THE RICCI RECITES BEFORE GOZZI AND SACCHIOriginal Etching by Ad. LalauzeTHE RICCI RECITES BEFORE GOZZI AND SACCHI Original Etching by Ad. Lalauze
When the trial-piece was finished, I paid her some deserved compliments, and sought to inspire her with a courage which seemed lacking in her demeanour. The other actresses hung upon my words; but Sacchi, more attentive to his interests than to what I was saying, turned toward me and spoke: "Signor Conte, I have engaged this young woman at your advice; pray bear in mind that you have a duty to perform—that is, of making her useful to our company." I replied that I would do the utmost in my power, both for him and for her, as soon as I had made myself acquainted with her real gifts for comedy and tragedy. On the faces of the other actresses I read a sullen sadness and a disposition to squirt poison.
The company was bound for Mantua. Signora Ricci begged for my assistance in studying the new parts assigned to her during the few days which remained before they left Venice. I complied; and hardly a day passed without my going to her lodgings, and giving her the instructions I thought needful. Feeling my honour pledged by what I had said to Derbes and Signora Manzoni, and wishing to establish a strong troupe in Cavaliere Vendramini's theatre, I had pronounced a good opinion of young Ricci's future, and I was sincerely anxious not to find it faulty. She received me with affability{178}and an air of satisfaction. As the days went on, I discovered in her gifts above the average.
Sometimes I found her plunged in sadness; and on inquiring the reason, she told me that she saw certain ruin staring her in the face. She had entered a company of actresses and actors related by blood, and all allied against her. She was alone, without protection and support. Her mother had reproved and terrified her for having accepted this position, prophesying that she would be discredited and driven out of Venice, to the loss of all the fame which she had gained in other cities. I laughed at her fears, told her that her presentiments were phantoms, and tried to make her believe the great falsehood that real merit always ends by overcoming obstacles. I promised to write pieces adapted to her talents. If she could but once make herself necessary to the company by winning the favour of the public, all her difficulties would vanish. But this could only be achieved by conquering her trepidation and steeling her mind against untoward circumstances.
The respect I enjoyed in Sacchi's troupe for past favours conferred and future benefits expected impressed her mind; and she resolved to cultivate my friendship as her only stay. Her poverty moved my compassion; and I liked her civil hearty ways of greeting me, which seemed sincere. I wanted to study her disposition in order to compose parts suited{179}for her; but time was short, and I could not do much. Meanwhile, my visits and attentions roused the jealousy of the other actresses. They used to question me with affected nonchalance upon the Ricci's talent; confessed they saw great faults in her, and doubted whether she could ever be of service to the company; but ingenuously added that they hoped they were mistaken. Seeing through their artifice, I repeated my favourable prognostications, and engaged myself to secure the fulfilment of my prophecies.
It was then that calumnies began to fly abroad against my poor new pupil's moral character. That was only what had to be expected. Everybody knew the reports for facts, and nobody had set them going. I have said that my habit of protecting the persecuted amounted to a vice. Now that she was attacked in her honour, I vowed with greater fervour to defend and rehabilitate her.
The troupe departed in due course of time for Mantua; thence they passed to Verona, where the Ricci was delivered of a baby, which Heaven in kindness removed from this world. Letters arrived from these cities depreciating her talents, accusing her of invincible defects, and prejudicing the public mind against her. Meanwhile, the partisans of two able actresses in the rival company at S. Samuele were not idle; and I foresaw that I should have formidable obstacles to overcome before I succeeded in establishing{180}her reputation. This only made me the more obstinate.
Not being thoroughly acquainted as yet with her character and special gifts, I composed a drama calledLa Innamorata da Vero.[38]My object was to place her in different lights, and to give her the opportunity of hitting the public taste in one point or another. She had to play the part of a lady in love, exiled, forced to disguise herself as a waiter, then as a gipsy, then as a soldier, then as a gentleman of quality, in order to hide from the pursuit of justice and to remain faithful to her passionate attachment. At the least I hoped that great pains in the performance of this rôle might win for her indulgence and favour. I had reason to see that I was mistaken in my expectations and my judgment. The piece, though it proved successful in itself, was not adapted to the Ricci. Sacchi, however, wrote about it and the actress enthusiastically from Mantua, where it was exhibited.
I shall now have to describe the début of this young artist at Venice, the difficulties we met with, the triumph which finally confirmed my prophecies, and the friendship which I maintained with her for the space of six years. Many of my friends have asked for the real history of this friendship. It was always my habit to waste no breath in talking, but to use up several pens without fatigue in{181}writing. I shall, therefore, very likely be too long and prolix in my narrative of a friendship, which folk are quite at liberty to call love if they like. Since it occupied six years of my life, I cannot omit it; but every one is at liberty to skip the following chapters if they find them tedious.[39]
Teodora Ricci makes her début at Venice without marked success.—My reasons for feeling engaged in honour to support her.
My histrionic phalanx returned to Venice, and took possession for the first time of the theatre at S. Salvatore, deprived of one of their best actors, Derbes. The managers of the company wished to keep the public in suspense about the new actress for the first few nights. This is the common policy of such people. They reason thus: "We are all of us novelties at the beginning of the season. Let us keep the new actor in reserve to stimulate the{182}public when our own attractions fall off. Come what may, we are sure to have our purses full that night at least." Desire of gain is their only motive principle.
At last the time came for poor Ricci to be exhibited. The flaming announcement ofnew actress,new play,La Innamorata da Vero, drew a full house. My piece was well received; but the Ricci was voted a barely tolerable artiste. This pleased the other actresses of the troupe and amused me, who had formed a very decided opinion of her real ability. She next appeared as the Queen of England in the old play of theConte d'Essex. Poorly dressed, she raised no applause, although she acted well; and her capital sentence seemed to be irrevocable.
About this time Sacchi asked me to translate a French play calledFajel,[40]in which he proposed to give the part of Gabrielle to the débutante Ricci. I remember that I scribbled off this version in the small rooms of the theatre while my friends were acting; an earthen pipkin with some ink in it and a dirty stump of a pen, supplied by the green-room man, helped me through it in a few evenings.
Before it appeared I chose to have my translation published, together with an essay inveighing against the habit of importing plays from France. The stir caused by this essay, together with other circumstances, drew a large house on the first night of{183}Fajel. Ricci sustained the part of Gabrielle admirably; but it so happened that Signora Manzoni had recently been acting a nearly identical rôle at the theatre of S. Angelo, and her partisans determined to crush the débutante, whom they considered a presumptuous rival. This third failure made her ruin palpable to every eye.
Fervid and impetuous by nature, proud as Lucifer, and intensely ambitious, she chafed and wept, took to her bed, and raged there like a lioness, cursing the hour when she had joined Sacchi's troupe and set her foot in Venice. As far as possible, she concealed the true cause of her fury, and dwelt on family difficulties, her poverty, and a new confinement in prospect. To my attempts at consolation, though flattering and reasonable, she turned a deaf ear.
It was then that, having gained a perfect knowledge of her character, I composed myPrincipessa Filosofa,[41]precisely with a view to her. When I read it to the company, they broke forth into their usual extravagant laudations. But just at this time they were plotting the removal of the Ricci; and the actresses most interested in expelling her from the troupe raised obstacles against thePrincipessabeing put upon the stage. They buzzed about from ear to ear that my drama was languid and tiresome. I had omitted the four masks, and had constructed the piece with the sole object of bolstering up an actress{184}already out of credit and rejected by the public. The Ricci chafed with rage; while I continued to laugh, knowing well that I should find the means of bringing these passion-blinded creatures back to reason.
Just then it happened that the patrician of Venice, Francesco Gritti, one of our best and liveliest pens, translated Piron's tragedy ofGustavus Vasafrom the French.[42]At my request, he gave this play to Sacchi, assigning the part of Adelaide to Teodora Ricci. New difficulties and new intrigues arose among the jealous actresses. These I put down with a high hand, the play in question being not my own, but my distinguished friend's donation to the company. La Ricci learned her part with diligence and ease. Her chief anxiety was about her costume; for the managers refused to make her any advances on this score, and her rivals, who took subordinate parts in the tragedy, were straining all the resources of their lengthier purse to outshine her by the wardrobe. I amused myself enormously at their ill-founded expectations. When the night arrived, the play was very decently got up, and the Ricci entered on the scene far better dressed than any of her comrades.Gustavus Vasahad a decided{185}success; and the Ricci, who played Adelaide well, but certainly not better than the three parts which had well-nigh ruined her, was encouraged by a fair amount of applause. I could see how much good this little gleam of sunshine did her.
Meanwhile days flew by without anything being said about myPrincipessa Filosofa. I thereupon determined to try what a little artifice could do. I began by confiding to some of our actors that I could not resist the wish to see this piece upon the stage; and that appreciating Sacchi's reasons for not venturing to take the risk of it, I was thinking of offering myPrincipessato the company at S. Angelo. Signora Manzoni, I added, seemed to be admirably fitted for the leading part. No sooner was it whispered that I intended to follow Derbes to the rival camp, than marvellous alacrity began to be displayed. Sacchi, always violent and excessive, insisted that thePrincipessa Filosofashould be got up and ready for representation in the course of a few days. In fact, this piece appeared upon the 8th of February 1772. The Ricci, carefully coached by me, sustained the title-rôle with astonishing spirit. She was welcomed with thunders of applause; and a run of eighteen nights to overflowing houses established her reputation as an artist of incomparable energy and spirit. This joint triumph of author and actress made the latter necessary to Sacchi's company. Yet some of her comrades persisted in regarding her{186}with covered rancour. They never acknowledged her talents, and ascribed her success to the rôle I had composed for her.
A pliant disposition is apt to neglect the dictates of reflection.—I proceed with my narrative regarding the Ricci and myself.
If the company loaded me with gratitude, Teodora Ricci was not behindhand with the same sweet incense. She professed herself wholly and simply indebted to my zeal, good management, and friendship for her victory. She did everything in her power, and laid herself out in every way to secure my daily visits. So long as I frequented her house, she felt safe from her persecutors; and her main ambition was to commit me to an open and deliberate partiality. She did not, however, know the true characters of her comrades, nor yet my fundamental principles and temperament; nor, what was worse, did she know herself.
Had I declared that open partiality which she desired, it is certain that I should have exposed her to still more trying enmities and persecutions. The managers of the troupe, governed exclusively by calculations of interest, would have felt themselves{187}compelled to curry favour with me by indulging her in all her whims, demands, breaches of discipline, and a thousand feminine caprices. Nothing could be more alien to my real character than to make myself the proud and domineering protector of one actress to the injury of her companions. Besides, her views and mine were so fundamentally at variance upon some elementary points of conduct, that I doubted whether a liaison between us could ever be of long duration. Light-headed, vain, and sensitive to flattery, she had no regard for prudence and propriety; nor did she recognise those faults in herself which were always involving her in difficulties. I knew, moreover, that characters like hers must sooner or later incline to those who caress their foibles and pervert their judgment, while they come to regard their real friends and honest counsellors as tiresome pedants. She had no grounds for believing that I was in love with her. Yet, such was her self-assurance, that she interpreted my kind offices on her behalf into signs of submission to her charms. Finally, though I was far from believing all she said about her affection for my person, I determined to extend to her a cordial friendship.
There are two classes of sinners, whom the world, however dissolute, will always hold in abhorrence—the shameless cynic and the hypocrite. Libertines invariably attempt to confound prudent and respectful friends of women with the odious tribe of hypocrites.{188}[43]I delighted in the theatre. I was known, appreciated, and courted by actors and actresses of all sorts, composers, singers, ballet-dancers. They came to me for advice and support on all occasions. I had to write pieces for them, prologues, epilogues, and what not. I was consulted about the arrangement of pantomimic scenes, dances, words for music. If the innumerable actresses with whom I conversed were to give their testimony, it would appear that I never took advantage of these opportunities to play the part of a seducer or a libertine. These Memoirs I am writing, together with the whole tenour of my life through a long course of years, suffice to clear me from the imputation of hypocrisy. Some of my readers will probably suppose that I am making a vain parade of philosophy in order to gain credit for virtues I did not possess. Others will call me a simpleton for not availing myself more freely of my exceptional position among the beauties of the stage. What I am going to relate concerning my friendship for the Ricci will show that I erred upon the side of simplicity and folly. It was my fixed intention to benefit her, and at the same time to benefit the troupe I had taken under my protection, by making her an able artist and verifying my own opinion of her talents in the teeth of jealousy and opposition.
She had spirit, a good voice, a retentive memory,{189}extraordinary rapidity of perception, and a fine figure, which she knew how to set off to the best advantage. On the other hand, she was inattentive to the conduct of a dialogue, deficient in naturalness and in real sensibility for the rôles she undertook. These defects, which are fatal to scenical illusion, proceeded from lack of intelligence, want of real heart for her business, and all kinds of feminine distractions. Some literary culture would have been of service to her; but, like all Italian actresses, she was deficient in such culture. According to her own account, she had been the most neglected of five or more sisters. After taking some lessons in dancing, she abandoned that branch of the profession because of a physical weakness in her knee-joints. Her mother, poor, and with a drunken husband, then made her the domestic drudge. Since she showed some talent for acting, however, a certain Pietro Rossi begged this woman to let her enter his company of players. She made no difficulties; and signing the girl's forehead with a large maternal cross, sent her out into the world with this practical injunction: "Go, and earn your bread; do not come back to be a burden to the family, where there are too many mouths to feed already." Throwing herself with courage and closed eyes into her new career, Teodora won applause by her natural aptitude for acting, and by the charm of her youth. The piece I wrote for her placed her well before the public, and I was not at all doubtful of her future{190}success. Yet I could not but apprehend that her defective moral education, her inflammable and reckless disposition, might make me one day repent of my cordiality and intimacy.
In conversation with this young woman I enjoyed no exchange of wit or sentiment, no perspicacity of intellect, no piquant sallies and discussions. On the other hand, her way of meeting me was always frank and open; she showed much decency and neatness in her poverty; told anecdotes with comic grace; mimicked her comrades, the actresses, with spirit; evinced a real repugnance for immodesty; betrayed the ingenuousness of her nature by a hundred little traits. What above all attracted me towards her was that she could not tell a lie without showing by involuntary blushes how much the effort cost her. Time taught me that I ought to mistrust her apparent ingenuousness. The artless sallies with which she turned old friends and benefactors into ridicule made me reflect that she might come to treat me in like manner. Her blushes, when she told a fib, did not spring from a dislike of lying, but from anger with herself for not being able to distort the truth more cleverly. Yet self-love is a weakness so ingrained in human frailty, that men are always ready to believe that they will fare better than their neighbours, because they think they have deserved better, or fancy themselves preferred by the woman on whose very faults they put an{191}indulgent interpretation. This was my case with the Ricci.
I was never able to induce her to sacrifice even a few hours a day to reading good books or exercising her mind by writing. Arguments, entreaties, reproaches were all thrown away. She excused herself by pleading her domestic duties; and though I was ever anxious to spend our time together in useful studies, as I had done with other actresses, I could not bring her to do more than con the parts she had to play upon the stage. Probably she thought that her native pluck and talent were sufficient to sustain her without troubling her brains by serious work. The duties which she always pleaded consisted in sitting at her toilet-table before the eternal looking-glass, arranging laces, changing ribands, altering the folds of veils, matching colours, and such-like frivolities. All these things are useful with a view to stage effect; but exclusive devotion to them distracts the mind from the higher exigencies of dramatic art, leads an actress to court applause by illegitimate means, and brings her in course of time to mere posing and peacocking upon the boards before the eyes of voluptuaries in the boxes. The Ricci was only too prone to such faults; and besides, her purse could not stand the expenses of her toilette.
When I ventured to express my fears upon these points, she betrayed her real way of thinking by replies to the following effect: "If we do not earn{192}more than our fixed wages, how on earth are we poor actresses to hold out in a profession like ours?" I did not conceal my abhorrence of the principles implied in such remarks; and she professed that she had only spoken in jest. At the same time, her behaviour was so good, she ruled her house with such economy, paid her debts so regularly, and conducted herself with such propriety, that I hoped, by good advice and by getting her salary increased, to save her from the evil influences of a misdirected early training. Vain illusion to flatter oneself that one can ever cure an actress of the faults instilled in her from childhood! I was perhaps blinded by the partiality I felt for her; and no man, face to face with a woman, can trust the clearness of his insight. Six years of continual assiduity, friendship, benefits, were not worth one straw against the poison she had imbibed. The woman who, with a sound education, might have become a person of true culture and a real friend, gave herself up to flattery and her own perverted inclinations; so that in the end she brought upon me troubles which the world has judged of serious importance and public gravity.[44]
{193}
I publicly avow my friendship for Mme. Ricci.—Efforts made to secure her advancement.—I become godfather to her child, and indulge in foolish hopes about her future.
Before entering into those open and formal ties of friendship which in Italy carry something of the nature of an obligation, I thought it right to warn Signora Ricci with regard to certain matters.[45]I pointed out that she was a member of a company renowned for its good character, and that she had already been exposed to calumny by her detractors. This ought to make her circumspect in repelling the advances of men of pleasure who might compromise her reputation. For myself, I meant to be her avowed friend, her daily visitor, and cavalier in{194}public; but she must not think that I wanted to play the part of a lover, far less of a flatterer. My age, which bordered upon fifty, and my temperament were enough to prevent me from making any foolish pretensions to her favours. Should she find herself in need, through the failure of her monthly salary to meet expenses, she might count upon my purse. If, in spite of my good counsels, she increased her reputation for light conduct, I should be obliged to break with her at once and for ever. On the other hand, if my principles were distasteful to her, she had only to speak the word, and I would leave her absolutely at liberty. So long as I supported her in public and championed her honour as a woman and her fame as an artist, I had the right to expect conduct from her conformable to my avowed philosophy of life.
To these Quixotical discourses she replied by saying that all honest folk congratulated her upon acquiring my favour. They urged her to do all in her power to strengthen our alliance, and to avoid everything which could make me leave her. Nay, more: her spiritual director, in the course of confession, had exhorted her to remain by me, a man whom he regarded as a marvel of our century. This I thought a little exaggerated; it smacked of the stage.
The Ricci's husband was a good sort of fellow, who had been a bookseller, and had acquired a kind{195}of literary fanaticism in that business.[46]All day and night he scribbled volumes, which were sure, he said, to be the source of vast profit to himself and his heirs. Absorbed in these barren studies, he abandoned the household to his wife, philosophically making no claims on her attention. Shoes in holes and muddy stockings never troubled him. But meanwhile his health was being ruined. He grew as lean as a corpse and spat blood from the lungs, while bending over his beloved desk. His wife vainly scolded him, predicting that he was sure to fall into a consumption, which might infect his family. He pitied her gross ignorance, and continued to immolate himself upon the altar of learning. How this ill-assorted couple ever came together I cannot imagine. They appeared, however, to like each other, and lived on fairly good terms.
An income of 500 ducats was wholly insufficient for man and wife and child, with an expected confinement, and the expenses of a theatrical wardrobe{196}to be met. I represented the case to Sacchi, who agreed to add a sum of 130 ducats annually, remarking, however, that each year Teodora would be sure to clamour for a further rise in wages. He was right. In proportion as she grew more necessary to the company, she augmented her threats of leaving it and her demands for better appointments.
On the days when she was not on duty at the theatre, I used to accompany her openly to the opera and playhouses and other places of diversion. She had her cover laid at my house, and she frequently dined there in company with her husband, whom I liked for his modest and civil manners. I also managed to introduce her into society. Many of the noble or wealthy families of Venice took pleasure in receiving members of Sacchi's troupe at their houses. At first Teodora Ricci was excluded from such invitations, so cruelly had her character been blackened by female jealousy and malice. I made myself responsible for her good behaviour, and removed the prejudices which placed her at this disadvantage. Under my protection, she went to fashionable dinner-parties and polite assemblies; I also introduced both men and women of good manners to her at her own home. Acting with reckless or stupid good faith, I did not foresee how soon the hidden mines of her perverted inclinations and bad early training would explode and cover me with confusion.
Meanwhile her condition improved in other ways.{197}She exchanged the dark, ill-smelling apartment she first occupied for a small but convenient abode. Perhaps I ought to touch upon those material services which she may have from time to time received from me; but if she can forget them, it is easier for me to do so also. I must add that, while I was never blindly enamoured of her, I never found her grasping or rapacious.
The time arrived when my friends the actors were about to leave Venice for the theatres of Bergamo and Milan. Before parting from Teodora, I begged her to remember that she had to some extent my honour in her keeping. She was going into danger, among a crowd of envious persons who would enjoy nothing better than to see her compromise herself and me by levity of conduct. She replied that her wishes and intentions were so firmly bent on abiding by my counsels, that she should like to ratify our alliance by a bond of religion. Would I hold her expected infant at the font? I said that I should be very willing to do so, but that I could not promise to leave Venice to be present at the christening. To this I added jestingly: "Your request is somewhat despotic in the condition it imposes on me. You are thinking more of your own interests than of my affections, which may perchance have been engaged for you. This bond of religion puts an insuperable barrier to my desires." We laughed the matter over, and agreed upon it amicably.{198}
She begged for letters of recommendation to Bergamo and Milan. Knowing how worse than useless such introductions are, I confined myself to one testimonial, addressed to my good friend Signor Stefano Sciugliaga, Secretary of the University at Milan, and to his wife, an estimable couple, full of kindness and distinguished by their virtues. Furnished with this letter, the Ricci left me, and I felt the loss of her at Venice. She went to Bergamo, where she gave birth to a little girl, for whom Sacchi stood my proxy at the font. I discharged the usual duties to the Church, and did what was proper in the circumstances by the mother of my godchild. Teodora pursued her journey to Milan, whence she wrote me a full account of the kindness and courtesy she received from Signor Stefano Sciugliaga and his wife Lucia.
The weariness I feel in writing this chapter makes me measure what my readers must experience in reading it. I therefore cut it short and finish it.
Fresh passages regarding my foolish but persevering friendship for Mme. Ricci.—Highly comical discoveries which involved me further in the line I had adopted.
Sacchi's troupe had just finished their season at Milan, when I received a letter from my friend Sciugliaga,{199}informing me that my new gossip's husband was seriously ill. A celebrated physician of that city declared him to be in the last stage of consumption. This being the case, the interests of his wife and two young children imperatively demanded a separation. Sacchi had returned before the rest of the company, and I immediately communicated the news to him. We settled that it would be best to induce the Ricci's husband to leave Venice for his native air of Bologna, offering him three francs a day for his expenses there, until his health should be sufficiently restored for him to resume his duties. My friend's mother, Emilia Ricci, happened to be in Venice at the time; and I thought that the delicate charge of making this communication to the poor fellow might be intrusted to her. I found her very well disposed to undertake it.
When Signora Ricci arrived, I went to visit her, and was received with all her usual demonstrations of cordiality. She looked extremely thin and pale and downcast. On my asking after her health, she replied with a gesture of despair, and, as though she was afraid of being overheard: "I am at my wits' end; my husband goes on spitting blood. Yet I must sleep with him; I am living in hourly dread for myself and my poor children." I did my best to calm her by describing the plan on which Sacchi and her mother had agreed with me. But days flew by, and her mother, why I know not, never made{200}the necessary communication. Meanwhile the man grew worse, and the poor young wife had at last to take this disagreeable duty on herself. She discharged it with a judgment and a feeling which raised her in my esteem. Her husband took the announcement in a Christian spirit, and set off for Bologna, committing his wife and family to me with streaming eyes. I may incidentally remark that the Milanese physician had mistaken his case. Rest among his relatives restored him to a better state of health, and after some months he was able to return to Venice and resume work at the theatre. But the separation between him and his wife continued from this time forward.
The absence of her husband altered my relations to Signora Ricci, and made her position very delicate. I told her frankly that it would be more prudent if I discontinued my daily visits to her house. We should have plenty of opportunities for meeting in the green-room of the theatre. To this she replied: "So, then! In the midst of my enemies, without a husband, on the eve of being made a widow, with two children, I am to be left alone, abandoned by my friends!" Pale, thin, and out of health, she spoke these words with such an accent of intense sorrow that my resolution was shaken. I promised to alter nothing in my conduct with regard to her, only stipulating that she, on her side, should be careful not to compromise us both by any imprudence{201}of behaviour. How ill-judged this yielding to compassion and inclination was, will appear too plainly in the sequel.
She was fairly well off, enjoying a salary of 530 ducats, while her husband lived at Bologna at the charges of the company. In fact, her position, compared with that of other leading actresses, was decidedly good; yet she continued to complain and haggle for an increase of wages. I did all in my power to interest the other members of the troupe in her behalf, and brought Sacchi to her house. In this way an intimacy sprang up between her and the director of the company which led in a short while to his augmenting her appointments by more than a hundred ducats. He told his partners that this addition was made in order that she might improve her stage wardrobe. I always laugh when I remember that excuse for generosity. My readers will soon know why.
The Ricci, left without her husband, stood in need of some domestic counsellor and friend, who would assist her not only in Venice, but during the six months of her theatrical tours. She chose for this purpose a young Bolognese actor called Coralli, of more education than his comrades, but somewhat of a humbug. I liked the fellow for his polished manners and dramatic talent, and saw no reason to resent this intimacy. Nor did I object to the male visitors whom I met at her house. They were{202}actors, men of business, letter-carriers from Florence, Bologna, and Modena, and persons of the same sort. But I warned her frequently and seriously against admitting men of the town and pleasure, who would certainly compromise her reputation and bring discredit on my friendship. I could see that she rebelled in secret against the severity of my principles. I repeated that, if she broke into revolt, I should immediately carry out my threat of leaving her to her fate. In taking this line, I confess that I acted very foolishly. I could not change her nature or substitute sound views of life for the corrupt traditions of her calling. She imagined that I was nothing more than a jealous lover, and only sought my society for the protection it afforded her, and for the benefits I was able to confer upon her by my writings. She also hoped to make me a screen for carrying on intrigues in accordance with her vitiated principles. I ought indeed to have withdrawn from her at this point. But my good-nature and the task I had undertaken of pushing her in the profession kept me at her side.
Very soon new motives for taking the decisive step of a rupture with Signora Ricci appeared. Sacchi, whom I had introduced to her house, was seized with a blind and brutal passion for the young woman. Who would have imagined that an old fellow of eighty, gouty, with swollen legs and frozen veins, could have been inflamed by such desires? Sometimes, when I{203}happened to pay visits at unwonted hours, I saw him running as fast as he could to hide himself from my sight. I pretended not to notice this, but I felt sure that a conspiracy of some sort was being hatched between them.
One morning I found my gossip engaged in unrolling a piece of white satin, some thirty ells in length. She hung lost in admiration over the beautiful stuff. "So," said I, "you have been making purchases?" "Yes," she answered, "I wanted a new gown of white satin, and have been to buy it." "You are always complaining that your salary is insufficient, but I am glad to see that you can afford yourself this indulgence." "Sacchi was with me this morning; he gave the merchant security; I have got the stuff on credit, and three sequins a month are to be deducted from my salary to pay for it." Now I have said that Teodora Ricci could not tell a lie without betraying some confusion. I noticed a blush overspread her face, and quietly resumed the conversation: "Well, you have not behaved well by me. I know how punctual you are in paying debts, and have before now given the same security for you on more than one occasion. Why did you resort to Sacchi for this little service? You are not dealing frankly with me." She blushed still deeper, and exclaimed with irritation: "I suppose I must tell you the truth! That old man is madly in love with me. He wants to give me the dress, and expects from{204}me what he will never get." I saw at a glance why thecapocomicohad been hiding from me, and began to address the following remarks to the young actress: "Dear gossip, it is impossible that an old man of eighty can have gone so far without encouragement from you. I have often noticed that he ran away and hid himself on my approach. What reason had he for doing this? You are sowing the seeds of dissension between me and an associate of more than twenty years standing. You are painting me in false colours to that man; and this is your return for a thousand kindnesses. I have stood by you in your profession, and declared myself the champion of your honour. Now, for a satin gown, you are going to destroy the work of years. That white dress upon your shoulders will be the filthiest, the most besmirched, the most shameful of your wardrobe. It will be a robe of infamy, and work your ruin. Pray reflect that old Sacchi has a viper for his wife, with two daughters, who hate and vilify and slander you. Do you imagine that you will conceal your intrigues from their curious eyes? No indeed. They will assail you with their tongues, and having caught you in so vile an act, will spare nothing to cast the truth in your teeth, as previously they spread abroad their lies behind your back. I am speaking far more for you than for myself. I can always save my honour by quitting you without an open scandal. I know quite well that you fancy I am in love with you and jealous{205}of your decrepit adorer. That is not the case. I am only jealous for your honour and for mine. I shall certainly do what I have often threatened, and shall do it without breaking my heart, although 'tis true I have a warm affection for you. What right have I to lay the law down and to preach to you? None. But you have no right to imagine that a man like me, your gossip and your friend, will play the part of screen to your disgraceful traffic. My remedy is to leave you absolute mistress of yourself by withdrawing from your intimacy."
This tirade, which might have been effective in some comedy, but which was too full of delicate sentiment for a comedian, made my actress bend her brows to earth, repeating over and over again: "What a mess I have made of it!" "Yes," I replied, "you will soon find what a nasty mess it is!" And so I rose to take my leave. "Sir, dear friend and gossip," she began again, detaining me with tears which fell from her eyelids—tears more probably of rage than of repentance—"I swear that I did not mean to act amiss. Gladly will I throw that satin out of window. Oh, wretched trade of us poor actresses! We have always devils round us, to torment and work upon our weakness. The old man promised me plate, jewels, splendid toilette-tables. He turned my brains and dulled my senses." "Very well," I answered. "I do not want to prevent you from buying wealth at the price of infamy, and{206}of the libels which attend it. But I do not mean to serve as screen, to be the friend and consort of a woman of your sort." "I am quite prepared," she added, "to return the satin; and you may be sure that I left Sacchi under the impression that I should pay for it out of my salary. By all that I hold sacred, I swear to you that I have never given, and shall never give, that old seducer what he asks for. I come to you for advice now, and you shall see that I will follow it to the very letter."
I told her that she was asking for advice too late in the day to be of any use. "Sacchi is spiteful, vicious, brutal, corrupt in his opinions upon human nature, and—a player. What is worse, he is in love. He does not believe you capable of giving up this satin or of paying for it. He will scent the truth that I have been at work here, because he knows my principles of conduct. Shame, rage, and spite will make a demon of the man. He will conceive a violent hatred against me, which he will vent upon you, his interest being to keep on good terms with myself. I am truly sorry for you. You do not know the lengths to which the infernal nature of the animal will carry him. Yet I cannot recommend any other course but that which your own sense of duty will dictate to you."
A few days after this scene, she told me with a beaming countenance that she had announced to Sacchi her firm intention of paying for the satin out{207}of her appointments. "I wholly approve of the step which you have taken," said I in answer, "but I beg you to tell me without reserve how he took your declaration." "To speak the candid truth," she replied, "he looked at me askance, then turned surly, and muttered, 'Yes, yes! I see who gave you the advice. Well, well, you shall pay for the gown!'" "My poor girl," I added, "prepare yourself to pay dearly for the satin, both with money and with tears. May this be a lesson to you not to coax presents out of brutal libertines."
The fact was that from this moment forward she became the butt of that bad old man's persecutions. From the height of his position as director of the troupe, he launched taunt after taunt against her, subjected her to the grossest sarcasms, and did not spare them even in my presence. If she had to act upon the stage with him, he employed his popularity with the audience and his ability as actor to turn her into ridicule with scurvy jests and sallies. Nay, more: in one of the rooms behind the theatre, where some eight actors and actresses were assembled, the brute, before my face, insulted her by implying that he had been admitted to her last familiarities. I saw her turn pale and on the point of fainting.
I was absolutely certain that Sacchi's innuendoes had no grain of truth in them. He only wished to compromise her in my eyes, in order that I might abandon her to his desires and vengeance. This stung{208}me to espouse her cause, although I knew that prudence pointed in the contrary direction. Next day I found her drowned in tears. I told her that the moment had not come for me to leave her. "Sacchi has insulted me as well as you, forgetful of the benefits which I have heaped upon him. It is now my business to tame the devil in him without open scandal. All I am afraid of is, that you will force me to abandon you by future follies of a like description. As far as the present case is concerned, you may trust to my fidelity."
SACCHI AND SIGNORA RICCIOriginal Etching by Ad. LalauzeSACCHI AND SIGNORA RICCI Original Etching by Ad. Lalauze
I had just given a new piece to the company, and went to assist at its first reading in the green-room. Sacchi shot his usual arrows at Signora Ricci, and alluded to her love-affairs with Coralli. Perhaps he meant to rouse my jealousy without reflecting that this liaison had in my eyes nothing dishonourable. Coralli was a poor actor, and Teodora ran no risk of passing for a venal beauty in his company. I contented myself by showing the disgust I felt for the old man's insinuations by my manner, without condescending to utter a word. Knowing well that it is only possible to wound comedians in the sensitive point of their pecuniary interest, I laid my plans accordingly. I cut short my visits to Signora Ricci, avoided the green-room of the theatre, and did not put in an appearance at the next rehearsal of my piece. The actors began to whisper. Some of them inquired whether I was ill. "I am perfectly well," I{209}answered, "but it seems to me that I am superfluous at your rehearsals. Besides, I have private business." Next evening I kept away from the theatre, and next day I avoided the rehearsal. The agitation among the actors grew to a tumult. When the Ricci was asked about me, she replied with perfect truth that she had not seen me. The uproar increased, while I amused myself with thinking how my machinations were succeeding.
On the fourth morning, an actor, called Luigi Benedetti, a Roman, and Sacchi's nephew, waited on me. He was in great distress, and wet to the skin with a heavy shower which happened to be falling. He opened the conversation by expressing the regrets of all the troupe at my unaccountable desertion of them. I said nothing about the real point in question, but replied with cheerful dignity to this effect: "Sacchi does not care for my attendance or assistance. I am not a hired poet, nor yet a man of plaster. If your uncle comes to rehearsal, he spends the time in insulting Signora Ricci before my face and before the whole company. He committed this lady to my charge, and begged me to make her useful to the troupe. I have done my duty; she has become a valuable actress. I am godchild to one of her children and her friend, and do not choose to be exposed to rudeness on her account. Therefore I take it that the best course for me will be to withdraw from the society of Signora{210}Ricci and the rest of you. I shall not harbour hostile feelings against any one; but I cannot stay to be made uncomfortable in return for the many kindnesses I have conferred upon your company." On hearing this speech, Benedetti was really vexed, or at any rate he acted extreme annoyance. Admitting that his uncle was a man of eccentric, inconsiderate, and nasty temper, he tried to convince me that certain vexations connected with a married daughter had quite upset him during the last few days. He did not know, indeed, what he was doing. Then the young actor proceeded to sing my praises, protesting that I should be the ruin of the troupe if I deserted them, and assailing me with passionate entreaties. I smiled, and promised to attend the rehearsal of my piece next morning, and to be guided by what I found at the theatre. I went accordingly, and met with nothing but politeness, contented faces, harmony. Matters stood thus until the end of the Carnival, when the company left Venice for its customary six months' tour, and I stayed behind to reflect upon the perilous qualities of Teodora Ricci.{211}
Reflections made in vain; flattering expectations dissolved into what deserves neither flattery nor reflection.—The troubles to which a man is exposed who takes a company of comedians and an actress under his protection.
The upshot of my meditations upon the events related in the preceding chapters was as follows. One day or another, this woman, with her explosive character and egregious vanity, will expose me to some public scandal. She cannot rest contented with the gains of her profession, and is sure to add to them by baser means. She only cares for me because I am useful to her at the theatre, and convenient as a cloak for her intrigues. All my arguments and warnings are wasted. It is useless to try to make a Lucretia or a Pamela out of an actress who will never be more than Teodora Ricci.
Meanwhile, she went on writing to me by nearly every post, expressing much affection for myself, and indulging in the usual lamentations over her miserable earnings. One morning brought a letter in which she informed me that she had just signed an engagement with a certain Signor Francesco Zannuzzi.{212}[47]He wanted to take her to Paris asprima donnain the Italian theatre which he directed there. Her salary was to be 3000 francs a year. I was glad to get this news; for if things stood as she declared, I should be freed from all my obligations, and separated by several hundred leagues from her.
All the same, I replied in writing that she must remember her engagement to Sacchi. It would be only right and proper to give him sufficient notice of her intentions, in order that he might provide himself with another leading actress. I added that the appointments offered by Zannuzzi would hardly suffice for her expenses in a capital like Paris. Also, I did not think her specially well qualified to appear with success before a French audience; and her total ignorance of the language seemed to me a grave objection. Nevertheless, she was quite free to do as she thought best.
While thus indulging myself in the hope that she might actually leave Italy, I was surprised by a visit from Signor Zannuzzi. He was known to me, and was a man of excellent breeding. After exchanging compliments, he began to say that his company had sent him on a voyage of discovery through Italy to{213}find aprima donnafor their theatre at Paris. "I heard of this," I answered, "and, like an intelligent man, you have selected Teodora Ricci." "By no means," he put in; "it is true that I have seen her and held some general conversation on the subject with her. But she is deficient in several points of great importance for our theatre. The actress who seems most suitable is Elisabetta Vinacesi, with whom I have spoken, and from whom I expect a decisive answer." "What the devil," said I to myself, "has Teodora been up to, lying in this way to her friend and gossip?" Nevertheless, I did my utmost to persuade Zannuzzi that there was no comparison between the two actresses; he ought certainly to choose Signora Ricci. My diplomacy was thrown away. Later on, I heard that Vinacesi preferred remaining in Italy to exposing herself to the bustle and irregularities of a professional career at Paris. Also I was informed that Zannuzzi had tried to engage other actresses, without reopening negotiations with the Ricci. Thus my hope of being liberated from what I felt to be a perilous situation vanished into air.
October arrived, when the acting companies return to Venice for the winter. I found Signora Ricci in good health, and related to her with displeasure what Zannuzzi had communicated to me about her proposed engagement. She replied, not without heat, that he was on his way to Paris in order to{214}report to his associates. She expected letters from him confirming what had passed between them in their interviews. Then she launched forth into her usual invectives against Sacchi's troupe, and vowed she would not serve for such pitiful appointments any longer. I tried in vain to convince her that she was singularly well off compared with other actresses, and considering the circumstances of the profession in Italy. In reply to all I said she only went on beating the same old gong. It was clear that her head had been turned upon her summer tour by flatterers and so-called philosophical admirers of the modern school.
Two days after the arrival of the company, Coralli came to see me, and made the following confidences. "Sacchi," said he, "is dying of love for Teodora Ricci. I do not conceal my affection for the young woman; I frequent her house, attend her in public, and make myself as useful as I can to her. He is brutally jealous of me, and I have had to put up with a thousand outrages and insults. Finally, he has forbidden me to visit at her house, alleging that if Count Gozzi came to remark our intimacy, he would retire from the company in disgust." I burst into a fit of laughter worthy of Margutte.[48]"What sort of people have I got myself mixed up with?" said I to myself; "for whom am I wasting pen, ink, paper{215}and brains? Does Sacchi, who has received a thousand benefits at my hands, expect to make me a stalking-horse in his drivelling amours?" Recovering my gravity as well as I could, I informed Coralli that, so far as I was concerned, he might cultivate Signora Ricci's intimacy without scruple. If she played the part of a mercenary beauty with libertines of fashion, I could not remain her friend. But he was not one of those persons who could compromise my reputation. Only, I added, that I feared for him; "Sacchi is revengeful, and will use his powerful arms against you." Coralli, enlightened as to my way of thinking, returned a thousand thanks and took his leave. Next day I went to visit Teodora, and found Coralli there. I made a point of dining with them, and inviting them both to dinner at my house. By thus acting, I taught Sacchi how little chance there was of frightening Coralli by alleging my jealousy. Baffled in his plans, he took the opportunity of Christmas, when managers of theatres make changes in their troupes, to give Coralli warning.
Coralli came at once to report what had befallen him, and to beg for my intervention in his favour, while Teodora showed herself extremely annoyed by his expulsion. Nothing meanwhile was heard among the actors but virtuous remarks upon the scandalous connection which Sacchi had so firmly put an end to. I tried to make the director see reason, and not to expel a member of his troupe who{216}was certainly a very useful actor. All I could extort was a promise to keep Coralli, if some other player happened to retire. Yet I knew that, after I had once expressed a wish that he should stay, Sacchi would have managed this to gratify me. In fact, the man was only forced to leave at last because of his own knavish trickery. After learning from me what Sacchi had conceded, he persuaded a good and simple fellow of his own city, Domenico Barsanti, that the manager meant to give him, Barsanti, warning, and that he had better, for his own repute, anticipate this misfortune by sending in his resignation. When Barsanti proceeded to do so, Sacchi wormed the secret out of him, and answered: "I had no intention of dismissing you. Go to Conte Gozzi, tell him the whole story, and beg for his protection. That will teach him what sort of fellow Coralli is." Barsanti accordingly arrived, and stupefied me with the recital of this piece of swindling ingenuity. I need not add that Coralli disappeared at the end of the Carnival. I got a letter from him full of remorse, especially for having hurt me by his stratagem for staying in the company.
I went on as usual with Signora Ricci, and had nothing particular to notice in her conduct. Only I observed that gondoliers used often to come behind the scenes with messages from ladies who desired her company in the boxes. That they were not ladies, but a very different sort of persons, I discovered{217}in course of time. Again, she chose at this epoch to change her dwelling from a house in the neighbourhood of the theatre, which opened on a frequented street, to another at some distance, far more expensive, and which had the disadvantage of standing in a little lonely alley. This step exposed her to a renewal of the worst reports about her private character and conduct. It also severely taxed her purse for the expenses of removal and installation.
When she left Venice at the end of the Carnival, she placed her little girl, my godchild, out at nurse. I used frequently to go and see this excellent little creature in her mother's absence. For the rest, our correspondence by letters continued much on the same footing as before.
Fresh benefits conferred upon the playing company protected by me.—Fresh advantages won by me for Mme. Ricci.—All thrown away as nought.
I feel that this long story of my liaison with an actress cannot fail to be tedious. Yet I am obliged to continue it in detail, inasmuch as events to which the public attached considerable importance, and which exposed me to criticism, can only be understood{218}in their right light by reference to this piece of private history.[49]
It may be demurred that I ought to have withdrawn from Sacchi's troupe when I detected the evil spirits which were making mischief there. To this I reply that I had found recreation and amusement in their society for many years, that I enjoyed the opportunity of seeing my plays acted by such clever artists, and also that my temper inclines me to endure many inconveniences rather than break old habits. For example, I have always borne with vicious inattentive servants, tailors who cheated me and spoiled my clothes, shoemakers who tortured my feet with their ill-fitting handiwork, barbers who flayed my chin with their razors, hairdressers who snipped my ears with their scissors, and other tiresome folk of the same sort, to whom I never administered a sharp rebuke, but only such jesting expostulations as made them laugh.
When October brought the actors back to Venice, Sacchi was disagreeably surprised by a piece of news which threatened him with ruin. Before the theatres open for the season, they are examined by official architects, who report upon their substantiality and safety. The theatre of S. Salvatore was condemned this year by the experts, and an order from the Government prohibited its being used. Signor Vendramini{219}and the players were in despair. Thirty and more persons, who gained their bread by acting, saw themselves thrown out of work. Steps were immediately taken to put the house in repair, and render it fit for the reception of the public. During two-and-twenty days, while this work was going on, the company took not a penny. Yet Sacchi continued to pay his hired actors at their stipulated rates. This seemed to me generous on his part, and I tried to persuade Teodora Ricci that she ought to be grateful. She took no notice of my arguments, but kept on repeating her old complaints about her salary. Her husband, who had come back, but no longer occupied the same room as his wife, saw the matter in its proper light.
Meanwhile the rival theatres triumphed over our discomfiture. At S. Gio. Grisostomo a new Truffaldino appeared, whom the fickle Venetians dubbed a better Zanni than their old friend Sacchi. Satirical sonnets began to circulate against my protegés, and they replied with pasquinades. This wordy warfare filled the town with dirty libels. I begged Sacchi's associates to keep their temper and be silent, trusting to my power of restoring their prestige by a new piece I was at work on. This was entitledIl Moro di Corpo Bianco, ossia lo Schiavo del Proprio Onore.[50]
{220}
At last the repairs were finished, and received the surveyor's approval. An official edict appeared to the effect that the theatre Vendramini at S. Salvatore would be safe for the autumn and ensuing Carnival. This limited announcement did not restore the confidence of the public, who still feared that the house might tumble about their ears. Accordingly, the first ten or twelve nights saw a desert in our theatre. The Venetians had two other houses for plays and three for operas open; and they persisted in regarding S. Salvatore as a trap for the destruction of the human race.
While things were dragging on in this way, I got my drama finished. We read it aloud to the whole company at a dinner given in the Wild Man Inn.[51]The enthusiastic applause of the actors made me feel sure of its success. I made them a present of it, and the piece was mounted with the least possible delay. The playbills drew a large audience. Everybody was burning to know what the deuce a Moor with a white body could possibly be; this taught me that the prospect of a new excitement will drive the fear of death out of the heads of my Venetians. During a run of eighteen successive nights, all the other theatres were drained of their spectators, and the opera-houses cursed myMoro di Corpo Bianco. The reputation of S. Salvatore was fully re-established,{221}and we heard nothing more about the fabric being a rat-trap to catch human beings.
Teodora Ricci had scored a great success by her brilliant acting. Intoxicated with popular plaudits, she began to grumble, and threatened to break her engagement unless her salary were raised. Under these circumstances, Sacchi came to me one day and begged me to draw up articles between the actress and the troupe, by which she should commit herself to five years of fixed service. He left the settlement of her appointments to me, but stipulated that a fine of 500 ducats should be exacted from whichever of the contracting parties broke the bond. I undertook this negotiation with some reluctance, and concluded it, to my own satisfaction, in the following way. Signora Ricci and her husband were to receive 850 ducats a year, they engaging to serve the company five years, under the above-mentioned penalty of 500 ducats if they cancelled the agreement. The articles were drawn up in writing and signed by Ricci and her husband. I fancied I had done what was right and equitable for both parties, and took the articles with some pride to Sacchi. That brutal old fellow thanked me in the way I shall relate. Putting his spectacles upon his nose, he began to read the document; and when I wished to explain it, he burst into a torrent of oaths, banging the table with his fists as though I had just attempted a surgical operation upon his tenderest parts. I remarked that, if{222}he did not approve of the conditions, he might tear the paper up: it was all the same to me. This line he did not take; but set his signature to the document, grumbling all the while that neither fines nor penalties would bind that woman to her word, and that he reckoned upon my influence to keep her in the straight path. Then I took the contract back to the Signora, who murmured some words between her teeth about the hard condition of her five years' service.
The imposthume, which had so long been forming, was bound to come to a head at last and burst. It is now my business to relate what made the final rupture between me and Teodora Ricci unavoidable.
The actors left Venice for their summer tour, and many letters passed between her and me, which showed that she was still aggrieved with Sacchi, and more than ever puffed up with the flatteries of lovers. I read and pondered her correspondence, and came to the conclusion that before a year was out we must cease to be friends.
When she returned in the autumn, on the occasion of my first visit, she expressed some surprise at the alteration of my manner. It so happened that at this very moment her servant Pavola handed her a letter which had just arrived from Turin. She flared up, and flung herself about, manifesting a strong desire to be able to strike the woman dead for bringing the letter in my presence. "What{223}has the poor girl done amiss?" I asked. "Do not wrong me by supposing that I am inquisitive about your correspondence. If one of the lovers, whom you actresses always leave behind you, has written you abillet-doux, I have no right to interfere in such concerns of wholly private interest." "This is no affair of lovers," she replied with heat, opening and casting her eyes over the pages. When she had read the letter, she hesitated a little, and then handed it to me. "I do not want to hide anything from you; read it, and you will see that it has nothing to do with love." I replied that I did not care to read it, being sure from her behaviour to the servant that it contained some secret which she wished to conceal from me. "Well, then," she said, "I must inform you that I made the acquaintance at Turin of a lady called Mme. Rossetti, whose husband lives at Paris. This lady expressed her regret at my being obliged to drag my life out among wretched Italian comedians. She encouraged me to act with spirit in my own interest, and gave me hopes of entering the theatre at Paris through her husband's assistance. The writer of this letter in my hand is a certain Abbé of Turin, who negotiates the matter, and is a very able diplomatist. He informs me that the affair is on the point of being settled to my wishes."
I pointed out that, if she intended to accept an engagement at Paris, it was her duty to inform Sacchi, and to pay the penalty of 500 ducats. "No,"{224}she replied, "that is precisely what I want to avoid doing." "So then," I retorted, "you mean to transact your business secretly, and to swindle the poor actors to whom you are engaged here! Be open, tell Sacchi the truth, and I will engage to manage matters so that you shall not have to pay the fine." "Sacchi," she rejoined, "must know nothing about the transaction. If he gets wind of these negotiations, he will engage another leading actress; and should my treaty fail, I shall be dismissed and thrown upon the street. What an excellent friend and gossip you are, forsooth, at a pinch like this! We actors and actresses are not accustomed to such niceties and scruples." I told her that she ought to rely on me for carrying her through any difficulties, and that I could only recommend fair dealing in the matter. "However," I added, "if you prefer to take the tortuous path and work by intrigue, I promise to keep the secret which you have disclosed."
Having passed my word, I let her do what she liked in this affair, and asked no further questions. But I was more than ever resolved to withdraw as prudently and quietly as possible from the complicated position in which I found myself placed. I wished to avoid open scandal; but I little reckoned on the people I had to deal with. You cannot disengage yourself so easily from actors.{225}
Candid details regarding the composition and production of my notorious comedy entitled "Le Droghe d'Amore."—More too about the Ricci, and her relations to Signor P. A. Gratarol.
Just about this time I had planned and partly executed a new comedy, which afterwards obtained asuccès de scandaleunder the title ofLe Droghe d'Amore.[52]The dust stirred up by this innocent piece in three acts obliges me to enter at some length into the circumstances which attended its composition and production.
Everybody is aware that, after the long series of my allegorical fables had run their course upon the stage, I thought fit to change my manner, and adapted several Spanish dramas for our theatre. Sacchi used to bring me bundles of Spanish plays. I turned them over, and selected those which seemed to me best fitted for my purpose. Taking the bare skeleton and ground-plot of these pieces, I worked them up with new characters, fresh dialogue, and an improved conduct of the action, to suit the requirements of the Italian theatre. A whole array of dramas—theDonna{226}Innamorata, theDonna Vendicativa, theDonna Elvira, theNotti Affannose, theFratelli Nimici, thePrincipessa Filosofa, thePubblico Segreto, theMoro di Corpo Bianco, theMetafisico, and theBianca di Melfi, all of which issued from my pen, attest the truth of these remarks.[53]I need say no more about them, because the prefaces with which I sent them to the press have sufficiently informed the public.
In pursuance of this plan, then, I had been working up Tirso da Molina's piece, entitledZelos cum Zelos se Curat, into my ownDroghe d'Amore. I was but little satisfied, made tardy progress, and had even laid aside the manuscript as worthless—condemning it, like scores of other abortive pieces, to the waste-paper basket. It so happened that after Christmas in this year, 1775, I was laid up with a tedious attack of rheumatism, which threatened to pass over into putrid fever, and which confined me to the house for more than thirty days. Signora Ricci kept up amicable relations with me during this illness; and even after Carnival began, she and her husband used to spend their spare evenings at my house. The society which cheered me through my lingering convalescence included the patrician Paolo Balbi, Doctor Andrea Comparetti, Signor Raffaelle Todeschini, my nephew Francesco, son of{227}Gasparo, Signor Carlo Maffeo, Signor Michele Molinari, and an occasional actor from Sacchi's troupe. Wanting occupation for my hours of solitude, I took up theDroghe d'Amore, and went on working at it; always against the grain, however, for the piece seemed to me to drag and to want life. There is so much improbability in the plots of Spanish dramas that all the arts of rhetoric and eloquence have to be employed in order to convey an appearance of reality to the action. This tends to prolixity, and I felt that my unfinished piece was particularly faulty in that respect. It was divided into three acts, and I had brought the dialogue down to the middle of the third. Little as I liked it, the fancy took me to see what impression it would make upon an audience. Accordingly, I read it aloud one evening to Teodora Ricci, my nephew, Doctor Comparetti, and Signor Molinari. They were interested beyond my expectation, and loudly opposed my intention of laying it aside. Theprima donna, in particular, urged me in the strongest terms to finish what remained of it to do. The gentlemen I have just named can bear witness to the sincerity of my coldness for this play, which afterwards, by a succession of accidents, came to be regarded as a deliberate satire on a single individual.
Some days after the reading, Signora Ricci asked me casually if I was acquainted with Signor Piero Antonio Gratarol, secretary to the Senate. I answered{228}that I did not know him, which was the simple truth. I added, however, that he had been pointed out to me on the piazza, and that his outlandish air, gait, and costume struck me as very different from what one would expect in a secretary to the grave Venetian Senate. "Yet I have heard him spoken of as a man of ability and intelligence." "He has a great respect for you," said she. "I am obliged to him for his good opinion," I replied. "I think him a man of breeding," she went on, "and I also think him a man of honour." "So far as I am concerned," I answered, "I know nothing to the contrary, unless it be his unfortunate notoriety for what is now called gallantry." There was no malice in thus alluding to what was universally talked about, and had even come before the judges of the State. I only intended to give a hint to my gossip, which I soon discovered to be too late for any service. Having spoken, I immediately sought to soften what I said by adding: "I do not deny that externals may expose a man to false opinion in such matters; and not being familiar with Signor Gratarol, I neither affirm nor deny what is commonly voiced abroad about him." "He is elected ambassador to Naples," she continued, "and I am anxious to appear upon a theatre in that capital. He may be of the utmost service to me." "Why," said I, "are not you thinking of going to Paris?" "I must try," she replied, "to make my fortune where and how I can." "Do as you like,"{229}I answered, and turned the conversation upon other topics.
It was clear to my mind that, during my long illness, the Ricci had struck up a friendship with this Signor Gratarol, and that she was beating about the bush to bring us together at her house. She had not forgotten my determination to cut short my daily visits if she received attentions from a man of fashion and pleasure. I, for my part, should have been delighted to meet Signor Gratarol anywhere but in the dwelling of the actress I had protected and publicly acknowledged for the last five years.
It now became my fixed resolve to procrastinate until the end of the Carnival, avoiding the scandal which would ensue from a sudden abandonment of Teodora Ricci. But when she left Venice for the spring and summer tour, I determined to drop our correspondence by letter, and to meet her afterwards upon the footing of distant civility. Events proved how useless it was to form any such plans with reference to a woman of her character.
Wearying at length of my long imprisonment, I ventured abroad against my doctor's advice, and found myself much the better for a moderate amount of exercise.[54]This encouraged me to seek my accustomed{230}recreation in the small rooms behind the scenes of the theatre. There I was welcomed with loud unanimous delight by all the members of the company. But, much to my surprise, and in spite of Sacchi's usual strictness with regard to visitors, I found Signor Gratarol installed in the green-room. He seemed to be quite at home, flaunting a crimson mantle lined with costly furs, and distributing candied citrons and Neapolitan bonbons[55]right and left. He very politely offered me some of his comfits, as though I had been a pretty girl, on whom such things are well bestowed. I thanked him for the attention, and took good care to utter no remarks upon the novelty of his appearance in that place.