The history of the harlequinade, volume 1 (of 2)

_ISABELLA, HARLEQUIN, and then ORAZIO_

Isabella tells Harlequin that she is going to talk with her brother Orazio, and should he question Harlequin, Harlequin is to bear out whatever she may say. Orazio arrives. Isabella then relates to him that Flavio has just arrived at her house, bringing with him a young girl from Naples, betrayed and abandoned by the Captain, notwithstanding that he had sworn to marry her. This young lady has trusted the loyalty of Flavio, knowing him to be a friend of the Captain’s; but Flavio, desiring her to obtain reparation, has promised so to contrive that the Captain shall keep his word. To achieve this end he has thought of a trick: it is, of course with Orazio’s permission, to tell the Captain that Isabella is in love with him, and that he should come to visit her at her house; there, however, he will find instead the young girl whom he has abandoned, and thus he shall repair the wrong by marrying her. Orazio consents and inquires, where is this young lady. “She is in my house,” says Isabella. Harlequin, being questioned, answers in the same way. This decides Orazio to go in quest of the Captain, so as to send him immediately. Isabella goes in, followed by Harlequin, who can make nothing of the tales of his mistress and the answers delivered.

_FLAVIO, FLAMINIA, then PANTALOON_

Flavio, in despair from what Isabella has told him, comes to seek explanations from Flaminia. He knocks at her door and Flaminia appears. She is very angry with him. She weeps and complains that he has deceived her, but tells him that he may marry Isabella, and that she would be the last to throw any obstacles in his way. Flavio on the other hand overwhelms her with stern reproaches on the subject of Orazio, whom she wishes to marry. “I have never dreamt of it,” exclaims Flaminia. In the middle of their dispute Pantaloon enters. He seeks to console her and reproaches Flavio for the beautiful tears which he is causing her to shed. He proposes a way out of the difficulty. It is that Flaminia should accept him for her husband and he will renounce Isabella, “whose conquest he had undertaken.” Flaminia, in her vexation, tells Flavio that she will marry Pantaloon, old and ill though he may be, a statement which is but very little flattering to the latter. Flavio goes off angrily. Pantaloon, left alone with his future wife, attempts to caress her. He is rudely repulsed. Burattino goes mockingly to her aid, and Pantaloon, not knowing upon whom to vent his anger, insults Burattino and goes off.

_BURATTINO, PEDROLINO, then two rogues and FRANCESCHINA_

Burattino watches Pantaloon off, deriding his stupidity, when Pedrolino, disguised as a mendicant, with a long false beard, and a patch over one eye, enters begging. Burattino bids him go to the devil, and seek work. Pedrolino replies that it is through having worked too hard that he has been driven out of his own country. At this moment a rogue, a friend of Pedrolino, arrives disguised as a merchant, pretends to perceive him for the first time, salutes him, thanks him and gives him money to recompense him for the great service rendered him in procuring him an heir. The false merchant announces himself delighted at having found him, and departs. Burattino, having overheard this conversation, is anxious to understand the subject of it more clearly, when a second rogue, also in agreement with Pedrolino like the first, comes to announce to him that his secret, whence it results that none but boys are born, has once more been perfectly successful. Thereupon he also departs. Burattino then detains Pedrolino, who pretends to wish to go. He summons his wife, and behold the two of them questioning this mysterious operator. Pedrolino cannot reveal his secret, but tells them that they are free to experience the excellence of his occult knowledge. Husband and wife having consulted together, they draw Pedrolino by cajoleries into the inn.

_The CAPTAIN, ORAZIO, ISABELLA_

Orazio having taken the Captain into his confidence on the subject of Isabella’s love for him, the latter is enchanted and consents gladly to the marriage. Isabella, summoned by her brother, and having manifested her joy in marrying the Captain, conducts him upon Orazio’s permission into the house. She returns to tell her brother that she has had the Captain taken to her own chamber, where he will find the young Neapolitan girl whom he so little expects. Orazio laughs heartily at the farce played upon the Captain, and goes in quest of Flavio, to advise him of the good success of this affair. Isabella, who wishes to kill two birds with one stone, calls Flaminia.

_ISABELLA and FLAMINIA. (Night)_

Flaminia expresses her surprise at finding Isabella in the street at such an hour. “The reason is a very simple one,” replies Isabella. “My poor brother Orazio is there in the house weeping and lamenting because you will not have him for your husband. Be generous, come and console him.” Flaminia, still angry with Flavio, resolves to go. They enter Isabella’s house.

_FLAVIO, then HARLEQUIN and ISABELLA_

Flavio, at the height of his anger against Flaminia, wishes to marry Isabella out of spite; he hopes that Orazio will readily consent to their union. Harlequin, sent by Isabella, comes to beg Flavio to wait a moment for his mistress, who desires to speak to him. Isabella arrives, dismisses her servant and makes false confidences to Flavio. She tells him that she is to marry the Captain against her will, and that she would very much prefer Flavio if he would consent. She is a widow and may marry again as she pleases, whilst Flavio is free, since Flaminia is marrying another. Flavio, persuaded, consents to wed her. They enter the house arm in arm.

_PANTALOON, BURATTINO_

Pantaloon, lantern in hand, is seeking his house when Burattino comes on to tell him that he had better prepare the hundred ducats promised to Franceschina, because she is undoubtedly going to give birth to a boy forthwith. Pantaloon, very happily, goes to seek the money. Burattino re-enters his inn.

_ORAZIO, then HARLEQUIN and the CAPTAIN_

Orazio, becoming impatient at not finding Flavio, makes shift to enter his house, and knocks loudly at the door, which he finds closed. Harlequin appears, carrying an enormous lantern and bids Orazio make less noise, or he will disturb the young married people. “Ah,” he cries, “your sister Isabella is a clever woman, to have known how to get herself a husband and to marry Flaminia at the same time.” The Captain, also lighting himself with a lantern, comes to grasp Orazio’s hand and to thank him for having given him his sister to wife. Orazio understands nothing of all this.

_FLAVIO, FLAMINIA, ISABELLA and the preceding ones_

Flavio and Flaminia enter hand in hand, having made the peace, and they congratulate Isabella upon having so adroitly carried through this intrigue. Orazio inquires where is the young Neapolitan lady. Isabella confesses that the young Neapolitan lady and herself are the same person, and announces that the story which she invented was no more than a ruse to induce her brother himself to give her to the Captain, whom she loves. Orazio, having conquered his astonishment, finds the Captain of a rank equal to his own and announces his consent. A great noise is heard in the inn.

_PEDROLINO, BURATTINO, FRANCESCHINA, and the preceding ones_

Pedrolino runs on, chased by Burattino, who is armed with the kitchen spit and seeks his life. The others separate them and demand to know the reason of this quarrel. Pedrolino explains that, Burattino having mocked him, he, to avenge himself, had sworn to make a cuckold of him. “That, then,” cries Burattino, “was your fine secret!” Pedrolino adds that he did not wish to execute it lest it should injure his reputation. But Franceschina replies that he lies, and that it was she who repulsed and beat him. Peace being restored, the Captain marries Isabella, Flavio marries Flaminia, and thus the comedy comes to an end.

It will be seen from this long yet succinct scenario, this skeleton or _ossatura_, as it was then called, that the comedy which was but in its beginnings in France was already an accomplished thing in Italy; that it was as soundly invented and developed as those which French authors began to indite some fifty years later. With the exception of the jests of the _shoes of Pantaloon_ and the _supper of Burattino_, which have no connection with the action and which would seem to be two of those traditional scenes interposed perforce into all performances to satisfy a certain portion of the public, the scenario of _The Wiles of Isabella_, like all those of the same collection, is very ably put together and leaves nothing to be desired from the point of view of proportion and logical development. When compared with the contemporary works of such Frenchmen as Jean de la Taille it will readily be seen that the Italians were very much the masters. It is true that the pupils profited fully from the lesson, and that in the seventeenth century they were able to indulge in reprisals. But to Italy must be given the credit due to her of precocity in the arts. It is to be remembered that whilst she culled through the ages the fruits of her ancient civilisation, France strode towards the future, her hands empty of those riches which the past had bequeathed to Italy.

That which was made for France by her great masters was as the labour of bees; the flowers did not bloom on French soil; the flight of these ingenious and mighty spirits crossed the Alps and the Pyrenees, to gather the precious nectars and return with the honey. France is rightly proud of them, but it is necessary to be just. Before Molière, before Corneille, before Calderon and Lope de Vega, and forty years before the birth of Shakespeare, Angelo Beolco (termed Ruzzante) had—as we shall see—created the modern theatre.

iii

Giovanni-Battista Andreini, the son of Francesco Andreini and the famous Isabella, was born in Florence in 1579. He seems to have been the first actor to bear the name of LELIO in the theatre. In the _Gelosi_ troupe he replaced Domenico Bruni (Fulvio) in the capacity of lover.

After the death of Isabella Andreini in 1604, the _Gelosi_ troupe was disbanded. G. B. Andreini undertook in 1605 the management of the _Fedeli_ troupe, which was recruited by more than one of the old _Gelosi_. In 1601 G. B. Andreini had married in Milan Virginia Ramponi, a young and beautiful Milanese, known by the name of Florinda. After her death Andreini married in second nuptials the celebrated actress Lidia.

In 1613 Andreini wrote a blank verse piece in five acts dedicated to Marie de Médicis, which was performed in that same year in Milan. This piece, of a religious character (_rappresentazione sacra_), is entitled, _Adamo_. The characters in it are Adam and Eve, the Eternal Father, the Archangel Michael, Satan, Lucifer, the elementary Infernal Spirits, the Seven Deadly Sins, the Seraphim, the Angels, Death, Hunger, the Flesh and the Serpent. In short, it is a mystery play of the fifteenth century.

The Milanese edition of 1613 is extremely curious, with its engravings by Procaccini interposed in every scene. Its dedication to the Queen of France stirred in her the curiosity to know the author and the company. He went therefore to Paris in 1613, and remained there, playing several of his pieces, until 1618. He was installed at the Hôtel de Bourgogne from 1621 until 1625. He lost his father in that year and bade farewell to France in a work half theatrical, half mystic, entitled _Teatro Celeste_.

“_Teatro Celeste_, in which we see Divine Mercy calling several penitent and martyred comedians to the ranks of the blessed in Paradise, in which those who practise the profession of the theatre are poetically exhorted to follow their art without offending virtue, and not only to leave upon earth an honoured name, but further not to close against themselves by vice the path which leads to Paradise. Dedicated to my most illustrious and most reverend lord and very respected patron the Cardinal de Richelieu. By Gio. Batt. Andreini of Florence, known in the theatre as Lelio.”

In this work Andreini sings the praises of pious comedians. He puts forward his claims in favour of his profession. One of his sonnets is in praise of St Ardélion, a pagan actor, a martyr like St Genest. Another is in honour of Giovanni Buono of Mantua, who, retiring to a cloister, lived in penitence and was considered a saint: “he who so long excited laughter is transformed into a fount of tears.”

Again, it is the beatification of Brother John the sinner, the ancient comedian of Adria, who, in his conventual cell, “affords the angels the spectacle of his mortifications and his piety.”

Further on we have the praise of comedians who lead virtuous lives in the practice of their art. A whole sonnet is consecrated to the memory of his mother, Isabella Andreini. He compares human life such as it is in the world’s theatre to a mad theatrical performance. The poet exhorts actors of disordered life to re-enter the path of good conduct. Then, in his last sonnets, he bids farewell to the theatre and to the world and aspires to do penance. “Deceiving stage, I go! Never again shall I tread thy boards, tricked out and proud. I abandon all that vain lustre even as I withdraw from the lovely land of France.”

Andreini departed, in fact, with his troupe (the _Fedeli_); but he remained nevertheless their Director until 1652, when at last he retired at the age of seventy-three, “honoured by the favour of princes, appointed master of the hunt of the Duke of Mantua and a member of the society of the _Spensierati_.” He wrote so great a number of pieces, pastoral plays, comedies and scenarii, that no biography has yet been able to include a complete list.

In the year 1622 he published in Paris _La Sultana_, _L’Amor Nello Specchio_, _La Ferinda_, _Li Due Leli Simili_, and _La Centaura_. His pieces are redolent of the taste of the epoch; they are full of obscenities. Riccoboni says of him:

“Giov. Battista Andreini was a man of wit and of letters, and I am sure that had he lived fifty years earlier he would have followed the path trodden by others and would have left us some good comedies; but after all he was both author and comedian, and he could not write anything of a fashion other than that of the wits of his epoch and other than his interest urged him.”

iv

Marco Romagnesi, an actor of talent, known under the name of Orazio—also written Horatio—went to France somewhere about 1645 together with his wife Brighida Bianchi (Aurelia). Loret gives an account of the performances which took place at Vincennes in 1659, in which “the husband of Aurelia did marvels.”

ORAZIO in dress and manners is a gentleman of the period. He wears a moustache and the _royale_ of 1643—a cut of beard invented by King Louis XIII., who “was one day taken with the fancy to have the beards of all his officers cut in such a fashion as to leave them merely a little tuft on their chins.” A lampoon was written on the subject:

“Hélas, ma pauvre barbe, Qu’est-ce qui t’a faite ainsi? C’est le grand roi Louis, Treizième de ce nom, Qui toute a ébarbé sa maison.”

“However ridiculous that may be, all the world appeared presently with a beard _à la royale_,” and the long love-lock, termed at first _moustache_, and later _cadenette_, in commemoration of M. Cadenet de Luynes, who wore the most beautiful love-lock that was ever seen, tied in a coloured ribbon. This fashion, which had already been in vogue for some years, was still considered in good taste, as well as the great felt hat decked with white plumes.

Orazio’s costume consists of a pale green doublet, a colour in the very best of taste; breeches of white satin, laced with silver and decked with ribbons tied into a knot in the place of the old garters, which had now passed out of fashion; silk stockings, and shoes with large pale green rosettes. A white baldric embroidered in silver carried his long rapier; he leaned upon a cane, and was curled, pomaded and perfumed.

There you have Orazio marching to the assault of the heart of Aurelia or Isabella, and, like the lover conceived by Saint Amant in his enumeration of the reformations which he considers to be a lover’s due, he no longer smokes.

Notwithstanding this extreme care of his person, and under this effeminate exterior, Orazio is a cavalier as dangerous to his rivals as to the ladies who have caught his eye. Like Don Juan, fathers, tutors, husbands, brothers and servants cannot turn him aside from his enterprises. He has always a sword-thrust ready for his rivals, a cuff for his lackeys, and flattery that is honeyed, persuasive, and fraught with a dash of raillery, for his mistresses. He is a gentleman of the _dernier bien mis_, as the phrase ran then; one who knows of life nothing but its luxuries: dress, horses, duels and women. He quits the arms of Aurelia to run and throw himself at the feet of Isabella, and if on the way he meets the soubrettes Beatrix or Diamantine, he forget his latest passion to dally with them, and to betray even his valet. As prodigal of his life as of his purse, he is brave to the point of temerity, and his rivals all give way before him. The type of Orazio is something more than a lover; he is a hero of gallantry whose device is: “Fais ce que veux, advienne que pourra.”

Romagnesi played these parts down to the time of his death in 1660.

In 1653, Turi, born at Modena, a son of the actor who played the parts of Pantaloon, was to be seen in the rôles of second lover under the name of Virginio. After the death of his father he left the theatre at the age of forty and withdrew to Modena, where he took the habit of the order of barefoot Carmelites. A few days after having pronounced his vows he died, and he was interred in the convent (1670).

In 1660, the Italian company being definitely established in Paris, the cardinal summoned from Italy a leading lover (_primo innamorato_) to make good the loss which the company had just sustained in the person of Marco Romagnesi. An actor whose stage name was Valerio came to take up this position and occupied it until 1667.

Andrea Zanotti of Bologna, known in the theatre under the name of Ottavio, made his début in Paris on the Italian stage in second-lover parts, which he played from 1660 until 1667, when he was promoted to leading lover. Towards 1684 Zanotti retired from the theatre and returned to Italy with his family. He was an excellent comedian. He was surnamed “the old Ottavio,” to distinguish him from Giovanni Battista Constantini, who played in 1668 also under the name of Ottavio.

v

After the departure of Ottavio, Marco Antonio Romagnesi took up the leading parts, and played them until 1694 under the name of CINTHIO, which was already in existence. A lover whose real name we have been unable to ascertain had already borne it in Rome in 1550.

It is under the pompous name of Cinthio del Sole that Marco Antonio Romagnesi, born at Rome, made his first appearance in Paris in 1667. He was the son of Marco Romagnesi and Brighida Bianchi. He succeeded Valerio, whose family name is unknown. We behold him, in the collected plays of Gherardi, dressed after the fashion of a young man of quality at the end of the seventeenth century, with the huge Louis XIV. wig, the pointed lace collar, waistcoat and coat of a long cut, a sash round his middle, a round hat slightly cocked, the crown encircled by feathers. This is the classic costume of the young men of Molière, of Léandre, Ottavio and all lovers.

In _Colombine Avocat_, Cinthio, passing in front of Harlequin, who, pretending to be a marquis, is richly but grotesquely dressed, surveys him from head to foot and then takes him by the sleeve to ask him, “Is that the fashion?”

Harlequin. Yes, sir, the fashion. What has it to do with you?

Cinthio. (_coldly_) Are you not called the Marquis Sbrufadelli?

Harlequin. Yes, sir, the Marquis Sbrufadelli is my name. What have you to say about it?

Cinthio. And you are to marry Isabella, the Doctor’s daughter?

Harlequin. Certainly, and none shall hinder me. I am a gentleman of quality, and a man of heart, by heaven!

Cinthio. (_deriding him_) Ha, ha, ha! the lovely fellow!

Harlequin. (_thrusting down his hat with one hand, and placing the other upon the hilt of his sword_) What? To a man such as I? By death! By——

Cinthio. (_drily_) What are you going to do with that sword?

Harlequin. (_suddenly softening_) I want to sell it, sir. You don’t happen to want to buy it, do you?

Upon the death in 1694 of Angelo Lolli, who played doctors, fathers and tutors, Romagnesi took his place and played such parts until 1697, under the names of Cinthio, old Oronte, Persillet, Grognard, the Bailie of Bezons, the Doctor, etc. He remained in Paris until the suppression of the Théâtre-Italien, and died there in 1706. He had married in Italy in 1653 Giulia della Chiesa, who never played in comedy, and who died in London in 1675 on the occasion of a journey thither made by the Italian troupe.

“Cinthio was a man of wit who wrote both in prose and in verse. In 1673 he printed in Italy a volume of heroic, amorous, sacred and moral poems which were highly esteemed by the most famous Italian poets. He was a sound philosopher, very learned in letters, affable in conversation, polished in manners and very honest in his sentiments. His family was noble and distinguished.”

He wrote a large number of scenarii for the theatre.

Under the name of Aurelio, Bartolomeo Ranieri, a Piedmontese, had succeeded Zanotti (Ottavio) in the parts of second lover. His début in Paris took place in 1685. He was just a mediocre actor, “but he was unable to control his tongue and his political opinions, wherefore the court, informed of his malevolent reflections, commanded him to return to Italy.” He departed in 1689 and went to resume his interrupted studies of divinity. He took Holy Orders and Riccoboni speaks of having several times beheld him in the discharge of his sacred office.

vi

On the 2nd November 1688, Giovanni-Battista Constantini, a younger brother of Angelo Constantini (Mezzetin), who had left his native place, Verona, made his first appearance in Paris under the name of OTTAVIO.

“On the 2nd November 1688 the Italian comedians performed for the first time a comedy entirely in Italian entitled _La Folía d’ Ottavio_. The title-rôle, which is that of a lover, was filled by a young man who is a son of Gradelin and a brother of Mezzetin. He was applauded by the entire assembly. He performed on seven different kinds of instruments—namely, the flute, the theorbo, the harp, the psaltery, the cymbal, the guitar, the hautbois, and to these he added on the morrow the organ. He sings agreeably and dances very well. He is of a very good shape” (_Note of M. de Tralage_).

Ottavio succeeded Aurelio in the parts of second lover. In 1694 he assumed the leading rôles, when Cinthio abandoned them for those of doctors and fathers. In 1697, after the expulsion of the Italian comedians by order of Louis XIV., Constantini returned to Verona, and rendered important services to the French generals during the war of 1701. The Imperialists avenged themselves by pillaging his property.

“The Chevalier de Lislière, sent by the King into Italy to reconnoitre the positions, encampments and movements of the enemy, attests that the Sieur Constantini Ottavio, a gentleman of Verona, has given essential proofs of his zeal and of his attachment to France; he undertook several journeys by order of the generals, and he was so useful that he was the first to bring them news of the advance of the enemy in Italy. This he did at his own expense, refusing the emoluments which the generals offered him; the enemy, learning this, and being informed of his zeal for France, have wrecked his property in the neighbourhood of Verona. He has asked me to give him this certificate, and as I was frequently charged with communicating to him in the orders of the generals, I am unable to refuse my testimony of the zeal and attachment of the said Sieur Constantini to the interests of France, and of the disinterested manner in which he has afforded proof of this.

“Given at the camp of Saint-Pierre de Linage, the 12th June 1701.

“(_Signed_) LISLIÈRE.”

Ottavio returned to Paris in 1708 completely ruined, and in recompense for the services which he had rendered to the army before Verona he received from the King, through the interest of the Marshal de Tessé, the post of inspector of all the barriers of Paris. This important office enabled him to set up a sort of Italian theatre at the fairs of Saint-Germain and Saint-Laurent in 1712. But, as he was an extravagant man and of but little method, he did bad business. Later on, when the Italian troupe was summoned to France by the Regent Orléans in 1716, he went to offer his services to his compatriots, who accepted them with pleasure. But whether through disorder, or the incapacity of the people he employed to set up the machinery and carry out the repairs at the Palais-Royal, his comrades dispensed with him at the end of a month.

He died at La Rochelle in 1731. “He was a man of wit and of talent but, like his father Gradelin and his brother Mezzetin, the unbridled love of women and of the table left him in indifferent circumstances throughout his life and in misery at the end of it.”

Giovanni-Battista Constantini married in Italy a very beautiful woman named Teresa Corona Sabolini, who played under the name of Diana. But she never accompanied her husband on his journeys into France.

In 1694 Carlo-Virgilio Romagnesi, the grandson of Aurelia and Orazio, made his début at the Comédie-Italienne under the name of Léandre. Gifted with a handsome countenance and an innate talent for the dramatic art, he played all the lovers’ parts until 1697. When the Comédie-Italienne was closed he joined the troupe of Tortoretti, and toured with him through France. He fell in love with Elisabetta, the daughter of Giovanni-Battista Constantini, who was also touring the country, went with him to Lorraine and then returned to Paris in 1707, where he married the lady. He died in 1731.

vii

“Luigi Riccoboni, who played under the name of Lelio, was born at Modena in 1674. He was the son of a celebrated comedian, Antonio Riccoboni, and, following in his father’s profession, he was seen, always with success, in the rôles of leading lover, under the name of Federigo. He joined the company of Signora Diana, the wife of Giovanni-Battista Constantini, known in the old troupe under the name of Ottavia Diana. She induced him to abandon the name of Federigo for that of Lelio, which he always bore thereafter both in Italy and in France. Riccoboni had married in first nuptials the sister of Francesco Materazzi, who played the parts of Doctor in the troupe of the Regent d’Orléans. This first wife was named Gabriella Gardelini, and played soubrettes; but she abandoned this line for that of second lady. She died young and without leaving any children to Riccoboni, who later married Elena Baletti (Flaminia).”

Luigi Riccoboni had been entrusted with the formation of the Italian troupe which went to France in 1716 under the title of _Comédiens ordinaires de S. A. S. monseigneur le duc d’Orléans, régent de France_. He was then twenty-two years of age. He retired in 1729, together with his wife Flaminia and his son Francesco Riccoboni; but Flaminia and her son returned to the theatre a little while afterwards.

Lelio played with a great deal of spirit; “No one ever expressed overwhelming passion with so much verisimilitude.” To his gifts as an excellent actor he added those of a distinguished author. He wrote some thirty pieces and, moreover, a history of the Italian theatre, an Italian poem on the subject of declamation, and observations on comedy and on the genius of Molière. Upon retiring from the stage he repaired to the court of the Duke of Parma, who gave him the management of the theatres of his duchy and of his house. After the death of this prince, Lelio returned to France, where he died in 1753 at the age of seventy-nine.

“In the year 1690, at the age of thirteen” (he writes in his _History of the Italian Theatre_), “I began to frequent the theatre. Almost all the comedians of those days were ignorant fellows; lovers’ parts were played by the sons of comedians, men of no education, or else by young people who embraced the profession out of principles of libertinism.”

Riccoboni speaks, in this history, of an actor who, like himself, sought to uplift the _bonne comédie_—that is to say, the classical comedy written in verse and learnt by heart.

“As in all professions,” he says, “there is often to be found in this one a man of wit and of taste who detaches himself from the others; during the last days in which the comedians were still at liberty to go to perform in Rome during carnival, a young man of that great city was attracted to comedy, and followed the troupe. He had the good fortune to fall into the hands of Francesco Calderoni (Silvio) and Agata Calderoni (Flaminia), his wife, the grandmother of my own, who, having preserved a remnant of this art (classical comedy), opened a good door for him and showed him the good path.

“This young man, in his quest of distinction, passed through all the degrees of comedy and, by his application and study, succeeded in becoming the head of a troupe, and the greatest actor of his day. He of whom I speak is named Pietro Cotta, surnamed Lelio; he has always been accounted a man of great probity, the avowed enemy of all equivocal thought and of all that licence which, at the end of the last century, was so very much in evidence in our disordered theatres.”

In fact, Cotta’s aim was to uplift comedy in every sense. It was in Venice that he produced, for the first time, _L’Aristodemo del Dottore_, and he took care to inform his public “that there was no Harlequin in the piece, but that the subject was very moving.” This new species of spectacle attracted only a small number of admirers. _Rodogune, Iphigénie en Aulide_ did not amuse the great public. Some other directors sought to imitate this new classical school, but without success. The public demanded Harlequin, Brighella, and Pantaloon, cudgel-blows and broad buffooneries. Pietro Cotta retired in disgust.

Riccoboni went to France imbued with this mania for tragedy, but in France there was no need of Italian comedians to provoke tears; laughter was wanted. Therefore Riccoboni, having missed his aim in France, withdrew to Parma, where he gave performances of tragedies and French classic comedies translated into Italian; in these Pantaloon and the Doctor became truly noble fathers, and the lackeys, Harlequin and Scapino, similarly lost their original characteristics.

Riccoboni, it is plain, was consumed by the singular desire to destroy the Italian comedy, this Commedia dell’ Arte to which he owed his best successes, and of which he speaks in his book like a competent and intelligent man. Perhaps his sombre physiognomy, “which aided him to depict terrible and extravagant passions,” suggested to him the idea of throwing himself into the serious and tragic style. Nevertheless he had enjoyed a real vogue in his real line.

“The success of _L’Italien Marié à Paris_ and the liveliness of the dialogue in the scenes between Lelio and Flaminia caused many to doubt that they were really being played impromptu. The enemies of the Italian company and French comedians added weight to these suspicions. This question was continually discussed in Paris, especially at the Café Gradot, where literary people then assembled.”

The two volumes of Riccoboni, entitled, a little presumptuously, _Histoire du Théâtre Italien_, form a work which it is useful to consult on the subject of the Italian theatre, although it is very incomplete, and written indifferently, yet agreeably, by an Italian who employs a French entirely his own, but who is wanting neither in wit nor good sense. He appreciates with exactness and subtlety the art of the theatre, although in the application of his theories he is very often wanting in taste, a circumstance which goes to prove that criticism is very much easier than practice.

Luigi Riccoboni took with him into France as second lover, in 1716, Giuseppe Baletti, surnamed Mario, who, in 1720, married Giovanna-Rosa Benozzi, very well known under the name of Silvia. Giuseppe Baletti, who was born in Munich, died in 1762.

On the 13th April 1725, Giovanni-Antonio Romagnesi, the son of Gaetano Romagnesi and grandson of Marco-Antonio Romagnesi (_Cinthio_), made his first appearance at the Comédie-Italienne in the rôle of Lelio, was well received, and continued to appear in lover rôles under this name. He was born at Namur in 1690. His mother, Anne Richard, after the death of Cinthio, married again, in Brussels, a man named Duret. This man ill-treated his stepson, who had already made his début in his mother’s company with considerable success. He was then fifteen years of age. Incensed by the harshness of his mother, and in despair under the ill-treatment of Duret, he resolved to leave them and to become a soldier. He enlisted with a captain who treated him no better than his parents had done, notwithstanding that the youth, to make a friend of him, had presented him with his watch, the most precious of his possessions. In the end Romagnesi, unable longer to endure his ill-treatment, deserted and joined the troops of the Duke of Savoy, where he enlisted with another captain whose brutality was even worse than that of the first. Falling thus from Scylla into Charybdis, he wrote to Quinault, who was then in Strasburg, and informed him of his sorry plight. Quinault replied, inviting him to go to Basle, where he would find the means to reach Strasburg. Romagnesi deserted for a second time, and, travelling from convent to convent, he managed to keep alive and to reach the gates of Basle without a halfpenny, and in rags.

But, at the gates of Basle, he discovered that no one approaching from the side of Savoy was admitted until he had undergone a searching interrogatory. What was he to do? A hundred paces from the town he perceived a herd of pigs driven by a child of ten. He advanced upon the boy and, taking possession of his whip, ordered him in a voice of thunder to wait an hour before re-entering Basle. He then set out, driving before him four or five of the largest pigs. “You will find them again,” he said, “at the entrance to the faubourgs of the city.” Thus, driving his pigs before him, he entered without hindrance in the wake of his herd, which he left at the place indicated to the boy.

He ran to the post, but failed to find there any letter from Quinault. The carrier would arrive only upon the morrow. This delay was hard upon a man who had not eaten that day, who did not know a soul in the city, and who had not a farthing in his pocket. He went to an inn, demanding supper and a bed, but his shabby appearance inspired no confidence in the hostess; she demanded payment in advance. Romagnesi then confessed that he was without money, but assured her that he would receive a remittance on the morrow, and be able to repay her. The fulfilment of such a promise seemed doubtful; it was in vain that he employed all his eloquence; it was wasted labour. He was on the point of being dismissed when a neighbouring baker, touched by the speech which he had overheard, undertook to pay his bill for him, should he fail to do so himself.

On the morrow the baker went to the post with Romagnesi. They found a letter from Quinault in which he announced his arrival that evening. In effect, he arrived, and it would be difficult to express the joy of Romagnesi, “which he expressed whilst tenderly embracing Quinault and weeping for gratitude.” Quinault kept the baker to supper when he learnt the service which the man had rendered to his protégé.

On the morrow, having equipped his new friend more suitably, Quinault set out with him for Strasburg. As Romagnesi’s desertion was occasioning Quinault some uneasiness, he thought it prudent to inform the Commandant of the place and the Intendant of the city. He related to them in detail the adventures of young Romagnesi in the most favourable possible light. Protection was accorded him, with the assurance that Quinault could cause his actor to make his début whenever he thought fit. At the end of a fortnight Romagnesi made his first appearance, and scored a great success. His uneasiness ceased entirely, thanks to an amnesty which was published and to a formal dismissal from his captain, who had received the order to issue it. After two years in Strasburg Romagnesi quitted Quinault’s company to enter Ottavio’s performing in Paris at the fairs of Saint-Germain and Saint-Laurent which had become known as the Opéra-Comique. He undertook there, and always with success, the rôles of lover. It was there, in 1716, that he began to write pieces for the forain theatres.

Ottavio, having done bad business, gave up his theatre. Romagnesi then went to tour the provinces until 1718, when he returned to Paris and appeared at the Théâtre-Français; but he was not received there. He went to Bordeaux, Brussels, Cambrai; whence he returned to Paris again in 1725, and appeared at the Comédie-Italienne in _Les Surprises de l’Amour_. He was accorded a good reception in this theatre, “of which he long sustained the glory as much by his talent for declamation as by the success of the pieces which he performed there,” which amount to some sixty-two.

“Romagnesi was tall and well made; his voice was a little muffled, and he appeared to labour when he had to recite any rather lengthy couplet. He was a good actor in all lines, but excelled particularly in drunken rôles and in impersonating Swiss and Germans.” He died suddenly at Fontainebleau in the arms of Mademoiselle de Belmont, on the 11th May 1742. The curé of Fontainebleau having refused him burial, his body was interred in Paris in the church of Saint-Sauveur.

Francesco Riccoboni, the son of Luigi Riccoboni and of Flaminia, was born in 1707 at Mantua. He took up the parts played by his father under the same name of Lelio. His first appearance took place on the 10th January 1726, and in 1729 he left the theatre together with his father. He re-entered it with his mother in 1731, and there played and danced with success until 1736. He then went to tour the provinces, returned to the Comédie-Italienne in the following year, and left the theatre for good in 1750. He was the author of several Italian pieces, and died in 1772. He occupied himself also with alchemy. He married Marie-Jeanne Laboras de Mézières, who was at once an actress and the author of many esteemed romances.

Antonio-Luigi Baletti, the son of Mario and Silvia, was, on the 1st February 1741, received at the Théâtre-Italien under the name of Lelio to declaim and dance. On the occasion of his début his mother Silvia addressed a speech to the public in which she craved their indulgence for a child who, notwithstanding maternal representations, had insisted upon facing the dangers of a first appearance. He was well received, together with Carlo Bertinazzi.

On the 23rd February 1670, the comedians gave a benefit performance in his favour of the _Serva Padrona_, to compensate him as far as possible for an accident which he had suffered in the theatre.

In the last act of _Camille Magicienne_, Pantaloon leads on some soldiers to force an entrance into a tower in which Camille has imprisoned Lelio and Flaminia; it was customary to discharge several shots against this tower. One of the soldiers who was to take part in the assault had, whilst waiting, placed his gun beside that belonging to the sentry of the theatre, who had quitted his post. The scene being reached sooner than was expected, the soldier was called; inadvertently he took the weapon of the sentinel, which was loaded, and put a bullet through the thigh of Baletti (Lelio). The performance was suspended, but the incident had no serious result.

In 1759 Zanucci undertook the rôles of Lelio or Mario in the forain theatres. Other principal lovers were: Dulaudet (1714), Deshayes (1718), Raguenet (1750), Joly (1737), Brou (1740).

viii

The earliest type of LEANDRO is a fresh and rosy lover, fluttering ribbons and lace. He is the accepted suitor of the beautiful Lavinia, of Isabella or of the naïve Beatrice. Thus he was at the time of his creation in 1556 in the Italian companies.

Corneille, Molière, Destouches present him in their pieces under a seductive exterior. His aspect is the same at the Théâtre-Italien down to the end of the seventeenth century, and we have already said that Carlo Romagnesi, renowned for his beauty, had made his début at the Comédie-Italienne in 1694.

This rôle, after the death of Carlo Romagnesi, was suddenly transformed, both in Italy and in the forain theatres; it came then to be that of a ridiculous personage entitled _Leandro il bello_, and this surname of “the beautiful Leandro,” which was well deserved by Carlo Romagnesi, was no more than a derision when applied to the Leandro who was thereafter to be found in pantomime. The transformation was not infelicitous. Leandro has the privilege of making us laugh. To see this personage strutting the theatre like a cock, his head lost in his ruff, his sword pointing upwards behind him and threatening the eyes of his neighbours or becoming entangled in the legs of his lackey, it would seem that we have not here a lover, but a sort of Matamoros. And as a matter of fact, this beautiful Leandro is always the son of some captain, a great slayer of Saracens; he too is in love with Isabella or Columbine; he deigns to condescend even to this soubrette when she is the daughter or ward of Cassandre; but notwithstanding his beautiful curls, his lace ruffles, his doublet, peaked like that of Polichinelle or of Matamoros, the sword of his ancestors, his titles, and the parchments which he always bears upon him, he never succeeds in receiving anything but kicks aimed at his stomach, but, thanks to the promptitude of his evolutions, always delivered at another address.

He is a Spaniard, a hidalgo of the old rock. He is no doubt rich, to judge by the silver embroideries upon his pink or yellow garments, and the simple Cassandre never fails to be imposed upon by his exterior. When he speaks, he bleats horribly. He holds himself as stiffly as a pine-tree (it is supposed that he wears corsets); he boasts to her whom he desires to marry of his _bonnes fortunes_, for which he has never failed to pay dearly; he submits to beatings from Harlequin, and flees at the approach of any danger. He is totally ignorant of everything, with the sole exception of the art of heraldry. Awkward and very susceptible, he never suffers anyone to pass in front of him; he frequently carries his hand to his rapier, but no one can remember ever to have seen its blade.

Sometimes he is dressed like a marquis of Louis XV., but he possesses all the virtues of the hidalgo, whether under his hempen wig or under his short red hair.

In _Cassandre aux Indes_, a farce of the boulevard theatres (1756), Leandro is in love with Isabella. Cassandre on his departure for the Indies had confided his daughter to the guardianship of Harlequin; the latter permits himself to be bribed by Leandro, who desires to penetrate to the presence of Isabella. After having ransacked the pockets of the lover, the lackey finds there: “A book to learn to read; a paper snuff-box; a book of puerile civility; a solar quadrant and a chain; a patch-box in white metal; a currycomb; a leather glove.” All this is not worth very much, so that Harlequin demands that he shall write him a note for ten crowns in exchange for which Leandro may have speech of Isabella.

Leandro, who is unable to write, makes a cross upon a piece of paper. The conventional jests on the subject being exhausted, Harlequin goes in search of Isabella.

Leandro. I am going to pay her a little impromptu compliment carefully prepared.

(_ISABELLA enters followed by HARLEQUIN. LEANDRO, without removing his hat, addresses her the following compliment._)

Lady, the admiration of your beauty has filled my heart with love of your fine eyes; and should you feel a reciprocity for your very humble servant, there is no happier man upon earth than I should be in all the world.

Isabella. Sir, it would be impossible to find a compliment more gallantly expressed, and I tell you frankly that you would suit me very well as a follower, were it not for a detail which is but a bagatelle, namely, that I am distressed to see that you are suffering from scurvy.

Leandro. (_his hat still on his head_) Lady, I assure you that is no longer the case. I was cured at the age of sixteen. A scurvy gentleman would be an impossible thing!

Isabella. Sir, I have the honour to tell you that I perceive from my window that you are making eyes at me. It might be fitting that I should be moved to love you, but I have noted something which stifles my tenderness; in short, if you are not suffering from scurvy, you are clearly suffering from ringworm.

Leandro. (_still without taking off his hat_) If a man were to offer me that insult, I should cut his face in two; but since it is you, lady, the respect which I must bear to my affections compels me to respect you.

Isabella. (_dropping a curtsy to LEANDRO_) Farewell, sir. I found you an ass, I leave you an ass.

Harlequin. (_laughing and mimicking ISABELLA_) I found you an ass, I leave you an ass. (_Exeunt._)

Leandro. (_alone_) What does it mean? I don’t understand. Oh, heavens, I did not take off my hat! Behold me lost for all time! Is it possible that I, who would take off my hat to a dog, should not have taken if off to my charming mistress? She will desire no further commerce with me. I am in a fury, which causes me the greatest sorrow. There is nothing left for me but to go and drown myself; if only I had poison at hand, I believe that I should pass my sword through my body!

Polidoro, the ridiculous lover of the fifteenth century, in a comedy of Beolco (Ruzzante), is the true modern Leandro, ugly, ungracious, unhealthy, but rich and confident of the power of his ducats.

“In short,” he says, “money is the true means of obtaining everything. I have taken my precautions to monopolise the favours of my beautiful lady, because I am not one of those who consent to be alone in the expense and accompanied in the pleasure.” To him enters the little servant of Celega, the _entremetteuse_.

Polidoro. Go ahead, Forbino, and tell thy mistress that I am coming. Make haste!

Forbino. I go, but at least give me something for the good news which I brought you on the subject of your rival Flavio.

Polidoro. I shall give but too much to thy mistress.

Forbino. Devil take her. I want you to give me something for myself also.

Polidoro. Be off quickly, rascal. Hast learnt to be insolent!

Forbino. A plague on you! I would give a ducat, if I had it, that Flavio should get the better of you, that he should find the money that he lacks, and that you should be left in the street to sing the _todolina_!

Polidoro. Gallows-bird! If I come at thee!

Forbino. Give me something.

Polidoro. Cuffs will I give thee.

Forbino. None but a fool could wish ill to Flavio. He is worth a good deal more than you, who in all your life have never given me a coin.

Polidoro. Wait! I will give thee one that is worth ten.

Forbino. Only a fool would wait. My compliments to you.

In the following century the name of Polidoro is bestowed upon old men, as in _Gli Affliti Consolati_, by Alfonso Romei of Ferrara, in 1604. In a burlesque fairy play (_Les Pilules du Diable_), which took Paris by storm, Leandro was called _Sotinez_.

Laurent the elder, a remarkable mime who had played Harlequins in many little theatres, gave this personage a costume, gestures and a physiognomy entirely noteworthy, and in the true colour of the Italian farce.

VII

Ruzzante. There is no such thing as useless labour. However arid or trivial a subject may seem, from the moment that you embark upon a study of it, your researches will always lead you to some serious discovery that will compensate you for your trouble.

Our thanks are due to thee, brave and good Ruzzante, thou mighty dead whom we have found lying in the dust of oblivion; thou whose work, rare in Italy and unknown elsewhere, has permitted us at last to look upon the Commedia dell’ Arte as a Muse of the same blood and the same nobility as those of Shakespeare and Molière.

Of the life of Shakespeare very little is known; nothing is known of that of Angelo Beolco, surnamed Ruzzante, born at Padua in 1552. Was he an actor by profession, or was he no more than an amateur in the pursuit of his avocation? The only information of any consequence in existence is that afforded by a page of Bernardino Scardeon in his work, _De antiquitate urbis Patavii_, 1560:

“Angelo Beolco, known under the name of Ruzzante, was in Padua what Plautus was in Rome as an author and Roscius as an actor. He has even surpassed them, for there is no comedy of antiquity, _prætextæ_, _togatæ_, _mixtæ_, or _atellanæ_, that can sustain comparison with the comedies of Ruzzante, which were played throughout Italy, afforded so much pleasure and attracted such crowds of men and women. As for himself, he was so superior to other actors that whenever he was on the stage the public neither saw nor heard anyone but him.”

It might be added by us that Ruzzante surpassed Plautus in the composition of comedies, and as for his having been superior to Roscius as an actor,[8] we are compelled to admit it, judging from the incomparable naturalness of his compositions and his language.

Ruzzante’s was a brilliant epoch. It was in the hour of the awakening of comedy in Italy that he too awakened in all the strength and freedom of his eminently original genius. Very inferior to him on the score of individuality and novelty are his illustrious predecessors: Ariosto, who at the age of twenty (in 1494) had already produced at the court of the Duke of Ferrara his comedy entitled _I Suppositi_; Niccolo Macchiavelli, author of _La Mandragora_ (1504) and _La Clizia_ (1508), which latter Leo X. commanded to be performed before him in Rome by the _sempiterni_ or the _intronati_, the academic actors of Florence and Siena; and Bernardo Dovizi, Cardinal of Bibbiena, author of _La Calandra_, written in 1490. These did not create a new style; they revived a dead one. They walked in the ways of the masters of antiquity, and whilst they may have overtaken them they did not surpass them. Ruzzante, far more daring and creative, completed and embellished all the subjects to which he set his hand. He created a comedy of realities in the midst of the pastoral idylls of the Venetians by which he was surrounded.

Ruzzante would certainly have been the Molière of Italy if, instead of spending his days in improvisation, he had employed them in writing; for it is only in the last years of his life, which was all too brief (he died at the age of forty), that he co-ordinated and wrote the greater part of his subjects as well as his charming discourses to the Cardinals Cornaro and Pisani, etc.

It was his custom to reside during the summer at Codevigo, the Venetian villa of Aloysio Cornelio, a munificent and liberal gentleman who was his Mæcenas, and who cherished Ruzzante and his troupe. In return this troupe gave many performances at Cornelio’s house.

According to Scardeon, the city of Padua was about to honour Ruzzante when he died, on the 17th March 1542. His friends and numerous admirers raised him, in 1560, a tomb in the church of San-Daniele in Padua, near the Prato della Valle, with the following epitaph in remembrance of him and “in earnest of affection, esteem and admiration”:—

V. S.

ANGELO BEOLCO

Ruzanti Patavino, nulli in scribendis, agendisque comœdiis ingenio, facundia, aut arte secundo, jocis et sermonibus agrest. applausu omnium facetiss., qui non sine amicorum mœrore e vita discessit anno Domini MDLII die xvii martii, ætatis vero xl. Jo. Baptista Rota Patavin. tantæ præstantiæ admirator pignus hoc sempiternum in testimonium famæ ac nominis P. C. anno a mundo redempto MDLX.

Ultimately, however, this inscription having been found too profane—we do not know by whom—it was removed.

Bernardino Scardeon tells us that Ruzzante was of a joyous and amiable character, invariably pleasant and affable. His face, to judge from the portrait of him which survives, denotes a fine wit, gifts of observation and satire, and a firm and melancholy character.

Almost all the characters of his comedies bore surnames which afterwards became generic names, and so remained in the theatre.

“In the performance of his comedies, his stage companions were young people of the nobility of Padua, such as Marco Aurelio Alvarotto, called _Menato_; Girolamo Zanetti, called _Vezzo_; Castegnola, called _Bilora_; and some others who were able to imitate the language of the peasantry.”

It is even possible that Aloysio Cornelio himself, Ruzzante’s splendid protector, took part in their performances, and may have been, by antithesis, the character of the miserly Pantaloon, who, under the name of Cornelio, fills so large a number of rôles in Ruzzante’s pieces.

Benedetto Varchi, the famous author of _The History of Florence_, speaking of the various kinds of comedy, writes on the subject of the ancient plays:

“If one may judge from experience and give faith to conjectures, I think that our _zanni_ are more comical than were their mimes, and that the comedies of Ruzzante of Padua, treating of rustic subjects, surpass those which the ancients called _atellanæ_.”

“Our best writers” (says Riccoboni) “have been loud in praise of Ruzzante. His comedies, superior to the Latin atellanæ in comicality, admit all the dialects of the corrupted languages of Lombardy. It was he who settled for the theatre the character and the language of Scapin, Harlequin, Pantaloon and the Doctor.”

In truth Ruzzante was the first to open the doors of comedy to popular dialects. All his characters speak different languages, from Paduan, Bergamese, Bolognese, Venetian and Tuscan to Latin, Italianised Spanish and modern Greek. But it is the dialects of Padua, Venice and Bergamo that are chiefly employed by him.

His early efforts were in the academic manner, and he sought to rival by the purity of his style Bembo, Speroni and the other authors of his epoch. Notwithstanding that he had quite as much talent as his colleagues he was dissatisfied with his success. Perceiving too that he remained far below the level at which he aimed, he devoted himself to the study of rustic dialects, and of the customs, manners and characters of the peasantry. So admirably had he acquired their language and their ways, so exactly did he seize all their naïveté, originality and humour, that he deceived the very rustics, who, when they saw him disguised, assumed him to be one of themselves. Beolco manifested a quite peculiar predilection for them, and criticised for their profit the manners of the great, the learned and the luxurious.

“Would you not be a hundred times more worthy” (he asks in one of his prologues), “if you were to content yourselves as we do in our country homes with eating good bread and good solid cheese, and drinking an honest red wine, rather than consume sauces and all sorts of dishes which swell your stomachs? You would be fresh and rosy as apples instead of withered as you are. I dare swear that if one of your gentlemen came to grips with one of our women he would be worsted? Why? Because our women are not nourished upon sweetmeats but upon natural food, and because, living as they do in the open air, their limbs are stronger and their thews more vigorous.”

Ruzzante never misses an occasion to exalt the uses of rustic language. In a letter written in Paduan, addressed to the Most Reverend Cardinal Cornaro Vecchio, he says:

“I do not see why, since I take my peasant characters and present them on the stage, I should expect them to use Tuscan (_in lenguazo fiorentinesco_) rather than Egyptian. At present the world is all awry, and everyone seeks to lift his head higher than is possible to him. No longer is anything done according to nature; every man permits himself to be dazzled by the pretensions of his neighbour instead of remaining in a state of simplicity. It is also sought to change our language rather than to allow us to speak in the language which is proper to us. Instead of keeping to his own straight road, everyone runs to that which dazzles him, and that, as I say, is bad. Shall I do the same, I who am a Paduan of Italy (_che a son Pavàn, della Italia_)? Shall I go and convert myself into a Tuscan or a Frenchman? No, by the blood of the scorpion! No, I shall not. It is my desire to remain and to walk in the way of truth and of naturalness.

“Let no one amongst you be surprised to hear me speak a language that is not Florentine; I will not exchange my language for any other. I think that I may just as sincerely desire your health, fortune and happiness in my coarse Paduan as another might do in a finer and lighter tongue.”

Beolco played a number of parts in his own pieces, and came forward always to announce the argument. Arrayed usually in an allegorical or fantastic costume, he would deliver his little address to the public:

“Let us amuse ourselves a little. Is there anyone amongst you who knows who I am? You have the air of wishing to reply that I am Mercury, or a reciter of arguments of comedies. No, you will never guess it! I won’t leave you in doubt any longer. I am an elfin spirit. Do you know why I show myself, why I permit you to see me? Do you know whence I come? From the other world; and I will tell you why. One of those who is there, called Actius by some and Plautus by others, has sent me to tell you that since a comedy is to be played this evening you are not to blame me if it is not in Latin and in verse and in beautiful language, because if to-day he were among the living he would not write comedies in any other style than that of this which you are about to witness. He begs you not to judge by this one those which he left written; for he swears to you by Hercules and Apollo that they were recited in other days, in terms very different from those which you see printed now, for the good reason that many things which look well upon paper look ill upon the stage.”

It seems to us that the whole _raison d’être_ of comedy improvised in free dialect is to be found in these few words.

Everywhere, whether from personal instinct, whether from contagion from the pastoral mode, Ruzzante presents apologias of the rustic life. Nevertheless it must not be assumed that he was a writer of _bergeries_ like Florian; he is a realist in his pictures of the miseries and passions of the precarious and savage life of the peasants of his day. The brutal passion which induces him, in _La Fiorina_, to carry off by force a young girl, gagging her by the aid of a friend, is probably an instance copied from nature in those days of war and rape and violence. But if he dares to present such dramas upon the stage with an almost ferocious recklessness, he also makes heard the voice of indignation or of pity.

“By the blood of the ill of the cripple!” (exclaims old Teodosia—we cannot undertake to explain this bizarre malediction), “we see strange things to-day. Ill living is the fashion, and I think that before long we shall know no safety in our huts. Consider what a surprise awaits this poor father and this unfortunate mother! I am overwhelmed by the desire to weep.”

In a letter which he addressed under his stage name to Cardinal Francesco Cornaro, he thanks Rome for having sent to the city of Padua this noble prelate who revives his failing hopes. These letters, written in the old Paduan dialect, are his masterpieces. They are the inditings of a naïve peasant who has the right to say anything. Therefore they are gay, because to ensure their being read it was necessary that they should excite laughter. But this laughter is fraught with tears. They are not the letters of a historian paying his court, they are those of a brave and generous man who loves his country and speaks the truth. Here are a few brief fragments—very brief lest we should be charged with too great a digression from our subject:

“Rome, our grandmother, who gave you your hat, O good cardinal, did not give it you to shield you from the sun, and to save your complexion, but so that it may shelter us all; and under your purple cloak it is your duty to gather us all to your heart as a hen gathers her chickens. Restore to us our trust and our peace. Consider what this country has become. No longer are young men and maidens to be heard singing on the highways and in the fields. The very birds sing no longer, and I believe—may the plague choke me!—that the voice of the nightingale is no longer as beautiful as of yore. No longer do we see games and merry-makings. Such is the misery that has fallen upon our land that one may truly say: blessed are the dead who are beyond the touch of war, of ruin and of pestilence! We are worse off than in the days of the great slayings, days in which men saw incredible happenings, days in which fathers butchered their sons. To-day the times are so ill that husband and wife will go each a separate way to seek a livelihood. And love too has departed hence. Seek to find me a lover! There is no longer anyone who will take a wife. Wives must be nourished and how may that be done when there is nothing in the house? So that, instead of sighs of love one hears naught but groans of hunger. Charity goes knocking from door to door, and none will give her shelter under his roof. We no longer dare so much as to weep when following the bier of a beloved dead, lest we should drench too many handkerchiefs.” (Then, adopting a tone of pleasantry, he proceeds:) “Be our friend, for I am well disposed to be yours. You may invite me as often as you will to dine with you; I can refuse you nothing, not even good advice.”

It is necessary to remember that Ruzzante lived in the early days of the sixteenth century, amid the wars of Francis I. and Charles V., who were disputing for the possession of Italy, when the terrible invasion of the German army was descending upon Rome, leaving behind it a country devastated and in ashes. The holy city was taken by assault, sacked and given over to two months of pillaging by the Lutherans. Florence was ravaged by the plague; and Ruzzante’s own country, Padua, was desolated by famine. And so, in his comedies, he pours furious curses upon Spaniards and Germans.

“May the plague consume them all,” he cries, “wars and soldiers, soldiers and wars! But we must laugh nevertheless, my friends, we must render ourselves numb to our sufferings!”

It is also noteworthy that in the midst of the liveliest buffooneries Ruzzante will often confront us suddenly with a terrible situation, a flash of real passion, a profound reflection or a cry from the heart. The serious side of his spirit reveals itself in the most concise, but also the most energetic manner, and in the truest and most touching terms; unfortunately these are often untranslatable because the dialects are inseparable from the characters. He was a thousand times right in his contention that had he given these another language they would have been no more than conventional types.

[Illustration]

Chiefly to concern us here, however, is the buffoon side of Ruzzante, for it is through this that he belongs to the Commedia dell’ Arte. His gaiety is very often bitter, tragic and hideous, some of his pieces bear no title; they are printed simply under the designation of dialogues.

Bilora. Who could have foretold that love would so rudely have thrust me out of my own house, to throw me amid people whom I do not know? It is said that love will not or cannot do anything. But I see instead that it does what it likes. As for me, it is love which has compelled me to come to seek my hidden wife. Had it been otherwise I should not have tramped all yesterday, all last night and all this morning through woods and fields. I am so tired that I can scarcely stand. A lover is drawn by his love more irresistibly than by three pairs of oxen. There are those who say that love lodges with young people and drives them mad. For my part I see that it can also haunt old men, for had it not pierced the heart of that old gossip—may a scorpion eat him!—he would not have brought my wife into this town. Could not that old usurer have taken pleasure in his ducats without seeking it in my wife? By the blood of the scorpion! it was an ill turn to have served me! But I shall so contrive that in some way I shall wrest her from him. Ah, but who knows whether I shall so much as get a glimpse of her? I should have done well to have gone to his house.... I am dying of hunger and I have neither bread nor money with which to buy it. If I but knew at least where she is living, that is to say where he has lodged her, I should so move her that at least she would give me bread.

(He is about to withdraw when he meets an old acquaintance. This is Pittaro, an old peasant whom he qualifies as barba, as who would say bearded.)

Pittaro. Eh, _cagasangue_! Is it Bilora? What are you seeking here?

Bilora. I am come about the affair of Messer Andro—help me to pronounce his name—Androtene or Ardochene, that old foreign gentleman who carried off my wife.

Pittaro. You were wrong to come. What do you expect of your wife, who seems to have forgotten you? It will hardly suffice just to go and ask for her to ensure her returning with you. She is leading a pleasant life with him, without care or trouble; she eats and drinks as much as she pleases and she is well served, for there is a lackey to wait upon them both.

He relates that old Andronico is madly in love with Bilora’s wife and that she appears to manifest some attachment for him. He advises Bilora to depart, assuring him that there is nothing to be done, but Bilora does not heed the advice.

“Would it not be better that she should return home with me? If I were to meet the old man I might strike him. I want so much to see my Dina! Is she alone at the house?”

Pittaro repeats that no course is open to him but to depart. That he must not be seen thereabouts. But Bilora consigns him to the devil; he is so tormented with love, fear and rage, that he cannot resist his desire to behold his wife. He knocks at the door of the house; Dina appears at the window.

Dina. Who knocks? Who is there? Is it you, poor man? Depart in peace.

Bilora. Yes, I am very poor, but that is no reason why I should depart. I am your friend; approach, Dina. It is I.

Dina. And who are you? What friend? The master is not at home. Begone!

Bilora. Ah, Dina, come here a moment, it is I. Is it possible that you don’t recognise me?

Dina. I tell you to be gone, and that I don’t know you, that the master is absent. He went out upon business and I have no wish to gossip.

Bilora. Oh, my dear Dina! Do come here! I wish to speak to you sincerely. It is I, Dina. Do you not see that I am Bilora, your husband?

Dina. Alack! Is it indeed you? What do you seek here? Speak!

Bilora. What are you saying? Come down here that I may see you.

Dina. I am coming.

Bilora. Yes, come with me, and I shall hold you good and true as you were before.

Dina. (_below_) Good evening! I am here since you insist. How are you? Are you well?

Bilora. I—I am well. And you? How well you look!

Dina. Heaven be thanked! Nevertheless, to tell you the truth I feel none too well. This old man wearies me.

Bilora. Youth and age never can agree. You and I would be better suited to each other.

Dina. And then, he is always ailing. He coughs at night and keeps me from sleeping. At every hour he comes to seek and weary me, to take me in his arms and kiss me.

Bilora. Well then, tell me, would you not sooner return home, or do you wish to remain here with this old man? Speak!

Dina. I should be glad enough to come, but he does not wish it. Neither does he wish that you should come here. If you but knew the care he takes of me, how he caresses me! By the fever! he loves me dearly and I am very well with him.

Bilora. But what does it matter what he wishes if you wish it? Oh, I understand. You don’t wish it either, and you are telling me lies, eh?

Dina. How shall I answer you? I should like to come, and yet I should not like to come (_vorràe e si no vorràe_).

Bilora. Heaven is not propitious to me to-night. Will it be long before the old man returns?

Dina. He should return almost at once, but I should not like him to find me with anyone. Come, my dear. You will return in secret and we will come to an understanding.

Bilora. Yes, we will come to an understanding by means of kicks! Take care, by the blood! If I begin I shall be worse than a soldier!

After further threats from Bilora, Dina tells him that she will advise him when the old man returns home, so that Bilora may demand of him her return, whether he wishes it or not. Dina will do what her husband wishes. After that Bilora asks her for a piece of bread, saying that he is dying of hunger because he has not eaten since he left home. But Dina, saying that she can abstract nothing from the house, gives him money to go to an inn, where he may eat and drink at his ease. She re-enters the house, and Bilora goes off, after some reflections upon hunger and love, and after cursing the old man and considering the coins which Dina has given him, whose effigies supply him with witticisms that it would be difficult to translate.

Messer Andronico then enters, discoursing alone upon women, and upon love at a ripe age. He knocks at the door, saying: “Open, my pretty, my beauty.” The door opens, and he is about to embrace her when he discovers that it is his lackey, Tonin, who has received his honeyed praises, and whom he now denounces for a brute and a donkey. Thereupon both go within.

Bilora and Pittaro re-enter. Pittaro asks him whether he has fared well, if the wine was good, and so forth. Bilora, after replying that he is “full,” begs him to be the mediator between himself and Messer Andronico, whom he continues to call _Ardoche_: “You will tell him that Dina has a husband, and that he must let her go, whether he desires it or not, because she desires it. And that I will kill him if he refuses—that I am a soldier, and a bravo, which will intimidate him. If he surrenders her all will be well; if not, let him look to himself.”

Bilora goes off, and Pittaro, after having knocked at the door, and undergone the usual interrogations from Dina, is permitted to speak to Messer Andronico.

Pittaro. Good evening, Messer and Excellency.

Andronico. What brings thee, Pittaro?

Pittaro. I want ten words with you in confidence. Come this way, sir.

Andronico. What is there, then, so interesting?

Pittaro. You shall learn. You know without my telling you that you carried off Dina, the wife of that poor lad Bilora. He has lost his head over the affair. I beseech you, Excellency, in your own interest, to let her depart with her husband. For reflect, my very dear sir, that it was highly imprudent in you to have carried off the wife of another. And further let me tell you as a friend that she is far from old, whilst you are too advanced in years to have so young a woman. Forgive me, Messer, the frankness of my speech.

Andronico. Do you want the truth? I shall do nothing of what you ask because I cannot give her up. Do you understand? I am resolved to spend my life with her. What the devil! Do you think I should let that girl return to the country to suffer with that great coward Bilora, who gives her more cudgellings than bread? No, no! I want her for myself. I will not throw nutmeg to swine. Do you suppose that I should have carried her off as I did to let her go again so easily? I, who have worn a cuirass and carried a shield all summer, like a Rodomont? I, who have gone armed day and night, who have suffered so much fatigue to save her trouble? Bid Bilora seek elsewhere what he requires.

Pittaro. But what is he to do? Do you want him to go mad?

Andronico. And what of me? Do you want me to die of despair? Let him go mad, how can I help it? You are tiresome. You begin to anger me. Go to the devil! And not another word on this subject!

Pittaro. Do not become heated, sir. Let us be wise. Let us call Dina, let us question her, and let us see what she will say. If she wants to go, let her go; if she does not, keep her and do as you please. What do you say?

Andronico. No doubt you are right. But do not suppose that she will be of the same way of thinking. She has just told me that she will never leave me for any other man in the world. I cannot believe that she could so quickly change her mind. Still I will do as you ask, and thus you shall learn the truth. (_He calls._) Dina, my pretty! listen! come here!

Dina. Did you call me, my master?

Andronico. Listen, my pretty: this good man is seeking you on behalf of your husband, and we have agreed that if you want to leave me I shall let you go, that if you want to remain you shall remain. You know that you are happy with me, and that I shall never let you want for anything. Do as you will and as you please, I say no more.

Dina. To go with my husband? I don’t want to! To be beaten? My faith, no! I would to heaven that I had never known him, that greatest of all the cowards that eat bread! I say it once for all, I don’t wish to return to him.

Andronico. Well, well, well! Are you satisfied? When I told you this you would not believe me.

Pittaro. But listen, girl! She herself told Bilora, not half-an-hour ago, that she wanted to return to him, but that you did not wish it.

Dina. I? I never said anything of the sort. To whom did I say it? As the good wife says, I leave that lie to him who invented it.

Andronico. Go in, my dear, and do not trouble yourself further. (_To PITTARO._) What do you say now? What further can you ask?

Pittaro. I, sir? Nothing further. I want what she wants. But let me tell you that Bilora is a man to be feared; he bears you no good will, and you would do well to return his wife to him.

Andronico. What do you mean by that? Explain at once. Do you threaten me? Do not anger me. I am quite cool, and I tell you frankly that you are a fool. Begone at once. Once for all I will not surrender Dina. Do you understand? I am going home. See to it that I do not find you here when next I go forth. Let that suffice.

Pittaro promises to depart and never to be seen again. After Andronico has gone in, Bilora enters. Probably he has heard everything for he reproaches his gossip with not having succeeded. Thereupon Pittaro, becoming impatient, and angered already by Andronico, tells him that he is tiresome; but he tells him this in the energetic words which in those days were still permitted in the theatre. Whereupon he seeks to lead Bilora away with him, but since Bilora refuses, he bids him go to the devil, and departs.

Bilora. (_alone_) No, I shall not go. My affairs are all upside down; it is enough to make a schoolboy die of laughter, and I don’t know what to do. This old man has ruined my life. It would be better that he were dead and buried. Let him but come forth and I shall tell him what I think of him, and so manhandle him as to knock the life out of him. Yes, but he will scream in fear if I do that! Better perhaps to do as the Spanish soldiers do; that will not leave him time to say eight words. Let me draw my knife from its scabbard. Let us see if the blade is bright. By the scorpion, it is none too bright, so perhaps he won’t fear it. Accursed old man, may you but come quickly, I shall flay you alive. I shall take his clothes and I shall sell them, together with my cloak, to buy a horse so as to travel far. I shall turn soldier and live in camps, for henceforth I shall hold my house in horror. Whoever likes can have it. Ah! would he but come forth. Chut! Here he is! May the plague burst the old fool. The moment is choice, provided that no one comes. Here he is! Ah! now he shall not escape me.

Andronico. (_in the doorway speaking to the servant_) What animal is that, wandering round the house at this time? Some drunkard? Do not come, Zane, remain indoors. I am going to take the air to calm myself; keep Dina company and then come and seek me in the fourth hour of night with a lantern.

ZANE. I shall come as soon as possible. Do not be uneasy.

Andronico. Zane, shut the door. I shall go this way.

Bilora. May death eat thee, thou worn-out old man! Take that! and that! (_He strikes him._)

Andronico. Oh, my sweet son! Oh, my lad! Mercy, mercy! To me! to me! help! fire! fire! fire! I am being murdered! Treason! Fire! fire! To me! I die! I am dead! (_He falls._)

Bilora. Fire! Ay—into the fire of hell shalt thou go. Return me my wife now. Did I not tell you to let her be? But he is dead, he does not move a limb. Ah! you have laughed your fill, eh? Didn’t I warn you, eh?

This ends the piece. This _dialogue_, whose energy and colour is lost in translation, is, as will be seen, a tragedy, but a real tragedy; just so might it have been in reality upon some Venetian _traghetto_, one of those flights of steps so often drenched with blood, to be washed a moment later by the waters of the canal as they bore away the body. The original is most arresting. It contains no fiction, no ideal. Each character thinks and speaks as in actual life. But how extraordinary the humour and how rude the fibre of a public that could laugh at these scenes of despair and murder that were seasoned by the most frightful jests!

Bilora’s monologue is remarkable for its truth to life in an epoch in which dramatic convention was surcharged with emphasis: we behold an assassin who premeditates and does not premeditate; one who desired and did not desire. He wanted to beat and to insult his man; if the man died, so much the worse. The peasant is neither brave nor evil; he is not proud and he has not the honour of the gentleman; he loves his criminal wife, he regrets her, he desires her, he will have her, he will beat her and he will love her again. That is the child of nature. One can understand how much an actor of intelligence might extract from such a situation, fraught with laughter, tears and terror.

The dialogue we have just indicated seems a sort of revenge taken by the fancy of Ruzzante upon that which follows, in which he plays the part of a poltroon, or rather of the soldier captain.

MONOLOGUE OF RUZZANTE RETURNING FROM THE WARS

Behold me at last arrived in Venice. I was as impatient to get here as the lean mare is impatient to see the grass sprouting in springtime. At last I am going to see my Gnua (_Genoveffa_)! To hell with camps and wars and soldiers! I shall no longer be disturbed by rolling of drums and braying of trumpets which set me trembling. I shall no longer hear the cry “To arms!” I shall no longer be afraid! When the cry “To arms” rang out, it was as if I had a press upon my stomach. And then the musket-shots! I tremble no longer; I am brave now; I shall be able to sleep and dream as much as I like. I shall eat when I like, what I like, and too much if I like. I shall digest. I shall go as I please. Saint Mark! Saint Mark! I am at last in safety. I travelled swiftly; I have done more than sixty miles a day. I came hither in three days from Cremona! It is not as far as people say. They will tell you that from Cremona to Brescia it is forty miles; it is but a stride. From Brescia to Peschiera they say it is thirty. From Peschiera here, what can the distance be? I came in a day although it is true that I walked all night. Faith! my legs are aching, although I am not tired. The fact is that fear drove me and hope sustained me, and my shoes bore the burden. I want to look at them. May the scorpion eat me! Now here is one with no sole left. That must have been in the war. If I had had the enemy behind me I could not have walked faster. I look like a thief in these clothes, which I stole from a peasant. But the clothes do not matter. I am in safety.... Then I took a boat at Fusine. If I had been killed in the war and I were no more than a ghost I should not be here now. Ah, but no! ghosts don’t eat. I am myself. I am alive. I must go and look for Gnua and my gossip Menato, who has also come to live in Venice. But here he comes. Heh! gossip, it is I, Ruzzante!

Menato. Is it you, gossip? I should never have known you. You are so changed! But be welcome. Do you come from the wars? Have you been sick or in prison? But what an evil countenance, gossip! You have the air of a brigand. Forgive me, but I have seen more than a hundred men who were hanged, and never one with so evil a countenance as yours.

Ruzzante. That is the effect of misery and war, of bad drinking, bad eating, hunger and thirst. Had you but been where I have been!

Menato. You talk like a book, my friend. Have you then learnt to speak Florentine?

Ruzzante. He who travels the world must make haste to learn. I speak French too, but were I to address you in that language of a certainty you would not understand me. I learnt all through fear in a day, and I glory in it.

Hereupon follow several untranslatable pleasantries upon alleged Florentine and French words, with explanations in the Paduan dialect and interpretations by Ruzzante. Menato then turns to the subject of the rags worn by Ruzzante. Ruzzante tells him that he conquered them, sword in hand, from a peasant whom he had wounded. “A plague on these good-for-nothing peasants,” he says.

Menato. But, gossip, now that you are a soldier, you no longer believe yourself a rustic, eh? Are you become such a roarer that you would eat iron?

Ruzzante. Had you been where I have been, you would also have learned to eat not only iron, but weapons and baggage as well, for having no money by which to live I sold all that I possessed at an inn.

Menato. Is that all that you have brought from your assaults upon the enemy?

Ruzzante. I never sought to do the enemy any ill. Why should I have done so? The enemy never did me any harm. I made war upon cows and mares, and sometimes I took prisoners.

Menato. You look so much like a bad soldier that no one who sees you will believe that you have ever been to war. I had looked to see you return crippled in a leg or an arm, or with your face scarred or an eye missing.

Ruzzante. Valour does not lie in wounds and cripplings. Do you imagine that four men could make me afraid? Had you but been where I have been you would take another tone. You would have done things which you have never done. It is not necessary to limp or to be short of an arm to go through one of those battles in which one can do nothing against so many. In those affairs no one knows anybody, gossip. You hear everyone crying: “Kill! kill!”—Harquebus shots here, and partisan strokes there. You see your comrade drop dead, and then it is your turn; and if you attempt to run away the enemy charges you, and a shot out of somewhere breaks your spine. I tell you that courage is necessary to attempt to escape or to go into hiding. And do you suppose that anyone wastes his time trying to hide? Now look at me who am speaking to you. I pretended to be dead and all the cavalry rode over me. If the mountain of Vesuvius had been rolled over my body it could not have been worse. I am telling you the truth. It is necessary to have courage to come back alive. Once as I was running away a cavalier and his horse that were also running away, trod on my heel and stripped my shoe of its sole as you can see.

Menato inquires whether all his campaigns have brought him any money. To this Ruzzante replies with his sacramental phrase: “If you had been where I have been you would not have brought back more than I have.”

But the aim of his journey is his well-beloved Gnua, who, according to Menato, has forgotten him, and is at this moment established in Venice with the familiar of a cardinal. To this Ruzzante announces that it is a little thing for him to kill a man, and that he will kill this one even if he should be four men.

Ruzzante. But here is Gnua, gossip. Here she comes, faith! Now we shall see whether she will caress me. Hola! tell me, then, pretty one, don’t you see me? It is I.

Gnua. Ruzzante! Is it thou? Alive? But in what rags, and what a piteous countenance! You have profited nothing then?

Ruzzante. I have profited enough for you since I bring you my carcass safe and sound as you can see.

Gnua. As for your carcass I can do very well without it. I had imagined you would have brought me some fine robe. I must go. I am expected. Let me go.

Ruzzante. To the devil with the love I bore you! No sooner have you seen me than you want to go again. I, who have returned from the wars on purpose to see you.

Gnua. You have seen me enough. To tell you the truth I don’t want you to be a cause of trouble, for there is someone who is entertaining me very comfortably, and who knows nothing of our past adventure.

Ruzzante informs her that he is as capable of entertaining her as this other one; but Gnua has no wish to die of hunger with him. “After four months of business in the wars,” she says, “you might at least have brought some money back. But I don’t believe you were ever at the war. You have the face of a liar, and you probably spent your time in some apothecary’s shop. I should prefer you if you had returned short of an arm or a leg, and perhaps blind or with your nose slit, anxious to earn money for me as you promised. He swore to me,” she says to Menato, “to die or to return rich, and you see in what condition he returns; that is proof enough of how little he thought about me.”

Ruzzante. I tell you that I was unfortunate.

Gnua. That is very possible, but I who have not been, and who do not want to be, unfortunate, am not going to be wretched with you. Go! Look after your own affairs, and I’ll look after mine. I am going back to my man.

Ruzzante. To the devil with your man! I know no man of yours other than myself.

Gnua. Let me go, wretch, rascal, liar, good-for-nothing!

Ruzzante. Come with me, I tell you. Do not make me angry. I have changed, and you shall no longer lead me by the nose as you used to do.

Menato. Listen, my good girl, come with me! He is capable of killing you.

Gnua. He? Don’t mind him. He is equal to killing nothing but a flea, the boaster!

The _Bravo_ (it is thus that Gnua’s lover is named) enters, falls upon Ruzzante and beats him until he falls. The Bravo carries off Gnua. When he has gone Ruzzante raises his head and addresses Menato:

Ruzzante. Have they gone, gossip? Make quite sure!

Menato. Be at ease, gossip; they have gone, there is none here.

Ruzzante. But the others, have they gone too?

Menato. What others? I saw only one.

Ruzzante. You are blind! There were more than a hundred of them.

Menato. Oh no, by the scorpion!

Ruzzante. Oh yes, by the scorpion! Do you pretend to know better than I? They were a hundred against one. If I hadn’t pretended to be dead so quickly they would have made me so in reality!

Menato. You told me that you were so brave that in battle you knew neither friends nor relatives.

Ruzzante. Certainly! But what do you expect of one man against all the world. You should have come to my aid. Do you think that I am a Roland?

Menato. I assure you, gossip, that there was only one man, but I imagined that you allowed yourself to be ill-treated so as to rise up and fall upon him when he should have thought you dead. I expected you to prevent him from carrying off Gnua. Do you understand, gossip?

Ruzzante. I don’t, gossip; I didn’t even think of it. I flung myself down, I pretended to be dead as I used to do in battle so as to save my life. It is the safest way when so many enemies fall upon you.

Menato. Gossip, on my faith, I tell you that that man was alone. Why didn’t you defend yourself with your lance?

Ruzzante. One against a hundred? There is nothing to do but run on those occasions.

Menato. Gossip, there was only one, I tell you!

Ruzzante. Very well then, if there was only one it is some treason or some enchantment of Gnua. What do you think? Do you think she is a sorceress? In the old days she led me to suppose that she was the most beautiful girl in the world; yet that is not true. There are many more beautiful than she. Now she contrives that one single man shall seem a hundred to me; therefore—may the scorpion eat her!—I will get her burnt for a witch. You are very sure that there was only one? You see what a valiant man I must be to have been able to bear so many blows!

Menato. By the scorpion, there were blows enough to kill a donkey! I could not see the sky, they rained so fast. Are you not hurt? I don’t understand how you happen to be still alive!

Ruzzante. Habit, gossip. I am accustomed to it. I feel nothing. I have but one regret, and that is not to have known that there was only one. I should have performed the most beautiful drowning that was ever seen. I should have taken him and her and flung them together into the canal. Ah, scorpion! That would have been droll, and we should have laughed a little! I don’t say that I should have beaten him! The love of Gnua is not worth so much trouble. But I should have flung him into the water. Do you understand, gossip? And of a certainty there would have been matter for laughter. Oh! oh! oh! oh!

We will conclude our quotations with an admirable letter of Ruzzante’s to his friend and comrade in the theatre, Marco Alvarotto (Menego-Menato). Being in possession of no details touching the life of a man so supremely remarkable and interesting, and bearing in mind that if our aim here is to present the history of the types of the Commedia, it is also our aim, as far as possible, to present the history of forgotten talent and vanished glories, we think that we should reveal the aspirations and, as it were, the very soul of Ruzzante summed up in this letter. We behold in him a man young and handsome, melancholy like all great buffoons, suffering, probably, from weariness of spirit rather than from a dissolute life, for the chastity of his compositions is remarkable in an epoch in which libertinism presides in every dramatic and literary effort. Consider the subject of _La Mandragora_ and that of _La Calandra_, and that this is the age of Aretino and so many other illustrious debauchees. From time to time Ruzzante manifests the cynicism and rude expression of his age, but this cynicism on the lips of peasants shocks far less than when it is found on those of fine gentlemen. The basis of his subjects is a moral lesson, sometimes tragic, sometimes moving. The eternal _becco comedia_ in Ruzzante’s work is as often terrible as ridiculous, and when the author presents to us a pure girl like Nina, in _La Piovana_, she is truly adorable. Further he conceals under the flowers of allegory a fine and delicate spiritualism as we may see.

“_To Messer Marco Alvarotto_

“Marco, my dear master, I rejoice with you in the pleasures you experienced at the hunt, and believing that on your side you would wish to participate in a joy which I have lately experienced, I am about to relate it to you.

“You will know that, finding this world the most beautiful country in the world, I took one day the firm resolve to remain in it for ever, or at least to be one of the last to quit it. Knowing full well, however, that it is no more the privilege of honest men than of any others to enjoy an existence which shall be more than an existence, I have indulged myself at length upon this subject in my little books[9]; these assure me that it is possible to live very long and even eternally, but that first it would be necessary for me to find a certain lady whom some call Modesty and others Wisdom, who has it in her power to bestow as long a life as one may ask of her; for some great personages long since dead are still living in their works. To this I answered: ‘Oh, my brothers, my little books, you are trifling with me; this lady is like that herb which has the virtue of rendering invisible whoever wears it, but which is nowhere to be found.’ Nevertheless I did not insist, knowing my books to be truthful and akin to honest men, who would not tell a falsehood for a thousand ducats. Thereupon I firmly resolved to seek this lady, and even though she were more hideous than Envy so truly to pay her my court as to persuade her promptly to come with me. But after having ransacked all my world of writing matter, after having sought and after having voyaged in my mind farther than the ships of Spain, without even finding a track of her footsteps, I fell one day into despair, like the gambler who is unlucky at the first throw. I cursed all writings, and in a passion I went to seek repose in the country.

“I was left alone by the hunt on one of our little hills called Este, awaiting the return of my dogs from behind another hill where they were chasing a hare. They were already so far that I could no longer hear their voices. It seemed to me that all things fell silent about me, and, whether as a result of this silence, or whether from weariness of mind, sleep entered gently and unperceived into my eyes, and he was no sooner within than, as it were, he set a chain upon the door and drove me out of myself. I desire to be, and I ought to be, grateful to him all my life, however long it may be, for the sweet and pleasant dream which caused me to see and hear things so lovely that it will be lovely to repeat them and even more lovely to believe them. Thus closed and double-locked as I have said, I beheld first of all our good and brave old Polo as he was in other days, so clearly that I did not have the courage to ask him whether he was living or dead. He was dressed in a festal robe, and seemed to be coming from the barber’s, with a countenance which announced rather that he had dined well than that he had fasted. I cannot think how he came by his knowledge of my desire to live for ever (I believe the soul to be a thing divine), but, after wishing me a good day and a happy year, after having rubbed his nose on the right and left, after having twice drawn breath, he began to speak: ‘Ruzzante, you have wearied yourself more over your books than ever I wearied my arms upon animals, and you will never be able to find the woman you seek unless I assist you and point her out to you. It is your mania for calling things by names which do not belong to them that leads you into error. You think her name is as you say. You seem to me much in the same case as that fellow who read _Balotta_ upon a book on which was written _Checarello_. But come with me and I will lead you to her court, where you shall find many good companions to move you to laughter, even as you move others to it with your comelies or comegies (_con le to comielie, ò comiegie_), I know not what you call them.’”

It would take up too much space to translate here the entire discourse of the old peasant Polo to Ruzzante. He informs him, in short, that she whom he calls Wisdom is named Gaiety, and that he will be so happy upon beholding her, so joyous and so gay, that he will find by her that future existence which he seeks. “No longer will he suffer his dreadful pangs; no longer will he know pain; he will be able to breathe with all his lungs. An hour, a minute of this well-understood existence is better than a thousand years of a life which is unperceived.” The peasant describes in his rustic fashion the happiness of existence. For him, to sing, to dance, to drink as much as he thirsts, to have apples, well-cooked beetroots and good chestnuts, to saunter and do nothing but look on, is not that the way of happiness, of gaiety and of joy rather than for a man to dribble his brains into books? They go along talking thus in quest of Gaiety, and their way runs through a fresh and smiling countryside, to which Polo draws Ruzzante’s attention: “Have you ever seen a more lovely country, so surrounded with flowering hills and shaded woods, turning a quicker green from the last rains, these little streams bubbling over stones and losing themselves among herbs and flowers? Do you hear that little bird singing his song, _hairo, hairo, hairo_?” Across this earthly paradise, before the eyes of Ruzzante, is unfolded a whole world of allegorical figures, which come and go; these Polo explains to him after his own fashion:

“‘Look your fill; we are in the land of Gaiety. Consider first this woman, here at my side. This is Prudence, Gaiety’s principal cook. Then come Contentment and Pleasure, riding on horseback, in a carriage or in a boat. Look at this one rolling along the ground with his mouth so widely open that one may deem him on the point of bursting; this is Laughter. Look at that woman, beautifully attired and bejewelled; she is Fate. At her side is her brother Dance, who has removed his shoes that he may leap the better. Behold, he is dancing! These two ladies who come hand in hand are Mirth and Joy. The latter seems unable to contain herself, so constantly does she desire to sing, to dance, to gambol or play the lute. Further off is Kindness, embracing Friendship. Here are Peace and Charity. Look quickly that you may behold the Passing Hour which never more returns. There is one who goes before her whose name is Cock. He is the first to hear her. He advances, greeting her with song. Look at that one who is separated from the company, dressed in black. She is Corruption; it is she who spoils existence as the beasts destroy the plants. And there is Sadness with folded hands, her head upon her knees: to behold her glassy eye you might conceive her dead. Take no heed of this little fellow with a bow and a quiver at his hip; he is the worst of all; you could never believe how profoundly he is malicious. There is no existence so beautiful but that he will thrust himself in to ruin it with his wiles and his malice. His name is Love, but he is not the good Love, the child of God and of Liberty. I cannot think who were the parents of this evil child, but I suspect that they were Malice and Misfortune. Come on, run as if the plague pursued you. Do you not see? Jealousy is beside him with her scarlet raiment full of holes, to enable evil designs readily to enter in. Pain, drawing her lamentations, runs before Arson, which rolls upon the ground like a rabid dog. There is Caprice which never knows peace, which is never well where it is, which ever desires to be where it is not, which desires to be and not to be, and also desires to be another and yet not to be that other. Do not look because by dint of looking at all these we shall lose sight of Gaiety. Why do you stare at Love? Let him be.’

“Whilst he was speaking thus it seemed to me that I heard music. Not that of songs and instruments, but a something more harmonious, like a concert. It seemed to me that all this made up so beautiful a thing that it would be impossible to relate it in a thousand years, even with a thousand tongues. I wanted to look attentively so as to miss nothing, such was the pleasure I gathered from this spectacle. But my eyes seemed hindered I know not by what heaviness. Making yet another effort to open them the dream took flight, and I found myself restored to reality.

“At the same moment I beheld my dogs returning, driving the hare before them. They were so tired that one of them came to lie down before me and to let me take the palpitating hare from his jaws.

“I remembered my dream, and I bethought me that the music which I had heard greatly resembled the voices of my dogs. It seemed to me also that the cause of all those lovely things which I had seen coming and going in my dream were my dogs pursuing the hare, which, by passing again and again before me, caused me in the end to open my eyes.

“There you have my _divertissement_; laugh over it with some good companion. I kiss your hands and commend myself to you and to our friends, to whom I augur happiness and an existence as eternal as that which I was seeking.

“RUZZANTE.

“_From Padua, on the feast of the Epiphany, 1535._”

It would be wrong for the _commedia sostenuta_ to claim Ruzzante; he belongs to our subject every whit as much as Gozzi and Goldoni, those ungrateful successors of his who never mention his name, and who very possibly never read his works. In accordance with the ancient Italian custom, Beolco wrote his comedies after he had played them with his gay and clever comrades; he performed them at least partly in impromptu. Moreover in some of his pieces many scenes are no more than indicated in a few words, to be played and improvised by the actors; for instance:

“The Bravo enters and falls upon Ruzzante, etc.

“They now sing, and when they have done, Nale enters, and drawing his sword, advances upon Menego saying: ‘Draw, traitor!’ Menego, frightened does not draw but runs hither and thither receiving many blows.”

Elsewhere: “Hereupon the priest makes a few signs and noises are heard which terrify Menego and Duozzo, whom the priest reassures, etc.”

Some of the works of Ruzzante were preserved in the family of his protector Cornelio; others were published, some in their original text, some translated into Italian. Five of his comedies printed severally for the first time in 1551, and some of them reprinted more than once, were, in 1563, collected into an octavo volume in Venice by Giovanni Bonadio. These were _La Piovana_, _L’Anconitana_, _La Moschetta_, _La Vaccaria_ and _La Fiorina_.

An edition of the complete works of Ruzzante was issued in 1584 in duodecimo by Giorgio Greco at Vicenza. It bore the title:

_Tutte l’opere del famosissimo Ruzzante di nuovo e con somma diligenza rivedute et corrette, et aggiuntovi un sonetto et una canzone dello stesso autore. Al molto magnifico signor Vespasiano Zopiano gentil’huomo Vicentino. Ristampate l’anno del Signore 1584._

Another edition appeared in Vicenza in 1598, and a third and last edition, which is the best known, was published in 1617 in Venice by Domenico Amadio:

“The works of the celebrated Signor Angelo Beolco, a nobleman of Padua, surnamed Ruzzante, are,” says the publisher in a preface to the readers, “so beloved and appreciated by all the world for their sentiment, wit, delicacy and erudition, that they are sought after by everyone as a most learned and interesting collection. Having regard, then, to this general desire, I have reprinted them with care, and I deliver them to the public revised, corrected, and conforming entirely with the originals on the score of purity of style and primitive simplicity. In delighting you with this book, I trust that the nobility of your soul will take into consideration my labour and my good intention, which are always at the services of the pleasure and the well-being of all.”

This last edition includes the following works of the _very celebrated_ Ruzzante: with the apologetic titles of the editor:

_La Piovana_, “or the history of the purse.”

_L’Anconitana_, “a comedy which treats of love and which cannot fail to give pleasure.”

_La Rhodiana_, “a surprising and very laughable comedy, full of very piquant sayings in various languages, by the very celebrated Ruzzante.”

This last comedy is attributed to Andrea Calmo, a Venetian actor and author, a contemporary of Ruzzante’s. There is reason to believe that it was written by Ruzzante after having been played from a scenario supplied by Calmo. That at least is what appears to be proven by the following fragment of the prologue:

“... It is the custom in Carnival time to amuse you with divertissements and performances of this style, but we should have been unable to have done it this year without the assistance of one of our companions, who, although unable to leave his own troupe, suggested to us and brought us the work which you are going to see performed this evening. We have been compelled, then, to have recourse to his good memory which has given us this work, a work which will undoubtedly please you if you will not make too much noise.”

_La Vaccaria_, “a comedy no less witty than amusing.”

_La Fiorina_, “a comedy no less piquant than delectable.”

_La Moschetta_, “a comedy no less amusing than agreeable.”

Three discourses by Ruzzante, “written and recited in rustic language. Works full of wit and sallies, and marvellously amusing.”

Two dialogues “in rustic language, moral, witty and agreeable.”

A dialogue “very facetious and very droll, played at the hunt in 1528.”

The characters in the plays of Ruzzante are: In the rôles of fathers and of ridiculous and battered husbands, Messer Andronico, Messer Cornelio (old men of Venice), Demetrio Placido, Diomede, Ser Thomao, Pittaro, Sivello, Pasquale, Tura and Maregale; the lovers are Tancredo, Theodoro, Gismonde, Flavio, Roberto, Federico, and Polidoro (a ridiculous lover); the leading ladies are Ginevra, Isotta, Fiorinetta, and Beatrice; his peasant girls are Gnua, Fiore, Bettia, Nina, Ghetta and Dina; his soubrettes are Besa, Gita, Betta and Maddalena; in the rôles of mother he has Theodosia, Ruspina, Resca, Sofronia, Felicita, Celega and Prudentia (_ruffiana_), and Doralice (a courtesan); his rustic types are Ruzzante, Menego-Menato, Duozzo, Marchioro, Bilora, Bedon, Truffa, Vezzo, Loron, Forbino, and Siton; his intriguing lackeys are Tonin the Bergamese, Nale, Slavero, Garbuio, Daldura, Garbinello, Zane, Bertevello, Campeggio, Naso and Corrado (the German). In addition to these his comedies include a notary and Piolo, a singer.

END OF VOLUME ONE

THE RIVERSIDE PRESS LIMITED, EDINBURGH

FOOTNOTES

[1] About £160,000 of our present money.

[2] _I.e._ players in the Théâtres de la Foire—that is to say, players who set up their theatres at public fairs.

[3] See the dialogue between Clindor and Matamore, etc., etc., in P. Corneille’s _L’Illusion Comique_.

[4] Mondor’s diction in these performances in Paris was an extraordinary mixture of French, Italian and Spanish, which it is only possible to appreciate by a glimpse at the original:

“RODOMONT. Cavallières, mousquetadères, bombardas, canones, morions, corseletes! Aqui, veillaco!... Son il Capitanio Rodomonté, la bravura, la valore de todo el mondo; la mia spada s’est rendue triomphante del toto universo.

“TABARIN. Il est vray, par ma foy; il n’y a personne qui joue mieux de l’espée à deux jambes que luy.

“RODOMONT. Que fasto en sta casa, Tabarin? Que fasto veillaco? Io te quero ablar.... Aqui, veillacon? Aqui, poerco? Io te quero matar, eres moerto!”

[5] Courtesans did not allow their hair to grow, so that they might dress in male attire when the fancy took them. But those who were faithful to their lovers retained long hair as a sign of the propriety of their conduct.

[6] “The white uniform of the gardes-françaises,” says M. Édouard Fournier, “is somewhat reminiscent of the costume of the naïve comedian; hence they are everywhere called Pierrots. The street urchin did not stop at that: whenever he beheld a soldier in white uniform he imitated the cry of the sparrow, which is also called a pierrot, and cried out ‘Piou-piou’; hence this sobriquet, which is still given to our infantry soldiers.”

[7] “_Il TEATRO delle favole rappresentative, overo la ricreatione comica, boscareccia e tragica; divisa in cinquanta giornate. Composte da Flaminio Scala, detto Flavio, comico del sereniss. sig. duca di Mantoua. In Venetia 1661._”

[8] Gennari, in his _Saggio storico sulle accademie_, page 21, calls him “the new Roscius of his day, an admirable man, a prodigious actor and the author of very clever comedies.”

[9] The manuscripts were not printed until several years after his death.