Indeed,
the French comedies have had a wider audience than the English,
thanks to an Italian and a German, --- to Rossini who set (The Bar-
ber of Seville) to music, and to Mozart who did a like service for
"The Marriage of Figaro.
the French comedies have had a wider audience than the English,
thanks to an Italian and a German, --- to Rossini who set (The Bar-
ber of Seville) to music, and to Mozart who did a like service for
"The Marriage of Figaro.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v03 - Bag to Ber
A crowd of queens and chambermaids, Jews and
chimney-sweeps, lawyers and charleys, Spanish dons and Irish
officers, rushed upon the stage. The little Spaniard was Alma-
viva, and fell into magnificent attitudes, with her sword and
plume. Lord Squib was the old woman of Brentford, and very
funny. Sir Lucius Grafton, Harlequin; and Darrell, Grimaldi.
The prince and the count, without knowing it, figured as watch-
men. Squib whispered Annesley that Sir Lucius O'Trigger
might appear in character, but was prudent enough to suppress
the joke.
The band was summoned, and they danced quadrilles with
infinite spirit, and finished the night, at the suggestion of Lord
Squib, by breakfasting on the stage. By the time this meal
was dispatched, the purple light of morn had broken into the
building, and the ladies proposed an immediate departure. Mrs.
Montfort and her sister were sent home in one of the duke's
carriages; and the foreign guests were requested by him to be
their escort. The respective parties drove off. Two cabriolets
lingered to the last, and finally carried away the French actress
and the Spanish dancer, Lord Darrell, and Peacock Piggott; but
whether the two gentlemen went in one and two ladies in the
other I cannot aver. I hope not.
There was at length a dead silence, and the young duke was
left to solitude and the signora!
III-104
## p. 1650 (#448) ###########################################
1650
LORD BEACONSFIELD
SQUIBS FROM THE YOUNG DUKE)
CHARLES ANNESLEY
D*
ANDY has been voted vulgar, and beau is now the word. I
doubt whether the revival will stand; and as for the ex-
ploded title, though it had its faults at first, the muse or
Byron has made it not only English, but classical. However, I
dare say I can do without either of these words at present.
Charles Annesley could hardly be called a dandy or a beau.
There was nothing in his dress, though some mysterious arrange-
ment in his costume some rare simplicity — some curious happi-
ness — always made it distinguished; there was nothing, however,
in his dress which could account for the influence which he
exercised over the manners of his contemporaries. Charles
Annesley was about thirty. He had inherited from his father, a
younger brother, a small estate; and though heir to a wealthy
earldom, he had never abused what the world called “his pros-
pects. ” Yet his establishments — his little house in Mayfair --
his horses — his moderate stud at Melton — were all unique, and
everything connected with him was unparalleled for its elegance,
its invention, and its refinement. But his manner was his magic.
His natural and subdued nonchalance, so different from the
assumed non-emotion of a mere dandy; his coldness of heart,
which was hereditary, not acquired; his cautious courage, and his
unadulterated self-love, had permitted him to mingle much with
mankind without being too deeply involved in the play of their
passions; while his exquisite sense of the ridiculous quickly
revealed those weaknesses to him which his delicate satire did
not spare, even while it refrained from wounding.
All feared,
many admired, and none hated him.
He was too powerful not
to dread, too dexterous not to admire, too superior to hate.
Perhaps the great secret of his manner was his exquisite super-
ciliousness; a quality which, of all, is the most difficult to man-
age. Even with his intimates he was never confidential, and
perpetually assumed his public character with the private coterie
which he loved to rule. On the whole, he was unlike any of the
leading men of modern days, and rather reminded one of the
fine gentlemen of our old brilliant comedy — the Dorimants, the
Bellairs, and the Mirabels.
## p. 1651 (#449) ###########################################
LORD BEACONSFIELD
1651
The FUSSY HOSTESS
MEN shrink from a fussy woman. And few can aspire to regu-
late the destinies of their species, even in so slight a point as
an hour's amusement, without rare powers. There is no greater
sin than to be trop prononcée. A want of tact is worse than a
want of virtue. Some women, it is said, work on pretty well
against the tide without the last. I never knew one who did
not sink who ever dared to sail without the first.
Loud when they should be low, quoting the wrong person,
talking on the wrong subject, teasing with notice, excruciating
with attentions, disturbing a tête-à-tête in order to make up a
dance; wasting eloquence in persuading a man to participate in
amusement whose reputation depends on his social sullenness;
exacting homage with a restless eye, and not permitting the least
worthy knot to be untwined without their divinityships' inter-
ference; patronizing the meek, anticipating the slow, intoxicating
with compliment, plastering with praise that you in return may
gild with flattery: in short, energetic without elegance, active
without grace, and loquacious without wit; mistaking bustle for
style, raillery for badinage, and noise for gayety — these are the
characters who mar the very career they think they are creating,
and who exercise a fatal influence on the destinies of all those
who have the misfortune to be connected with them.
PUBLIC SPEAKING
ELOQUENCE is the child of Knowledge. When a mind is full,
like a wholesome river, it is also clear. Confusion and obscurity
are much oftener the results of ignorance than of inefficiency.
Few are the men who cannot express their meaning when the
occasion demands the energy; as the lowest will defend their
lives with acuteness, and sometimes even with eloquence. They
are masters of their subject. Knowledge must be gained by our-
selves. Mankind may supply us with facts; but the results, even
if they agree with previous ones, must be the work of our own
mind. To make others feel, we must feel ourselves; and to feel
ourselves, we must be natural. This we can never be when we
are vomiting forth the dogmas of the schools. Knowledge is not
a mere collection of words; and it is a delusion to suppose that
thought can be obtained by the aid of any other intellect than
## p. 1652 (#450) ###########################################
1652
LORD BEACONSFIELD
our own. What is repetition, by a curious mystery, ceases to be
truth, even if it were truth when it was first heard; as the
shadow in a mirror, though it move and mimic all the actions of
vitality, is not life. When a man is not speaking or writing
from his own mind, he is as insipid company as a looking-glass.
Before a man can address a popular assembly with command,
he must know something of mankind, and he can know nothing
of mankind without he knows something of himself. Self-knowl-
edge is the property of that man whose passions have their play,
but who ponders over their results. Such a man sympathizes by
inspiration with his kind. He has a key to every heart.
He can
divine, in the flash of a single thought, all that they require, all
that they wish. Such a man speaks to their very core. All feel
that a master hand tears off the veil of cant, with which, from
necessity, they have enveloped their souls; for cant is nothing
more than the sophistry which results from attempting to account
for what is unintelligible, or to defend what is improper.
FEMALE BEAUTY
some
THERE are
sorts of beauty which defy description, and
almost scrutiny. Some faces rise upon us in the tumult of life,
like stars from out the sea, or as if they had moved out of a
picture. Our first impression is anything but fleshly. We are
struck dumb — we gasp for breath — our limbs quiver-a faint-
ness glides over our frame — we are awed; instead of gazing
upon the apparition, we avert the eyes, which yet will feed upon
its beauty. A strange sort of unearthly pain mixes with the
intense pleasure. And not till, with a struggle, we call back to
our memory the commonplaces of existence, can we recover our
commonplace demeanor. These, indeed, are rare visions — these,
indeed, are early feelings, when our young existence leaps with
its mountain torrents; but as the river of our life rolls on, our
eyes grow dimmer, or our blood more cold.
## p. 1653 (#451) ###########################################
LORD BEACOXSFIELD
1653
LOTHAIR IN PALESTINE
From (Lothair)
A
PERSON approached Lothair by the pathway from Bethany.
It was the Syrian gentleman whom he had met at the con-
sulate. As he was passing Lothair, he saluted him with
the grace which had been before remarked; and Lothair, who
was by nature courteous, and even inclined a little to ceremony
in his manners, especially with those with whom he was not inti-
mate, immediately rose, as he would not receive such a salutation
in a reclining posture.
“Let me not disturb you, said the stranger; “or, if we must
be on equal terms, let me also be seated, for this is a view that
never palls. ”
“It is perhaps familiar to you,” said Lothair; “but with me,
only a pilgrim, its effect is fascinating, almost overwhelming. ”
« The view of Jerusalem never becomes familiar,” said the
Syrian; “for its associations are so transcendent, so various, so
inexhaustible, that the mind can never anticipate its course of
thought and feeling, when one sits, as we do now, on this immor-
tal mount. ”
"I have often wished to visit the Sea of Galilee,” said
Lothair.
“Well, you have now an opportunity,” said the Syrian: "the
north of Palestine, though it has no tropical splendor, has much
variety and a peculiar natural charm. The burst and brightness
of spring have not yet quite vanished; you would find our plains
radiant with wild-flowers, and our hills green with young crops,
and though we cannot rival Lebanon, we have forest glades
among our famous hills that when once seen are remembered. ”
“ But there is something to me more interesting than the
splendor of tropical scenery,” said Lothair, “even if Galilee
could offer it. I wish to visit the cradle of my faith. ”
“And you would do wisely,” said the Syrian, "for there is no
doubt the spiritual nature of man is developed in this land. ”
“And yet there are persons at the present day who doubt
even deny — the spiritual nature of man,” said Lothair. "I do
not, I could not — there are reasons why I could not. ”
“There are some things I know, and some things I believe,”
said the Syrian. “I know that I have a soul, and I believe that
it is immortal. ”
## p. 1654 (#452) ###########################################
1654
LORD BEACONSFIELD
"It is science that, by demonstrating the insignificance of this
globe in the vast scale of creation, has led to this infidelity,” said
Lothair.
« Science may prove the insignificance of this globe in the
scale of creation,” said the stranger, “but it cannot prove the
insignificance of man. What is the earth compared with the sun ?
a molehill by a mountain; yet the inhabitants of this earth can
discover the elements of which the great orb consists, and will
probably ere long ascertain all the conditions of its being. Nay,
the human mind can penetrate far beyond the sun. There is no
relation, therefore, between the faculties of man and the scale in
creation of the planet which he inhabits. ”
"I was glad to hear you assert the other night the spiritual
nature of man in opposition to Mr. Phoebus. ”
"Ah, Mr. Phæbus! ” said the stranger, with a smile. «He is
an old acquaintance of mine. And I must say he is very con-
sistent— except in paying a visit to Jerusalem. That does surprise
me. He said to me the other night the same things as he said
to me at Rome many years ago.
He would revive the worship
of Nature. The deities whom he so eloquently describes and so
exquisitely delineates are the ideal personifications of the most
eminent human qualities, and chiefly the physical. Physical
beauty is his standard of excellence, and he has a fanciful theory
that moral order would be the consequence of the worship of
physical beauty; for without moral order he holds physical beauty
cannot be maintained. But the answer to Mr. Phoebus is, that
his system has been tried and has failed, and under conditions
more favorable than are likely to exist again; the worship of
Nature ended in the degradation of the human race. ”
“But Mr. Phæbus cannot really believe in Apollo and Venus,
said Lothair. « These are phrases. He is, I suppose, what is
called a Pantheist. ”
"No doubt the Olympus of Mr. Phoebus is the creation of
his easel,” replied the Syrian. "I should not, however, describe
him as a Pantheist, whose creed requires more abstraction than
Mr. Phoebus, the worshiper of Nature, would tolerate. His school
never care to pursue any investigation which cannot be followed
by the eye--and the worship of the beautiful always ends in an
orgy
As for Pantheism, it is Atheism in domino. The belief
in a Creator who is unconscious of creating is more monstrous
than any dogma of any of the churches in this city, and we have
them all here. ”
## p. 1655 (#453) ###########################################
LORD BEACONSFIELD
1655
“But there are people now who tell you that there never
was any creation, and therefore there never could have been a
Creator,” said Lothair.
“And which is now advanced with the confidence of novelty,”
said the Syrian, though all of it has been urged, and vainly
urged, thousands of years ago. There must be design, or all we
see would be without sense, and I do not believe in the unmean-
ing. As for the natural forces to which all creation is now
attributed, we know they are unconscious, while consciousness is
as inevitable a portion of our existence as the eye or the hand.
The conscious cannot be derived from the unconscious. Man is
divine. ”
“I wish I could assure myself of the personality of the Cre-
ator,” said Lothair. "I cling to that, but they say it is unphilo-
sophical. ”
“In what sense ? ” asked the Syrian. "Is it more unphilo-
sophical to believe in a personal God, omnipotent and omniscient,
than in natural forces unconscious and irresistible ? Is it
unphilosophical to combine power with intelligence ? Goethe,
a Spinozist who did not believe in Spinoza, said that he could
bring his mind to the conception that in the centre of space we
might meet with a monad of pure intelligence. What may be
the centre of space I leave to the dædal imagination of the
author of Faust'; but a monad of pure intelligence --- is that
more philosophical than the truth first revealed to man amid
these everlasting hills,” said the Syrian, “that God made man
in his own image ? ”
"I have often found in that assurance a source of sublime
consolation,” said Lothair.
« It is the charter of the nobility of man,” said the Syrian,
one of the divine dogmas revealed in this land; not the inven-
tion of councils, not one of which was held on this sacred soil,
confused assemblies first got together by the Greeks, and then
by barbarous nations in barbarous times. ”
“Yet the divine land no longer tells us divine things,” said
Lothair.
"It may or may not have fulfilled its destiny,” said the Syrian.
«In my Father's house are many mansions, and by the various
families of nations the designs of the Creator are accomplished.
God works by races, and one was appointed in due season and
after many developments to reveal and expound in this land the
(
## p. 1656 (#454) ###########################################
1656
LORD BEACONSFIELD
spiritual nature of man. The Aryan and the Semite are of the
same blood and origin, but when they quitted their central land
they were ordained to follow opposite courses. Each division
of the great race has developed one portion of the double nature
of humanity, till, after all their wanderings, they met again, and,
represented by their two choicest families, the Hellenes and the
Hebrews, brought together the treasures of their accumulated
wisdom, and secured the civilization of man. ”
« Those among whom I have lived of late,” said Lothair,
“have taught me to trust much in councils, and to believe that
without them there could be no foundation for the Church. I
observe you do not speak in that vein, though, like myself, you
find solace in those dogmas which recognize the relations between
the created and the Creator. ”
“There can be no religion without that recognition,” said the
Syrian, "and no creed can possibly be devised without such a
recognition that would satisfy man. Why we are here, whence
we come, whither we go— these are questions which man is
organically framed and forced to ask himself, and that would
not be the case if they could not be answered. As for churches
depending on councils, the first council was held more than three
centuries after the Sermon on the Mount. We Syrians had
churches in the interval; no one can deny that. I bow before
the divine decree that swept them away from Antioch to Jerusa-
lem, but I am not yet prepared to transfer my spiritual allegiance
to Italian popes and Greek patriarchs. We believe that our
family were among the first followers of Jesus, and that we then
held lands in Bashan which we hold now. We had a gospel once
in our district where there was some allusion to this, and being
written by neighbors, and probably at the time, I dare say it
was accurate; but the Western Churches declared our gospel was
not authentic, though why I cannot tell, and they succeeded in
extirpating it. It was not an additional reason why we should
enter into their fold. So I am content to dwell in Galilee and
trace the footsteps of my Divine Master, musing over his life
and pregnant sayings amid the mounts he sanctified and the
waters he loved so well. ”
## p. 1657 (#455) ###########################################
1657
BEAUMARCHAIS
(1732-1799)
BY BRANDER MATTHEWS
IERRE AUGUSTIN CARON was born in Paris, January 24th, 1732.
He was the son of a watchmaker, and learned his father's
trade. He invented a new escapement, and was allowed
to call himself «Clockmaker to the King” – Louis XV. At twenty-
four he married a widow, and took the name of Beaumarchais from
a small fief belonging to her. Within a year his wife died. Being a
fine musician, he was appointed instructor of the King's daughters;
and he was quick to turn to good account the influence thus acquired.
In 1764 he made a sudden trip to
Spain to vindicate a sister of his, who
had been betrothed to a man called
Clavijo and whom this Spaniard had
refused to marry. He succeeded in
his mission, and his own brilliant ac-
count of this characteristic episode in
his career suggested to Goethe the
play of Clavigo. ' Beaumarchais him-
self brought back from Madrid a liking
for things Spanish and a knowledge
of Iberian customs and character.
He had been a watchmaker, a musi-
cian, a court official, a speculator, and
it was only when he was thirty-five
BEAUMARCHAIS
that he turned dramatist. Various
French authors, Diderot especially, weary of confinement to tragedy
and comedy, the only two forms then admitted on the French stage,
were seeking a new dramatic formula in which they might treat pa-
thetic situations of modern life; and it is due largely to their efforts
that the modern “play” or “drama,” the story of every-day exist-
ence, has been evolved. The first dramatic attempt of Beaumarchais
was a drama called 'Eugénie,' acted at the Théâtre Français in 1767,
and succeeding just enough to encourage him to try again. The sec-
ond, The Two Friends, acted in 1770, was a frank failure. For the
pathetic, Beaumarchais had little aptitude; and these two serious
efforts were of use to him only so far as their performance may have
helped him to master the many technical difficulties of the theatre.
## p. 1658 (#456) ###########################################
1658
BEAUMARCHAIS
Beaumarchais had married a second time in 1768, and he had
been engaged in various speculations with the financier Pâris-Duver-
ney. In 1770 his wife died, and so did his associate; and he found
himself soon involved in lawsuits, into the details of which it is need-
less to go, but in the course of which he published a series of
memoirs, or statements of his case for the public at large. These
memoirs are among the most vigorous of all polemical writings; they
were very clever and very witty; they were vivacious and audacious;
they were unfailingly interesting; and they were read as eagerly as
the Letters of Junius. ' Personal at first, the suits soon became
political; and part of the public approval given to the attack of
Beaumarchais on judicial injustice was due no doubt to the general
discontent with the existing order in France. His daring conduct of
his own cause made him a personality. He was intrusted with one
secret mission by Louis XV. ; and when Louis XVI. came to the
throne, he managed to get him again employed confidentially.
Not long after his two attempts at the serious drama, he had tried
to turn to account his musical faculty by writing both the book and
the score of a comic opera, which had, however, been rejected by the
Comédie-Italienne (the predecessor of the present Opéra Comique).
After a while Beaumarchais cut out his music and worked over his
plot into a five-act comedy in prose, “The Barber of Seville. It was
produced by the Théâtre Français in 1775, and like the contemporary
(Rivals) of Sheridan, — the one English author with whom Beau-
marchais must always be compared, it was a failure on the first
night and a lasting success after the author had reduced it and rear-
ranged it. “The Barber of Seville) was like the Gil Blas) of Lesage
in that, while it was seemingly Spanish in its scenes, it was in real-
ity essentially French. It contained one of the strongest characters
in literature, — Figaro, a reincarnation of the intriguing servant of
Menander and Plautus and Molière. Simple in plot, ingenious in
incident, brisk in dialogue, broadly effective in character-drawing,
(The Barber of Seville) is the most famous French comedy of the
eighteenth century, with the single exception of its successor from
the same pen, which appeared nine years later.
During those years Beaumarchais was not idle. Like Defoe, he
was always devising projects for money-making. A few months after
( The Barber of Seville) had been acted, the American Revolution
began, and Beaumarchais was a chief agent in supplying the Ameri-
cans with arms, ammunition, and supplies. He had a cruiser of his
own, Le Fier Roderigue, which was in D'Estaing's feet. When the
independence of the United States was recognized at last, Beaumar-
chais had a pecuniary claim against the young nation which long
remained unsettled.
1
## p. 1659 (#457) ###########################################
BEAUMARCHAIS
1659
Not content with making war on his own account almost, Beau-
marchais also undertook the immense task of publishing a complete
edition of Voltaire. He also prepared a sequel to the Barber,' in
which Figaro should be even more important, and should serve as a
mouthpiece for declamatory criticism of the social order. But his
'Marriage of Figaro' was so full of the revolutionary ferment that its
performance was forbidden. Following the example of Molière under
the similar interdiction of Tartuffe,' Beaumarchais was uintiring in
arousing interest in his unacted play, reading it himself in the houses
of the great.
Finally it was authorized, and when the first perform-
ance took place at the Théâtre Français in 1784, the crush to see it
was so great that three persons were stifled to death.
The new
comedy was as amusing and as adroit as its predecessor, and the hits
at the times were sharper and swifter and more frequent. How
demoralized society was then may be gauged by the fact that this
disintegrating satire was soon acted by the amateurs of the court,
a chief character being impersonated by Marie Antoinette herself.
The career of Beaumarchais reached its climax with the produc-
tion of the second of the Figaro plays. Afterward he wrote the
libretto for an opera, “Tarare,' produced with Salieri's music in 1787;
the year before he had married for the third time. In a heavy play
called “The Guilty Mother,' acted with slight success in 1790, he
brought in Figaro yet once more. During the Terror he emigrated
to Holland, returning to Paris in 1796 to find his sumptuous mansion
despoiled. May 18th, 1799, he died, leaving a fortune of $200,000,
besides numerous claims against the French nation and the United
States.
An interesting parallel could be drawn between “The Rivals) and
the School for Scandal' on the one side, and on the other (The
Barber of Seville) and “The Marriage of Figaro”; and there are also
piquant points of likeness between Sheridan and Beaumarchais. But
Sheridan, with all his failings, was of sterner stuff than Beaumarchais.
He had a loftier political morality, and he served the State more
loyally. Yet the two comedies of Beaumarchais are like the two
comedies of Sheridan in their incessant wit, in their dramaturgic
effectiveness, and in the histrionic opportunities they afford.
Indeed,
the French comedies have had a wider audience than the English,
thanks to an Italian and a German, --- to Rossini who set (The Bar-
ber of Seville) to music, and to Mozart who did a like service for
"The Marriage of Figaro.
Foruder Mathers
## p. 1660 (#458) ###########################################
1660
BEAUMARCHAIS
FROM "THE BARBER OF SEVILLE)
OUTWITTING A GUARDIAN
[Rosina's lover, Count Almaviva, attempts to meet and converse with her
by hoodwinking Dr. Bartolo, her zealous guardian. He comes in disguise to
Bartolo's dwelling, in a room of which the scene is laid. ]
[Enter Count Almavira, dressed as a student. ]
Count [solemnly]— May peace and joy abide here evermore!
Bartolo [brusquely]— Never, young sir, was wish more àpro-
pos! What do you want ?
Count — Sir, I am one Alonzo, a bachelor of arts,
Bartolo— Sir, I need no instructor.
Count - -a pupil of Don Basilio, the organist of the con-
vent, who teaches music to Madame your—
Bartolo [suspiciously] — Basilio! Organist! Yes, I know him.
Well?
Count [asidi]— What a man! [Aloud. ] He's confined to his
bed with a sudden illness.
Bartolo -- Confined to his bed! Basilio! He's very good to
send word, for I've just seen him.
Count [aside]—Oh, the devil! [Aloud. ) When I say to his
bed, sir, it's— I mean to his room.
Bartolo_ Whatever's the matter with him, go, if you please.
Count [embarrassed]— Sir, I was asked — Can no one hear us?
Bartolo [aside] - It's some rogue! [Aloud. ) What's that?
No, Monsieur Mysterious, no one can hear! Speak frankly — if
you can.
Count [aside] - Plague take the old rascal! [Aloud. ] Don
Basilio asked me to tell you —
Bartolo-Speak louder. I'm deaf in one ear.
Count [raising his voice] — Ah! quite right: he asks me to say
to you that one Count Almaviva, who was lodging on the great
square —
Bartolo [frightened ]-Speak low, speak low.
Count [louder] - moved away from there this morning.
As it was I who told him that this Count Almaviva-
Bartolo— Low, speak lower, I beg of you.
Count [in the same tone) - Was in this city, and as I have
discovered that Señorita Rosina has been writing to him
## p. 1661 (#459) ###########################################
BEAUMARCHAIS
1661
Bartolo— Has been writing to him? My dear friend, I im-
plore you, do speak low! Come, let's sit down, let's have a
friendly chat. You have discovered, you say, that Rosina –
Count [angrily] - Certainly. Basilio, anxious about this cor-
respondence on your account, asked me to show you her letter;
but the way you take things —
Bartolo - Good Lord! I take them well enough. But can't
you possibly speak a little lower ?
Count You told me you were deaf in one ear.
Bartolo - I beg your pardon, I beg your pardon, if I've been
surly and suspicious, Signor Alonzo: I'm surrounded with spies -
and then your figure, your age, your whole air
I beg your
pardon. Well ? Have you the letter ?
Count — I'm glad you're barely civil at last, sir.
But are you
quite sure no one can overhear us?
Bartolo - Not a soul. My servants are all tired out. Señorita
Rosina has shut herself up in a rage! The very devil's to pay
in this house. Still I'll go and make sure. [He goes to peep
into Rosina's room. ]
Count [aside] - Well, I've caught myself now in my own trap. .
Now what shall I do about the letter? If I were to run off ?
but then I might just as well not have come. Shall I show it
to him? If I could only warn Rosina beforehand! To show it
would be a master-stroke.
Bartolo [returning on tiptoe] - She's sitting by the window
with her back to the door, and re-reading a cousin's letter which
I opened. Now, now - let me see hers.
Count [handing him Rosina's letter] – Here it is. [Aside. ]
She's re-reading my letter.
Bartolo [reads quickly] — “Since you have told me your name
and estate - » Ah, the little traitress! Yes, it's her writing.
Count [frightened ]-Speak low yourself, won't you ?
Bartolo - What for, if you please?
Count - When we've finished, you can do as you choose. But
after all, Don Basilio's negotiation with a lawyer -
Bartolo — With a lawyer ? About my marriage ?
Count –Would I have stopped you for anything else? He told
me to say that all can be ready to-morrow. Then, if she resists —
Bartolo - She will.
Count [wants to take back the letter; Bartolo clutches it]-
I'll tell you what we'll do. We will show her her letter; and
## p. 1662 (#460) ###########################################
1662
BEAUMARCHAIS
But how you
then, if necessary, [more mysteriously] i'll even tell her that it
was given to me by a woman to whom the Count is sacrificing
her. Shame and rage may bring her to terms on the spot.
Bartolo [laughing] - Calumny, eh? My dear fellow, I see very
well now that you come from Basilio. But lest we should seem
to have planned this together, don't you think it would be better
if she'd met you before ?
Count [repressing a start of joy] - Don Basilio thought so, I
know. But how can we manage it? It is late already. There's
not much time left.
Bartolo-I will tell her you've come in his place. Couldn't
you give her a lesson ?
Count -- I'll do anything you like. But take care she doesn't
suspect. All these dodges of pretended masters are rather old
and theatrical.
Bartolo She won't suspect if I introduce you.
do look! You've much more the air of a disguised lover than of
a zealous student-friend.
Count — Really? Don't you think I can hoodwink her all the
better for that ?
Bartolo— She'll never guess. She's in a horrible temper this
evening. -
But if she'll only see you -- Her harpsichord is in this
room. Amuse yourself while you're waiting. I'll do all I can to
bring her here.
Count — Don't say a word about the letter.
Bartolo— Before the right moment ? It would lose all effect
if I did. It's not necessary to tell me things twice; it's not
necessary to tell me things twice.
[He goes. ]
Count [alone, soliloquises] - At last I've won! Ouf!
What a
difficult little old imp he is! Figaro understands him. I found
myself lying, and that made me awkward; and he has eyes for
everything! On my honor, if the letter hadn't inspired me he'd
have thought me a fool! - Ah, how they are disputing in there!
What if she refuses to come ? Listen - If she won't, my com-
ing is all thrown away.
There she is: I won't show myself at
first.
(Rosina enters. ]
Rosina [angrily] – There's no use talking about it, sir. I've
made up my mind. I don't want to hear anything more about
music.
## p. 1663 (#461) ###########################################
BEAUMARCHAIS
1663
Bartolo — But, my child, do listen! It is Señor Alonzo, the
friend and pupil of Don Basilio, whom he has chosen as one of
our marriage witnesses, I'm sure that music will calm you.
Rosina - Oh! you needn't concern yourself about that; and
as for singing this evening Where is this master you're so
afraid of dismissing? I'll settle him in a minute and Señor
Basilio too. [She sees her lover and exclaims :] Ah!
Bartolo Eh, eh, what is the matter ?
Rosina [pressing her hands to her heart]— Ah, sir! Ah, sir!
Bartolo — She is ill again! Señor Alonzo!
Rosina - No, I am not ill — but as I was turning - ah!
Count — Did you sprain your foot, Madame ?
Rosina — Yes, yes, I sprained my foot! I - hurt myself dread-
fully.
Count – So I perceived.
Rosina [looking at the Count] – The pain really makes me feel
faint.
Bartolo - A chair - a chair there! And not a single chair
here!
[He goes to get one. )
Count - Ah, Rosina !
Rosina What imprudence!
Count There are a hundred things I must say to you.
Rosina — He won't leave us alone.
Count - Figaro will help us.
Bartolo [bringing an arm-chair] - Wait a minute, my child.
Sit down here. She can't take a lesson this evening, Señor:
you must postpone it. Good-by.
Rosina [to the Count]— No, wait; my pain is better. [To
Bartolo. ] I feel that I've acted foolishly! I'll imitate you, and
atone at once by taking my lesson.
Bartolo-Oh! Such a kind little woman at heart! But after
so much excitement, my child, I can't let you make any exer-
tion. So good-bye, Señor, good-bye.
Rosina [to the Count] - Do wait a minute! [To Bartolo. ] I
shall think that you don't care to please me if you won't let me
show my regret by taking my lesson.
Count [aside to Bartolo] - I wouldn't oppose her, if I were you.
Bartolo That settles it, my love: I am so anxious to please
you that I shall stay here all the time you are practicing.
Rosina - No, don't. I know you don't care for music.
Bartolo - It will charm me this evening, I'm sure.
## p. 1664 (#462) ###########################################
1664
BEAUMARCHAIS
Rosina [aside to the Count] - I'm tormented to death!
Count ſtaking a sheet of music from the stand]—Will you sing
this, Madame ?
Rosina — Yes, indeed — it's a very pretty thing out of the
opera The Useless Precaution. "
Bartolo — Why do you always sing from "The Useless Pre-
caution'?
Count - There is nothing newer! It's a picture of spring in a
very bright style. So if Madame wants to try it -
Rosina [looking at the Count]— With pleasure. A picture of
spring is delightful! It is the youth of nature.
. It seems as if
the heart always feels more when winter's just over. It's like a
slave who finds liberty all the more charming after a long con-
finement.
Bartolo [to the Count] - Always romantic ideas in her head!
Count [in a low tone] – Did you notice the application ?
Bartolo - Zounds!
[He sits down in the chair which Rosina has been occupying. Rosina sings,
during which Bartolo goes to sleep. Under cover of the refrain the
Count seizes Rosina's hand and covers it with kisses. In her emotion
she sings brokenly, and finally breaks off altogether. The sudden
silence awakens Bartolo. The Count starts up, and Rosina quickly
resumes her song: ]
So your
(Don Basilio enters. Figaro in background. ]
Rosina [startled, to herself]- Don Basilio!
Count [aside]— Good Heaven!
Figaro- The devil!
Bartolo [going to meet him]— Ah! welcome, Basilio.
accident was not very serious ?
chimney-sweeps, lawyers and charleys, Spanish dons and Irish
officers, rushed upon the stage. The little Spaniard was Alma-
viva, and fell into magnificent attitudes, with her sword and
plume. Lord Squib was the old woman of Brentford, and very
funny. Sir Lucius Grafton, Harlequin; and Darrell, Grimaldi.
The prince and the count, without knowing it, figured as watch-
men. Squib whispered Annesley that Sir Lucius O'Trigger
might appear in character, but was prudent enough to suppress
the joke.
The band was summoned, and they danced quadrilles with
infinite spirit, and finished the night, at the suggestion of Lord
Squib, by breakfasting on the stage. By the time this meal
was dispatched, the purple light of morn had broken into the
building, and the ladies proposed an immediate departure. Mrs.
Montfort and her sister were sent home in one of the duke's
carriages; and the foreign guests were requested by him to be
their escort. The respective parties drove off. Two cabriolets
lingered to the last, and finally carried away the French actress
and the Spanish dancer, Lord Darrell, and Peacock Piggott; but
whether the two gentlemen went in one and two ladies in the
other I cannot aver. I hope not.
There was at length a dead silence, and the young duke was
left to solitude and the signora!
III-104
## p. 1650 (#448) ###########################################
1650
LORD BEACONSFIELD
SQUIBS FROM THE YOUNG DUKE)
CHARLES ANNESLEY
D*
ANDY has been voted vulgar, and beau is now the word. I
doubt whether the revival will stand; and as for the ex-
ploded title, though it had its faults at first, the muse or
Byron has made it not only English, but classical. However, I
dare say I can do without either of these words at present.
Charles Annesley could hardly be called a dandy or a beau.
There was nothing in his dress, though some mysterious arrange-
ment in his costume some rare simplicity — some curious happi-
ness — always made it distinguished; there was nothing, however,
in his dress which could account for the influence which he
exercised over the manners of his contemporaries. Charles
Annesley was about thirty. He had inherited from his father, a
younger brother, a small estate; and though heir to a wealthy
earldom, he had never abused what the world called “his pros-
pects. ” Yet his establishments — his little house in Mayfair --
his horses — his moderate stud at Melton — were all unique, and
everything connected with him was unparalleled for its elegance,
its invention, and its refinement. But his manner was his magic.
His natural and subdued nonchalance, so different from the
assumed non-emotion of a mere dandy; his coldness of heart,
which was hereditary, not acquired; his cautious courage, and his
unadulterated self-love, had permitted him to mingle much with
mankind without being too deeply involved in the play of their
passions; while his exquisite sense of the ridiculous quickly
revealed those weaknesses to him which his delicate satire did
not spare, even while it refrained from wounding.
All feared,
many admired, and none hated him.
He was too powerful not
to dread, too dexterous not to admire, too superior to hate.
Perhaps the great secret of his manner was his exquisite super-
ciliousness; a quality which, of all, is the most difficult to man-
age. Even with his intimates he was never confidential, and
perpetually assumed his public character with the private coterie
which he loved to rule. On the whole, he was unlike any of the
leading men of modern days, and rather reminded one of the
fine gentlemen of our old brilliant comedy — the Dorimants, the
Bellairs, and the Mirabels.
## p. 1651 (#449) ###########################################
LORD BEACONSFIELD
1651
The FUSSY HOSTESS
MEN shrink from a fussy woman. And few can aspire to regu-
late the destinies of their species, even in so slight a point as
an hour's amusement, without rare powers. There is no greater
sin than to be trop prononcée. A want of tact is worse than a
want of virtue. Some women, it is said, work on pretty well
against the tide without the last. I never knew one who did
not sink who ever dared to sail without the first.
Loud when they should be low, quoting the wrong person,
talking on the wrong subject, teasing with notice, excruciating
with attentions, disturbing a tête-à-tête in order to make up a
dance; wasting eloquence in persuading a man to participate in
amusement whose reputation depends on his social sullenness;
exacting homage with a restless eye, and not permitting the least
worthy knot to be untwined without their divinityships' inter-
ference; patronizing the meek, anticipating the slow, intoxicating
with compliment, plastering with praise that you in return may
gild with flattery: in short, energetic without elegance, active
without grace, and loquacious without wit; mistaking bustle for
style, raillery for badinage, and noise for gayety — these are the
characters who mar the very career they think they are creating,
and who exercise a fatal influence on the destinies of all those
who have the misfortune to be connected with them.
PUBLIC SPEAKING
ELOQUENCE is the child of Knowledge. When a mind is full,
like a wholesome river, it is also clear. Confusion and obscurity
are much oftener the results of ignorance than of inefficiency.
Few are the men who cannot express their meaning when the
occasion demands the energy; as the lowest will defend their
lives with acuteness, and sometimes even with eloquence. They
are masters of their subject. Knowledge must be gained by our-
selves. Mankind may supply us with facts; but the results, even
if they agree with previous ones, must be the work of our own
mind. To make others feel, we must feel ourselves; and to feel
ourselves, we must be natural. This we can never be when we
are vomiting forth the dogmas of the schools. Knowledge is not
a mere collection of words; and it is a delusion to suppose that
thought can be obtained by the aid of any other intellect than
## p. 1652 (#450) ###########################################
1652
LORD BEACONSFIELD
our own. What is repetition, by a curious mystery, ceases to be
truth, even if it were truth when it was first heard; as the
shadow in a mirror, though it move and mimic all the actions of
vitality, is not life. When a man is not speaking or writing
from his own mind, he is as insipid company as a looking-glass.
Before a man can address a popular assembly with command,
he must know something of mankind, and he can know nothing
of mankind without he knows something of himself. Self-knowl-
edge is the property of that man whose passions have their play,
but who ponders over their results. Such a man sympathizes by
inspiration with his kind. He has a key to every heart.
He can
divine, in the flash of a single thought, all that they require, all
that they wish. Such a man speaks to their very core. All feel
that a master hand tears off the veil of cant, with which, from
necessity, they have enveloped their souls; for cant is nothing
more than the sophistry which results from attempting to account
for what is unintelligible, or to defend what is improper.
FEMALE BEAUTY
some
THERE are
sorts of beauty which defy description, and
almost scrutiny. Some faces rise upon us in the tumult of life,
like stars from out the sea, or as if they had moved out of a
picture. Our first impression is anything but fleshly. We are
struck dumb — we gasp for breath — our limbs quiver-a faint-
ness glides over our frame — we are awed; instead of gazing
upon the apparition, we avert the eyes, which yet will feed upon
its beauty. A strange sort of unearthly pain mixes with the
intense pleasure. And not till, with a struggle, we call back to
our memory the commonplaces of existence, can we recover our
commonplace demeanor. These, indeed, are rare visions — these,
indeed, are early feelings, when our young existence leaps with
its mountain torrents; but as the river of our life rolls on, our
eyes grow dimmer, or our blood more cold.
## p. 1653 (#451) ###########################################
LORD BEACOXSFIELD
1653
LOTHAIR IN PALESTINE
From (Lothair)
A
PERSON approached Lothair by the pathway from Bethany.
It was the Syrian gentleman whom he had met at the con-
sulate. As he was passing Lothair, he saluted him with
the grace which had been before remarked; and Lothair, who
was by nature courteous, and even inclined a little to ceremony
in his manners, especially with those with whom he was not inti-
mate, immediately rose, as he would not receive such a salutation
in a reclining posture.
“Let me not disturb you, said the stranger; “or, if we must
be on equal terms, let me also be seated, for this is a view that
never palls. ”
“It is perhaps familiar to you,” said Lothair; “but with me,
only a pilgrim, its effect is fascinating, almost overwhelming. ”
« The view of Jerusalem never becomes familiar,” said the
Syrian; “for its associations are so transcendent, so various, so
inexhaustible, that the mind can never anticipate its course of
thought and feeling, when one sits, as we do now, on this immor-
tal mount. ”
"I have often wished to visit the Sea of Galilee,” said
Lothair.
“Well, you have now an opportunity,” said the Syrian: "the
north of Palestine, though it has no tropical splendor, has much
variety and a peculiar natural charm. The burst and brightness
of spring have not yet quite vanished; you would find our plains
radiant with wild-flowers, and our hills green with young crops,
and though we cannot rival Lebanon, we have forest glades
among our famous hills that when once seen are remembered. ”
“ But there is something to me more interesting than the
splendor of tropical scenery,” said Lothair, “even if Galilee
could offer it. I wish to visit the cradle of my faith. ”
“And you would do wisely,” said the Syrian, "for there is no
doubt the spiritual nature of man is developed in this land. ”
“And yet there are persons at the present day who doubt
even deny — the spiritual nature of man,” said Lothair. "I do
not, I could not — there are reasons why I could not. ”
“There are some things I know, and some things I believe,”
said the Syrian. “I know that I have a soul, and I believe that
it is immortal. ”
## p. 1654 (#452) ###########################################
1654
LORD BEACONSFIELD
"It is science that, by demonstrating the insignificance of this
globe in the vast scale of creation, has led to this infidelity,” said
Lothair.
« Science may prove the insignificance of this globe in the
scale of creation,” said the stranger, “but it cannot prove the
insignificance of man. What is the earth compared with the sun ?
a molehill by a mountain; yet the inhabitants of this earth can
discover the elements of which the great orb consists, and will
probably ere long ascertain all the conditions of its being. Nay,
the human mind can penetrate far beyond the sun. There is no
relation, therefore, between the faculties of man and the scale in
creation of the planet which he inhabits. ”
"I was glad to hear you assert the other night the spiritual
nature of man in opposition to Mr. Phoebus. ”
"Ah, Mr. Phæbus! ” said the stranger, with a smile. «He is
an old acquaintance of mine. And I must say he is very con-
sistent— except in paying a visit to Jerusalem. That does surprise
me. He said to me the other night the same things as he said
to me at Rome many years ago.
He would revive the worship
of Nature. The deities whom he so eloquently describes and so
exquisitely delineates are the ideal personifications of the most
eminent human qualities, and chiefly the physical. Physical
beauty is his standard of excellence, and he has a fanciful theory
that moral order would be the consequence of the worship of
physical beauty; for without moral order he holds physical beauty
cannot be maintained. But the answer to Mr. Phoebus is, that
his system has been tried and has failed, and under conditions
more favorable than are likely to exist again; the worship of
Nature ended in the degradation of the human race. ”
“But Mr. Phæbus cannot really believe in Apollo and Venus,
said Lothair. « These are phrases. He is, I suppose, what is
called a Pantheist. ”
"No doubt the Olympus of Mr. Phoebus is the creation of
his easel,” replied the Syrian. "I should not, however, describe
him as a Pantheist, whose creed requires more abstraction than
Mr. Phoebus, the worshiper of Nature, would tolerate. His school
never care to pursue any investigation which cannot be followed
by the eye--and the worship of the beautiful always ends in an
orgy
As for Pantheism, it is Atheism in domino. The belief
in a Creator who is unconscious of creating is more monstrous
than any dogma of any of the churches in this city, and we have
them all here. ”
## p. 1655 (#453) ###########################################
LORD BEACONSFIELD
1655
“But there are people now who tell you that there never
was any creation, and therefore there never could have been a
Creator,” said Lothair.
“And which is now advanced with the confidence of novelty,”
said the Syrian, though all of it has been urged, and vainly
urged, thousands of years ago. There must be design, or all we
see would be without sense, and I do not believe in the unmean-
ing. As for the natural forces to which all creation is now
attributed, we know they are unconscious, while consciousness is
as inevitable a portion of our existence as the eye or the hand.
The conscious cannot be derived from the unconscious. Man is
divine. ”
“I wish I could assure myself of the personality of the Cre-
ator,” said Lothair. "I cling to that, but they say it is unphilo-
sophical. ”
“In what sense ? ” asked the Syrian. "Is it more unphilo-
sophical to believe in a personal God, omnipotent and omniscient,
than in natural forces unconscious and irresistible ? Is it
unphilosophical to combine power with intelligence ? Goethe,
a Spinozist who did not believe in Spinoza, said that he could
bring his mind to the conception that in the centre of space we
might meet with a monad of pure intelligence. What may be
the centre of space I leave to the dædal imagination of the
author of Faust'; but a monad of pure intelligence --- is that
more philosophical than the truth first revealed to man amid
these everlasting hills,” said the Syrian, “that God made man
in his own image ? ”
"I have often found in that assurance a source of sublime
consolation,” said Lothair.
« It is the charter of the nobility of man,” said the Syrian,
one of the divine dogmas revealed in this land; not the inven-
tion of councils, not one of which was held on this sacred soil,
confused assemblies first got together by the Greeks, and then
by barbarous nations in barbarous times. ”
“Yet the divine land no longer tells us divine things,” said
Lothair.
"It may or may not have fulfilled its destiny,” said the Syrian.
«In my Father's house are many mansions, and by the various
families of nations the designs of the Creator are accomplished.
God works by races, and one was appointed in due season and
after many developments to reveal and expound in this land the
(
## p. 1656 (#454) ###########################################
1656
LORD BEACONSFIELD
spiritual nature of man. The Aryan and the Semite are of the
same blood and origin, but when they quitted their central land
they were ordained to follow opposite courses. Each division
of the great race has developed one portion of the double nature
of humanity, till, after all their wanderings, they met again, and,
represented by their two choicest families, the Hellenes and the
Hebrews, brought together the treasures of their accumulated
wisdom, and secured the civilization of man. ”
« Those among whom I have lived of late,” said Lothair,
“have taught me to trust much in councils, and to believe that
without them there could be no foundation for the Church. I
observe you do not speak in that vein, though, like myself, you
find solace in those dogmas which recognize the relations between
the created and the Creator. ”
“There can be no religion without that recognition,” said the
Syrian, "and no creed can possibly be devised without such a
recognition that would satisfy man. Why we are here, whence
we come, whither we go— these are questions which man is
organically framed and forced to ask himself, and that would
not be the case if they could not be answered. As for churches
depending on councils, the first council was held more than three
centuries after the Sermon on the Mount. We Syrians had
churches in the interval; no one can deny that. I bow before
the divine decree that swept them away from Antioch to Jerusa-
lem, but I am not yet prepared to transfer my spiritual allegiance
to Italian popes and Greek patriarchs. We believe that our
family were among the first followers of Jesus, and that we then
held lands in Bashan which we hold now. We had a gospel once
in our district where there was some allusion to this, and being
written by neighbors, and probably at the time, I dare say it
was accurate; but the Western Churches declared our gospel was
not authentic, though why I cannot tell, and they succeeded in
extirpating it. It was not an additional reason why we should
enter into their fold. So I am content to dwell in Galilee and
trace the footsteps of my Divine Master, musing over his life
and pregnant sayings amid the mounts he sanctified and the
waters he loved so well. ”
## p. 1657 (#455) ###########################################
1657
BEAUMARCHAIS
(1732-1799)
BY BRANDER MATTHEWS
IERRE AUGUSTIN CARON was born in Paris, January 24th, 1732.
He was the son of a watchmaker, and learned his father's
trade. He invented a new escapement, and was allowed
to call himself «Clockmaker to the King” – Louis XV. At twenty-
four he married a widow, and took the name of Beaumarchais from
a small fief belonging to her. Within a year his wife died. Being a
fine musician, he was appointed instructor of the King's daughters;
and he was quick to turn to good account the influence thus acquired.
In 1764 he made a sudden trip to
Spain to vindicate a sister of his, who
had been betrothed to a man called
Clavijo and whom this Spaniard had
refused to marry. He succeeded in
his mission, and his own brilliant ac-
count of this characteristic episode in
his career suggested to Goethe the
play of Clavigo. ' Beaumarchais him-
self brought back from Madrid a liking
for things Spanish and a knowledge
of Iberian customs and character.
He had been a watchmaker, a musi-
cian, a court official, a speculator, and
it was only when he was thirty-five
BEAUMARCHAIS
that he turned dramatist. Various
French authors, Diderot especially, weary of confinement to tragedy
and comedy, the only two forms then admitted on the French stage,
were seeking a new dramatic formula in which they might treat pa-
thetic situations of modern life; and it is due largely to their efforts
that the modern “play” or “drama,” the story of every-day exist-
ence, has been evolved. The first dramatic attempt of Beaumarchais
was a drama called 'Eugénie,' acted at the Théâtre Français in 1767,
and succeeding just enough to encourage him to try again. The sec-
ond, The Two Friends, acted in 1770, was a frank failure. For the
pathetic, Beaumarchais had little aptitude; and these two serious
efforts were of use to him only so far as their performance may have
helped him to master the many technical difficulties of the theatre.
## p. 1658 (#456) ###########################################
1658
BEAUMARCHAIS
Beaumarchais had married a second time in 1768, and he had
been engaged in various speculations with the financier Pâris-Duver-
ney. In 1770 his wife died, and so did his associate; and he found
himself soon involved in lawsuits, into the details of which it is need-
less to go, but in the course of which he published a series of
memoirs, or statements of his case for the public at large. These
memoirs are among the most vigorous of all polemical writings; they
were very clever and very witty; they were vivacious and audacious;
they were unfailingly interesting; and they were read as eagerly as
the Letters of Junius. ' Personal at first, the suits soon became
political; and part of the public approval given to the attack of
Beaumarchais on judicial injustice was due no doubt to the general
discontent with the existing order in France. His daring conduct of
his own cause made him a personality. He was intrusted with one
secret mission by Louis XV. ; and when Louis XVI. came to the
throne, he managed to get him again employed confidentially.
Not long after his two attempts at the serious drama, he had tried
to turn to account his musical faculty by writing both the book and
the score of a comic opera, which had, however, been rejected by the
Comédie-Italienne (the predecessor of the present Opéra Comique).
After a while Beaumarchais cut out his music and worked over his
plot into a five-act comedy in prose, “The Barber of Seville. It was
produced by the Théâtre Français in 1775, and like the contemporary
(Rivals) of Sheridan, — the one English author with whom Beau-
marchais must always be compared, it was a failure on the first
night and a lasting success after the author had reduced it and rear-
ranged it. “The Barber of Seville) was like the Gil Blas) of Lesage
in that, while it was seemingly Spanish in its scenes, it was in real-
ity essentially French. It contained one of the strongest characters
in literature, — Figaro, a reincarnation of the intriguing servant of
Menander and Plautus and Molière. Simple in plot, ingenious in
incident, brisk in dialogue, broadly effective in character-drawing,
(The Barber of Seville) is the most famous French comedy of the
eighteenth century, with the single exception of its successor from
the same pen, which appeared nine years later.
During those years Beaumarchais was not idle. Like Defoe, he
was always devising projects for money-making. A few months after
( The Barber of Seville) had been acted, the American Revolution
began, and Beaumarchais was a chief agent in supplying the Ameri-
cans with arms, ammunition, and supplies. He had a cruiser of his
own, Le Fier Roderigue, which was in D'Estaing's feet. When the
independence of the United States was recognized at last, Beaumar-
chais had a pecuniary claim against the young nation which long
remained unsettled.
1
## p. 1659 (#457) ###########################################
BEAUMARCHAIS
1659
Not content with making war on his own account almost, Beau-
marchais also undertook the immense task of publishing a complete
edition of Voltaire. He also prepared a sequel to the Barber,' in
which Figaro should be even more important, and should serve as a
mouthpiece for declamatory criticism of the social order. But his
'Marriage of Figaro' was so full of the revolutionary ferment that its
performance was forbidden. Following the example of Molière under
the similar interdiction of Tartuffe,' Beaumarchais was uintiring in
arousing interest in his unacted play, reading it himself in the houses
of the great.
Finally it was authorized, and when the first perform-
ance took place at the Théâtre Français in 1784, the crush to see it
was so great that three persons were stifled to death.
The new
comedy was as amusing and as adroit as its predecessor, and the hits
at the times were sharper and swifter and more frequent. How
demoralized society was then may be gauged by the fact that this
disintegrating satire was soon acted by the amateurs of the court,
a chief character being impersonated by Marie Antoinette herself.
The career of Beaumarchais reached its climax with the produc-
tion of the second of the Figaro plays. Afterward he wrote the
libretto for an opera, “Tarare,' produced with Salieri's music in 1787;
the year before he had married for the third time. In a heavy play
called “The Guilty Mother,' acted with slight success in 1790, he
brought in Figaro yet once more. During the Terror he emigrated
to Holland, returning to Paris in 1796 to find his sumptuous mansion
despoiled. May 18th, 1799, he died, leaving a fortune of $200,000,
besides numerous claims against the French nation and the United
States.
An interesting parallel could be drawn between “The Rivals) and
the School for Scandal' on the one side, and on the other (The
Barber of Seville) and “The Marriage of Figaro”; and there are also
piquant points of likeness between Sheridan and Beaumarchais. But
Sheridan, with all his failings, was of sterner stuff than Beaumarchais.
He had a loftier political morality, and he served the State more
loyally. Yet the two comedies of Beaumarchais are like the two
comedies of Sheridan in their incessant wit, in their dramaturgic
effectiveness, and in the histrionic opportunities they afford.
Indeed,
the French comedies have had a wider audience than the English,
thanks to an Italian and a German, --- to Rossini who set (The Bar-
ber of Seville) to music, and to Mozart who did a like service for
"The Marriage of Figaro.
Foruder Mathers
## p. 1660 (#458) ###########################################
1660
BEAUMARCHAIS
FROM "THE BARBER OF SEVILLE)
OUTWITTING A GUARDIAN
[Rosina's lover, Count Almaviva, attempts to meet and converse with her
by hoodwinking Dr. Bartolo, her zealous guardian. He comes in disguise to
Bartolo's dwelling, in a room of which the scene is laid. ]
[Enter Count Almavira, dressed as a student. ]
Count [solemnly]— May peace and joy abide here evermore!
Bartolo [brusquely]— Never, young sir, was wish more àpro-
pos! What do you want ?
Count — Sir, I am one Alonzo, a bachelor of arts,
Bartolo— Sir, I need no instructor.
Count - -a pupil of Don Basilio, the organist of the con-
vent, who teaches music to Madame your—
Bartolo [suspiciously] — Basilio! Organist! Yes, I know him.
Well?
Count [asidi]— What a man! [Aloud. ] He's confined to his
bed with a sudden illness.
Bartolo -- Confined to his bed! Basilio! He's very good to
send word, for I've just seen him.
Count [aside]—Oh, the devil! [Aloud. ) When I say to his
bed, sir, it's— I mean to his room.
Bartolo_ Whatever's the matter with him, go, if you please.
Count [embarrassed]— Sir, I was asked — Can no one hear us?
Bartolo [aside] - It's some rogue! [Aloud. ) What's that?
No, Monsieur Mysterious, no one can hear! Speak frankly — if
you can.
Count [aside] - Plague take the old rascal! [Aloud. ] Don
Basilio asked me to tell you —
Bartolo-Speak louder. I'm deaf in one ear.
Count [raising his voice] — Ah! quite right: he asks me to say
to you that one Count Almaviva, who was lodging on the great
square —
Bartolo [frightened ]-Speak low, speak low.
Count [louder] - moved away from there this morning.
As it was I who told him that this Count Almaviva-
Bartolo— Low, speak lower, I beg of you.
Count [in the same tone) - Was in this city, and as I have
discovered that Señorita Rosina has been writing to him
## p. 1661 (#459) ###########################################
BEAUMARCHAIS
1661
Bartolo— Has been writing to him? My dear friend, I im-
plore you, do speak low! Come, let's sit down, let's have a
friendly chat. You have discovered, you say, that Rosina –
Count [angrily] - Certainly. Basilio, anxious about this cor-
respondence on your account, asked me to show you her letter;
but the way you take things —
Bartolo - Good Lord! I take them well enough. But can't
you possibly speak a little lower ?
Count You told me you were deaf in one ear.
Bartolo - I beg your pardon, I beg your pardon, if I've been
surly and suspicious, Signor Alonzo: I'm surrounded with spies -
and then your figure, your age, your whole air
I beg your
pardon. Well ? Have you the letter ?
Count — I'm glad you're barely civil at last, sir.
But are you
quite sure no one can overhear us?
Bartolo - Not a soul. My servants are all tired out. Señorita
Rosina has shut herself up in a rage! The very devil's to pay
in this house. Still I'll go and make sure. [He goes to peep
into Rosina's room. ]
Count [aside] - Well, I've caught myself now in my own trap. .
Now what shall I do about the letter? If I were to run off ?
but then I might just as well not have come. Shall I show it
to him? If I could only warn Rosina beforehand! To show it
would be a master-stroke.
Bartolo [returning on tiptoe] - She's sitting by the window
with her back to the door, and re-reading a cousin's letter which
I opened. Now, now - let me see hers.
Count [handing him Rosina's letter] – Here it is. [Aside. ]
She's re-reading my letter.
Bartolo [reads quickly] — “Since you have told me your name
and estate - » Ah, the little traitress! Yes, it's her writing.
Count [frightened ]-Speak low yourself, won't you ?
Bartolo - What for, if you please?
Count - When we've finished, you can do as you choose. But
after all, Don Basilio's negotiation with a lawyer -
Bartolo — With a lawyer ? About my marriage ?
Count –Would I have stopped you for anything else? He told
me to say that all can be ready to-morrow. Then, if she resists —
Bartolo - She will.
Count [wants to take back the letter; Bartolo clutches it]-
I'll tell you what we'll do. We will show her her letter; and
## p. 1662 (#460) ###########################################
1662
BEAUMARCHAIS
But how you
then, if necessary, [more mysteriously] i'll even tell her that it
was given to me by a woman to whom the Count is sacrificing
her. Shame and rage may bring her to terms on the spot.
Bartolo [laughing] - Calumny, eh? My dear fellow, I see very
well now that you come from Basilio. But lest we should seem
to have planned this together, don't you think it would be better
if she'd met you before ?
Count [repressing a start of joy] - Don Basilio thought so, I
know. But how can we manage it? It is late already. There's
not much time left.
Bartolo-I will tell her you've come in his place. Couldn't
you give her a lesson ?
Count -- I'll do anything you like. But take care she doesn't
suspect. All these dodges of pretended masters are rather old
and theatrical.
Bartolo She won't suspect if I introduce you.
do look! You've much more the air of a disguised lover than of
a zealous student-friend.
Count — Really? Don't you think I can hoodwink her all the
better for that ?
Bartolo— She'll never guess. She's in a horrible temper this
evening. -
But if she'll only see you -- Her harpsichord is in this
room. Amuse yourself while you're waiting. I'll do all I can to
bring her here.
Count — Don't say a word about the letter.
Bartolo— Before the right moment ? It would lose all effect
if I did. It's not necessary to tell me things twice; it's not
necessary to tell me things twice.
[He goes. ]
Count [alone, soliloquises] - At last I've won! Ouf!
What a
difficult little old imp he is! Figaro understands him. I found
myself lying, and that made me awkward; and he has eyes for
everything! On my honor, if the letter hadn't inspired me he'd
have thought me a fool! - Ah, how they are disputing in there!
What if she refuses to come ? Listen - If she won't, my com-
ing is all thrown away.
There she is: I won't show myself at
first.
(Rosina enters. ]
Rosina [angrily] – There's no use talking about it, sir. I've
made up my mind. I don't want to hear anything more about
music.
## p. 1663 (#461) ###########################################
BEAUMARCHAIS
1663
Bartolo — But, my child, do listen! It is Señor Alonzo, the
friend and pupil of Don Basilio, whom he has chosen as one of
our marriage witnesses, I'm sure that music will calm you.
Rosina - Oh! you needn't concern yourself about that; and
as for singing this evening Where is this master you're so
afraid of dismissing? I'll settle him in a minute and Señor
Basilio too. [She sees her lover and exclaims :] Ah!
Bartolo Eh, eh, what is the matter ?
Rosina [pressing her hands to her heart]— Ah, sir! Ah, sir!
Bartolo — She is ill again! Señor Alonzo!
Rosina - No, I am not ill — but as I was turning - ah!
Count — Did you sprain your foot, Madame ?
Rosina — Yes, yes, I sprained my foot! I - hurt myself dread-
fully.
Count – So I perceived.
Rosina [looking at the Count] – The pain really makes me feel
faint.
Bartolo - A chair - a chair there! And not a single chair
here!
[He goes to get one. )
Count - Ah, Rosina !
Rosina What imprudence!
Count There are a hundred things I must say to you.
Rosina — He won't leave us alone.
Count - Figaro will help us.
Bartolo [bringing an arm-chair] - Wait a minute, my child.
Sit down here. She can't take a lesson this evening, Señor:
you must postpone it. Good-by.
Rosina [to the Count]— No, wait; my pain is better. [To
Bartolo. ] I feel that I've acted foolishly! I'll imitate you, and
atone at once by taking my lesson.
Bartolo-Oh! Such a kind little woman at heart! But after
so much excitement, my child, I can't let you make any exer-
tion. So good-bye, Señor, good-bye.
Rosina [to the Count] - Do wait a minute! [To Bartolo. ] I
shall think that you don't care to please me if you won't let me
show my regret by taking my lesson.
Count [aside to Bartolo] - I wouldn't oppose her, if I were you.
Bartolo That settles it, my love: I am so anxious to please
you that I shall stay here all the time you are practicing.
Rosina - No, don't. I know you don't care for music.
Bartolo - It will charm me this evening, I'm sure.
## p. 1664 (#462) ###########################################
1664
BEAUMARCHAIS
Rosina [aside to the Count] - I'm tormented to death!
Count ſtaking a sheet of music from the stand]—Will you sing
this, Madame ?
Rosina — Yes, indeed — it's a very pretty thing out of the
opera The Useless Precaution. "
Bartolo — Why do you always sing from "The Useless Pre-
caution'?
Count - There is nothing newer! It's a picture of spring in a
very bright style. So if Madame wants to try it -
Rosina [looking at the Count]— With pleasure. A picture of
spring is delightful! It is the youth of nature.
. It seems as if
the heart always feels more when winter's just over. It's like a
slave who finds liberty all the more charming after a long con-
finement.
Bartolo [to the Count] - Always romantic ideas in her head!
Count [in a low tone] – Did you notice the application ?
Bartolo - Zounds!
[He sits down in the chair which Rosina has been occupying. Rosina sings,
during which Bartolo goes to sleep. Under cover of the refrain the
Count seizes Rosina's hand and covers it with kisses. In her emotion
she sings brokenly, and finally breaks off altogether. The sudden
silence awakens Bartolo. The Count starts up, and Rosina quickly
resumes her song: ]
So your
(Don Basilio enters. Figaro in background. ]
Rosina [startled, to herself]- Don Basilio!
Count [aside]— Good Heaven!
Figaro- The devil!
Bartolo [going to meet him]— Ah! welcome, Basilio.
accident was not very serious ?
