representation of an honest, foolish young woman flattered by the attention of a villain.  His “La la,” his “Sissioria,” and “’Lustrissimo, si!” which marked so well the growth of self-esteem; his finger in the mouth, his twisting apron-corner, which betrayed embarrassment when the siege was too vigorous; his “Io non so gniente,” when sheepishness was the only defence—­here was the highest art of the stage.  I, as Brighella his brother, aped him as well as I could.  I was a clown, tickled by, yet pondering, the hardy advances of a baggage, who, in the expert person of Pamfilo, was only too well performed.  If it was my business to look a fool, God knows I played better than any.  The audience stormed us with delight, and I do believe I was having my share of the triumph, and might have been emboldened by success to have deserved it, had not all my sham tremors been shent—­in one moment—­by a shaft most real and memorable, whose fatal delivery I must now relate.

We had reached a point in our absurdity where, by the direction of Il Nanno, who had a sure dramatic sense, a little touch of tragic meaning was to be brought into the action.  The play was suddenly to deepen into seriousness; the masqueraders were to be discovered—­momentarily—­for men and women, with hearts to be broke and souls to be tortured.  I believe it was I who gave him the hint; for he had said to me one day at rehearsal, “Don Francis, you have tragedy in your face, a mouth of pure sorrow.  That is a valuable asset for our business.”  May be that he had thought to use me at my best when he suffered this little shiver of serious surmise to be blown across the painted scene.  The worthy little monster was pardonably proud of his conception, and explained it to me point by point.  Touchy as his infirmities had left him, his vanity of author made him as tender as a green wound.  He set all his hopes upon his invention; rightly rendered, he said, the whole theatre would be moved by it.  It should be received with a moment of absolute silence, a sixty-seconds’ silence; then, with one consent, the audience would rise en masse and cheer the actor—­myself—­and the poet—­himself.  Admiring the thought, feeling the force of it, I promised him that he might depend upon me.

His point was this.  At a certain stage in the play, Brighella, the country clown, observes his pretended inamorata, the sham contessa, in the embrace of the pretended marchese, Truffaldino, who by his lies and flatteries has ensnared the heart of Colombina.  Now Colombina is the beloved sister of Brighella; and the doubt is to dawn upon him that possibly his wonderful contessa and his sister’s imposing marchese are no better than they should be.  Why is she in the arms of the marchese?  Are these perhaps the customs of the world of fashion?  Punchinello, the family servant, suggests that the marchese and contessa may be brother and sister.  “O Dio, no!” cries poor Brighella.  “I know what brothers and sisters do.  I love Colombina