SOURCE: “The Play,” in Beaumarchais: “Le Mariage de Figaro,” Grant & Cutler Ltd., 1983, pp. 32-66.

[In the following excerpt, Niklaus explains the structure of The Marriage of Figaro, commenting on past literary criticism and seeking to explain the unique importance of the play.]

A. THE PLOT AND THE ACTION

We do not know all the stages in the composition of [Le Mariage de Figaro.] Ratermanis has provided us with the text of three manuscripts side by side with that of the first published edition, of the preface, of different versions of the Préliminaire de lecture, the Programme du Mariage and extracts from the opéra comique which was to constitute the last stage of the play. The stemma of the manuscripts preserved in the Bibliothèque Nationale, the archives of the family and the Comédie Française, is not immediately apparent. The manuscript in the Bibliothèque Nationale is a rough draft, although not the first, and the action is incoherent in places. There is an irrelevant passage which Beaumarchais struck out from this copy but which reappears in the other two manuscripts, only to be omitted in the first published edition. The manuscripts show hesitation over the character of Marceline which obviously presented him with some problems, and there are many differences in Act IV. Marceline's feminist outburst involved some restructuring. In the circumstances, and in view of the moving of whole scenes, it is surprising that the plot is as consistent as it is.

In its main lines the plot was outlined by Beaumarchais in his Programme. At one level it is very simple. The play presents Figaro's love for Suzanne and their joint wish to have their love consecrated by marriage. It is thwarted by the Count who should be giving them his blessing since he knows his past debt to Figaro, his duty to his wife and the obligations of his social position. Instead Count Almaviva, who has designs on Suzanne, thinks that if he provided her with a dowry he would be justified in exercising the droit de seigneur, an old feudal right which he himself had specifically renounced, by which a young girl living on his estate could be required to spend her wedding night with him. This ancient, barbaric right which had never been abrogated, but which had not been exercised for many a decade, had recently become the subject of a play by Voltaire—Le Droit du seigneur—who had chosen the theme to exemplify the absurdity of antiquated laws and to discredit the aristocracy. The interesting point is that in spite of the absurdity of the whole affair it appealed to the public, typifying as it did the shocking abuses of which the people were the victims. Beaumarchais uses this theme, but in a fanciful and improbable manner. The idea cannot be seriously entertained in the play, yet the theme itself and the talk around it does help to discredit the Count, making him look like some fossil of the past, an absurd figure of fun well cast in a comedy.

By focussing on one abuse Beaumarchais attacked the whole system of privileges of the Ancien Régime, and the very absurdity of the abuse he chose in its contemporary setting led spectators to draw inferences highly critical of the existing regime without exposing the author to official censure. In law through marriage Almaviva had forfeited any seigneurial rights he may have had, and it is interesting to note that, in spite of the lack of verisimilitude, the satire of the aristocracy holds so well on the stage. Suzanne, of course, warns her mistress and her lover of Almaviva's intentions, and they band together to thwart him. A rascally young page, Chérubin, a dubious cherub of thirteen, liked and indulged by everyone, constantly upsets his master's schemes and even at times works against his own interest and that of the Countess through his scatterbrain behaviour. The Count being far from stupid realises that he is being duped, but cannot prove it and cannot even see how his discomfiture is being contrived. His allies Bartholo, Bazile and Marceline are equally outwitted. He decides to take revenge by upholding Marceline's absurd pretension to marry Figaro. She had lent money to Figaro on the understanding that in the event of his being unable to repay he will marry her. Donning the robes of the Chief Justice of Andalusia the Count now sentences Figaro to honour his bond.

Tragedy descends upon Figaro as indeed upon the Jew in the Merchant of Venice when he is ordered to meet his obligation. Were it not for fate Figaro would lose out for he has not a card left to play. Antonio by his expressed unwillingness to allow his niece to marry a man who has no known parents, leads Figaro to expatiate on the circumstances of his birth and, quite unexpectedly, it transpires that Figaro is the natural son of Marceline and of Bartholo. The Count's scheming is brought to nought. Marceline and Bartholo then decide to wed, but their marriage, as indeed that of Figaro and Suzanne, to which there is now no obstacle, has to be deferred owing to the inopportune arrival of Chérubin. Meanwhile the Countess, who still hopes to bring her erring husband back to his senses, plots to take Suzanne's place at an assignation the Count has made with her in the park. But Figaro, learning that Suzanne is about to meet the Count in a clandestine fashion, is both jealous and disillusioned, and hides in the garden to confound them. His rage abates when he finds out the ploy being used, and eventually he enters into the spirit of the scheme. Almaviva is unmasked; he throws himself on his knees, begging his wife's pardon, which is readily granted, and at long last Figaro can wed his betrothed.

This mere outline, which follows closely Beaumarchais's own account, leaves out many incidents and fails to indicate all the ploys and counterploys, ups and downs, comings and goings of the various scheming factions. Guy Michaud has provided a detailed scheme based on one of two thousand standard theatre plots enabling him to reproduce graphically the numerous actions as they revolve around the characters (see 18 and 10, p. 186). It may be as well to stick to Beaumarchais's five acts and within this framework study the scenes one after the other.

The story is simply a battle of wits between Figaro, Suzanne and the Countess on the one hand and the Count and his allies on the other, complicated by the intervention of Chérubin and others, incidents and accidents. The battle of wits between the principals is further confused by the army of secondary characters, Antonio, Fanchette, Gripe-Soleil, Brid'oison, peasants and village girls who bemuse the protagonists, enrich the spectacle, point the moral, and possibly the political significance of the play, without changing the main lines of the plot. Pomeau has found that the play is not well-constructed, especially when compared with Le Barbier, but we are inclined to subscribe to the view expressed by Forestier (11, p. 17) that the allegedly independent and secondary actions are in fact off-shoots of a main stem which Beaumarchais failed to prune owing to his natural exuberance. I feel impelled to condone departures from classical purity of style as from verisimilitude, since imbroglio is the dominant characteristic of the play. The court scene and even the final scene, that of the wedding, could in fact be cut out as extraneous to the main theme and indeed Jean Meyer cut out the court scene from his film version of the play, as did Da Ponte in his libretto. But this digression, which offers a welcome caricature of judicial practice and has roots in Beaumarchais's own experiences of the courts, serves to make an important point in his social satire which strikes at the noblesse de robe as well as the aristocracy. The final wedding scene is also an hors-d'œuvre providing a charming conclusion to the work in the grounds of the estate, in the gloaming lit up by lanterns carried by the villagers as they dance. It marks also a triumph of an essentially rustic character, and the concluding vaudeville, highly satirical in content, brings together the various elements of the play.

After a brilliant if brief mise en scène, we have to ask ourselves: will Figaro be able to marry Suzanne or not? We are kept in suspense through the intervention of the Count who claims his droit de seigneur, and Marceline who threatens a lawsuit if he carries out his intention. Almaviva's infidelity naturally inclines the Countess to listen with half an ear to the advances of Chérubin who professes a sentimental attachment for her, whilst showing a more earthly regard for Suzanne and for Fanchette. At times Figaro takes the lead in evolving a scheme to foil his opponents, at others Suzanne and the Countess herself who finally sets the trap into which her husband will fall. Figaro is therefore less dominant than in Le Barbier, and, whilst he struggles as manfully as in the earlier play, he is more victim to circumstance. Beaumarchais seems to have learnt that superior wit alone does not necessarily ensure one's triumph. Figaro's relative weakness further endears him to the spectator, and the shifting of emphasis from him to the Countess as arch-plotter, which weakens the linear development of the plot, kindles the spectator's interest. In the end the three protagonists involved in fighting the Count find themselves united, albeit for somewhat different ends, but it is the bond between Figaro and Suzanne that has the best chance of lasting success.

If Act I sets the stage, Act II outlines the obstacle to the nuptials and the reasons for the delay. There are now two centres of interest: the question of Figaro's marriage, and the position of the Countess who has been forsaken by her husband and decides to join forces with Figaro and Suzanne. Act III is a brilliant reenactment of a bogus court scene with all its ramifications. Figaro confronts the Count who is none other than the Judge, in an inequitable conflict heavily weighted against him. After some grotesque clowning and an attempt to hide, Figaro is saved by a mere accident: the revelation of his parentage. It involves the satire of the legal system which requires him to produce a birth certificate if he wishes to contract a legal marriage. The prompt legitimising of Figaro reads like some parody of Beaumarchais's own struggle to re-acquire his rights as citizen in order to marry Mlle de Willermaulaz and legitimise his own daughter. The act may be seen as an uncomfortable representation of legal processes showered with derision, and also a parody of the drame with its emphasis on family relations and of well-worn dramatic devices such as scenes of recognition so convenient and wholly arbitrary. Figaro turns out to be the illegitimate child of Marceline and of Bartholo, the latter responding slowly to the new situation. After much confusion and hilarity Bartholo agrees to marry Marceline. It may be pointed out that there is nothing here or later in the play to suggest that marriage is a religious institution decreed by God as opposed to a mere civic contract. No marriage ceremony is staged, only the trappings and the festivities.

Act IV should bring the play to a close. It starts promisingly with the preparation of the wedding, but unexpectedly Figaro is led to believe that he has been betrayed on the strength of a note from Suzanne addressed to the Count which he has picked up. He nearly ruins the plan of the womenfolk, who have failed to confide in him, by setting out to oppose his own wedding. He is no longer the supreme plotter who never puts a foot wrong. The women are scheming to induce the Count to meet his wife in the park under the chestnut trees whilst imagining that he is meeting Suzanne. Act V is full of surprises, and further recognition scenes. Unexpectedly Chérubin, who in the previous act had dressed up as a young girl and having offered flowers to the Countess and received a kiss from her had been sent off to the army for his pains, is to be found lurking in the grounds where Fanchette brings him some food. It is in this final act that we have the famous disquisition of Figaro on his destiny, which slows down the action but brings out the poignancy of the human situation. In the end, as in all conventional comedies, truth prevails, all masks are removed, and everyone is satisfied. The final scene of forgiveness, and the presentation of what Beaumarchais imagined to be the true attitudes of the sexes one to the other, has its dramatic effect, and all ends with dancing and song. Figaro has married his Suzanne, the Count is reunited with the Countesss, and Chérubin is paired off happily with Fanchette before being despatched to the army, where perchance he will learn some sense and grow up.

The variety of detail obscures the careful general construction. Forestier writes: ‘Le premier acte est construit de façon symétrique, le deuxième selon une marche convergente, le troisième est linéaire, le quatrième suit un mouvement ascendant, puis descendant, le cinquième se déroule sur un rythme accéléré de va-et-vient’ (see 11, p. 19), which is a sound assessment of the structure and movement of the work. Scherer has devoted much space to Beaumarchais's dramaturgie, but, however one may look at it, one must agree with Francisque Sarcey that ‘c'est un monstre que le Mariage de Figaro’.¹ It is no doubt this monstrous quality that contributes to the hilarity of the play, as do the many gratuitous incidents that cut across the main action. There is the feminist tirade of Marceline (III, 16), dear to Beaumarchais but already cut out in the eighteenth century, the passage on ‘Goddam’ (III, 5, 1580-1600) originally intended for Le Barbier, and inserted no doubt because Beaumarchais thought it funny. Many scenes have only a tenuous connection with the plot, but the play as a whole is more than its plot. In Beaumarchais's conception interludes of music, dance and song, interruptions, digressions, momentary pauses afforded by soliloquies, and spectacular scenes like that of the court of law and the wedding have an important role. They provide essential divertissements as they did in Italian comedy, giving a character of spontaneity to the action and consequent vitality.

For the sake of liveliness the author cocks a snook at traditional conceptions of comedy and the logical development of a theme. He even defies logic. Thus, if in III, 8 the Count has seen through the scheming of Suzanne, how comes it that he accepts so readily the billet (IV, 9, 2415-32) which fixes their rendez-vous? In II, 22 the Count sends Grippe-Soleil and Bazile to bring back the peasant with a billet, but in IV, 10 there is no mention of this errand and the audience in which figure the gens de siège takes place in III, 15 in their absence, a point to which Beaumarchais himself has drawn attention. If at the beginning of Act IV (1, 2171-72) the marriage between Marceline and Bartholo has been arranged, how comes it that in scene 11, 2518 Figaro jumps for joy and says ‘Donc à la fin j'aurai ma femme’, though this particular inconsistency can be explained by reference to an earlier version in which at this point his marriage had not been determined? Ratermanis, among others, has listed other inconsistences (3, pp. 21-22). In I, 4 he finds Marceline's stratagem fragile in view of Suzanne's coming of age (III, 4). He questions the role of Fanchette in I, 1 and asks when and where the Count proposed to buy Suzanne and protect Marceline as stated in II, 1, 635 and 659-60. How can the Countess have failed to know of the romance that has been sung (II, 4, 794-839)? How can Figaro be so much in the dark since he saw Chérubin (II, 20, 1263-64)? Of what danger does he warn the Count? How can one explain the credulity of the Count (IV, 9) in view of what he had learnt in III, 10-11? In III, 5, 1576 et seq. Figaro is delighted to be sent to London, but suddenly changes his mind. Why? For no other reason than that it enables Beaumarchais to interpolate his tirade ‘Goddam’ and make stringent comments on politics.

The court scene (III, 15), admittedly funny, is nothing but a mock trial. As the case is an affaire domestique it is one on which the Count would pronounce judgement on his own. There is therefore no need for Brid'oison, lawyers, judges who all remain silent whilst Figaro pleads his own case, contrary to the common practice of the law and accepted principles of jurisprudence. Furthermore, it is Bartholo who pleads for Marceline. All this is a travesty of legal procedure as Beaumarchais knew full well. Again, how can the Count identify Figaro with ‘l'homme du cabinet’ after the avowal of the Countess, confirmed by Chérubin (see IV, 5, 2338 and 6, 2372-76)? One must ask whether there were other stages in the composition of the play that made such matters logically explicable, and the characters more coherent.

The frequent lack of verismilitude did not escape Beaumarchais. He did remove a few glaring examples of inconsistency, but he seems to have taken some delight in piling up incongruities of one kind and another. Furthermore it is clear that, had the Countess given the money owed by Figaro and paid the ransom claimed, there would have been no serious obstacle to the marriage of Figaro and Suzanne and consequently no disclosures in respect of Figaro's birth. Beaumarchais is like a conjuror who unexpectedly produces a live rabbit out of his hat and it is only upon reflection that the attentive spectator or critic can see that he has been tricked. It is the sheer pace of the action and effrontery that carries the spectator along a preposterous course and suspends his disbelief. To amuse is Beaumarchais's aim and, in addition to continuous surprises, we have caricatures, parodies and various forms of satire to occupy the mind of the intelligent but unsuspecting spectator. Beaumarchais flaunts his indifference to mere technical competence and conventional realism. His vagaries find their justification in terms of theatre. He has pulled off a tour de force which leads the spectator to accept the absurd, partly because through it all he has conveyed a glimpse of an ultimate reality, a fund of humanity which his puppets are well designed to portray.

The scene, first set in France, was soon changed to Seville. Typically the unity of place is superficially respected whilst disregarded in practice. The action takes place in the château of Aguas-Frescas, but Beaumarchais changes the venue from act to act. We move from a partially furnished room with a vast armchair to a fine bedroom with a large four-poster and a raised platform which has many doors, then to the Count's room in all its glory with a portrait of the King, to a gallery lit up by splendid candelabra, bedecked with flowers, jewellery and all the trappings of a fête, and finally to a clearing or glade lined by chestnut trees with two pavilions or kiosks glimpsed in the descending dusk, an ideal setting for a game of general post. We see the gardens, catch vistas of the countryside with a road leading to Seville, as the action progresses. On every occasion the location has been chosen with care, sometimes realistic, sometimes symbolical, sometimes befitting romantic assignations or a festive occasion. There are hiding places as in a Feydeau farce, alcoves, armchairs designed for a childish game of hide and seek.

The unity of theme, too, has been respected and flouted. Officially all the action takes place in a day, from dawn to dusk. But what a ‘folle journée’! It is only theoretically possible to encompass all these events in a single day. The disregard for strict classical dramatic theory is evidence of a newly-acquired freedom opening up new possibilities and, above all, reflecting the claims for freedom made by the author himself and by his mouthpiece Figaro. But the plot and the setting, however interesting, do not in themselves make a masterpiece of the play.

B. CHARACTERS

Figaro, the chief protagonist, poses many problems, the first being his name. It has been said that it is derived from Fi (for fils) Caron, Beaumarchais's family name. But the manuscript of the play gives us Figuaro, which may or may not be derived from a comedy Les Aventures de Figuereau (1712) the text of which has been lost. In any case the choice of such a resounding name was a happy one and Figaro has joined the small band of proper names which serve to characterise a type. He has as a background the long line of ancestors to be found in French farce, Italian comedy, the plays of Molière, of Marivaux, Lesage and in the parades, to which some would add the character of Panurge in Rabelais's great work. He has the same presence, costume, carriage and self-assurance as in Le Barbier. He is now thirty, but seems even younger than in the earlier play; ‘le beau, le gai, l'aimable Figaro … jamais fâché, toujours en belle humeur, donnant le présent à la joie … sémillant, généreux’ says Marceline in Act I, 4, 182-87. He is as clever in scheming as in Le Barbier, ‘l'homme le plus dégourdi de sa nation’, as Beaumarchais says in his preface. But he now requires help. In a sense he has grown older, for he is more disillusioned, and one can detect a new note of bitterness even before the soliloquy in Act V, 3. He has developed a social and political conscience which was only sketched in the earlier play.

His increased resourcefulness is not so much a sign of age as the result of his creator's increased personal experience of intrigue and machinations as evidenced in his Mémoires. Bartholo is now a less effective opponent. Figaro has to face the powerful, arrogant Comte and his inconsistent behaviour, but there are forces ranged on his side from Suzanne to the Comtesse. He has had many professions from that of barber and veterinary surgeon to that of writer and journalist. He is no longer a mere valet, but a top performer with the inner assurance of his own worth, but unaware that he is proving to be a ‘soleil tournant [Catherine wheel] qui brûle, en jaillissant, les manchettes de tout le monde’ as Beaumarchais defined him in his preface to the play (see 10, p. 36). A master-schemer—‘De l'intrigue et de l'argent; te voilà dans ta sphère’ (I, 1, 66), says Suzanne—he is proud, impertinent, overbearing, daring, cunning, and a fine spinner of words. He can engage in sharp dialogue and spice slogans with wit. His language is essentially that of Beaumarchais. He has stepped down a little in the social scale but his personality remains untarnished. It is not inherently attractive as an expression of esprit gaulois and a kind of rogue. But what renders him sympathique is his honesty in love, his suffering at the hands of the great and his obvious authenticity. He has his own integrity which is that of Beaumarchais himself, however much it has been questioned. He never fights an unjust cause and has a depth of feeling unrecorded in farce. His bursts of cynicism are understandable. He is serious, a kind of ‘philosophe plébéien’ as Arnould called him, who would really like to establish his own order of nobility, that of roturier, to take the place of that founded on birth or purchased by wealth. One suspects that he is very close to Beaumarchais, who had acquired his own title of nobility but when times had changed spoke in favour of abolishing all titles. Beaumarchais can be seen as an opportunist, a born negotiator and man of affairs, a social reformer, but not as a political animal wedded to a political party. Figaro, like Beaumarchais, is an individualist bent on vindicating new rights, those of the individual. He seeks equality, by which is meant equality of opportunity and equality before the law.

What Arnould may have missed in his analysis of the character and what Forestier has mentioned but with inadequate stress, is that Figaro is the symbol of the free man, this by statement and inference in Le Mariage only a little less obviously than in Le Barbier. He has sometimes been turned into the mouthpiece of the Third Estate, but he is not really ‘l'homme du peuple, le grand cœur révolutionnaire’, as Michelet saw very clearly. The concept of the Third Estate suggests a class of men with whom one can fully identify, whilst Figaro embodies the basically anarchical man, recalcitrant in front of authority and bent on his own self-advancement. He may be the common man, but not the common man who would abdicate his selfish interest to merge consciously with the broad self-interest of a social class, even his own. As Gil Blas in Lesage's novel, Candide in Voltaire's philosophical tale or indeed the Neveu de Rameau in Diderot's satire, Figaro is an individual involved in a personal struggle for survival in a society with which he is in conflict. Figaro is the outsider, the bastard who has, however, a mark on his arm to prove his parentage, as ironically significant as the lineage of Cunégonde's brother so proudly proclaimed by him in Candide. Thanks to his marriage, Figaro will be able to reintegrate into society, although the institution of marriage is hardly strengthened by the comedy that precedes the wedding.

There is a depth in Figaro brought about by the collusion of the Countess and Suzanne in a plot of which he is ignorant but which comes in part from Beaumarchais's own experience of life. Behind the stock character we see a man very much alone in a world in which he needs to survive and make his destiny, consciously and unconsciously self-centred and finding an excuse for his lack of scruples in the fundamentally immoral world around him. Always well-aware of his personal advantage as well as of the dangers he is running, resentful of injustice and making the best of the situation in which he finds himself, whilst taking calculated risks, he is in fact struggling to get free, to get his own way in a world in which there are powers he refuses to recognize which are bound to attempt to thwart him. In the last analysis, he relies on his intelligence and wit to see him through. At times a figure of fun indulging in well-worn lazzi, at others a tender lover who can be jealous and sombre, a tentative social reformer, he can be viewed as an incarnation of the author, but also of the common man and above all perhaps of the man who wishes to be free to assert his right to live according to his own lights. A new dimension and a rich humanity has been added to what at first sight is a mere stock character.

Count Almaviva, the Spanish Grandee of Le Barbier, is a corregidor holding a high position in the judiciary and a coming ambassador. He is a libertine as are his fellow aristocrats in France, ‘à peu près comme les autres seigneurs de ce temps-là’, says Beaumarchais in his Preface. He is worse than the libertines depicted in contemporary novels—such as Valmont in Laclos's Les Liaisons dangereuses—in that he is a married man. He is sensual, cruel, fickle and an authoritarian. At one stage Beaumarchais thought of making him less brutal, but finally decided on degrading him through his intimacy with the gardener and making him cruder, prompt to take offence, choleric and eager to use to the full the advantages which his rank has given him. He has, however, preserved the manners and speech of a gentleman and shows good breeding. There is something sad in his pursuit of women and there is a streak of pessimism in his make-up. He still loves his wife after his fashion, insisting that his wife should be a paragon of virtue; and he is capable of jealousy. But his feelings for his wife in no wise prevent him from seeking gratification elsewhere. He sees nothing strange in trying to seduce Suzanne and indeed the lowly Fanchette. He is ridiculous in the eyes of the aristocrats for pursuing women outside his caste, whilst he stands condemned in the eyes of the bourgeois as a typical example of a dissipated aristocrat abusing his power. He has lost the sympathy of the spectators without provoking their hatred as a man, but only as an incarnation of privilege and inhumanity. His ambiguous attitude to women owes something to Beaumarchais, and if it can be said that Figaro is Beaumarchais himself in certain important respects, it can also be said that Almaviva is drawn from Beaumarchais's personal experience. He is more complex than the traditional libertine and, unlike Don Juan, is not irredeemable. The force of Beaumarchais's satire is directed not against the man or his instincts, but against the social system that has thrown him up and rendered him undeservedly powerful.

The Countess has aged more than her husband. She is worse off than Rosine, held prisoner by Bartholo in Le Barbier. She is cloistered in the home of her husband whom she still loves and wishes to retain. Lonely and vulnerable, she dreads the passing years. She has dignity and shows discretion in her suffering. She is sensitive and sensual, yet deprived of emotional satisfaction. Saddened by disappointment, she languishes away in a situation which she finds intolerable. It is no wonder that she allows herself to be distracted by the calf love of Chérubin, her page. In the early manuscripts she shows a greater interest in him than is the case in the final draft. She does not want to yield him to her rival. She knows moments of anger and dépit which her words readily reveal. Beaumarchais, far from being explicit, became increasingly reticent, leaving the spectator to imagine what has merely been suggested. As Ratermanis has said, the character gains by losing its transparency. She is scarcely ridiculous or even comic. Guilty, yet excusable, she remains enigmatic. We alternate between sympathy for a forsaken woman and misgivings over her more than maternal feelings for her page. She is sentimental and forgiving, yet practical. She wakes up to play her part with some fire and shows intelligence, perspicacity and unsuspected moral qualities in her struggle to regain her husband. But she demonstrates that virtue is not enough to keep a husband, nor are warm feelings and even passion certain to provoke an adequate response in a partner. Even when baulked and emotionally betrayed, she cannot bring herself to be unfaithful to her husband, but her own infidelity is on the cards and is the likely response to an impossible situation—as La Mère coupable was to show, for in this sequel la mère coupable is none other than the Countess. In Le Mariage she is not as pale a character as has sometimes been made out, for she is not entirely virtuous. Life for her is a cross to bear and she forgives Almaviva a shade too readily, but in a manner that enhances her stature. She is never stupid, and arguably she is the most successful schemer in the play, outdoing Figaro himself in the end. There can be no doubt that Beaumarchais drew on his understanding of his wife in his presentation of the Countess. Throughout the play Rosine adds a note of elegance, refinement and charm.

Bartholo in Le Mariage has a very secondary role, and his presence has been somewhat contrived. He is older than in Le Barbier, more serious, embittered, but less prone to violence. The essentially unattractive docteur of the earlier play is now still the stock character of Italian comedy with an aquiline, prominent nose and a traditionally vast hat, but without a mask. Bazile, too, has the same clothes as in Le Barbier and a similarly odious role. He can hold his own even with Figaro (I, 11; IV, 10) and shows appropriate malice. He is a gifted musician and a crook thriving on blackmail and calumny. He would marry Marceline himself and would destroy Bartholo for money. The actor taking on the part needs to be a good mime, but the part itself is a minor one.

The new characters are interesting and well-drawn. There is first the charming, quick-witted, resourceful Suzanne, a perfect foil to her betrothed's harsher wit. At one time Beaumarchais thought of making her part more important than that of Figaro himself from both the moral and the comic standpoint. Her nature is open, she is wise, has her feet solidly on the ground, and is prompt to respond when her honour or her honesty is threatened. She is intelligent and capable of devastating irony, reminding one of the Lisette we find in Marivaux's Le Jeu de l'amour et du hasard but from soubrette she has graduated to camériste, a far cry from the rascally Columbine of Italian comedy from which she springs and its sentimental offshoot. She remains verdissante, exercising her inalienable right to voice her own thoughts as does Toinette in Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme and other plays by Molière. In this play she upholds the general principle of personal freedom. Quick at repartee she is an adept at slapping, yet, as her like, in Marivaux's plays, she is well-mannered enough to be able to change places with her mistress in the final garden scene under the chestnut trees. Forestier sees her as an exemplar of the Rosine of Le Barbier. Certainly she loves Figaro truly and healthily, but she is a more liberated woman. In her case, as in that of the Countess with whom she forms a piquant contrast, there are ambiguities. Her feelings for Chérubin (II, 14, 1037 and II, 15) are disturbing, as are her comments in the scene in which Chérubin dresses up as a girl. She is well-suited to Figaro and one feels that both are intelligent and determined enough to make a success of their future marriage. The two couples, that of the masters and that of the servants, may speak more or less the same language. What stands out on a close examination are the differences in mentality between servants who are oppressed but sincere and masters who are only caught up in the endless game of love.

Chérubin is a new and unexpected character. From the original fourteen- to fifteen-year old adolescent, Beaumarchais brought his age down to thirteen, a very precocious thirteen even for the eighteenth century, if not for Beaumarchais. The part was originally played by a woman and Chérubin dresses up as a woman in Act IV. He must have the physique of a girl, yet be athletic enough to jump out of a window and play games, and plausibly be given a commission in the army. He is awakening to love and starting his sentimental education, but his sensuality is general and easily aroused. At times he behaves like a courtly lover, proud of receiving a kiss, the first to pick up the ribbon his lady throws, even seeking to provoke the Count into fighting a duel, at others he behaves like a common seducer. A libertine in embryo—his behaviour seems at times to parody that of the Count who is his rival—he is indulged by the womenfolk, who see him as a child who might be playing with dolls, were it not for the oncoming of puberty. Beaumarchais's comment on the character that he is ‘ce que toute mère au fond du coeur voudrait peut-être que fût son fils, quoiqu'elle dût beaucoup en souffrir’, must be seen as prompted by personal experience, but also no doubt, as Vier has suggested, as a reflection of an eighteenth-century conception of maternal love. This ‘charmant polisson qui s'élance à la puberté’ is in effect a ‘grand petit vaurien’. He can distinguish between ideal love for the Countess and earthy feelings for Suzanne and for Fanchette. He is the ‘mignon de son maître’ (see 3, p. 18) as the contemporaries saw him. In the manuscripts Almaviva showed an interest in him but in the final version this turns to hate. He is indeed a projection of Almaviva's guilty conscience, and his misspent youth and general behaviour in Le Mariage are the natural prerequisite to the libertine he turns out to be in La Mère coupable.

But here in Le Mariage Beaumarchais has presented a moment in the evolution of the adolescent capable of awakening ‘de l'intérêt … sans intérêt’ as Beaumarchais put it. Herein lies his ambiguity and a key to his eroticism. His hold over the Countess is shown by the latter's obvious inhibitions, her melancholy and suppressed emotions. Her feelings are shown by the symbolism of the ribbon, as pointed out by Scherer (8, pp. 143-45), first stolen by Chérubin after it had covered the Countess's bosom (II, 26, 1493), finally to become the garter of the bride which Chérubin takes back (V, 19, 3191-92). The Countess has given up his token of love and overcome temptation, but the symbolical exchange has taken place and the garter, now bespotted with blood, suggests possession. Green² thinks that the intrusion of Chérubin was a mistake since he is extraneous to the main plot, but in fact he adds a dimension to the play, providing a spicy immorality within an essential moral framework, serving more as a warning than as an example to be followed. His presence also complicates the plot, for he thwarts accidentally the best laid schemes of one or other of the chief protagonists and enriches the psychological study through his special relationship with each of the other characters.

This portrayal of a precocious adolescent may owe something to Lindor in Heureusement and to the disturbing young page of Mme la Comtesse de Choiseul, as also to Beaumarchais's own youth as penned by Beaumarchais's adoring sisters who saw him as in love with women in general and all too readily indulged by them. Cherubino di Amore, the angel of love, is in part a product of the unhealthy aristocratic society which Beaumarchais both loved and condemned and which was to perish with the French Revolution. It provides clear evidence of Beaumarchais's peculiar insight into realms of psychology very seldom presented on the stage, which are subtly disturbing. Chérubin's sexless sensuality, or desire without desire as some have defined it, is presented with undertones of foreboding that foreshadow his death in La Mère Coupable. Charles Péguy in Clio, dialogue de l'histoire et de l'âme païenne (see 14, pp. 138–80) has contrasted the romance of Chérubin on the tune of Malbrough (II, 4) with the funeral song in Victor Hugo's Les Châtiments, and stressed the aura of death around a character that is by its very nature ephemeral. We cannot be greatly surprised when Count Almaviva pronounces his crushing epitaph: ‘Un certain Léon d'Astrya, qui fut jadis mon page et que l'on nommait Chérubin’. Had he not died in the wars he would have grown up to become nothing more than a second Almaviva. In Le Mariage, however, he is a symbol of young love, Eros who cannot live in a world of necessary compromise if he wishes to be true to himself. With sentimental and romantic traits he is a child of nature who feels impelled to love everyone in sight. In its essence his is not the youth of people who can mature. He embodies eternal youth and a concept of free love that can live only in the theatre or in our dreams. His youth is ‘la jeunesse de tout un peuple et la formule de la jeunesse même absolument parlant’, wrote Péguy (14, p. 177), but although fascinating and innocent in his priapic essence, Chérubin soon becomes corrupt. Rather than to Eros of antiquity he may be likened to a cherub in a painting by Boucher or a gracious figurine of Sèvres porcelain. The little page is the symbol of a pleasure-loving century doomed to destruction, as is suggested by his later death. Yet in Le Mariage he helps to create an atmosphere of youthful optimism and an ambiguous charm which is the hallmark of this comedy.

Marceline, who is referred to as the former governess of Rosine but does not appear in Le Barbier, is now dressed as a Spanish dueña and is an immediate object of ridicule in her attempts to find a husband and gain status. In one variant Antonio proposes to her, but she shows her preference for the flashy, young Figaro who is so obviously so unsuitable for her, and her desire to marry him against his will renders her ridiculous. She may in this respect be likened to the Chevalier d’Eon, on whose sex people had been betting since 1771 and who persistently sought to marry Beaumarchais whom he had met in 1775. In alliance with Bartholo she shows herself to be a thoroughly unpleasant woman with evil intentions, but her character changes suddenly and somewhat unconvincingly in the course of the action and she is shown to us as the victim of the many miseries of life, and as one who has been deprived of love. She assumes the mantle of mother with good grace by way of compromise. One of the villains of the piece, she now becomes a kind of moral heroine and as from Act III she stands out chiefly as the victim of an unjust society and an ardent feminist whose outbursts were too strong for the taste of the day and were suppressed, only to be restored by Beaumarchais in the printed edition of his play. Marceline's feminist tirades, in keeping with the spirit of the drame, and her presentation as ‘la plus bonne des mères’ are intended to win the spectators over to a character, otherwise too quickly transformed, by focusing attention on her ideas and away from her personality. Beaumarchais took her seriously and wished to avoid any caricature, but she remains an object of hilarity, and her moralising tone strikes a discordant note.

Fanchette is a precocious twelve year old, for she is not as ingenuous as one should like, and has already learnt to dissemble. She is naïve, though, and imagines she is in love with Chèrubin. Antonio, the gardener, is another character with more than one facet. He is a drunkard, yet shrewd, and he has the directness of men belonging to his class. He is simple enough to try to disentangle the web of mystifying events that have taken place, and he does succeed in unmasking Chérubin. More significantly, he holds his own against the Count and voices conventional morality by refusing to allow the marriage of his niece with a foundling, and by protecting the virtue of his daughter. In spite of what Beaumarchais thought there remains a certain moral ambiguity over his defence of traditional moral values in view of his personal mediocrity. This ambiguity only disappears if we think of Antonio in a political context as the spokesman of the lower classes. But his social message, if indeed it was intended, would not have been appreciated by the audience, certainly not by its aristocratic section, who saw chiefly a grotesque figure.

Don Guzman Brid'oison is an age-old caricature of a judge. He has a stammer to reinforce his stupidity. He owes part of his name to Rabelais's judge Bridoie and another to Goëzman whom Beaumarchais held up as a fool and constantly ridiculed. Other characters such as Double-Main, no doubt an employee in the Parlement with whom Beaumarchais had exchanged words, help to reinforce the satire of the legal profession. Frequently the stage is filled by colourful crowds of villagers and servants who animate the various ceremonies and in the trial scene provide a kind of jury. In the final scene they compete for our attention with garlanded young girls, musicians and dancers and, in a last whirl, they are caught up in a ballet général in which Bartholo, Bazile and Marceline also take part. We witness truly the ‘branle-bas de la comédie humaine’, to use the words of Diderot. But just before this spectacular conclusion, ten couplets are sung by the leading players, each preceded by the ritournelle. The words are in keeping with the characters and repay careful study, for they hold the key to the play in so far as it is a ‘revue d'actualité déguisée en comédie’. This vaudeville conforms to the original definition of a light popular song of a satirical or topical nature and after Le Mariage such songs were interpolated in comedies with increasing frequency. Later the word vaudeville was used to define a type of comedy interspersed with song.

The characters as such have to be judged in terms of the play as a whole. However human they may be, they are stage characters, larger than life, Figaroics, to use the term Bernard Levin coined when introducing Mozart's opera. They have a common style and acquire a symbolical value of which spectators are aware. The characters offer enough continuity and enough change to hold our interest and show a deep humanity which owes something to Beaumarchais's own chameleon-like nature. They are likeable because they are at once fantastic, enigmatic and authentic. They acquire veracity through the network of relationships closely linked with the plot and structure of the play. They have been well drawn in their social condition in terms of the action but above all in terms of theatre. Good acting smoothes over transitions from one aspect of character to another, from one scene to the next, and minor inconsistencies even enhance the illusion of realism, for they often mirror the inconsistencies of real life.

C. POLITICAL AND SOCIAL SATIRE

Le Mariage de Figaro has been viewed as a comedy of manners with a clear political content, yet Almaviva, the Spanish corregidor, would scarcely appear to the French nobility as a mirror of itself. The revolutionary intent has been veiled, but Louis XVI may well have been right in detecting its anti-establishment bias. Should Le Mariage then be listed among plays now labelled as théâtre engagé? The question has been persistently asked since the eighteenth century, and diversely answered. Grimm, in reviewing the play, referred to ‘ce souffle vigoureux de la philosophie’, and Danton went further declaring that ‘Figaro a tué la noblesse’, whilst Napoleon stated: ‘Sous mon règne un tel homme eût été enfermé à Bicêtre. On eût crié à l'arbitraire, mais quel service c'eût été rendre à la société!’. Nineteenth-century critics and some twentieth-century critics have echoed these sentiments which, however, have been strongly challenged by commentators such as Lintilhac, Hallays, Scherer, Vier and many others.

Annie Ubersfeld (8) has stressed the ideological content, bringing out Beaumarchais's bitter tone in satirising a system rotten to the core. She believes that Figaro is ‘l'unique personnage du théâtre français qui reste l'interprète des humiliés’, picking up Hallays's words. Figaro is a ‘héros revendicatif et populaire’, and has become a type. His message, if somewhat limited, has kept its validity. He clamours for freedom, liberty of speech, liberty of the press and political equality, and manifests the revolt of intelligence against privilege, whether of birth or money. This last point is highly questionable, for Beaumarchais has consistently shown awareness of the growing power of money. ‘L'argent, c'est le nerf de la guerre’, has become a truism. Noticing Figaro's endless optimism, Annie Ubersfeld seizes on the right to happiness as an implication and as involving recourse to action. All victims of tyranny must henceforth band together against class oppression. The coalition of servants and peasants under the banner of Figaro at the end of Act V is seen as a revolutionary march. Writing from a Marxist standpoint, she accepts the idea propounded by Thiers that Figaro incarnated the Third Estate, and, by ridiculing the nobility, undermined its very conscience to the point of making it laugh at its own folly and the very principles on which it rested. Does not Le Mariage point the way to the liquidation of the dominant class in favour of a new revolutionary class, more specifically the bourgeoisie? But this final step in her argument is surely anti-historical, for as yet the coming class structure was unknown, and contemporaries without foreknowledge could well be forgiven for enjoying barbed shafts aimed in desultory fashion which hardly added up to any firm ideology. There are useful slogans, much satire, calls for reform, and the language of indignation, but no political manifesto as such or call to revolution. Beaumarchais referred to the corruption of judges (III, 15, 1937), legal quarrels over trivial matters (III, 15), and the venality of offices, and he showed up the Count's verdict as a joke. He sees that one's fate may depend on an absurd decision. He satirises the magistrature as stupid, formalistic, venal, pandering to the power of the great, ‘indulgente aux grands, durs aux petits’, but in so doing he is definitely in the long line of French moralists and does not formulate a revolutionary challenge in favour of a ‘justice de classe’. In practice he draws on his own experience, but this time, rather in the manner of Voltaire, he transcends the particular to indulge in propaganda that should lead to reforms, and this propaganda is no more than that of the philosophes. In Le Mariage Beaumarchais is capturing a mood and only incidentally sapping the law as one of the pillars of the state.

The attack on arbitrary power has often been underlined, most recently by F. Levy (26) in her interpretation of the play. There are certainly telling appeals for liberty in all its forms in the famous monologue of Act V. No-one had openly said that a man could be gaoled merely for holding opinions, and Beaumarchais's own arbitrary incarceration shocked public opinion without leading to a direct challenge to the system. But Beaumarchais's remarks hardly constitute a political programme. They reflect a general state of mind, suppressed feelings, a sense of outrage out of which the Revolution was born, but not the considered view of a political thinker. It may well be that it was because of this unsystematic approach that Le Mariage became effective as propaganda.

There are discreet anti-war outbursts (V, 12, 3079), more common in the suppressed passages in which the treatment of a soldier was compared unfavourably with that of a general. In I, 10, 563-69 one is reminded that officers belong to a privileged caste. The army career is branded as ‘le plus noble des affreux métiers’, and Figaro criticises the army and military discipline more in the text of the manuscripts than in the final draft. Beaumarchais criticises the pretensions of the nobles including the droit de seigneur. He makes a few gibes against the Church, perhaps less effectively than in Le Barbier. He mentions economic factors as determining the laxity in the behaviour of poor girls. More generally, he states that merit alone should determine status. There is nothing here that is new, except the tone which is striking and the rhetoric which is as telling today as in the early seventies. ‘Parce que vous êtes un grand seigneur, vous vous croyez un grand génie …’ Talent does not depend on caste. The message of liberty, equality and fraternity which subtends the work can still be heard today.

This is not to say that Beaumarchais's revolutionary fervour has not been exaggerated. He was never a political leader. He served the government well as a secret agent and in providing arms to the American insurgents in expectation of a reward. His role is that of an éminence grise pulling strings in the background and never losing sight of his own interest. He made strictures on the Ancien Régime because he suffered at its hands and even if one argues that a work may have an impact that goes beyond the intention of its author, it is surely far-fetched to say, as Annie Ubersfeld does, that ‘Le Mariage de Figaro, malgré son apparente légèreté, c’est pour l'Ancien Régime la trompette du Jugement dernier’. Scherer for his part believes that the content of the work is less progressive than has been thought, and that one should not look to the theatre for a political manifesto, which commonly makes tedious reading. But perhaps the very generality and superficiality of Beaumarchais's political concepts made them more readily acceptable. His ideas may be simple, even hackneyed, but their reiteration in resounding language gives them merit, and the cumulative effect of his slogans must not be minimized. Beaumarchais has made the essential point which was to be the leitmotiv of the Revolution: liberty, equality, fraternity. This meant for him an assertion of humanist values. In other respects he is essentially a frondeur.

If we turn to the social aspect of the play we have to ask ourselves how significant social satire is in the work as a whole. Some would give it pride of place. The mores of the previous decade have been conveniently encapsulated in spite of the Spanish trappings and the general disarray perceived. Libertinage in the aristocracy and among the officers was prevalent and portrayed in the novels of Laclos, Rétif de la Bretonne and Louvet. The decadence in moral values implicit in so many scenes points to the coming disintegration of society. The main symptom of change is no doubt to be found in the presentation of the love of two servants as the mainspring of the play. A decade earlier this would have been preposterous and the outrecuidance of servants successfully outwitting their master is matched only by the close personal relationship of the Countess and Suzanne. Shared apprehension and misery and a common purpose have brought the two women together. There is, too, between them, the bond of a feminism voiced by Marceline. This feminism, however, remains a useful backcloth more likely to arouse interest than understanding. In 1781, when Beaumarchais first read his play to the Comédiens Français, he was still moving a little too fast and it is most improbable that feminism or indeed any other social message was clearly seen as an important factor in the success of the play. Its function, as suggested earlier, was to render more acceptable the change in Marceline's character and role. The principles that should govern the relationship between the sexes, the rights of women, to which Beaumarchais would have been one of the first to subscribe, were matters for consideration at a later date. Beaumarchais has, however, the merit of being somewhat in advance of public opinion, standing in some no man's land between true enlightenment and surviving prejudice, whilst familiarising himself and his audience with a new outlook subtly initiated in the theatre by Marivaux and evolving equivocally, but unremittingly, throughout the last decades of the eighteenth century.

D. MORAL VALUES

Beaumarchais was at pains to defend his play from the charge of immorality which was levelled against it from the start. In the preface to the first edition of the play he maintained that each important character, with the exception of Marceline, fulfils a moral purpose. In the line of all great moralists and of writers of comedy such as Molière, he claims that by presenting things as they are, and ridiculing vice, he both entertains and instructs. Has he not found the means to link comedy and morals by making you laugh with Figaro against Bartholo? There is a lesson to be derived from a fable of La Fontaine and any ‘peinture de mœurs’. By depicting vices and abuses the playwright points the way to the eventual remedy, if at first sight, as in real life, they seem to triumph. Beaumarchais, however much he may have been a sinner, was personally an upholder of virtue, as a study of his drames would show, but he had to make people laugh. He exposes hypocrisy, and is not the final defeat of Almaviva essentially moral? Furthermore, the general plea for forgiveness is essentially Christian, and the Countess, by forgiving her sinning husband on his bended knee, showers her blessing on the bad as well as the good; but surely the bad have been taught a lesson, Almaviva is not beyond redemption. This tableau, however, which is worthy of a painting by Greuze, is too theatrical to ring true, and we remain convinced that Beaumarchais can have had few illusions about effectively changing man's character, as his sequel to the play made clear. But if one cannot easily change the nature of man, one may hope to change his behaviour. Beaumarchais made an important observation when he wrote in his preface³ ‘J'ai pensé, je pense encore qu'on n'obtient ni grand pathétique, ni profonde moralité, ni bon et vrai comique au théâtre sans des situations fortes et qui naissent toujours d'une disconvenance sociale dans le sujet qu'on veut traiter’ (see 10, p. 25). By disconvenance sociale he means the contrast between the behaviour of a man and what one is entitled to expect from his status, as well as the obvious disparity between say Suzanne and the Count. The inner contradiction between the man and the mask is a powerful element of comedy, and it does imply a morality.

Yet from the first there were many who saw the play as showing ‘la vertu opprimée et le vice triomphant’. Was it not a masterpiece of immorality and indecency? Did not a mere valet cynically deride a nobleman portrayed as a libertine, judges that were shown to be corrupt, and policemen of questionable integrity? And was not Beaumarchais himself completely without scruples? The critic and censor Suard, for instance, felt impelled to write:

Dans ce drame honteux, chaque acteur est un vice
Bien personnifié dans toute son horreur …
Quel bon ton, quelles mœurs cette intrigue rassemble!
Pour l'esprit de l'ouvrage, il est chez Brid'oison,
Et quant à Figaro, le drôle à son patron
Si scandaleusement ressemble!
Il est si frappant qu'il fait peur.
Mais pour voir, à la fois, tous les vices ensemble
Le parterre en chorus a demandé l'auteur.

The nineteenth century as a whole felt uncomfortable about Beaumarchais's moral values, and thought his ethics worthier of a parade than a serious play. Today the issue is dead. We no longer seek to underline moral values, preach a moral lesson and instruct the spectator in ethical principles. The morality of a play is as good as the audience, and one cannot foresee the moral effects of a play, for they will vary according to the individuals concerned. Under Beaumarchais's badinage, however, there is a morality: the right to freedom, personal dignity and happiness and to challenge an unjust and irrational order. But this right needs to be qualified. Society inspires certain necessary restraints which are well brought out at the end of the play. All must end happily in a comedy but the scene of reconciliation in Act V in effect forces the wicked Almaviva to bow before a social and moral order. Only the good can go free.

E. COMEDY

Beaumarchais understood the requirements of comedy. He sought to make people laugh and not merely smile. He had recourse to all the tricks of farce: stage whispers and asides, misunderstandings sometimes based on mistaken identity, kisses and slaps that may go to the wrong address, chassés croisés or general post and forms of such games as hide and seek and blindman's buff, disjointed elements which converge in a headlong course thanks to the sheer pace of the action. Laughter commonly springs from the presentation of contrasts, often, as Bergson argued, from the shock experienced when faced with a mechanical movement which runs counter to our instinctive awareness of the smoothness and suppleness of nature. The final scene of the play for instance, enacted against a background of shade and light, needs to be regulated like clockwork, and the two kiosks or temples in the garden are like magical boxes out of which the conjuror draws whom he likes.

One source of comedy is derived from the presentation of simultaneous actions, the coincidence of events, conflict between people, incoherences in the pattern of behaviour or events, and also the inherent contradictions within a personality, ambiguities which, as we have seen, Beaumarchais was willing to exploit. The incongruous, the unexpected, as for instance when Suzanne takes the place of Chérubin, dramatic situations and dramatic irony can provoke laughter and reversals of fortune, and recognition scenes following on moments of suspense have for long been the stock in trade of the writer of comedy. The complexity of a plot accompanied by a quickening of tempo can lead to confusion and mystification. In Act V, 3, 2761-62 we read: ‘on se débat: c'est vous, c'est lui, c'est moi, c'est toi; non, ce n'est pas nous: eh mais qui donc?’. The vivid, concrete form in which Figaro couches his state of mental chaos, makes us laugh whilst alerting us to the deeper meaning. The quick succession of contradictory or jarring statements or words can also provoke hilarity, as is found in countless dialogues in which repartee figures prominently; rapier-like ripostes have a mechanical and potentially comic element. The pun is another good example of the comic since it involves playing on different meanings or interpretations of a word in a given context, as indeed words that shock for one reason or another. If a character says something whilst meaning something else or speaks in ignorance without the inside knowledge vouchsafed the spectators, the audience will laugh. If Chérubin is hiding in an armchair and again in a closet and if, at the moment of discovery, the Count and/or the spectators are denied the expected revelation, the spectators will laugh, for they are facing a comic situation. The scene is even funnier if the Count shows himself as more stupid than is conceivable in real life. Laughter releases pent up emotions but there is often behind it a streak of cruelty which psychologists have noted. Beaumarchais indicated with great care entrances and exits, and in a mistaken effort at realism insisted on jeux d'entr'actes, by which the action could be continued during the intervals, albeit in a desultory manner. Time was too short to prepare effectively for the events that were to follow, and actors resisted this innovation for many reasons, but these jeux did throw emphasis on miming, and it needs to be pointed out that comedy is not necessarily or primarily verbal. A good mime in a comical situation will provoke mirth. When words are combined with movement, hilarity knows no bounds.

Comedy is not as a rule a suitable vehicle for philosophical disquisitions or soul-searching analyses which require time and reflection. Stage whispers, of course, so artificial when voicing the necessarily secret thoughts of a character, are essentially comic, and Beaumarchais knew how to use them. He showed originality in allowing Figaro to overhear bits of conversation whilst off-stage. When he worked up to the climax of the monologue by Figaro in Act V he was faced with a difficult problem. A close examination will show how he solved it and subordinated even cherished ideas to theatrical values. The monologue (V, 3), of course, is extraneous to the action and marks a pause in the fast-moving chain of events. It is a gratuitous piece of self-indulgence on the part of Figaro and on that of the author. Figaro's mood of bitterness springs from a misunderstanding, for he believes that he is being deceived by Suzanne. He lifts his mask of gaiety and the être takes over from the paraître. He recounts his life story, one which might have been penned but would normally never have been spoken before an audience whom the actors pretend not to know and at whom nevertheless they frequently stare. Indeed, it is by appealing to this theoretically non-existent public that Figaro seeks to justify himself and vindicate his personality. He is at once looking at himself and reliving his tragic life whilst justifying his actions and motivations in our eyes. He seeks our sympathy and wishes us to take side with him in the conflict with destiny in which he is involved.

His soliloquy is understandably rambling, singling out significant details with appropriate clarity and sharp definition, yet it has a shape and the unity of destiny seen in retrospect. It is singularly dramatic in itself, and the overall effect is enhanced by the vivid conjuring up of significant moments and through imagery. The story is briefly but pungently told. Furthermore, in this apparently long monologue, are to be found, interestingly transposed, the elements of a dialogue of a most varied kind. Figaro addresses Suzanne, speaks to himself, the public, the world at large and, whilst he flits from theme to theme, retains throughout a thread of logic which is his line of fate, one which we need to assess alongside him. Take the opening lines ‘O femme! femme! femme! créature faible et décevante!’—clearly this is rhetoric. He has in fact moved from the particular, Suzanne, to the general, woman or women, and is in fact addressing all the women in the audience. He is trading on a prejudice which men condone and by which women feel instinctively flattered. Of course he is addressing the absent Suzanne, but by assuming a characteristically French rhetoric, he is posing as a moralist spouting some axiomatic verity. No-one feels insulted or particularly enlightened, and both men and women are delighted. So Beaumarchais presents us with the battle of the sexes, the contrast between the ideal and the real, the misery of life for a self-centred man who wants things his way whilst knowing that between the fickle woman who deceives and the male philanderer there is little to choose.

Figaro is, however, bent on a course from which he will not be deflected, and opposition serves merely to strengthen his resolution; but he knows moments of defeat and discouragement. He is trapped in his own brand of male psychology, as indeed is Almaviva, and in a corresponding female psychology Suzanne and the Countess. Figaro cannot change his nature and achieve the detachment that would take him out of his despair. This despair is new in this play and unexpected in a comedy. But then so much that has happened has seemed fortuitous that we are not surprised to learn that fate has taken a hand to prevent him shaping the course he has planned. To carry us with him he tells his life story in human fashion, elaborating on the first sketch to be found in Le Barbier, I, 2. This story is punctuated not only by flashes of wit and incisive comments, but by barbed shafts directed against his opponents and, as at the outset, by moving from an attack on a particular enemy to a satire of contemporary society as a whole. By sharing his viewpoint the spectator is led to identify with the man.

Vocabulary and imagery play their part in building up an effect that leaves one stunned. The choice of words proclaims the great writer. ‘Je voyais de loin arriver l'affreux recors, la plume fichée dans sa perruque …’ Affreux recors with its fricatives to be found again in fichée, the harsh rolling rs which linger in the ear, make one shudder even if the precise meaning of recors (a mere assistant to an usher who comes to seize pieces of property) is not immediately recalled. As so often with the French language, word order and inversion can enhance the vividness of the image. ‘Sitôt je vois, du fond d'un fiacre, baisser pour moi le pont d'un château fort, à l'entrée duquel je laissai l'espérance et la liberté.’ There is an evocative flutter even before one knows what is happening and hears the infinitive baisser so well separated from the main verb in the clause je vois and the direct object that is to follow. The time is the present and the presentation impersonal in that it is as if the pont du château fort has a power of its own. There is irony in pour moi stressed by its position in the sentence, for it is as if Figaro were some royal personage, and by the time we learn of the drawbridge of a castle we are all too aware of the true nature of the fiacre, and of the fortress that is to be his gaol. So words are skilfully used to convey more meaning and the change in the standard word order will tell the actor what he must stress. The dramatic quality of the scene is greatly enhanced by the style which, as in the case of Voltaire's, consists in saying one thing when you and your readers must know that you mean another—a technique that flatters the intelligence of the reader who has the pleasure of solving the conundrum.

It is no wonder that so many saw the key to the ultimate riddle of the play by equating Figaro with Beaumarchais. Have we not already been invited to move from the particular to the general? Why not now move from Figaro to le véritable Figaro, i.e. Beaumarchais, and then through him to Everyman? Are we not one and all roturiers striving to better our lot and fight for our own rights to the limits of our audacity and within the scope of our brains? And does not Figaro's ultimate triumph involve us and provide us with a kind of vicarious revenge on the contrariness of life? We too ask ourselves, as Hamlet had done, and as Figaro now does, what is the purpose of a life we have entered unwittingly and from which we shall depart unwillingly. But the metaphysical question of human destiny is here resolved in practical terms by resort to action. There is more surprise than anguish and the underlying optimistic tone, which is unmistakable, is well-suited for comedy, whilst deep pessimism is the hallmark of tragedy. We respond to the call for freedom implied in a decision to act and the hope that it holds out. This freedom, of course, can be very illusory and may lead to trespassing on the freedom of others, hence the need to set out the rights of man. Yet this essential freedom which Figaro vindicates is one that cannot be taken from us. It is the freedom to think and on the stage as in life this has to be translated into freedom of speech. We revel in Figaro's unbridled address. In Le Barbier, too, Figaro embodied freedom but in Le Mariage we must note the limitations put on this freedom, which this passage has underlined. There is no guarantee of success in the mere affirmation of freedom, and chance as well as our fellowmen will take a hand to cut across it, but faith that is the characteristic of man and his struggle to realise himself is the hallmark of his humanity, and in the end optimism triumphs. Perhaps the ultimate message in a comedy conceived to delight us was more significant than the definitely political message that many have read into the play. The passage has magic. It verges on tragedy but is funny in its incongruity and detail, and the presentation is always highly dramatic. The call for freedom was picked up at once and is still valid today. When in 1866 it was decided to found in Paris a daily paper destined to become one of the great dailies of France it was called Le Figaro. Non-political at first it used the caption: ‘Sans la liberté de blâmer il n'est point d'éloge flatteur’, a truism deftly worded by Beaumarchais not in a treatise but in a remarkably dramatic passage.

F. LANGUAGE AND STYLE

Does Beaumarchais's style hold the key to his genius? Yes, in the sense that it is an integral part of his comedy and that it is fully expressive of the man himself. There is a remarkable concordance between the language used on the stage and the action and characters. A great variety in language and tones does not preclude a unité de discours which is the hallmark of Beaumarchais the writer. The prevailing language is that of the petits-maîtres which tends to level social conditions, but it would be wrong to say, as has been suggested, that all characters with the exception of the peasants speak like Beaumarchais. There are differences in language between the characters and according to mood or circumstance. In general the language is vivid and colourful, sometimes naive and natural, sometimes clever and contrived, sometimes rational, sometimes fanciful. The dialogue is like the fencing of two equal sparring partners. Reparties abound in verbal fireworks. There is insolence in the constant persiflage and frequent parody. Beaumarchais has recourse to witticisms and puns of all kinds, double entendre and twisted proverbial sayings such as ‘tant va la cruche à l'eau qu'à la fin … elle s'emplit’ (I, 11, 626-28). He juggles with words and sustains comparisons with great verve, and may indeed be criticised for indulging in too rich a vocabulary and being too ornate and exuberant. He knows how to crack equivocal jokes, make innuendoes and suggest indecency in unexceptionable language. At times he falls back on the crude language of the parades, but borrowings from all kinds of theatre, and even foreign expressions, are introduced and lost in the mad pace of the play which Beaumarchais often forces.

He uses exclamation marks and interjections or expletives, pregnant suspension marks, question marks and also sudden pauses to enhance the effect. Beaumarchais knows how and when to cut a speaker short, to move from dialogue to tirade, to monologue according to the demands of the plot or the character development. Above all he strives to convey excitement and surprise by variations in tempo and speed of delivery. Grammatical short cuts lead to sheer juxtaposition which increases the pace of the action. Here is an example:

Il faut ruser. Point de murmure à ton départ. Le manteau de voyage à l'épaule; arrange ouvertement ta trousse, et qu'on voie ton cheval à la grille; un temps de galop jusqu'à la ferme; reviens à pied par les derrières …

(I, 11, 611-14)

Clear, vivid, this style is well-suited for drama. The language is often associated with mime as in the following example:

De bons soldats! morbleu! basanés, mal vêtus; un grand fusil bien lourd: tourne à droite, tourne à gauche, en avant, marche à la gloire …

(I, 10, 566-68)

The miming which accompanies the words underlines the sarcastic element which inevitably recalls the chapter in Candide in which soldiers perform in the same mechanical manner and adopt ridiculous postures. Mime is to be found everywhere, as for instance when Suzanne mimics Chérubin and repeats his very words in I, 7, 265, 273-74, and becomes a form of language in its own right, providing nuances and subtleties which are missed on a mere reading of the play.

The language shows an exuberance which Beaumarchais's artistic taste and the censor's pencil did very little to check. Enumerations worthy of Rabelais pile up in a crescendo; words and expressions from other languages as well as dialect and patois are to be found. Beaumarchais uses the Spanish camariste for camériste in the list of characters, and of course corregidor and hidalgo (III, 15, 1816), alguazil (IV, 9, 2407) and, in addition to allusions to Le Barbier (Le Mariage, III, 5) the Spanish influence is shown in the séguedilles⁴, the fandangos and the stage setting of II, 4 which refers to Carle Van Loo's Conversation espagnole (which should in fact read Concert espagnol). In III, 5, 1667 we find an Italian proverb, Tempo é galant'uomo, often given in French, Le temps est galant homme, and in V, 8 the oath demonio (2988) and Santa Barbara (2996); provero (II, 21, 1359) for ‘poor’. The expression ques-à-quo (V, 8, 2990), ‘what is this?’, is borrowed from the Provençal and already occurred in Beaumarchais's fourth Mémoire where it crowns a violently satirical passage against the censor, Marin, and had become so popular that it was used to denote a type of bonnet. It is deliberately used here by Figaro and repeated by Suzanne as she lashes out to amuse the spectator and win him over. Pécaïre (II, 20, 1265) for ‘poor sinner’, ‘poor chap’, is a term used in the south of France. Tarare (III, 18, 2145) is used as an expletive to convey disdain and derision. A étripe-cheval (V, 2, 3055) is colloquial for ‘at great speed’. Peasants speak in incorrect language or in their dialect: Jarni (II, 21, 1305), je renie Dieu, is to be found as well as pardieu (IV, 5, 2313). Antonio's oath palsambleu (V, 16, 3135), ‘by the blood of God’, is in fact nothing more than a juron de comédie which shows that Beaumarchais is more concerned with theatrical effect than with realism. Patouriau, troupiau (II, 22, 1417, 1419) are also conventional, but help to create a rustic atmosphere.

Familiar expressions are frequent: Ah! ouiche for ‘oh! no’ (I, 8, 319), me crottant, m'échinant and je l'enfile (III, 5, 1659) for ‘I deceive him’, as well as enfilé (I, 10, 527), originally ‘beaten at backgammon’, hence ‘taken in’. There are other contemporary references to words used for the game of backgammon: Quelle école (II, 17, 1123) which acquires the meaning of ‘what a bloomer!’ and to pharaon (V, 3, 2744), a game of chance not unlike baccara, deliberate corruption of words such as balbucifier for balbutier (III, 15, 1935), even anglicisms then fashionable. Beaumarchais knows how to be sanctimonious and even pompous when he has to make Marceline speak, how to give Double-Main a ridiculous stammer (III, 15), how to be meditative in a monologue that is in part a dialogue, how to be lyrical and well-nigh romantic (IV, 1, 2215-35) in a duo of love. Ramassis d'expression help to make the satire telling, whilst song and dance provide divertissements, often so dazzling as to distract from the serious content of the play, but not the comic dimension.

Beaumarchais claimed in his Preface to have adopted the appropriate language for each character and aimed at a natural style. In fact his style is one that is eminently suitable for comedy and as such it can be claimed that it is a hotch-potch of many styles given unity through the flow of the author's pen. One element stands out: the rythme endiablé, so well suited to the folle journée, underlined by the number of scenes, and the picking up at the beginning of a scene of the words or actions at the end of the previous one. This movement, coupled with the repetition of a word or a sentence and indeed coups de théâtre, prevents the action from ever flagging and serves also to inhibit one's critical faculties and prevent any focussing of attention on unlikely events (IV, 11). The proper presentation of Le Mariage de Figaro requires a choreographer to regulate the respective movements of the characters on stage and the pace of the action as well as the dances and processions. The choreography, indicated by Beaumarchais, gives a sense of direction and unity to the work which the balance of costumes, specified with equal care in their diversity of shape and colour, serves to reinforce.⁵

Notes

1. In Quarante ans de théâtre, Paris: Boisson, 1900-1902, II, p. 335.

2. F. C. Green, Minuet: a critical survey of French and English literary ideas in the XVIIIth century, London: Dent, 1935, p. 190.

3. This preface is a polemical work written to defend the play against charges of immorality levelled by critics such as Suard who attempted to stop its publication after openly attacking the play in an address to the Académie Française. Beaumarchais had it published almost simultaneously in Paris and in Kehl, a town outside French jurisdiction, so as to defeat any attempts to prevent its appearing. It must have been written prior to Beaumarchais's incarceration at Saint-Lazare and consequent interruption in the performances of Le Mariage de Figaro, since Beaumarchais makes no allusion in it to these events. The preface contains significant statements which throw light on the playwright's dramatic theories.

4. From the Beaumarchais documents published by Donvez (47) we learn that when in Madrid Beaumarchais played séguedilles on his guitar, and was shocked by the lascivious fandangos danced to the accompaniment of castanets.

5. The manuscript of Le Mariage de Figaro housed in the Comédie Française, which may be a prompter's copy, has corrections in Beaumarchais's hand. It seems to have been emended in the course of rehearsals. The scenes have been timed. The position of the actors on the stage, and the precise moment when scenes have to be cut as actors come on or leave the stage, have been marked. Nothing was left to chance.