bigger and bigger part.
And Francesco made a good Arlechino—somersaulting in the window, slinking around the edges of the stage, popping up from nowhere in the middle of the Lovers’ most intimate dialogues. Dressed in that black and white patched suit, he shifted his weight back and forth from one foot to the other, holding long conversations with himself. He mocked the Lovers’ passion, parodied their endearments, jeered at their troubles. He was always dragging the Inamorata off to stage right, to tell her she was wasting her time on a silly fool like Amante; then, he’d do the same to Flaminio, at stage left. He made the audiences laugh, but all his insults and nasty pranks only made them love the Lovers more.
And then, on that night in Perugia, everything changed.
It was a hot, damp August evening. The plaza was crowded with townspeople and university students. That night, the moment Arlechino jumped on stage, I knew that there was something peculiar about his style. A moment later, I realized what it was.
There was a double edge to his performance. Andreini was acting so brilliantly, he was managing to convey an odd sense about Arlechino. Suddenly, it was the clown who seemed to be the real lover. He was the one whose passion for Vittoria surpassed the brightness of the sun, the mystery of the Sphinx, the fierceness of the tiger. And all his mean remarks, all his cold, cruel joking, seemed intended as a tragic mask, to hide his true emotion.
That night, Andreini created a new Arlechino, a clown so eloquent, so passionate, so moving that he nearly broke my heart. I looked around to see if the audience realized what was happening, for it seemed that they couldn’t fail to respond.
And I was right. Their eyes watered with sympathy every time Arlechino and Inamorata were alone on stage. But whenever the Lover appeared, their faces darkened, as if he were the intruder, the foil. As the play went on, and the lovesick clown drew no closer to his beloved, the mood of the crowd grew steadily uglier, more restless, until it began to make me uneasy.
The others felt it, too. “Watch out, Andreini!” hissed Brighella, interrupting the show. “Remember: these are sex-starved, drunken university students, who take these things seriously!”
But Andreini couldn’t hear. He, Flaminio, and Vittoria were enmeshed in it together. And perhaps they would have remained entangled forever if that crazy riot hadn’t broken out.
It was at the very end of the play. As always, Flaminio and Vittoria were embracing, center stage. But this time, Francesco stood in the wings, miming a remarkable show of noble suffering.
As soon as the audience realized that the drama was really over, that Arlechino would never win his love, a shocked silence fell over the crowd. Then, a storm of murmurs arose—whispers so hostile, so threatening, so unmistakable in their intent, that I knew enough to run for cover.
From the doorway of the inn, I watched the young men. Many of them were still in their academic gowns; yet they shouted, roared, grabbed rotten vegetables from the stores. They ripped up cobblestones from the plaza, and began to heave them at Flaminio.
“The woman belongs to Arlechino!” they yelled. They ran up on stage, grabbed the actors, and shook them like rugs. “Give the woman to Arlechino, or we’ll hold you prisoner here until you rot!”
When at last Flaminio broke free of his captors, all the spirit had left his face. “All right, gentlemen,” he said. “You are absolutely correct. There is a short epilogue to this drama, which we somehow forgot to perform. Return to your places, if you will, and prepare to watch the brilliant conclusion to our entertaining little show.”
That last scene was so easy to improvise, a child could have done it. As the crowd moved back, Flaminio gave a short speech, acknowledging Arlechino as the true Lover, and admitting his error in having claimed the Inamorata’s hand. Then,
And Francesco made a good Arlechino—somersaulting in the window, slinking around the edges of the stage, popping up from nowhere in the middle of the Lovers’ most intimate dialogues. Dressed in that black and white patched suit, he shifted his weight back and forth from one foot to the other, holding long conversations with himself. He mocked the Lovers’ passion, parodied their endearments, jeered at their troubles. He was always dragging the Inamorata off to stage right, to tell her she was wasting her time on a silly fool like Amante; then, he’d do the same to Flaminio, at stage left. He made the audiences laugh, but all his insults and nasty pranks only made them love the Lovers more.
And then, on that night in Perugia, everything changed.
It was a hot, damp August evening. The plaza was crowded with townspeople and university students. That night, the moment Arlechino jumped on stage, I knew that there was something peculiar about his style. A moment later, I realized what it was.
There was a double edge to his performance. Andreini was acting so brilliantly, he was managing to convey an odd sense about Arlechino. Suddenly, it was the clown who seemed to be the real lover. He was the one whose passion for Vittoria surpassed the brightness of the sun, the mystery of the Sphinx, the fierceness of the tiger. And all his mean remarks, all his cold, cruel joking, seemed intended as a tragic mask, to hide his true emotion.
That night, Andreini created a new Arlechino, a clown so eloquent, so passionate, so moving that he nearly broke my heart. I looked around to see if the audience realized what was happening, for it seemed that they couldn’t fail to respond.
And I was right. Their eyes watered with sympathy every time Arlechino and Inamorata were alone on stage. But whenever the Lover appeared, their faces darkened, as if he were the intruder, the foil. As the play went on, and the lovesick clown drew no closer to his beloved, the mood of the crowd grew steadily uglier, more restless, until it began to make me uneasy.
The others felt it, too. “Watch out, Andreini!” hissed Brighella, interrupting the show. “Remember: these are sex-starved, drunken university students, who take these things seriously!”
But Andreini couldn’t hear. He, Flaminio, and Vittoria were enmeshed in it together. And perhaps they would have remained entangled forever if that crazy riot hadn’t broken out.
It was at the very end of the play. As always, Flaminio and Vittoria were embracing, center stage. But this time, Francesco stood in the wings, miming a remarkable show of noble suffering.
As soon as the audience realized that the drama was really over, that Arlechino would never win his love, a shocked silence fell over the crowd. Then, a storm of murmurs arose—whispers so hostile, so threatening, so unmistakable in their intent, that I knew enough to run for cover.
From the doorway of the inn, I watched the young men. Many of them were still in their academic gowns; yet they shouted, roared, grabbed rotten vegetables from the stores. They ripped up cobblestones from the plaza, and began to heave them at Flaminio.
“The woman belongs to Arlechino!” they yelled. They ran up on stage, grabbed the actors, and shook them like rugs. “Give the woman to Arlechino, or we’ll hold you prisoner here until you rot!”
When at last Flaminio broke free of his captors, all the spirit had left his face. “All right, gentlemen,” he said. “You are absolutely correct. There is a short epilogue to this drama, which we somehow forgot to perform. Return to your places, if you will, and prepare to watch the brilliant conclusion to our entertaining little show.”
That last scene was so easy to improvise, a child could have done it. As the crowd moved back, Flaminio gave a short speech, acknowledging Arlechino as the true Lover, and admitting his error in having claimed the Inamorata’s hand. Then,
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