At the end of the eighteenth century, when the Italian comedy was dying in France, having been fused into comic opera and French comedy, it was also expiring in a literary sense in Italy, but not without one last flicker, perhaps the most brilliant of all since the days of Ruzzante.
Carlo Gozzi did for the Commedia dell’ Arte the very opposite of that which had been done by Beolco (Ruzzante). The latter had protested against the academic language of his day. He had enthroned the dialects upon the stage, and proved that this rustic speech was the only one suitable to rustic and bourgeois pieces. Some two hundred years later, towards 1750, Carlo Gozzi, finding the Italian language softened by the various schools of literature through which it had passed, considered it a fitting vehicle to convey the ideas of all classes; and after a stern and derisive fight with the theatre of Goldoni, which was imbued with the Venetian spirit, he became the exclusive poet, the absolute master of an excellent company. Sacchi, the principal of this company, had with him some precious actors, and he himself was a Truffaldino of the very first rank.
“Never again,” says Gozzi himself, “shall we see a Truffaldino like Sacchi, a Brighella like Zanoni or a Tartaglia like Fiorilli, this Neapolitan full of fire, and so justly famous throughout Italy. Nor shall we see again such another Pantaloon as Darbés, this comedian self-contained or impetuous at will, majestic, stupid and so true to life that the Venetian citizen thinks to see himself mirrored upon the stage when he beholds this perfect model of his absurdities. La Smeralda was an angel in grace, a butterfly in lightness. With three words these people knew how to play a scene so as to make their audiences die of laughter. Never would they have suffered a piece to fail on its first performance. Sooner would they have manufactured another one on the spot. It was necessary that the spectators should laugh for their money, for the players were honest, and not for the devil himself would they have returned the price of the tickets. I lived with them for ten years amid noise, quarrels, storms and injuries, and all with so much pleasure that I would not exchange those ten years for all the rest of my life. They would have burned Venice for me. Alas! everything comes to an end. The extinction and dispersion of the company is one of my greatest sorrows. Goldoni placed his trust in imposing and deceptive words; and words are omnipotent with spirits of narrow limitations; his pieces will perhaps return to the surface, whilst my poor fables, if once forgotten, will never see the light again.”
These poor fables, which indeed are very much forgotten in Italy, and very little known elsewhere, are none the less destined to live in the archives of the Commedia dell’ Arte. They are not exactly scenarii, the rôles being succinctly and wittily written, particularly in those parts in which the actors had to express serious or passionate sentiments, which in the main are difficult to improvise.
“I flatter myself” (he says) “to have been of use to the company and to the art. Who could count all that out of complaisance I have written for them of prologues and of farewells in verse, of scenes to be interposed, of compliments for pretty actresses who were passing through, of additions to the farces, of soliloquies, of despairs, of menaces, of reproaches and of prayers?”
The scenarii of the pieces of Gozzi might simply be called fairy tales in action, the fiabesco or, as it were, the fabulous. They are very pretty stories, and their principal scenic merit lies in the alternation of burlesque with dramatic situation. Gozzi himself called them nursery tales, but if so they are written by a very poetical nurse for no less poetical nurslings. Hoffmann steeped himself in them to produce his fantastic tales. M. Paul de Musset, in one of his writings full of grace and good sense, upon modern Italy (Revue des Deux-Mondes), has characterised perfectly the bizarre genius of the Italian librettist and that of the German narrator.
The principal pieces of Carlo Gozzi are: The Love of the Three Oranges, The Raven, The King Stag, Turandot, The Woman Serpent, The Happy Beggars, The Blue Monster, La Zobéide and The Green Bird. These subjects gave scope to improvisation, to fancy and to that immense share held by a group of inventive and witty actors in the success of a theatrical work.
Gozzi was surnamed the Aristophanes of the Adriatic. But the Signora Teodora Ricci supervened. “Amour, tu perdis Troie!” Gozzi, who until then had allowed himself to be cajoled by all the charming comediennes of the company, fell in love with the Signora Ricci, who had no talent whatever. Sacchi, the old Truffaldino, was the rival of the poet, his best friend. The other actresses became jealous, and the men took sides in the contest. The end of it was the dispersal of the company. Gozzi found himself compelled to change his style. He followed the example of Goldoni, whom he had so consistently mocked, he wrote and arranged plays in the foreign taste for Signora Ricci, with the result that his dramatic genius was extinguished in compilation.
Happily the secret fire of his active genius was re-ignited, and his spirit revealed itself under a different form. He turned to the writing of satires—“the best fruits borne by this fecund tree.”
“The year 1797,” says M. Paul de Musset, “arrived. Gozzi witnessed the fall of his country as a result of treachery, its abandonment by the French general, the entrance of the German bayonets and the derisive election of Doge Manin, his friend. Heaven alone knows what had become in this conflict of the Pantaloons and Truffaldini! The year of Carlo Gozzi’s death is not even known. Nor do we know the year in which he was born. This bizarre genius passed like one of those comets whose course we have not the time to study.”
It may be well to cite some fragments and reflections of Carlo Gozzi on the nature and the history of the Commedia dell’ Arte, and particularly of the success scored by this genre in Germany.
“The improvised comedy, known as the Commedia dell’ Arte, was in all times the most useful to the troupes of Italian comedians. It has existed for three hundred years. It has always been attacked but never conquered. It seems impossible that certain men of our day, who pass for authors, should not perceive that they are ridiculous when they condescend to step from their importance to an amusing anger against a Brighella, a Pantaloon, a Doctor, a Tartaglia or a Truffaldino. This anger, which appears to be the result of intoxication, clearly shows that in Italy the Commedia dell’ Arte survives in all its vigour the shame of the persecutions exerted against it.
“I consider sound impromptu comedians as of much greater worth than improvising poets who, without saying anything of any sense, captivate the attention of those assemblies gathered to hear them.
“The improvised Italian comedy, called dell’ arte, is very ancient and very much more ancient than the regular and written Italian comedies. It had its beginnings in Lombardy, whence it spread through Italy and penetrated into France, where it is still to be found. In the sixteenth century it was no more permitted to women to be present at improvised comedies than at written ones. Both styles alike had become too licentious. We may judge of the obscenities of the written pieces, but not of those which were improvised, and which we know only from tradition.[6] These two styles were always in rivalry.
“In the time of the Austrian emperors Leopold, Joseph and Charles VI., the French comedians made all possible efforts to keep their place in the two theatres of Vienna. But they were dismissed by these emperors, who desired none but German and Italian comedians in their theatres, and of these they gave preference to those of their own nation. The Vienna companies of comedians followed the same working methods as those of Italy, and the improvised comedy which we call Commedia dell’ Arte was preferred. Weiskern, Heindrich, Leinhaus, Prehauser, Kurz, Jacquedt, Stéphanie, Muller, Breuner, Gottlieb, La Huberin, La Nutin, La Elizonin, and La Schwagerin were clever performers who played improvised comedy in German.
“Il Ganzachi, an able Italian comedian of our acquaintance, who speaks German very fluently, went to reinforce the Vienna company with the personnel and the material of our own theatre. Weiskern and Heindrich played old men’s parts; Leinhaus played Pantaloon in German with a Venetian accent; Prehauser played Hanswurst, a sort of second Zanni; Kurz played Bernardone; Brenner was seen as Il Burlino (the jester); Gottlieb as a village idiot; La Nutin, La Elizonin, and La Schwagerin played the feminine rôles, and all were as much beloved by the public as are Sacchi, Fiorilli, Zanoni, Darbés, Coralina and Smeraldina by ours.
“The detractors of this style claimed to have buried it. Improvised comedy, they said, no longer exists even in Italy; everywhere now comedy is recited from memory. But anyone who cares to look at the manuscript which serves as a guide to these excellent comedians will find a single sheet of paper placed near a little lamp, for the greater convenience of the entire troupe; upon this sheet is the whole matter from which ten to twelve persons will keep an audience in laughter for three hours, and conduct to its proper conclusion the story set forth.
“To give our reader a specimen of the guide which suffices for our improvising comedians, I will transcribe here a subject which I read by the light of the little theatre lamp, without adding or subtracting a single word. It is that of The Broken Contracts, which we see performed several times each year, and always with success.
ACT I
LEGHORN
Brighella enters the stage, sees no one and calls.
Pantaloon enters, simulates fear.
Brighella wants to leave his service.
Pantaloon recommends himself to him.
Brighella is touched, and promises him his assistance.
Pantaloon says that his creditors demand payment, especially Truffaldino, and that this is the last day allowed him, etc.
Brighella pacifies him.
At this moment:
Truffaldino. Scene in which he demands payment.
Brighella finds a way to fend him off.
Pantaloon and Brighella remain.
At this moment:
Tartaglia, at the window, listens.
Brighella perceives this. Plays a scene with Pantaloon pretending wealth.
Tartaglia comes down into the street to pretend to beg alms of Pantaloon. In the end they agree upon the marriage of the daughter of Tartaglia and the son of Pantaloon.
At this moment:
Truffaldino says that he wants his money.
Brighella pretends that Pantaloon gives it to him. When this has happened three times all go off.
Florindo speaks of his love for Rosaura and of the hunger that torments him. He knocks.
Rosaura listens to his protestations, wants to put him to the test, and asks for a present.
Florindo says this is not possible at the moment as he has no means.
Rosaura bids him wait, telling him that she will make him a present, and goes off.
Florindo remains.
At this moment:
Smeraldina, with a basket which she gives to Florindo, and goes off.
Florindo eats.
Brighella, having heard that Rosaura has sent this basket, steals it and escapes.
Florindo follows him.
Leandro speaks of his love for Rosaura. He seeks to deceive Pantaloon.
At this moment:
Tartaglia comes on, speaking to himself of the great wealth of Pantaloon.
Leandro asks for the hand of his daughter.
Tartaglia replies that she is affianced to the son of Pantaloon.
Leandro is astonished; he makes a scene, etc., etc.
“From this textually rendered sheet” (says Gozzi) “comes the comedy I Contratti Rotti, and from more than four hundred other formulæ as concise as this come all our Commedia dell’ Arte. Such plays as these are not at the mercy of the sudden illness of an actor, or the fact that another has been recently recruited; a simple arrangement, broadly made, concerning the basis of the scenic action, suffices for a successful performance. At the moment of taking up the curtain it often happens that the description of the rôles is changed according to circumstances, the relative importance or the ability of the actors. Nevertheless the comedy marches happily and gaily to its conclusion. Not a year passes but that some scenes are added or subtracted from the argument, and a simple announcement made to the company is all that is needed for the change to be ably executed. It will be seen that these clever actors work upon the very basis of their subjects, establishing always their scenes upon different foundations, and filling in the dialogue with so much variety that they are always new and perdurable. I have frequently heard these improvisors reproach themselves with having badly established (mal piantato) some scene or other, and proceed to re-establish it at once by excellent arguments in such a way as to prepare their companions for a fresh attempt.
“It is very true that in this style of comedy some serious actors, and more particularly some actresses, have a very arsenal of premeditated material committed to memory, material which serves for intercessions, for reproaches, for threats, for the expression of despair and for sentiments of jealousy; but it is none the less surprising to see that, face to face with the public and improvising with other improvisors, they are able to hold this material in readiness, and to select from the mass with which their brains are stored, that which is suitable to the occasion, expressing it with energy, and earning the applause of the spectators.
“Such is the system of our improvised comedy, a glorious art which our nation alone can claim for its own, and one that, in the course of three centuries, has by no means exhausted its wit.
“It would take too long to enumerate the four hundred and more subjects which are continually being renewed in the dialogues. The clever actors who succeed the clever actors who die suffice to give an eternal aspect of novelty to these subjects. We see Roderigo Lombardi, an excellent Doctor, replaced by Agostino Fiorilli, a clever Tartaglia, renewing each subject merely by the differences that lie between their respective talents. A single new original personage suffices to revive the originality of the entire company.”
Gozzi informs us, however, that the authors of his day, and notably Goldoni, wrote their dialogue after the first performance, and published the scenarii which had been successful in the hands of improvising comedians. For the rest, the majority of Italian comic authors have proceeded thus. Nearly all the comedies of the seventeenth century are extracted from old improvised scenarii of which Gozzi gives us a very curious although very incomplete list. He cites among others: “The famous Domenico Biancolelli, who has caused to be performed in dialogue a very large number of improvised Italian scenarii. His comedies are printed, but they have remained unfruitful, whilst the very same subjects, treated by improvisation, are still greatly appreciated in the theatre.” He further tells us that comedies written and recited by comedians who memorise them, which had never succeeded in bringing together sixty spectators, would attract a crowd from the moment that the improvisors took possession of the subject to embroider it in their own manner.
Many plays written up after the first performance, and published in the sostenuta form, have served none but reading purposes. The comedians dell’ arte took no notice of them, preferring their old dry and succinct résumés, which left their wit very much more free and untrammelled.
But whatever Gozzi may say, he has followed, like Goldoni, the extremely felicitous mixed style, half-memorised, half-improvised. It remains, however, that this mixed style could only be treated successfully by an original spirit, and one sufficiently in sympathy with his actors to leave them a free hand. It was a style that ended with himself. All that remained of it after him was the custom in Italy to cause certain comic masks to appear in the course of all sorts of performances.
Carlo Goldoni began, like Gozzi, and before Gozzi, by writing scenarii for the Commedia dell’ Arte. Numerous traces of this must remain in Italy, but Goldoni himself refused to edit these skeletons, of which he was unjustly ashamed, until he had written them anew with full dialogue, and thereby changed and converted them into complete plays. We have seen Gozzi reproach him with having ruined, by means of this cold work, many felicitous subjects in which the improvisors shone, subjects which, for the rest, were of no use to the comedians of his day in their new form, or else (according to Gozzi) were of use only for performance at banquets.
The quarrel between these two authors and their adherents was a very lively one. Both had a deal of merit; Goldoni’s was the greater wisdom, observation and reality, Gozzi’s the better invention, wit and originality. Both began in the same way by leaving an open field to improvisation. Little by little each felt the need to write up the rôles, and to substitute his own personality for those of the comedians. Both followed for some time the mixed style—that is to say, writing up the serious rôles, and leaving the rôles of the masks to improvisation. In the end both brought about the disappearance of the latter, Gozzi in spite of himself, and with infinite regret for his beloved Sacchi company; Goldoni, on the other hand, with the deliberate resolve to suppress masks and dialects, or to relegate them to a place of secondary importance. Thus he no longer permits them to improvise, but himself writes their dialogues for them. It was upon this ground that Gozzi was able victoriously to attack him. That which is written for improvisors is of necessity pale, cold and heavy, and it would be far better not to see Truffaldino or Tartaglia at all than to see them gagged by the logic of the author.
The sentence of death which Goldoni attempted to pronounce against the Commedia dell’ Arte is fully set forth in his piece entitled Il Teatro Comico, which he himself has placed at the head of his collection (edition of Turin, 1756), declaring it to be a sort of preface to his work. There is very little that is amusing in this comedy; it is rather to be considered a critical piece; but it is of interest to students of the history of this style.
A theatrical director is rehearsing some new actors in a fresh piece, and dissertating at length upon the subject:
Orazio (the manager of the company). You see that it is very necessary to procure actors who are united by a literary convention; without that they will usually fall into the trite or the unnatural.
Eugenio (the second lover in the company). Then it becomes necessary entirely to suppress the improvised comedy?
Orazio. Entirely, no! It is as well that Italians should continue masters of an art which other nations had not the courage to create. The French are in the habit of saying that Italian comedians are very daring to risk making impromptu speeches to the public; but that which may be called temerity on the part of ignorant comedians is a fine quality with comedians of ability, and, to the honour of Italy and the glory of our art be it said, there are still many excellent personages who bear triumphantly and meritoriously the admirable prerogative of speaking impromptu with as much elegance as the poet may achieve in writing.
Eugenio. But usually the masks are at a loss when they utter what is premeditated.
Orazio. When what is premeditated is brilliant, graceful, well suited to the character of the personage which is to utter it, all good masks will learn it gladly.
Eugenio. Would it not be possible to suppress masks in character comedies?
Orazio. Woe to us were we to attempt such an innovation! It is not yet time to risk it. In all things we must not offend universal taste. In other times the public attended comedy only to laugh, and they desired to see no other actors on the stage but the masks. Did the serious characters render the dialogue a little too long, at once they grew weary; to-day they have learned to listen to serious rôles, to enjoy words, to be interested by events, to favour the moral, to laugh at the sallies and altercations derived from the serious itself. But the masks are still beheld with pleasure, and it is not necessary to withdraw them altogether. Rather let us seek to limit their conventions and to bridle their ridiculous characters.
Eugenio. But this is a very difficult way of composing.
Orazio. It is a way that has lately been rediscovered, and to which we devote ourselves. Very soon we shall see the most fertile wits rising to improve it, as is desired with all his heart by him who invented it.
Notwithstanding this naïvely perfidious attitude, Goldoni did not dare until very late entirely to suppress the masks; but he had so completely transformed them that they might well look upon him as their assassin. Success abandoned him in a measure as he denaturalised the national taste in the speeches of these personages, who, thanks to him, came to utter dialogues in the French fashion—that is to say, like lackeys and soubrettes imitating their masters. He acknowledged himself beaten, became a Frenchman, and produced in France Le Bourru Bienfaisant; that, after all, was his real genre.
It is none the less true, and Gozzi himself recognised it, that Goldoni had worked for the Italian theatre, especially at the beginning, in a felicitous and amusing manner. His Venetian pieces are still quite charming, notwithstanding the narrower and heavier garb which he gave them in redressing them for his readers. Compelled to leave the Venetian dialect to his principal comic personages, he has contrived to produce some real characters for the comedy of manners. Nevertheless the sum total of his theatrical work does not sufficiently justify the title awarded him of the Italian Molière. If any Italian genius deserves such a comparison it is the genius of Ruzzante, who at once actor and author was, like our great Poquelin, nourished upon Plautus and Terence, upon whom, like him again, he improved considerably.
[1] The names of Demetrio and Cornelio continued to be adopted in the theatre for old men’s rôles, particularly in memorised comedies, such as La Vedova, comedia facetissima by Nicolò Buonaparte, a citizen of Florence, 1643.
[2] Aldo Manuzio, the famous Venetian printer of the fifteenth century (sta zovene bella à muo un papagà in stampa d’Aldo).
[3] Les Bigarrures et touches du seigneur des Accords, Les Apophthegmes du sieur Gaulard and Les Escraignes dijonnoises (1560), as well as the Vaillans faits d’armes de Bolorospe (1633), must have supplied Turlupin with matter to be embroidered and amplified into texts of the style of the following:—
“... Habillé de vert (de gris), parfumé (comme un jambon) d’odeur (de sainteté), et enveloppé d’un manteau (de cheminée). Il rencontre une dame parée d’une belle robe (d’avocat), d’une fine fraise (de veau) et d’une riche côte (de melon), bordée, d’un filet (de vinaigre).” Then follows the description of his hero: “Il a un corps (de garde), une tête (d’épingle), un cou (de tonnerre), des épaules (de mouton), des bras (de mer), une main (de papier), un pied (de cochon), un dos (d’âne), une langue (étrangère), une haleine (de savetier). Il était fort bien vêtu, il avait de belles chemises de toile (d’araignée), un rabat de point (du jour), une culotte (de bœuf).... Sa maison était bâtie de pierres (philosophales), soutenue de piliers (de cabaret), et on y entrait par deux cours (de chimie), d’où on montait vingt-cinq degrés (de chaleur), et on se trouvait dans une grande chambre (de justice).... Il courait à la chasse suivi d’une meute de chiens (-dent), de quatre valets (de pique), montés sur des chevaux (de frise) portant des lacs (d’amour) et des filets (de canards).... Il visitait souvent ses châteaux (en Espagne), ses terres et ses champs (de bataille) ... et mourut d’une chute (d’eau), etc., etc.”
[4] The site of the gallows.
[5] In the Collier de Perles, performed in 1672, Harlequin, who plays the part of a certain Marchese di Sbrofadel, having swallowed a medicine, imagines himself at the point of death. He summons a notary to make his will. The Doctor goes out and returns with Tartaglia, who plays the notary.
Tartaglia. Ser ... ser ... servant illustri ... tri ... tri ... trious.
Harlequin. This notary is from Tripoli.
Tartaglia (sits down, draws pen and paper and begins to write). L’an ... an ... an ... an....
Harlequin. Que l’on mène cet âne à l’écurie!...
Tartaglia. I ... i ... i ... io son ... son ... sono presto.
Harlequin. Va, bene! I leave this house to the Doctor.
The Doctor. But the house is mine!
Harlequin. I know, that is why I am leaving it to you: if it were not yours I should not leave it to you. I leave my cabinet to my cousin.
Tartaglia (writing). My ca ... ca ... ca....
Harlequin. Faites vite retirer ce notaire, il va salir tous les meubles.
Tartaglia. ... binet! à mon cou ... cou ...
Harlequin. I leave sixty-five acres of broadcloth to dress my family in mourning.
The Doctor. You are making a mistake. Cloth is not measured by the acre.
Harlequin. It seems to me that a man may measure his own property as best he pleases.
Tartaglia. Pou ... pou ... pou ... pour habiller ma famille en feuille.
Harlequin. Je laisse à Lallemand, mon valet de chambre....
Tartaglia. Un lavement à mon valet de chambre.
Harlequin. Lallemand! et non lavement.
Tartaglia (writing always under the dictation of Harlequin). Si si ... si ... si ... signor, il y a bien lavement ... ent ... ent ... ent.
Harlequin. Je laisse toutes mes vielles nippes à la fripière, ma voisine.
Tartaglia (repeating). Tou ... tou ... toutes mes vieilles tri ... tri ... tripes, à la tri ... tri ... tripière, ma voisine.
Harlequin. Ohimé! ce notaire-là n’en peut plus; il faudrait lui donner une médecine pour lui faire évacuer les paroles...! Je laisse vingt écus à mon cuisinier, à condition qu’il dépendra de mon frère cadet.
Tartaglia. Qu’il pend ... pendra mon frère cadet.
Harlequin. Enfin, je laisse au notaire ci-présent, une langue de pore pour mettre à la place de la sienne.
Tartaglia. Po ... po ... po ... porc toi-même!
Harlequin gives him a kick which sends him flying, together with his pens, paper, portfolio and ink-horns. Tartaglia gets up, his face covered with ink, and goes off in such a rage that he is unable to articulate intelligible sounds.
[6] On this score Gozzi is absolutely mistaken, so far at least as Ruzzante is concerned, whom evidently he had never read. Ruzzante’s pieces, as we have said, are never licentious, and virtuous women attended their performance. “Ad audiendas eas hominum tam mulierum concursus,” says B. Scardeon. This is further proved by the prologues which Beolco himself recited, and in which he frequently addressed himself to the good and beautiful ladies of the audience, sometimes rebuking them upon the exaggerated fashions of their toilettes, sometimes speaking to them of faithful love and of conjugal love in the most naïve, and at the same time the most idealistic manner. In the Gelosia, of Lasca (1581), there is a prologue addressed entirely to ladies, as is also the case with Il Granchio, of Salviati (1566) and several other comedies of the sixteenth century.