BEAUMARCHAIS, PIERRE AUGUSTIN CARON DE, a French comic dramatist, was born at Paris, January 24, 1732; died there May 18, 1799. He was the son of a watchmaker, and was brought up to his father's trade. He early displayed a remarkable taste for music, attained proficiency as a player on the harp and the guitar, and was appointed music-master to the daughters of Louis XV. This was the beginning of his course of good fortune. He acquired considerable property by marriage; and, to dignify the somewhat ambiguous position in which his calling placed him, he devoted his talents to literature. His first play, Eugenie (1767), was successful, and was followed by Les Deux Amis (1770). Having become involved in a lawsuit with Götzman, he revenged himself by publishing his famous Mémoires (1774), which united the bitterest satire with the sharpest logic, and gained for him a reputation that made even Voltaire uneasy, who could not bear a rival in his own department. His fame, however, rests on two operas, Le Barbier de Seville (1775), and Le Mariage de Figaro. Of his later works, Mes Six Epoques describes the perils through which he had passed in the first period of the Revolution. During the American war of Independence, he entered into a speculation for supplying arms, by which he realized a considerable profit; but he was a great loser by his expensive edition of Voltaire's works and other speculations. The most judicious critic of his writings and character is M. de Loménie, whose Beaumarchais and his Times is full of interesting literary anecdotes. An edition of his works was published at Paris in 1809. THE BARBER OF SEVILLE. Аст І. SCENE I.-[Enter Fiorello with a letter in his hand.] Fiorello.-Soh! I am at my post before the sun has awoke my watchful barber here! My master orders me to catch the first glimpse of Rosina when she opens her lattice; but I much fear I never shall be able to succeed for him, for no sooner do I obtain Rosina's notice, and am about to convey a billet, than this devil of a spoilsport pops his head out and deranges all my plans. [Puts his ear to Figaro's door.] All's quiet; he sleeps in spite of the ghosts of the patients he has poisoned. Now, if my serenaders could but tinkle a few soft notes to disturb her gentle slumbers, I might contrive to convey this letter to her. [He steps back and makes a sig nal.] [Figaro opens the window at the top of his house.] Figaro. And so, my smooth-chinned philosopher, you thought to deliver your letter free from postage? Quite impossible, I assure you. Fiorello. And pray, Signor, who are you, and what letter are you speaking of? Figaro. What letter? Why, the letter-the letter you've got in your pocket-the letter that you wanted. to convey to Rosina; and as to your "Who am I?" you must be a stranger indeed in Seville, not to know thatask the girls who I am-I'm the Barber-a distinction, of which I am not a little proud; did you never hear of it before? Every thing that's smart, every thing that's handsome, every thing that's roguish, every thing that's intriguing-all, all, that's the Barber. PIERRE AUGUSTIN CARON DE BEAUMARCHAIS Fiorello. And can you, with these pretensions, destroy my master's hopes, who loves Rosina to distraction? Figaro.-Honour-my duty-I'm out-door spy here, by appointment; in short, I'm tenant to Dr. Bartolo, over head and ears in debt to him for rent, and sure to go to prison, if I am not vigilant. Fiorello.-Aye, but my master can prevent that, for he has both power and inclination to reward you liberally. Figaro. Oh, I am always grateful for the favours I am to receive, and to prove I deserve them, I'll tell you something about your master. He's a slim, genteel stranger, arrived in Seville three days back, very much in love with Dr. Bartolo's ward, has haunted his door, as yet without success, and has now sent you to watch when Rosina comes to the balcony. Fiorello.-Well guessed, my Argus of Seville! but, yet, no name, no rank discovered. Figaro.-'Tis impossible to keep them secret from me long. If I don't discover them to-day, I shall to-morrow, so you may as well divulge. If I like your master, and admit his pretensions, perhaps he may have a chance; if not, let him despair! With Marshal Bartolo within, and General Figaro without, the citadel can never be taken, depend upon it. Fiorello.-Well, if I do divulge the secret, necessity is my excuse. Know then, my master is the Count Almaviva! Figaro.-[With great surprise.] Who? Figaro.-Excellent! excellent! [Laughing and dancing about.] Fiorello.-Hush! hush! for Heaven's sake! What's the matter? Figaro. That I lived so long with at Madrid. Fiorello.-Impossible! The young Count never had but one confidential servant before I lived with him; and he was discharged for roguery. Figaro.-Ah, see how a poor fellow's character may be traduced! Sir, I was dismissed through a mistake; the Count charged me with wearing his clothes, before he had done with them. Now, the fact was, I only tried them on before he had begun with them. No, sir, I'd have you know I had a soul above old clothes. Fiorello.-Well, we are allies now, Figaro-will you assist us? Figaro. To the utmost verge of discretion; self first, Count Almaviva second. Let him state the terms of our confederacy. Bartolo in one scale, Almaviva in the other-Justice is blind. [Rosina draws up the Venetian blind at the balcony.] But soft, she comes forth. Now, to show you my good will, I'll let you commence your operations, but I must pretend to be in bed, for if Dr. Bartolo once suspects me, all my power to serve your master vanishes. [Exit into his house.] Bartolo.-Calls within.] Rosina Rosina! Rosina.-To Fiorello.] "Tis my guardian's voice! hide under the window!-Adapted from the original of Beaumarchais. BEAUMONT, FRANCIS, an English poet and dramatist, born at Grace-Dieu, Leicestershire, 1586; died March 6, 1616. He was of a distinguished family; studied at Oxford and became a member of the Inner Temple, London, but seems to have paid little attention to the study of law, being the heir to a large estate. He died at the age of thirty, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. His name and that of John Fletcher (1579-1625), son of the Bishop of Bristol, are inseparably connected in literary partnership. There are fifty-two dramas ascribed to them; but competent critics are of opinion that Beaumont had no considerable part in more than one-third of these, and it is not now possible to assign to each writer his respective share in any of these dramas. Sir Walter Scott says of these joint authors: Beaumont and Fletcher have still a high poetical value. If character be sometimes violated, probability discarded, and the interest of the plot neglected, the reader is, on the other hand, often gratified by the most beautiful description, the most tender and passionate dialogue, a display of brilliant wit and gayety or a feast of comic humor. These attributes had so much effect on the public, that during the end of the seventeenth and the beginning of the eighteenth centuries, many of Beaumont and Fletcher's plays had possession of the stage, while those of Shakespeare were laid upon the shelf. |