Part 6

HARLEQUIN. I will tell you. We had arranged a party—three of my friends and I—to go and eat a goose at Vaugirard. I was deputed by the company to go and buy the goose. I transported myself to the Valley of Misery; I there made my purchase, and I was wending my way thence to the rendezvous. As I was entering the plain of Vaugirard, behold! six ravenous vultures came swooping down upon my goose, and carried it off. I, who feared to lose it, clung firmly to its neck, so that in a measure as the vultures carried up the goose they carried me up with it. When we had got very high, a further regiment of vultures came to the assistance of the first, hurled themselves upon my goose, and in an instant caused me to lose sight of the highest mountains and the highest steeples. I, obstinate always as the devil, would not let go. I hung on until the neck of my goose failed me, and I tumbled into a lake. Some fishermen, luckily, had spread their net, and I fell into it. The fishermen drew me out of the water, and, supposing me to be a fish of consequence, took me upon their shoulders, and bore me as a present to the emperor. Behold me lying on the ground and the emperor coming with all his court to view me. It is asked, “What sort of a fish is that.” The emperor replies, “I think it is an anchovy.” “Your pardon, Monseigneur,” says a fat gentleman, who accounted himself witty, “rather is it a toad.” “Anyway,” said the emperor, “bid them fry me this fish such as it is.” When I heard that they were going to fry me, I cried out: “But, Monseigneur....” “How,” says he, “do fishes speak?” Thereupon I assured him that I was not a fish, and further I informed him in what manner I had been brought to the Empire of the Moon. He asked me at once: “Are you acquainted with Doctor Grazian Balouard, and his daughter Isabella? Then go and ask her of him in marriage on my behalf.” But I replied, “I shall never be able to find my way there, because I do not know which way I came.” “Do not let that embarrass you,” he replied, “I shall send you to Paris by means of an influence that I am sending thither, laden with rheumatism, catarrhs, pneumonias and other little trifles of that kind.” Further he said: “I reserve for the doctor one of the best places in my empire.”

THE DOCTOR. Is it really possible? Did he tell you what it was?

HARLEQUIN. Indeed yes. He says that about a fortnight ago one of the twelve signs of the Zodiac, the Scorpion, died; and he wants to put you in its place.

The Doctor believes everything, asks a thousand questions concerning this lunar sovereign, inquires what like are the houses, the cities and the habits of life in the Court of that country. Harlequin gives him details of the manner in which the emperor eats. His food is shot at him from arbalists, and he is given to drink from a syringe. “It is very curious,” says he. “One day an awkward arbalister missed the emperor’s mouth and fired a buttered egg into his eye. Hence such eggs have ever since been called _œufs pochés_.” After this he induces the Doctor to give him a purse and some jewels, and he departs, to return presently dressed as the Emperor of the Moon.

The Doctor addresses several questions to him concerning his empire and his subjects.

HARLEQUIN. My subjects? They are almost without defects, because they are governed solely by interest and ambition.

COLUMBINE. That is exactly as here.

HARLEQUIN. Everyone seeks to do the best he can for himself at the expense of his neighbour, and the highest virtue in my empire is to be wealthy.

THE DOCTOR. That is exactly as here.

HARLEQUIN. In my country there are no executioners; instead of dispatching people in a quarter of an hour on a scaffold, I hand them over to be killed by the doctors, who do them to death as cruelly as they do their patients.

COLUMBINE. What, sir! Do the doctors up there also kill the people? That is exactly as here.

ISABELLA. And in your empire, sir, are there any wits?

HARLEQUIN. My empire is the source of them. For over seventy years, now, we have been working upon a dictionary which will not be finished in two centuries.

COLUMBINE. It is exactly as here. And is justice properly administered in your empire?

HARLEQUIN. It is administered by hanging.

ISABELLA. And the judges, sir, do they not permit themselves to be corrupted?

HARLEQUIN. Women there, as elsewhere, importune them. Sometimes presents are made to them; but in general they behave properly.

THE DOCTOR. It is exactly as here. Sir, in your empire, are husbands accommodating?

HARLEQUIN. That fashion arrived there almost as soon as in France. At the beginning we had a little trouble in making up our minds to it, but at present all the world is proud of it.

COLUMBINE. It is exactly as here.... And the women in your empire, are they happy?

HARLEQUIN. It is they who handle all the money and spend it all. The husbands have no concern save that of paying the taxes and repairing the houses.

COLUMBINE. It is exactly as here.

HARLEQUIN. Our women never rise until the afternoon. They invariably take three hours over their toilet; then they enter a coach and repair to the comedy, to the opera or to the promenade. Thence they go to sup with some chosen friend. After supper they play or they attend an opera, according to the season; and, towards four or five o’clock after midnight, they return home, so that a poor devil of a man may sometimes go for weeks without meeting his wife in the house, and you may see him hanging about the streets on foot, what time madam employs the coach for her pleasures.

ALL. It is exactly as here!

iv

When a new Italian troupe, summoned by the Regent, arrived in Paris, in 1716, Antonio Vicentini (styled Thomassin) made his first appearance in the rôle of Harlequin, supported by the entire troupe, on the 8th of May of that year, in the theatre of the Palais-Royal, in _L’Inganno Fortunato_.

“The famous Domenico, who had made himself so great a reputation in France, had a defect in his voice to which he had so thoroughly accustomed the public that it was never afterwards conceived that a Harlequin might be endurable who did not speak in his throat, and affect the tones of a parrot.”

Riccoboni and Thomassin were very uneasy as to the manner in which the public would receive a new Harlequin, gifted with a clear and natural voice. There were several night-scenes in _L’Inganno Fortunato_. “One of these occurred at the commencement of the piece. Lelio called his lackey Harlequin, who at first did not answer, and who then answered at intervals, appearing to fall asleep again after each reply. Lelio went in quest of him, and dragged him on to the stage whilst still asleep though on his feet. Harlequin, awakened, answered and, then letting himself fall down, would drop off to sleep again. His master would awaken him once more. Harlequin would then go fast asleep upon his master’s arm. The public were put in a good humour by this scene, and after having laughed and applauded for a quarter of an hour without the new Harlequin’s having uttered a single word, they had not the courage to censure him upon his voice when at last they heard it.”

Vicentini was born at Vicenza, and had long been playing in Italy when Riccoboni made him offers to induce him to come to Paris. Marivaux wrote several pieces for Thomassin, amongst which were _La Surprise de l’Amour_, in 1722, and _Le Prince Travesti_, in 1724. It was no longer a question of improvisation, but of memorised comedy, and Harlequin’s business was solely to get full value out of the author’s wit. Marivaux, whilst preserving to this type his original colour, causes him to appear sometimes scintillant with wit, sometimes entirely stupid. He is a mixture of Sganarelle, Sancho Pança, Crispino and Figaro. In the _Prince Travesti_, Harlequin is the lackey of the Prince of Léon, who conceals his identity under the name of Lelio. He meets the Princess of Barcelone, who is in love with Lelio, and who puts questions to him on the subject of his master.

THE PRINCESS. What do you seek, Harlequin? Is your master in the palace?

HARLEQUIN. Madam, I implore Your Principality to pardon the impertinence of my stupidity; had I but known of your presence here I should not have been so foolish as to have brought my person hither.

THE PRINCESS. You have done no harm. But tell me, are you seeking your master?

HARLEQUIN. Exactly. You have guessed it, madam. Since he spoke to you a while ago I have lost him in this plaguey house and, saving your presence, I have lost myself also. If you would show me the way you would be doing me a kindness; there are here so many chambers that I have been travelling for an hour without coming to the end of them. _Par la mardi!_ if you prize all this it must mean that it brings you a lot of money. Nevertheless, what a jumble of furniture, of oddities, and of kickshaws! A whole village might live a year upon the value of it all.... It is so beautiful that one does not dare to look at it; it instils fear into a poor man like me. How rich you are, you princes, and I, what is it that I am by comparison with this! But surely it is another impertinence on my part to reason with you as with an equal. Your companion is laughing, perhaps I have said something foolish.

HORTENSE. You have said nothing foolish; on the contrary, you seem to me of an excellent wit.

HARLEQUIN. Pardi! I laugh always: what would you? I have nothing to lose. You amuse yourselves with being rich, you others, and I—I amuse myself with being gay; to every one his own amusement in this world.

With his master Harlequin shows himself to be no less critical and profound.

LELIO. I am disposed to confide in you that I am a person of condition, who amuse myself by travelling incognito. I am young; it is a study that will be useful to me some day.

HARLEQUIN. My faith, it is a study that will teach you nothing but poverty; it was hardly worth while to travel post for the sake of studying all this rubbish. What will you make of all this knowledge of men? You will learn but poor things.

LELIO. But they will cheat me no more.

HARLEQUIN. That will spoil you.

LELIO. Why?

HARLEQUIN. You will no longer be so kindly when you are learned on that subject. By dint of seeing so many scoundrels, in truth, you will become a scoundrel yourself.... Good-bye! Which is the way to the kitchen?

Comical scenes follow between Harlequin and Frederick, an ambitious courtier who seeks to seduce Harlequin. The latter thereupon becomes again the loutish lackey, opposing to Frederick’s attack the ponderous and ingenious probity of the peasant.

HARLEQUIN. Pardi! You treat me like your own child. There is no boggling at that. Wealth, employment, and a pretty girl; that means a whole shipload of victuals, money and delicacies. It is clear that you love me very dearly!

FREDERICK. Yes; your physiognomy pleases me; you are a good lad!

HARLEQUIN. Oh! as for that, I am as droll as a box; leave it to me and we shall laugh like mad together; but let us behold at once this wealth, these employments and this pretty girl, for I am in haste to be rich and at ease.

Frederick has a small service to ask of him. It is that of spying upon his master, and to report to him his words and actions. “Observe all very carefully, and as an earnest of the recompense ultimately to be yours, here is some money for you in advance.”

HARLEQUIN. Can’t you advance me the girl also? We will deduct her from the rest.

FREDERICK. A service, my child, is never paid for until it is rendered; that is the custom.

HARLEQUIN. A villainous custom!... I prefer to give you my note of hand to the effect that I have received this girl on account.... But, when I come to think of it, I am afraid you want me to do dirty work for you. What do you want with the words of my lord Lelio, my master?

FREDERICK. Mere curiosity.

HARLEQUIN. Hum.... There is malice under all this. You have a sly look. I will bet you ten sous that you are a worthless fellow.... Get along! you should not tempt a poor lad who has no more honour than is necessary to him, and who is fond of girls. I have all the trouble in the world to prevent myself from being a scoundrel. Must my honour be the ruin of me, to deprive me of wealth, employment and a pretty wench. _Par la mardi!_ you are very wicked to have invented this girl.

FREDERICK. Consider that I am offering you your fortune, and that you are losing it.

HARLEQUIN. I am considering that your commission smells of trickery, and luckily this trickery fortifies my poor honour which was wavering. Bah! your pretty girl is no better than a drab; your employments are concerned with some dogs’ traffic. That is my last word, and I am going straight to find the princess and my master to relate to them my disaster and all your proposals.

FREDERICK. Wretch! are you resolved then to dishonour me?

HARLEQUIN. Good! when one has no honour is it necessary to have reputation?

Thomassin would execute at times highly extraordinary turns of strength and of agility.

“He would run round the outside of the boxes of the first, second and third tiers; but the public, too deeply interested in the life of this amiable actor, compelled him to cut out a turn so dangerous which invariably had the effect of frightening the spectators far more than it amused them.

“His natural gaiety and the graces of his clowning would in themselves have sufficed to have charmed the public, even had not nature made him an excellent actor, which is to be taken in the widest sense of the term as meaning that he was natural, naïve, original and pathetic.”

Amid the laughter excited by his buffoonery he would at times suddenly surprise his audience into tears. “Often, after beginning by laughing at the manner in which he expressed his pain, one ended by experiencing the emotion by which he was penetrated.”

Like Domenico, in the matter of pupils, Thomassin produced only very bad copies, and “one saw nothing but pitiful attempts in the rôle of Harlequin” until the day when Carlo Bertinazzi came to succeed him.

Thomassin had married Margarita Rusca, who played waiting-woman parts under the name of Violetta. He died on the 19th of August 1739 at the age of fifty-seven, after a long illness. Among the many children he left and who have appeared on the Italo-French stage, the best known was Madame de Hesse, wife of the actor of this name.

On the 21st of November of 1739 Antonio Constantini, a brother of the celebrated Angelo Constantini, who had created the rôle of Mezzetin in Paris, made his first appearance in the part of Harlequin. He played “with great vivacity,” and held out some hope that he would repair the loss which the theatre had sustained by the death of Thomassin; he did not, however, fulfil this promise, and he was not accepted for the rôles of zany.

The feeble début of the Alsatian, Théodorak—anagram of Cadoret—in 1740, met with no better success.

“It is altogether incredible what a number of Harlequins appeared within the space of three or four years; they seemed to rise from the ashes of Thomassin: but, similar to those shadows which are formed from the exhalations of tombs, and which the least sound dissipates, so all these disappeared before the booings of the groundlings.”

In 1741, Gioachino Vicentini, the youngest son of Thomassin, aged eighteen, made his début as Harlequin, on the 26th of August. “But, as talents are not always hereditary, he was not accepted at the Comédie-Italienne, and he confined himself thereafter to playing in the provinces.”

In the same year the Sieur Molin also attempted the rôle of Harlequin with no better reception. He also repaired to the country.

v

At last, on the 10th of April 1741, Carlo Bertinazzi, born at Turin, 1713, made his début, and was received into the troupe in the month of August 1742, after having played with success the famous character of Harlequin for more than a year, and having surpassed the hopes which had been founded upon his talent. This brilliant début was thus chronicled in the _Mercure_:

“On Thursday, the 10th of April 1741, the Italian comedians opened their theatre with an Italian piece in prose and in three acts, in which the Sieur Carlin Bertinazzi, born at Turin, some twenty-eight years ago, performed for the first time the rôle of Harlequin, the principal character in the piece. The Sieur Richard, who had addressed the public on the closure of the theatre, addressed it again on the opening, and expressed himself in the following terms:—‘Gentlemen, this day, which renews our efforts and our homage, was to have been marked by the novelty which we had prepared for you; but the actor who is going to have the honour of appearing before you for the first time was too deeply interested, and too impatient to learn his fate, to permit us to postpone his début. “Should your novelty fail,” said he, “I shall learn how your public hisses, and that is something that I do not want to learn; should it succeed I shall know how they applaud, and I shall draw, perhaps, a sad comparison between its reception and that which may be accorded to me.” So as not to give this new actor any grounds for reproach, we have conformed entirely with his wishes. He knows, gentlemen, not only what he has to dread in appearing before you, but also in following that excellent actor whom we have lost (Thomassin) in whose rôle you are about to see him. These just causes of apprehension would be counterbalanced in his mind if he were aware of the resources which await him in your indulgence; but it is in vain that we have endeavoured to reassure him on this score; he can be convinced of the truth of it only by yourselves, and we hope, gentlemen, that you will be disposed to fulfil the promises which we have made to him on your behalf. They are founded upon an experience so long and so happy that we are as assured of your kindliness as you must be of our zeal and profound respect.’”

It was in such terms that the public was flattered in those days. And being thus flattered, it received Carlin with an indulgence of which he was very far from standing in need.

Carlin’s performance was easy, natural and comical. Garrick, seeing him in a scene in which he had just received a correction from his master, menacing this last with one hand, whilst rubbing his side with the other, was so charmed by the naturalness of his miming that he exclaimed: “Behold, how the very back of Carlin has a physiognomy and an expression!”

Carlin Bertinazzi was, like Domenico and all great buffoons, of a very melancholy character; he depended upon his wit and not upon his temperament.

Of Domenico it is related that, being intensely troubled with his spleen, he went to consult Dumoulin, a celebrated doctor, who prescribed for him as a remedy that he should go and see Domenico at the Comédie-Italienne, because Domenico made all the world laugh. “Alas!” replied the poor actor, “I am Domenico, and from now onwards I must look upon myself as a lost man.”

To his histrionic talents Carlin united considerable knowledge on various subjects and all the qualities that go to make a good member of society.

It is related that on a lovely summer evening, when the heat was suffocating, and Carlin was to perform in two plays, Camerani, the manager, came to inform him that there was but one spectator in the theatre, and that there was no occasion to give a performance. Carlin laughed, and replied that it was necessary to play none the less since there was _a_ public (un _public_). The curtain rose; Carlin appeared, drew his wooden sword, took a turn round the theatre, and after a thousand capers which provoked great bursts of laughter from a fat gentleman seated in a corner of the orchestra, he advanced to the footlights and addressed him:

“Monsieur Tout-Seul, we are desolated, my comrades and I, to be compelled to play in such weather as this to one single spectator; nevertheless, if you demand it, play we will.”

The spectator entered into conversation with the actor, informed him that he was from the country, and that he had come to Paris for no other purpose but that of seeing him perform, and implored Carlin to grant him this favour. Carlin resigned himself and began his performance. All at once the sky became overcast, thunder rumbled and rain came down in torrents. The theatre filled itself as by enchantment, and in less than an hour the receipts rose to nine hundred livres, an enormous figure at this epoch. At the end of the second and last piece, Carlin came forward again to the footlights and sought his fat gentleman, who had been convulsed with laughter throughout the performance. “Monsieur Tout-seul, are you still there?” he cried. The man from the provinces rose to reply: “Yes, M. Carlin, and you have made me laugh very much.” “Monsieur Tout-seul, I come to thank you for having compelled us to perform; as a consequence our receipts are enormous. Thank you then once more, Monsieur Tout-seul.” “I am enchanted, M. Carlin. Au revoir,” replied the fat country gentleman, striding across his bench to depart, whilst the audience shook with laughter.

When there was hesitation to announce a performance, either on account of the heat or from any other cause, Carlin would say to Camerani: “Let us put up our bills, none the less. Who knows?—perhaps Monsieur Tout-seul will come this evening.”

Carlin died in Paris in 1675. He was still playing within a very short time of his death. His advanced age had robbed him of none of his vivacity, mirth and suppleness. The following epitaph was written in his honour:

“De Carlin pour peindre le sort, Très peu de mots doivent suffire: Toute sa vie il a fait rire, Il a fait pleurer à sa mort.”

As author he has left us _Les Métamorphoses d’Arlequin_.