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:

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.

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.

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.

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.

Such is M. Grapignan, who succeeds in robbing even highway robbers.

v

Il Sbirro (the Constable) was ever a type greatly in vogue in the Italian comedy. He is the same personage as the Sergent du Guet of the booth of Polichinelle, under the names of Corporal Rogantino, Corporal Simone, Capo de gli Sbirri, etc. Like the Podestà (chief magistrate), this terrific personage appears but little in the course of the plot’s development.

A vast felt hat, an enormous cloak, great strong boots, a long sword, enormous moustachios and a cardboard nose, and there you have the elements out of which to construct a constable. This raiment was always hung upon a nail behind the first wing. The whole could be put on like a dressing-gown, for it is often Harlequin, Mezzetin, Scapin or some other lackey who passes himself off as something that he is not. But let them have a care! For often at the moment when they least expect it there appears on the other side of the stage a real Sbirro, who moves silently in the shadow, wrapped to the eyes in his great cloak. But his heavy boots alone make so much noise that it would be necessary to be as deaf as Pandolfe not to hear him. What are the uses of this sombre personage? To execute justice upon the traitors and evildoers of the comedy. He was born anywhere. He is of any age, or rather he is so old that he is of none. He lives everywhere. He is, he has been, and he will be. He is as ancient as comedy. But his spirit is obtuse, and unpardonable mistakes are common with him. Being strong of hand and tight of grip, he is feared by all. Harlequin flees before him as though he were the plague. Mezzetin fears him more than fire, and the same is the case with the good Pierrot, although he has done nothing to draw upon himself the constable’s attention. Polichinelle alone is not afraid of him. He is his greatest enemy. On no single occasion have they met but that sound blows have been exchanged, and the Sbirro has not always issued in triumph from the contest. But what matter? He is strong in his conscience and the support of the law, and knows nothing but his duty.

vi

If the doctor was ridiculed on the Italian stage and in the comedies of Molière, the Apothecary was not spared. But this worthy corps of science triumphs in the person of M. de Pourceaugnac; he knows how to keep his place, and never in the slightest degree does he impinge upon the rights of the medical faculty.

“No, I am not a doctor,” says the apothecary to Eraste, “mine is not that honour, and I am but an apothecary, an unworthy apothecary, your servant.”

In Le Malade Imaginaire M. Fleurant is the model apothecary; he is fully conscious of his worth, and does not jest on the subject of his drugs. He is no longer the simple Matassin who, to introduce his merchandise, seeks to deafen his client by bellowing its virtues in his ear.

In the plays of Gherardi he bears the most ridiculous names, like those of Viseautrou, Cussiffle and Clistorel, and other kindred ones. Callot calls him Maramao, and dresses him in a manner but little different from the apothecaries to be seen in the comedies of Molière. He presents him with a cap on his head, an apron about his body, armed with his favourite weapon, which is as long as a culverin, and levelling it with precision at Cardoni.

In the Italian comedy the apothecary is treated still better than in the comedy-ballets of Molière. He plays a part, comes to mingle in the plot, and alludes to his art in metaphors and symbols.