The Serapion Brethren, Vol. II

by E. T. A. Hoffmann

It is necessary now to say something as to this theatre, and Signor Formica himself.

Nothing can be sadder than when, at carnival time in Rome, the impressarii have been unfortunate in their composers--when the primo tenore of the Argentina has left his voice on the road--when the primo uomo da donna in the Teatro Valle is down with the influenza--in short, when the chief pleasures to which the Romans have been looking forward have proved disappointments, and Giovedi Grasso has been shorn, at one fell swoop, of all the hoped-for flowers which were expected to come at that time into blossom. Immediately alter a melancholy carnival of this description (in fact, the fasts were scarcely over) a certain Nicolo Musso opened a theatre outside the Porto del Popolo, limiting himself to announcing the performance of minor, improvised buffonades. His advertisement was couched in a clever and witty style of wording, and from it the Romans formed in advance a favourable opinion of Musso's undertaking, and would have done so even had they not, in the unsatisfied state of their dramatic appetites, been eager to snatch at anything of the kind that was offered to them. The arrangements of the theatre--or rather of the little booth--could not be said to give evidence of any very flourishing state of finances on the manager's part. There was no orchestra; there were no boxes. There was a sort of gallery at the back of the audience part of the house, adorned with the arms of the Colonnas--a mark that the Conte Colonna had taken Murso and his theatre under his special protection. The stage was a raised platform covered with carpets, and surrounded with gay-coloured paper-hangings which had to serve for forests, interiors, or streets, according to the requirements of the drama. As, moreover, the audience had to be content with hard, uncomfortable wooden benches to sit upon, it is not matter for wonder that the first set of spectators expressed themselves pretty strongly on the subject of the audacity of Signor Musso in giving the name of a theatre to this boarded booth. But scarcely had the two first actors who appeared spoken a few words, when the audience became attentive. As the piece went on, the attention became applause, the applause astonishment, and the astonishment enthusiasm, which expressed itself in the most prolonged and stormy laughter, hand-clapping, and cries of bravo!

And, in truth, nothing more perfect could have been seen than those improvised representations of Nicolo Musso's which sparkled with wit, fun, and esprit, castigating the follies of the day with unsparing lash. The performers all rendered their parts with incomparable distinctiveness of character, but the "Pasquarello" more particularly carried the house away with him bodily, by his inimitable play of gesture, and a talent for imitating well-known personages, in voice, walk, and manner, by his inexhaustible drollery, and the extraordinary originality of the ideas which struck him. This actor, who called himself Signor Formica, seemed to be inspired by a very remarkable and unusual spirit; often, in his tone and manner, there would be a something so strange that the audience, while in the middle of a burst of the heartiest laughter, would suddenly feel a species of cold shiver. Almost on a par with him, and a worthy compeer, was the "Dr. Graziano" of the troupe, who had a play of feature, a voice, a power of saying the most delightful things in, apparently, the most foolish manner, to which nothing in the world could be likened. This "Doctor Graziano" was an old Bolognese, of the name of Maria Aglia. As a matter of course, all the fashionable world of Rome soon came thronging to the little theatre outside the Porto del Popolo. The name of Formica was on everybody's lips; and in the streets as in the theatre, all voices were crying, with the utmost enthusiasm, "Oh, Formica! Formica benedetto! Oh, Formicisimo!" He was looked upon as a supernatural being; and many an old woman, ashake with laughter in the theatre, would (if anybody ventured to criticise Formica's action in the slightest degree) turn grave, and say, with the utmost seriousness and solemnity--

"Scherza coi fanti e lascia star santi."

This was because, out of the theatre, Formica was an unfathomable mystery. No one ever saw him anywhere, and every attempt to come upon his traces was vain. Nothing as to where he lived could be got out of Musso.

Such was the theatre to which Marianna wished to go.

"Let us fly straight at our enemies' throats," Salvator said; "the walk home from the theatre to the town offers us a most admirable opportunity."

He then communicated a plan to Antonio, which seemed very risky and daring, but which the latter adopted with delight, thinking it would enable him to rescue his Marianna from the abominable Capuzzi; moreover, it pleased him well that Salvator made one great feature of it the punishing of the Pyramid Doctor.

When evening came, Salvator and Antonio each took a guitar, went to Strada Ripetta, and (by way of annoying old Capuzzi) treated the lovely Marianna to the most exquisite serenata imaginable. For Salvator played and sang like a master, and Antonio had a lovely tenor voice, and was almost an Odoardo Ceccarelli. Signor Pasquale of course came out on to the balcony, and scolded down at the singers, ordering them to hold their peace; but the neighbours, whom the beautiful music had brought to their windows, cried out to him, asking him whether, as he and his friends were in the habit of howling and screaming like all the demons in hell, he wouldn't suffer such a thing as a little good music in the street? Let him be off into the house, they said, and stop his ears, if he didn't want to hear the beautiful singing. Thus Signor Pasquale was obliged, to his torture, to endure Salvator and Antonio's singing, all night long--songs which at times consisted of the sweetest words of love, and at others ridiculed the folly of amorous old men. They distinctly saw Marianna at the window, and heard Pasquale adjuring her, in the most honeyed terms, not to expose herself to the night air.

The next evening there passed along the street towards the Porto del Popolo the strangest group of persons ever seen. They attracted all eyes, and people asked each other if some strange survival of the Carnival had preserved two or three mad maskers. Signor Pasquale Capuzzi, in his many-coloured, well-brushed Spanish suit, a new yellow feather in his steeple-crowned hat, tightly belted and buckled, all tenderness and grace, tripping along on shoes too tight for him, as if treading on eggs, conducted on his arm the lovely Marianna, whose pretty figure, and still more beautiful face, could not be seen, in consequence of the extraordinary manner in which she was wimpled and wrapped up in a cloak and hood. On her other side tripped along Signor Splendiano Accoramboni in his enormous wig, which covered the whole of his back, so that, when seen from behind, he looked like some enormous head moving along on two diminutive legs. Close behind Marianna, almost clinging on to her, came, in crab-like fashion, the little hideosity of a Pitichinaccio, in flame-coloured female dress, with his hair bedecked, in the most repulsive style, with flowers of all the colours of the rainbow.