The Barber of Seville or The Useless Precaution by Pierre Beaumarchais (translated by David Coward).
Title: The Barber of Seville or The Useless Precaution.
Author: Pierre Beaumarchais (translated by David Coward).
Genre: Literature, fiction, plays, humour, satire, romance.
Country: France.
Language: French.
Publication Date: 1773.
Summary: Count Almaviva has fallen in love at first sight with a girl called Rosine. To ensure that she really loves him and not just his money, the Count disguises himself as a poor college student named Lindor, and attempts to woo her. His plans are foiled by Rosine's guardian, Doctor Bartholo, who keeps her locked up in his house and intends to marry her himself. The Count's luck changes, however, after a chance reunion with an ex-servant of his, Figaro, who is currently working as a barber, and not only has access to the Doctor's home, but is filled with hilarious ideas of how to help the romance along.
My rating: 8/10.
My review:
♥ COUNT. I'm tired of easy conquests served up by self-interest, stale habit, and vanity. It's wonderful to be loved for yourself!
♥ FIGARO. Heigh-ho, the people who write comic operas don't worry about little things like that. These days what's not worth saying gets set to music.
♥ FIGARO. Now, for my finish I need something clever, brilliant, with a sparkle to it, something that sounds as if it might be profound.
♥ FIGARO. Ah so I was right: it is you. The same kind words you always honoured me with.
COUNT. I didn't know you. You've grown so fat and sleek...
FIGARO. Heigh-ho, your Lordship, it's the poverty that does it.
COUNT. You poor devil!
♥ FIGARO. Ah, now there you have the cause of my downfall. When the minister was told that I dashed off verses to the ladies-and very prettily even if I say so myself-sent puzzles to the newspapers, and had ditties of my composition on everyone's lips-in other words, when he found out that I was a published author-he took the tragic view and had me kicked out on the grounds that love of literature and a head for business go together like oil and water.
♥ FIGARO. I was only too glad he forgot all about me, for I reckon that great persons treat us ordinary mortals well enough when they're not doing us actual harm.
♥ COUNT. As I recall, you were a bit of a rogue when you were in my service.
FIGARO. I ask you, sir, why is it that people assume that because a man's poor he should be pure as the driven snow?
COUNT. Idle, depraved...
FIGARO. Given the virtues required of servants, does your Lordship know many masters who would make a half-decent valet?
♥ FIGARO. It soon dawned on me that literature society in Madrid was really a pack of wolves who prowl around with fangs bared for sinking into the nearest throat, beneath contempt with their ludicrous bitching, the lot of them-insects, mosquitoes, gnats, critics, horse-flies, back-bitters, reviewers, publishers, censors, the whole tribe of parasites who infest the tender parts of struggling authors, and then chew them up and suck them dry of whatever small talent they are left with. I was tired of scribbling, bored wit myself, nauseated by everyone else, up to my ears in debt and stony broke. In the end, I decided that the ready money I could earn by plying a razor was preferable to the unpaid honour of wielding a pen. So I left Madrid and set out with all my worldly goods strapped to my back, wandering philosophically through Castile, La Mancha, Estramadura, the Sierra Morena, and Andalusia, welcomed with open arms in one town, jailed in the next, and at all times taking events in my stride. Acclaimed by some and damned by others, prospering in good times and putting up with the bad, laughing at fools and defying the villains, indifferent to poverty and shaving all-comers, until at last you see me now, operating here in Seville, and available once more to serve your Lordship in whatever it pleases you to command.
♥ BARTHOLO. What's The Pointless Precaution?
FIGARO. It's a new comedy.
BARTHOLO. Not another one of these modern plays? Some piece of nonsense in the new style?1
ROSINE. I couldn't say.
BARTHOLO. Well the newspapers and the watch committee will soon put a stop to it. What a barbarous age we live in.
1 Bartholo did not like the new drama. Maybe, as a young man, he had written a tragedy.
♥ COUNT. What's he like?
FIGARO. He's a well-favoured, well-upholstered, short young fogey, salt-and-pepper hair, sly, fly, faded, jaded, a watching, ferreting, scolding man who complains all the time.
COUNT. Yes, yes, I saw him. And his character?
FIGARO. A toad, mean with money, madly jealous, and in love with his ward who hates him like poison.
COUNT. So his attractiveness to women is...
FIGARO. Zero.
COUNT. Good. Is he honest?
FIGARO. Only as honest as it takes to keep him clear of the hangman's noose.
COUNT. Better and better. So we can punish a nasty piece of work and get our own way at the same time...
FIGARO. Defending the public good and promoting personal happiness-seems to me, that as schemes go this one, your Lordship, morally speaking, is masterly.
♥ FIGARO. First, the house where I'm staying belongs to the doctor, who lets me live there for free...
COUNT. Interesting!
FIGARO. Yes. And in return I promise to pay him ten pistoles a year, also for free...
COUNT [impatiently]. You mean you're his tenant?
FIGARO. Not just that but also his barber, surgeon, and apothecary too. In that house there's not a razor, lancet, or enema-pump that moves unless the hand on it belongs to yours truly.
COUNT [throwing his arms around him]. Figaro, old friend, you are my salvation, my deliverer, the answer to my prayers!
FIGARO. Marvellous, isn't it. When I'm useful, social distinctions just vanish. That's what love does for you!
♥ FIGARO. If you keep people's minds focused on their own business, you can stop them poking their nose into other people's.
♥ FIGARO. That's not bad. But maybe a bit more unsteady on your legs. [Acts even drunker] My good man, ish thish the housh...
COUNT. Dammit, that's how workmen behave when they're drunk.
FIGARO. It's the best way. You can tell they're enjoying it.
♥ FIGARO. Sir, the difficulty of succeeding merely makes the need to act boldly more urgent.
♥ COUNT. How delightful! How clever!
FIGARO. How scheming! It must be love!
♥ FIGARO. You'll need uniform, billeting warrant, and money for your pockets.
COUNT. Money? Who for?
FIGARO. Money, for God's sake, and lots of it. Monet makes the plots go round.
♥ FIGARO. Scared? Nonsense! That's no way to think, Madame. If you give in to the fear of consequences, you're already living with the consequences of fear.
♥ FIGARO. Can anybody who's in love stay quiet? I'm sorry for young people nowadays because they have a dreadful choice: either in love and no quiet, or a quiet life and no love.
ROSINE [lowering her eyes]. A quiet life without love... would seem...
FIGARO. Pretty miserable. When you think about it, love and no quiet looks like the better option.
♥ ROSINE. The only thing I'm afraid of is that if he's put off by all the difficulties, he...
FIGARO. ... might vanish like a will-o'-the-wisp? Don't forget: the wind that blows out a candle can also fan a fire into a blaze, and we men are like fires. Even when he's just talking about it, he breathes such flames that he almost conflagrated me with his passion, and I'm just an onlooker.
♥ BARTHOLO. Trust everybody and before you can look round you've got a loving wife who deceives you, best friends who run away with her under your nose, and loyal servants who help them do it.
♥ OLD YOUTHFUL [sneezing]. But sir, it's not fair. Where's the justice...
BARTHOLO. Justice! Ignorant clods like you can go on and on about justice. But I'm your master and that means I'm always right!
OLD YOUTHFUL [sneezing]. But if a thing is true...
BARTHOLO. If something's true! If I don't want a thing to be true, it isn't true by my say-so. If you let any Tom, Dick, or Harry be right, you'd soon see what's to become of authority and discipline!
♥ BARTHOLO. Yes. Lie in wait for him one night, armed to the teeth, chain-mail shirts and...
BAZILE. Bone deus! And compromise ourselves? Spread some nasty rumour, that's the way. And then, while the scandal is going the rounds, have him slandered by experts. QED.
BARTHOLO. Isn't that a peculiar way of getting rid of a man?
BAZILE. Slander, peculiar? You don't know what the word means if you can dismiss it so easily! I have seen the most decent, honest men brought virtually to their knees by it. Believe me, there's no downright lie, no tissue of horrors, no tittle-tattle so absurd that you can't get the crass, nosy population of any city to wallow if you set about it the right way, and here in Seville we have experts! It starts as a faint whisper, skimming the ground like a swallow before the storm, pianissimo. It whirrs and scatters, ans as it spreads it shoots out poisoned barbs. A mouth catches one and, piano, piano, hooks it deftly into a convenient ear. The damage is done. It breeds, creeps, multiplies and, rinforzando, it hops like some fiend from mouth to mouth. Then suddenly, don't ask me how, you see Slander rear up, hissing, bulging, swelling as you watch. It takes flight, spreads its wings, sweeps, swirls, enfolds, claws, seizes, erupts, and explodes and turns, God only knows how, into a general clamour, a public crescendo, a universal chorus of hate and condemnation. Is there a man alive who can survive it?
♥ BAZILE. In that case, you haven't a moment to lose.
BARTHOLO. And who's to blame for that, Bazile? I asked you to look after all the details.
BAZILE. True, but you wanted the whole thing done on the cheap. Into the harmony that is order and conformity, a marriage between persons unequal in age, a wrongful decision of a court, an obvious miscarriage of justice, can all strike discordant notes. They must be anticipated and corrected by the perfect, golden chord that is money.
♥ FIGARO. Fortunately, he is also a fool. If you're going to get anywhere with slander, you need to be somebody, have family connections, a name, a title, influence. That rules out Bazile. He could throw mud till he was blue in the face and nobody would pay any attention.
♥ ROSINE. And you listened, Monsieur Figaro? Don't you know listening to other people's conversations is very wrong?
FIGARO. Wrong? But you don't hear anything unless you listen.
♥ BARTHOLO. Why is it that we always insist on knowing what we most fear to learn?
♥ BARTHOLO. If only you could love me, how happy you would be!
ROSINE [looking at the floor]. If only you could make me love you, oh how I would love you!
♥ ROSINE. But a man who's a tyrant would turn the most innocent girl in the world into a scheming, wicked woman!
♥ ROSINE [sings].1
1 This song, written in the Spanish style, was sung at the first Paris performance despite the jeers, booing, and the usual reaction of the pit in this age of crisis and confrontation. The actress was too frightened to sing it in later performances and the young theatre purists were loud in praise of her reticence. But if the dignity of the Comédie Française was the gainer, it must be admitted that The Barber of Seville was the loser. Which is why, when it is played in theatres where the occasional use of music does not rouse such high passions, we would encourage managers to include it, audiences to listen to it, critics to forgive the author, and all to bear in mind what kind of play this is and the enjoyment the piece will give to those who see it.
♥ ROSINE. Should some jealous wain
Mar their happy refrain,
Our passionate pair
Would take every care...
To hide their emotion.
Yet love is not frightened,
For with every commotion
The pleasure is heightened.
♥ BARTHOLO. And I suppose it was with the same dedication that you bandaged up the eyes of my mule? Will your poultice make it see again?
FIGARO. If it doesn't bring its sight back, that won't be why it can't see-the blindfold will take care of that.
♥ FIGARO. The way I see it, sir, a man can only choose between being stupid or mad. So when I can't see a profit, I go for pleasure. Enjoy life, that's what I say! Who knows if we'll still be here three weeks from now?
♥ COUNT. Shut up, that's what you really must do, Bazile. You don't seriously think you can tell Doctor Bartholo anything he doesn't know already? I've already explained that you asked me to come here and give the singing lesson instead of you.
BAZILE [even more bewildered]. Singing lesson? Alonzo?
ROSINE [aside to BAZILE]. Oh just be quiet!
BAZILE. Now she's at it too!
COUNT [whispering]. Look here, Bazile, you'll give the show away if you say he isn't your pupil. You'll ruin everything.
BAZILE. Eh?
BARTHOLO [aloud]. I'll say this much, Bazile: that's an extremely talented pupil you've got there.
BAZILE [stupefied]. Pupil?... [Whispers] I came to tell you the Count has moved out of his rooms.
BARTHOLO [whispers]. I know. Now shut up.
BAZILE [whispers]. Who told you?
BARTHOLO. [whispers]. He did, of course.
COUNT [whispers]. I did. Who else? Don't say anything: just listen.
ROSINE [whispers to BAZILE]. Why is it so difficult for you to keep quiet?
FIGARO [whispers to BAZILE]. Moron! Are you deaf?
BAZILE [to himself]. I'm damned if I know who's deceiving who here. They're all in it together.
♥ BAZILE. But judging by the size of the purse he gave me, he could easily be the Count himself.
BARTHOLO. Is that likely? But now you mention the money, why did you take it?
BAZILE. I had this impression you wanted me to. I hadn't a clue what was going on. And whenever a situation is hard to work out, I always think a purse full of money is a pretty conclusive argument. Besides, you know the proverb: a bird in the hand...
BARTHOLO. I know: is worth two in the bush.
BAZILE. ...lays golden eggs.
♥ BARTHOLO. If you were me, Bazile, wouldn't you do your damnedest to make her your own?
BAZILE. Heavens no, Doctor! With property of any sort, ownership isn't important: it's the enjoyment you get out of what you own that gives the satisfaction. In my view, marrying a woman who doesn't love you leaves you exposed to...
BARTHOLO. You'd be afraid things might go wrong?
BAZILE. Look around, you. There's a lot of that sort of thing about these days. I wouldn't try to force her, not against her will.
BARTHOLO. I don't agree, Bazile. I'd rather see her cry because she had me than die myself because I couldn't have her.
♥ COUNT. You're with me, aren't you? There's something else that's much more worrying: how am I going to talk her into walking out of her guardian's house tonight for ever?
FIGARO. You've got three cards in your hand that women can never trump: love, hate, and fear.
♥ ROSINE. It was just my way of punishing myself. I should have spent the rest of my life hating you. Ah Lindor, is there any punishment more horrible than to be reduced to hating when you know you were born to love?
♥ COUNT [confidently]. Rosine, you love me. I'm not afraid of anyone, and you shall be my wife. I look forward to the pleasure of finding a suitable punishment for that odious man.
ROSINE. No, please be kind, Lindor! My heart is overflowing and there's no room in it for revenge.
♥ COUNT [tossing him a purse]. Stop being childish! Just sign, and quick about it.
BAZILE [amazed]. Ah!
FIGARO. Do you have a problem signing?
BAZILE [weighing the purse in his hand]. Not any more. But that's how I am. Once I've given my word, it takes weighty arguments for me to break it.
♥ BARTOLO [sees the COUNT kissing ROSINE's hand and FIGARO locked in a grotesque embrace with BAZILE: he seizes the NOTARY by the throat and shouts]. What's Rosine doing here, with these burglars? Arrrest the lot of them. I've collared this one.
NOTARY. I'm the notary.
BAZILE. He's the notary. What do you think you're playing at?
♥ BARTHOLO. Bazile! Did you sign?
BAZILE. What do you think? The Count's a devil of a man, with pockets stuffed with irresistible arguments.
♥ BARTHOLO [lamenting]. And it was me that took their ladder away, so that my marriage would go ahead undisturbed. I lost. And all because I didn't take more care.
FIGARO. Didn't have any sense, more like. Let's face it, Doctor. When love and youth get together to outwit an old man, everything he does to stop them can only be described as a POINTLESS PRECAUTION.