Part 19

“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.