In the Aux Lecteurs to his Trois Comedies Francoises (1589)^[i], Gérard de Vivre, schoolmaster and “maistre de langue francoise à Cologne” states that his purpose in publishing his plays was “pour l’utilité de la jeunesse et l’usage des escoles francoises.” He explains himself:

“I will say this in praise of comedies that (in my opinion) there is no easier way, nor more beneficial for young people (who desire to profit from the study of language) than the exercise of learning and acting in comedies.”^[ii]

The goal of De Vivre’s exercise is quite different from that of the earlier humanists who sought to break plays down into lessons. De Vivre accents speaking well and the role of theatre in language teaching. He offers texts, not just to be studied in class as examples of correct style, rhetoric or decorum, but to be acted out. Moreover he stresses what the student has to gain from the actor’s training:

. . . given that there is no better means to make young men (who are universally bashful when speaking) hardy and fluent in any language (to teach them to speak clearly and to have proper bearing; to avoid bad habits and poor morals, to appear modest) than this, when done well, to act and present characters.

We know that the 16^th-century schoolmasters followed the lead of the classical authorities on the use of theatre for instruction. Tragedy illustrated the strong or violent emotions and was considered suitable for the education of princes and mature men; comedy taught the gentler emotions an was best suited for youths.^[iii] While De Vivre acknowledges that such lessons may be drawn form comedy, he is equally concerned with the practical advantages of staging and recommends comedy to teachers over tragedy on the grounds that it is easier to costume, and that both language and gesture are less difficult to master. As an incentive to students, he even suggests giving awards for best actor or actress:

Concerning teachers, there is no difficulty which prevents them from doing their job thoroughly, given that all subjects of comedy are for the most part popular (as we’ve said earlier) they have no need for lengthy preparations, nor great pomp and extravagance to costume the characters, no need to teach grave gestures or haughty attitudes through which they might well fear that their disciples could become overly proud or vain in their nature. But I would find it good if the teacher, who wants to stage comedies with his disciples, offered little prizes, like a small booklet or some such thing, to be won by those young men and women who give the best performances.

The author’s remarks on costume, gesture and playing the character well sound more like those of a dramatist than a schoolmaster. Indeed, among French Renaissance playwrights, De Vivre stands out as the truest homme de théâtre. Not only were his plays performed (if only in schools) but he wrote them with performance foremost in mind. So concerned was he with questions of delivery that he invented a system of stage codes to accompany the text and govern speed, voice level, place and number of pauses. For De la Fidelité nuptiale d’une honeste matron envers son mari et epoux he also provided elaborate descriptions of stage action as well as emblematic specifications on the colors of costumes. Needless to say, such staging directions are exceptional for the 16^th Century, and the 17^th Century as well.

De la Fidelité nuptiale has been called one of the most bizarre works of the century.^[iv] A blend of three comic traditions, French medieval, neo-classical and Italian, it is easily the most interesting comedy in De Vivre’s volume for being the most motley. It contains not one but two intrigues. The principal affair is solemn and serious and occupies Acts I, IV and V; a zany secondary intrigue fills Acts II and III. The clowning is not a detachable interlude, however; thematic continuity is assured by the participation of the same characters in all acts of the play.

The dramatic pre-history is provided by the servant Achantio in Act I, i. The newly wedded Pamphilippe has gone off to the wars, has not returned , and is feared dead. The entire household is in the midst of a prolonged period of mourning as the action begins. The wife, Palestra, remains steadfast in her grief, while Demphio, her father encourages her to accept Chares, the neighbor, as a new husband. Act II is given over entirely to Chares’ serenading of Palestra and contains five popular Renaissance songs, a musical comedy. Act III is a burlesque of Act II in which Chares’ servant, Ascanio, apes his master’s singing and lute playing with songs from a more vulgar, obscene register. Acts IV and V contain the arrival of a messenger, the discovery that Pamphilippe is alive and his return. The characters then quit their mourning garb for festive attire and a epilogue laden with moral reflections is spoken by Achantio.

De la Fidelité nuptiale is a comedy built of contrasts. On a stylistic level, this is apparent from a summary. The plot is at times sad, at other times celebratory; characters mourn while others sing; moral examples are held up to view with scenes of buffoonery following close on their heels. But the interplay of contrasts is also visual and audible, and even more remarkable on the level of performance. For if we examine the play using Aristotle’s six constituent parts of drama, we see that the schoolmaster-playwright’s considerations– unlike those of the majority of theorists or dramatists of his time– go beyond plot, character and thought to include spectacle, delivery and music.^[v]

First, the title page of De la Fidelité nuptiale merits attention for it not only contains the list of character names ( a motley collection of French, Italian and Greek origin) but vital information on “spectacle.” [For Robertellus, in On Comedy of 1548, spectacle consists of the scene and the dress of a character.^[vi]] Here it is De Vivre’s instructions on costuming that interest us, for the comedy is also about clothes as a sign of character and about characters getting others to change their colors.

In Act I., Achantio describes the changes his household has undergone, from happiness to solemnity, in terms of costume:

Achantio: But now I should not have to say a word since as you sirs can easily guess form the way I’m dressed in this mourning garb that all our good fortune, prosperity and happiness has been converted into tears, regrets and calamities.

Milphio, coming to deliver un billet doux from Chares (the festive household) to Palestra (the weeping widow) explains with Achantio the signification of their different costumes:

Milphio: But what’s this? Don’t you want to take off that mourning hat and those black clothes? Just look a little how my white and blue get-up is so much prettier, more pleasant to see than your sad, black and tenebrous one.

Achantio: Well said; but also you are in your house filled with joy, delights and pleasures; while in our house there is only mourning, sadness and melancholy; you do nothing but laugh, joke and entertain while we only lament, cry and complain: and thus by our black get-up, we show on the outside what is hidden in our hearts inside, and what fills our minds. Just as you others show by outward signs what you carry in your hearts.

The colors blue and white and the accompanying connotations of pretty and pleasant are opposed to the black, sad and tenebrous, reinforcing the dichotomy between revelers and mourners. The key term here is, of course, sign. De Vivre’s costume code works as a semiotic system.^[vii] Beyond their existence as clothes, the costumes have taken on other meanings and provide a visual complement to characterization. Indeed, identity between costume and character is so strong that characters struggle to change others’ clothes in hopes of changing their minds. Also in Act I., Milphio attempts to force Palestra’s servant to quit her mourning garb:

Milphio: What’s this? What kind of headgear is this? I don’t know what keeps me from tearing that mourning hat from your head.

Even the discovery is signaled by a reversal in the color scheme. When the once solemn Achantio appears in the street bearing the good news he is “dressed in red and yellow” and Chares asks: “What does ths signifie, won’t you tell me?” For the happy ending Palestra appears, no longer in black, but  “richly clothed with flowing white sleeves.”

Additional costume specifications are given in the course of the play; at the beginning of the burlesque in Act III, for example: (Enter) “Ascanio dressed as a fool, with a lute in his hands.” As De Vivre’s costume indications make clear, De la Fidelité nuptiale is no closet drama. It is in Acts II and III that De Vivre makes best use of that other component of spectacle, scenery or decor. The author has gone to extraordinary lengths – again unusual for the period – to include descriptions of scenery and stage action within the playscript.

While not elaborate by modern standards, the decor is completely functional. There is the conventional street area where exchanges take place with houses in the background or to the sides. But there are also windows above, through which characters appear and react with others in the street. These windows are the focus of the serenades; from them water is thrown down to drown out several of the songs. There are a number of pillars as well, supporting a balcony; behind them a masked figure hides from Ascanio in Act III. The text specifies:

While he sings another comes out dressed gayly and wearing a mask; he stands in front of a door at the far end of the stage, in a corner, where the other will come to sing, standing as still as if he were a column supporting the windows.

As he attempts to sing his songs, Ascanio is repeatedly interrupted. Finally he is doused with water, discouraged, and abandoned. Again the text specifies:

While he is singing someone will open wide the window and throw down water on his head; astonished he will drop his lute. And the other, still standing as still as a column, will run off stage and before will knock Ascanio on the head saying “Adieu.”

Of course, stage directions provide clear indications of a playwright’s intention. By their inclusion within the text of his comedy, De Vivre marks an important moment in the history of the theater: the author has chosen to assert himself in the realm of performance; in so doing the authorial voice which frames the text also frames the theatricalization of that text.         

The teacher-playwright’s directorial penchant is nowhere more evident than in the didascalia that accompany his volume – didascalia, that is, in the original Greek sense of instructions given by the poet to those who interpret his work. De Vivre devised his own set of symbols for the dual purpose of informing the student-actor about the proper manner of uttering the lines while assuring clarity of sense in the audience. A genial solution, and one which has not been imitated since, the didascalia either follow the text in the margins, like a gloss, or punctuate it. Rather than the usual qualifications (“She said softly,” “Aloud,” “Laughter,” etc.) which interfere with and often muddle playscripts (an extreme example being Beckett’s Happy Days) De Vivre’s signs appear frequently, even within speeches, and still allow for easy, unobstructed reading.

Moments of switching between fast and slow and loud and soft, stops and starts are the finely modulated tools of the actor’s trade and are by no means disconnected from meaning. Like his system of costume colors De Vivre’s didascalia reinforce the basic solemn-festive opposition of the comedy. In illustrating how these prosodic markers are used, I shall refer to their meaning as it would have been understood by the student-actor: “une pause,” “deux,” “parler bas,” “parler plus vite que le reste,” etc. In Act I, Achantio enters and tells the audience of the happy past of the household. He delivers his speech at normal speed with but two short pauses of one or two beats until the introduction of the present state of affairs which begins by a long pause of three beats under the sign of “plus lentement que le reste”:

Achantio: But now I should not have to say a word since as you sirs can easily guess form the way I’m dressed in this mourning garb that all our good fortune, prosperity and happiness has been converted into tears, regrets and calamities.

In Act II, Milphio enters with the news of his master’s rejection by Palestra. In expressing his dilemma, he plays the gamut of De Vivre’s didascalia. He begins normally, each question punctuated by a two beat pause:

Milphio: Here I am caught. Where shall I go? In what direction shall I turn. I won’t dare present my face to my master Chares . . .

He continues “plus rapidement que le reste,” and without any pauses as he relates his comic complicity in the affair:

Milphio: I advised him to write a letter to the widow, which he did, I carried it myself, she’d not hear speak of it . . .

After a long pause, he switches to “plus lentement que le reste” and describes the weeping widow. Finally, on spying his master, he switches to “parler plus bas,” and whispers to the audience:

Milphio: Listen, a word. Here he comes. I’ll slip out the other side before he even perceives me . . .

One last example will be sufficient to illustrate the workings of the didascalia. It comes from the serenade scenes in Act II. Chares has just tuned his lute and sung his first song, when someone appears at the window. It is Palestra. Her suitor is excited and can barely stop his tongue; Palestra, on the other hand, laments her loss “plus lentement que le reste” and punctuates her speech with long pauses, where each pause “vaut une reprise d’Haleine.” Given the context, this would communicate sighing rather than breathlessness:

Palestra: Alas! Alas!

Chares: Oh la.  Oh la. I hear someone speaking.

At which point he pauses to listen.

Palestra: Alas! My poor tragic self. I who thought to have escaped all unhappiness.

Chares: It would seem to be the beautiful Palestra, my mistress. Oh la.

Palestra: And who thought to live with my husband, my friend et my spouse forever after in joy, peace and felicity.

As she finishes her complaint, Chares, eager to be noticed and to get a song in before the window closes, bursts out “plus vite que le reste”:

Chares: Truly, it is Madame Palestra, I know it by her voice, I’ve got to give her a little song played on my lute.

In speech or gesture, speed is among the simplest yet most meaningful devices in the theatre. Comic characters in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, particularly the fools and jesters, are instantly identifiable by their rapid movements and fast talking. In De la Fidelité nuptiale, the festive moments, those associated with the happy past, Chares’ household and servants, the serenading and the wedding preparations, are characterized rapid delivery; the more solemn moments treating the present tragedy, mourning, lamentation and loyalty are spoken “plus lentement que le reste,” with a “parler bas,” and punctuated by marks which indicate two and three pauses “chacune pause vaut une reprise d’haleine.”

The care De Vivre has taken to provide his student-actors with directions on how to deliver their lines reveals the strong hand of the teacher-dramatist who has left nothing to chance. It now remains to be seen how music also reinforces the central contrast between the solemn and the festive registers.

In the preceding scene, Palestra grieves over the loss of her husband. Her dilemma is how to remain steadfastly loyal to him while obeying her father’s wishes that she marry Chares. From the street her suitor suggests a remedy for her sadness.

Chares: Truly, it is Madame Palestra, I know it by her voice, I’ve got to give her a little song played on my lute.

After a two beat pause comes a song, “Suzanne un jour d’amour solicitée.” It is by Lasus, as are two others in this act; a forth song is by Sandrin and the anonymous fifth song is nonetheless identifiable as belonging to a complex of medieval and Renaissance songs of similar motifs.^[viii]

Chares’ suggestion that song will cheer Palestra attests to the functional aspect of music in the world of De la Fidelité nuptiale. In the 15^th and 16^th Centuries music in the theater meant song and song was a sign of the carefree life.^[ix] And as one might expect De Vivre has enlisted song on the side of festivity.

Among contemporaries, only Marguerite de Navarre, in her “comedies profanes,” makes any effective employment of song.^[x] Still, what sets De Vivre apart is not solely his use of song, but how he used it and incorporated into the text. As Howard Mayer Brown pointed out in his study of music in the secular theatre, chansons served as curtain raisers, or for the entry of characters; they were used as they occurred in reality, working songs or street cries, as interruptions to the plot or to replace speech, but mostly as a simple jeu d’esprit. The rule was to call for song while no specific song was called for. ^[xi]

Attentive to furnishing his students with the esentials and, as always, as interested in performance as in writing dialogue, Gérard de Vivre included the entire texts of the nine songs in his comedy. [The melodies were not transcribed , but they belonged too a popular repertory.] while not originally composed for the comedy, the chansons are nevertheless fully motivated, given that singing is part of the dramatic action. And though Chares’ songs are not specifically serenades or love songs, it is the character’s use of them as serenades that the audience understands. Since the text is in prose, the intention of the lyrical moments is even more strongly marked.

De Vivre’s music, then, has the dual function of contributing to the festive atmosphere while continuing the dramatic action. The integration of the songs is assured by the text which introduces them each time through such lines as:

Because you have not yet heard me play, I’ll play you a little song. Listen, my love.

or:

In the meantime it would be better if I hummed a little piece along with my lute, otherwise they’ll think I’ve gone away.

Those scenes where the different performances traditions (medieval, neo-classical and Italian) are most successfully interwoven follow on Chares’ exit. In Act III, Ascanio, “dressed as a fool, with a lute in his hands,” plays out the courtship scenes on a lower stylistic key, that of the burlesque. Speaking rapidly, yet softly, addressing the audience directly, he explains that he is “monkeying” his master:

Ascanio: Here I am, escaped . . . I found a way to get out through the window; because I want so much to test my fortune like those who regularly roam the streets at night, I invented this little impersonation, because as you know sirs, necessity is the mother of trickery, and what young men see being done by others, they want to imitate, not more nor less than monkeys.

This is buffo at its best and a welcome relief from the sanctimonious acts which open and close the play. Ascanio also has the most attractive role, as servant, clown and motley fool. he is part Terentian slave on the run (having sneaked out), part zanni (Arlecchino by his mimicry, Scapino by his musical talents) and part French medieval fool (naive participant in and observer of the world around him, capable of direct address to the audience). His songs are from a more vulgar comic register than those of his master. Of the four, only the obscene “En entrant dans un jardinet” can be identified as belonging to a 16^th century song collection, the Fricassée of Henri Fresneau.

Ascanio’s parody of serenading takes center stage here.He plays a broken lute, knows no songs and sings his scales poorly:

Ascanio: And then, I don’t even know if this lute has been tuned, since I found it in a corner of our attic; it seems to me that some of the strings are broken, and to tune it, well I know about as much as a pig knows about spices. And then after, I don’t know what song I want to sing since I know very few by heart. So let’s listen a little to see if my lute is tuned. Listen, oh what a beautiful sound; I often saw my master do this when his lute was not tuned, I’ll do the same, the chords will tune themselves if they want to; it’s a lute of Varnish, I mean Venice. There now, everything’s fine; where shall I go to play and sing. But when I think of it, it’s maybe better to try it once, in order to see if my voice is in tune, because to sing off key would be like wanting to rhyme without rhyme or reason. Mi, mi, mi, mi, mi. oot, re, mi fa. That’s how my master does it when he wants to sing a song. Fool, fa, mi, mi.

It may be said that Ascanio and his lute are at the crossroads of different performance elements, of different sign systems, in fact.^[xii] His costume, musical ineptitude and clowning signal a comic, unsophisticated character. The broken lute, considered part of his fool’s costume, is the sign of a broken musician; considered as a prop it signifies ridiculous courtship and serenading, at night in the street. His untuned voice, as well as the type of songs he sings, attest to the differences between servant and master.

The scenes where Ascanio plays at being a musician appear to be an original trouvaille of the author. The business of tuning a lute on stage is nowhere to be found in earlier farce.^[xiii] It is rare for a musical instrument to be introduced on stage by an actor.^[xiv] And if several of Ascanio’s routines can be traced to the Italian repertory (the lazzo of falling, the lazzo of the statue), still there is no musical lazzo of tuning the lute.^[xv]