undergone a change of costume like most of the other Italian masks. He wears a red wig with a queue en salsifis, and an embroidered waistcoat of the days of Louis XV. which looks like a piece of tapestry. His coat and breeches are black, his stockings red and his shoes buckled.
Le Jettaturi, con Pangrazio Biscegliese is the title of a piece in which M. Paul de Musset shows us Il Biscegliese as he was to be seen on the stage of the San Carlino in Naples.
“The three knocks have been sounded. The little orchestra is playing the overture. At last the curtain rises and we see Don Pangrazio arriving laden with all his preservatives against ill-luck: the horns of a bull, coral hands, a rat made out of Vesuvian lava, a heart, the forks and the serpent. A burst of laughter greets his entrance according to custom. Whereupon he advances with a piteous air to the edge of the stage to take the public into his confidence on the score of his superstitious terrors.
“‘Sirs,’ he says, ‘if I have forgotten anything let me know, of your charity. These big horns which I carry, one under each arm, preserve my brow from a similar decoration. That, however, is not what most torments me; for Dame Pangrazio is incapable of wanting in fidelity to me. By turning this coral hand, whose index and little finger are extended towards folk of a suspicious countenance, I shall avoid pernicious influences. My outfit is complete, and I have been told that I might thus venture to show myself even in the streets of Toledo. I see with satisfaction that one is safe in Naples ... a prudent man never runs any risks in this capital; nevertheless I am not quite easy. I have had an evil dream, and I am very anxious to return to Bisceglia.’
“Thereupon Don Pangrazio relates his dream, from which he draws all manner of prognostications. In fact all possible accidents happen in the one day to poor Pangrazio. Whilst he is rubbing up his amulets a thief steals his handkerchief, another his snuffbox, a third his watch. Pulcinella disguises himself as an usher to relate to him a false exploit. A wily girl pretends to mistake him for her lover who was carried off to Barbary by Corsairs; she embraces him and overwhelms him with her caresses. Pangrazio attempts to escape, when a cart knocks him over into the mud. He gets up furiously, cursing clumsy folk, thieves and the abandoned girls of Naples, whereupon two charming young men in yellow waistcoats with seals, gold chains and quizzing-glasses politely accost him, and assist him to cleanse himself of the mud. This happy encounter charms Il Biscegliese, who is in ecstasy with the fine manners and the politeness of the gentlemen of Naples. With their canes they knock upon the table of the inn and command the waiter to serve Signor Pangrazio with the best and the most expensive in the house: sweetbreads and peas, Milanese fried cutlets, boiled eggs, beetroots and cucumber salad. To all this Pangrazio prefers the classical macaroni; he is served with a rotolo, which he consumes, eating it with his fingers. Meanwhile the two fashionable fellows dine and consume the more refined dishes which Il Biscegliese has declined; then they exchange a signal; they rise, take up their hats, overwhelm the other in salutations and depart. The old man finds it impossible to believe that he should again have fallen a victim to his credulity. With his bizarre conjectures upon the cause of the absence of the young men he amuses the public, and ends by paying the bill, not, of course, without a deal of haggling.”
v
An old yellow wig showing the weft; and surmounted by a nightcap with a greasy ribbon, upon a bald head, whose red ears they barely conceal; two eyebrows shaggy and grey shading the little eyes so suspicious and mistrustful in their glances; a rubicund nose smeared with snuff; coarse fleshy lips gaping stupidly when their owner listens or watches what is happening about him; a short thick neck denoting a choleric irascible temperament; a prominent abdomen encased in a waistcoat that was erstwhile embroidered, and a pair of old red breeches; the whole enveloped in a make-believe dressing-gown, a soiled yellow rag which fifty years ago was plush; a pair of thick legs in woollen stockings, ending in feet of an abominable size and length, these thrust into shoes which remind us of charcoal boats; a ponderous gait and a continual grumbling; and there you have Cassandro.
No one has risen yet; it is hardly day, and already Cassandro is complaining of the laziness of his servant and his daughter. So much the better, when all is said! He will have time in which to contemplate his money. Having taken a discreet pinch of snuff, from a box that creaks like a wheel in need of greasing, he slyly opens a hiding place known to himself alone; but a startled fly is on the wing, and Cassandro prudently shuts up his treasure once more. Next it is his servant, Pierrot, asleep on his feet, who blind and yawning comes to strike his head against his master, crushing underfoot Cassandro’s corns and bunions ill-protected by the enormous shoes. A splendid kick administered to Pierrot, who responds at hazard by a buffet which never misses the face of his master, is the affair of a moment.
Pierrot recognises his mistake and repents his precipitancy. He begs pardon of his good master and all is forgotten. “It is already light,” says Cassandro, “and I must go out; bring me my things and particularly my spectacles which I left in my room. Be quick!” Cassandro is no longer alone, therefore he must pretend in the presence of others to be deaf and short-sighted—an old ruse, but an unfailing one.
Whilst recommending his servant not to cook anything for breakfast and to lock the door upon his daughter, he assumes his fine coat. He takes his looped hat, his cane with its ivory head, his green gloves, his colossal watch, which himself he has mended to avoid useless expenditure. The movement of this watch of his makes such a tic-toc that when he passes in the street the neighbours, attracted by the noise, come to the thresholds of their shops and say: “There is Messer Cassandro. Where is he going?” “To see his mistress,” reply the wits.
To behold him as he comes adown the street you might be moved, notwithstanding his dashing toilet, to give him alms; and, what is worse, he would accept them. Nevertheless he is the richest man in this parish, just as he is the most miserly. There is nothing that he will not do for money. He would even give his daughter to Polichinelle. He considers him, however, somewhat debauched, and prefers Leandro, the hidalgo, the man of wealth, the pretty fellow. It is at the house of this prospective son-in-law that he goes to seek a breakfast, to avoid, so he says, giving trouble to his servants. “And then,” he adds, “we shall be better able to talk over our little affairs at table.”
Meanwhile what is happening at his home? His daughter Columbine has employed her charms to corrupt Pierrot; she has added to them a venison pasty and a bottle of old wine which have put to sleep all the scruples of her gaoler, and she abandons herself to mirth and dancing with her lover, Harlequin.
It rarely happens that Cassandro does not return at this moment, accompanied by his amphitryon, who struts like a cock and is laden with gifts for the seductive Columbine. Thereupon the lovers take flight. Columbine is to be sacrificed; but Harlequin, protected by a fairy whose talisman he saved, holds his own against Cassandro, and battles in point of wealth with Leandro. Cassandro does not hesitate. The richer of the twain shall have his daughter, his little doll; and as the treasures of fairies are inexhaustible, Leandro defeated, retires in a fury, reproaching the old man with his lack of faith. Cassandro shrugs his shoulders, laughs in his sleeve, and blesses the lovers.
The character of Cassandro was created in 1580, in the Gelosi company, under the name of Cassandro da Sienna. His were the parts of the serious fathers, whilst Pantaloon, in the same complicated intrigues, presented, together with the Doctor, the absurd personages, the jealous husband, betrayed, beaten and contented. This character of Cassandro disappeared from the Italian scenarii for more than a century, and it was only in 1732 that Périer revived the name to perform under it the rôles of ridiculous father in the forain theatres. He was imitated by Desjardins, in 1736, and Garnier, in 1739. On the Franco-Italian scene, Robert des Brosses, a native of Bonn, in Germany, who had joined the theatre as a musician in the orchestra, made his first appearance on the stage in 1744 in this rôle. This actor, estimable for his character and his talents, added musical composition to his other gifts. He wrote the music of a great number of ballets and comic operas.
In 1780, Rozière was playing the same parts in the Théâtre-Italien. But the most famous of all Cassandri was Chapelle, whose credulity and naïveté were proverbial in the theatre. Chapelle was short and fat; his eyes, which were continually blinking, were crowned by thick, black eyebrows; his mouth, always agape, lent him a stupid air. His legs resembled those of an elephant. If you will add to all this a clumsy, heavy shape, you will have some notion of Chapelle. One might imagine that Nature, beholding him after she had made him, said to him: “I aimed at making you a man, I have made you a Cassandro; forgive me, Chapelle.”
It was to Chapelle that the elder Seveste related on his return from a tour in Normandy the story of how, during his sojourn in Rouen, he had educated a carp, which followed him everywhere like a dog, but that unfortunately he had just lost it, at which he was very much troubled.
“And how did you lose this carp?” inquired Chapelle.
“Mon Dieu!” said Seveste, “I was so imprudent as to take it with me one night to the theatre. A terrible storm came on after the show. My carp followed me without trouble down to the street, but there the poor beast was drowned in attempting to leap across the gutter.”
“How unfortunate,” said Chapelle; “I thought that carp were able to swim like fish.”
People had made him believe so many things that during the last years of his life he had become so mistrustful and sceptical that when one of the theatre boys would say to him: “You are to play to-morrow,” he would reply: “Be off with you; I am not to be taken in!” Whenever he was asked how he fared, he would turn his back upon the inquirer, saying: “That is not true.” Chapelle, who added the trade of grocer to the profession of actor, retired in 1816, and went to live with an uncle, who was a canon in Versailles. He died at Chartres in January, 1824.
vi
The Romans have a type called Cassandrino, who is the same as their Pasquale. He is a worthy citizen of Rome, of a ripening age of some fifty years or so, but still young in his ways: agile, sedulously curled and powdered, his linen always irreproachable, his white stockings immaculate, his silver-buckled shoes well lacquered. He wears a light three-cornered hat; his coat and breeches are of fine red cloth which throws into relief his spangled white satin waistcoat, with its ample skirts. In character he is charming; he is never angry whatever betide, and he turns a deaf ear upon all jests at his expense. Courteous, well-bred, astute and witty, it is not difficult to perceive in this type the personification of one of the handsome curial Monsignori.
“Yesterday, towards nine o’clock” (says the author of the Chartreuse de Parme), “I was issuing from those magnificent rooms overlooking a garden full of orange-trees, known as the Café Rospoli, opposite the Fiano Palace. A man at the door of a sort of cave was saying: ‘Entrate, o signori! Enter, sirs, we are about to begin.’ I obtained admission to this little theatre for the sum of twenty-eight centisimi, a price which made me fear low company and fleas. I was soon reassured. I had for neighbours some worthy citizens of Rome.... The Romans are, perhaps, of all the people of Europe, those who most love and are quickest to perceive fine shades of satire. The theatrical censorship in Rome is more meticulous than in Paris, and consequently nothing can be more flat than the comedies performed there. Laughter has been driven to seek refuge with the marionettes, where pieces more or less improvised are presented. I spent an extremely pleasant evening at the Fiano Palace. The theatre upon which the actors parade their little persons may be some ten feet wide and some four feet high. The mounting is excellent, and carefully calculated to suit actors who are twelve inches tall. The fashionable personage among the people of Rome is Cassandrino, a coquettish old gentleman of some fifty-five to sixty years of age, quick, agile, his white hair very carefully powdered, well groomed, and in general more or less like a cardinal. Moreover Cassandrino is trained in affairs and polished by rubbing shoulders with the great world; he would in truth be an accomplished man but for his weakness of falling regularly in love with all the women whom he meets. You will agree that such a character is extremely well invented in a country governed by an oligarchic court, composed of celibates, where the power is in the hands of age. It goes without saying that Cassandrino is secular; but I will wager that in all the auditorium there is not a single spectator who does not in his mind invest him with the red skull-cap of a cardinal, or at least with the violet stockings of a monsignore. The monsignori are, as is known, young men of the pope’s court, the auditors of this country; their rank is a step which leads to all the others. Rome is full of monsignori of the age of Cassandrino, who have failed to make their fortune, and who seek what consolation they can find whilst awaiting the red hat.”
M. Frédéric Mercey gives us in his Théâtre en Italie several accounts of the pieces which were performed at the Fiano Theatre: Il Viaggio a Civita-Vecchia, Cassandrino Dilettante, Cassandrino Impresario, etc.
In 1840 this theatre was directed and worked by a jeweller of the Corso who, by a curious chance, was homonymous with the hero of his improvisations—Signor Cassandro.
vii
The spirit of Venetian mischief and Venetian quaintness appears to be personified in the mask of Facanappa, the leading character in the marionette troupes. His success in Venice is equal to that of the Biscegliese in Naples. The bills never fail to indicate that he is included in the piece; it is Harlequin the Bankrupt, with Facanappa; Pantaloon the Grocer, with Facanappa, etc., etc. His every entrance is greeted with applause and anticipatory thrills of mirth. It is he who comes to notify the public of changes made during the performance, and who at the final curtain comes forward again to announce the pieces of the morrow, which, as usual, are with Facanappa. His is the privilege of saying everything he pleases, and he is not backward in making numerous allusions, employing the most current words in his Venetian dialect, and manufacturing new ones when the need arises.
A long parakeet nose, surmounted by a pair of green spectacles like those of Tartaglia, a flat wide-brimmed hat, a red cravat, an enormous waistcoat with tinsel buttons and a long white coat, the tails of which trail along the ground—such is the appearance of this personage, whose offices are very varied, but whose character at bottom seems to be that of a sort of Venetian Monsieur Prud’homme.
In the beginning of the eighteenth century this type bore the name of Bernardone. In 1705, the actor Leinhaus played in the improvising company of Venice the rôles of ridiculous parents under this name, with a Venetian accent, so as to be as reminiscent as possible of the classical Pantaloon.
Zanobio is another type of old man of the same sort, but dating back to the fifteenth century. This personage parodied the citizens of Piombino, and his rôle was extremely characteristic. In the Gelosi troupe, which played in Florence in 1578, Girolamo Salimbeni, a Florentine, was engaged by Flaminio Scala exclusively for this character.
viii
There existed once in Palermo a national theatre, like that of Naples, but with types that were entirely different. Thus the father of the family, the Baron (Il Barone), a Sicilian lord, the dupe of his servants and his daughter, was the personification of the nobility of the land, and of the bourgeoisie aiming at aristocratic distinctions. It is not known whether Lappaio and his successor Pasquinio, two famous Sicilian actors, preserved this type, but down to the latter half of the nineteenth century there were still no Sicilian marionette pieces that did not include the Baron.
ix
Under the name of Fleschelles in serious rôles, and under that of Gaultier-Garguille in farces, Hugues Guéru, who was born in Normandy, played the parts of father and of old man, at first in the Théâtre du Marais in 1588, and later at the Hôtel de Bourgogne.
His name, Gaultier-Garguille, is derived from gaultier, meaning bon vivant, from the old French verb gaudir (to rejoice or to enjoy) and from garguille which means gargoyle or wide-throat. Guéru married the daughter of Tabarin somewhere about 1620. He must then have been at least fifty years of age (he was of the same age as his father-in-law), whilst his wife was very young and very wealthy. After the death of Gaultier-Garguille she was able, through her own wealth and that bequeathed her by her husband, to marry a gentleman of Normandy. Gaultier was a good and worthy husband, and in fine weather he would leave his house in the Rue Pavée-Saint-Sauveur to repair to his country villa, near the Porte Montmartre, there to live as a franc bourgeois.
He was lean of body, long of leg, and broad of face. He wore a greenish demi-mask with a long nose and cat’s whiskers; his hair was stiff and white, his beard pointed like that of Pantaloon, his breeches and shoes were black, and he wore a black doublet with red sleeves; he was equipped with a pouch, a dagger and a cane.
In 1622, the Hôtel de Bourgogne was in the apogee of its success. The best farces performed were, according to the critics of the day: La Malle de Gaultier, Le Cadet de Champagne, Tire la Corde, J’ai la Carpe, Mieux que Devant, La Farce Joyeuse de Maistre Mimin, etc.
Gaultier-Garguille enjoyed in particular a great reputation as a singer of absurdities, and somewhere about 1630 a collection of songs was published, mostly of an obscene character, approved by Turlupin and Gros-Guillaume. Hugues Guéru died in 1633.
He was replaced after his death by Jacquemin Jadot, who, however, never reached the level of Gaultier-Garguille.
x
In the French company at the theatre of the Hôtel de Bourgogne in 1634, Guillot-Gorju was the personification of the Doctor. The part was played by Bertrand Haudouin de Saint-Jacques who, according to Guy-Patin, had been dean of the faculty of medicine. He played for eight years at the Hôtel de Bourgogne, then withdrew and went to Melun, where he resumed his medical profession. But, seized with melancholy, he returned to the Hôtel de Bourgogne.
“He was a big man, dark and very ugly: his eyes were sunken and his nose resembled a trumpet, and although in general appearance he was not unlike an ape and there was absolutely no necessity for him to wear a mask in the theatre, he nevertheless never appeared without one.”
Doctor Guillot-Gorju was dressed from head to foot in black. He wore the ancient costume of the time of Henri IV. The doublet buttoned to the chin, trunks like a pair of melons and tight stockings; he wore two garters on his left leg, one above and the other below the knee.
He died in 1643 at the age of fifty.