menu_book Chapter 19

Chapter 19 of Figaro, the Life of Beaumarchais. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Figaro, the Life of Beaumarchais by John Rivers. The Barber of Seville. One of the first results of the king's satisfaction with Beaumarchais was the removal of the veto

on the performance of his singularly unlucky play. The Barber of Seville, or The Useless Precaution, was written in 1772 as a comic opera in four acts. The music was adapted by the author from the folk and other songs we have seen him diligently collecting whilst in Spain. The musical attainments of Beaumarchais were hardly more than those of an unusually competent amateur, and it was left to the genius of Rossini and Mozart to set the seal of immortal melody on

the two plays by which he is remembered. As for the libretto, although Beaumarchais had an extraordinary facility for rhyming, which indeed he shared with his whole family except his wife, we doubt whether he wrote a line of poetry in his life. He himself was aware of this disability, for he used pleasantly to say, I am the first poet of Paris, entering from the Porte Saint-Antoine. The work was originally written for and offered to the Comédie Italienne and was promptly declined.

This refusal, says Godin, was due to the fact that the principal actor, Clairvall, had started life as a barber and was therefore disinclined to expose himself on the stage to the pleasantries of those who remembered the days when he actually plied the razor of Figaro for a livelihood. This story is interesting, but is perhaps an example of esprit d'escalier on the part of the disappointed author. In the face of this rebuff, he immediately set about transforming the opera into a comedy

with an eye on the Théâtre Francais. When completed, the piece was at once accepted by the premier theater, and having received the approbation of the censor Marat, was to have been produced in February 1773. But the dramatist's grotesque quarrel with the Duc de Chune immediately followed by the equally bizarre Gozman trial indefinitely postponed its representation. The extraordinary success of the Beaumarchais memoirs caused the company of the Théâtre

Francais to deem the moment opportune for producing the much-advertised comedy. Their application being granted, the play was announced for Saturday, the 12th, February 1774. All the boxes were sold, says Grimm, for the first five performances, when on Thursday the 10th an order came again forbidding the play. This was the day on which Beaumarchais published the fourth and most brilliant of his pamphlets. The reason for this sudden prohibition was that the piece was

currently reported to be full of satirical allusions to his late process and witticisms at the expense of the ruling classes. Beaumarchais hastened to point out that since the text of the piece had been in the hands of the lieutenant of police for over a year, these rumors could not possibly be true, but all was in vain. It looked as if the barber of Seville was doomed to never see the footlights. Such was the position when the author set out on his secret missions. Upon his

return from Vienna in December 1774, he at once brought pressure to bear upon the authorities and at last obtained the ardently desired permission. But meanwhile, the situation had changed, and he no longer felt himself bound by the assurance he had given the year before. And, since the comedy had been so long prohibited on account of illusions which it did not originally contain, he now made up for the omission by inserting not only those jovial and searching

criticisms of the existing social order for which the play is remarkable, but overloaded the text with equivocal jokes, the coarse buffoonery, and the Fessonine humor proper to the ancient Gallic farce. He could not bear to forego a single sally of his exuberant and undisciplined wit. This is always a mistake, for the muse is not always at home, even when her favorites call upon her. Moreover, he unwisely divided the third act into two, lengthening the piece into five acts.

It is always difficult, wrote Le Harp, to fulfill great expectations. The piece seemed rather farcical, and its wearisome prolixity, its jokes in exceedingly bad taste, and its questionable morality combined to disgust and revolt the audience. The Barber of Seville was presented for the first time on the 23rd February 1775 and fell flat.

But a work of art, like a good deed, is an act of faith, and faith, even in its lowest form, self-confidence, is capable of all things in reason. Beaumarchais had this kind of faith in a superlative degree. Convinced of the essential merit of his work, he shut himself in his study and recast the whole piece, reducing it to its original four acts, chastening it of the most scurrilous passages,

and, within a day and a night, transformed a very faulty play, which had taken him two years of leisure to write, into a masterpiece of light comedy. The Barber of Seville, in its final form, remarked Le Harp, is the best constructed and best written of all the dramatic works of Beaumarchais, and we are inclined to agree with him. A dismal failure on the Friday, it was revived on the Sunday and has held the stage ever since. We have deemed it expedient to translate the salient

passages of this piece and to summarize the rest in order that the reader may be in a position not only to judge its worth for himself, but to follow the many allusions to the life and times of Beaumarchais with which it abounds. He will also be able to see how far the author may be identified with the character, maxims, and opinions of Figaro. The plot of The Barber of Seville is not a new one. It is the time-honored theme of an elderly and amorous guardian, Bartholo, who hopes

to marry and possess himself of the fortune of his ward, Rosine, and how his schemes are all brought to naught by the intervention of a young and handsome lover, Count Almaviva, aided by Figaro, the wittiest and most resourceful of all valets. The scene opens with the count, disguised as a priest, pacing to and fro before Bartholow's house in the hope of catching sight of Rosine, who has attracted his attention whilst in Madrid with her guardian. He reflects aloud that he is

tired of facile conquests, and it is so sweet to be loved for oneself. At this moment, Figaro enters with a guitar slung over his shoulder and paper and pencil in hand in the throes of composition. He gaily sings the lines of his song as he sets them down. Generous wine and idleness shall e'er dispute my heart. Well, no, they don't dispute. They reign together quite peaceably. Shall ever share my heart. Is it right to say share? Well, thank God we makers of comic operas need not be

so particular. Nowadays, what is not worth saying, we sing. Generous wine and idleness shall ever share my heart. I would like to end with something fine, brilliant, sparkling, which would look like an idea. Shall ever share my heart. If one inspires my tenderness, the other is my joy. Confound it, that's bathos. That's not it.

I want an antithesis. If one is my mistress, the other, egad, I've got it. The other shall be my maid. Bravo, Figaro. Ha, wait till we have the accompaniment.

Then we shall see, gentlemen of the cabal, if I don't know what I'm talking about. Here, the Count and Figaro recognize each other. Count, I do believe it's that rascal Figaro. Figaro, it is my lord. Count, you scoundrel, if you speak a word.

Figaro, yes, I recognize you, the same familiar kindness with which you have always honored me. Count, I did not recognize you at all. You have become so big and fat. Figaro, what can you expect? It's through misery.

Count, poor little man, but what are you doing in Seville? I thought I recommended you to a post in the government. Figaro, I obtained it, my lord, and my gratitude. Count, call me Lindor. Can't you see by my disguise that I don't want to be recognized? Figaro, I will go. Count, on the contrary, I am waiting for something here, and two men chatting together are less suspicious than one walking to and fro.

Let us appear to be chatting. Well, what about this position? Figaro, the minister, having considered your excellency's recommendation, at once appointed me apothecary's boy. Count, to the military hospitals? Figaro, no, in the stables of Andalusia. Count, laughing, a fine beginning. Figaro, the post was not so bad for having the dressings and drugs in my charge. I often sold the men excellent horse medicines. Count, which killed his majesty's subjects?

Figaro, ha ha, well, there is no universal remedy which has sometimes failed to cure Galicians, Catalans, and Ovignon. Count, then why did you leave? Figaro, leave indeed, somebody slandered me to the powers. Envy with clutching fingers and pale, livid face. Count. Oh, for pity's sake, my good fellow, do you dabble in verses too? Figaro. That is just the cause of my misfortune, my lord. When it was reported to the minister that I was making,

if I may say so, some rather neat little garlands of verse to Cloris, that I was sending riddles to the journals, that madrigals of my composition were becoming all the rage, in short, when it was found that I was getting into print everywhere, he took the matter tragically and dismissed me from the service on the pretext that a love of letters is incompatible with the spirit of business. Count, powerfully reasoned, but did you not represent to him? Figaro, to tell the truth,

I thought myself only too happy to be forgotten, being convinced that the great do us sufficient good when they do us no harm. Count, you do not tell the whole story. I seem to remember that when you were in my service, you were rather a bad lot. Figaro, good God, my lord, you expect the poor to be without faults. Count, idle, dissolute. Figaro, considering the virtues demanded of a Servant, does your excellency know many masters worthy of being valets?

Count, not so bad. So, you've retired to this city? Figaro, no, not at once. On my return from Madrid, I tried my literary talents again, and the theater seemed to me a field of honor.

Count, God of mercy. Figaro, really, I do not know why I did not have the greatest success, for I filled the pit with the most excellent workers, the most mutton-fisted fellows I could find, and before the performance, the café seemed very well disposed towards me. But the efforts of the cabal. Count. Ah, the cabal. I seem to have heard that story before. Figaro. It is the fact,

anyway. Why not? They hissed me, but if I could only get them together again. Count. You would bore them to death by way of revenge? Figaro, Zunes, I'd give it him hot. Count, you swear, do you know that in the courts you have only 24 hours in which to curse your judges? Figaro, yes, but you have 24 years in the theater. In fact, life is too short to exhaust such resentment. Count, your exhilarating anger does me good, but you have not told me what

caused you to leave Madrid. Figaro, my good angel, your excellency, since I am happy enough to find my old master again. Seeing that in Madrid the Republic of Letters is a republic of wolves, always at each other's throats, and that, deliver it over to the contempt to which this ridiculous obstinacy leads them, all the insects, gnats, midges, critics, mosquitoes, maringua, the envious, journalists, booksellers, censors, and in fact everything capable of clinging to the hide of

unhappy men of letters succeeded in tearing and sucking away the little substance left to them. Worn out with writing, weary of myself, disgusted with others, swallowed up by debts and with empty pockets. Finally convinced that the certain revenue of the razor is preferable to the empty honors of the pen, I left Madrid. And by baggage slung over my shoulder, philosophically journeying through the two Galicias, La Mancha, Estramadura, Sierra Marina, and Andalusia, welcomed in one

town, imprisoned in another, and everywhere superior to events, praised by some, blamed by others, helping forward the good time and gaily supporting the bad, twitting the fools and defying the wicked, laughing at my misery and shaving everybody. You see me, at last, established in Seville and ready once more to serve your excellency in everything it may please you to order. Count, who taught you such a gay philosophy? Figaro, close acquaintance with misfortune. I am always

in a hurry to laugh at everything for fear of being constrained to weep. Bartholo and Rosine now appear at a window on the first story, the latter holding a paper in her hand. Her suspicious guardian wants to know what it is. Only a few couplets from the useless precaution, which her singing master had given her yesterday. What is this useless precaution? It is the new comedy. Oh, exclaims Bartholo, another one of those dramas in the foolish new style. Well, the journals and

the authorities between them will avenge us. Rosine protests against his constant decrying of the new age. Pardon me, says Bartholo, but what has it produced that we should praise it? Follies of all sorts, liberty of thought, gravitation, electricity, religious toleration, inoculation, quinine, the encyclopedia, and dramas. At this point, Rosine suddenly drops her paper, which is, of course, a letter to her youthful admirer, and sends Bartholo to look for it.

But before he can get downstairs, Rosine has signaled the count to pick it up and make off. On reaching a place of safety, the count reads aloud the letter, which is in these terms. Your attentions excite my curiosity. As soon as my guardian goes out, sink casually to the well-known air of these couplets, a few words telling me the name, rank and intentions of him who appears to interest himself so earnestly in the unhappy Rosine.

My song! I've lost my song, cries Figaro, mimicking Rosine's voice. Oh, these women! If you want to teach cunning to the most innocent of them, lock her up! The Count is delighted to find that Figaro knows quite a lot about Bartholomew and his ward. The house which I occupy, he says, belongs to the doctor, who lodges me there gratis. Indeed, exclaims the count. Yes, answers Figaro, and by way of showing my obligation, I promise him in return ten gold pistoles a year, also gratis.

You are his tenant, cries the count eagerly. More than that, pursues Figaro, I am his barber, his surgeon, his apothecary. There is not a stroke of the razor, lancet, or syringe in his house, which does not come from the hand of your excellency's humble servant. Almaviva there and then agrees to take Figaro into his service again, and they arrange for the lover to seek admission to the doctor's house

by disguising himself as a drunken soldier bearing a billeting order from the new commandant of the town. At this moment, Bartholo emerges from his house, and the Confederates overhear him say to someone within that he is going to see Basile, Rosine's music master, urging him to hasten the arrangements

for the guardian's secret marriage to his ward on the morrow. Directly, they are alone. Figaro urges his master to take his guitar and sing to Rosine the information about himself, according to her instructions, but to conceal his high rank and tell her he is Lindor, a simple student without fortune or prospects. On the lovers expressing indifference as to his ability to compose the necessary verses, Figaro encourages him by asserting, in love, the heart

is not hard to please with the productions of the mind. As the song ends, Rosine is heard within singing a confession of her love for Lindor. That settles it, cried the count in his excitement. I am Rosine's as long as I breathe. You forget, my lord, that she no longer hears you, Figaro reminds him. The next scene is between Figaro and Rosine. Figaro, how is your health, madam? Rosine, not very good, Master Figaro. Dullness is killing me. Figaro, I can well believe it.

Only fools flourish upon it. Rosine, to whom were you speaking with such animation below? I did not hear you, but... Figaro, a young bachelor relative of mine, of the greatest ability, full of wit, talent, and fine feeling, with a most prepossessing face. Rosine, oh, I am sure of it. You say his name is... Figaro, Lindor, he is penniless, but if he had not left Madrid so hurriedly,

he might have found a good place there. Rosine, he will find one, Master Figaro, he will find one. A young man such as you describe is not likely to remain unknown. Figaro, but he has one great fault, which will always stand in his way. Rosine, a fault, Master Figaro? A fault? Are you quite sure?

Figaro, he is in love. Rosine, he is in love? Do you call that a fault? Figaro, to tell the truth, it is only one in respect of his lack of means. Rosine, ah, how unjust is fate! And has he named the lady he loves? I am so curious to know. Figaro, you are the last person, madam, to whom I would reveal a secret of this nature.

Rosine eagerly, why, Master Figaro, I assure you I am discreet. The young man is your relative. He interests me immensely. Do tell me. Figaro, looking at her slyly, picture to yourself the prettiest little darling, sweet, tender, fresh, and gracious, appetizing with a shy little foot, slim, dainty figure, rounded arms, rosy mouth and hands, cheeks, teeth, eyes. Rosine, who lives in this city? Figaro, in this very quarter.

Rosine, in this street, perhaps? Figaro, two feet away from me. Rosine, ah, how charming for your relative. And this young lady is? Figaro, have I not named her? Rosine, that is the one thing you have forgotten, Master Figaro. Tell me.

Do tell me now. If somebody comes in, I might never know. Figaro, do you really want to know, madam? Very well. This young person is your guardian's ward.

Rosine, ward? Figaro, Dr. Bartholow's ward. Yes, madam. Rosine, ah, Master Figaro, I'm sure I don't believe you. Figaro, of that he is burning to come himself and convince you.

Rosine, you make me tremble, Master Figaro. Figaro, come, come, madam, tremble indeed. That will not do it all, when once you give way to the fear of evil, you already experience the evil of fear. Rosine, if he loves me, he must prove it by keeping absolutely quiet.

Figaro, what, madam? Can love and tranquility live together in the same heart? Young people are so unfortunately situated nowadays, they have only this terrible alternative, love without peace or peace without love. Rosine, lowering her eyes, peace without love seems... Seems... Figaro, oh, very slow. It seems indeed that love without peace cuts a better figure

altogether. And, as for me, if I were a woman... Rosine, blushing, it is certain that a young lady cannot prevent a worthy man from esteeming her. Figaro, my relative, accordingly, esteems you enormously. Rosine, but if he should commit some imprudence, Master Figaro, he would ruin us. Figaro, aside, he would ruin us. Allowed, if you would expressly forbid him in a little note, a letter has such power. Rosine, giving him the letter she has just written, I have no time to

rewrite this, but when you give it to him, tell him, and be sure and tell him that it is purely out of friendship that I do it. You understand? My only fear is that discouraged by difficulties. Her guardian is now heard downstairs, and Rosine takes up her needlework whilst Figaro discreetly withdraws. Bartholomew enters the room, cursing Figaro at the top of his voice for playing a series of practical jokes on his servants, by which one is set constantly gaping and the other

perpetually sneezing. Having exhausted his vocabulary, he turns on Rosine and quarrels with her on account of the letter she let drop over the balcony, expressing the suspicion that Figaro has just been with her intriguing to get her carried off. Rosine, what? Will you not even allow that one has principles to set against the seductions of Master Figaro? Bartholo, who the devil knows anything about the caprices of women. Besides, how many of these high-principled virtues have I seen?

Rosine, but sir, if it suffices to be a man in order to please us, why is it you displease me so much? In her rage, she admits that Figaro has been with her. I found him very agreeable, she says, and may you die of vexation. Bartholow now shouts for his servants, Lagenes and Lavallier, who hasten to obey his summons, the first sneezing and the second still yawning. Their master accuses them of collusion with Figaro. Lagenes, but sir,

is there, et tu, any justice? Bartholow, justice, justice for such wretches as you? I am your master, therefore I am always right. La Genèse. Yes, but hang it at you. When a thing is true.

Bartholo. When a thing is true, if I don't want a thing to be true, I claim that it isn't true. Let these rascals be right, and you'll soon see what will become of authority. Basile, Rosine's music master and the doctor's accomplice in his designs on his ward, now calls to warn him that Almaviva has come to live in Seville and advises him that the most

effective means of driving him off is to slander him. Figaro, hidden in a cabinet, overhears this conversation. That is a strange way of getting rid of a man, comments Bartholo. Slander, my dear sir, answers Basile, in an oft-quoted passage, is not to be so despised. I have seen the most honorable men almost ruined by it. Believe me, there is no stupid malignity, no abomination, no silly tale which will not be credited by the indolent people of a great city, if you said about it in the right

way. And we have here some of the cleverest fellows at the game. First, a light rumor skimming over the ground like a swallow before the storm. Pianissimo murmur and twist, and it is gone, leaving a poisonous trail behind. So-and-so welcomes it, and piano, piano adroitly slips it into your ear. The evil is done. It sprouts, crawls, makes its way everywhere, and renforzando from mouth to mouth. It spreads like the very devil. Then suddenly and unaccountably, you see

slander raising its head, hissing, swelling, and growing before your eyes. It darks forward, extends its sway, whirls, envelops, tears, bursts, thunders, and carrying all before it becomes, thank heaven, a general cry, a public crescendo, a universal chorus of hatred and destruction. Who the deuce can withstand it? Although not quite convinced by this outburst, Bartolo nevertheless determines to hasten the arrangements for his marriage and reproaches Basile for not having

carried out his instructions more expeditiously. Yes, says Basile, but you shouldn't have haggled over the expenses. In the harmony of good order, a secret marriage, an iniquitous judgment, and obvious miscarriage of justice are difficulties which you must always be on the lookout for and prevent by the perfect accord of gold. Bartolo gives more money and Basile promises to fix up the ceremony for the following day. The prudent doctor follows his visitor downstairs and carefully

closes the door after him. The reader will not have failed to observe that the incongruity of Basile's conversation in this scene is due to it being one of the interpolated passages previously referred to in which Beaumarchais, the dramaticist, could not resist the temptation, even at the expense of hanging up the action of the play, of avenging Beaumarchais, the disappointed and resentful litigant. Oh, what a famous precaution, exclaims Figaro, issuing from

his retreat. Shut the door, and I will open it again to let the count in as I go out. But what a rogue that Basile is. Luckily, he is a bigger fool still. To make a sensation in the world as a slanderer, you want to be a man of position, family, name, rank, substance in short. But a Basile, he can slander as much as he likes, and nobody will believe him. In the following scene between Bartolo and Rosine, the doctor guesses that she has been writing another letter. His

shrewdness completely corners her and reduces her to a state bordering on nervous collapse. Almaviva now joins them, disguised as a soldier, mellow with wine, bearing an order on the doctor to billet him for the night. In the following conversation, he contrives to pass a letter to Rosine. But the guardian's sharp eyes detect the movement, whereupon the count pretends merely to be restoring to her a letter she has dropped, and Rosine slips the missive into the pocket of her

apron. Bartolo shows that he is exempted from the obligation of billeting and orders Almaviva away. Very well, doctor, answers the count. I will go. Goodbye, doctor. But just to show that you bear no ill will. Pray that death may overlook me for a few more campaigns. Life has never been so dear to me. Be off with you now. If I had so much credit with death, are you not a doctor? You do so much for death that it can surely refuse you nothing. Alone with Rosine, Bartolo at once accuses her

of having received a letter from the drunken soldier and demands to be allowed to see it. Rosine asserts that it was only a note from her cousin, which had dropped from her pocket, but her guardian is certain that she is not telling the truth and goes to lock the door, preparatory to taking the letter from her by force. Meanwhile, Rosine substitutes her cousin's letter for the counts.

After securing the door, Bartolo seizes her by the wrists and throws her upon a chair. She complains that his brutality has made her feel faint, and the doctor, whilst giving her medical aid, takes the letter from her pocket to read, but finds that it is, as she said, her cousin's note. Seeing, as he thinks, that he is clearly in the wrong, he endeavors to make amends, and they soon become friends again. If only you could love me, sighs Bartolo, how happy you would be. If only you could please me, replies Rosine, how I would love you.

On reading Lindor's letter, she finds that he asks her to pick a quarrel with her guardian, and she is in despair at having let such an excellent opportunity escape her. However, she reflects, an unjust man will make a schemer of innocence itself, and a reasonable excuse for falling out with Bartolo is never far to seek. When, therefore, Almaviva makes his appearance, stating that he is Alonzo and comes to deputize for Basile, who is ill, the relations between the pair are as strained as ever.

The doctor, however, suspects some trickery, and at last, to avoid being ignominiously dismissed, the Count is reduced to handing him Rosine's letter, which, he says, Basile has begged him to do on his behalf, and to assure him that arrangements have been made with the lawyer for the wedding to take place the next day. If Rosine resists, they will show her the letter, and Lindor will tell her that he got it through another woman, for whose sake Almaviva had abandoned her. Slander, my dear fellow, laughs Bartolo. I

quite see now that you have come straight from Basile. All suspicion allayed, the doctor now goes to seek Rosine for her lesson. Upon entering the room, she is so taken aback by seeing the count that she utters a cry and instantly recovers herself by pretending she has twisted her ankle in turning. The lovers, still in the presence of the vigilant Bartolo, whom it is impossible to shake off, sing together the song from the useless precaution. Figaro now enters for the purpose of

shaving the doctor, but the latter angrily turns upon him for his excess of zeal in drugging his servants. What have you to say to the poor wretch who gapes and sleeps ever since you tended him, or to the other who for the last three hours has sneezed enough to blow his brains out. What have I to say to them? Yes.

Figaro. Well, I should say. Why, yes, I should say to him who sneezes, God bless you, and to him who yawns, go to bed. Bartolo. You would do better, Master Quibbler, to pay me my hundred crowns with interest without any more nonsense,

so I warn you. Figaro, do you doubt my honesty, sir? Your hundred crowns? Why, I would rather owe them to you all my life than deny the debt for a single moment. When at last the quarrel is over, Bartolo sends Figaro for the shaving things in order not to leave the Count and Rosine together. During his absence, Bartolo whispers to the Count that he is the rascal who brought the letter. At this moment,

there is a crash of crockery which draws the doctor from the room and Almaviva takes the opportunity to beg Rosine to grant him a secret interview that night and to fly with him. He is about to explain how he had been compelled to give Bartolo her letter when the latter returns with Figaro. Under cover of the confusion caused by the crash, Figaro has possessed himself of the key of the window shutters. To the consternation of the lovers, Basile now enters the room.

Bartolo. Ah, Basile, my good fellow, I see you have quickly recovered. Your accident has had no ill consequences. Master Alonzo quite frightened me about you. Ask him. I was on the point of coming to see you, and if he had not dissuaded me. Basile. Master Alonzo. Figaro here seeks to create a diversion, but the newcomer is too astonished to be put off. Basile, will you give me the pleasure, gentlemen? Figaro, you can speak to him when I'm gone. Basile, yes, but count. You

should keep quiet, Basile. Do you think you can tell him anything he doesn't know? I have already told him that you sent me to give a music lesson in your place. Basile, still more astonished, a music lesson. Alonzo! Rosine, whispering to Basile, oh, hold your tongue. Basile, she too? Count, aside to Bartolo. Tell him quickly that we have come to an agreement. Bartolo, aside to Basile, don't give us away, Basile, by saying that he is not your pupil. You will spoil everything.

Basile, ha ha! Bartolo, really Basile, you have a most talented pupil. Basile, in great astonishment, my pupil? Aside to Bartolo, I came to tell you that the count has moved. Bartolo whispers, I know, holds your tongue.

Basile, who told you? Bartolo, he, of course. Count, I certainly, if you would only listen. Rosine, whispering to Basile, Is it so difficult to hold your tongue?

Figaro, Hmm, you great hippogriff, he's deaf. Basile, Then who the devil is it that they are deceiving here? Everybody seems to be in the secret. Bartolo, Well, Basile, what about your lawyer? Figaro, You will have the whole evening to talk about the lawyer.

Bartolo, only one word. Are you satisfied with the lawyer? Basile, frightened. The lawyer? Count, smiling.

What, haven't you seen the lawyer? Basile, angrily. No, I tell you I haven't seen the lawyer. Count, to Bartolo. Do you want him to explain everything before her?

Send him away. Bartolo, whispering to the count. You are right, to Basile. But what made you ill so suddenly? Basile, in a rage, I don't understand you. Count, taking him aside and putting a purse in his hand. Yes, the doctor asks what you are doing here,

ill as you are. Figaro, his face is as pale as death. Basile, ha, I understand. Count, Go home to bed, my dear Basile. You are not well, and you frighten us horribly. Go home to bed. Figaro. He looks terribly bad. Go home to bed. Bartolo. Upon my word, he is as feverish as he can be. Rosine. Why did you come out? They say it's catching. Go home to bed.

Basile. In the utmost astonishment. Go home to bed? Altogether. Yes, certainly. Basile, staring at them. Indeed, I think it would be as well to go.

I do feel rather out of sorts. Bartolo, see you tomorrow, if you are better. Count Basile, I shall call upon you early in the morning. Figaro, take my advice and wrap yourself up warmly in bed. Rosine, good night, Master Basile.

Basile aside, damned if I know what to make of it, and if it wasn't for this purse, all, good night, Basile, good night, Basile savagely, oh well, good night. They all accompany him to the door, laughing. After this dismissal, Figaro proceeds with his shaving of the doctor and tries to maneuver a little private conversation between the lovers, but the ever-watchful Bartolo surprises them and overhears enough of their talk to discover that he has been outwitted. Rosine,

before retiring to her apartment, turns angrily upon the doctor and openly defies him, whilst Almaviva and Figaro pretend that he is mad and hastily leave the house. The last act opens with a conversation between Bartolo and Basile on the eventful night arranged for the marriage. It is raining in torrents. Bartolo, what, Basile, you do not know him? Is what you say possible? Basile, ask me a hundred times and I should always give you the same answer. If he gave you

Rosine's letter, he is certainly one of the Count's emissaries. But, judging by the magnificence of the present he gave me, he may very well be the Count himself. Bartolo, that is not likely, But, talking about this present, why did you take it? Basile, you seem to have come to an agreement. I could not understand what was afoot, and whenever I am confronted with a difficult question, a purse of gold always seems to me an unanswerable argument. Then, as the proverb says,

what is good to take, Bartolo, I understand, is good. Basile, to keep, Bartolo. Ha ha! Ah! Basile, yes, I have arranged several little proverbs like that with variations, but to come to the point, what have you decided? Bartolo, if you were in my place, Basile, would you not do your utmost to possess her? Basile, by goodness, no, doctor. In every kind of property, possession is little. It is enjoyment of it which gives happiness. I think that to marry

woman who does not love you is to expose yourself? Bartolo, you would be afraid of accidents? Basile, he, sir, there are many of them this year. I would not do violence to her heart. Bartolo, your servant Basile, it is better that she should weep at having me than I should die for not having her. Basile, oh, is it a matter of life and death? Then marry, doctor. Mary. Bartolo, that's what I intend to do this very night. Basile, farewell then. Don't forget

in speaking to your ward to make them out black as hell. Bartolo, you are quite right. Basile, slander, doctor, slander. You must always come back to that. Bartolo, here's Rosine's letter, which that fellow Alonzo gave me and unwillingly showed me what used to make of it with her. Basile, farewell, we shall all be here at four o'clock. Bartolo, why not sooner?

Basile, impossible, the notary is engaged. Bartolo, for a marriage? Basile, yes, at the barber Figaro's, his niece is to be married. Bartolo, his niece? But he hasn't won.

Basile, anyhow, that's what they told the notary. Bartolo, that scoundrel is in the plot. What the devil? Basile, do you really think? Bartolo, my goodness, those beggars are so wide awake. Look you here, my friend. I am not at all easy. Return to the notary and ask him to come back with you at once. Basile, it is raining infernally, but nothing shall stop me from

serving you. What are you going to do? Bartolo, I'll see you out. That rascal Figaro has put all my servants out of action. I'm alone here. Basile, I have my lantern. Bartolo, now Basile, here is my master key. I'll wait for you and keep watch. Come who may, except you and the notary, nobody shall come in tonight. Basile, with such precautions, all is sure. Bartolo, without losing a moment, seeks out Rosine, shows her the letter she wrote to Almaviva, and tells her of the plot he has

discovered to secure her person, and that he owed the betrayal of the secret to the jealousy of a successful rival. Overwhelmed by the alleged perfidy of the count, Rosine consents to marry her guardian that very night. Directly the doctor leaves her, she bursts into tears and bewails her fate. At this moment, all being quiet, Figaro and the Count enter by the window. Figaro, we are wet through charming weather for lovemaking, my lord. What do you think of the night? Count, superb for

a lover. Figaro, yes, but for a confidant? And if somebody surprise us here? Count, aren't you with me? It is quite another matter that worries me. That is to persuade her to leave her guardian's house immediately. Figaro, you have on your side three passions, all powerful with the fair sex. Love, hatred, and fear. Count, gazing into the darkness. How can I announce to her abruptly that the notary is waiting at your house to unite us? She will think my plan foolhardy.

she will call me presumptuous. Figaro, if she calls you presumptuous, you should call her cruel. Women love to be called cruel. If her love is such as you desire, you can tell her who you are. She will no longer have any doubt of your sentiments. On the entrance of Rosine, there is a scene of bitter tears and reproaches on her part in which she renounces the count, whom she has learned to love as Lindor, for his supposed betrayal of her to Almaviva. The Count, however,

soon explains the misunderstanding and convinces her of the sincerity of his passion, revealing to her for the first time his true name and position. On the reconciliation of the lovers, the Count promises to punish the odious old fellow who has been the cause of all the mischief, But the tender-hearted Rosine pleads for him. No, no, pardon him, dear Lindor, she says. My heart is so full that vengeance can find no place in it. The notary, armed with two marriage

contracts, now enters with Basile. The lawyer, seeing that the lady's name in each document is the same, intelligently supposes that the brides are two sisters who bear the same name. As for Basile, he does not know what to make of it, but his scruples are quickly overcome by the count, who hands him a purse and engages him as a witness. There is no further difficulty, says Basile, weighing the purse in his hand. But that is because when I have once given my word,

there must be reasons of great wait, and he signs. Bartolo, with the justice of the peace, police officers and servants at this moment rush into the room. He sees the count kissing Rosine's hand and Figaro grotesquely embracing Basile. With a savage cry, he seizes the notary by the throat. Bartolo, Rosine with these rascals, arrest them all. I've got one of them by the collar. Notary, I am your notary. Basile, he is your notary. What are you playing at? Bartolo, ha, Don Basile,

how is it you are here? Basile, say rather, how is it you were not here? Justice, pointing at Figaro, one moment, I know him. What are you doing in this house at this time of night? Figaro, this time of night? You must see that it is as near morning as night. Besides, I belong to the retinue of his excellency. My lord, count almaviva. Bartolo, almaviva? Justice, they are not thieves then? Bartolo, never mind that. Everywhere else, my lord count, I am your excellency's humble servant.

But you must understand that here your superiority of rank is without effect. Have the goodness, if you please, to retire. Count, yes, rank is powerless here. But what is very pertinent to the situation is the preference to yourself which the young lady has accorded me by voluntarily giving herself to me. Bartolo. What is that he says, Rosine? Rosine. It is true. Why should you be astonished? Was I not this night to be avenged on a deceiver? I am. Basile. Didn't I tell you it

was the count himself, doctor? Bartolo, what does that matter to me? A pretty marriage. Where are the witnesses? Notary, there is nothing wanting. I was assisted by these two gentlemen. Bartolo, what? Basile, you signed? Basile, why not? This devil of a fellow always has his pockets full of irresistible arguments. Bartolo, I snap my fingers at his arguments. I shall make use of my authority. Count, you have lost it by abusing it. Bartolo, the young lady is a minor. Figaro,

she has just come of age. Bartolo, who is speaking to you, you rogue? Count, the young lady is noble and beautiful. I am a man of rank, young and rich. She is my wife. By this title, which honors us both, do you claim to dispute her with me? Bartolo, you shall never take her out of my hands. Count, she is no longer in your power. I put her under the protection of the law, and this gentleman whom you have brought yourself will protect her from any violence you propose to offer her.

True magistrates are the protectors of all the oppressed. Justice, certainly, and this useless resistance to a most honorable marriage shows how frightened he is over his maladministration of his ward's property, of which he will have to render a strict account. Count, ah, let him but agree to everything, and I shall ask nothing more of him. Figaro, accept the receipt for my hundred crowns. Don't let us lose our heads. Bartolo, angrily, they were all against me. I've thrust

my head into a booby trap. Basile, booby trapped be hanged. Remember, doctor, that although you cannot have the girl. You keep the money. And Bartolo, oh, leave me alone, Basile. You think only of money. What do I care for money? Of course I'll keep it. But do you think that is the reason which decides me? He signs. Figaro, ha, ha, ha, my lord, they belong to the same family. Notary, but gentlemen, I don't understand at all. Are there not two young ladies who bear the same name?

Figaro, no, sir, there is only one. Bartolo, in despair, and it was I who took away the latter, only to make the marriage more certain. Ah, I have defeated my own purpose through lack of care. Figaro, rather through lack of sense, but to tell the truth, doctor, when love and youth have agreed to deceive an old man,

everything he does to prevent it may well be called the useless precaution. At the time of the production of the Barber of Seville, it was unkindly said that Beaumarchais had borrowed largely from Sedain's Unez Vise, Jamais de Tu. One of those dullards who delight to repeat unpleasant things chose the moment when the new dramatist was surrounded by people in the green room to tell him in a loud voice that his play was very like, you can never think of everything.

Very like, sir, he replied. I claim that my piece is you can never think of everything. How do you make that out? Because nobody had ever thought of my piece. The critic was abashed and everybody laughed all the more because, says Beaumarchais, he who reproached me with you can never think of everything was a person who never thought of anything. Most people are of Clayon's opinion in Les Marchants that fools are here below for our amusement, and for his part Beaumarchais

thought they were fair game. But lack of understanding is, after all, a misfortune, and however irritating it may be to have to deal with a naturally dense person, it is just as cruel and irrational to jeer at his dullness as to laugh at the deformity of a cripple. Yet, such is human nature that however fully we realize this fact, we shall probably be as impatient as ever with the very next fool we encounter.

End of chapter 19