The Marriage of Figaro (play)

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For the Mozart opera, see The Marriage of Figaro

The Marriage of Figaro (French: Le Mariage de Figaro or La Folle Journée) is a comedy in five acts, written in 1778 by Pierre Beaumarchais.

The play was first performed officially on April 27, 1784, after having been censored for many years. Beaumarchais said in his preface to the play that it was the Prince de Conti who requested that the sequel be written. It is considered as an early indication of the French Revolution in its denouncement of the privileges of the nobility. In it, Beaumarchais uses the main characters from Le Barbier de Séville: the barber Figaro, Count Almaviva, and Rosine, who in this play is now the Countess. Bartholo, the other principal character of Le Barbier de Séville has a secondary role. The play was turned into an opera by Mozart, also called The Marriage of Figaro. (Italian: Le nozze di Figaro)

Thanks to the enormous success of its predecessor, Le Barbier de Seville, the play opened to its own enormous success. It is said the theater was so packed that three people were crushed to death by the crowd.

1 Summary
2 The Characters
3 Initial Staging
4 External links

[edit] Summary

Set three years after the events of The Barber of Seville: Figaro has entered into Count Almaviva's service (he is both the Count's valet and the concierge of his castle), and is engaged to Suzanne, who is the Countess's head chambermaid. The Count, who is bored with his wife, searches out amorous adventures. Attracted by Suzanne's charms he wishes to revive the right of primae noctis so that he can take advantage of the young bride before the consummation of her marriage. Aided by the unscrupulous Bazile, the Count makes more and more obvious advances towards Suzanne, who in turn reveals everything to Figaro and the Countess, forcing the Count to face this "coalition" which ends up defeating him. Having been made to look ridiculous at a date, which was in fact a trap, he throws himself at his wife's feet to beg her forgiveness. Meanwhile, Figaro marries Suzanne.

[edit] First act

The play begins in a room in the Count's palace -- the new bedroom to be shared by Figaro and Suzanne after their wedding which is set to occur later in the day. Suzanne reveals to Figaro her suspicion that the Count gave them this particular room because it is so close to his own, and that the Count has been pressuring her to begin an affair with him. Figaro at once goes to work trying to find a solution to this problem. Then Dr. Bartholo and Marceline pass through, discussing a lawsuit they are to file against Figaro, who owes Marceline a good deal of money, having promised to marry her if he failed to repay the sum; his marriage to Suzanne will potentially void the contract. Bartholo relishes the news that Rosine is unhappy in her marriage, and they discuss the expectation that the Count will take Figaro's side in the lawsuit if Suzanne should submit to his advances. Marceline herself is in love with Figaro, and hopes to discourage Suzanne from this.

After a brief confrontation between Marceline and Suzanne, a young boy named Chérubin comes to inform Suzanne that he's just been fired for being caught hiding in the bedroom of Fanchette. The conversation is interrupted by the entrance of the Count, and since Suzanne and Chérubin don't want to be caught alone in a bedroom together, Chérubin is forced to hide. When the Count enters, he propositions Suzanne, until they are interrupted by Bazile's entrance; again not wanting to be caught alone in a bedroom together, the Count goes to hide. Bazile stands in the doorway and begins to tell Suzanne all the newest gossip, until he mentions a rumor about the Countess that causes the outraged Count to reveal himself. As the Count talks to the respectively delighted and horrified Bazile and Suzanne, he uncovers Chérubin's hiding spot. The Count is afraid that Chérubin will reveal the earlier conversation in which he was propositioning Suzanne, and so decides to send him away at once as a soldier. Figaro then enters with the Countess (still oblivious to her husband's plans) and a troupe of wedding guests, intending to begin the wedding ceremony immediately. The Count is able to convince them to hold it back a few more hours, giving himself more time to enact his plans.

[edit] Second act

Set in the Countess's bedroom, Suzanne has just broken the news of the Count's action to the Countess, who is now distraught. Figaro comes in and informs them that he's just set in motion a new plan to distract the Count from his intentions toward Suzanne by starting a false rumor that the Countess is having an affair and that her lover will appear at the wedding, which will hopefully motivate the Count to actually let the wedding happen. Suzanne and the Countess have doubts about the effectiveness of the plot, though, and they decide to tell the Count that Suzanne has agreed to his proposal, and then to embarrass him by sending out Chérubin dressed in Suzanne's gown to meet him. They stop Chérubin from leaving and begin to dress him, but just when Suzanne steps out of the room, the Count comes in. Chérubin hides, half dressed, in a closet, while the Count grows increasingly suspicious, especially after having just heard Figaro's rumor of the Countess's affair. He leaves to get a mallet to break down the closet door, giving Chérubin enough time to escape out the window and Suzanne time to enter the closet; when the Count opens the door, it appears that Suzanne was inside there all along. Just when it seems he calms down, the gardener Antonio runs in screaming that a half-dressed man just jumped from the Countess's window. The Count's fears are settled again once Figaro takes credit to being the jumper, claiming that he started the rumor of the Countess having an affair as a prank and that while he was waiting for Suzanne he became frightened of the Count's wrath, jumping out the window in terror. Just then Marceline, Bartholo and the judge Brid'Oison come to inform Figaro that his trial is starting.

[edit] Third act

Figaro and the Count exchange a few words, before Suzanne, at the insistence of the Countess, goes to the Count and tells him that she's decided that she will begin an affair with him, and asks he meet her after the wedding to begin. The Countess has actually promised Suzanne to appear in her place. The Count is glad to hear that Suzanne has seemingly decided to go along with his advances, but his mood sours again once he hears her talking to Figaro and saying it was only done so they might win the case.

Court is then held, and after a few minor cases, Figaro's trial occurs. Much is made of the fact that Figaro has no middle or last name, and he explains that it is because he was kidnapped as a baby and doesn't know his real name. The Count rules in Marceline's favor, effectively forcing Figaro to marry her, when Marceline suddenly recognizes a birthmark (or scar or tattoo -- the text is unclear) on Figaro's arm -- he is her son, and Dr. Bartholo is his father. Just then Suzanne runs in with enough money to repay Marceline, given to her by the Countess. At this, the Count storms off in outrage.

Figaro is thrilled to have rediscovered his parents, but Suzanne's uncle, Antonio, insists that Suzanne cannot marry Figaro now, because he is illegitimate. Figaro and Suzanne convince Marceline and Bartholo to have a double-marriage ceremony with them, and they all race off to prepare.

[edit] Fourth act

Figaro and Suzanne talk before the wedding, and Figaro tells Suzanne that if the Count still thinks she's going to meet him in the garden later, to just let him stand there waiting all night. Suzanne promises, but the Countess grows upset when she hears this news and begins crying until Suzanne agrees to go through with duping the Count for the rest of the night. Together they write a note to him entitled "A New Song on the Breeze" (a reference to the Countess's old habit of communicating with the Count through sheet music dropped from her window) which Suzanne seals with a pin and later smuggles to the Count during her wedding. Later, the wedding is interrupted by Bazile, who had wished to marry Marceline himself; but once he learns that Figaro is her son he is so horrified that he abandons his plans. Later, Figaro witnesses the Count opening the letter from Suzanne, but thinks nothing of it. After the ceremony, he notices Fanchette looking upset, and discovers that the cause is due to her having lost the pin that was used to seal the letter, which the Count had told her to give back to Suzanne. Figaro nearly faints at the news, believing Suzanne's secret communication means that she has been unfaithful and, restraining tears, he announces to Marceline that he is going to seek vengeance on both the Count and Suzanne.

[edit] Fifth act

In the palace gardens beneath a grove of chestnut trees, Figaro has called together a group of men and instructs them to call together every person they can find: he intends to have them all walk in on the Count and Suzanne in flagrante delicto, humiliating the pair and also ensuring ease of obtaining a divorce. After a tirade against the aristocracy and the unhappy state of his life, Figaro hides nearby. The Countess and Suzanne then enter, each dressed in the other's clothes. They are aware that Figaro is watching, and Suzanne is upset that her husband would doubt her so much as to think she'd ever really mean to cheat on him. Soon afterward the Count comes, and the disguised Countess goes off with him. Figaro is outraged, and goes to who he thinks is the Countess to complain; he nevertheless realizes rather quickly that he is talking to his own wife Suzanne, who scolds him for his lack of confidence in her. Figaro agrees that he was being stupid, and they are quickly reconciled. Just then the Count comes out and sees what he thinks is his own wife kissing Figaro, and races to stop the scene. At this point, all the people who had been instructed to come on Figaro's orders arrive, and the real Countess reveals herself. The Count falls to his knees and begs her for forgiveness, which she grants. After all other loose ends are tied up, the cast breaks into song before the curtain falls.

One of the defining moments of the play is Figaro's rather lengthy fifth act monologue (Excerpts):

No, Mister Count, you won’t have her... you won’t have her. Just because you’re a grand nobleman, you think you’re a grand genius! Nobility, riches, a title, rank; how proud they all make a man! What have you done to earn such fortune? You went through the trouble of being born, and nothing else. Otherwise you’re an ordinary man. Whereas I, for God’s sake, was born lost in obscurity. Just to survive I had to use more knowledge and skill than every Spanish aristocrat for the last hundred years put together.

I plunge myself full-force into the theater; and I might as well have tied a boulder to my neck, in doing so, and hanged myself. I dash off a comedy about life in a harem; as a Spanish author, I feel I have the capacity to takeoff Mohammed without causing trouble, till the moment some envoy... I don’t even know where from, complains that my lines are offensive to the Ottoman Empire, Persia, part of some peninsula in India, all of Egypt, the kingdoms of Barca, Tripoli, Tunisia, Algiers and Morocco: and voila! My comedy is flambéed to please some Muslim princes who I don’t even think know how to read it, and who go around beating us across the backs while calling us “Christian Dogs!” -- Not able to kill my spirit, they avenged themselves by maltreating it. My cheeks dug inward; my time seemed to be up. I could see the dreaded police constable arriving in the distance with a quill stuck in his wig.

I’d tell him... no one cares about the stupid things that appear in the media except those who would like to ban them; without the right to criticize, what’s the point of giving praise? It’s only trivial men that are afraid of trivial words.

In the Mozart/Da Ponte opera, this monologue was substantially trimmed, both for length and to please the censors, and converted to the song Aprite un po' quelgli occhi.

[edit] The Characters

Count Almaviva, Governor of Andalusia
Countess Rosine, his wife
Figaro, the Count's valet and majordomo; engaged to Suzanne
Suzanne, the Countess' maid; engaged to Figaro
Marceline, the housekeeper; in love with Figaro, unknowingly Figaro's mother
Antonio, gardener of the castle; uncle of Suzanne, father of Fanchette
Fanchette, daughter of Antonio, girlfriend to many
Chérubin, the Count's page, the Countess’ godson; in love with every woman
Bartholo, a doctor from Seville; unknowingly Figaro's father
Bazile, music master to the Countess
Don Guzman Brid'Oison, a judge.*
Doublemain, clerk to Don Guzman Brid'Oison
Gripe-Soleil, a shepherd lad
Pedrillo, the Count's huntsman
An usher
A shepherdess
An alguazil
A magistrate
Servants, valets, peasants, and huntsmen

* The ridiculous character of Don Guzman was a jab at Beaumarchais's famous enemy Goëzman.

The role of Chérubin is traditionally played as a trouser role by a woman. Beaumarchais himself said that the reason is because in the original company, there were no boys available who were both the right age and who could understand all the "subtleties" of the role, as most of the character's comic traits come from the view of an adult looking back on puberty with amusement.

Fanchette is only around 12 years old, and it is notable that at the time, the age of consent throughout most of Europe was around that same age; hence, the revelation that she and the adult Count are sleeping together was not meant to be quite as shocking as it is often perceived these days.

[edit] Initial Staging

Beaumarchais faced a significant amount of trouble when it came to staging both "The Barber of Seville" as well as "The Marriage of Figaro". "Barber", which was to have been produced in 1773, had to be postponed because nobody in the theatre could afford to give Beaumarchais, then beset by scandal and imprisonment (missing text). It was eventually produced in February 1775. However, he faced trouble of a rather different kind when it came to "Marriage". The play came under heavy displeasure from Louis XVI, who considered it incendiary and a threat to the stability of the class system.

This censure was not without reason, as the play contained within it an aggressive attack on old feudal practices such as the hereditary principle, which formed the foundation of the Monarchy and its surrounding socio-political structures. Figaro's provocative monologue in Act V contained many radical ideas and attitudes that would provide fodder for the subversive feelings already sweeping through France at the time. John Wells, who translated the play for a 1974 Jonathan Miller production, pointed out the dangerous parallels the play offered. "The Count, having renounced his droit du seigneur, his absolute power over his subjects, is trying illicitly to re-establish it. Louis XVI, vacillating over the liberal reforms that Beaumarchais believed would lead to constitutional monarchy, behaved in exactly the same way." There is little wonder that Napoleon later described the play as "the Revolution in action".

The idea of "Marriage", as we can make out from references to Figaro's family affairs in "Barber", dates as far back as the earlier play. It seems probable that Beaumarchais completed it by about 1778, and read it to the members of the Comedie Francaise in 1781, where it was accepted, and was passed by the censor with only minor modifications. However, it would be three years before the Parisian public got to see it. Having heard rumours about its satirical content, Marie Antoinette, who was a great admirer of Beaumarchais's work, arranged for a private reading in front of the King. The plan backfired, when Louis, following the play closely with comments of praise or disapproval, eventually became appalled by the play's irreverent attitude towards the aristocracy, especially during Figaro's monologue, during which he leapt up and uttered, with prophetic insight, "For this play not to be a danger, the Bastille would have to be torn down first" , and banned the play from being performed.

The King's ban only added to the appeal of play for many, and Beaumarchais received several requests for private readings, and while he was willing to comply, he was also prudent enough to edit the text, transfer the setting to Spain, and submit it to the censor, though he was refused approval. Arrangements were made for the members of the Comedie Francaise to give the play in hall of the Menus Plaisirs in honour of the King's brother, the Count of Artois, but this was forbidden at the last moment by the King, who sent that even the aristocracy were not permitted to watch this notorious piece. Predictably, this only increased the demand to see it staged, and a further private performance was managed at the château at Gennevilliers on 26 September 1783. The hall was so crammed with the gentry that Beaumarchais had to break a few windows to let air into the stuffy auditorium- an act recognized even then as being symbolic. The success of the performance increased the pressure to release it for public performance, and it was also the approbation of the theatre going public of Paris that Beaumarchais really desired most. A fourth censor condemned the play, a fifth approved with reservations, a sixth approved unconditionally, and after Beaumarchais was permitted to read to the play to Breteuil, the Royal Minister and an assembled company of leading arbiters of literary taste, he won them over with the wit of the play and his own charming delivery. The king grudgingly allowed a production to go ahead. The landmark production was staged on 27 April 1784 in the newly renovated theatre of the Comedie Francaise. The alternative title to the play- "La Folle Journee", or "The Crazy Day" seemed an apt description of the first night. The rage to see it was so great that ladies of the nobility and women of the bourgeoisie had been sharing actresses' dressing rooms since the previous night to ensure seats, while others lunched within the auditorium itself. As the time of the performance grew close, the crowds outside the theatre swept aside the guards and forced the gates, causing several ladies to faint. Less than half of them managed to get seats. Every minister was present, along with the brothers of the King, but unsurprisingly, Louis himself was absent. Beaumarchais, meanwhile, prudently arranged for two priests to sit on either side of him, in order to indicate the serious moral intent in his work.

The production lasted from half past five to ten o'clock, interrupted by frequent laughter and applause. Dazincourt, as Figaro, and Louise-Francoise as Suzanne were immediate hits with the audience, but the real success of the evening was Jeanne-Adelaide Olivier's mischievous Chérubin. The quality of the performance was heightened by the use for the first time of oil-lamps, which gave the stage an unprecedented brightness, and avoided the stagehands having to trim candlewicks repeatedly.

The play ran for sixty-eight successive performances, and the gross receipts amounted to 347,000 livres, the greatest success of the century. Beaumarchais donated his share of 41,000 livres to charity. At this pinnacle of success, however, he had a sharp reminder of the arbitrary nature of royal power. A comment of his about the difficulties of getting the play onstage was carried to the King and represented as criticism of himself and the Queen. Beaumarchais was summarily arrested and confined to St Lazare, a correctional facility for delinquent youth. He was free within five days, though, and the first performance after his release was the occasion for a great demonstration of sympathy by an audience, which included most of the King's ministers.

The irony of the entire episode lay in the fact that this piece was executed, not just with the acquiescence, but the full support of the aristocracy, that same class whose right to govern was so radically challenged within this very play itself. The unforeseen and far-reaching consequences of this almost suicidal connivance of the aristocracy are well documented and observed. Beaumarchais's play remains one of the foundation stones of the revolutionary fervour in France. As Michael Billington remarks in an article in The Guardian, "When people question, as they constantly do, the political potency of theatre, they should always remember the shining example of Beaumarchais."