Some kind of stage play

Cast of Characters

Figaro - Page of Almaviva
Cherubino - A Spanish guerilla
Barbarina - Wife of Cherubino aka Bulbo
Count Almaviva - A Spanish Nobleman
Countess Almaviva - A Spanish Noblewoman
Nathalie - Mistress to Marshal Massena aka Nicholas
Marshal Massena - A French General. Prince of Essling
Henri Darlon - Aide-de-camp to Massena
Anatole de Montesquiou - another aide-de-camp
Brother Paolo - a Priest
Marguerite - maid of the Countess

SCENE ONE

The Estates of Count Almaviva. Two roguishly dressed French officers enter.
 

Anatole: Uniform: from the Latin Uni for
One and Forma for one's true form. 

Henri: Of course.

Anatole: So understand each Roman soldier wore

A singular costume designed for war

That was unique to him. Thus Liberty

Was worn on the sleeve and Democracy

Was seen exercised in all their raiments.

Red ribbons, more than just entertainments,

Wrapped and writhed about a warrior's torso

To mark his rank but his merit more so.

We are born but snowflakes into this world,

Each falling through our lives from Heaven hurled.

So far as any eye can clearly see

No flakes have individuality.

Every man the same as every other

Two arms, two legs, two eyes like his brother

Were we bald and naked, none at a glance

Could discern our distinctions.

Henri: Yet with pants?

Anatole: Yes. With pants we are parted. Not a pair

Anymore but by seam and by welfare

We are distinguished. He, Magistrate, was

The one with the trim the colour of doves.

Henri: Was the villain quite large that stole your wife?

Anatole: I could, my Lord, not say upon my life

For what is grand and what is small? The man

Was less thick than my ox yet less lean than

My lightest lamb.

Henri: You can name his sex then?

Anatole: Yes. I will mark a Rooster from a Hen.

Henri: How much of a man was this seducer?

By what qualities did he induce her?

If each, unclothed and shorn, is seeming same

Then what cause has any grown man to shame?

Anatole: Some grown, some shorn, some tended so much more

Than others but I would not put much store

In this, the most fickle measuring stick:

Tis long in longing but on gaining sick..

No man should dress as any other's twin

To hide himself, by common clothes, within

The murky steaming pot of mankind stew.

If we be cream or dregs we must construe

To wear our worth and in the wearing be

The worthier.

Henri: Or worthless more. I see

In each inspection some dereliction

Of decreed comportment. Since conscription

Has hurled all manner of Frenchmen at us,

They daily come button less and hatless,

Hapless and with issued clothes so poor worn

That worthless is the only uniform.

Anatole: They wore the wares of war so well that we

Have wound our way to these estates you see.

Henri: Could they have fought from Paris to Seville

If tunics and courage fit equally ill?

The army's rough ragged state much belies

their splendid conduct in this enterprise.

Anatole: And that, monsieur, is my point precisely.

Your wind propels my ship, my dear Henri.

Henri: Tend to your rudder. We are well off course

We are no sailors.

Anatole: Then you pushed my horse.

Henri: I do not disapprove your metaphor.

Turn your tongue to the task that lies before

and when the Marshal's billet is arranged

your thoughts by frippery may be detained.

Anatole: By clothes we are unbound. Liberated!

Henri: Anatole, you are intoxicated.

Anatole: Drunk on the heady airs of this landlord

By who's good taste and great wealth I accord

To be a man thereby possessed of wit

And all other measures of counterfeit

Henri: You make him a liar.

Anatole: I do us all.

It is a fool that escorts truth about

Like she were some virgin maid who without

Beauty or brains is the prettier more

That truth wears clothes that her dead mother wore.

My Truth is a brutish sailor that rapes

and leaves us huddling soiled by pissed grapes..

Henri: I am glad that I am so simply tricked

That I am never, by such truth thus pricked.

Come, here comes a knave who by false parade

Is not a page but more some lady's maid.

Anatole: What tale has told that turned this page to be

In such sorry storied costume as he?

Enter Barbarina, dressed as a woman but with a false moustache.

Anatole: You, Boy! We seek your master if he's at home
Or that failing, send out your factotum.

Barbarina: Boy? I am not he.

Anatole: Precisely.

Henri: Maiden, may I say, I mean, by what means

Are you manly made? It unseemly seems

That you are so adorned, and yet I see

A certain sort of sentiment simply

Setting counterpoint the contours of soft

Feminine to contrast with that dark tuft

Of horse's ass affixed to your face.

Barbarina: My word!

Anatole: My Friend!

Henri: My Fault. Had I the grace

To properly apologize, perhaps

As promptly and profusely as my lapse

Requires and Anatole desires, I might

Descend to bended knee like noble knight

Or clothe my wretched flesh in humble ash

And beg forgiveness from your false moustache.

Barbarina removes the disguise 

Barbarina: (laughing) My false face takes fair offence and frets then

Away to purse where it will plot revenge.

On some fateful day your sideburn seconds

Will sure whisper in your ear a beckons

You may twist, you may curl your dark locked lips

But fear the sharpness of his waxed tips.

And on that day, my glued fur facade

Will deal a knot that no comb can dislodge.

Anatole: This un-sexed viper curls each of my hairs!

Henri: This pretty maid has caught us unawares.

Which of the two is the deeper disguise

For her tongue and beard have each tricked my eyes.

Barbarina: I meant no intrigue. I am, please believe

Only a maid to the Count Almavive,

Who owns these manor grounds that here surround

Our dialogue.

Henri: We seek your Lord to sound

Him on the matter of our General.

Anatole: We have no doubt how we will end it all.

Massena comes and shall have his billet.

The Count may either oppose or will it.

We've brought two hundred thousand men.

Henri: He brought.

I rode along alone to Spain and sought

To see the sights and meet the knights of Old

Castile and fair Seville that I am told

By Cervantes will still tilt their lances

At giants, brigands, bandits as chances

And fancies make circumstances appear

On roads and routes one rides who does not fear