I have already mentioned that Signora Ricci's removal to a lonely quarter of the town had exposed her to much malignant gossip. Her ill-wishers suggested that she was laying herself out for clandestine visits and company which compromised her reputation. I went to see her still, but not every day as formerly, and always at times when I was certain not to meet with Signor Gratarol. He meanwhile continued to be a constant guest behind the scenes of the theatre.{231}
In order to cast dust in my eyes, and not to lose the support of my protection, Mme. Ricci took every opportunity of alluding to the good-breeding and excellent behaviour of her new friend. He treated her with the respect due to a queen, she said, and greatly regretted that he was never fortunate enough to find me at her house. I reflected, perhaps unjustly, that Signor Gratarol would indeed have been delighted to meet me there. This would have suited his game; for when the flirtation had advanced to the stage of gallantry, his mistress would still have had her old friend and gossip to rely on. Anyhow, I responded to her suggestions in terms like these: "I am much obliged to the gentleman in question. I believe all you tell me, although nobody else would believe it. You know my principles, and the position I have willingly assumed toward you. I am sorry to see you exposing yourself to fresh calumnies, and to be no longer able to defend you. With Signor Gratarol, much as I differ from him upon certain points, I should be glad to enter into social relations anywhere but under your roof. You must have observed that I treat him with esteem and respect when we come together behind the scenes. It is impossible, however, that he can be ignorant of the open friendship I have professed for you during five whole years. All Venice knows it. I desire nothing more than that he should continue to treat you like a queen, as you say he does. But since I do not seek to oppose{232}your liberty of action, I trust that you will not be so indiscreet as to impose conditions on my freedom."
What report of this conversation she made to Signor Gratarol is known only to her and him. She was exasperated, and I do not think the picture she drew of me can have been very flattering. Probably I was described as weakly jealous:—jealous, however, I had never been of other admirers, who did not compromise me in my intimacy with this actress.
A few weeks were left of the Carnival, when, entering the small rooms of the theatre one evening, I found Signor Gratarol as usual there. He addressed me courteously: "Count, Sacchi here and Fiorelli and Zannoni have been invited to eat a pheasant with me at my casino at S. Mosè. I hardly venture to invite you also; yet knowing the kindly feeling you have for these persons, and the pleasure you take in their company, if you were disposed to join our party, I should esteem it an honour." The invitation could not have been more politely given; and as the other guests had been named, I saw no reason to refuse. I added, however, that the state of my health prevented me from counting with certainty upon the pleasure he offered; anyhow, my absence would not be a great loss to his party. After a few compliments, the day was fixed.
On the following morning I met Sacchi upon the piazza. His eyes were starting from their sockets, and he told me he was in urgent need of my advice.{233}What passed between us I will relate in dialogue. Sacchi began:—
"A short time since, I met a gentleman who was dining last night at the house of a patrician, the President of the Supreme Tribunal.[56]He took me aside and said: 'Such and such a nobleman (and you know over what Tribunal he presides) was speaking last night about the theatres; in the course of his remarks he let these words fall:—I do not know how it is that Sacchi, who has the reputation of managing his troupe with strictness, and only allowing a few confidential friends to appear behind the scenes of his theatre, should receive secretaries of the Senate openly and every night in the green-room.—Dear Sacchi,' this gentleman continued, 'do not tell any one that I have reported these words; my only object is to put you on your guard.' You see, sir, that the communication forces me to take some active measures. If I neglect it rashly, I shall find myself in difficulties. I confess that I am puzzled, and come to you for counsel."
"You have chosen an inappropriate adviser in this affair," I answered. "You are the master in your own theatre, and have always been severe upon the point in question. Why did not you civilly put a stop to the irregularity before it assumed so embarrassing an aspect? I was a whole month absent{234}from your stage, owing to my illness. When I returned, I found Signor Gratarol installed, and hail-fellow-well-met with everybody. At any rate, it would not have befitted me to make remarks upon the sort of people you admitted."
"I did not introduce the man," said Sacchi. "I noticed him one evening, and thought his visit might be accidental. When he came again and again, I made inquiries; and the whole troupe assured me with ironical malice that he came in the company of the Ricci, was introduced by her, and only came on her account."
"That makes it still more difficult for me to advise you," I replied. "Yet I think I may tell you that I do not believe Signor Gratarol to be indiscreet. If you inform him privately, or let him know through Mme. Ricci, what has been reported to you, I am certain that he will not show himself behind the scenes again."
"I am aware," rejoined Sacchi, "that my way of talking is brusque, passionate, and awkward. Pray do me the kindness to speak to Ricci."
"Excuse me," said I; "I do not undertake commissions of this kind, and have no wish to be mixed up with what only concerns you."
"Nay, I beseech you to do me this kindness!" exclaimed Sacchi once more. "You need only hint at what I have communicated. I assure you, Count, that if I begin to give that woman a bit of my{235}mind, I shall not be able to refrain from some gross insults."
"Why do you not speak civilly to Signor Gratarol?"
"To tell you the truth, I have not the courage. He is always polite to me. I am afraid that he will take my remarks for an actor's scheming to expel him from the green-room. He might become my enemy, and Ricci in her rage might do me some injury. You know that in our profession we are forced to keep on good terms with everybody."
"Well," said I, "I see that you want me to put my paw into the fire to draw the chestnut out! Never mind! If the opportunity occurs, I will try to do what you request, and set things straight as cautiously as may be."
In the course of one of my coldly ceremonious visits to Mme. Ricci, I dropped these words before rising to take my leave: "I was forgetting to tell you something, which I do not like to say, but which it would be unfriendly to leave unsaid. Sacchi has mentioned this and this to me, and asked me to give you a hint. You can see Signor Gratarol as much as you like in your own house. I hope that you will arrange matters so as not to incur further odium." "Gratarol does not come behind the scenes for me!" cried she, flaming up; "what does it matter to me whether he comes or stays away? Sacchi can tell him to drop his visits." "I have reported to you a{236}fact," said I with perfect calm, "at the request of an old acquaintance. Whether you, or Sacchi, or nobody tells Signor Gratarol, is all the same to me." I left her fuming and chafing in a fury.
I perceived that my customary readiness to make myself of use had got me into a scrape. The viperish temper in which the woman was when I left her, made me feel sure that she would bite me behind my back; and what followed confirmed my apprehension. She saw with rage that my friendship for her was expiring. She wanted to hold her new friend fast. Incapable of acknowledging herself in the wrong, blinded by vanity and folly, she persisted in regarding me as the victim of jealousy. After the conversation I have just related, Signor Gratarol did not show himself again behind the scenes. What his feelings were towards me Heaven only knows.
On the evening before the famous banquet, I was in one of the small rooms of the theatre with Sacchi, Mme. Ricci, a sister of hers named Marianna who danced in the ballet, and several other actresses and actors. Sacchi suddenly burst into the following tirade:—"To-morrow," he began, "we are to dine with Signor Gratarol. I thought that the guests were Count Gozzi, myself, Fiorelli, and Zannoni. Now it reaches my ears that certain actresses of my troupe have been invited, and that the sumptuous and splendid festivity is given solely in honour of Mme. Teodora Ricci. It has never been my habit{237}to act as go-between for the women of my establishment. Deuce take it all—&c., &c.—let him go who likes; I shall not, that is flat." He followed up this flood of eloquence with the foulest invectives.
The Ricci's face burned; she did not know where to look, and fixed her eyes upon the ground. Everybody was staring at her. I confess that I felt sorry to see her pilloried in this way. "Well," said I to myself, "the labour of five years has been cast to the winds by this vain woman's frivolous misconduct. The imbroglio is becoming so serious that I fear I shall not drag on to the end of the Carnival without some tiresome explosion." Meanwhile Sacchi went storming on. I tried to calm him down. "You say you do not want to make enemies, and yet you are ready to affront a gentleman who treats you with politeness. The whole affair may be quite harmless, and I do not see why you should lash yourself into a rage about it. You listen too much to idle or malignant gossip." I succeeded in restoring peace, and Sacchi promised to keep his appointment.
I, for my part, feeling really indisposed, and having a rooted antipathy for banquets, especially when the host is no intimate friend of my own, excused myself next morning on the score of health, and received a letter of profuse compliments and expressions of regret in return.{238}
A visit from Signor Gratarol.—Notes of our conversation.—Mutinous murmurs in the playing company.—My weakly kindness toward the Ricci.—Final rupture.
On the morning after Signor Gratarol's superb banquet, I was still in bed when my servant announced a visit from that gentleman, whom I had only met before in passing at the theatre. He entered, walking more like an Englishman than a Venetian, elegantly attired, and uttering compliments which my humility forced me to regard as ill-employed cajoleries.
I begged him to excuse me for receiving him in bed. He inquired after my health, and then proceeded to business. A society of gentlefolk, he told me, had been formed, all of whom were amateur actors, and a theatre had been built at San Gregorio for them to play comedies and tragedies. He was a member of this company; and he had suggested to his friends the propriety of electing a permanent chief, with full authority to control and dictate regulations, whose word should be implicitly obeyed. This suggestion having been unanimously accepted, he had taken the liberty to name me as the chief{239}and manager in question, and my nomination had been received with general approval.
Beside the revolting flattery which underlay this speech, I was positively taken aback to hear a secretary of the august Venetian Senate, an ambassador-elect from the most Serene Republic to the court of a monarch of the Two Sicilies, discussing such a frivolous affair with so much seriousness and making such a fuss about it. I had much ado to maintain my gravity, and could not speak for a few seconds. He came to my relief by resuming his discourse. "Such an institution," he went on, "will be extremely useful in Venice for developing and training the abilities of young men, for giving them, in short, a liberal culture. In my opinion it is admirable, of the greatest utility, and worthy of respect. What do you think, Count?"
I replied that I was far from disapproving of the well-established custom in schools and seminaries of making boys and young men act; and I thought that the same custom in families had many advantages. Besides sharpening and suppling the mental faculties of young people, and improving their elocution, it kept them to some extent aloof from those low sensual pleasures which were deplorably in vogue amongst them. It seemed to me, however, that persons of a mature age, holding offices and posts of public dignity, would do better to extend protection and encouragement to such performances than{240}to appear themselves upon the stage. Such was my private opinion. But I did not wish to set up for being a critic of my neighbours. For the rest, I thanked him for the honour done me by his amateur society, but begged to decline the office of director. I gave many reasons for not caring to undertake the responsibilities of such a post, and reminded him that my interest in the theatre served only as a distraction from many onerous and painful duties which I had voluntarily undertaken for the benefit of my numerous and far from wealthy relatives.
RUZZANTE (1525)Illustrating the Italian Commedia dell'Arte, or Impromptu ComedyRUZZANTE (1525) Illustrating the Italian Commedia dell'Arte, or Impromptu Comedy
I do not know how far this candid answer was agreeable to Signor Gratarol. Much of it must certainly have gone against his grain, and a good deal he probably took for sarcasm. Nevertheless, he continued on the note of adulation which annoyed me. "In truth," he said, "I hardly hoped for your acceptance, knowing how much you value a quiet life. Yet perhaps you will do me the favour of suggesting some one fit to undertake the duty." "In my opinion," I replied, "the Marchese Francesco Albergati would be a very proper man.[57]He is{241}an enthusiastic amateur, and has great experience in theatrical affairs. He has fixed his residence at Venice, and is sure to accept the post with pleasure." "Do you really think him capable?" asked Gratarol with the utmost gravity, as though we were discussing a matter of vast importance. "Most capable," I answered. "Pray allow me then," he continued, with the same ludicrous concern, "to propose Marchese Albergati to my company of noble amateurs at your recommendation!" "Certainly, if you think fit," I replied, with difficulty repressing a yawn. The long conversation about nothing had almost tired my patience out. At length he rose to take his leave, drowning me in an ocean of compliments. I thanked him for his visit, and promised to return it, blessing Heaven for his departure.
After Signor Gratarol's banquet, which was described to me as regal in its pomp, the whole of Sacchi's troupe let their spite loose against Mme. Ricci. It was a storm of innuendoes and equivocal allusions, upon which my presence barely imposed a check. Some of the actresses went so far as to ask me in private whether I was not at last convinced of what they had always told me about that woman's character. I fenced with them as well as I could, sometimes pretending not to understand, sometimes rebuking their evil gossip, and sometimes turning my back with affected indignation. And so I rubbed on, always sighing for the arrival of Lent.{242}
One evening, her sister Marianna met me in a little room behind the theatre. "What do you think, Sir Count," she said, "of this extraordinary turn of affairs?" "What are you talking about?" I replied. "About my madcap sister, of course," she added: "Teodora was always a hair-brained, giddy, imprudent creature of caprice. But who would have thought that, after five years of countenance and real friendship extended to her by you, she would have given herself so openly and formally to a man like Gratarol?" While I was revolving some answer, which should signify nothing, a knot of actors entered, and relieved me of my embarrassment.
I had always invited some of the comedians to a dinner at my house before the end of the Carnival; and this year, not choosing to deviate from old custom, I fixed it for a Thursday. Among the guests were Ricci and her husband, Fiorelli and Zannoni, with other actresses and actors. The conversation was as brilliant as usual; but I noticed, to my deep regret, that Fiorelli's witticisms returned again and again to certain new ornaments worn by Mme. Ricci. His allusions seemed to cut her to the quick. She blushed, and shifted on her chair without replying. The others laughed, and I vainly strove to introduce fresh topics. From this day forward, rumour dealt loudly and cruelly with her reputation. Folk went so far as to assert that every evening she retired from the theatre with Signor{243}Gratarol to his casino, and spent the whole night there. How far these reports were true, I do not pretend to judge. It is certain, however, that her imprudent connection with a notorious voluptuary was nothing short of disastrous to a woman in her profession. How Signor Gratarol justified his behaviour in causing this open scandal to a person still ostensibly beneath my protection, can only be conjectured. It is possible that Mme. Ricci concealed from him the obligations she was under to me, and my repeated declarations that I should abandon her to her fate if anything of the sort occurred. Yet he must have been aware that he was placing me in a false and odious position.
All Sacchi's troupe made it only too clear that they wished me to drop her at once and for ever. Their innuendoes directed against myself, and the continuous open gossip which went on, overcame my philosophy at last, and I resolved to suspend my visits altogether without waiting for Lent. Yet, before I exposed her unprotected to the hatred of her comrades, I thought it best to take one final step, which proved, as things turned out, a false one. I went to her sister Marianna, and told her to warn Teodora that I meant at last to leave her. I could not play the part of a fool and go-between. I was not jealous, and had never been jealous of her other admirers; but a man in Gratarol's position, notorious for libertinism, belonging to my own class, and with the eyes{244}of the world upon him, made my position as her friend and protector odious beyond expression. She must choose between giving him up or losing me for ever.
Marianna promised to discharge her mission, and spared no words of reprobation for her sister's conduct. I ought, however, to have reflected that a ballet-girl would be sure to misinterpret my real delicacy, and to depict me as a jealous lover.
Two days later on, both sisters appeared at my house. Teodora began to excuse herself. "My sister tells me that you are angry with me, and I am come to ask the reason why." I replied that I was not angry, but that I wanted to save her from certain ruin. If that was impossible, I meant to provide for my own peace of mind and honour by doing what I had always said I should. She begged me, with exaggerated demonstrations of concern, to give her but one chance, averring that she had certain things she wished to say to me in private. I weakly consented to pay her a visit at her own house, and went there on the following day. There I found her still in bed; and sitting down, I begged her to make a clean breast of everything which concerned Signor Gratarol. She told me frankly that she was not in love with him, and that she had only received a couple of trifling presents at his hands—a little Neapolitan watch-chain and an embroidered satin muff. Upon this, I advised her, if things had not gone further, to write{245}a polite letter to Gratarol, begging him, as a gentleman, to discontinue his attentions. She might return his two presents, as a mark of delicacy. The actress sighed, and said she supposed she must follow my advice. I took her at her word; and added that, since I found her so well disposed to adopt the only right course open to her, I was willing not to withdraw my protection.
I did not inquire whether she actually wrote the letter to Signor Gratarol, but continued to treat her with politeness, trusting to her word and honour. One evening, when she had no engagement at the theatre, I proposed that we should go together to the opera at S. Samuele. She accepted, but showed a singular curiosity to know the row and number of the box. "I will send you the key," I said, "this morning, and you will see where it is placed. If you like to go before me with your husband, I will look in during the evening." I fancied there must be some intrigue hidden under this anxiety about the number of the box; but I said nothing, and did what I had promised.
When the evening came, I went to S. Samuele, and found Mme. Ricci with her husband in the box. His duties at the other theatre obliged him to retire, and I was left alone with Teodora. Scarcely had I taken my seat, when I heard the door of the next box open, and some one entered, who was greeted by the actress with charming airs of coquetry and winning{246}grace. I had my shoulders turned to the person, but I divined who it was. The Ricci had informed Gratarol that she was going with me to S. Samuele, and had given him the number of our box. Pretending to notice him by accident, I turned my head round, bowed, and begged him to excuse me for not having yet returned his visit. He overwhelmed me, as usual, with a shower of those compliments which won for him the fame of eloquence.
"This then," said I to myself, "is the woman's way of writing notes at my advice!" However, I attended her back to her house without making any comment on what had happened.
The last day of this most tedious Carnival at length arrived. It was the custom for the leading members of Sacchi's troupe, together with a numerous company of friends, to celebrate the evening with a supper at some inn. I had always accompanied Teodora Ricci on these occasions; and I now determined to put the final stroke to our friendship by acting as usual. After a very festive supper, the whole party adjourned to the opera at S. Samuele. The performance began at midnight, and several boxes had been engaged beforehand. It chanced that I found myself alone in one of them with Mme. Ricci. Thereupon, seeing that the Carnival was over, and the moment of my emancipation had arrived, I opened my mind to the young woman, and informed her that my patience was exhausted. She tried to turn the matter off with a{247}jest; her liaison with Gratarol had been a mere Carnival caprice, which would end with the Carnival. (As if that made any difference to me!) I replied with firmness that it was now too late. She had thrown away the fruits of my benefits conferred on her through five long years, and had repaid them by exposing me to shame and insult. I forgave her and left her at liberty; but abode by my decision to withdraw from her friendship.
"What!" said she, "shall I not be your gossip[58]any more?" "Please to forget that title," I replied: "a good woman does not try to turn her gossip into a simpleton or go-between. I shall not become your enemy, and have no petty thirst for vengeance. If I were wise, I should cut my old connection with the troupe whom I have protected for twenty years. That would secure me against further annoyances and tittle-tattle. But I do not mean to take this step. And you may be very grateful to me; for were I to leave them, they would ascribe the loss of their great champion to you alone." "Oh, what will ever happen to me?" she exclaimed with an air of tragic desperation. "Nothing," I added laughing, "except what you have sought and brought about."
When the opera was over, I attended her home, and standing in the doorway, repeated that this was the last time she would be troubled with my company.{248}"Do you not mean then to visit me any more?" cried she. "You certainly will not be exposed to that disturbance," I replied. "Oh, we shall see you here, we shall see you!" she answered with a cheerful air of security. I could not help laughing at her conceit. "So you persist in looking on me as a hopeless victim of your charms! If I do come to visit you, you will see me, certes!" "But I shall come to you," she added. "I hope that you will never give yourself the trouble," said I; and with these final words I turned my back and walked away.
So ended the open and ingenuous friendship which I had carried on for five years with this woman.
Annoyances to which I was exposed by the Ricci after this act of rupture.—Some little matters concerning Sacchi's company and my protection of them.—A long and tedious illness.—The "Droghe d'Amore" resumed.
I was not destined to escape without further annoyances. A woman wounded in heramour proprebecomes the worst of wild beasts. This I soon discovered; for Mme. Ricci, when she saw I was in earnest, made a point of vexing me, as though, forsooth, she could worry me back into good-will!{249}
That Lent the actors stayed at Venice; and we used to meet at Sacchi's house during the evenings. A game of cards, a plate of fritters, a bottle of wine, and a lavish expenditure of wit and merriment, formed the staple of our recreation. The Ricci had never been in the habit of joining these parties. She did so now in order to launch sarcasms at me. Her rudeness became so intolerable, that, after bearing it in silence for three evenings, I stayed at home. This alarmed the actors, by whom I was regarded as their tutelary genius. They came to me and told me that she had been peremptorily forbidden to show her face again at their reunions.
This did not improve her temper; and her next move was an attempt to draw me into correspondence. First came a letter complaining that my man-servant had spoken insultingly about her to her maid. Of course I paid no attention to such nonsense. Then, about the middle of Lent, arrived a huge epistle in a handwriting I did not recognise. It turned out to be from her husband, who rated me soundly for having outraged his wife by withdrawing my protection. He had the impudence to say that my behaviour was unworthy of a gentleman. The remainder of this voluminous rigmarole consisted of arguments to prove the following thesis:—If a husband approves of the male friends his wife receives, her other male friends have no right to inquire into their character. "Farewell, compliant{250}husband!" cried I, folding up the letter, and laying it aside unanswered.
One morning during Holy Week my servant announced Mme. Ricci's husband. I allowed him to enter, asked him to sit beside me on the sofa, and told my man to bring him chocolate. Looking into the poor fellow's eyes, I could see that he had been forced to pay this visit, and that he was doing his very best to pluck up courage. "We are on the point of leaving for Mantua," he began, "and I am come to pay you my respects, to offer you my wife's regards, and to wish you good health." "You have given yourself unnecessary trouble," I replied; "nevertheless, I am obliged, and I wish you a good journey and a prosperous tour." He kept silence for a minute or so. Then he pulled himself together and began again: "By the way, I wrote you a letter some time since, which has not yet been answered." "You did wrong to write that letter," I rejoined, "and I did well to take no notice of it." Thinking that my indifference was a sign of meekness, he presumed so far as to reply with arrogance: "On the contrary, I did well to write it." I judged it best to change my tone and put the fellow down. So, knitting my brows and looking him hard in the face, I spoke as follows: "You did extremely wrong. Remember that you are in my house. Do not presume upon my civility and forbearance. I am astounded that you have the boldness to pursue me{251}into my own sitting-room, and to bolster up the dirty arguments of your epistle."
The wretch turned pale and sat like a statue. Just at this unlucky minute my servant came in and offered him a cup of chocolate. With trembling hand he took the cup and drank a single mouthful, then put it down upon the salver, saying he did not feel well enough to finish it. When the servant left the room he flung himself upon his knees and begged me to pardon him. "Get up," I said. "I am perfectly aware that you had nothing to do either with that letter or this visit. You are only an emissary, who does not count." Thus encouraged, he entered into a long recital, to which I listened because it gave me some amusement. "I shall tell you the whole truth," he said, "just as if I were kneeling before an altar. Signor Gratarol began to turn my wife's head with his candied orange-peel and Neapolitan bonbons. A box of the latter arrived one day at our house, together with a very flattering billet, expressing the donor's strong desire to be allowed to pay his respects to her. My wife was for sending an answer back by the servant, thanking him for the bonbons, and saying that his visits would be most acceptable. I bade her reflect that this might expose her to slander, and be disagreeable to yourself—the good Count Gozzi, the godfather of our child, our protector and adviser and benefactor for so many years. She called me a fool, and sent the note{252}against my will. You know, Sir Count, that with my wife it is all the same whether I speak or hold my tongue. By all that is sacred, I swear that I have told you the whole truth. Signor Gratarol began and continued his visits both by day and night, without any fault of mine, and without my consent." The opening of this flirtation by the gift of bonbons diverted me; and I sent Ricci's unfortunate husband away with the assurance that I was not angry with him, that Signor Gratarol's visits were of no consequence to me, and that I was firmly resolved not to renew an intimacy with his wife which she had forfeited by her folly.
Two days before Sacchi set out for Mantua, he came to me, and very civilly expressed his disappointment at my having done so little for the troupe with my pen during the past year. I told him that bad health and pressure of business had prevented me from attending to dramatic composition. Then he inquired whether I had not adapted Tirso da Molina's comedy for the Italian theatre. He had heard myDroghe d'Amorehighly praised, especially by Mme. Ricci. I replied that it was true; I had nearly finished the piece, but finding it dull and prolix, I had laid it aside among my waste papers. On his insisting, and saying he should like to hear my play, I consented to read it aloud, and promised to see whether I could not bring myself to complete the last act in the course of the summer.{253}
My health remaining weak, I passed the greater part of this summer at a little country-house I had near Stra upon the Brenta. Here I rapidly recovered strength, more by open-air exercise and rational diet than by drinking the Cila waters recommended by my doctor. In the long idle days of thisvilleggiatura, I set hand once more to theDroghe d'Amore, and finished it with indescribable aversion. Leaving Stra for Padua, I took the play with me, and read it aloud to my friend Massimo, under whose roof I was staying. He listened patiently all through the tedious declamation, praised certain passages of the comedy, and said he thought the chief objection to it was its prodigious length. When I returned to Venice, I made up my mind to put this abortion of my talent on the shelf; but Sacchi would not let it rest. He wrote so urgently upon the subject, that I begged my brother Gasparo to undergo the mortal tedium of hearing and pronouncing judgment on the play. His opinion was that, though it contained some excellent scenes, it too closely resembled myPrincipessa Filosofain parts, and that its length would render it ineffective. The comedy was one of character and sentiments, and had no spectacular novelties to enliven it. However, he promised to read it through, and see whether judicious retrenchments could be made. After ten days or so, I received the manuscript again, with my brother's verdict that nothing could be omitted without breaking{254}the warp on which the plot was woven. Accordingly, I wrote to Sacchi, saying that theDroghe d'Amorewould really not do, and promising some other piece instead. I had, indeed, already planned myMetafisicoandBianca Contessa di Melfi, but had not had the time to dramatise them.
Meanwhile Sacchi came to Venice in a prodigious bustle. Meeting me upon the piazza, he said that Mme. Ricci was about to break her engagement and to go to Paris. I persuaded him to remit the fine of 500 ducats, provided she continued to serve the company until the end of the next Carnival. This arrangement was finally concluded by the intervention of a Venetian gentlewoman of the Valmarana family. So Sacchi had to look out for anotherprima donna. His choice had already fallen on a certain Regina, the daughter of an actor, whom he begged me to go and see. I found the girl decidedly ill-favoured. Still I begged her to recite a piece from myPrincipessa Filosofa. She spoke with an asthmatic voice and the lowest of plebeian accents, made frequent mistakes which spoiled the sense, and was insufferably monotonous in her delivery. I told Sacchi that this young woman would not do for him. But alas! Cupid had played one of his pranks with the octogenarian Don Juan, and Regina was engaged at a salary of 400 ducats, beside special allowances for her outfit. The effects of this girl's introduction into the troupe were disastrous. She proved its evil{255}genius by her bad character and by her ascendancy over thecapocomico, playing no small part in that final dissolution of the company which I shall have to relate.
Ricci returns to Venice.—Her metamorphosis and my reflections on it.—Sacchi entreats to have the "Droghe d'Amore," and I abandon it to him, in order to save myself from persecution.—The play is read by me before the actors.
Autumn brought the actors back again as usual; and I composed a prologue for the opening of their theatre, which was recited by Mme. Ricci. I used to meet that actress in the rooms behind the scenes, and was much struck by the singular change which had come over her. She continued to do everything she could to annoy me; and I kept wondering how it was that she had managed to conceal her true nature so cleverly during the five years of our friendship. Now she openly bragged about the presents she received; the wax-candles which gave light to her apartment; the exquisite wines, perfect coffee, boxes of bonbons, refined chocolate, and other dainties which furnished her repasts. She even went to the length of inviting that old satyr Sacchi to her house,{256}adding, in order to insult me: "You will find no tiresome moral preachers on theconvenancesto frighten you away!" While as anxious as ever to lure me back, she piqued herself on letting it be understood that she had given me my dismissal. Indeed, I found it somewhat difficult to treat the woman with that reserved civility which I wished to preserve toward her in public.
The amusement I enjoyed in studying her new ways and manners compensated for these gnat-bites. She had become in six months shameless and affected, as meddlesome and garrulous as a magpie. She pretended to have learned all kinds of important sciences, and gravely informed us that the gamerocambolwas derived from two English words. She had left off wearing drawers, she said, because it was healthy to ventilate the body, adding details of the most comical indecency. Always dreaming about Paris, Venice had become a kind of sewer in her opinion. The Venetians and Italians in general were a race of stupid mediocrities, unenlightened and insupportable. "I am dying to get to Paris!" she exclaimed; "there the rich financiers fling purses full of louis d'or at actresses with as little regard as one flings a pear in Italy." And then to show how well she had got rid of prejudices: "Ah! blessed power of making love without the checks of a misguided education! To make love through our lifetime is the supreme happiness of mortals!" Not{257}a word or a thought for her husband and two children.
COVIELLO (1550)Illustrating the Italian Commedia dell'Arte, or Impromptu ComedyCOVIELLO (1550) Illustrating the Italian Commedia dell'Arte, or Impromptu Comedy
Every evening she filled the theatre with such a potent smell of musk, that people complained and said it gave them the headache. "What a prejudice!" she cried with a grimace in what she thought the French style. "At Paris everything smells of musk, down to the very trees in the Tuilleries gardens, against which ladies may have leant a moment." She was taking French lessons; and her retentive memory made her catch up phrases, which she flung about with volubility. Paris entered into everything she said. She modelled her gait and action and tone of voice upon what she conceived to be the Parisian manner, producing a most laughable caricature which spoiled her acting. I felt really sorry for her, while observing this progressive deterioration in her art. She had been an excellent comedian in the Italian style, and would certainly have been appreciated on the stage at Paris. Now she had become an ape of the French race, surcharged with affectation, and unsuccessful in her travesty. It is impossible, I thought, that the Parisians, who require an Italian actress, and not a mongrel imitation of themselves, will put up with her. This prognostication, to my sincere regret, was verified when she appeared in that metropolis.
We had reached the first days of November in the year 1776, and Sacchi's receipts were languishing.{258}He had been spoiled by getting gratis at my hands two or three pieces annually, which found favour with the public. This made him careless about supplying himself with novelties; while I was so engaged with law business that I had no time to dramatise myMetafisicoandBianca di Melfi. In fact, I had nothing on hand but theDroghe d'Amore. Pestered by perpetual applications for this comedy, in an evil moment I drew it from its sepulchre and tossed it over to thecapocomico. I told him that he might take the manuscript as a gift, but that if the play failed before the public, as I thought it would, I should never exercise my pen again on compositions for the stage.
It was impossible to foresee that a chain of untoward circumstances would convert this harmless drama into an indecent personal satire upon Signor Gratarol. Mendacious and vindictive meddling on the part of an infuriated actress, false steps and ill-considered opposition on the part of the man whom she deceived, the pique of great folk who disliked him, and the ingenuity of comedians eager for pecuniary gains, effected the transformation. I was placed in a false light—shown up to public curiosity as the prime agent in a piece of vulgar retaliation, the victim of a weak and jealous fancy. If I could have divined what lay beyond the scope of divination, I swear to God that I should have flung that comedy into the flames rather than let it become the property of acapocomico.{259}
Far be it from me to assert that Gratarol was not brought upon the stage in that very comedy of my creation. He certainly was. But he owed this painful distinction to his own bad management, to the credulity with which he drank the venom of a spiteful woman's tongue, to the steps he took for prohibiting my play which roused the curiosity of the whole city and gave it asuccès de scandale, to the enmity of great people whom he had imprudently defamed, and finally to the artifices of an acting company who saw their way to making money out of these conflicting interests. I was victimised, as will appear in the course of my narration, for the truth of which I can refer to a crowd of worthy witnesses. I lost control over my play. I saw it bandied about from hand to hand. Condemned to inactivity by magistrates of the State, I had it turned before my eyes, against my will, into a vile engine for inflicting pain upon a person of whom I had never once thought while composing it. Indeed, the part I played in the affair would furnish forth the subject of another comedy, with me for protagonist.
Well, soon after I had placed the manuscript in Sacchi's hands, he told me that it had passed the official revision and had been licensed for the stage. Only some eight or ten lines were struck out. This happens to every play which is referred to the censors of the State. Nothing occurred which called its character in question, or suggested that it was{260}more than a comedy with traits of satire upon society in general.
Sacchi announced the new play to the public, and its capricious title whetted their interest. I distributed the rôles between the actors of the troupe; but later on, this assignment of parts was altered, without my knowledge or consent, in order to fit the cap which Signor Gratarol constructed for himself upon its fabricator's head. The actors saw their way to pointing a caricature, undesigned by me, by shifting the rôle of Don Adone from one player to another. Looking only to receipts at the door of the theatre, they were dead to every other consideration.
After distributing the rôles, I had to read the comedy aloud. This is necessary; for players are so made among us that, unless they catch the spirit of their parts from the author, they are sure to spoil them by some misconception of their values. The reading took place at Sacchi's lodgings. Mme. Ricci appeared in all her glory, and established herself at my right hand. I shall not enlarge upon the characters and plot of theDroghe d'Amore, because the play will be found among my works in print. Suffice it to say, that when I had toiled onward to the sixteenth scene of the first act, where Don Adone makes his appearance on the stage, Mme. Ricci began to writhe upon her seat. One would have imagined that she had never heard the play{261}before, and that this character took her by surprise. Yet more than a year ago she had been introduced to Don Adone, as I have said above, at my own house.[59]
I continued my reading. But whenever Don Adone turned up—and his part is merely episodical in the drama—Mme. Ricci marked her agitation by still more extraordinary signs of impatience. She muttered between her teeth and moved about upon her chair, in a way which made me think that she was indisposed. At last I turned to her and said: "Madam, you seem to be more bored than I am by this reading!" The only answer which I got was a shrug of the shoulders, a turn of the body to the side away from me, and an exclamation: "Oh, 'tis nothing, nothing!"
The reading continued. At every word which Don Adone uttered, Mme. Ricci repeated her grimaces and contortions of the body. I bluntly reminded her that she knew all about this personage twelve months and more ago, and that she had urged me to complete the play. Forced to say something, she put on a sour sardonic smile, and murmured: "Well, well! That Don Adone of yours, that Don Adone of yours!"
Like lightning, the truth flashed upon my brain. I saw what she was up to. In spite of having been, as it were, an accomplice in my comedy those many months before, she meant to fix the character of Don Adone upon Signor Gratarol. This was her plan for{262}rousing his resentment against myself, for revenging herself for my indifference, and for stirring up a scandal worse than all the humdrum scenes my flat comedy contained.
I finished my reading, as may be imagined, in a perfunctory manner, flung the manuscript down upon the table, and told the assembled actors that I did not expect the piece to succeed. It was far too feeble and too prolix. All the same, I had given it away to them, and they must do as they liked with it.
Sacchi, on the spot, gave orders for the copying of the several parts, which were to be distributed as I had settled. The party then broke up, and I kept my eyes upon Signora Ricci. She seemed in a great hurry to get away, as though some one were waiting for her, and I saw that she was bent on mischief.
The history of the "Droghe d'Amore."—In spite of my endeavours to the contrary, Gratarol, by his imprudent conduct, forces it upon the stage.—It is represented for the first time.—The town talks, and a scandal is created.
The impressions left upon my mind after this night's reading were painful. I expected some disturbance of the peace through the malice of that woman, who had now become irreconcilably antagonistic.{263}Meeting Sacchi next morning on the Piazza di San Marco, I asked him whether he had noticed the strange conduct of Mme. Ricci on the previous evening. He said that he had certainly been aware of something wrong, but that he could not ascribe it to any cause. Then I communicated my suspicion. "The actress," said I, "means to persuade Signor Gratarol that he is being satirised under the character of Don Adone." "What is her object?" exclaimed Sacchi. "That I will tell you briefly," I replied: "she wants to gain credit with her new friend, to inflict an injury on your troupe, and to cause me annoyance by stirring up a quarrel between me and the gentleman in question." "It is not impossible," said Sacchi, "that she is planning something of the kind. But what are your reasons for thinking so?" "If you had only been attentive to her mutterings and attitudinisings last evening, when the part of Don Adone was being read, you would not put that question," I answered. "I ask you, therefore, as a friend, to withdraw my play until the next season. Lent will soon arrive. The Ricci will go to Paris, and Signor Gratarol to Naples. You can make use of theDroghe d'Amorelater on, when its appearance will cause no scandal." After some persuasion, he promised to fulfil my wishes; and next morning he told me that the play had been suspended.
Here the affair would have rested if Signor Gratarol, poisoned by his mistress's report, had not{264}taken a step fatal for his own tranquillity. She returned, as I had imagined, from the reading of my play, and told him that he was going to be exposed upon the stage in the person of Don Adone. He set all his influence at work to prevent the public exhibition of the comedy. The result was that, four days afterwards, Sacchi came to me in great confusion and told me that Signor Francesco Agazi, censor of plays for the Magistrato sopra alla Bestemmia, had sent for theDroghe d'Amore. A new revision was necessitated by certain complaints which had been brought against the rôle of Don Adone.
"So then," said I, "you have given the manuscript to Signor Agazi?" "No," he answered; "I was afraid that I might lose it altogether. I told that gentleman that I had lent it to a certain lady.[60]He smiled and said that when she had done with it he expected to have it in his hands again. In fact, not wishing to be proved a liar in this matter, I took the play to the lady I have mentioned, related the whole story about Gratarol and Ricci, and recommended myself to her protection." Sacchi could{265}not have taken any step more calculated to give importance to this incident. I said as much to him upon the spot; predicted that the lady, who was known to have a grudge against Signor Gratarol, would do her best to circulate the scandal; assured him that the whole town would blaze with rumour, that I should be discredited, and that he might find himself in a very awkward position. "The tribunals of the State," I added, "are not to be trifled with by any of your circumventions."
Signor Gratarol had made a great mistake. Instead of listening to the gossip of an actress, and then setting the machinery of the State in motion by private appeals to persons of importance, he ought to have come at once to me. I should have assured him of the simple truth, and theDroghe d'Amorewould have appeared without doing any dishonour to either of us.
His manœuvring had the effect of putting all Venice upon thequi vive, and placing an instrument of retaliation against him in the hands of powerful enemies. The noble lady, Caterina Dolfin Tron, to whom Sacchi took my comedy, read it through, and read it to her friends, and passed it about among a clique of high-born gentlemen and ladies. None of them found any mark of personal satire in the piece. All of them condemned Gratarol for his self-consciousness, and accused him of seeking to deprive the public of a rational diversion, while moving heaven{266}and earth to reverse the decision of the censors of the State.
In two days the town buzzed of nothing but my wretched drama, Gratarol, and me. It was rumoured that I had composed a sanguinary satire. Not only Gratarol, but a crowd of gentlemen and ladies were to be brought upon the scene. A whole theatre, with its pit, boxes, stage, and purlieus could not have contained the multitude of my alleged victims. Everybody knew their exact names and titles. Neighbours laid their heads together, quarrelled, denied, maintained, argued, whispered in each other's ears, waxed hot and angry, told impossible anecdotes, contradicted their own words, and, what was most amusing, everybody drew his information from an infallible source.
One thing they held for certain—that I had made Gratarol the protagonist of my satire. That became a fixed idea, which it only wanted his own imprudence to turn into a fact.
Knowing pretty well where the real point of the mischief lay, I determined to act, if possible, upon the better feelings of Mme. Dolfin Tron.[61]I had enjoyed the privilege of her acquaintance for many{267}years. But my unsociable and unfashionable habits made me negligent of those attentions which are expected from a man of quality. I did not pay her the customary visits; and when we met, she was in the habit of playfully saluting me with the title ofBear. My brother Gasparo, on the contrary, saw her every day, and she bestowed on him the tender epithet ofFather. Such being our respective relations, I thought it best to apply to him.
I asked my brother, then, to do all he could to induce this powerful lady to oppose the production of my comedy for at least the present season. Through the machinations of Signora Ricci, against my will, and much to my discredit, the piece was going to create a public scandal, with serious injury to a gentleman whom I had not meant to satirise. My brother, muttering a curse on meddlesome women in general and actresses in particular, undertook the office. He did not succeed. Mme. Tron replied that I was making far too much fuss about nothing, and that my comedy had passed beyond my control. It had become the property of acapocomico, and was at the present moment under the inspection of the State.{268}
Not many days elapsed before I was summoned to the presence of Francesco Agazi, the censor, as I have before observed, for the Signori sopra la Bestemmia.[62]I found him clothed in his magisterial robes, and he began as follows: "You gave a comedy, entitledLe Droghe d'Amore, to the company of Sacchi. I perused it and licensed it for the theatre at S. Salvatore. The comedy has been passed, and must appear. You have no control over it. Pray take no steps to obstruct its exhibition. The magistracy which I serve does not err in judgment." I could not refrain from commenting upon Signor Gratarol's action in this matter, and protesting that I had never meant to satirise the man. He bade me take no heed of persons like Gratarol, whose heads were turned by outlandish fashions. "I made some retrenchments," he added, "in the twelfth scene of the last act of your comedy. They amount, I think, to about ten or twelve verses. These lines expressed sentiments such as are usually maintained by men of Gratarol's sort. You meant them to be understood ironically. But our Venetians will not take them so. What strikes their ear, they retain in its material and literal sense. And they learn much which is mischievous, unknown to them before.—May I parenthetically observe that certain gentlemen want to give orders where they have no right to speak?{269}—I repeat to you that the magistracy which I serve does not err; and I repeat the decree which has been passed." Having spoken these words, Signor Agazi bowed, and left me for his business.
What passed between me and the censor I repeated to friends of mine, who will bear me witness that I found myself estopped in my attempts to suppress the comedy. It had to appear; and Signor Gratarol owed this annoyance to his having powerful enemies.
Unfortunately he did his best to exasperate these enemies. Teodora Ricci, primed by him and parroting his words, went about libelling men and women of the highest rank, whom she had never seen. Phrases of the grossest scurrility were hurled at eminent people by their names. "If Gratarol has committed himself in this way to an actress," said I in my sleeve, "what must he not have let fall to other friends and acquaintances? Such indiscretion marks him out as little fitted for the post of ambassador at Naples or elsewhere."
I have said that I had lost all authority over my wretched drama. I only wanted to see it well hissed on its first appearance, and to bury the annoyances it caused me in a general overthrow. Yet I was obliged to be present at rehearsals. At the first which I attended, I noticed that two of the rôles had been changed. I had given Don Adone to an actor called Luigi Benedetti, and the jealous Don Alessandro to Giovanni Vitalba. Sacchi reversed my disposition{270}of these parts, alleging that Benedetti was better fitted to sustain the character of a furious lover than Vitalba, who was somewhat of a stick. This seemed to me not unreasonable; and I was so accustomed to have my plays cut and hacked about by the actors, that I accepted his decision.
At the second rehearsal, Mme. Ricci asked me negligently if I knew why this alteration had been made. I answered that Sacchi had explained it to my satisfaction. She held her tongue, thinking doubtless that I was well acquainted with certain machinations of which she had fuller knowledge than I.
At last the piece appeared—it was the night of January 10, 1777—at the theatre of S. Salvatore. I went there in good time, and found the entrance thronged with a vast multitude. For three hours people had been clamouring for seats, and the whole house was crammed. They told me that the boxes had been sold at fabulous prices. This might have swelled another playwright's heart with pride. I, on the contrary, was extremely dejected by finding my worst anticipations realised. Pushing my way through the press, which encumbered every passage and clung against the walls, I reached thecoulisseswith much toil.[63]There I saw a swarm of masks begging for{271}places anywhere at any price. "What the deuce is the meaning of this extraordinary concourse?" I exclaimed. The Ricci answered me at once with: "Don't you know? The town has come to see your satire on a certain person." I put her down by saying bluntly that more than a year ago she heard my play, and knew that there was no personal satire in it. It was not my fault if diabolical intrigues and a succession of blunders had given it a false complexion. She dropped her eyes. I turned my back, and took refuge in a box I had upon the third row of the theatre.
Going up the staircase, I caught sight before me of Gratarol's unhappy wife, and heard her chattering to certain gentlemen she met upon the way: "I wanted to see my husband on the stage." These words of the poor deserted woman enlightened me as to the expectation of the public. Yet why was the whole house so intoxicated? why did a wife look forward to the spectacle of her husband's caricature? I can only explain this phenomenon by remembering the corruption of our age. Women seduced and left to shift for themselves, rivals supplanted in their love-affairs, jealous husbands, wives abandoned and heart-broken, form an inflammable audience for such a piece as theDroghe d'Amoreunder the notorious circumstances of its first appearance.
Sacchi joined me in my box; and casting my eyes over the sea of faces, I soon perceived Signor Gratarol with a handsome woman at his side. He had come to{272}air his philosophy, but I trembled for him. The curtain rose, and the play proceeded with great spirit. All the actors did their best. I was satisfied with their performance, and the audience applauded. At length, toward the close of the first act, Don Adone appeared. Then, and not till then, I understood the reason of the change of parts by which this rôle had fallen to Vitalba.[64]He was a good fellow, but a poor artist; and unfortunately he resembled Signor Gratarol pretty closely both in figure and colour of hair. The knavery of the comedians had furnished him with clothes cut and trimmed exactly on the pattern of those worn by Gratarol. He had been taught to imitate his mincing walk and other gestures. The caricature was complete; and I had to confess that Signor Gratarol had actually been parodied upon the stage in my comedy of theDroghe d'Amore. Innocent as I was of any wish to play the part of Aristophanes in modern Venice, the fact was obvious; and the audience greeted Vitalba with a storm of applause and rounds of clapping which deafened our ears.
I turned sharply upon Sacchi, and complained bitterly of the liberty he had taken with my unoffending comedy. He only shrugged his shoulders, and said he was afraid that an exhibition which promised so well for his money-box might be suppressed{273}as a public scandal. That was all I could extort from him; and the play advanced to the middle of the third act, accompanied with universal approval. Whenever Don Adone entered and spoke a line or two, he was greeted with thunders of applause. I still hoped for those salutary hisses which might have damned the piece. The audience had been crammed together now for full seven hours; they numbered some two thousand persons, and were largely composed of people from the lower ranks of life. It was no wonder that they began to be restless, fought together, tried to leave the house, and raised a din which drowned the voices of the actors. Don Adone made his last exit, and there was nothing to excite interest but the dregs of an involved and stationary plot. The hubbub rose to a tumult, and my hopes rose with it. The actors gabbled through the last scenes in helpless unintelligible dumb-show. At last the drop-scene fell upon a storm of cat-calls, howls, hisses, and vociferations. I turned to Sacchi and said: "Your vile machinations deserved this retribution. Now you will admit that I prophesied the truth about my play." "Pooh!" he answered, "the play took well enough up to a certain point. It is only necessary to shorten it a little, and we shall not have the same scene another night." Then he left the box all in a heat, without waiting for my reply and without even bidding me good-night.{274}
Gratarol tries to stop the performance of the play, which is no longer in my power.—Intervention of Signor Carlo Maffei.—Conference with him and Gratarol at my house.—The worst hour I ever lived through.
Next morning the actors came to me with joy beaming on their faces, and announced that theDroghe d'Amorewas going to be performed again. The town insisted on its repetition; and they had brought the manuscript, hoping I would condescend to make some alterations and curtailments.
Much as I disliked the news, I was glad at least to get my composition back. I made the players promise to modify Don Adone's costume, so that the effect of caricature might be reduced, and then sat down to hack away at the comedy. Besides shortening it at the expense of structure, plot, and coherence of parts, I carefully erased all passages which might seem to have some bearing upon Signor Gratarol. In this way, by mutilating my work and changing the costume of Don Adone, I flattered myself that the illusion of the public might be dissipated. Vain hope! The cancer had taken firm hold, and was beyond the reach of any cautery.
TheDroghe d'Amorewas repeated upon four successive{275}nights to crowded audiences.[65]Don Adone, in spite of my endeavours, still formed the principal attraction. All I could do was to persuade Sacchi to replace it by another piece upon the fifth evening. I kept away from the theatre after the second representation; and on the morning of the fifth it gave me satisfaction, while crossing the Rialto, to read placards announcing an improvised comedy at S. Salvatore. "Sacchi," said I, "has kept his word." But this was not the case. Plenty of people stopped to tell me what had happened at the theatre the night before. Just as the curtain was going up and a full house was calling for the spectacle, a messenger arrived to say that Mme. Ricci had fallen downstairs, hurting her leg so badly that she could not move. An indescribable tumult arose; shrieks, screams, curses, squabbles, hustlings,—all the commotion of an eager audience deprived of its legitimate amusement.
When I reached the piazza, several actors of the troupe confirmed the news in all its details. They added that Ricci's husband had to go before the footlights in order to assure the public of his wife's{276}accident. But nobody believed that this was more than a ruse concocted by Signor Gratarol to stop the play. Surgeons were sent to Mme. Ricci's house, who reported her in perfect health. Signor Vendramini forwarded an account of the disturbance at his theatre to the tribunals of the State, and they decreed that the comedy was to be repeated on the night of the 17th. An officer of the Council of Ten received orders to attend Mme. Ricci to the theatre on that occasion, and see that she performed her duty.
Thus Gratarol's unworthy stratagem made matters infinitely worse for us. I only discovered at a later date that he was seeking to gain time for dark and treacherous machinations against my person.
On the 15th of January I found myself, as usual, at S. Salvatore, expecting one of those old-fashioned improvised comedies which never fail to divert me. My excellent friend, Signor Carlo Maffei, stepped up, and begged for a few moments' serious conversation. I assented; we entered his box; he carefully secured the door, and made the following communication. But before proceeding to relate what passed between us, I must describe a few traits of this worthy gentleman's character. He is the very soul of honour, scrupulously upright in all his dealings, incapable of trickery or meanness, but gifted with such tenderness of heart and sensibility that he sometimes falls into mistakes of judgment about people who are not distinguished by his own sterling{277}qualities. Signor Maffei only erred in admiring me and my writings beyond their merits. Yet he lived a very different life from mine. He was a prominent member of that society which is calledbon tonandthe great worldat Venice. Partaking freely of its amusements, he had formed an intimacy with Signor Gratarol. Indeed, he must have known that gentleman several years before he became my friend. This accounts for the proposal which I shall now report.
"Gratarol's misfortunes," he began, "have made a deep and painful impression on my feelings. He came a little while ago to visit me, and literally drew tears from my eyes. He is in a state bordering on distraction. What he came to ask was whether I could undertake to arrange a conference between you and him apropos of that unfortunate comedy. It is indifferent to him whether we meet at my house or at yours."
When I heard this, I felt sure that some scorpion must be concealed beneath so tardy an attempt at reconciliation. I told Maffei so, and asked why Gratarol had not sought me out at the commencement, when Mme. Ricci was pouring her insidious venom into his ears. Now it was too late to do any good. I had lost the last thread of authority over my play. The Supreme Tribunal had taken cognisance of the affair, and we were both powerless to stir a finger. All the same, at Maffei's request, I was{278}willing to meet Gratarol, although I could not conceive what object he had in ferreting me out.
If I had but known, while my friend was pleading for him, that this horned serpent had just presented an information to the Inquisitors of State, denouncing me in person, and deliberately aiming at my honour and my safety, I should have returned a very different answer.[66]
In the end, after enumerating all that had occurred in the long history of my unlucky drama, I gave my consent, suggesting at the same time that the meeting had better not take place in my house, and expressly begging Signor Maffei to let Gratarol clearly understand beforehand that I was utterly helpless with regard to theDroghe d'Amore.
Maffei left the box at once, repaired to Signor Gratarol, and soon returned with the answer that his friend was absolutely determined to come to my house for the interview.
I spent a large part of that night in racking my brains to imagine what Gratarol could possibly hope to gain by this new step of his. Giving the problem{279}up as insoluble, I laid a scheme of my own, the only one which seemed to me at all practicable, and which I resolved to propose to him upon the morning of the 16th. It was as follows. I should write a prologue addressed to the public, saying that my comedy was going to be stopped after the evening of the 17th, at my own request, because it had been turned to bad account and misinterpreted, to the injury of myself and persons whom I esteemed as friends. This prologue could be printed and distributed before the performance of the play. Then Signor Gratarol and I would go together, and take our places amicably side by side in a front box of the theatre. The whole world would see that we were not at enmity, and I should be able to convince him, as the play proceeded, that Don Adone was not intended to be a personal satire on himself.
The plan approved itself to my judgment, and I went to sleep, persuaded that I had found a satisfactory way out of our worst difficulties.
Next morning, the 16th of January, I rose betimes, entered my study, and hurriedly composed a little prologue of twenty-four lines. Hardly had I finished the last verse, when my servant announced Signor Gratarol in a sonorous voice. Yes, there was the raging Cerberus Gratarol, accompanied by the gentle lamb Maffei! And all hopes of concealing this visit from the public had vanished. My servant had their names upon his lips, and Venice would soon be{280}saying that my humiliated enemy had gone to prostrate himself at his persecutor's feet.[67]
Gratarol did not make his entrance like a suitor. He was closely masked, and came swaggering into my tiny workroom with the swaying gait which is called "English style." When he raised his mask, the steam from his face rose to the ceiling, and I could see by his rolling eyes, quivering lips, spasms of pain, and frensied contortions, that the man suffered like the Titan with the vulture preying on his liver.
We all three took seats, and Signor Gratarol opened the conference by saying: "I have come to visit you, not as a suitor, but as a reasoner upon the merits of this case. Pray do not interrupt the thread of my argument, but give me patient hearing to the end." For upwards of an hour he thundered and declaimed like an infuriate Demosthenes against what he chose to call my "vindictive comedy." "Not that the personage of Don Adone has the least resemblance to my character," he added, "but that you meant it to hurt and outrage me." Starting on this note, he proceeded to dilate upon the splendour of his birth and education, his widespread celebrity, the offices of State he had discharged, his election as ambassador{281}at Naples, and the magnificent career which lay before him. "From the height of all this glory," said he, "I have fallen in a moment, and become the public laughing-stock through your comedy!" Then he touched upon his enemies among the great, and alluded significantly to a certain lady who had vowed his ruin. That led up to a moving picture of his present distress: "When I pass along the streets or cross the piazza in my magisterial robes, the very scum andcanailleswarm around me, leave their shops, and point me out as the secretary to the Senate who is being turned to ridicule in yourDroghe d'Amore." He writhed upon his seat and tears fell from his eyes as he spoke these words, never reflecting that it was notmyplay, buthis ownbad management which had brought these tragi-comic woes upon him.
Resuming the thread of his discourse, he imprudently let out the fact that during the last few days he had presented a petition—to what tribunal he did not say—for the suppression of my piece. Then, hastily catching himself up, as though he had gone farther than he meant, "In short," he added, "every door has been shut against me!" I was not so stupid as not to guess the awful tribunal to which an ambassador-elect had applied, and by which he had been rejected. Opening my eyes wide, I turned them meaningly on my worthy friend Maffei, as though to ask: "What devil of a visitor have you brought here for my torment?"{282}
At length the pith of the oration came to light. Admitting me to be susceptible of justice, humane feeling, religion, honour, magnanimity, and a host of other virtues, Gratarol laid it down as an axiom that "I was able and that I ought to stop the performance of the comedy upon the evening of the 17th, and so long as the world lasted." "Ableandought," exclaimed I to myself; "when I have made it clear to Maffei that I cannot stir a finger to prevent the play, and have already been rebuked by a respectable magistrate for attempting to do so!" I perceived that Maffei had omitted to inform Gratarol of my powerlessness. However, I determined to hear his speech to the end in patience. He now proceeded to demonstrate my power by asserting that Sacchi was not in a position to refuse any of my requests;[68]Sacchi had declared he would be governed by me in the matter of the comedy; Sacchi was independent of the patrician Vendramini; it was consequently my duty to put pressure upon Sacchi; all I had to do was to go to Sacchi and forbid the performance. "If you do not do so," he continued, "you will become deservedly an object of hatred to your country; everybody regards you as the author of my misfortunes, and the public{283}is on the point of turning round to take my side against you." I knew that this was unluckily only too probable; but the painful position in which we were both placed had been created, not by my malice, but by his credulity and blundering.
When this oration came to an end, I replied as briefly and as calmly as I could. I began by observing that even if I had the power to stop the play, I should expose myself to the greatest misconceptions. Everybody would believe that it had been suspended by an order from the magistracy in consequence of its libellous character. But that was not the real question at issue. The question was whether I had or had not the power to do this. By a succinct enumeration of all the incidents connected with the revision of the comedy, I proved that neither myself nor Sacchi could interfere with a performance officially commanded and announced for to-morrow evening. Gratarol put in abruptly: "What you are saying is irrelevant and inconsequential. My reasoning has made it certain that you can and ought to stop the play to-morrow and in perpetuity." At this point I begged to remind him that he had recently applied to a supreme tribunal—by his own admission, let drop in the hurry of his cogent reasoning—and that "the door had been shut in his face." It was of little use to argue with Signor Gratarol. To every thing I said he kept exclaiming: "Nonsense, nonsense! You can and must stop the performance."{284}