



Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was
produced from scanned images of public domain material
from the Internet Archive.)









[Illustration: book cover]




THE MEMOIRS

OF

COUNT CARLO GOZZI

VOLUME THE SECOND

_PUBLISHERS' NOTE._


_Five hundred and twenty copies of this book printed for England, and
two hundred and sixty for America. Type distributed. Each copy
numbered._

_No._ 204




THE MEMOIRS OF

COUNT CARLO GOZZI

TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH

BY

JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS

With Essays on Italian Impromptu Comedy, Gozzi's Life,
The Dramatic Fables, and Pietro Longhi

BY THE TRANSLATOR

_WITH PORTRAIT AND SIX ORIGINAL ETCHINGS_

BY ADOLPHE LALAUZE

_ALSO ELEVEN SUBJECTS ILLUSTRATING ITALIAN COMEDY BY MAURICE SAND
ENGRAVED ON COPPER BY A. MANCEAU, AND  BY HAND_

IN TWO VOLUMES

VOLUME THE SECOND

NEW YORK
SCRIBNER & WELFORD
743 & 745 BROADWAY

MDCCCXC




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

_VOLUME THE SECOND._


The Etchings designed and etched by AD. LALAUZE. The Masks, illustrating
the Italian Commedia dell'Arte, by MAURICE SAND, engraved by A. MANCEAU,
and  by hand.

                                                          PAGE

I. GOZZI AND HIS FIRST LOVE (_etching_)                     26

II. GOZZI AND HIS FRIENDS' ADVENTURE IN THE CAFE
LUNA (_etching_)                                            60

III. PANTALONE (1550)                                      144

IV. THE RICCI RECITES BEFORE GOZZI AND SACCHI (_etching_)  176

V. SACCHI AND SIGNORA RICCI (_etching_)                    208

VI. RUZZANTE (1525)                                        240

VII. COVIELLO (1550)                                       256

VIII. GRATAROL'S INTERVIEW WITH GOZZI (_etching_)          284

IX. LEANDRE                                                320




CARLO GOZZI.

XXXI.

_Concerning my Physical and Mental Qualities._


In the course of these Memoirs I have promised more than once to give an
exact description of my external appearance and internal qualities, and
also to narrate the story of my love-affairs.

In stature I am tall. Of this I am made conscious by the large amount of
cloth needed for my cloaks, and by the frequent knocks I give my
forehead on entering rooms with low doors. I have the good luck to be
neither crook-backed, lame, blind, nor squint-eyed. I call this good
luck; and yet if I were afflicted with one or other of these
deformities, I should bear it with the same lightness of heart at Venice
as Scarron put up with his deformities in Paris.

This is all I know or have to say about my physical frame. From early
youth I have left to women the trouble of telling me that I was
handsome with a view to flatter me, or that I was ugly with a view to
irritate, in neither of which attempts have they succeeded. Dirt and
squalor I always loathed. Otherwise, if I ever chanced to wear clothes
of a new cut, this was due to my tailor, and not to my orders. Ask
Giuseppe Fornace, my rogue of a snip for over forty years, if I ever
racked my brains about such matters, as so many do. From the year 1735
to 1780, at which date I am writing, I stuck to the same mode of
dressing my hair with heroic constancy. Fashion has changed perhaps a
hundred times during this period, yet I have never deviated from my
adopted style of coiffure. In like manner I have worn the same type of
buckles; except when I happened to break a pair, and was forced to
change them from square to oval; and then I did so at the instance of
the goldsmith, who made me take the lightest in his shop, because they
would break sooner and give him more to do in mending them.

Men who talk little and think much, to which class, peradventure, I
belong, being immersed in their own meditations, catch the habit of
knitting their brows in the travail of reflection. This gives them an
air of savagery, sternness, almost ferocity. Though I am gay by nature,
as appears from my published writings, yet the innumerable thoughts
which kept my brains in a turmoil, through anxieties about our family,
lawsuits, schemes of economy, literary plans, and so forth, bred in me
a trick of contracting my forehead and frowning, which, combined with my
slow gait, taciturnity, and preference for solitary places, won me the
reputation among those who were not my familiar friends of being a
surly, sullen, unapproachable fellow, perhaps even an enemy of mankind.
Many who have come upon me, pondering, with knitted brows and gloomy
downcast eyes, will have suspected that I was planning how to kill an
enemy, while really I was constructing the plot of my _Green Bird_.

In the society of people new to me, I always appeared drowsy, stupid,
silent, and lethargic, until I had studied their characters and ways of
thinking. Afterwards I turned out quite the opposite; not, however, that
I may not have remained a fool; but I was one of those fools who utter
laconisms, less tiresome to the company than interminable flowery
speeches.

I was not miserly, because I always loathed that vice, nor prodigal, for
the sole reason that I was not rich. I cannot form any conception of the
influence which wealth might have exercised over my imagination and my
moral nature, both being doubtless not more free from foibles than in
the case of other men and women.

I might have earned considerably by my numerous published works, but I
made a present of them all to comedians and booksellers, or to persons
who sought to profit by giving them to the press. Perhaps I shall not
be believed when I say that I invariably refused such profit for myself.
Yet this is the fact. Some who are aware that I was far from rich, will
take me to task for my indifference to gain; they will attribute my
generosity to vainglory or to stupidity. I had, however, my own reasons,
which were as follows. My writings were always marked by freedom,
boldness, pungency, and satire upon public manners; at the same time,
moral and playful in expression. Being unpaid, they gained the advantage
of a certain decent independence, which secured for them toleration,
appreciation, and applause on their own merits. Had I been paid for
them, they would have lost their prestige; my antagonists might have
stigmatised them as a parcel of insufferable mercenary calumnies, and I
should have been exposed to universal odium.

In addition to this: there is no degradation for men of letters in Italy
worse than that of writing for hire in the employ of publishers or of
our wretched comedians. The publishers begin by caressing authors, with
a view to getting hold of their works; then they turn round and cast
their pretended losses in the author's teeth. To hear them, you would
imagine that books for which they had begged on their knees before they
sent them to press, were now a load of useless stones encumbering their
shelves. The wretched pence they fling at a writer for some masterpiece
on which he has distilled the best part of his brains, are doled out
with the air of bestowing alms. More fuss is made about it, and it costs
more effort, than if the money were being paid for masses for the dead,
who have no need to clothe and feed themselves. All this is bad enough.
But Apollo protect a poet from being reduced to serve a troop of our
comedians at wages! There is not a galley-slave more abjectly condemned
to servitude than he. There is not a stevedore who carries half the
weight that he does; not an ass who gets more blows and fouler language,
if his drama fails to draw the whole world in a fever of excitement to
the theatre.

For these reasons, I have always shrunk from letting out my pen to hire.
On the frequent occasions when family affairs and litigation have
emptied my purse, I always chose rather to borrow from friends than to
plunge into the mire and rake up a few filthy stinking sequins. In the
one case I incurred the pleasing burden of gratitude to my obligers; in
the second I should have bent beneath the weight of shameful
self-abasement.

Not even the brotherly terms on which I lived with comedians, nor my
free gift to them through five-and-twenty years of all my writings for
the stage, preserved me from the acts of ingratitude, and the annoyances
which are described in the ensuing chapters of my Memoirs. Think then
what would have become of me if I had been their salaried poet!

Italy lacks noblemen, to play the part of Mecaenas, and to protect men of
letters and the theatre. Had there been such, and had they thought me
worthy of their munificence, I should not have blushed to receive it.
Knowing my country, however, and Venice in particular, I never allowed
myself to indulge flattering dreams of any such honourable patronage.

Sustained by my natural keen sense of the ludicrous, I have never even
felt saddened by seeing the morality, which I held for sound and sought
to diffuse through my writings, turned upside down by the insidious
subtleties and sophisms of our century. On the contrary, it amused me
vastly to notice how all the men and all the women of this age believed
in good faith that they had become philosophers. It has afforded me a
constant source of indescribable recreation to study the fantastic
jargons which have sprung up like mushrooms, the obscure and forced ways
of expressing thoughts, spawned by misty self-styled science, invested
with bombastic terms and phrases alien to the genius of our language.
Not less have I diverted myself with the spectacle of all the various
passions to which humanity is subject, suddenly unleashed, playing their
parts with the freedom of emancipated imps, let loose from their
hiding-place by famous discoverers--just like those devils in the tale
of Bonaventura des Periers, whom Solomon sealed up in a caldron and
buried beneath the ground until a pack of wiseacres dug them up and sent
them scampering across the world again.[1]

The spectacle of women turned into men, men turned into women, and both
men and women turned into monkeys; all of them immersed in discoveries
and inventions and the kaleidoscopic whirligigs of fashion; corrupting
and seducing one another with the eagerness of hounds upon the scent;
vying in their lusts and ruinous extravagances; destroying the fortunes
of their families by turns; laughing at Plato and Petrarch; leaving real
sensibility to languish in disuse, and giving its respectable name to
the thinly veiled brutality of the senses; turning indecency into
decency; calling all who differ from them hypocrites, and burning
incense with philosophical solemnity to Priapus:--these things ought
perhaps to have presented themselves to my eyes in the form of a
lamentable tragedy; yet I could never see in them more than a farce,
which delighted while it stupefied me.

I have made but few intimate friendships, being of opinion that a man of
many friends is the real friend of none. Neither time, nor distance,
nor even occasional rudeness, interrupted the rare friendships which I
contracted for life, and which are still as firm as ever.

Now and then, I have given way to angry impulses on sustaining affronts
or injuries; and at such times men of phlegmatic temper are more decided
in their action than the irascible. Reflection, however, always calmed
me down; nor was I ever disposed to endure the wretchedness which comes
from fostering rancour or meditating revenge.

I am inclined to laugh both at _esprits faibles_, who believe in
everything, and at _esprits forts_, who pretend that they believe in
nothing. Yet I hold that the latter are really weaker, and I am sure
that they do more harm, than the former.

Notwithstanding my invincible habit of laughing, I am firmly persuaded
that man is a sublimely noble animal, raised infinitely far above the
brutes. Consequently I could not condescend to regard myself as a bit of
dung or mud, a dog or a pig, in the humble manner of freethinkers. In
spite of all the pernicious systems generated by men of ambitious and
seductive intellect, we are forced to believe ourselves higher in the
scale of beings, and more perfect, than they are willing to admit.
Although we may not be able to define with certainty what we are, we
know at any rate beyond all contradiction what we are not. Let the
freethinking pigs and hens rout in their mud and scratch in their
midden; let us laugh and quiz them, or weep and pity them; but let us
hold fast to the beliefs transmitted to us by an august line of
philosophers, far wiser, far more worthy of attention, than these sages
of the muck and dungheap. The modern caprice of turning all things
topsy-turvy, which makes Epicure an honest man, Seneca an impostor;
which holds up Voltaire, Rousseau, Helvetius, Mirabeau, &c., to our
veneration, while it pours contempt upon the fathers of the Church; this
and all the other impious doctrines scattered broadcast in our century
by sensual fanatics, more fit for the madhouse than the university, have
no fascination for my mind. I contemplate the disastrous influence
exercised by atheism over whole nations. This confirms me still more in
the faith of my forefathers. When I think of those fanatics, the sages
of the muck and midden, when I think of mankind deceived by them, I
repeat in their behoof the sacred words of Christ upon the cross:
"Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do." Finally, I
assert that I have always kept alive in me the flame of our august
religion, and that this has been for me my greatest stay and solace
during every affliction. The philosophers of the moment may laugh at me;
I am quite contented for them to regard me as a dullard, besotted by
what they choose to stigmatise as prejudice.




XXXII., XXXIII., XXXIV.

_Condensed by the Translator._


[Gozzi having been accused by his adversary Gratarol of hypocrisy and
covert libertinism, wished to make a full confession of his frailties to
the world, while the witnesses of his life and conversation were still
alive, and his statements could be challenged. With this object he
related three love-passages of his early manhood. To omit these
altogether from his Memoirs would be tantamount to doing him a grave
injustice, since they were meant to illustrate his sentiments upon the
delicate question of the relation between men and women in affairs of
the heart. They are not, however, suited to the taste of the present
century, being dictated with a frankness and a sense of humour which
remind us of our own Fielding. Their tone is wholesome and manly, but
some of their details are crude. It is the translator's duty in these
circumstances to subordinate literary to ethical considerations.
Repeating the stories, so far as possible, in Gozzi's own language, he
must supply those parts which he feels bound to omit by a brief
statement of fact. The portions of this chapter which are enclosed in
brackets contain the translator's abstract. The rest is a more or less
literal version of the original text.]


(i.)

_Story of my first love, with an unexpected termination._

In order to relate the trifling stories of my love-adventures, I must
return to the period of my early manhood. I ought indeed to blush while
telling them, at the age which I have reached; but I promised the tales,
and I shall give them with all candour, even though I have to blush the
while.

Being a man, I felt the sympathy for women which all men feel. As soon
as I could comprehend the difference between the sexes--and one arrives
betimes at such discretion--women appeared to me a kind of earthly
goddesses. I far preferred the society of a woman to that of a man. It
happened, however, that education and religious principles were so
deeply rooted in my nature, and acted on me so powerfully as checks to
inclination, that they made me in those salad days extremely modest and
reserved. I hardly know whether this modesty and this reserve of mine
were quite agreeable to all the girls of my acquaintance during the
years of my first manhood.

I can take my oath that I left my father's house, at the age of sixteen,
on military service in Dalmatia, innocent--I will not say in
thoughts--but most innocent as to the acts of love. The town of Zara was
the rock on which this frail bark of my innocency foundered; and since I
hope to make my readers laugh at my peculiar bent in love-making, and
also by the tales of my amours, I will first describe my character in
this respect, and then proceed to the narratives.

I always preserved a tincture of romantic metaphysics with regard to
love. The brutality of the senses had less to do with my peccadilloes
than a delicate inclination and tenderness of heart. I cherished so
lofty and respectful a conception of feminine honour and virtue that any
women who abandoned themselves to facile pleasures were abhorrent to my
taste. A _fille de joie_, as the voluptuaries say, appeared to me more
frightful, more disgusting, than the Orc described by Boiardo.[2] Never
have I employed the iniquitous art of seduction by suggestive language,
nor have I ever allowed myself the slightest freedom which might
stimulate desire. Languishing in soft and thrilling sentiments, I
demanded from a woman sympathy and inclination of like nature with my
own. If she fell, I thought that this should only happen through one of
those blind and sudden transports which suppress our reason on both
sides, the mutual violence of which admits of no control. Nothing could
have been more charming to my fancy than the contemplation of a woman,
blushing, terrified, with eyes cast down to earth, after yielding to the
blind force of affection in self-abandonment to impulse. I should have
remembered how she made for me the greatest of all sacrifices--that of
honour and of virtue, on which I set so high a value. I should have
worshipped her like a deity. I could have spent my life's blood in
consoling her; and without swearing eternal constancy, I should have
been most stable on my side in loving such a mistress. On the other
hand, I could have safely defied all men alive upon the earth to take a
more sudden, more resolute, and more irreversible step of separation
than myself, however much it cost me, if only I discovered in that woman
a character different from what I had imagined and conceived of her,
while all the same I should have maintained her honour and good repute
at the cost of my own life.

This delicate or eccentric way of mine in thinking about love exposed me
to facile deceptions in my youthful years, when the blood boils, and
self-love has some right to illusion, and the great acquirement of
experience is yet to be made.

The narratives of my first loves will confer but little honour on the
fair sex; but before I enter on them I must protest that I have always
made allowance for the misfortune under which, perhaps, I suffered, of
having had bad luck in love; which does not shake my conviction that
many phoenixes may be alive with whom I was unworthy to consort.

After living through the mortal illness which I suffered during the
first days of my residence at Zara--an illness undergone and overcome in
that squalid room described by me in the first part of these Memoirs--I
moved into one of the so-called Quarterioni situated on the beautiful
walls of Zara, and built for the use of officers. A very good room,
which I furnished suitably to my moderate means, together with a
kitchen, formed the whole of my apartment. I engaged a soldier for my
service at a small remuneration. He had orders to retire in the evening
to his quarters, leaving me a light burning. I remained alone; went to
bed, with a book and a candle at my side; read, yawned, and fell asleep.

Now to attack the tale of my first love-adventure! Its details will
perhaps prove tiresome, but they may yet be profitable to the
inexperience of youngsters.

Opposite my windows, at a certain distance, rose the dwelling of three
sisters, noble by birth, but sunk in poverty which had nothing to do
with noble blood. An officer, their brother, sent them trifling monies
from his foreign station, and they earned a little for their livelihood
by various woman's work, with which I saw them occupied. The elder of
these three Graces would not have been ugly, if her bloodshot eyes,
rimmed round with scarlet, had not obscured the lustre of her
countenance. The second was one of those bewitching rogues who are bound
to please. Not tall, but well-made, and a brunette; her hair black and
long; eyes very black and sparkling. Under her demure aspect there
transpired a force of physique and a vivacity which were certainly
seductive. The third was still a girl, lively, spirited, with
possibilities of good or evil in her make.

I never saw these three nymphs except by accident, when I opened the
window at which I used to wash my hands, and when their windows were
also open, which happened seldom. They saluted me with a becoming bow. I
answered with equal decorum and sobriety. Meanwhile, I did not fail, as
time went on, to notice that whenever I opened my window to wash my
hands, that little devil, the second sister, lost no time in opening her
window too, and washed her hands precisely while I was washing mine;
also, when she bent her lovely head to greet me, she kept those fine
black eyes of hers fixed on my face in a sort of dream, and with a kind
of languor well fitted to captivate a lad. I felt, indeed, a certain
tickling at my heart-strings; but the austere thoughts to which I was
accustomed, cured me of that weakness; and without failing in civility,
I kept myself within the bounds of grave indifference.

A Genoese woman, to whom I paid a trifle for ironing my scanty linen,
came one morning with some of my shirts in a basket. Upon the washing
lay a very fine carnation. "Whose is that flower?" I asked. "It is sent
to you," she answered, "and from the hands of a lovely girl, your
neighbour, for whom you have the cruelty to take no heed." The carnation
and the diplomatic message--and well knew I from whence both
came--increased the itching at my heart-strings. Nevertheless, I
answered the ambassadress in terms like these: "Thank that lovely damsel
on my part; but do not fail to tell her that she is wasting her flowers
to little purpose."

My head began to spin round and my heart to soften. At the same time,
when I reflected that I had no wish to enter into matrimonial
engagements, which were wholly excluded from my plan of life, nor yet to
prejudice the reputation of a girl by traffic with her--furthermore,
when I considered how little money I possessed, to be bestowed on one in
whom I recognised so much of beauty--I stamped out all the sparks of
sympathy which drew me toward her. I began by never washing my hands at
the window, in order to escape the arrows of those thievish eyes. This
act of retirement was ineffectual; indeed, it led to worse consequences.

One day I was called to attend upon my old friend, the officer Giovanni
Apergi, who had been my master in military exercises, and who was now
in bed, racked and afflicted with aches acquired in youthful
dissipation. He had his lodging on the walls, not far away from mine, in
the house of a woman well advanced in years, the wife of a notary.
Thither then I went.

The elderly housekeeper began to twit me with my rustic manners.
Gradually she passed to sharp but motherly reproof; in a youngster of
from sixteen to seventeen, like myself, the sobriety of a man of fifty
had all the effect of caricature; in particular, my treatment of
well-bred handsome girls, devotedly in love with me, my driving them to
desperation and tears by indifference and what appeared like scorn, did
not deserve the name of prudence; it was nothing short of clownishness
and tyranny. My friend, the officer, pulling wry faces and shrieking at
the twinges of his gout, chimed in with similar reproaches: I was a
little simpleton, a fool who did not know his own good fortune. "Oh, if
I only had your youth, your health, your opportunities!" Groans
interrupted these broken exclamations.

Just when I was preparing to defend myself, some one knocked, and the
dangerous beauty came into the room, under the pretext of inquiring
after the health of the officer. Her entrance checked my speech and made
my heart beat faster. The conversation turned on general and decorous
topics. The girl discovered qualities of wit and understanding; she was
not very talkative, but sensible and modest. Her eyes, which might in
poetry have been called stars, told me clearly that I was an ingrate.
Her visit to the sick man was really intended for the sound. At its
close, she remarked that she had sent her servant back, because her
elder sister was confined to bed by fever; might she beg for some one to
conduct her home? "This gentleman," replied the elderly woman, pointing
at once to me, "will be able to oblige you." "Oh, I do not wish to put
him to trouble; I am not worthy of the honour." The cunning creature
said this with ironical seriousness. I made the usual polite offer of my
services, and rose to accompany her. We had not far to go, and during
the brief journey both were silent. As she leant upon my arm, which was
steadier than marble, I felt her tremble sensibly, and we were in the
month of July. This tremor ran through my vitals, and made me tremble
more than she did.

When we reached her dwelling, she begged me to step in and to give her
the pleasure of a few minutes' conversation. We went upstairs, and I
beheld a home breathing of indigence in all its details. In the room
which I was asked to enter, her elder sister (the one with the red eyes)
lay sound asleep upon a decent bed, notably different from the rest of
the furniture. She was really ill, and we did not wish to wake her; so
our conversation proceeded in a low voice. My beauty began to knit a
stocking, and made me sit upon a little wretched sofa at her side. She
whispered, with downcast eyes, that some weeks ago she had conceived
the greatest esteem for me, but that she feared she had not earned
gratitude for her lively sentiments of regard. I answered in a whisper,
but with raised eyes, that I believed in her sincerity; I did not
suppose that she was flattering me; yet I was inquisitive to learn how
she had come to entertain such partiality for a young man unknown to
her, who was not worthy to excite the sentiments she had described. She
replied, still whispering, but lifting her eyes a little, that she had
told the simple truth. Her heart had first been touched when she saw me
play the part of Luce, the _soubrette_, in the theatre. Afterwards,
while watching me on the pallone-ground, this impression had been
deepened. I listened with some repulsion to the motives of her passion,
nor could I refrain from answering, with a laugh: "Surely modest girls
are taken by the mental gifts and sterling qualities of a young man, not
by such follies as you deign to mention." She dropped her fine eyes,
mortified by this home-thrust. Then she replied with a finesse I hardly
expected from a Dalmatian: "You cannot deny that public exploits,
universally applauded, in a young man, have some right to impress a
girl's imagination. I could indeed have defended my heart against these
promptings, if your person had not pleased me; if you had not shown
yourself in private to be governed by principles of modesty, sobriety,
and prudence; if the whole city were not edified by your behaviour, and
ringing with perpetual eulogies of conduct rare indeed among those
madcap fellows of the garrison. These reports confirmed my passion; and
if now I find it scorned by you, I know not to what extremities despair
will drive me." This speech flattered my _amour propre_. Tears, which
she attempted to conceal, fell from her fine eyes, and stirred my
sensibility. The beauty of the little devil had bewitched me. However, I
summoned reason to my aid, and replied with gentle calmness: "Dear lady,
I should be a monster if I were not grateful to you for your kind and
precious sentiments. Still I am only a lad, dependent on my family,
without the resources of fortune. Unable as I am to think of marriage, I
should injure you and should commit a dishonourable action were I to
frequent your society. The tenderness, which I feel only too deeply for
you, might lead me also on my own side into some disaster. Precisely
because I love you, it is my duty to shrink from anything which could be
hurtful to you; and because you love me, it is your duty to shun what
might prove disastrous to myself. Do not be hurt by what I have to say.
I shall not cease to cherish in my breast an ardent affection for
yourself; but from this hour forward I must avoid all opportunities of
being in your company, not less for my own than for your advantage."

The stocking she was knitting fell to the floor. She took one of my
hands and clasped it to her bosom. Leaning her lovely cheek against my
shoulder and shedding tears, she whispered, changing _you_ to _thou_ in
the Dalmatian fashion: "Dear friend, how little dost thou know me! Thy
prudent and ingenuous speech has only added to the ardour of my soul.
Couldst thou suspect that my poverty was laying a trap for thy thrift?
Couldst thou imagine that I was a dissolute girl, or that I was angling
for a husband? Thou art mistaken. I make allowances for thy mistake.
But, for pity's sake, learn to know me better. Grant me from time to
time some moments of thy charming conversation. We will watch for these
precious moments with discretion. Unless thou art a tiger of cruelty, do
not abandon me to the unbearable torments of a burning heart." Her tears
began to fall in showers. For my part, I remained deeply moved,
confused, and, I confess, madly in love with this charming girl, who had
so cleverly expressed a passion quite in harmony with my own idealistic
tendencies. I promised to renew our meetings; and indeed this promise
was made at least as much to my own heart as to hers. She showed the
liveliest signs of satisfaction; but at this moment her sister woke. I
explained the accident which brought me to their house; and then my
innamorata led me to the staircase. There we shook and kissed hands. I
departed, head over ears in love, a captivated blockhead.

We continued to find occasions for our meetings, and with less of
caution than we had agreed upon. During several days our conversations
were playful, witty, piquant. It was an exchange of sentiments, of
sighs, of little caressing epithets, of languors, pallors, trembling
glances--of all those sweets, in short, which constitute the greatest
charm, the most delicate, the most enduring delights of love. On my
side, the restraint of modesty was not yet broken. On the girl's side,
it did not seem to be so. One day, after playing pallone, I changed my
shirt, and went to walk alone upon the ramparts. It was very hot, and I
looked forward to the refreshment of the sea-breeze. Passing the house
of the notary's wife, with whom my friend, the gouty officer, lodged, I
heard my name called. Looking up, I saw the woman with my idol at the
window. They asked me in, and I entered gladly. A walk upon the ramparts
was proposed; and the officer, who happened to be better, wished to join
our party. He gave his arm to the elderly dame; I offered mine to the
blooming girl. He walked slowly, limping on his gouty toes. I walked
slowly for a different reason; my heart, and not my toe, was smitten;
besides, my sweetheart and I were more at liberty together, if we kept
the other couple well in front. Meanwhile night began to fall. After
taking a short turn, the officer complained of pain in his feet, and
begged leave to go back with his elderly companion, adding that I could
see my lady home when we had enjoyed enough of the evening cool
together. The pair departed, while I remained with my innamorata, lost
in the ecstasies of love.

[At this point Gozzi proceeds to relate how the liaison between these
two young people became most intimate. It had begun, as we have seen,
with advances on the part of the girl, and now it was carried forward
chiefly by her address and pertinacity.]

The intrigue continued for two months, with equal ardour on both sides.
Blinded as we were by passion, we thought that it was hidden from all
eyes; and yet perchance we were but playing the comedy of _Il Pubblico
Secreto_.[3] At any rate, I must admit that I found in this girl a
mistress exactly suited to my metaphysical ineptitude. She showed
herself always tender, always in ecstasy, always afraid to lose me,
always candid. Knowing how poor she was, I often wanted to divide my
poverty with her. I used prayers, almost violence, to win her consent to
this partition of my substance. But she took it as an unbearable insult,
and broke into rage in her refusals, exclaiming with kisses which drew
my soul forth to her crimson lips: "Thy heart is my true riches."

Certainly, a young man in his first love-passage sees awry, and makes
mistakes through mere stupidity. The end of this amour, which seemed
interminable, was brought about by an incident sufficiently absurd, and
far removed from my delicate idealism. It happened that the Provveditore
Generale was summoned to Bocche di Cataro, in order to settle some
disputes between the tribe called Pastrovicchi and the Turks. I had to
take sail with the Court. Good God! what agonies there were, what
rendings of the heart, what tears, what vows of fidelity, at this cruel
parting between two young creatures drowned in love! My absence lasted
about forty days, which seemed to me as many years. Scarcely had I
returned, and was rushing to my goddess, when a certain Count Vilio of
Desenzano, master of the horse to the General, who had stayed behind at
Zara (a man sufficiently dissolute in his amours, but a good and sincere
friend), came up to me and spoke as follows: "Gozzi, I know that you are
on the best of terms with such and such a girl. I should be acting
wrongly if I did not inform you of what has happened in your absence,
the truth of which I hold on sure foundations. You have a rival, one
with whom it would ill become you to compete. I am certain that he has
employed his time to good purpose. You have received my warning; rule
yourself accordingly." These words were scorpions to my heart.
Nevertheless, I chose to assume indifference, and put a bold face on the
matter. So I forced myself to laugh, and answered, stammering perhaps a
trifle, that it was quite true I knew the girl, but that my intercourse
with her had always been blameless, and that I had no cause to fear. I
had invariably found her so modest and reserved that I suspected he must
have been taken in by a bragging impostor, to the infinite injury of the
poor girl's character. "I am not mistaken, by gad," cried Vilio in his
Brescian way. "You are of years to know the world. I have done my duty
as a friend, and that is enough for me."

He left me with my head stunned, my spirit in confusion, staggering upon
my feet. From my earliest boyhood, I have always made a point of
exercising self-control. Accordingly, I now stifled the imperious
impulse which urged me to embrace my mistress. I did not merely postpone
my visit, but I kept my windows shut, avoiding every opportunity of
setting eyes on her. The Genoese laundress brought me diplomatic
messages; to these I returned laconic and meaningless answers, without
betraying the reason of my sudden coldness. Some notes were refused with
heroic, or shall I call it asinine endurance. At the same time, I
nourished in my breast a lively desire that my mistress might be
innocent, and that the accusation of so base a fault might be proved a
vile mendacious calumny. I hoped to arrive at the truth somehow, by
adhering to severe and barbarous measures.

In course of time I obtained only too positive confirmation of my fears.
Walking one day upon the ramparts, the elderly dame, of whom I have
already spoken, called me from her window, and begged me to come up. She
had a word or two to say to me. I assented, and entered the house.
Divining that she wished to speak about my mistress, I armed myself with
caution. My plan was to allege decent excuses for my conduct, without
touching the repulsive wound. However, I had not divined the whole. She
led me into a room, where, to my surprise, I beheld the idol of my first
affections, seated and shedding tears. "What I wanted to say to you,"
exclaimed the dame, "you will hear from the lips of this afflicted
damsel." On this, she left the room, while I remained like a statue
before the beauty I had adored, and who was still supremely charming in
my sight. She lifted her forehead, and began to load me with the
bitterest reproaches. I did not allow her to run on, but told her with
resolute plainness that a young woman who, during my absence, had played
so false was no longer worthy of my love. She turned pale, crying aloud:
"What scoundrelly scandal-monger has dared...." Again I cut her speech
short, adding: "Do not tire yourself by attempting the justification of
your conduct. I know the whole truth from an infallible source. I am
neither inconstant, nor a dreamer, nor ungrateful, nor unjust." The
assurance with which I uttered these words made the poor girl lower her
face, as though she was ashamed that I should look at her. Then bursting
into a passion of tears, broken with sobs, she brought these incoherent
phrases forth: "You are right ... I am no longer worthy of you.... Oh,
cursed poverty, thrice-cursed poverty!" She was unable to continue, and
I thought her tears would suffocate her. I was fit to drop to earth with
the vertigo caused by this confession, which left no flattering hopes of
innocence. My senses still painted a Venus in that desolated beauty. My
romantic head and heart painted her a horrid Fury from the pit of hell.
I kept silence. In my purse were some ducats, few indeed, but yet I had
them. I took these coins out, and, speechless still, I let them gently
drop into the loveliest bosom I have ever seen. Then I turned my back
and fled. Half mad with grief, I bounded down the staircase like a
greyhound, screaming with the ecstasy of one possessed by devils:
"Cursed poverty! Cursed, thrice-cursed poverty!"

[Illustration: GOZZI AND HIS FIRST LOVE

_Original Etching by Ad. Lalauze_]

Since then I never saw the object of my first love. I thought I must
have died under the pressure of a passion which gnawed my entrails, but
which, although I was but a boy, I had the cruel strength to subjugate.
Soon afterwards I learned with satisfaction that the unhappy girl had
married an officer, but I never sought to trace her out or to hear more
about her history.


(ii.)

_The story of my second love-affair, with fewer platonisms and a more
comic ending than the last._

About that time the Provveditore Generale found that he had need of my
quarters for storing the appurtenances of his stables and of the
coach-house, which were situated beneath the Quarterioni. Accordingly, I
removed into a little pavilion, which my friend Signor Innocenzio
Massimo and I had taken. It stood upon the ramparts. We could not occupy
this dwelling long; for it was distant from the Court and from our place
of duty. Moreover, when the winter season arrived, heavy rains, a
terrible north-wind, and snowfalls made our nest uninhabitable. Massimo
had some acquaintance with a shopkeeper and tradesman, who lived inside
the town, and owned a house with rooms to spare and many conveniences.
This man was married to a fine woman, plump and blooming; and God
forgive me if I think it probable that Massimo was more intimate with
the wife than the husband! Anyhow, he made arrangements with this
excellent couple to rent two rooms, one for me, the other for himself,
in close communication. We agreed for these rooms by the month, taking
our meals with the masters; their table was homely but abundant, and the
food excellent.

The couple were not blessed with children, but the man had adopted a
poor girl, in order to perform an act of Christian charity. This child,
who had scarcely reached her fourteenth year, dined and supped with us,
as the adopted daughter of the house. Her behaviour betrayed nothing but
the innocence belonging to her age. She had blonde hair, large blue
eyes, an expression at once soft and languid, a pale complexion tinged
with rose. She was rather thin than fleshy; but her figure was straight,
lithe, and beautifully formed; in stature she promised to be tall, with
something of majestic in her build. This girl came to dress me and
arrange my hair for the part of Luce, whenever I played at the Court
theatre. She joked and laughed, and turned me round to look at me. I
made some harmless witticisms in reply. At this she laughed the louder.
Such was our custom; but one evening, after she had done my hair for
Luce, she suddenly gave me three or four kisses on my cheeks and lips. I
was astonished. Yet I thought the girl so guileless, that I supposed she
must have imagined she was kissing some one of her own sex, seeing me
dressed like a female. This scene was repeated every evening with
additions; and I began to perceive that her kisses were not as innocent
as I supposed. Respect for my host's roof induced me to reprove her
kindly but seriously, and so as not to rouse resentment in the girl. I
warned her that such kisses between man and woman were forbidden by our
confessors.

[Gozzi now describes the peculiar relations which subsisted between the
several members of his host's family, and the progress of his flirtation
with the little serving-maid. He admits that she bewitched him by her
fantastic and wayward coquetries--as of an elf, a sprite, an enchanted
butterfly--which contrasted curiously with her demure and serious
demeanour in public. "Her behaviour at table and about the house would
have done credit to Santa Rosa." In private, she was a creature of whim,
caprice, extravagant and reckless folly. He was on the point of losing
his heart, or at least of trespassing beyond the bounds of prudence,
when the following occurrences took place, which may be repeated in his
own words.]

About a month remained before our Provveditore Generale Querini took
sail for Venice. His successor was already at Zara; and I had arranged
my own departure, to suit with that of my superior. I must admit,
however, that I was so captivated by that little hussy's ways, that all
my strength of mind could not prevent me from looking forward with real
sadness to our parting.

A comic accident, which happened three days before I quitted Zara, cured
me on the instant, and made me bless the hour of my embarkation for
home. In order to make my narrative intelligible, I shall be obliged to
describe the plan and the construction of the house we occupied. After
ascending the first stone staircase, one entered a large hall. At the
end of this hall, on the right hand, were two chambers, in one of which
the married couple slept, while Massimo occupied the other. On the left
of the staircase lay my bedroom, near the door of which another opening
led to the foot of a long ladder of thirty or more wooden steps. By this
one mounted to a floor above. Just at the top of the ladder was a dormer
window, looking out upon the roof, for the convenience of work-people,
when tiles had to be replaced and other repairs made. At one side of
this window you found a little chamber, the chaste cell in which my
mistress slept.

The putative father of the girl, that charitable man, had conceived no
suspicions with regard to me; her behaviour and mine in public was
marked with indifference, so well sustained that it suggested nothing to
arouse a doubt about us. He was furiously jealous, however, and had some
inklings that a certain young man, who inhabited the next house, might
crawl along the roof at night like a cat, and get in by the window, if
his adopted daughter left it open. His working jealousy suggested the
following device. How it was executed, I do not know. But he secretly
attached a thick log to the dormer window by a slender cord, in such a
way that it was impossible to open the window without snapping the
twine, and letting the log fall headlong down the ladder with a fearful
crash. This trap was meant to act as an alarm to the paternal guardian.
One night while I was sweetly sleeping, an infernal uproar, as of
something tumbling down the wooden stairs which ran along the boarding
at my pillow's head, woke me up with an awful fright. I thought my
sweetheart must have fallen, but it was only the log which went heavily
lumbering down.

I jumped out of bed in my shirt, caught up a light, and sallied forth to
give assistance to the wretched girl. While I was opening my door, I
spied the putative father in his shirt with a light in one hand and a
long naked scimitar clenched in the other, running like mad and rushing
up the stairs to execute summary vengeance. His wife in her shirt
hurried after, shrieking to make him stop. Massimo in his shirt, with a
light, and with his brandished sword, issued at the same time from his
bedroom, judging by the din that thieves were in the house. The husband
ran upstairs, swearing. The wife followed, howling. I followed the wife,
in dumb bewilderment. Massimo followed me, shouting: "Who is it? What is
it? Make room for me! Leave me to do the business!" The scene was quite
dramatic. The dormer window stood wide open. The girl in her smock had
fallen, huddled together, terrified, and trembling, just beneath it. Her
crime was manifest. We had much ado, all three of us, to curb the rage
of the so-called putative father, who had now become an Orlando Furioso,
and was bent on cutting the throat of his adopted daughter. The row was
terrible. During the long examinations which ensued, and in which,
thanks to Heaven, no mention was made of me, it came out that this
modest little damsel was very far from being the Santa Rosa that she
seemed.

All these matters were finally made up with sermons, threats, entreaties
for forgiveness, promises, vows to never do the like again, and a change
of dormitory for the vestal. I left Zara, light of heart, three days
after this event, horrified at the memory of my second love-affair.


(iii.)

_Story of my third love-affair, which, though it is true history, women
may, if they please, regard as fiction._

After my return to Venice occurred the events which I shall now proceed
to narrate. This third amour was also the last of any essential
importance in my life. During its development the romance and idealism
of my nature, the delicacy of my emotions, seemed to meet with perfect
correspondence in a mistress whose sublime sentiments matched my own.
Why I say _seemed_, will appear in the sequel of this story, out of
which Boccaccio might have formed a first-rate novel. The recital must
be lengthy; but I crave indulgence from my readers, feeling that the
numerous episodes which it contains and the abundance of curious
material deserve a careful handling.

I occupied some little rooms at the top of our house in Venice. Here I
used to sleep, and pass whole days in study. From time to time, while I
was working, an angel's voice arrested my attention, singing melancholy
airs attuned to sad and plaintive melodies. This lovely voice came from
a house which was only divided by a very narrow alley from my apartment.
My windows opened on the house in question; and so it happened, as a
matter of course, that one fine day I caught sight of its possessor
sitting at her window sewing. Leaning at one of my windows, I found
myself so close to the lady that civility obliged me to salute her. She
returned my bow with courteous gravity. It was a young woman of about
seventeen, married, and endowed with all the charms which nature can
confer. Her demeanour was stately; complexion, very white; stature,
middle-sized; the look of her eyes gentle and modest. She was neither
plump nor lean. Her bust presented an agreeable firmness; her arms were
rounded, and she had the most beautiful hands. A scarlet riband bound
her forehead, and was tied in a bow behind her thick and flowing
tresses. On her countenance dwelt a fixed expression of profound
sadness, which compelled attention. In spite of these distinguished
qualities, I was far from engaging my romantic heart upon the spot. My
adventures at Zara were too fresh in my memory, and had taught me some
experience.

When one has a beautiful young woman for one's next-door neighbour, it
is easy to pass by degrees from daily compliments and salutations to a
certain sort of intimacy. One begins to ask: "How are you?" or "Did you
sleep well last night?" One exchanges complaints upon the subject of the
weather, the scirocco, the rain. At length, after some days passed in
such inquiries on topics common to all stupid people, one is anxious to
show that one is not as stupid as the rest of the world.

I asked her one morning why she invariably exercised her charming voice
in mournful songs and plaintive music. She replied that her temperament
inclined to melancholy; that she sang to distract her thoughts, and that
she only found relief in sadness. "But you are young," I said. "I see
that you are well provided; I recognise that you have wit and
understanding; you ought to overcome your temperament by wise
reflections; and yet, I cannot deny it, there is always something in
your eyes and in your face which betrays a chagrin unsuited to your
years. I cannot comprehend it." She answered with much grace, and with a
captivating half-smile, that "since she was not a man, she could not
know what impression the affairs of this world make upon the minds of
men, and since I was not a woman, I could not know what impression they
make upon the minds of women." This reply, which had a flavour of
philosophy, sent a little arrow to my heart. The modest demeanour, the
seriousness, and the cultivation of this Venetian lady pictured her to
me immeasurably different from the Dalmatian women I had known. I began
to flatter myself that here perhaps I had discovered the virtuous
mistress for whom my romantic, metaphysical, delicate heart was sighing.
A crowd of reflections came to break the dream, and I contented myself
with complimenting her upon her answer. Afterwards, I rather avoided
occasions for seeing and talking with her.

Certainly she must have had plenty of work to finish; for I observed her
every day seated at the same window sewing with melancholy seriousness.
While shunning, so far as this was possible, the danger of conversing
with her, my poor heart felt it would be less than civil not to speak a
word from time to time. Accordingly we now and then engaged in short
dialogues. They turned upon philosophical and moral topics--absurdities
in life, human nature, fashion. I tried to take a lively tone, and
entered upon some innocent witticisms, in order to dispel her gloom. But
I rarely succeeded in waking a smile on her fair lips. Her replies were
always sensible, decorous, ingenious, and acute. While debating some
knotty point which admitted controversy, she forgot to work, left her
needle sticking in the stuff, looked me earnestly in the face and
listened to my remarks as though she were reading a book which compelled
her to concentrate her mind. Flattering suggestions filled my head. I
sought to extinguish them, and grew still more abstemious in the
indulgence of our colloquies.

More than a month had passed in this way, when I noticed, on opening a
conversation of the usual kind, that the young woman gazed hard at me
and blushed a little, without my being able to assign any cause for her
blushes. A few indifferent sentences were exchanged. Still I perceived
her to be restless and impatient, as though she were annoyed by my
keeping to generalities and not saying something she was waiting for. I
did not, and really could not, make it out. I might have imagined she
was expecting a declaration. But she did not look like a woman of that
sort, and I was neither bold nor eager enough to risk it. At length I
thought it best to remark that I saw she had things to think over, and
that I would not infringe upon her leisure further. I bowed, and was
about to take my leave. "Please, do not go!" she exclaimed in some
distress, and rising at the same time from her chair: "Did you not
receive, two days ago, a note from me in answer to one of yours,
together with a miniature?" "What note? What answer? What miniature?"
cried I in astonishment: "I know nothing about the matter." "Are you
telling the truth?" she asked, turning pale as she spoke. I assured her
on my honour that I did not know what she referred to. "Good God!" she
said with a sigh, and sinking back half-fainting on her chair: "Unhappy
me! I am betrayed." "But what is it all about?" continued I, in a low
voice, from my window, truly grieved to be unable to assist her.
Ultimately, after a pause of profound discouragement, she rose and said
that in her position she had extreme need of advice. She had obtained
her husband's permission to go that day after dinner to visit an aunt of
hers, a nun, on the Giudecca. Therefore she begged me to repair at
twenty-one o'clock to the _sotto portico_ by the _ponte storto_ at S.
Apollinare.[4] There I should see, waiting or arriving, a gondola with a
white handkerchief hung out of one of its windows. I was to get boldly
into this gondola, and I should find her inside. "Then you will hear all
about the circumstances in which my want of caution has involved me."
This she spoke with continued agitation. "I have no one but you to go
to for advice. If I deserve compassion, do not fail me. I believe enough
in your discretion to confide in you." With these words she bowed and
rapidly retired.

I remained fixed to the spot, like a man of plaster; my brains working,
without detecting the least clue to the conundrum; firmly resolved,
however, to seek out the _sotto portico_, the _ponte storto_, and the
gondola. I took my dinner in haste, nearly choked myself, and alleging
business of the last importance, flew off to the _ponte storto_. The
gondola was in position at a _riva_, with the flag of the white
handkerchief hung out. I entered it in haste, impelled perhaps by the
desire to join the lovely woman, perhaps by curiosity to hear the
explanation of the letters and the miniature. When I entered, there she
was, resplendent with gems of price at her ears, her throat, her
fingers, underneath the _zendado_.[5] She made room for me beside her,
and gave orders to the gondolier that he should draw the curtain, and
row toward the Giudecca to a monastery which she named.

She opened our conversation by apologising for having given me so much
trouble, and by begging me not to form a sinister conception of her
character. The invitation, it was true, exposed her to the risk of being
taken for a light woman, considering her obligations as a wife. To this
she added that she had already formed a flattering opinion of my
discretion, prudence, honourable conduct, and upright ways of thinking.
She proceeded to tell me that she found herself much embarrassed by
circumstances. She asked me if I knew a woman and a man, a poor married
couple, whom her husband lodged under his roof, renting them a room and
kitchen on the ground-floor. I replied with the frankness of veracity
that I was perfectly ignorant regarding the persons whom she indicated;
far from being aware that they dwelt in her house, I did not know of
their existence in the universe. At this answer, she closed her eyes and
lips, as though in pain; then she resumed: "And yet the man assured me
that he knew you perfectly, and possessed your thorough confidence;
furthermore, he brought me this note from you, in the greatest secrecy;
you can read it, and discover whether I am speaking true." Upon this she
drew the billet from her bosom, and handed it to me.

I opened it with amazement, and saw at once that I had never written it.
I read it through, and found in it the divagations of a most consummate
lady-killer, full of panegyrics on the fair one's charms, oceans of
nauseous adulation, stuffed out with verses filched from Metastasio. I
was on the point of giving way to laughter. The concluding moral of the
letter was that I (who was not I), being desperately in love with her,
and forecasting the impossibility of keeping company with her, saw my
only hope in the possession of her portrait; if I could obtain but this,
and keep it close to a heart wounded by Cupid's dart, this would have
been an immense relief to my intense passion.

"Is it conceivable, madam," said I, after reading this precious
effusion, "that you have conceived a gracious inclination toward me,
grounded on my discretion, on my prudence, on my good principles, on my
ways of thinking, and that after all this you have accepted such
ridiculous and stupid stuff as a composition addressed by me to you?"
"So it is," she answered: "we women cannot wholly divest us of a certain
vanity, which makes us foolish and blind. Added to the letter, the man
who brought it uttered words, as though they came from you, which
betrayed me into an imprudence that will cost me many tears, I fear. I
answered the letter with some civil sentiments, cordially expressed; and
as I happened to have by me a miniature, set in jewels, and ordered by
my husband, I consigned this to the man in question, together with my
note, feeling sure that if I were obliged to show the picture to my
husband, you would have returned it to me. It seems then that you have
received neither the portrait nor my letter in reply?" "Is it possible,"
I answered, "that you are still in doubt about my having done this
thing? Do you still believe me capable of such an action?" "No, no!" she
said: "I see only too well that you have nothing to do with the affair.
Poor wretched me! to what am I exposed then? A letter written by my hand
... that portrait ... in the keeping of that man ... my husband!... For
heaven's sake, give me some good counsel!" She abandoned herself to
tears.

I could do nothing but express my astonishment at the cleverness of the
thief. I tried to tranquillise her; then I said that, if I had to give
advice, it was necessary that I should be informed about the man and
wife who occupied her house, and about the intimacy she maintained with
them. She replied that the husband seemed to be a good sort of fellow,
who gained something by a transport-boat he kept. "The wife is a most
excellent poor creature, and a devoted daughter of the Church. She is
attached to me, and I to her. I often keep her in my company, have often
helped her in her need, and she has shown herself amply grateful. You
know that, between women, we exchange confidences which we do not
communicate to men. She is aware of certain troubles which beset me, and
which I need not speak to you about; and she feels sorry for me. She has
heard me talking at the window with you, and has joked me on the
subject. I made no secret to her of my inclination, adding however that
I knew my duties as a wife, and that I had overcome the weakness. She
laughed at me, and encouraged me to be a little less regardful on this
point. That is really all I have to tell you, and I think I shall have
said perhaps too much." So she spoke, and dropped her eyes. "You have
not said enough," I put in: "That excellent Christian woman, your
confidante--tell me, did she ever see your portrait set in jewels?" "Oh,
yes! I often showed it to her." "Well, the excellent and so forth woman
has told everything to her excellent husband. They have laid their heads
together, and devised the roguery of the forged letter to abstract your
jewelled miniature. The worst is that the excellent pair had some
secretary to help them in their infernal conciliabulum." "Is it
possible?" exclaimed she, like one bewitched. "You may be more than sure
that it is so; and shortly you will obtain proof of this infallible
certainty." "But what can I do?" "Give me some hints about your
husband's character, and how he treats you." "My husband adores me. I
live upon the most loyal terms with him. He is austere, and does not
wish to be visited at home. But whenever I ask leave to go and pay my
compliments to relatives or female friends, he grants me permission
without asking further questions." "I do not deny that your want of
caution has placed you in a position of delicacy and danger.
Nevertheless, I will give you the advice, which I think the only one
under these uncomfortable circumstances. That excellent Christian woman,
your confidante, does she know perhaps that I was going to meet you in
the gondola to-day?" "No, sir! certainly not, because she was not at
home." "I am glad to hear it. This, then, is my advice. Forget
everything about the miniature, just as though you had never possessed
it; bear the loss with patience, because there is no help for it. If you
attempted to reclaim it, the villain of a thief and his devout wife and
the secretary, finding their roguery exposed, might bring you into the
most serious trouble. If your husband has a whim to see the miniature,
you can always pretend to look for it and not to find it, affect
despair, and insinuate a theft. Do not let yourself be seen henceforward
at the window talking with me. Go even to the length of informing your
confidante that you intend to subjugate an unbecoming inclination. Treat
the pair of scoundrels with your customary friendliness, and be very
cautious not to betray the least suspicion or the slightest sign of
coolness. Should the impostor bring you another forged letter under the
same cloak of secrecy, as I think he is pretty sure to do, take and keep
it, but tell him quietly that you do not mean to return an answer; nay,
send a message through the knave to me, to this effect--that you beg me
to cease troubling you with letters; that you have made wholesome
reflections, remembering the duty which an honest woman owes her
husband. You may add that you have discovered me to be a wild young
fellow of the worst character, and that you are very sorry to have
intrusted me with your miniature. Paint me as black as you can to the
rascal; if he takes up the cudgels in my defence, as he is sure to do in
order to seduce you, abide by your determination, without displaying any
anger, but only asking him to break the thread of these communications
which annoy you. You may, if matters take a turn in that direction,
waste a ducat or two upon the ruffian, provided he swears that he will
accept no further messages or notes from me. This is the best advice
which I can give you in a matter of considerable peril to your
reputation. Pray carry my directions out with caution and ability.
Remember that your good name is in the hands of people who are
diabolically capable of blackening it before your husband to defend
themselves. I flatter myself that before many days are past you will
find that my counsel was a sound one."

The young woman declared herself convinced by my reasoning. She promised
to execute the plan which I had traced, and vowed that her esteem for me
had been increased. At this point we reached the Giudecca, where she had
to disembark. With a modest pressure of one of her soft hands on mine,
she thanked me for the trouble I had taken in her behalf, begging me to
maintain my cordial feelings toward her, and assuring me that she prized
our friendship among the great good fortunes of her life. I left her
gondola, and reached Venice by another boat, considerably further gone
in love, but with my brain confused and labouring. Love and the curious
story I had heard kept me on the stretch.

A week or more passed before I saw her again. Yet I was always anxious
to meet her, and to hear how she had managed with those sharpers. At
last she showed herself one morning in her workroom; and while I was
passing along by my open window, she threw a paper tied to a pebble into
the room; then disappeared. I picked the missive up, and read the
scroll, of which the purport was to this effect: "She had to pay a visit
to a friend after dinner; her husband had given his permission; could I
meet her at the former hour, and at the former _ponte storto_? There I
should see a gondola waiting with the former ensign of the handkerchief.
She begged me to jump into the boat; for she was sorely pressed to tell
me something." I went accordingly, and found my lady at the rendezvous.
She seemed more beautiful than I had ever seen her, because her face
wore a certain look of cheerfulness which was not usual to it. She
ordered the gondolier, who was not the same as on the previous occasion,
to take a circuit by the Grand Canal, and afterwards to land her in a
certain _rio_ at Santa Margherita. Then she turned to me and said that I
was a famous prophet of events to come. From her bosom she drew forth
another note and handed it to me. It was written in the same hand as the
first. The caricature of passion was the same. I, who was not I,
thanked her for the portrait; vowed that I kept it continually before my
eyes or next my heart. I, who was not I, complained loudly that she had
deserted the window; I was miserable, yet I comforted myself by thinking
that she kept apart from prudent motives. I, who was not I, had no
doubts of her kindness; as a proof of this, being obliged to wait for a
draft, in order to meet certain payments, and the draft not having yet
arrived, I, who was not I, begged for the loan of twenty sequins, to
discharge my obligations. I promised to repay them religiously within
the month. She might give the money to the bearer, a person known to me,
a man of the most perfect confidence, &c., &c.

I confess, that I was angry after reading this. The lady laughed at my
indignant outburst. "How did you deal with the impostor?" I cried.
"Exactly as you counselled me," she answered: "excuse me if I painted
you as black as possible to the fellow. He stood confused and wanted to
explain; but on seeing that my mind was made up, he held his tongue,
completely mortified. I ordered him to talk no more to me about you, and
to accept no further messages or letters. Then I gave him a sequin, on
the clear understanding that he should never utter a word again to me
concerning you. I told him that I was resolved to break off all
relations with you. To what extent our relations have been broken off,
you can see for yourself now in this gondola; and they will only come
to an end when you reject my friendship, which event I should reckon as
my great disaster. I swear this on my honour."

"I must report another favourable circumstance," she continued: "My
husband surprised that rogue in the act of stealing some ducats from a
secret drawer in his bureau. He told the man to pack out with his wife,
threatening to send him to prison if they did not quit our premises at
once." "Were you clever enough," I said, "to affect a great sorrow for
those unfortunate robbers, sent about their business?" "I did indeed try
to exhibit the signs of unaffected sorrow," she replied; "I even made
them believe that I had sought to melt my husband's heart with prayers
and tears, but that I found him firm as marble. I gave them some alms,
and three days ago they dislodged."

"Well done!" I exclaimed: "the affair could not have gone better than it
does. Now, even if your husband asks to see the portrait, it will be
easy to persuade him that they stole it. You will incur no sin of
falsehood; for steal it they did, in good sooth, the arrant pair of
sharpers." "Ah!" cried she, "why cannot I enjoy the privilege of your
society at home? What relief would my oppressed soul find in the company
of such a friend! My sadness would assuredly be dissipated. Alas! it is
impossible. My husband is too too strict upon the point of visitors. I
must abandon this desire. Yet do not cease to love me; and believe that
my sentiment for you exceeds the limits of mere esteem. Be sure that I
shall find occasions for our meeting, if indeed these be not irksome to
yourself. Your modesty and reserve embolden me. I know my duties as a
married woman, and would die sooner than prove myself disloyal to them."
We had now arrived at Santa Margherita. She clasped my hand with one of
the loveliest hands a woman ever had. I wished to lift it to my lips.
She drew it back, and even deigned to bend as though to kiss my own.
That I could not permit; but leapt from the gondola, a simpleton
besotted and befooled by passion. Then she proceeded on her way to the
house she meant to visit.

This heroine of seventeen summers, beautiful as an angel, had inflamed
my Quixotic heart. It would be a crime, I reflected, not to give myself
up to a Lucretia like her, so thoroughly in harmony with my own
sentiments regarding love. "Yes, surely, surely I have found the
phoenix I was yearning for!"

A few days afterwards the pebble was once more flung into my chamber.
The paper wrapped around it spoke of _ponte storto_, gondola, a visit to
a cousin in childbed. I flew to the assignation. Nor can I describe the
exultation, the vivacity, the grace, with which I was welcomed. Our
conversation was both lively and tender; an interchange of sentiments
diversified by sallies of wit. Our caresses were confined to clasped
hands and gentle pressure of the fingers at some mot which caught our
fancy. She never let fall an equivocal word, or gave the slightest hint
of impropriety. We were a pair of sweethearts madly in love with one
another, yet respectful, and apparently contented with the ecstasies of
mutual affection. The pebble and the scroll, the _ponte storto_, and the
gondola were often put in requisition. I cannot say what pretexts she
discovered to explain her conduct to her husband. The truth was that her
visits for the most part consisted in our rowing together to the
Giudecca or to Murano, where we entered a garden of some lonely cottage,
and ate a dish of salad with a slice of ham, always laughing, always
swearing that we loved each other dearly, always well-behaved, and
always melting into sighs at parting. I noticed that in all this
innocent but stolen traffic she changed her gondola and gondolier each
time. This did credit to her caution. We had reached the perfection of a
guiltless friendship--to all appearances, I mean--the inner workings of
imagination and desires are uncontrollable. _You_ had become _thou_, and
yet our love delights consisted merely in each other's company,
exchanging thoughts, clasping hands, and listening now and then to
hearts which beat like hammers.

One day I begged her to tell me the story of her marriage. She replied
in a playful tone: "You will laugh; but you must know I am a countess.
My father, Count so-and-so, had only two daughters. He is a spendthrift,
and has wasted all his patrimony. Having no means to portion off us
girls, he gave my sister in marriage to a corn-factor. A substantial
merchant of about fifty years fell in love with me, and my father
married me to him without a farthing of dowry. At that time I was only
fifteen. Two years have passed since I became the wife of a man who,
barring the austerity of his old-fashioned manners, is excellent, who
maintains me in opulence, and who worships me." (I knew all about the
Count her father, his prodigality and vicious living.) "But during the
two years of your marriage," said I, "have you had no children?" The
young lady showed some displeasure at this question. She blushed deeply,
and replied with a grave haughtiness: "Your curiosity leads you rather
too far." I was stung by this rebuke, and begged her pardon for the
question I had asked, although I could not perceive anything offensive
in it. My mortification touched her sympathy, and pressing my hand, she
continued as follows: "A friend like you has the right to be acquainted
with the misfortune which I willingly endure, but which saddens and
embitters my existence. Know then that my poor husband is far gone in
lung-disease; consumed with fever, powerless; in fact, he is no husband.
Nearly all night long he sheds bitter tears, entreating forgiveness for
the sacrifice imposed upon me of my youth. His words are so ingenuous,
so cordial, that they make me weep in my turn, less for my own than for
his misfortune. I try to comfort him, to flatter him with the hope that
he may yet recover. I assure you that if my blood could be of help, I
would give it all to save his life. He has executed a legal instrument,
recognising my marriage dowry at a sum of 8000 ducats, and is constantly
trying to secure my toleration by generous gifts. One day he pours
ducats into my lap, then sequins, then great golden medals; at another
time it is a ring or a sprig of brilliants; now he brings stuffs for
dresses or bales of the finest linen, always repeating: 'Put them by,
dear girl. Before long you will be a widow. It is the desire of my soul
that in the future you may enjoy happier days than those which now
enchain you to a fatal union.' There then is the story of my marriage.
You now know what you wished to know about my circumstances." Soon after
she resumed, changing her tone to one of pride and dignity: "I am afraid
that this confession, which you extorted from me, may occasion you to
form a wrong conception of my character. Do not indulge the suspicion
that I have sought your friendship in order to obtain vile
compensations. If I discovered the least sign in you of such
dishonouring dirty thoughts, I should lose at once the feeling which
drew me toward you, and our friendship would be irrevocably broken."

I need hardly say that this discovery of a Penelope in my mistress was
exactly what thrilled my metaphysical heart with the most delicious
ecstasy. Six months meanwhile had flown, and we were still at
boiling-point. I used to write her tender and platonic sonnets, which
she prized like gems, fully appreciating their sense and literary
qualities. I also wrote songs for the tunes she knew; and these she used
to sing at home, unseen by me, surpassing the most famous sirens of the
stage by the truth and depth of her feeling. I am afraid that my readers
will be fatigued by the long history of this semi-platonic amour. Yet
the time has now arrived when I must confess that it degenerated at last
into a mere vulgar _liaison_. It pains me; but truth demands that I
should do so. Indeed, it was hardly to be expected that a young man of
twenty and a girl of seventeen should carry on so romantic and ethereal
a friendship for ever.

One day I saw my mistress seated with a very sad expression at her
window. I inquired what had happened. She answered in a low voice that
she had things of importance to communicate, and begged me to be
punctual at the gondola, the _ponte storto_. Nothing more. Her reserve
made me tremble for the future which might lie before us.

She told me that she was much distressed about her husband. He was very
ill. The doctors had recommended him to seek the temperate air of Padua
and the advice of its physicians. He had departed in tears, leaving her
alone with a somnolent old serving-woman. I was genuinely sorry for the
cause of her distress; but the news relieved me of my worst fears. After
expatiating on the sad occurrence and over-acting her grief, I thought,
even to the extent of shedding tears, she entered into a discourse which
presented a singular mixture of good sense, tenderness, and artifice.
"My friend," she said, "it is certain that I must be left a widow after
a few days. How can a widow in my youthful years exist alone, without
protection? I shall only have my father's house to seek as an asylum. He
is a man of broken fortunes, burdened with debts, enslaved to the vices
of extravagance. My natural submission to him as a daughter will be the
ruin of my fortune. After a short space of time I shall be left young,
widowed, and in indigence. I have no one to confide in except yourself,
to whom I have yielded up my heart, my virtue, and my reputation. In my
closet I have stored a considerable sum of money, jewels, gold and
silver objects of value. Will you oblige me by taking care of these
things, so that my father may not lay his talons on them, under the
pretext of guarding my interests in the expected event of my poor
husband's death? Should he succeed in doing so, I am certain that before
two months are over the whole will be dissipated. You will not refuse me
this favour? Little by little I will convey to your keeping all that I
possess. I shall also place in your hands the deed by which my husband
recognised the dowry of which I spoke to you upon another occasion. My
father knows nothing of this document; and in the sad event of my
husband's death it may well be possible that I shall need the assistance
of some lawyer to prove my rights and the maintenance which they secure
me. For the direction of these affairs I trust in you. You love me, and
I doubt not that you will give me your assistance in these painful
circumstances."

I saw clearly that the object of this speech was to bring me to a
marriage without mentioning the subject. Now I was extremely averse to
matrimony for two reasons. First, because I abhorred indissoluble ties
of any sort. Secondly, because my brothers were married, with large
families, and I could not stomach the prospect of charging our estate
with jointures, and of procreating a brood of little Gozzis, all
paupers. Nevertheless, I loved the young woman, felt sincerely grateful
toward her, and in spite of what had happened between us, believed her
to be virtuous and capable of making me a faithful wife. My heart
adapted itself in quiet to the coming change, and conquered its aversion
to a matrimonial bond.

A very surprising event, which I am about to describe, released me from
all obligations to my mistress, dispelled my dreams of marriage, and
nearly broke my heart.

Well; I did my best to comfort the fair lady. I told her that perhaps
her husband's case was not so desperate as she imagined. Next I firmly
refused to become the depositary of her property. My reasons were as
follows. In the first place, I had no receptacle to which the goods
could be transferred with secrecy and safety. In the next place, her
husband might survive and make inquiries. This would compromise the
reputation of both her and me. I thanked her for the confidence she
reposed in me, and vowed that she should always, at the hour of need,
find me ready to support her as the guardian of her rights, her friend,
and a man devoted to her person. She expressed herself satisfied with my
decision; and once again we abandoned ourselves to the transports of a
love which only grew in strength with its indulgence. She was an
extraordinary woman; perfectly beautiful, always graceful, always new.
Even in her hours of passion she preserved a modesty which overwhelmed
my reason. Would that the six months of our platonic love had been
prolonged into a lifetime, instead of yielding place to sensuality! In
that case, the unexpected accident, which cut short our intercourse in a
single moment, would not have inflicted the wound it did upon my
feelings.

A friend of mine came about this time to Venice on business, and took
up his quarters with me. He observed me exchanging some words with this
young lady, and began to banter me, loudly praising my good taste. I
played the part of a prudish youngster, exaggerated the virtues of my
neighbour, and protested that I had never so much as set foot in her
house--which was indeed, the truth. It was not easy to deceive my friend
in anything regarding the fair sex. He positively refused to believe me,
swearing he was sure I was the favoured lover of the beauty, and that he
had read our secret in the eyes of both. "You are a loyal friend to me,"
he added; "but in the matter of your love-affairs, I have always found
you too reserved. Between comrades there ought to be perfect confidence;
and you insult me by making a mystery of such trifles." "I can boast of
no intimacy whatever with that respectable lady," I replied; "but in
order to prove my sincerity toward my friend, I will inform you that
even if I enjoyed such an intimacy as you suspect, I would rather cut my
tongue out than reveal it to any man alive. For me the honour of women
is like a sanctuary. Nothing can convince me that men are bound by
friendship to expose the frailty and the shame of a mistress who has
sacrificed her virtue, trusting that the man she loves will keep the
secret of her fault; nor do I believe that such honourable reticence can
be wounding to a friend." We argued a little on this point, I
maintaining my position, he treating it with ridicule, and twitting me
with holding the opinions of a musty Spanish romance.

Meanwhile he was always on the watch to catch sight of my goddess, and
to exchange conversation with her at the window. He drenched her with
fulsome compliments upon her beauty, her elegance and her discretion,
artfully interweaving his flatteries with references to the close
friendship which had united himself and me for many years. To hear him,
one would have thought that we were more than brothers. She soon began
to listen with pleasure, entering deeper and deeper into the spirit of
these dialogues. Though ready to die of irritation, I forced myself to
appear indifferent. I knew the man to be an honourable and a cordial
friend; but with regard to women, I knew that he was one of the most
redoubtable pirates, the most energetic, the most fertile in resources,
who ever ploughed the seas of Venus. He was older than I; a fine man,
however, eloquent, sharp-witted, lively, resolute and expeditious.

Some days went by in these preliminaries, and the date of his departure
was approaching. In other circumstances I should have been sorry at the
prospect of parting from him. Now I looked forward to it with
impatience. One morning I heard him telling her that he had taken a box
at the theatre of San Luca, and that he was going there that evening
with his beloved friend. He added that it would cheer her up to join
our party, breathe the air, and divert her spirits at the play. She
declined the invitation with civility. He insisted, and called on me to
back him up. She looked me in the face, as though to say: "What do you
think of the project?" My friend kept his eyes firmly fixed on mine,
waiting to detect any sign which might suggest a _No_. I did not like to
betray my uneasiness, and felt embarrassed. I thought it sufficient to
remark that the lady knew her own mind best; she had refused; therefore
she must have good reasons for refusing; I could only approve her
decision. "How!" cried my friend, "are you so barbarous as not to give
this lady courage to escape for once from her sad solitude? Do you mean
to say that we are not persons of honour, to whose protection she can
safely confide herself? Answer me that question." "I cannot deny that we
are," said I. "Well, then," interposed the coquette upon the moment,
much to my surprise, "I am expecting a young woman of my acquaintance,
who comes every evening to keep me company, and to sleep with me, during
the absence of my husband. We will join you together, masked. Wait for
us about two hours after nightfall at the opening of this _calle_."[6]
"Excellent!" exclaimed my friend with exultation; "we will pass a merry
evening. After the comedy we will go to sup at a restaurant. It will
not be my fault if we do not shine to-night." I was more dead than alive
at this discovery. Yet I tried to keep up the appearance of
indifference. Can it be possible, I said in my own heart, that these few
hours have sufficed to pervert a young lady whom I have so long known as
virtuous? Can these few hours have robbed me of a mistress whom I esteem
so highly, who loves me, and who is seeking to win my hand in marriage?

The bargain was concluded, and at the hour appointed we found the two
women in masks at the opening of the _calle_. My friend swooped like a
falcon on my mistress. I remained to man the other girl. She was a
blonde, well in flesh, and far from ugly; but at that moment I did not
take thought whether she was male or female. My friend in front kept
pouring out a deluge of fine sentiments in whispers, without stopping to
draw breath, except when he drew a long sigh. I sighed deeper than he
did, and with better reason. Can it be possible, I thought, that yonder
heroine will fall into his snare so lightly?

We reached the theatre and entered the box. The blonde gave her whole
attention to the play. My friend did not suffer the idol of my heart to
listen to a syllable. He kept on breathing into her ear a torrent of
seductive poisonous trash. What it was all about I knew not, though I
saw her turning red and losing self-control. I chafed with rage
internally, but pretended to follow the comedy, of which I remember
nothing but that it seemed to be interminable. When it was over, we
repaired to the Luna--as before, in couples--my friend with my mistress,
I with the blonde. I never caught a syllable of the stuff which he
dribbled incessantly into his companion's ears. Supper was ordered; a
room was placed at our disposal, and candles lighted. My friend,
meanwhile, never interrupted his flood of eloquence.

[Illustration: GOZZI AND HIS FRIENDS' ADVENTURE IN THE CAFE LUNA

_Original Etching by Ad. Lalauze_]

[What ensued justified Gozzi in believing that the lady whom he loved
was capable of misconducting herself, and that his friend was ready to
take advantage of her levity. While he was chewing the bitter root of
disillusionment, she provoked an outburst of jealousy which exposed the
situation.]

The ruthless woman came up to me with friendly demonstrations. One of
those blind impulses, which it is impossible to control, made me send
her reeling three steps backwards. She hung her head, confused with
chagrin. My friend looked on in astonishment. The blonde opened her eyes
and mouth as wide as she was able. I pulled myself together, ashamed
perhaps at having shown my anger; then, as though nothing had happened,
I began to complain of the host; "why did he not bring our supper? it
was getting late, and the ladies ought to be going home." I noticed that
my mistress shed some furtive tears. Just then the supper was served,
and we sat down to table. For me it was nothing better than the banquet
of Thyestes. Still I set myself to abusing the comedy, which I had not
heard, and the host, and the viands, swallowing a morsel now and then,
which tasted in my mouth like arsenic. My friend betrayed a certain
perplexity of mind; yet he consumed the food without aversion. My
mistress was gloomy, and scarcely raised a mouthful to her lips with
trembling fingers. The blonde fell too with a good appetite, and partook
of every dish. When the bill was paid, we conducted the ladies back to
their house, and wished them good-night.

No sooner were we alone together, than my friend turned to me and said:
"It is all your fault. You denied that you were intimate with that young
woman. Had you confessed the truth to your friend, he would have
respected your amour. It is your fault, and the loss is yours." "What I
told you, was the truth," I answered: "but permit me now to tell you
another truth. I am sure that she consented to join our company, relying
upon me, and on my guarantee--which I gave at your request--that we were
honourable men, to whom she could commit herself with safety. I cannot
regard it as honourable in a friend to wheedle his comrade into playing
the ignoble part which you have thrust upon me." "What twaddle!"
exclaimed he. "Between friends such things are not weighed in your
romantic scales. True friendship has nothing to do with passing
pleasures of this nature. You have far too sublime a conception of
feminine virtue. My opinion is quite different. The most skilful
arithmetician could not calculate the number of my conquests. I take my
pastime, and let others take theirs." "If a ram could talk," I answered,
"and if I were to question him about his love-affairs with the ewes of
his flock, he would express precisely the same sentiments as yours."
"Well, well!" he retorted: "you are young yet. A few years will teach
you that, as regards the sex you reverence, I am a better philosopher
than you are. That little blonde, by the way, has taken my fancy. The
other woman told me where she lives. To-morrow I mean to attack the
fortress, and I will duly report my victory to you." "Go where you
like," I said: "but you won't catch me again with women at the play or
in a restaurant."

He retired to sleep and dream of the blonde. I went to bed with thoughts
gnawing and a tempest in my soul, which kept me wide-awake all night.
Early next morning my friend took his walks abroad, and at dinner-time
he returned to inform me with amazement that the blonde was an inhuman
tigress; all his artifices had not succeeded in subduing her. "She may
thank heaven," he continued, "that I must quit Venice to-night. The
prudish chatter-box has put me on my mettle. I should like to see two
days pass before I stormed the citadel and made her my victim." He went
away, leaving me to the tormenting thoughts which preyed upon my mind.

I was resolved to break at once and for ever with the woman who had been
my one delight through a whole year. Yet the image of her beauty, her
tenderness, our mutual transports, her modesty and virtue in the midst
of self-abandonment to love, assailed my heart and sapped my resolution.
I felt it would be some relief to cover her with reproaches. Then the
remembrance of the folly to which she had stooped, almost before my very
eyes, returned to my assistance, and I was on the point of hating her.
Ten days passed in this contention of the spirit, which consumed my
flesh. At last one morning the pebble flew into my chamber. I picked it
up, without showing my head above the window, and read the scroll it
carried. Among the many papers I have committed to the flames, I never
had the heart to burn this. The novel and bizzarre self-defence which it
contains made it too precious in my judgment. Here, then, I present it
in full. Only the spelling has been corrected.

"You are right. I have done wrong, and do not deserve forgiveness. I
cannot pretend to have wiped out my sin with ten days of incessant
weeping. These tears are sufficiently explained by the sad state in
which my husband has returned from Padua, reduced to the last extremity.
They will therefore appear only fitting and proper in the sight of
those who may observe them. Alas! would that they were simply shed for
my poor dying husband! I cannot say this; and so I have a double crime
to make me loathe myself.

"Your friend is a demon, who carried me beyond my senses. He persuaded
me that he was so entirely your friend, that if I did not listen to his
suit I should affront _you_. You need not believe what seems incredible;
yet I swear to God that he confused me so and filled my brain with such
strange thoughts that I gave way in blindness, thinking I was paying you
a courtesy, knowing not what I was doing, nor that I was plunging into
the horrible abyss in which I woke to find myself the moment after I had
fallen.

"Leave me to my wretchedness, and shun me. I am unworthy of you; I
confess it. I deserve nothing but to die in my despair. Farewell--a
terrible farewell! Farewell for ever!"

I could not have conceived it possible that any one should justify such
conduct on such grounds. Yet the letter, though it did not change my
mind, disturbed my heart. I reflected on her painful circumstances, with
her husband at the point of death. It occurred to me that I could at
least intervene as a friend, without playing the part of lover any more.
Yet I dared not trust myself to meet the woman who for a whole year had
been the object of my burning passion. At the cost of my life, I was
resolved to stamp out all emotions for one who had proved herself alien
to my way of thinking and of feeling about love. Moreover, I suspected
that she might be exaggerating the illness of her husband, in order to
mollify me. I subdued my inclinations, and refrained from answering her
letter or from seeing her.

The fact is that I soon beheld the funeral procession of her husband
pass beneath my windows, with the man himself upon the bier. I could no
longer refuse credence to her letter.

This revived my sympathy for the unhappy, desolate, neglected beauty. I
was still hesitating, when I met a priest of my acquaintance who told me
that he was going to pay a visit of condolence to the youthful widow.
"You ought to come with me," said he. "It is an act of piety toward one
of your neighbours." I seized the occasion offered, and joined company
with the priest.

I found her plunged in affliction, pale, and weeping. No sooner did she
set eyes upon me, than she bent her forehead and abandoned herself to
tears. "With the escort of this minister of our religion," I began, "I
have come to express my sincere sorrow for your loss, and to lay my
services at your disposal." Her sobs redoubled; and without lifting her
eyes to mine, she broke into these words: "I deserve nothing at your
hands." Then a storm of crying and of sobs interrupted her utterance.
My heart was touched. But reason, or hardness, came to my aid. After
expressing a few commonplaces, such as are usually employed about the
dead, and renewing my proffer of assistance, I departed with the priest.

A full month elapsed before I set eyes on her again. It chanced that I
had commissioned a certain tailoress to make me a waistcoat. Meeting me
in the road, this woman said that she had lost my measure, and asked
whether I would come that evening and let her measure me again. I went,
and on entering a room, to which she introduced me, was stupefied to
find my mistress sitting there in mourning raiment of black silk.[7] I
swear that Andromache, the widow of Hector, was not so lovely as she
looked. She rose on my approach, and began to speak: "I know that you
have a right to be surprised at my boldness in seeking an occasion to
meet with you. I hesitated whether I ought or ought not to communicate a
certain matter to you. At last I thought that I should be doing wrong
unless I told you. I have received offers of marriage from an honest
merchant. You remember what I told you about my father; and now he is
moving heaven and earth to get me under his protection with my little
property. I sought this opportunity of speaking with you, merely that I
might be able to swear to you by all that is most sacred, that I would
gladly refuse any happiness in this life for the felicity of dying in
the arms of such a friend as you are. I am well aware that I have
forfeited this good fortune; how I hardly know, and by whose fault I
could not say. I do not wish to affront you, nor yet the intriguer whom
you call your friend; I am ready to take all the blame on my own
shoulders. Accept, at any rate, the candid oath which I have uttered,
and leave me to my remorseful reflections." Having spoken these words,
she resumed her seat and wept. Armed as I was with reason, I confess
that she almost made me yield to her seductive graces. I sat down beside
her, and taking one of her fair hands in mine, spoke as follows, with
perfect kindness: "Think not, dear lady, that I am not deeply moved by
your affliction. I am grateful to you for the stratagem by which you
contrived this interview. What you have communicated to me with so much
feeling not only lays down your line of action; it also suggests my
answer. Let us relegate to the chapter of accidental mishaps that fatal
occurrence, which will cause me lasting pain, and which remains fixed in
my memory. Yet I must tell you that I cannot regard you, after what then
happened, as I did formerly. Our union would only make two persons
miserable for life. Your good repute with me is in a sanctuary. Accept
this advice then from a young man who will be your good friend to his
dying day. Strengthen your mind, and be upon your guard against
seducers. The opportunity now offered is excellent; accept at once the
proposals of the honest merchant you named to me, and place yourself in
safety under his protection."

I did not wait for an answer; but kissed her hand, and took my leave,
without speaking about my waistcoat to the tailoress. A few months after
this interview she married the merchant. I saw her occasionally in the
street together with her husband. She was always beautiful. On
recognising me, she used to turn colour and drop her eyes. This is as
much as I can relate concerning my third lady-love. It came indeed to my
ears, from time to time, without instituting inquiries, that she was
well-conducted, discreet, exemplary in all her ways, and that she made
an excellent wife to her second husband.




XXXV.

_Reflections on the matter contained in the last three chapters, which
will be of use to no one._


These three love-affairs, which I have related in all their details, and
possibly with indiscreet minuteness, taught me some lessons in life. I
experienced them before I had completed my twenty-second year. They
transformed me into an Argus, all vigilance in regard to the fair sex.
Meanwhile I possessed a heart in some ways differing from the ordinary;
it had suffered by the repeated discovery of faithlessness in women--how
much I will not say; it had suffered also by the brusque acts of
disengagement, which my solid, resolute, and decided nature forced upon
me. The result was that I took good care to keep myself free in the
future from any such entanglements.

I was neither voluptuous by temperament nor vicious by habit. My
reflective faculties controlled the promptings of appetite. Yet I took
pleasure in female society, finding in it an invariable source of
genuine refreshment. With the exception of some human weaknesses, of no
great moment, to which I yielded in my years of manhood, I have always
continued to be the friend and observer of women rather than their
passion-blinded lover.

The net result of my observations upon women is this. The love which
most of them pretend for men, springs mainly from their vanity or
interest. They wish to be surrounded by admirers. They are ambitious to
captivate the hearts and heads of people of importance, in order to
reign as petty queens, to take the lead, to exercise power, to levy
contributions. Or else they ensnare slaves devoted to them, free-handed
managers of theatres, men who will give them the means at balls, at
_petits soupers_, at country-houses, at great entertainments, to
eclipse their rivals, to acquire new lovers, and to betray their
faithful servant, their credulous accomplice in this game of fashion.
Again, they are sometimes spreading nets to catch a complaisant husband,
who will support them in their intrigues.

I was not born to pay court. My position in the world was not so eminent
as to secure a woman's triumph by my influence. I was neither wealthy
enough nor extravagant enough to satisfy a woman's whims in those
ridiculous displays which make her the just object of disdainful satire.
I had no inclination to ruin myself either in my fortune or in my
health. I had conceived a sublime and romantic ideal of the
possibilities of love. Matrimony was wholly alien to my views of
liberty. The consequence was that, after these three earliest
experiences, I regarded the sex with eyes of a philosopher.

I enjoyed the acquaintance of many women in private life, and of many
actresses, remarkable for charm and beauty. Holding the principles I
have described, I found them well contented with my manners of
behaviour. They showed themselves capable of honourable, grateful, and
constant friendship through a long course of years. In truth, it is in
the main to men--to men who flatter and caress the innate foibles of
women, their vanity, their tenderness, their levity, that we must
ascribe the frequency of female frailties.

In conclusion, I will lift my voice to affirm this truth about myself.
Without denying that I have yielded, now and then, but rarely, to some
trivial weakness of our human nature, I protest that I have never
corrupted a woman's thoughts with sophisms. I have never sapped the
principles of a sound education. I have never exposed the duties and
obligations of their sex to ridicule, by clothing license with the name
of liberty. I have never stigmatised the bonds of religion, the conjugal
tie, modesty, chastity, decent self-respect, with the title of
prejudice--reversing the real meaning of that word, as is the wont of
self-styled philosophers, who are a very source of infection to the age
we live in.

Here, then, I leave with you the candid and public confession of my
loves.[8] I have related the circumstances of my birth, my education, my
travels, my friendships, my engrossing occupations, my literary
quarrels, my amorous adventures. It is for you to take them as you find
them. I have written them down at the dictation of mere truth. They are
_useless_, I know, and I only _publish_ them in obedience to the virtue
of _humility_.




XXXVI.

_On the absurdities and contrarieties to which my star has made me
subject._


I wrote the useless memoirs of my life in 1780, down to the age I had
attained in that year; but now that I still find myself alive in 1797,
the vice of scribbling being in my case incorrigible, I am wasting some
more pages on useless memoirs subsequent to that date, and am giving
these in their turn to the public from a motive of humility.

If I were to narrate all the whimsical absurdities and all the untoward
accidents to which my luckless star exposed me, I should have a lengthy
business on my hands. They were of almost daily occurrence. Those alone
which I meekly endured through the behaviour of servants in my employ,
would be enough to fill a volume, and the anecdotes would furnish matter
for madness or laughter.

I will content myself with mentioning one singularity, which was
annoying, dangerous, and absurd at the same time. Over and over again
have I been mistaken by all sorts of people for some one not myself; and
the drollest point is that, in spite of their obstinate persistence, I
was not in the least like the persons they took me for. One day I met
an old artisan at San Pavolo, who ran to meet me, bent down and kissed
the hem of my garment with tears, thanking me with all his heart for
having been the cause of liberating his son from prison through my
influence. I told him firmly that he did not know me, and that he was
mistaking me for some one else. He maintained with great warmth and
assurance that he knew me, and that I was his kind master Paruta. I
perceived that he took me for a Venetian patrician of that name, but I
vainly strove to disabuse him. The good man, thinking perhaps that I
denied the title of Paruta in order to escape his thanks, followed me a
long way with a perfect storm of blessings, vowing to pray to God until
his dying day for my happiness and for that of the whole Paruta family.
I asked a friend who knew the nobleman in question if I resembled him.
He replied that Paruta was lean, tall, very lightly built, with thin
legs and a pale face, and that he had not the least similarity to me.

Everybody knows or did know Michele dall'Agata, the celebrated
impresario of the opera;[9] it is notorious that the fellow was a good
span shorter than me, two palms broader, and wholly different in dress
and personal appearance. Well, through a tedious course of years, as
long as this man lived, it was my misfortune to be stopped upon the road
almost every day, by singers and dancers of both sexes, by
chapel-masters, tailors, painters, letter-carriers, &c., all of whom
mistook me for Michele. I had to listen to interminable complaints,
lengthy expressions of gratitude, inquiries after lodgings, grumblings
about meagre decorations and scanty wardrobes. From the letter-carriers
I had, over and over again, to refuse letters and parcels addressed to
Michele dall'Agata, screaming, protesting, swearing that I was not
Michele. All these persons, when they reluctantly at last took leave,
turned back from time to time and stared at me, like men bereft of
sense, showing their firm conviction that I _was_ Michele, who had
reasons for not wishing to _appear_ Michele. One summer, on reaching
Padua, I learned that Signora Maria Canziani, an excellent and
well-conducted dancer, and my good friend, had lately been confined. I
wished to pay her a visit, and inquired from a woman at her lodgings if
I might be introduced into her room. She responded with these words
addressed to her mistress: "Madam, Signor Michele dall'Agata is waiting
outside, and would like to offer his respects to you." When I entered
the apartment, poor Canziani burst into such peals of laughter at the
woman's blunder that I thought she must have died. Having paid this
visit, I chanced to meet the celebrated professor of astronomy, Toaldo,
on the bridge of San Lorenzo. He knew me perfectly, and I knew him as
well. I bowed; he looked me in the face, lifted his hat with gravity,
and passed onwards, saying: "Addio Michele!" The continual persistence
of this error almost brought me to imagine that I was Michele. If
Michele had earned the ill-will of brutal and revengeful enemies, this
mistaken identity would certainly have been for me no laughing matter.

One very hot evening, when the splendour of the moon was turning night
into day, I went abroad to take the air, and was conversing with the
patrician Francesco Gritti on the piazza of San Marco. I heard a voice
behind me saying: "What are you doing here at this hour? Why don't you
go to bed and sleep, you ass?" These words were accompanied with two
smart raps upon my back. I turned to resent the affront, and found
myself facing the patrician Cavaliere Andrea Gradenigo, who gazed
fixedly at me, and then exclaimed: "Pray pardon me! I could have sworn
that you were Daniele Zanchi." Some explanations and excuses followed
regarding the cuffs and the title of ass, which I had got through being
taken for a Daniele. The cavaliere, it seems, was familiar enough with
this fellow to call him ass and give him a couple of thwacks in sign of
amicable pleasantry.

Not less whimsical was the following incident of the same description. I
happened to be talking one very fine day with my friend Carlo Andrich on
the Piazza di San Marco, when I observed a Greek, with mustachios, long
coat, and red cap, who had with him a boy dressed in the same costume.
When he saw me, the Greek ran up to us, exhibiting ecstatic signs of
joy. After embracing and kissing me with rapture, he turned to the boy
and said: "Come, lad, and kiss the hand here of your uncle Costantino."
The boy seized and kissed my hand. Carlo Andrich stared at me; I stared
at Carlo Andrich: we were like a pair of images. At length I asked the
Greek for whom he took me. "What a joke!" said he; "aren't you my dear
friend Costantino Zucala?" Andrich held his sides to save himself from
bursting, and it took me seven minutes to persuade the Greek that I was
not Signor Constantino Zucala. On making inquiries with people who knew
Signor Zucala, I was assured that this worthy merchant was a short fat
man, without one grain of resemblance to myself.

I shall probably have wearied out my readers by relating the hundredth
part of such occurrences. I will now glance at the hundredth part of the
contretemps which were continually annoying me.

In winter or in spring, in summer or in autumn, the same thing always
happened. If I chanced to be caught by some sudden unexpected downpour,
I might kick my heels as long as I liked under a colonnade or in a shop,
waiting till the rain stopped and I could get home dry; but not on one
single occasion did I ever have the consolation of seeing out the
deluge; on the contrary, it invariably redoubled in fury, as though to
spite me. Goaded at last by the nuisance of this eternal useless
waiting, fretful and eager to find myself at home, I exposed myself in
all meekness to the deluge, and reached my dwelling wet to the skin,
dripping with water. But no sooner had I arrived in this pitiful plight,
unlocked the door, and taken shelter, than the clouds rolled by and the
sun began to show his face, just as though he meant to laugh at my
discomfort.

Eight times out of ten, through the whole course of my life, when I
hoped to be alone, and to occupy my leisure with reading or writing for
my own distraction and amusement, letters or unexpected visitors, more
tiresome even than worrying thoughts or importunate letters, would come
to interrupt me and put my patience on the rack. Eight times out of ten,
since I began to shave, no sooner had I set myself before the
looking-glass, than people arrived in urgent haste to speak with me on
business, or persons of importance, whom I could not keep waiting in the
ante-chamber. I had to wash the soap-suds from my face, and leave my
room half-shaved, to listen to such folk on business, or to people of
quality whom good manners forced me to oblige.

What I am going to relate is hardly decent, yet I shall tell it, because
it is the simple truth, and furnishes a good example of these
persecuting contrarieties. Almost every time when a sudden necessity
has compelled me to seek some lonely corner in a street, a door is sure
to open, and a couple of ladies appear. In a hurry I run up another
blind alley, and lo and behold another pair of ladies make their
entrance on the scene. The result is, that I am compelled to dodge from
pillar to post, suffering the gravest inconveniences, to which my
modesty exposes me. These, however, are but trifles, mere irritating
gnat-bites.

Those who have the patience to read the remaining chapters of my insipid
Memoirs, will admit that the evil star of these untoward circumstances
never ceased to plague me. Certainly the troubles in which poor Pietro
Antonio Gratarol, for whom I was sincerely sorry, involved me by his
strange behaviour, were not slight or inconsiderable.

I think that the following incident is sufficiently comic to be worth
narration. I was living in the house of my ancestors, in the Calle della
Regina at S. Cassiano. The house was very large, and I was its sole
inhabitant; for my two brothers, Francesco and Almoro, had both married
and settled in Friuli, leaving me this mansion as part of my
inheritance. During the summer months, when people quit the city for the
country, I used also to visit Friuli. I was in the habit of leaving the
keys of my house with a corn-merchant, my neighbour, and a very honest
man. It chanced one autumn, through one of the tricks my evil fortune
never ceased to play, that rains and inundations kept me in Friuli
longer than usual, far indeed into November. Snow upon the mountains,
and the winds which brought fine weather, caused an intense cold. I
travelled toward Venice, well enveloped in furs, traversing deep bogs,
floundering through pitfalls in the road, and crossing streams in flood.
At last, one hour after nightfall, I arrived, half dead with the
discomforts of the journey, congealed, fatigued, and wanting sleep. I
left my boat at the post-house near S. Cassiano, made a porter shoulder
my portmanteau, and a servant take my hat-box under his arm. Then I set
off home, wrapped up in my pelisse, all anxiety to put myself into a
well-warmed bed. When we reached the Calle della Regina, we found it so
crowded with people in masks and folk of all sexes, that it was quite
impossible for my two attendants with their burdens to push a way to my
house-door. "What the devil is the meaning of this crowd?" I asked a
bystander. "The patrician Bragadino has been made Patriarch of Venice
to-day," was the man's reply. "They are illuminating and keeping
open-house; doles of bread, wine, and money are being given to the
people for three days. This is the reason of the enormous crowd." On
reflecting that the door of my house was close to the bridge by which
one passes to the Campo di Santa Maria Mater Domini, I thought that, by
making a turn round the Calle called del Ravano, I might be able to get
out into the Campo, then cross the bridge, and effect an entrance into
my abode.[10] I accomplished this long detour together with the bearers
of my luggage; but when I reached the Campo, I was struck dumb with
astonishment at the sight of my windows thrown wide open, and my whole
house adorned with lustres, ablaze with wax-candles, burning like the
palace of the sun. After standing half a quarter of an hour agaze with
my mouth open to contemplate this prodigy, I shook myself together, took
heart of courage, crossed the bridge, and knocked loudly at my door. It
opened, and two of the city guards presented themselves, pointing their
spontoons at my breast, and crying, with fierceness written on their
faces: "There is no road this way." "How!" exclaimed I, still more
dumbfounded, and in a gentle tone of voice: "why can I not get in here?"
"No, sir," the terrible fellows answered; "there is no approach by this
door. Take the trouble to put on a mask, and seek an entrance by the
great gate which you see there on the right hand, the gate of the
Palazzo Bragadino. Wearing a mask you will be permitted to pass in by
that door to the feast." "But supposing I were the master of this
house, and had come home tired from a journey, half-frozen, and dropping
with sleep, could I not get into my own house and lay myself down in my
bed?" This I said with all the phlegm imaginable. "Ah! the master?"
replied those truculent sentinels: "please to wait, and you will receive
an answer." With these words they shut the door stormily in my face. I
gazed, like a man deprived of his senses, at the porter and the servant.
The porter, bending beneath his load, and the servant looked at me like
men bewitched. At last the door opened again, and a majordomo, all laced
with gold, appeared upon the threshold. Making many bows and
inclinations of the body, he invited me to enter. I did so, and passing
up the staircase, asked that reverend personage what was the enchantment
which had fallen on my dwelling. "So! you know nothing then?" he
answered. "My master, the patrician Gasparo Bragadino, foreseeing that
his brother would be elected Patriarch, and wanting room for the usual
public festival, was desirous of uniting this house to his own by a
little bridge of communication thrown across the windows. The scheme was
executed with your consent. It is here that a part of the feast is being
celebrated, and bread and money thrown from the windows to the people.
All the same, you need not fear lest the room in which you sleep has not
been carefully reserved and closed with scrupulous attention. Come with
me, come with me, and you shall soon see for yourself." I remained
still more confounded by this news of a permission, which no one had
demanded, and which I had not given. However, I did not care to exchange
words with a majordomo about that. When I came into the hall, I was
dazzled by the huge wax-candles burning, and stunned by the servants and
the masks hurrying to and fro and making a mighty tumult. The noise in
the kitchen attracted me to that part of the house, and I saw a huge
fire, at which pots, kettles, and pipkins were boiling, while a long
spit loaded with turkeys, joints of veal, and other meats, was turning
round. The majordomo ceremoniously kept entreating me, meanwhile, to
visit my bedroom, which had been so carefully reserved and locked for
me. "Please tell me, sir," I said, "how late into the night this din
will last?" "To speak the truth," he answered, "it will be kept up till
daybreak for three consecutive nights." "It is a great pleasure to me,"
I said, "to possess anything in the world which could be of service to
the Bragadino family. This circumstance has conferred honour on me. Pray
make my compliments to their Excellencies. I shall go at once to find a
lodging for the three days and three consecutive nights, being terribly
in need of rest and quiet." "Out upon it!" replied the majordomo, "you
really must stay here, and take repose in your own house, in the room
reserved with such great care for you." "No, certainly not," I said. "I
thank you for your courteous pains in my behalf. But how would you have
me sleep in the midst of this uproar? My slumber is somewhat of the
lightest." Then, bidding the porter and the servant follow me, I went to
spend the three days and the three consecutive nights in patience at an
inn.

Having slept off my fatigue that night, I paid a visit of congratulation
to the Cavaliere Bragadino on the elevation of his brother to the
Patriarchate. He received me with the utmost affability; expressed
annoyance at what he had learned from his majordomo, and told me with
the most open candour that the patrician Count Ignazio Barziza had
positively dispatched a courier with a letter to me in Friuli, begging
permission to use my mansion for the feast-days of the Patriarch, and
that I had by my answer given full consent. To this I replied that in
truth I had seen neither messenger nor letters, but that he had done me
the greatest pleasure by making use of my poor dwelling. Wishing higher
honours to his family, I added that if such should befall, without
seeking the intervention of Count Barziza, he was at liberty to throw my
doors and windows open and freely to avail himself of my abode. Take
this affair as you choose, it earned for me the estimable good-will of
the patrician Bragadino, caused me to sojourn three days and three
nights in an inn, and gave me occasion to relate one of my innumerable
contretemps.

If I were to expand this chapter with an account of all the
contrarieties I suffered as a house-owner in Venice, it would grow into
a volume.[11] Having to reside in the city, I judged it prudent to take
our property there in exchange for some farms in Friuli. I very soon
perceived that the advantage of this barter fell to my brothers
Francesco and Almoro. My tenants refused to pay their rents, and made
perpetual demands for alterations and repairs. Masons, carpenters,
glaziers, smiths, pavement-layers, emptiers of cesspools, ate up a third
of my revenues. Lawsuits to recover arrears devoured a large part of the
remaining two-thirds. Bad debts, empty houses, and taxes reduced the
total to a bare fifth. Beside this annual loss to my pocket, I was
driven to my wits' ends by the vagaries of the tenants.

I will select two examples. One day a woman of respectable appearance
came, and asked for the lease of an empty house I had on the Giudecca. I
granted her request, and she paid the first instalment of her rent.
After this first payment, all my clamours, demands for arrears, and
menaces were thrown to the winds. She actually inhabited my house for
three years, and discharged her obligations with the coin of promises
and sometimes insults. I offered to make her a free present of her debt
if she would only decamp. This roused her to a state of fury. "Was she
not a woman of honour?" she exclaimed: "she was wont to pay up
punctually, and not to accept alms." At last I had recourse to the
Avvogadori, one of whom sent for the woman, endured her chatter, and
intimated that she must give the house up at the expiration of eight
days. Accordingly, I went to take possession of my property; but
no!--there was the woman, comfortably ensconced with her own family, as
though the house belonged to her. Again I applied to the court. Bailiffs
were dispatched, who turned my tenants with their furniture into the
streets. The keys of the house were placed in my hands, and I crossed
over to the Giudecca to inspect the damaged tenement, of which, at last,
I felt myself once more the owner. Vain error! That heroic woman, at the
head of her family, had scaled the walls of the fortress by a ladder,
entered through a window, and encamped herself in the middle of the
conquered citadel. I need not add that I finally got rid of this
tormenting gadfly. But what a state the house was in! No locks, no
bolts, no doors, no windows; everything reduced to desolation.

On another occasion I happened to have a house empty at S. Maria Mater
Domini. One morning a man, who had the dress and appearance of a
gondolier, presented himself. He informed me that he was a gondolier in
the service of a cittadino at S. Jacopo dall'Orio. His own abode was at
S. Geremia; and the great distance from his master's dwelling made his
service difficult. My house at S. Maria would exactly suit him; the
money for the first instalment of the rent was ready, if I would take
him as a tenant. "What is your name?" I asked. "Domenico Bianchi." "And
your master's?" "Signor Colombo." "Very well," said I; "I shall make
inquiries of your master; for I have so often got into hot water that I
am even afraid of cold." He urged me not to postpone matters; his wife
was expecting her confinement every hour; it was of the utmost
importance that he should be able to install her at once in their new
abode. "Well, well," said I, "you don't suppose that she will be laid-in
this afternoon, do you? I will go to Signor Colombo after dinner; and if
his report of you is satisfactory, you may take the keys as early as you
like to-morrow." "You are right," replied the fellow; "although I know
myself to be an honest man, I do not pretend that you should not inquire
into my character. Only pray be quick about the business."

With this he went away; but scarcely had I dined, when the gondolier
reappeared, leading by the hand a young woman. Half in tears, he began
as follows: "Here is my poor wife in the first pangs of labour. For the
love of Jesus, let us into your house. I am afraid it is already too
late, and that she will be confined upon the street." As a matter of
fact, the young person showed by her figure, and by the extraordinary
contortions of her face and body, that what he said was the truth.
Mortally afraid that she might not be able to leave my mansion, I rushed
to the writing-table, scribbled out an agreement, took the customary
month's payment, and sent the couple off with the keys of my house.

Some weeks later on, the parish priest of S. Maria arrived all fuming
with excitement, and cried out: "To whom the devil have you let your
house in such-and-such a street?" "To a certain Domenico Bianchi, the
gondolier of the Colombo family, whose wife was on the point of being
confined." "What Domenico Bianchi? What Colombo? What gondolier? What
wife?" exclaimed he in still greater heat. "The fellow keeps a
disorderly house; and she is one of his hussies. When they came to you,
she had a cushion stuffed beneath her clothes. They sell wine, draw all
the disreputable people of the quarter together, and are the scandal of
my parish. If you do not immediately get rid of the nuisance, you will
be guilty of a mortal sin." I calmed him down, and made him laugh by the
account I gave him of my interview with the _soi-disant_ married couple.
Then I promised to dislodge the people on the spot.

This was sooner said than done. I first applied to the Avvogadori, who
washed their hands of the affair. Then I begged the priest to lay an
information before the Esecutori contro la Bestemmia.[12] He positively
refused, telling me that loose women were only too powerfully protected
at Venice, and that he had already burned his fingers on a previous
occasion by proceeding against a notorious evil-liver. It was no
business of his, and I must get out of the scrape as well as I could.

To cut the story short, I was eventually relieved by my friend Paolo
Balbi, who applied the following summary but efficacious remedy. "I
informed Messer Grande of your affair,"[13] said Balbi, while explaining
his proceedings: "he, as you are well aware, commands the whole tribe of
constables and tipstaves; and I begged him to find some way of ousting
the _canaille_ from your house. Messer Grande dispatched one of his
myrmidons, one who knows these hussies, to tell them, under the pretext
of a charitable warning, that the chief of the police had orders to take
them all up and send them handcuffed to prison. In their fright, the
nest of rogues dispersed and left the quarter." After laughing heartily
over the affair, and thanking my good friend, I walked home, reflecting
deeply on red tape in public offices, perversions of legal justice, and
the high-handed proceedings of that generous and expeditious judge,
_Messer Grande_.[14]




XXXVII.

_A review of the origin and progress of the literary quarrels in which I
was engaged.--Also of the foundation of the Accademia Granellesca.--A
diatribe on prejudice.--Father Bettinelli._


The introduction to the first volume of my dramatic caprices (published
in 1772) gave a sufficiently full account of the dates and origins of my
ten _Fiabe Teatrali_, together with some notice of the literary quarrels
which occasioned them.[15] Yet I find it necessary to pass these matters
once more in review, since they concerned me not a little for the space
of twenty-five years and more, and have consequently much to do with my
Memoirs.

Here then are the steps which led me to bring those poetical
extravagances on the stage--extravagances which I never sought to value
or have valued at more than their true worth--which never had, or have,
or will have detractors among real lovers of literature--which always
had, and have, and will have the entire population of great cities for
their friends--which made, and make, and will for ever make a certain
sort of self-styled _literati_ mad with rage--Here then, as I said, are
the steps which led me to their publication.

I must begin by confessing three weaknesses, which pertained to my way
of looking upon literature.

In the first place, I resented the ruin of Italian poetry, established
in the thirteenth century, fortified and strengthened in the fourteenth,
somewhat shaken in the fifteenth, revived and consolidated in the
sixteenth by so many noble writers, spoiled in the seventeenth,
rehabilitated at the end of the last and at the beginning of the present
eighteenth century, then given over to the dogs and utterly corrupted by
a band of blustering fanatics during the period which we are doomed to
live in. These men, who have wrought the ruin I resent by their pretence
to be original, by their habit of damning our real masters and
institutors in the art of writing as puerile and frigid pedants,--these
men who lead the youth astray from solid methods and praiseworthy
simplicity, incite them to trample under foot whatever in past centuries
was venerated like the angel who conducted young Tobias, hurl them with
hungry and devouring intellects into the gulf of entities which have no
actual existence--these men, I say, have turned a multitude of hopeful
neophytes, if only they were guided by sound principles, into mere
visionary fools and the demoniacs of spurious inspiration.

In the second place, I resented the decadence of our Italian language
and the usurpations of sheer ignorance upon its purity. Purity of
diction I regarded as indispensable to plain harmonious beauty of
expression, to felicitous development of thought, to just illumination
of ideas, and to the proper colouring of sentiment, especially in works
of wit and genius in our idiom.

In the third place, I resented the extinction of all sense for
proportion and propriety in style, that sense which prompts us to treat
matters sublime, familiar, and facetious upon various planes and in
different keys of feeling, whether the vehicle employed be verse or
prose. Instead of this, one monstrous style, now bombastically turgid,
now stupidly commonplace, has become the fashion for everything which is
written or sent to press, from the weightiest of arguments down to the
daily letter which a fellow scribbles to his mistress.

Let it not be supposed, however, that my resentment against these
literary curses of our century--for such I thought them--ever goaded me
beyond my naturally jesting humour. All the compositions I have printed
on the topics in dispute, regarding purity of diction, ancient authors,
and the corrupters of young minds in Italy, witness to my joviality and
coolness in the zeal and ardour of the conflict.

Finally, I must confess that all my endeavours in the good cause, joined
to those of others, have been impotent to stem the tide of extravagance,
the exaltation of heated brains, the absurdities of so-called
philosophical reforms; also, as regards the purity of Italian diction,
all that we have said and written has been thrown away. The charlatans
have had the upper hand of us, by persuading the vast multitude of
working brains that to seek purity in language is a waste of time and
hide-bound imbecility, and that to spare the pains of gaining it is a
mark of free and liberal talent. The remedy must be left to time and to
the inscrutable ebb and flow of fashion, which makes the world at one
time eager for the true, at another no less eager for the false, in
spite of any human efforts to control it.

It was about the year 1740, when an Academy was founded in Venice by
some people of gay humour, versed in literary studies, and amateurs of
polish and simplicity and nature. Caprice and chance brought us
together. But we followed in the wake of Chiabrera, Redi, Zeno,
Manfredi, Lazarini, valiant predecessors in the warfare against those
false, emphatic, metaphorical, and figured fashions, which had been
introduced like plague-germs by the Seicentisti.[16] This Academy imbued
the minds of young men with higher ideas, and fostered the seeds it
planted by a generous emulation.

The lively and learned little band happened to alight upon a simpleton
called Giuseppe Secchellari, who had been bamboozled by his own vanity
and the cozenage of merry knaves agog for fun into thinking himself a
man of profound erudition, and who accordingly blackened reams of paper
with ineptitudes and blunders so ridiculous that nobody could listen to
them without fits of laughter. It was decided to elect this queer fish
Prince of the Academy. The election took place unanimously amid shouts
of merriment. He was dubbed Arcigranellone, and received the title of
Prince of the Accademia Granellesca, by which names he and the club were
henceforth to be known.[17]

A solemn coronation of this precious simpleton with a wreath of plums
followed in due course. All the Academicians were grouped around him,
and nothing could be more burlesque than his proud satisfaction at the
honours he received, the air and grace with which he thanked us for some
thirty odes and rigmaroles, which were really witty squibs and gibes
upon our princely butt, and which he took for panegyrics.

A large arm-chair of antique build and very high, so high that the
dwarfish Prince had to take two or three jumps before he leaped into
it, was the throne from which he lorded over us. There he sat and
swaggered, having been gulled into thinking it the chair of Cardinal
Pietro Bembo, that renowned and illustrious author. An owl with two
balls in its right claw stood over him, and was the object of his
veneration as the crest of the Academy. Perched there aloft, he used to
draw from his bosom a roll of papers, and recited in a quavering
falsetto some preposterous gibberish or other which he styled a
dissertation. After a few lines had been declaimed, the clapping of
hands and mocking plaudits of his audience brought him to a pause. Fully
persuaded that he had entranced his hearers, he then handed his
manuscripts with majestic condescension to the secretary, and bade him
enroll them in the archives of the Academy.

When we met together in the heat of summer, iced drinks were handed
round to the members; but the prince, to mark his superiority, received
a bowl of boiling tea upon a silver salver. In the depth of winter, on
the other hand, hot coffee was served out to us and iced water to the
Prince. The venerable Arcigranellone, puffed up with this distinction,
swallowed the tea in summer and the water in winter, dissolving into
sweat or shivering with cold according to the season.

I could not reckon all the pleasantries, for ever new and always witty,
which we played off upon our Prince, and which his stupid vanity made
him accept as honours. Each time the Academy met, these diversions acted
like an antidote to melancholy. And since he never would admit that he
was ignorant of anything a member asked, at one time he was made to
rhyme extempore, at another to sing a song, and sometimes even to
descend and strip to the shirt and fence with a master in the noble art,
who rained down whacks with the foil upon his hide and sent him spinning
like a peg-top round the room. Arcigranellone as he truly was, the man
essayed everything, and never failed to triumph in the deafening
derisive plaudits which he raised.

This novel kind of Calandrino,[18] of whom I am sketching a mere
outline, served chiefly as a lure to young men who care more for mirth
than serious scholarship, and drew them to enroll themselves with zeal
beneath the banner of the owl.

When we had amused ourselves enough, at the commencement of our
sessions, with the marvellous diatribes, wholly unexpected answers, and
harlequinesque contortions of our Arcigranellone, we left him up there
alone upon the chair of Bembo, and drew from our portfolios compositions
in prose and verse, serious or facetious as the theme might be, but
sensible, judicious, elegant in phrase, varied in style, and correct in
diction. An agreeable reading followed, which entertained the audience
for at least two hours. Each reader, when he had finished his
recitation, turned to the Arcigranellone, whose whimsical opinions and
distorted reasonings renewed the clatter of tongues and laughter.

This serio-comic Academy had for its object to promote the study of our
best old authors, the simplicity and harmony of chastened style, and
above all the purity of the Italian tongue. It drew together a very
large number of young men emulous of these things; and few foreigners of
culture came to Venice without seeking to be admitted to its sessions. I
shall not attempt to catalogue the names of its innumerable members. But
I may observe that many names might be found upon our books whose owners
had no inkling of the fact; for the following reason. Some of our
merriest wags used to amuse themselves and the company by inflating the
Arcigranellone's vanity with burlesque epistles addressed to him by very
exalted personages. These great people wrote to say that, induced by the
renown of his learning, wise rule, and sublime administration of his
principality, they begged to be inscribed by him upon the list of his
fortunate subjects, the Academicians. In this way it came about that
Frederick II. of Prussia, the Sultan, the Sophy of Persia, Prester John,
and other notables of like eminence, appeared among us on paper. All the
members, I ought to mention, had an academical name assigned to them
and published by his Magnificence the Prince. I was dubbed the Solitary.

The compositions produced in our Academy were candidly exposed to
criticism; and, after receiving polish at the hands of accomplished
scholars in the club, many works of style and value, in all kinds of
verse and prose, went forth to the world. Serious poems, humorous poems,
satires in the manner of Berni, Horatian satires with the masculine and
trenchant phrase of ancient Rome, orations on occasions of importance in
the State, dissertations in defence of the great masters of Italian
literature, commentaries upon Dante, novellettes in graceful diction,
familiar letters, volumes of occasional and moral essays, Latin verses
and prose exercises, translations from choice books in foreign
languages; all these, after passing the review of the Academicians, were
sent to press. I need not speak further about what has become common
property through publication.

Perhaps I shall be accused by modern innovators of seeking to attach
importance to frivolities. That will not hurt me. Those are far more
hurt and wounded who allow themselves to be seduced into believing that
the works of these same innovators contain things better worth their
notice than frivolities--uncouth frivolities, ill-thought, unnatural,
and written in a monstrous jargon.

Who could have imagined that a single word, wrested from its proper
sense, made common in the mouths of boys and women to denote what does
not suit their inclinations, should have the power to turn established
rules--based on the experience of sages, and confirmed by ancient
usage--all topsy-turvy? This word is nothing more nor less, in naked
truth, than--_prejudice_.[19]

I have just said that the word in question has been wrested from its
proper meaning; and I am prepared to maintain this proposition.
According to my principles, which will have to bear the shame of being
stigmatised as _prejudices_ by the innovators, it is impossible to apply
the term 'prejudice' to things which are not only harmless, but
beneficial, nay, necessary to the totality of mankind.

Now I am bound to believe that religion and its accessories are
beneficial to society and nations. But our new-fangled philosophers have
dubbed all these things the prejudices of intellects enfeebled and
intimidated by seductive superstition. Consequently, religion, that
salutary curb on human passion, has languished and become a
laughing-stock.

I am bound to believe that the gallows is beneficial to society, being
an instrument for punishing crime and deterring would-be criminals. But
our new-fangled philosophers have denounced the gallows as a tyrannical
prejudice, and by so doing have multiplied murders on the highway,
robberies and acts of sacrilege, a hundred-fold.

I am bound to believe that heroism, probity, good faith and equity are
beneficial to society. But our unprejudiced philosophers, who identify
felicity with enjoyment and getting hold by any means of what you can,
call these virtues mere romantic prejudices. Accordingly, justice has
been sold with brazen impudence, knaveries and tricks and treachery have
triumphed, and a multitude of simple, innocent, down-trodden creatures,
poor in spirit and impoverished in substance, have wept tears of blood.

It was pronounced a musty and barbarous prejudice to keep women at home,
for the supervision of their sons and daughters, their hirelings, their
domestic service and economy. Immediately, the women poured forth from
their doors, storming like Bacchantes, screaming out "Liberty! liberty!"
The streets swarmed with them. Their children, servants, daily duties,
were neglected. They meanwhile abandoned their vapoury brains to
fashions, frivolous inventions, rivalries in games, amusements, loves,
coquetries, and all sorts of nonsense which their own caprices and their
counsellors, the upstart sages, could suggest. The husbands had not
courage to oppose this ruin of their honour, of their substance, of
their families. They were afraid of being pilloried with that dreadful
word, prejudice.

The law which punishes infanticide with death was styled a prejudice.
Good morals, modesty, and chastity received the name of
prejudice--enforced, so ran the tale, by bugbears of the Levites and the
foolish training of poor superstitious females. What the result was, I
blush to record. The infinite advantages conferred upon society and
families by these fine philosophical discoveries, and by their triumph
over prejudices of the sort I have described, had better remain
unwritten.

The few who stood aloof and mocked at fashions--fashions which fade and
fall each year like autumn leaves--were quizzed as ignoramuses,
blockheads, zanies tainted with the leprosy of prejudice.[20] They
passed for stolid, coarse-grained creatures, void of thrill, of
sentiment, of taste, of culture, delicacy, and refined perception. Women
and men, in one vast herd, became illuminated visionaries. They piqued
themselves upon their intuition and originality. They discovered endless
harmonies and discords, all imaginary; endless comforts and discomforts,
all imaginary; endless imaginary savours, insipidities, depravities in
things about them, in furniture, in dress, in colours, in decorations,
in the kitchen, in food, in wine, in dressing of the table, all
imaginary. They detected elegance or inelegance in every dumb and
senseless object: down to the basest of utensils there was nothing which
escaped the epithet of elegant. Let thus much be said for truth's sake,
with the patience which is needful nowadays in speaking truth to folk
infected by the real and not the spurious leprosy of prejudice.

Well, when all the so-called prejudices which I have just described had
been put to flight and dissipated by the piercing sunbeams of the
innovators, many great and remarkable blessings appeared in their room.
These were the blessings of irreligion, of respect and reverence
annulled, of justice overturned, of law-courts made the play-ground for
flagitious vices, of criminals encouraged and bewept, of heated
imaginations, sharpened senses, animalism, indulgence in all lusts and
passions, of imperious luxury, with her brood of violent insatiable
desires, deceits, intrigues, oppressions, losses of faith and honesty
and honour, swindlings, pilferings, bankruptcies, pecuniary straits,
base traffickings in sexual bargains, adulteries, the marriage-tie made
unendurable and snapped by force or cold collusion.

After such wise, by turning the innocent word 'prejudice' into a weapon
of attack against everything which restrained vice, crime, illicit
pleasure, violence, and social profligacy--against whatever, in short,
rationally deserves to be called prejudice--the human race plunged
willingly and universally into a pitiable and apparently immedicable
state of pure unvarnished prejudice. And this has been effected by the
flattering enthusiasm for curing us of prejudices! Indeed it is fine to
notice how that poor word 'prejudice' is bandied about. The folk who
suffer from the real disease, and who complain most loudly of its
miserable consequences, declare themselves atheists, declaim against
what they call prejudice in their sophisticated jargon, while they
bless the legitimate, veracious prejudice, which is the fount and source
of all the evils over which they weep, lament, and shriek.

Compared with these weighty topics, what follows may appear a trifle
hardly worthy of consideration. I allude to the revolution in literary
taste attempted by the Jesuit Father, now the Abbe Xavier Bettinelli,
together with some other restless spirits. Twisting that unfortunate
word 'prejudice' to suit their purpose, they scouted sound studies,
established models, correction of style, and the authority of
acknowledged masters. All such things were reckoned prejudices by these
iconoclasts, who would fain have burned down the temple of Diana in
their insolent ambition to be stared at as new stars, original thinkers,
independent writers.

Bettinelli, a man not destitute of parts, fecundity, and eloquence,
began by preaching to our youth that it was a prejudice to stand at gaze
and slumber over our old authors. What good could the study of Dante,
Petrarch, and Boccaccio do us now? How could the imitation of their
successors in Italian poetry and prose be profitable to us in the middle
of the eighteenth century? Students of the good old type he derided as
arid word-mongers, who had lost their wits by poring over languid,
prosy, frigid models of an antiquated style. To Dante, without
understanding him, he condescendingly allowed a few fine verses, a few
felicitous images, amid that vast ocean of scurrilities and repulsive
barbarisms--the Divine Comedy!

This would-be innovator was possibly justified in his contempt for the
fashionable keepsake books of poetry which we call _Raccolte_.[21] I
will not defend them, though much might plausibly be urged in favour of
a custom which does no harm, which reflects lustre on noble families,
and which affords the rich an opportunity of succouring needy men of
letters. However that may be, Bettinelli wrote and published a satire
entitled _Le Raccolte_, which was intended to crush them, and to serve
as a specimen of his originality in works of fancy. The Granelleschi had
always watched with humorous attention Signor Bettinelli's pranks and
gambols, and they now resolved on doing something to sober him down a
bit. Two of the best scholars in the Academy, Signor Marco Forcellini
and the Abbe Dottore Natale dalle Laste, undertook the task of examining
his poem. They had little difficulty in proving that its author, while
seeking to pass for a giant of original genius, was nothing better than
the servile plagiarist of Ariosto and Boileau. This conclusion they put
forth in an essay, entitled "A criticism of the little poem _Le
Raccolte_." It seemed to us, however, that the essay was somewhat
serious in style for an Academy which aimed at playfulness. Accordingly,
I was commissioned to enliven it with an epistle in a lighter strain.
This epistle I wrote, as my poor brains dictated, but with perhaps too
much of boldness and asperity. The essay and the epistle were published
together in one volume. Meanwhile, my brother Gasparo, indignant that
Dante, whose resplendent genius has shed the light of glory upon Italy
through so many centuries, should become the butt of a mere seeker after
notoriety, wrote his _Defence of Dante_, which was also printed.
Intelligent judges allow that this book is full of truth, and that its
arguments are convincingly victorious over Bettinelli's arrogant and
puerile scoffings. I am therefore at liberty to say that my brother's
_Difesa di Dante_ is a really fine work.

What good came of these polemics? Very little, I am bound to say.
Novelties, whether they are really new or only seem to be so, have the
power of seducing and exciting innumerable intellects among the mass of
those who cannot grasp the truth, but who respond at once to clamorous
fanaticism. In number such folk infinitely exceed the small minority
who, remaining loyal to truth, seek her even at the bottom of the well
into which imposture plunges her.

I have always shared the hardihood of politicians, who dare to raise
their minds aloft, and look down from a height upon the lowly vale in
which humanity resides. But with this difference: They regard the
valley as inhabited by a swarm of insects, whom it is their art to sway,
oppress, and drive about in their own interest; nor do they stoop to
fraternise with these same insects until death reduces all to one
brotherhood. I regard the valley as peopled by creatures of my kith and
kindred, making observations on them, laughing at their grotesque
gestures, motions, and contortions; then I descend to their level,
associate once more with my neighbour, assure him that we are all alike
ridiculous, and try to make him laugh at himself no less than at me by
the proofs I give him of my proposition.

I do not need to study astronomy in order to discover whether there are
planets which control the course of human thought. The natural seeds of
levity, inconsistency, ennui, thirst for new sensations, with which our
brains are crowded, when they begin to germinate, suffice to change the
thoughts of mortals, and occasion fits of fashion, which not all the
cables of all the dockyards in the world can check before their course
is run. When one fashion is exhausted, the seeds I have described above
set others in motion; and without interrogating the stars--unless indeed
it be the vogue to do so--any patient student of past history may easily
arrive at the conclusion that an unbroken chain of such manias and fits
of fashion, due to the same natural causes, have always swayed, and will
always sway, the stupidity of man; and man in his stupidity is always
blind, always possessed of the assurance that his glance is eagle-eyed.

What our forefathers saw, we see, and our posterity is doomed to see--a
constant ebb and flow of opinions, determined in some part by a few bold
thinkers, who publish to the world discoveries now useful and now
useless, now frivolous and now pernicious. Let not, however, these
thinkers flatter themselves that when they have contrived to set a
fashion going, their most clamorous supporters will take and stick to it
more firmly than they do to the vogue created by the opening of some new
magnificent caffe or by Blondi's magazine of novelties, that very
phoenix of fashion-makers in things our butterflies of human frailty
think the most important.

As regards literature, in the middle of this century, and under the
rising sun of Signor Bettinelli, we were condemned to behold a decided
change for the worse. All that had been done to restore purity and
simplicity, after the decadence of seventeenth-century taste, was swept
away by a new and monstrous fit of fashion. The Granelleschi cried out
in vain for sound principles and cultivated taste; contended in vain
that, Italy being a nation which could boast a mother-language, with its
literary usage, its vulgar usage, and its several dialects, reason bade
us hold fast by the Della Cruscan vocabulary, and seek to enrich that,
instead of disputing its authority. We cried to the winds, and were
obliged to look on while the world was deluged with fanatical, obscure,
bombastic lucubrations--laboured sophisms, rounded periods with nothing
in them, the flimsy dreams of sick folk, sentiments inverted and
distorted--and the whole of this farrago indited in a language mixed of
all the vernacular dialects, with interlarded bits of the Greek tongue,
but above all with so many French words and phrases that our own Italian
dictionaries and grammars seemed to have become superfluous.




XXXVIII.

_Sequel of my literary quarrels.--Goldoni and Chiari.--My resolve to
amuse my fellow-citizens with fantastic dramatic pieces on the stage._


This new fashion of unlicensed freedom and of sheer enthusiasm made
rapid strides, because it was convenient and comfortable. Intellects,
misled and muddled, lost the sense of what is good and bad in writing.
They applauded the worst and the best without distinction. Little by
little, commonplace and transparent stupidities on the one
hand--stupidities sonorous and oracular upon the other, were adopted in
the practice of literature. Pure, cultivated, judicious, and natural
style took on the aspect of debilitated languor and despicable
affectation.

The contagion spread so rapidly and so widely, that even men like
Doctor Carlo Goldoni and the Abbe Pietro Chiari were universally hailed
and eulogized as first-rate Italian authors. Their original and
incomparable achievements were lauded to the skies. To them we owed a
fit of fashion, which lasted some few lustres, and which helped to
overthrow the principles of sound and chaste expression.

These rivals, both of them dramatic poets, and each the critic of the
other, were strong enough to heat the brains of our Venetian folk to
boiling-point, so that the public formed two stormy parties, which came
well-nigh to fisticuffs over the sublimities of their respective idols.

A whirlwind of comedies, tragi-comedies, and tragedies, composts of
imperfections, occupied the public stage; the one genius of inculture
vying with the other in the quantity he could produce. A diarrhoea of
dramatic works, romances, critical epistles, poems, cantatas, and
apologies by both the Vandals poured from the press and deluged Venice.
All the youth were stunned, distracted, and diverted from good sense by
din and tumult. Only the Granelleschi kept themselves untainted by this
Goldonio-Chiaristic epidemic.

We did not shun the theatres. We were not so unjust as to refuse his
share of merit as a playwright to Goldoni. We did not confound him with
Chiari, to whom we conceded nothing, or but little. Yet we were unable
to glance with other eyes than those of pitying derision upon the
tables of fine ladies, the writing-desks of gentlemen, the stalls of
booksellers and artisans, the hands and arms of passers in the street,
the rooms of public and private schools, colleges, even convents--all of
which were loaded with Goldoni's comedies, Chiari's comedies and
romances, the thousand trivialities and absurdities of both
quill-drivers--while everything the scribblers sent to press was valued
as a mirror of reform in literature, a model of right thinking and good
writing.

I hope that no one will be scandalised if I report a saying which I
heard with my own ears. There was a certain Abbe Salerni, Venetian-born,
a preacher of the gospel. He was in the habit of thundering forth
Lenten-sermons from the pulpits, and had a multitude of eager listeners.
This man announced one day, with the air of frank and sturdy
self-conceit, that he had arrived at composing his oratorical
masterpieces upon sacred themes by the unremitting study of Goldoni's
comedies.

I ought to render a candid account here of the impression made upon me
by those two deluges of ink, Goldoni and Chiari. To begin with Goldoni.
I recognised in him an abundance of comic motives, truth, and
naturalness. Yet I detected a poverty and meanness of intrigue; nature
copied from the fact, not imitated; virtues and vices ill-adjusted, vice
too frequently triumphant; plebeian phrases of low double meaning,
particularly in his Venetian plays; surcharged characters; scraps and
tags of erudition, stolen Heaven knows where, and clumsily brought in to
impose upon the crowd of ignoramusses. Finally, as a writer of
Italian--except in the Venetian dialect, of which he showed himself a
master--he seemed to me not unworthy to be placed among the dullest,
basest, and least correct authors who have used our idiom.

In spite of all the praises showered upon Goldoni, paid for or gratis,
by journalists, preface-writers, romancers, apologists, Voltaires, I do
not think that, with the single exception of his _Bourru Bienfaisant_,
which he wrote at Paris, which suited the French theatre, but which had
no success in its Italian translation here, he ever produced a perfect
dramatic piece. At the same time I must add that he never produced one
without some excellent comic trait. In my eyes he had always the
appearance of a man who was born with the innate sense of how sterling
comedies should be composed, but who, by defect of education, by want of
discernment, by the necessity of satisfying the public and supplying new
wares to the poor Italian comedians through whom he gained his
livelihood, and by the hurry in which he produced so many pieces every
year to keep himself afloat, was never able to fabricate a single play
which does not swarm with faults.

In the course of our playful and airy polemics--polemics which had more
the form of witty squibs than formal criticisms--polemics which we
Granelleschi never deigned to aim directly, in due form of siege,
against the outpoured torrents of Goldoni and Chiari, but which we meant
to act as sinapisms on the minds of sluggish youths, besotted by that
trash and froth of ignorance--I once defied the whole world to point out
a single play of Goldoni's which could be styled perfect. I confined
myself to one, because I did not care to be drowned in an ocean; and I
felt confident that I could fulfil my part of the challenge by making
even boys and children see how the public had been taken in. No one
stooped to take my glove up, and to name the perfect comedy. The goad
and lash of pleasantry, with which I exposed Goldoni's stupidities, only
elicited the following two verses, which he wrote and printed, and which
exactly illustrate the stupidity I accused him of:--

    "Pur troppo io so che buon scrittor non sono,
    E che ai fonti miglior non ho bevuto."

    ("Too well I know that I am no good writer,
    And that I have not drunk at the best fountains.")

Proceeding next to Abbe Chiari. In him I found a brain inflamed,
disordered, bold to rashness, and pedantic; plots dark as astrological
predictions; leaps and jumps demanding seven-league boots; scenes
isolated, disconnected from the action, foisted in for the display of
philosophical sententious verbiage; some good theatrical surprises, some
descriptions felicitous in their blunt _naivete_; pernicious ethics;
and, as for the writer, I found him one of the most turgid, most
inflated, nay, the most turgid, the most inflated, of this century. I
once saw a sonnet of his, printed and posted on the shops in Venice; it
was composed to celebrate the recovery from illness of a patrician, and
began with this verse:--

    "Sull'incude fatal del nostro pianto."
    ("Upon the fatal anvil of our tears.")

Nothing more need be said. With such monstrosities in metre, he had the
courage to proclaim himself a modern Pindar. Goldoni he looked down upon
like some gull of the lagoons. Yet, such as he was, Chiari succeeded in
mystifying a thousand empty brains, who admired him without
understanding a line he wrote.

It is not to be wondered at if a Goldoni and a Chiari, with a few
disciples and adherents, were able to create a temporary _furore_, when
we consider that this _furore_ flamed up in the precincts of the
theatres. Here all the population was divided into hostile camps, and
each party was so blind and bewitched as not to recognise the infinite
superiority of Goldoni as a comic playwright over his rival.

What is the force of righteous indignation when a vogue of this sort has
been launched on its career? That of Goldoni and Chiari was bound to run
its natural course, and when it died away, the other, which I have
described in the foregoing chapter, the vogue of immoderate, unnatural,
incorrect enthusiasts, so-styled sublime philosophers, came in, who
discovered new worlds in literature, and who are fawning now upon the
young men of our days, threatening new vocabularies, nay, new alphabets,
treating antiquity as a short-sighted idiot, and involving humanity in
an undistinguishable chaos of literary follies.

With regard to the mania created by Goldoni and Chiari, as may easily be
imagined, I looked upon it as a fungus growth upon opinion, worthy at
the best of laughter. I deemed that, at any rate, I had the right to be
the master of my own thoughts; and a trifle in verse which I wrote for
my amusement, without the intention of sending it to press, was the
accidental cause of obliging me to maintain my views against these poets
by a series of good-natured _jeux d'esprit_. My real friends know that I
harboured no envy, no sentiment of rivalry against them and their swamps
of volumes in octavo. Any one who has the justice to remember that I was
a mere amateur in literature, giving away gratis whatever issued from my
pen, will agree with my friends, and acknowledge that I was prompted by
a disinterested zeal in the cause of pure and unaffected writing. May
Heaven pardon those, and there are many of them, who have held me up for
detestation as a malignant satirist, seeking to found my own fame and
fortune upon the ruin of others! The players and publishers would be
able to disabuse them of this notion. But I do not choose to beg for
testimonials to my generosity; and perhaps I have not told the whole
truth about it in the chapter already written upon my own character.[22]

It was in the year 1757 then that I composed the little book in verse
which I have mentioned, closely following the style of good old Tuscan
masters, and giving it the title of _La Tartana degl'influssi per
l'anno bisestile 1757_.[23] This little work contained a gay critique in
abstract on the uses and abuses of the times. It was composed upon
certain verses of that obscure Florentine poet Burchiello, which I
selected as prophetic texts for my own disquisitions. It took the humour
of our literary club, and I dedicated it to a patrician of Venice,
Daniele Farsetti, to whom I also gave the autograph, without retaining
any copy for my own use. This Cavaliere, a man of excellent culture, and
a Mecaenas of the Granelleschi, wishing to give me an agreeable surprise,
and thinking perhaps that he would meet with difficulty in getting the
poem printed at Venice, sent it to Paris to be put in type, and
distributed the few copies which were struck off among his friends in
Venice.

This trifling volume might have gone the round of many hands, affording
innocent amusement by its broad and humorous survey over characters and
customs, if a few drops of somewhat pungent ink, employed in lashing the
bad writers of those days, had not played the part of venomous and
sacrilegious asps. Goldoni, besides being a regular deluge of dramatic
works, had in him I know not what diuretic medicine for composing little
things in verse, songs, rhyming diatribes, and other such-like poems of
a very muddy order. This gift he now exercised, while putting together a
collection of panegyrics on the patrician Veniero's retirement from the
rectorship of Bergamo, to vent one of his commonplace _terza-rima_
rigmaroles against my _Tartana degli influssi_. He abused the book as a
stale piece of mustiness, an inept and insufferable scarecrow; treating
its author as an angry man who deserved compassion, because (he chose to
say) I had wooed fortune in vain. Many other polite expressions of the
same stamp adorned these triplets.

Meanwhile, the famous Signor Lami, who at that time wrote the literary
paper of Florence, thought my _Tartana_ worthy of notice in his journal,
and extracted some of its stanzas on the decadence and corruption of the
language. Padre Calogera, too, who was then editing the _Giornale de'
Letterati d'Italia_, composed and published praises on it, which were
certainly above its merits. I flatter myself that my readers will not
think I record these facts out of vanity. I was not personally
acquainted with either Lami or Calogera. It is not my habit to
correspond with celebrated men of letters in order to manufacture
testimonials out of their civil and flattering replies. I do not
condescend to wheedle journalists and reviewers into imposing on the
credulity of the public by calling bad things good and good things bad
in my behoof. I have always been so far sensible as to check
self-esteem, and to appreciate my literary toys at their due
worthlessness. Writers who by tricks of this kind, extortions,
canvassings, and subterfuges, seek to gratify their thirst for fame, and
to found a reputation upon bought or begged for attestations, are the
objects of my scorn and loathing. For Lami and Calogera I cherished
sentiments of gratitude. I seemed to find in them a spirit kindred to my
own, and a conviction that I had uttered what was useful in the cause of
culture.

As a matter of fact, although the _Tartana_ was written in strict
literary Tuscan, although its style was modelled upon that of antiquated
Tuscan authors, especially of Luigi Pulci, and was therefore "caviare to
the general," the book obtained a rapid and wide success. The partisans
of Goldoni and Chiari took it for a gross malignant satire.

Possibly the rarity of copies, and the fact that it came from Paris,
helped to float the little poem. Anyhow, it created such a sensation,
raised so much controversy, and brought so many young students into
relations with myself and membership among the Granelleschi, that I
almost dared to hope for a new turn of the tide in literature.

It was this hope which made me follow up the missile I had cast into the
wasp's nest of bad authorship by a pleasant retort against Goldoni's
strictures on my _Tartana_. Goldoni was a good fellow at bottom, but
splenetic, and a miserable writer. Having begun life as a pleader at the
bar of Venice, he never succeeded in throwing off a certain air of
professional coarseness and a tincture of forensic rhetoric. I seized
upon this point of weakness, and indited an epistle, which he was
supposed to have written me, larded with all the jargon of the
law-courts. The object of the letter was to introduce his terzets to my
notice. I gave it the following title: _Scrittura contestativa al taglio
della Tartana degli Influssi stampata a Parigi l'anno 1757_. After this
I set myself to examine his _terza-rima_ poem, and had no difficulty in
exposing a long list of stupidities, improprieties, puerilities, and
injustices. Without altering the low and trivial sentiments expressed in
it, I rewrote the whole in a style of greater elegance and elevation, so
as to prove that even the most plebeian thoughts may acquire harmony and
decent grace by choiceness of diction. Finally, I dissuaded him from
sending his unhappy pamphlet to the press, and concluded by addressing
some octave stanzas to the public, in which I begged them to set him
free in future from his self-imposed obligation of composing in verse.

I did not stop here. My _Tartana_ contained some satirical sallies
against the comedies in vogue upon our stage; and Goldoni had
appropriated these to himself. In his invective he inserted a couple of
forensic lines against me, which conveyed a kind of challenge. Here they
are:--

    "Chi non prova l'assunto e l'argomento,
    Fa come il cane che abbaja alla luna."

    ("He who proves not both theme and argument,
    Acts like the dog who barks against the moon.")

This excited me to write another little book, in which I proved the
proposition and the argument, and at the same time afforded my readers
food for mirth.

I feigned that the Granelleschi were assembled one day during Carnival,
to dine at the tavern of the Pellegrino, which looks out upon the Piazza
di San Marco. My comrades gathered round the windows to observe the
passing masqueraders, when a monstrous creature, wearing a mask of four
strongly-marked and different faces, entered the inn. They entreated it
to come up into our room, in order that they might examine it at
leisure. This mask of the the four faces and four mouths represented the
Comic Theatre of Goldoni, personified by me in the way I shall explain.
As soon as it caught sight of me, the author of _Tartana_, it turned to
fly off in a rage, but was forced to stay and sustain an argument with
me upon the theme of its dramatic productions.

In the dialogue which ensued, I maintained and proved that Goldoni had
striven to gain popularity rather by changing the aspect of his wares
than by any real merit which they possessed. After scribbling plots in
outline for the old-fashioned comedy of improvisation, which he
afterwards attacked and repudiated, he had begun by putting into written
dialogue certain motives neglected by that kind of drama. Then seeing
that this first manner began to pall, he dropped his so-called Reform of
the Stage, and assailed the public with his _Pamelas_ and other
romances. When this novelty in its turn ceased to draw, he bethought
himself of those Venetian farces, which were indeed the best and
longest-lived of his dramatic hashes. In time they suffered the fate of
their predecessors, because such vulgar scenes from life could not fail
to be monotonous. Accordingly, he tried another novelty, tickling the
ears of his audience with rhymed Martellian verses and semi-tragic
pieces, stuffed out with absurdities, improprieties, and the
licentiousness of Oriental manners. These _Spose Persiane_, brutal
_Ircane_, dirty _Eunuchi_, and unspeakable _Curcume_, by the mere fact
of their bad morality, monstrosity, and improbability, raised Goldoni's
fame among a crowd of fools and fanatics, who learned his long-winded
Martellian lines by heart, and went about the alleys of the town
reciting them aloud, to the annoyance of people who knew what good
poetry really is.

I maintained and proved that he had rashly essayed tragedy of the
sublime style, but had prudently fallen back on such plebeian
representations as the _Pettegolezzi delle Donne_, the _Femmine gelose
della Signora Lucrezia_, the _Putta Onorata_, the _Bona Muger_, the
_Rusteghi_, the _Todero Brontolone_. The arguments of comedies like
these were well adapted to his talent. He displayed in them a really
extraordinary ability for interweaving dialogues in the Venetian
dialect, taken down by him with pencil and notebook in the houses of the
common people, taverns, gaming hells, _traghetti_, coffee-houses, places
of ill-fame, and the most obscure alleys of our city. Audiences were
delighted by the realism of these plays, a realism which had never
before been so brilliantly illustrated, illuminated, and adorned, as it
now was by the ability of actors who faithfully responded to the spirit
of this new and popular type of farce.

I maintained and proved that he had frequently charged the noble persons
of his plays with fraud, absurdity, and baseness, reserving serious and
heroic virtues for personages of the lower class, in order to curry
favour with the multitude, who are always too disposed to envy and
malign the great. I also showed that his _Putta Onorata_ was not honest,
and that he had incited to vice while praising virtue with the dullness
of a tiresome sermon. With regard to this point, the four-mouthed Comic
Theatre kept protesting that it wished to drive the time-honoured masks
of improvised comedy off the stage, accusing them of imposture,
immodesty, and bad example for the public. I, on the other hand, clearly
proved that Goldoni's plays were a hundred times more lascivious, more
indecent, and more injurious to morals. My arguments were rendered
irrefutable by a whole bundle of obscene expressions, dirty
double-entendres, suggestive and equivocal situations, and other
nastinesses, which I had collected and textually copied from his works.
The monstrous mask defended itself but poorly, and at last fell to
abusing me personally with all its four mouths at once. This did not
serve it; and when I had argued it down and exposed it to the contempt
of the Granelleschi, it lifted up its clothes in front, and exhibited a
fifth mouth, which it carried in the middle of its stomach. This fifth
allegorical mouth raised up its voice and wept, declaring itself beaten
and begging for mercy. I admit that my satire here was somewhat harsh
and broad; but it had been provoked by an expression of Goldoni's, who
twitted me with being _a man out of temper with fortune_.

As a preface to these two little works, I composed an epistle in blank
verse, in which I dedicated them to a certain well-known
poverty-stricken citizen of Venice, called Pietro Carati. The man used
to go about the streets, wrapt in a ragged mantle, with a rusty
periwig, and black stockings, mended in a thousand places with green,
grey, or white silk (the surest signs of beggary), modestly demanding
from his acquaintances some trifle to support his dignity as cittadino.

In this epistle I repeated that I was not out of temper with fortune,
that I sought no favours from that goddess by my writings, and that my
only object was to carry on the war against bad authors, and to uphold
the rules and purity of literature. These two little pamphlets became
the property of the public before I had time and opportunity to print
them. The stir they made while yet in manuscript occasioned a series of
events which I will now relate.[24]

The noble gentleman, Giuseppe Farsetti, who was a member of our Academy,
came to me one day, and told me that another patrician, Count Ludovico
Widiman, and he would take it very kindly if I consented to withdraw my
little works from publication. I was somewhat surprised, because I knew
that the Cavaliere Farsetti was a lover of good literature. Count
Widiman, on the other hand, had declared himself a partisan of Goldoni.
Nevertheless, I readily assented to their request, and promised to bury
my two pamphlets in oblivion. I added, at the same time, that I felt
sure that Goldoni, when he was aware of this act of generosity on my
part, would begin hostilities against me, trusting to his numerous and
enthusiastic following.

I was not mistaken when I made this prophecy. It soon became evident
that Goldoni intended to carry on the war against us lovers of pure
writing in all the _Raccolte_ which appeared from time to time in
Venice. He also introduced affected and unpleasant types of character
upon the stage under Florentine names, and otherwise jeered at us in the
coarse little poems which he styled his _Tavole Rotonde_. Confiding in
his popularity and the influence of those fine gentlemen whom he called
his "beloved patrons," he hoped to revenge himself on me and to suppress
my _Tartana_.

To break my promise given to the two Cavalieri, and to publish the
satirical pieces I have described above, was out of the question. So I
prepared myself for a guerilla warfare, something after Goldoni's own
kind, but more witty and amusing. I judged it better to fight the
quarrel out with short and cutting pieces, which should throw ridicule
upon my adversary and amuse the public, than to begin a critical
controversy in due form. Squibs and satires were now exchanged daily
between Polisseno Fegejo (such was Goldoni's high-sounding title in the
Arcadi of Rome) and my humble self, the Solitario in our modest Academy
of the Granelleschi.

To meet Goldoni's lumbering diatribes in verse, I brought out a little
burlesque poem, which I called _Sudori d'Imeneo_. It was printed on the
occasion of a wedding, and created a revolution among the wits which
exceeded my most sanguine expectations. At this distance of time I find
it impossible to render a precise account of the innumerable
compositions which I produced in this controversy. They were read at the
time with avidity, because of their novelty and audacity. I never cared
to keep a register of my published or unpublished writings in prose and
verse. If I were asked where these trifles could be found, I should
reply: "Certainly not in my hands." Some of my friends, however--among
them the Venetian gentleman, Raffaele Todeschini, and Sebastiano Muletti
of Bergamo--thought it worth while to form complete collections of such
pieces from my pen.

It must not be imagined that Abbe Chiari escaped without blows in this
battle of the books. It so happened that an unknown writer subjected one
of his prologues to a scathing satire in an essay called _Five Doubts_.
The piece was mistakenly attributed to me; and Chiari answered it by six
cowardly, filthy, satirical sonnets, which he circulated in manuscript,
against myself and the Granelleschi. Upon this there arose a whole
jungle of pens in our defence. The five doubts were multiplied by four,
by six; and the Abbe was argued and twitted out of his wits. In these
straits, he condescended to extend the kiss of peace to his old foe
Goldoni, and Goldoni abased himself to the point of accepting the
salute. Drowning their former rivalries and differences, they now
entered into an offensive and defensive alliance against the Academy and
me.

Meanwhile our party grew steadily in numbers. The head-quarters of the
Granelleschi as a belligerent body were at this time established in the
shop of the bookseller Paolo Colombani. Every month we issued here in
parts a series of critical and satirical papers, which drew crowds of
purchasers round Colombani's counter. The papers appeared under the
title of _Atti Granelleschi_, and were prefaced with an introduction in
octave stanzas from my pen. The noise they created all about the town
was quite remarkable, and young men eagerly enrolled themselves under
our standard of the Owl. Chiari and Goldoni, on their side, were not
idle; but the alliance they had struck took off considerably from their
vogue. This depended in no small measure on their former rivalry. The
dropping fire which had been exchanged between their partisans kept
their names and fames before the public. Now that they were fighting
under one flag against us, the interest in their personalities declined.

Without pursuing the details of this literary war, which raged between
the years 1757 and 1761, I will only touch upon those circumstances
which led me to try my fortune on the stage as a dramatic writer. Both
Goldoni and Chiari professed themselves the champions of theatrical
reform; and part of their programme was to cut the throat of the
innocent _Commedia dell'Arte_, which had been so well supported in
Venice by four principal and deservedly popular masks: Sacchi, Fiorelli,
Zannoni, and Derbes. It seemed to me that I could not castigate the
arrogance of these self-styled Menanders better than by taking our old
friends Truffaldino, Tartaglia, Brighella, Pantalone, and Smeraldina
under my protection. Accordingly, I opened fire with a dithyrambic poem,
praising the extempore comedians in question, and comparing their gay
farces favourably with the dull and heavy pieces of the reformers.[25]
Chiari and Goldoni replied to my attacks and those of my associates by
challenging us to produce a comedy. Goldoni, in particular, called me a
verbose word-monger, and kept asserting that the enormous crowds which
flocked together to enjoy his plays constituted a convincing proof of
their essential merit. It is one thing, he said, to write subtle verbal
criticisms, another thing to compose dramas which shall fill the public
theatres with enthusiastic audiences. Spurred by this continual appeal
to popularity and vogue, I uttered the deliberate opinion that crowded
theatres proved nothing with regard to the goodness or the badness of
the plays which people came to see; and I further staked my reputation
on drawing more folk together than he could do with all his scenic
tricks, by simply putting the old wives' fairy-story of the _Love of the
Three Oranges_ upon the boards.

Shouts of incredulous and mocking laughter, not unnaturally, greeted
this Quixotic challenge. They stung my sense of honour, and made me gird
up my loins for the perilous adventure. When I had composed the scheme
of my strange drama, and had read it to the Granelleschi, I could see,
by the laughter it excited, that there was stuff and bottom in the
business. Yet my friends dissuaded me from producing such a piece of
child's-play before the public; it would certainly be hissed, they said,
and compromise the dignity of our Academy.

I replied that the whole public had to be attacked in front upon the
theatre, in order to create a sensation, and to divert attention from
our adversaries. I meant to give, and not to sell this play, which I
hoped would vindicate the honour and revenge the insults of our Academy.
Finally, I humbly submitted that men of culture and learning were not
always profoundly acquainted with human nature and the foibles of their
neighbours.

Well, I made a present of _L'Amore delle Tre Melarancie_ to Sacchi's
company of comic players, and the extravaganza was produced in the
theatre of San Samuele at Venice during the Carnival of 1761. Its
novelty and unexpectedness,--the surprise created by a fairy-tale
adapted to the drama, seasoned with trenchant parodies of both Chiari's
and Goldoni's plays, and not withal devoid of moral allegory--created
such a sudden and noisy revolution of taste that these poets saw in it
the sentence of their doom.

Who could have imagined that this twinkling spark of a child's fable on
the stage should have outshone the admired and universally applauded
illumination of two famous talents, condemning them to obscurity, while
my own dramatised fairy-tales throve and enthralled the public for a
period of many years? So wags the world!




XXXIX.

_My plan of campaign for assailing Goldoni and Chiari through the
militia of actors I had chosen.--The four Fiabe: Il Corvo, Il Re Cervo,
La Turandotte, I Pitocchi Fortunati._


In the long course of my observations upon human nature and the
different sorts of men, I had not as yet enjoyed an opportunity of
studying the race of actors. I was curious to do so, and the time had
come.

With the view of attacking my two poet adversaries in the theatre, I
made choice of the comic troupe of Sacchi, the famous Truffaldino.[26]
It was composed for the most part of close relatives, and bore the
reputation of being better behaved and more honest than any others.
Professionally, they sustained our old national comedy of improvisation
with the greatest spirit. This type of drama, as I have said above,
Goldoni and Chiari, under the mask of zeal for culture, but really with
an eager eye to gain, had set themselves to ruin and abolish.

Antonio Sacchi, Agostino Fiorelli, Atanagio Zannoni, and Cesare Derbes,
all of them excellent players in their several lines, represented the
four masks, Truffaldino, Tartaglia, Brighella, and Pantalone. Each of
these men could boast of perfect practice in their art, readiness of
wit, grace, fertility of ideas, variety of sallies, bye-play, drollery,
naturalness, and some philosophy. The soubrette of the company, Andriana
Sacchi-Zannoni, possessed the same qualities. Its other members, at the
time when I took up their cause, were old men and women, persons of good
parts but unattractive physique, lifeless sticks, and inexperienced
children. Some time earlier, the troupe had been extremely well-to-do
and popular in Italy. But the two playwrights in question, after having
lived in partnership with them, had turned round and taken the bread out
of their mouths. Sacchi, in these circumstances, withdrew his company to
the Court of Portugal, where they prospered, until a far more formidable
enemy than a brace of poets assailed them. The terrible earthquake of
Lisbon put a stop to all amusements in that capital; and our poor
players, having lost their occupation, returned to Venice after an
absence of some four years, and encamped in the theatre of San Samuele.

Upon their arrival, they met with a temporary success. Many amateurs of
the old drama, who were bored to death with Martellian verses and such
plays as the _Filosofi Inglesi_, _Pamelas_, _Pastorelle Fedeli_,
_Plautuses_, _Molieres_, _Terences_, and _Torquato Tassos_, then in
vogue, hailed them with enthusiasm. During the first year the four masks
and the soubrette, with some other actors of merit in the extempore
style, took the wind out of Goldoni's and Chiari's sails. Little by
little, however, the novelties poured forth by these two fertile
writers, who kept on treating the clever fellows as contemptible
mountebanks and insipid buffoons, prevailed, and reduced them to almost
total neglect.

It seemed to me that I should be able to indulge my humour for laughter
if I made myself the colonel of this regiment. I also hoped to score a
victory for the insulted Granelleschi by drawing crowds to Sacchi's
theatre with my dramatic allegories based on nursery-tales. The fable of
_L'Amore delle Tre Melarancie_ made a good beginning. My adversaries
were driven mad by the revolt it caused among playgoers, by its parodies
and hidden meanings, which the newspapers industriously explained,
describing many things which I had never put there. They attempted to
hoot it down by clumsy abuse, affecting at the same time disgust and
contempt for its literary triviality. Forgetting that it had been
appreciated and enjoyed by people of good birth and culture, they called
it a mere buffoonery to catch the vulgar. Its popularity they attributed
to the co-operation of the four talented masks, whom they had sought to
extirpate, and to the effect of the transformation scenes which it
contained, ignoring the real spirit and intention of this comic sketch
in a new style.

Laughing at their empty malice, I publicly maintained that art in the
construction of a piece, well-managed conduct of its action, propriety
of rhetoric and harmony of diction, were sufficient to invest a puerile
fantastic motive, if taken seriously, with the illusion of reality, and
to arrest the attention of the whole human race--excepting perhaps some
thirty confirmed enemies, who would be sure, when my contention had been
proved before their eyes and ears, to accuse a hundred thousand men of
ignorance, and to renounce their sex rather than admit the truth.

This proposition was met with new gibes; and I found myself committed to
make good my bold assertion. The fable of _Il Corvo_, extracted from a
Neapolitan story-book, _Cunto delle cunte, trattenemiento pe le
piccierelle_, and treated by me in the tone of lofty tragedy, wrought
the miracle. I must add that I assigned some humorous passages to the
four masks, whom I wished to keep upon the stage for the benefit of
hypochondriacs, and in contempt of misunderstood and falsely applied
rules from Aristotle.

The success of _Il Corvo_ was complete. The public wept and laughed at
my bidding. Multitudes flocked to hear this old wives' tale, as though
it had been solemn history. The play had a long run; and the two poets
were seriously damaged in their interests, while the newspapers
applauded and extolled the allegory as a splendid example of fraternal
affection.

I wished to strike while the iron was hot. Accordingly, my third fable,
the _Re Cervo_, appeared with similar results of popularity and
sympathetic criticism. A thousand beauties were discovered, which I, who
wrote it, had not seen. Folk regarded its allegory as a mirror for those
monarchs who allow themselves to be blinded by their confidence in
Ministers, and are in consequence transformed into the semblance of
monsters. Meanwhile, my opponents persisted in ascribing the great
success of these three pieces to stage decorations and the marvellous
effect of magic metamorphoses, neglecting the writer's art and science,
the charm of his verse, and his adroit employment of rhetoric, morality,
and allegory. This impelled me to produce two more fables, _Turandotte_
and _I Pitocchi Fortunati_, in which magic marvels were conspicuous by
their absence, while the literary art and science remained the same. A
like success clinched my argument, without, however, disarming my
antagonists.

I had formed the habit of conversing with my family of players in our
hours of leisure; and very racy did I find the recreation of their
society. In a short space of time I learned to understand and see into
the characters and talents of my soldiers, with insight so perfect that
all the parts I wrote for them and fitted, so to speak, upon their
mental frames, were represented on the stage as though they issued
naturally from their hearts and tempers. This added hugely to the
attraction of the spectacle. The gift of writing for particular actors,
which does not seem to be possessed or put in use by every dramatist, is
almost indispensable while dealing with the comic troupes of Italy. The
moderate payments which are customary in our theatres prevent these
people from engaging so large a number of actors and actresses as to be
able to select the proper representatives of all the varied characters
in nature. To the accident of my possessing this gift, and the ability
with which I exercised it, must be ascribed a large part of my success.
Goldoni alone devoted himself with patience to the study of the players
who put his premeditated pieces on the boards;[27] but I defy Goldoni
and all the writers for our stage to compose, as I did, parts differing
in character, containing jokes, witticisms, drolleries, moral satire,
and discourses in soliloquy or dialogue, adapted to the native genius of
my Truffaldino, Tartaglia, Brighella, Pantaloni, and Servette, without
lapsing into languor and frigidity, and with the same result of
reiterated applause.

Other playwrights, who attempted to put written words into the mouth of
extempore actors, only made them unnatural; and obtained, as the reward
of their endeavours, the abuse and hisses of the public at the third
representation of their insipid pieces. It is possibly on this account
that they revenged themselves by assuming comic airs of grave and
serious criticism, treating our miracles of native fun and humour as
contemptible buffoons, all Italy as drunken and besotted, myself as the
bolsterer up of theatrical ineptitudes, and my prolusions in a new
dramatic style as crumbling relics of the old _Commedia dell'Arte_. So
far as the last accusation goes, everybody will allow that the Masks
which I supported as a _tour de force_ of art and for the recreation of
the public who rejoiced in them, play the least part in my scenic
compositions; my works, in fact, depend for their existence and survival
on the sound morality and manly passion, which formed their real
substratum, and which found expression on the lips of serious
actors.[28]

For the rest, the players whom I had taken under my wing looked up to me
as their tutelary genius. Whenever I appeared, they broke into
exclamations of delight, and let the whole world know that I was the
propitious planet of their resurrection. They professed themselves
indebted to me for benefits which could not be repaid, except by an
eternal gratitude.




XL.

_The actors and actresses of Italy in general, considered with regard to
their profession, their characters, and their manners; written from the
point of view of a philosophical observer._


Among all sorts and conditions of human beings who offer themselves to a
philosophical observer, none are so difficult to know in their real
nature as actors and actresses.

Educated in deception from the cradle, they learn the art of masking
falsehood with an air of candour so completely, that it requires great
gifts of penetration to arrive at their true heart and character.
Journeyings from place to place, affairs of business, accidents of all
sorts, experience of common life, examples furnished by their commerce
with the world, the constant exercise of wit and intellect in rivalry,
wake their brains up, and subtilise their comedians' nature.

In another chapter I intend to paint a special picture of Sacchi's
company, with whom I fraternised, and whom I helped for about a quarter
of a century. At present I shall confine my remarks to Italian players
in general, who are, I think, in no essential points of moral quality
different from those of other nations.

It may be laid down as an axiom, to be accepted with closed eyes, that
the chief idol of all actors is their venal interest. Expressions of
politeness, acknowledgments of obligation, terms of praise, humanity,
sympathy, courteous welcome, and so forth, have no value among actors,
except as parts of a fixed system of deception which they consider
necessary in the worship of this idol. If that idol of pecuniary
interest is attacked (with justice it may be and the best reasons), you
will not find in them a shadow of these fine sentiments. The merest
scent of coming profit makes them disregard and blindly sacrifice the
persons who have done them good; the reputation of the whole world is as
nothing to them then; they take no thought of the damage they may have
to suffer in the future, blinded by greediness, lulled into security for
the time being, and hoping to avoid impending disasters by address and
ingenuity. The present moment is all that actors think of.

Hot and choleric temperaments reveal their true selves more readily
among this class of people. The cool-headed are more difficult to
fathom. Their system of cozenage is not only applied to persons outside
the profession, from whom they expect material gains; it is always at
work to take in and delude the members of the guild. Of course they find
it less easy to checkmate the initiated in their own devices. But if
they have attained to the position of being necessary to their comrades
in the trade, there is no sort of impropriety, pretence, injustice,
swindling, tyranny, which they do not deem it lawful to employ.

These arts, which the progress of our century has extended to many kinds
of persons who are not of the profession, have a certain marked
character among the tribe of actors. Other people, when detected, show
some sense of shame and self-abasement. The unmasked comedian, after all
his turns and twists have been employed in vain, is so unprejudiced and
candid that he laughs good-humouredly in the face of his detective, and
seems to exclaim with indescribable effrontery: "You are a great fool
if you flatter yourself that you have made a notable discovery."

Such is my experience. But of course it is possible that among the
innumerable actors, male and female, whom I have known, conversed with,
and studied, some phoenix of the one or the other sex may have escaped
my observation.

In what concerns the practice of their art, all that these people know
is how to read and write; one better, and one worse. Indeed, I have been
acquainted with both actors and actresses who have not even had that
minimum of education, and yet they carried on their business without
flinching. They got their lines read out to them by some friend or some
associate, whenever a new part had to be impressed in outline on their
memory. Keeping their ears open to the prompter, they entered boldly on
the stage, and played a hero or a heroine without a touch of truth. The
presentation of such characters by actors of the sort I have described
abounds in blunders, stops and stays, and harkings back upon the leading
motive, which would put to shame the player in his common walk of life.

Barefaced boldness is the prime quality, the chief stock-in-trade, the
ground-element of education in these artists. Assiduous use of this one
talent makes not a few of them both passable and even able actors.

These are the reasons why a civil war is always raging in our companies
about the first parts in new pieces. The conflict does not start from an
honest desire to acquire or to manifest theatrical ability. The players
are actuated wholly by ambition, by the hope of attracting favourable
notice through the merit of their role, by the wish to keep themselves
continually before the public, performing ill or well as their blind
rashness prompts them.

Notwithstanding all these disadvantages, Italy would be able to make a
good show in comparison with other nations if our theatres were better
supported and remunerated. There are not wanting persons of fine
presence, of talent, sensibility, and animation. What we do want are the
refinements of education, solid protection, and emoluments sufficient to
encourage the actor in his profession.

I have observed that the best artists of both sexes are those who have
some higher culture; but I have also observed that the support of
themselves and their families, and the inevitable expenses of their
wardrobe, render their professional salaries inadequate. They make up
for these deficiencies by spunging upon credulous tradesmen and besotted
lovers; and thus they bring discredit on the whole profession.

I have always laughed at those who depreciate the influences of the
pulpit, and think they can instil sound morality into the people by the
means of scenic shows. When Rousseau maintained that the precept _Do
what I tell you, and not what I do_, is worthless without a good example
from the man who gives it forth, he uttered one of the truest things
that can be said. I leave people to meditate upon the inverted morality
which is being now diffused in our most recent dramas, the dramas of
so-called culture, from the lips of players in the place of preachers.




XLI.

_A description of Sacchi's company in particular.--I continue the tone
of a philosophical observer._


Having recorded the impression made upon me by Italian actors and
actresses in general, I shall now attempt a description of Sacchi's
company, which I had good opportunities of studying through some
twenty-five years.

Though I read with sufficient ease into the hearts and characters of
these my proteges, and could supply them with sentiments, dialogues, and
soliloquies adapted to their inmost natures, I found it difficult to
penetrate the motives of their moral conduct, which were far more
closely fenced about from prying gaze than either their intellectual or
their physical peculiarities.

There is no doubt that at least seven members of this troupe were
excellent artists in the national _Commedia alla sprovveduta_--a species
of comedy which has always afforded innocent recreation to the public
when performed with taste and spirit, but which is utterly insufferable
when badly executed. This much I concede to the persecutors of the
species--little talents, more ridiculous and useless with their
ostentation of gravity than are even bad harlequins.

Sacchi's company enjoyed general respect in so far as their personal
conduct was concerned. On this point they differed widely from the
majority of our actors, who are for the most part very badly looked
upon. This excellent reputation weighed strongly with me, when I sought
their society, and entered into fraternal relations with them. The way
they held together, the harmony which reigned among them, their
domesticity, studious habits, severity in moral matters, their rules
against visits being paid to women, the abhorrence the women themselves
displayed for those who took presents from seducers, the regularity with
which they divided their hours between household duties, religious
exercises, and charitable attentions to the indigent among their
members, gratified my taste. I may incidentally mention that if any of
the salaried actresses or actors exceeded the prescribed bounds of
decent conduct, they were quickly sent about their business; and such
offenders were replaced by others, whose moral character had been
subjected to stricter inquiry than even their professional ability.

I am sufficiently unprejudiced and free from scruples; I have never
evaded opportunities of studying human nature, which brought me into
passing contact with all sorts of men; yet it is certain that I should
not have entered into familiar relations and daily converse in my hours
of recreation with these people, for upwards of the space of twenty
years, if it had not been for their exceptional good character.

I not only composed for them a long series of theatrical pieces, novel
in kind and congenial to their talents, but I also furnished them with a
new arsenal of stock passages, essential to the _Commedia dell'Arte_,
and which they call its _dote_, or endowment.[29] I could not say how
many prologues and epilogues in verse I wrote, to be recited on the
first and last evenings of the run of some play by the leading lady for
the time being; nor how many songs to be inserted in their farces; nor
how many thousand pages I filled with soliloquies, sallies of despair,
menace, reproach, supplication, paternal reprimand, and such-like
matters appropriate to all kinds of scenes in improvised comedy. The
players call such fragments of studied rhetoric _generici_, or
commonplaces. They are vastly important to comedians who may not be
specially gifted for improvisation; and everything of the sort I found
in their repertory was vitiated by the turgid mannerisms of the
_seicento_.

[Illustration: PANTALONE (1550)

_Illustrating the Italian Commedia dell'Arte, or Impromptu Comedy_]

I was godfather at the christening of their babies, author-in-chief,
counsellor, master, and mediator to the whole company; all this without
assuming the pretentious airs of a pedant or a claimant on their
gratitude; but always at their own entreaty, while I preserved the tone
of disinterested, humane, and playful condescension.

Some of the girls of this dramatic family--none of whom were ugly, and
none without some aptitude for the profession--begged me to help them
with support and teaching. I consented, provided them with parts adapted
to their characters, taught them how they ought to act these parts, and
put them in the way of winning laurels. At their entreaties I devoted
some hours of my leisure to giving them more general instruction. I made
them read and translate French books suited to their calling. I wrote
them letters upon divers familiar themes, calculated to make them think
and develop their sentiments under the necessity of composing some reply
or other. I corrected their mistakes, which frequently consisted in the
unexpected and uncalled-for use of capital letters, and laughed
heartily while doing so. This afforded me sprightly amusement and gave
them a dash of education.

When they left Venice for the customary six months,[30] I ran no risk of
not receiving letters from them, written in rivalry with one
another--sometimes real love-letters--arriving by each post from Milan,
Turin, Genoa, Parma, Mantua, Bologna, all the cities where they stopped
to act. Nor were answers wanting upon my side; playful, affectionate,
threatening, derisive; taking any tone which I judged capable of keeping
these young creatures wide-awake. It seemed to me that such an active
correspondence and exchange of sentiments was the most appropriate and
profitable school for a comedian.

Let no man deceive himself by supposing that it is possible to converse
with actresses without love-making. You must make it, or pretend to make
it. This is the only way to guide them to their own advantage. Love
moulds and kneads them in flesh, bones, and marrow. Love begins to be
their guiding-star at the age of five or six. In this respect, I soon
discovered that the austerity of Sacchi's company was a barren formula;
just as I had previously noticed that strictness in private families,
beyond a certain point, had ceased to be accounted of utility or value.

Among actresses, the term friendship is something fabulous and
visionary. They immediately substitute the word love, and do not attend
to distinctions. Their idea of friendship only serves as the means of
mutual deception between women, accompanied by deluges of endearing
phrases and Judas kisses.

I ought, however, to declare that the actresses of Sacchi's company
carried on their love-affairs with prudence and without indecency. The
ideal of severity which prevailed there bore at least these fruits of
goodness; and the ideal of honesty produced notably different results
from those which other systems in the trade of love elicited elsewhere.
How many actresses lay siege deliberately and in cold blood to their
lovers, despoil them of their property, and do their very best to suck
them dry! Catching at the locks of what they call their fortune and I
call their infamy, these women do not stop to see whether the path
before them be clean or filthy. They worship wickedness and abhor good
living, if they hope to fill their purse or gratify their cupidity by
the former. Though they strive to cloak their baseness with the veil of
verbal decency, and do all in their power to preserve external decorum,
they trample in their souls on shame and sing this verse:--

    "Colla vergogna io gia mi sono avvezza."

    ("With infamy I long have been at home.")

For the actresses of Sacchi's company, it is only justice to assert
that they were far removed from harbouring such sentiments of vile and
degrading venality.

There are two phrases in the slang of the profession; one is
_miccheggiare_, which means to cozen folk out of their money by
wheedling; the other is _gonzo_, gull or cully, the foolish lover who
believes himself an object of affection, and squanders all his fortune
under the influence of this impression. I must declare that the women of
Sacchi's company never put the arts which these words imply into
practice. They made love by instinct, inclination, and hereditary
tradition.

This does not mean that they were not eager to get lovers who could
support them on the stage, or who would be likely to marry them, and
withdraw them from a calling which they always professed, hypocritically
I believe, to abhor.

In what concerned myself, I looked upon their love-intrigues as duels of
wit and comic passages, which furnished me amusement. Closely related to
each other, and ambitious for advancement in their art, they regarded me
as a bright shining star, worshipped by the leading members of the
troupe, and capable of securing them success upon the stage. Their
mutual rivalry, which I made use of for their own advantage, the profit
of the company, and the success of my dramatic works, turned their
brains. They would have done anything to gain my heart. Possibly some
matrimonial projects entered into their calculations; but on this point
I was always careful to disabuse them in the clearest terms. Meanwhile,
their attentions, protests, fits of rage, jealousies, and tears on my
account had all the scenic illusion of an overwhelming passion.

In the cities where they passed the spring and summer, the same comedy
was re-enacted with a score of lovers. On their return to Venice, the
correspondence which they carried on with these admirers, and which they
vainly strove to hide from me, betrayed their inconstancy. By
cross-examination and adroit suggestive questionings, I always brought
them to make a clean breast of it, and their avowals furnished me with
matter for exquisite amusement. They protested that the letters they
received were written by young merchants or rich citizens, sometimes by
gentlemen of the Lombard towns, who entertained the liveliest intentions
of an honourable kind, and were only waiting for the death of an uncle
or a father or a mother, all upon the point of dying of apoplexy or
consumption or dropsy, to offer them their hands and fortunes. Finally,
in order to reveal the sincerity of their hearts, when lying could no
longer help them, they offered me these precious epistles. Probably they
hoped to excite jealousy in my own breast. This opened a new chapter of
diversion. I read the love-letters, and found that the vaunted admirers
were either bombastic lady-killers or romancers or libertines, or
sometimes, to my astonishment, dull Lombard hypocrites upon the scent of
goatish pleasure.

I enlightened them, so far as this was possible; advised them not to
waste their time in such perilous fooleries, which distracted their
attention from the serious concerns of their profession; bade them look
out for young comedians of talent, with whom they might marry and
propagate the breed of actors. They never failed to express that
loathing for the trade which all actresses profess, remaining actresses,
however, in the utterance of their repugnance. In order to open their
eyes to the real state of the case, I then dictated answers to these
lovers, affectionately urging them to declare themselves on the
essential point. Cold replies came with the next post, and after a short
exchange of letters the correspondence dropped. In this way, they were
brought to see their error, remaining always ready to resume it on the
next occasion.

Their sentiments for me, according to their own showing, were the most
enduring and substantial; and my incredulous laughter wounded them. They
bullied and maligned each other, complained, and accused their comrades
at my judgment-seat. I pronounced sentence against them all; but the
most persecuted were always the object of my heartiest protection. When
I wrote parts adapted to their characters, they were lifted to the
heavens. What obligations! What gratitude! What vows of love! I cannot
deny that in certain moments they were justified in thinking they had
gained my affection. The next day they found me quite another man,
indifferent and icy cold. _Amour propre_ then made them fly into a rage,
and grow the angrier the more they saw me laugh at their frenzies.

All things considered, it is very difficult to frequent the society of
young actresses, who harbour in their breasts six books upon the art of
love beside those of Ovid, to be their daily guide, philosopher, and
friend, to make their fortunes in the theatre, and not to fall into some
low matrimonial scrape, which would be called a solemn act of folly by
the world. I use such terms as scrape, baseness, folly here, in order to
adopt the language of people in general; although I am persuaded by
personal observation, and by philosophical study of the current training
given to girls, that it is easier to find a good wife on the stage than
in private families. People in general are not philosophers enough to
recognise and confess this truth; but the opinion of the general is
always respectable.

My temperament, my abhorrence of ties, my partiality for study, the pity
for human woes which I derived from knowledge of my neighbours, and the
thirty-five years which I counted at the period in question, were my
faithful counsellors. I have already written a chapter on my
love-affairs, which sufficiently explains my sentiments.[31]

In the midst of these feminine intrigues and rivalries, it is impossible
to distribute protection with perfect impartiality among all claimants.
The girl who is most persecuted by her comrades, most looked down upon,
and reckoned stupidest in her profession, will always be chosen out by
me for support and advancement, without regard for hostile gossip bred
by envy.

In course of time I saw all these young women married, thanks to the
fame they acquired through my efforts on their behalf. Some of them
found husbands in the theatre, and some outside it. Without withdrawing
my assistance from married actresses, I took care, from the moment of
their nuptials, to cause no shadow of disturbance in their home. This I
did by persistently refusing to visit them, which made them know me in
my true principles apart from pleasantry. My conduct astounded them, and
they affected notable displeasure at my withdrawal from their intimacy.

With regard to the chief men in this commonwealth of comedians, they
were always most attentive lest I should receive annoyances. Above all
things, they begged me not to take notice of any indiscretions prompted
by levity, professional jealousy, touchiness on points of honour,
pretensions to leading parts in my forthcoming plays, which might issue
from the steaming brains of their women. I used to reply that, so long
as the company maintained its good reputation, and so long as such
quarrels and idle chatterings were confined to the women, I should never
deign to be annoyed or to withdraw my aid and friendship from their
troupe; but that if the men took to the same follies and dissensions as
the women, I should have to think otherwise.

It was a comfort to me to pass my hours of leisure among those
lively-witted, humorous, civil, merry people. It gratified me to observe
that the men were eagerly sought after and invited to the tables of the
quality and honest folk, while the women received similar attentions
from gentlefolk of their own sex, a thing almost unheard of with respect
to others of their calling. Finally, I was pleased to see them thriving
in their business and making profits by their theatre, which I had
revived and continued to sustain by a long series of new and successful
dramatic pieces. If prejudice or malignity were to cast it in my teeth
that I had evil motives in this choice of my companions through so many
years, I might easily turn the satire back against what is commonly
called the respectable society of _casini_, assemblies, and caffes. In
order not to incur hatred by describing inconvenient facts, I will,
however, confine myself to begging my critics to reflect and to be
indulgent for differences of taste.

Returning to my comic proteges, I have yet to say that the insinuation
of so-called culture into our theatres gradually corrupted the customs
of this well-regulated family of actors, much in the same way as the
advance of culture into private families corrupted domestic manners.
Outsiders, hired at wages to swell the ranks and to take serious parts
in tragedies or comedies, introduced a new freedom of thinking and
behaving. The old habits of the troupe, which may perchance have only
worn a feigned appearance of respectability, altered for the worse. The
time has not arrived for describing this change, which I shall have to
do in its proper place, since it was closely connected with important
occurrences in my own life.

Some weaknesses are so entwined with our instincts as to be incurable.
Such, in my case, are good faith and compliance, which often degenerated
into silliness. During the whole course of my life, as my writings
prove, and as is well known to my friends and acquaintances, I have
always scourged hypocrisy. I cannot, however, deny the fact that the
apparent honesty, piety, and good behaviour, in which my proteges
persevered for so long a period, was convenient to their friends and
extremely profitable to their pockets; whereas the freedom of thinking
and acting introduced among them by the science of this depraved century
and by so-called culture, brought them to the condition of the builders
of the Tower of Babel.

I have seen them pass from ease to indigence, forget that they were
relatives and friends--all at war together, all suspicious, each man of
his neighbour--all irreconcilable and hostile--in spite of frequently
renewed attempts on my part to bring them into harmony again; so that,
at the last, I had to withdraw from their society, as will be stated in
the sequel of these Memoirs.




XLII.

_The end of the rage for Goldoni and Chiari.--I go on amusing my
fellow-citizens with plays.--Make reflections, and perhaps catch crabs._


We had arrived at the year 1766, when it became evident that my band of
comedians, by this time well established in their theatre, and supported
by the public, who flocked eagerly to see the pieces I provided for
them, were about to win a decisive victory over our adversaries.
Chiari's works stood revealed in all their native nakedness; the glamour
of enchantment had departed. Those of Goldoni, in spite of their real
merit, did not make the same effect as in the past. People noticed that
he repeated himself; they discovered poverty of ideas, flaccidity, and
faults of construction in his later pieces. They said that he was played
out.

The truth is that a rage so vehement and fanatical as that created by
Chiari and Goldoni was bound to die away. They had been so much spoken
and quarrelled about that their very names began to pall upon the ear.
In Italy, moreover, there is no well-founded and intelligent respect for
authors. Dramatists in particular are merely regarded as purveyors of
ephemeral amusement. Perhaps Venice exceeds every other capital in this
way of thinking. A Venetian citizen, to take a single instance, was
congratulating Goldoni on the success of one of his comedies; then, as
though ashamed of condescending to so trivial a theme, he added: "It is
true that works of this sort are trifles, which do not deserve our
serious attention; and yet I can imagine that you may have been
gratified by the reception of your play."

Goldoni, with true business-like prudence, had compelled the shabby
Italian comedians to pay him thirty sequins for every piece, good, bad,
or indifferent, which he supplied them. I gave my dramatic fancies away
gratis. It is very probable that, finding themselves eclipsed by what
their rivals got for nothing, Goldoni's paymasters waxed insolent
against him.

Chiari stopped writing when he saw that his dramas ceased to take.
Goldoni went to Paris, to seek his fortune there, whereof we shall be
duly informed in his Memoirs. Sacchi's company remained in possession of
the field and earned a handsome competency.

It became a necessity, a sort of customary law dictated by my
friendship, to present these actors every year or two with pieces from
my pen. The ability with which they had interpreted my fancies deserved
gratitude; and the sympathy of the Venetians, who had so warmly welcomed
them, called for recognition. Accordingly, I added the _Donna Serpente_,
the _Zobeide_, and the _Mostro Turchino_ to those dramatic fables which
I have already mentioned. This brought us down to the year 1766.[32]

The new _genre_ which I had brought into fashion, and which, by being
confined to Sacchi's company, inflicted vast damage on their
professional rivals, inspired other so-called poets with the wish to
imitate me. They relied on splendid decorations, transformation scenes,
and frigid buffooneries. They did not comprehend the allegorical
meanings, nor the polite satire upon manners, nor the art of
construction, nor the conduct of the plot, nor the real intrinsic force
of the species I had handled. I say they did not comprehend the value of
these things, because I do not want to say that they were deficient in
power to command and use them. The result was that their pieces met with
the condemnation which their contempt for me and for the public who
appreciated me richly deserved.

You cannot fabricate a drama worthy to impress the public mind for any
length of time by heaping up absurdities, marvels, scurrilities,
prolixities, puerilities, insipidities, and nonsense. The neglect into
which the imitations of my manner speedily fell proves this. Much the
same may be said about those other species--romantic or domestic,
intended to move tears or laughter--those cultured and realistic kinds
of drama, as people called them, though they were generally devoid of
culture and of realism, and were invariably as like each other as two
peas, which occupied our stage for thirty years at least.[33] All the
good and bad that has been written and printed about my fables; the fact
that they still hold the stage in Italy and other countries where they
are translated in spite of their comparative antiquity; the stupid
criticisms which are still being vented against them by starving
journalists and envious bores, who join the cry and follow these blind
leaders of the blind--criticisms only based upon the titles and
arguments I chose to draw from old wives' tales and stories of the
nursery--all this proves that there is real stuff in the fabulous,
poetical, allegorical _genre_ which I created. I say this without any
presumptuous partiality for the children of my fancy; nor do I resent
the attacks which have been made upon them, for I am humane enough to
pity the hungry and the passion-blinded.

Goldoni, who was then at Paris, vainly striving to revive the Italian
theatre in that metropolis, heard of the noise my fables were making in
Italy, and abased himself so far as to send a fabulous composition of
his own fabrication back to Venice. It was called _Il Genio buono e il
Genio cattivo_, and appeared at the theatre of S. Giov. Grisostomo,
enjoying a long run. The cause of its success lay in the fact that his
piece displayed dramatic art, agreeable characters, moral reflection,
and some philosophy. I conclude, therefore, that allegorical fables on
the stage are not so wholly contemptible.

At the same time, just as there are differences between the different
kinds of dogs, fishes, birds, snakes, and so forth, though they all
belong to the species of dogs, fishes, &c., so are there notable
differences between Goldoni's _Genio buono e cattivo_ and my ten
_Fiabe_, though all are grouped under the one species of dramatic fable.
Goldoni, who has deserved renown for his domestic comedies, had not the
gifts necessary for producing poetic fables of this kind; nor could I
ever understand why my ridiculous censors cast the ephemeral success of
his two _Genj_ in my teeth, with the hope of mortifying a pride I did
not feel.

The dramatic fable, if written to engage the interest of the public and
to keep its hold upon the theatre, is more difficult than any other
species. Unless it contains a grandeur which imposes, some impressive
secret which enchants, novelty sufficient to arrest attention, eloquence
to enthral, sententious maxims of philosophy, witty and attractive
criticisms, dialogues prompted by the heart, and, above all, the great
magic of seduction whereby impossibilities are made to seem real and
evident to the mind and senses of the audience--unless it contains all
these elements, I repeat, it will never produce a firm and distinctive
impression, nor will it repay the pains and perseverance of our poor
actors by its permanent pecuniary value. It may be that my fables
possess none of these qualities. Yet the fact remains that they
contrived to produce the effects I have described.




XLIII.

_I re-open a lawsuit, and continue to scribble my fantastic pieces for
the stage_.


In this same year, 1766, my brothers warmly urged me to revive the
lawsuit against Marchese Terzi of Bergamo.[34] Since our family
documents had been dispersed, and only three old wills and some
worm-eaten summaries remained to guide me, I obtained an injunction
ordering the defendant to produce the deeds whereby he claimed the
disputed property, and the papers relating to several suits between his
ancestors and ours. At last two enormous chests, full of musty writings,
were delivered at the Magistracy of the Avvogaria. Perhaps my
adversaries thought to dash my spirits and damp my ardour by this ocean
of pages which had to be explored. If so, they were mistaken. I procured
one of those licenses, which are technically called courtesies, from
Signor Daniele Zanchi, the defendant's advocate, to study the documents
at his chambers, and set myself down with imperturbable phlegm to peruse
millions of lines in antique characters, faded, half-effaced,
semi-Gothic, and for the most part hieroglyphical. I selected those
which seemed to the purpose, and had forty-two volumes of transcripts
filled at my cost by Signor Zanchi's copyists.

Painful circumstances leave ineffaceable impressions on the memory. The
examination of those vast masses of manuscript, word by word and letter
by letter, so different from delightful literature in prose or verse,
taxed every nerve and fibre. I well remember that my study of them
lasted over more than two months, in the dead of a hard snowy winter.
Signor Zanchi, taking pity on my shivering wretchedness, kindly
furnished me with a brazier of live coals; and yet I thought, what with
the irksome labour and the cold, that I should have to breathe my last
between the walls of the fortress of my enemies.

I shall not weary my readers with a detailed account of this tedious
lawsuit. My brother Almoro, whose heart was always in the right place,
contributed to the expenses according to his means. My brother
Francesco, remaining a wary economist, refused to exceed an annual
payment of 150 _lire_ during the progress of the suit. My brother
Gasparo only lent his name and assent. The following anecdote is
characteristic of his easy-going, popularity-loving temperament. Some
gentlemen, friends and supporters of the Marquis, asked him with serious
faces: "What the devil is this annoyance you are causing Marchese
Terzi?" To which he shrugged his shoulders and answered: "I know nothing
about the matter. They are devices of my brother Carlo, a litigious
fellow, who thinks that he is in the right here." He did not mean, I
fully believe, to shun responsibility and odium by shifting the blame to
my shoulders. This answer was only of a piece with the pacific indolence
which made him bear infinite wretchedness in his own home.

In the course of two years I had to expend 17,000 _lire_ on the costs of
this suit; and had it not been for the generosity of friends, among whom
Signor Innocenzio Massimo stood first, Marchese Terzi would have scored
one of those victories which make us inclined to doubt of Providence.
Beside the anxiety and incessant labour which preyed upon my health and
spirits, I was annoyed by my adversary's powerful friends, who went
about the town denouncing me for a quarrelsome, vexatious, captious, and
inequitable fellow. Rude rebukes addressed to me by such persons I met
with significant smiles and silence, never deigning to take up the
cudgels in my own defence against accusations which I knew to be
discourteous and baseless. In addition to all these sources of
discomfort, I had to fight the battle single-handed; for my excellent
friend and advocate, Signor Antonio Testa, was compelled by stress of
business to leave me in the heat of action.

It is not to be wondered at that I fell ill at last. But what will seem
more wonderful, nay, almost incredible, is that I sought distraction
during my few leisure hours in planning and composing dramatic pieces. I
used to take sheets of paper on which I had sketched the outlines of
scenes in my pocket down to a coffee-house on the Riva degli Schiavoni.
There I engaged a room facing San Giorgio, had coffee brought, and
ordered pen and ink. Thus furnished, I forgot my troubles for a while in
the elaboration of soliloquies and dialogues. It was in this way that,
while my suit dragged on through three tempestuous years, I produced the
_Augel Belverde_, the _Re de'Genj_, the _Donna Vendicativa_, the _Caduta
di Donna Elvera_, and the _Pubblico Segreto_. I flatter myself that none
of these plays betrayed the melancholy and distraction of a harassed
brain. They were welcomed with enthusiasm by the public, and brought
fame and profit to my friends the actors.

After a long course of anxious litigation, complicated by somewhat
tortuous proceedings on the part of my opponents, the cause was settled
in the following way. I obtained as compensation for my claims a farm of
about forty-six acres in the Paduan district, several houses in Venice,
some substantial and some ruinous, a sum of money in the funds of the
Mint, and three thousand ducats by way of repayment of arrears. A solemn
agreement was signed, which may God preserve unbroken through all the
centuries to come! After paying the costs and debts contracted in this
long campaign, and assigning their portions of the balance to my
brothers, I took breath again, like a man broken by a tedious and
disastrous journey, who stretches out his wearied limbs upon a bed of
down.




XLIV.

_The beginning of dissensions in Sacchi's company.--My attitude of
forbearance and ridiculous heroisms._


Having spent ten years of serene recreation among my professional
friends, the time had come for clouds to gather on the horizon. _Le due
notti affannose_, my last dramatic venture, was the source of much
profit to Sacchi. But the company, while gaining strength from actors
hired to sustain serious parts, began to degenerate in their behaviour.
Though they professed the same severe morality as formerly, I noticed
signs of change and of dissension. Differences between relatives spread
the seeds of future dissolution. The imported actors helped the theatre,
but introduced pernicious ideas into this previously happy family. They
criticised the administration of the property; accused the managers of
injustice, tyranny, even fraud; sympathised with those who thought
themselves oppressed; threw stones, and carefully concealed the hands
which launched them. Pluming themselves upon their sapience, they
contrived to persuade the troupe that the plays I gave for nothing were
not so beneficial as the latter blindly believed. They ascribed the
crowds which filled the theatre to the attraction of stage decorations
and their own spirited performance. Not unlike the fly in AEsop's fable,
they exclaimed: "Look at the dust which we are raising!" By artfully
reckoning the cost of putting my fables on the stage, and by insinuating
calumnies against the managers, they brought some of the sharers into a
state of mutiny, made them depreciate my services, and stirred up anger
and suspicion against Sacchi. Finally, they got them to think it would
be more advantageous to exchange their shares for salaries, and prepared
them for hating one another cordially.

The older and more sagacious comedians still continued to pay me court
and beg for my poetical assistance. I thought it, however, wiser to
suspend my collaboration for a year or two, without showing annoyance,
or letting it be known that I was aware of what was being said against
me. I could not take a better way of bringing them back to reason; and
my private engagements provided me with a good pretext for withdrawing
my assistance.

In the first year after my retirement, the public began to grumble at
the lack of new pieces. In the second, it began to growl. The audiences
thinned, and Sacchi's theatre became a desert. There were not wanting
folk who from the boxes shouted insults at the actors. Their dejection
increased daily; and then they all with one accord broke into
protestations of affection and fervent entreaties for my help.

I had accustomed the public to novel kinds of drama, and the company had
seconded my efforts. I did not think it right to assist them for ten
years and then to drop them. To condescend to take affront at what
comedians say or do is utterly impossible for me. I could, indeed, have
laughed in their faces and turned my back. But I preferred to laugh in
my sleeve while once more coming to their aid with the energy and good
results which I shall presently describe.

The owners of the other theatres in Venice, finding themselves extremely
injured by the plays I gave to Sacchi, kept making me proposals to
write for their houses; and the pretty actresses who worked there
seconded these misplaced endeavours by spreading snares to catch me with
their charms. Though my old proteges would have richly deserved it, I
had the burlesque heroism not to desert them.

Sacchi often complained of having to remain in theatres out of the way
and inconvenient for the people, such as S. Samuele and S. Angelo, where
only striking novelties like mine could draw large houses. He was always
sighing to get the lease of S. Salvadore,[35] a most popular theatre,
since it is situated at the centre of the town, within easy reach of its
densely inhabited quarters. Now it so happened that this theatre was
occupied by a company which performed pieces in the fashion introduced
by Chiari and Goldoni. I have already said that the vogue of such things
had declined; and the proprietor, his Excellency Vendramini, was anxious
to secure me in the interest of his failing house. He sent a priest of
my acquaintance, a certain Don Baldassare, as envoy, offering me his
cordial regards, together with considerable emoluments, if I would pass
from Sacchi's company to that which occupied S. Samuele. I draped myself
in the dignity of Attilius Regulus, and replied that I did not write for
money, but for pastime. As long as Sacchi's troupe kept together and
remained competent, I did not mean to give away my work to any other.
If his Excellency had the fancy to see plays of mine performed at his
theatre, he could indulge it by placing the house at Sacchi's disposal.
Not many months passed before I was chosen by that gentleman as
arbitrator between him and Sacchi. I acted the solicitor, drew up a
lease, and installed my manager in the theatre his heart was set on.

I should have liked to devote myself entirely to my private studies; but
the responsibility I had taken by transferring Sacchi's company to S.
Samuele, together with the informal engagement I felt under to Signor
Vendramini, made me resume my task of writing for the stage. I ought to
add that my old habit of associating with the actors weighed strongly
with me in this circumstance. Therefore a new chapter of some fourteen
years in my life was opened, the principal events of which I mean to
write with all the candour and the piquancy I can.




XLV.

_Dangerous innovations in Sacchi's company.--My attempts to arrange
matters, my threats, prognostications, and obstinate persistence on the
point of honour to support my proteges--things sufficient to move
reasonable mirth against me._


The grant of the theatre at San Salvadore for the next year had hardly
been handed over to Sacchi, when the other troupe, who were expelled to
make room for him, engaged the theatre at Sant'Angelo, which he was
leaving, and began at once to plot revenge. They tried, by flatteries
and promises of money (always needed by Italian comedians), to
circumvent the best actors of the company, among whom were Cesare
Derbes, the excellent Pantalone, and Agostino Fiorelli, the famous
Tartaglia. In fact, they did seduce these two champions of impromptu
comedy to desert Sacchi's ranks and join their squadron, more with the
object of weakening our forces than of strengthening theirs, since their
own members were unfit for any performances but those of the so-called
cultivated drama.

This desertion mortified the sharers in Sacchi's company, and they
whispered their misfortune in my ears. For my own part, I was sorry to
think that the quartette of masks, real natural wonders, who made such
pleasant mirth in concert, should be scattered. I determined, therefore,
to try whether I could not dissuade these two actors from the somewhat
shabby step they had resolved on. When I remonstrated with Derbes, who
was my gossip, the answer he gave me ran as follows: "Precisely because
I feared that you would attempt to separate me from my new comrades, and
because I know my inability to refuse you anything, I concealed the
agreement from your eyes, and signed it in secret, so that I might not
have it in my power to comply with your request. It grieves me that I
am no longer able to meet your wishes." On hearing this preposterous
excuse, I lost my humour for a moment, and burst into serious
reproaches. He assumed a theatrical air of sorrow, and defended himself
by repeating the complaints which were current among the disaffected
members of Sacchi's troupe. I contented myself with prophesying that he
would find himself without place or part in his new company, adding by
way of menace that I should well know how to make him repent of his
desertion to the enemy.

Then I repaired to Fiorelli with as much solicitude as though I were
bent on averting some grave disaster from myself. Him I found more
tractable. He had not signed his agreement; and I was able to reconcile
him with his old comrades, and to make him subscribe a paper, by which
he promised to remain with them for the next three years.

A bad system of etiquette divides the actors and actresses of every
troupe in Italy into first, second, third, and so forth. It happened at
this time that Sacchi had dismissed his first actress, Regina Cicucci, a
very able artist, but one who had not won great fame with Venetian
playgoers. "What a fine stroke of business it would be," said he to me
one day, "if we could rob our rivals of their first actress, Mme.
Caterina Manzoni! The revenge would be complete and just, and I should
be provided with a leading lady. I am afraid, however," he added, "that
my company would not suit her." Signora Manzoni was my good friend. I
appreciated her talents, her personal attractions, her cultivated
manners, and her educated mind. She had often asked me whether I could
not introduce her into Sacchi's company; and though I did not usually
mix myself up with such affairs, the present occasion and Sacchi's
speech inclined me to attempt a negotiation.

Accordingly, I made proposals to the lady, which she welcomed with great
delight and profuse expressions of gratitude. Some differences with
regard to appointments and other details arose. These I settled, like an
able broker, and brought the bargain to an agreement. When I presented
the papers for her signature, the beautiful young woman met me with an
air of sadness, which added to her charms. She looked as though she had
not the courage to address me. I did not understand what this meant, and
strove to hearten her up. At length she told me, dropping a few lovely
tears, that her former friends and comrades, when they got wind of her
meditated desertion, had come to her weeping violently, and had flung
themselves at her feet imploring her not to abandon them to certain
ruin. Moved by a spirit of compassion, she had signed a paper which
obliged her to remain with them for some years to come.

Although I knew the tenderness of her heart, I did not think her
capable of such a breach of promise through mere sensibility. She must
have had stronger reasons for breaking the engagement she had entered
into with me; and if she ever writes her Memoirs, we shall hear of
them.[36] Perhaps I ought to have lost my jovial humour, as I did with
Derbes. I could not do so in the face of so much beauty. I only told
her, with a smile upon my lips, that she was her own mistress; Sacchi
might get a first actress of any sort he could; I should have wit enough
to make the person as able an artist as my fair renegade. With these
words I engaged myself to a new point of honour.

I have never regretted that I treated Signora Manzoni in this courteous
fashion. She has always shown me the attentions of delicate and cordial
politeness; and it is only justice to declare that she possesses
qualities which would be estimable in a gentlewoman. A few years after
the events related here she married, retired from the profession, and
devoted herself to the education of her two little boys in sound moral
and religious principles.

When I reported the failure of my negotiation to Sacchi, he replied
roughly: "I knew that the person in question could never have adjusted
herself to my company." Then he pushed forward his correspondence for
the engagement of another prima donna.

I should like my readers to believe that my intervention in the affair I
have described was due principally to my regard for the Cavaliere[37]
who granted his theatre at my request to Sacchi's company. Really afraid
that their internal dissensions, rivalries, and intrigues might reduce
them to a state of impotence, and that his interests would suffer in
consequence, I wished to avoid having any share in this disaster. A
barren and old-fashioned delicacy!




XLVI.

_Sacchi forces me to give advice.--Teodora Ricci enters his company as
first actress.--An attempt at sketching her portrait.--The beginnings of
my interest in this comedian._


Whenever Sacchi had to engage a prima donna, all the other actresses
rose up in tumult. Why they should have done so, when the engagement was
merely temporary, remains a mystery. That they were connected among
themselves by blood or marriage does not explain their conspiracy. The
newcomers had to endure a martyrdom of criticism, depreciation in their
art, and gross calumny in their morals. Who knows whether the prospect
of such imminent tribulation did not form one reason of Signora
Manzoni's defection? These details do not appear to have any bearing on
my Memoirs; but it will soon be seen that they have only too much.

Sacchi always affected, out of prudence, to consult with me on his
affairs, especially at this time, when the change of theatre had
disorganised his system of management. Accordingly, he informed me one
day that he was in treaty with two first actresses, and asked for my
advice. One of them was Signora Maddalena Battagia, a Tuscan by birth,
talented, but no longer in her prime, incapable of taking part in the
_Commedia dell'Arte_, and extremely exacting with regard to precedence,
etiquette, and a substantial salary. The other was Signora Teodora
Ricci; from what he heard about her, she was a beginner, young, full of
spirit, with a fine figure and voice, who had been applauded in every
city where she had appeared; moreover, she was accustomed to act in the
_Commedia dell'Arte_. She had a husband, of some distinction as a
player; and Sacchi could get them both at a salary of only 520 ducats a
year.

I had never heard before of either. But after weighing and comparing
their testimonials and correspondence, I gave a laconic answer: "Engage
Signora Ricci with her husband." This is precisely what Sacchi had
resolved in his own mind on doing; and his appeal to me for counsel was
only a comedian's way of feigning esteem and sense of dependence.

The Ricci and her husband were bound over under articles for three years
at a salary of 520 ducats. This was a wretched stipend for a poor
actress, who had to provide herself with a decent wardrobe on the stage,
to meet the expenses of frequent journeys, and to maintain a husband and
a son; and who, moreover, was expecting her confinement, and was about
to expose herself to all the calumnies, criticisms, and venomous
detractions of the allied women of the company.

My new protege reached Venice in the Lent of 1771. I received an
invitation from Sacchi to meet her and her husband at his house one
evening, on their arrival from Genoa. He wanted me to hear her recite a
passage from some tragedy, in order that I might form an estimate of her
manner, her talent, and her disposition. I saw at once that she was a
young woman of fine figure, though her pregnancy took off from its
appearance. Her face was pitted with the small-pox; but this did not
prevent it from being theatrically effective at a distance. The
abundance of her beautiful blonde hair made up for some defects of
feature. Her clothes, which betrayed a scanty purse, were well put on;
and she carried them with such an air and grace that no one stopped to
think whether they were of silk or wool, new or worn. She seemed to be
somewhat constrained by the unfamiliar society in which she found
herself. I could not make my mind up whether her reserve and shyness
were the result of timidity or cunning. Yet I detected in her something
of habitual impatience. She chafed because her husband did her little
honour in our conversation. He, good man, slept sweetly, in spite of the
clandestine nudges which she gave him.

She recited the fragment of a tragic scene in verse, with a fine and
powerful voice, sound sense, intelligence, and a fire which gave good
hopes of her in her profession, especially in fierce vituperative parts.
I noticed a trifle of hardness and monotony in her declamation, and some
other defects which could be remedied. One incurable fault she had; this
was the movement of her lips, which often amounted to what is called
making a wry face. Her mouth, not small by nature, had been relaxed and
ravaged at its angles by the small-pox, so that the poor young woman
could not overcome the involuntary fault of which I speak. I must add a
physiological observation I have made, which bears upon this point. When
we feel disgust for any object disagreeable to our senses, we naturally
express it by a writhing of the mouth. The Ricci, through prejudice, or
through something proud and wayward in her temper, was always hearing
and seeing things which she felt nauseous and repulsive, and this
repugnance stamped itself upon her features in a contortion of the lips.
Enforcing and stereotyping the physical blemish in question, it
became an ineradicable habit, or rather second nature.

[Illustration: THE 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 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 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 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 called _La 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 role 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 debut 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 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]




XLVII.

_Teodora Ricci makes her debut 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 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 of _new 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
the _Conte 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 called
_Fajel_,[40] in which he proposed to give the part of Gabrielle to the
debutante 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 _Fajel_. Ricci
sustained the part of Gabrielle admirably; but it so happened that
Signora Manzoni had recently been acting a nearly identical role at the
theatre of S. Angelo, and her partisans determined to crush the
debutante, 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 my _Principessa 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 the _Principessa_ being 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 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 of
_Gustavus Vasa_ from 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
Vasa_ had a decided 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 my _Principessa
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 my _Principessa_ to 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 the _Principessa Filosofa_
should 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-role 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 with covered rancour.
They never acknowledged her talents, and ascribed her success to the
role I had composed for her.




XLVIII.

_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 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.[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, 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 roles 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 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
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 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]




XLIX.

_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 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 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 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. 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.

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.




L.

_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, 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 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 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 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 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 me
what he will never get." I saw at a glance why the _capocomico_ had 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 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 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 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 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."

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 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.

[Illustration: SACCHI AND SIGNORA RICCI

_Original Etching by Ad. Lalauze_]

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 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.




LI.

_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.[47] He wanted to take her to Paris as _prima donna_
in 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 find a _prima donna_ for 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 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 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 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 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.




LII.

_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 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 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 proteges, 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
entitled _Il Moro di Corpo Bianco, ossia lo Schiavo del Proprio
Onore_.[50]

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 my _Moro di Corpo Bianco_.
The reputation of S. Salvatore was fully re-established, 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 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 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 a _billet-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 Abbe 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," 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.




LIII.

_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 a _succes de scandale_ under the title of _Le
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--the
_Donna Innamorata_, the _Donna Vendicativa_, the _Donna Elvira_, the
_Notti Affannose_, the _Fratelli Nimici_, the _Principessa Filosofa_,
the _Pubblico Segreto_, the _Moro di Corpo Bianco_, the _Metafisico_,
and the _Bianca 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, entitled _Zelos cum Zelos se Curat_, into my own _Droghe
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
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 the _Droghe 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. The
_prima 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 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," 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 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.

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.

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 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. Mose. 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. 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 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 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 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 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.




LIV.

_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 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 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.

[Illustration: RUZZANTE (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 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.

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 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
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 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
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 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. "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.




LV.

_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 her _amour propre_ becomes 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!

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 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 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 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 my _Droghe
d'Amore_ highly 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.

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 this _villeggiatura_, I set hand once more to the _Droghe 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 my
_Principessa Filosofa_ in 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 the warp on
which the plot was woven. Accordingly, I wrote to Sacchi, saying that
the _Droghe d'Amore_ would really not do, and promising some other piece
instead. I had, indeed, already planned my _Metafisico_ and _Bianca
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 another _prima 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 my _Principessa 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 genius by her bad
character and by her ascendancy over the _capocomico_, playing no small
part in that final dissolution of the company which I shall have to
relate.




LVI.

_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, adding, in order
to insult me: "You will find no tiresome moral preachers on the
_convenances_ to 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 game _rocambol_ was 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 a
word or a thought for her husband and two children.

[Illustration: COVIELLO (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. 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 my
_Metafisico_ and _Bianca di Melfi_. In fact, I had nothing on hand but
the _Droghe d'Amore_. Pestered by perpetual applications for this
comedy, in an evil moment I drew it from its sepulchre and tossed it
over to the _capocomico_. 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 a
_capocomico_.

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 a _succes 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 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 roles 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 role 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 roles, 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
the _Droghe 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 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 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.




LVII.

_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. 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 the _Droghe d'Amore_ later 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 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 the _Droghe
d'Amore_. A new revision was necessitated by certain complaints which
had been brought against the role 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 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
the _Droghe d'Amore_ would have appeared without doing any dishonour to
either of us.

His manoeuvring had the effect of putting all Venice upon the _qui
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 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
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 of _Bear_. My brother Gasparo, on
the contrary, saw her every day, and she bestowed on him the tender
epithet of _Father_. 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 a
_capocomico_, and was at the present moment under the inspection of the
State.

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, entitled _Le 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?--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 roles 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 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 the _coulisses_ with much toil.[63] There I saw a swarm
of masks begging for 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 the _Droghe d'Amore_ under 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 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 role 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 the _Droghe 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 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.




LVIII.

_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 the _Droghe d'Amore_ was 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.

The _Droghe d'Amore_ was repeated upon four successive 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
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 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 called _bon ton_ and _the great world_
at 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 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 the _Droghe 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 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 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 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 and
_canaille_ swarm around me, leave their shops, and point me out as the
secretary to the Senate who is being turned to ridicule in your _Droghe
d'Amore_." He writhed upon his seat and tears fell from his eyes as he
spoke these words, never reflecting that it was not _my_ play, but _his
own_ bad 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?"

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." "_Able_ and
_ought_," 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 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."

Wishing to cut matters short, but not without the greatest difficulty,
and only by the assistance of Signor Maffei, I got him to listen to the
plan I had devised that morning, and read him out my prologue. It was
composed in a popular style, and ran as follows:

    "_To the Respectable Venetian Public_,

                  CARLO GOZZI.

    "This harmless drama, which hath won the grace
    Of your most generous and kind applause,
    Large-hearted men of Venice, at the prayers,
    Repeated prayers, and not without effect,
    Of him who wrote it, now has been withdrawn.
      He knows not by what accidents or how,
    The various characters, the actors too,
    In this plain piece of stage-work, which he took
    From an old Spaniard, Tirso da Molina,
    Adapting it to our Italian taste,
    Have lent themselves to satire, falsely felt,
    On living persons whom the author loves.
      Scandal, malignant rumours, which abuse
    His frank and candid pen, incapable
    Of setting snares for names whom all respect,
    Have moved him to implore that from to-night
    _Le Droghe d'Amore_ shall no longer run:
    He meant it for amusement, not offence.
      Warm thanks, dictated by his heart, he yields
    To you, choice courteous public, who have deigned
    To greet so poor a play with your applause;
    And promises new works on other themes; and swears
    That his sole object is to furnish sport
    To you, dear countrymen, and keep your friend."

"Well, well!" cried Gratarol, rising from his chair with a contortion of
impatience: "all that is nothing but mere water, water, water! I
solemnly reject your prologue and your plan.[69] My cogent
reasoning upon the merits of the case has proved that you can and must
stop the play." On my replying again and again that I was impotent to do
so, his brows darkened, and he muttered with eyes wandering all round
the room: "I warn you, sir, that if the play comes on the stage
to-morrow evening, I shall not value my own life at a brass farthing.
Yes, yes, I mean what I am saying; I shall not care for my existence."

[Illustration: GRATAROL'S INTERVIEW WITH GOZZI

_Original Etching by Ad. Lalauze_]

The excellent Maffei was sitting all this while in a state of the
greatest discomfort and distress. Seeing how pale and wretched he was, I
rose to my feet, and addressed Gratarol in these words: "Sir, I do not
wish you to part from me under the impression that I am not your friend.
All I can undertake is to use my influence by prayers and entreaties to
prevent the performance of my comedy. This I promise to do. But I cannot
engage to succeed, for I am not the master in this matter. You shall
have a full and punctual report of my endeavours. Pray kiss me as a sign
that we do not part in enmity." The kiss was exchanged; and what I shall
have to relate shortly will enable my readers to judge which of us two
gave the kiss of Judas.




LIX.

_The several steps I took to meet the wishes of my blind and false
antagonist.--History of a long tedious day._


How I spent the rest of the day after this painful scene may be told
very briefly. I first sent a letter to the noble gentleman Signor
Vendramini, entreating him in courteous but urgent terms to sanction the
suspension of the comedy. A polite and distant answer expressing his
inability to do so was placed in my hands. Then I hurried to find
Sacchi. He was dining at the house of the patrician Giuseppe Lini at S.
Samuele. I sent for him into the ante-chamber, and explained my reasons
for having the performance stopped. "What can I do?" exclaimed the
_capocomico_. "Have you forgotten that the sublime tribunal has given
orders for the play, and that Ricci is going to be brought to the
theatre by one of its foot-soldiers? You are demanding the
impossible--the ruin of myself and all my company." "But did not you
yourself declare," said I, "that you would punctually fulfil my wishes
in this matter?" "To whom, and when, and where?" he answered in some
heat; "who has told these lies? I should like to be confronted with the
man. Do you imagine I am such a donkey as to make ridiculous assertions
of the kind? Nevertheless, if you can smooth away all obstacles, I am
willing to submit to your demand."

The noise we were making in the ante-chamber brought Signor Lini and his
guests out of the dining-room. They protested with one voice that it was
impossible to withdraw a comedy which was already the property of the
public and under the protection of the Government. Gratarol had stirred
up all the mischief by fitting the cap on his own head. It was too late
to think of the misfortunes he had brought by his own madness on
himself.

Furnished with Sacchi's conditional promise, I flew off at once to my
friend Maffei. I told him what I had already done, and with what poor
success. "Nevertheless," I added, "there is yet another stone which I do
not mean to leave unturned. I may find the noble lady Caterina Dolfin
Tron at home, if I go to her immediately. She certainly suggested and
contrived the travesty which turned Vitalba into a caricature of
Gratarol. She has availed herself of the latter's indiscretion and false
steps, the excitement of the public, and the dust stirred up about my
wretched drama, to wreak her vengeance for what crime against herself I
cannot say. Tell Signor Gratarol what I have attempted up to the present
moment, and come to meet me under the Procuratie Nuove at three hours
after sunset."

The January day in which I had to work was short; and I may
parenthetically observe, although the fact is trivial, that I did not
allow myself time to eat a mouthful of food.

It was already an hour and a half past sundown when I turned my steps to
the palace of that noble lady. I wished to have a witness of our
colloquy, and met with no one on the way more proper for the purpose
than Luigi Benedetti, the actor, and Sacchi's nephew. We climbed the
long staircase and asked if her ladyship were at home. "Yes," said the
servant, "she is receiving a company of ladies, senators, and men of
letters." I begged to be announced; and shortly afterwards Mme. Dolfin
Tron appeared, closing the doors of her reception-room behind her, from
whence there came the sound of animated conversation. She saluted me
cheerfully with her usual epithet of _Bear_, bade me take a chair beside
her, and motioned to the actor to be seated.[70]

I unfolded the object of my visit in a few sentences, explained how
urgently I desired the suppression of my comedy, and described the
ineffectual steps which I had taken for securing it. "Now I fling myself
upon your powerful assistance, in the earnest hope that you will help me
to suspend the performance of the _Droghe d'Amore_."

"What a request!" she cried: "what has inspired you to make it?" I
replied by describing my own bitter annoyance at figuring as the
libeller and satirist of private persons. I painted the distress of
Gratarol, and the sympathy which I felt for him. "The kindness of your
heart is worthy of all honour," she answered; "but if you knew the whole
facts, you would not take compassion on that man. He has not merely let
himself be bamboozled by an actress, fomented the scandal from which he
is now suffering, set himself up against the decrees of the tribunals,
calumniated people who deserve respect, pretended that the prima donna's
leg was broken, and floundered from stupidity to stupidity until the
Government itself is enraged against him. He has not merely committed
all these follies. He has done more, of which you are not yet aware."

"I am quite prepared to believe you," I replied; "but in a case like
his, any honest man might be excused for losing his head and acting with
imprudence. Do not let us think of him. I come to beg you to save me
from what I regard as an odious source of humiliation to myself. Signor
Gratarol persists in saying that I can and ought to stop the performance
of my play." The noble lady looked laughing in my face and said: "Any
blind man can see that you have no power over your comedy. You made a
gift of it to certain actors. It has been twice revised and licensed by
the censors of the State. It belongs to the public, and the public have
the right to profit by it. You will only get yourself into a scrape if
you insist on championing the cause of that presumptuous, conceited, and
unruly man. If I cannot persuade you, there are senators in that room"
(pointing to her drawing-room) "who will tell you plainly that you are
impotent--your comedy no longer yours, but the property of the public
and the magistrates of State." "All this I know quite well," I answered;
"and I have repeated it a hundred times. I cannot stir a finger. This is
the very reason why I come to you. I know that you can settle matters if
you like. Intelligent people will perhaps understand how helpless I am
in the whole matter. But the vulgar and the populace are sure to think
otherwise, and I shall be prejudiced in the opinion of my countrymen. It
is to your feeling heart that I make this last appeal, beseeching you to
liberate me from the purgatory I am in of hearing all these scandals
daily, and seeing the unfortunate Gratarol exposed to scorn in a base
and cruel pillory." At the end of this speech I bent down, and stooped
to the, for me, unwonted abasement of kissing a woman's hand five or six
times.

All my entreaties, and even this last act of submission, were of no
avail. Madame told me in conclusion that, for reasons which I did not
know, the official decree was irreversible. The Ricci would be conducted
by an officer of the Council of Ten to the theatre next evening. After
that, the comedy might cease to run; and my protege Gratarol ought to be
well contented with the result of the whole matter. She rose to rejoin
her company, and I took my departure with my witness, Benedetti.

This was not, however, the last act for me of that long trying day. I
met my best of friends, Maffei, and reported the ill success of my
efforts. He undertook to go at once to Gratarol, and tell him that the
performance on the 17th was inevitable. He must try to endure his
humiliation in silence. On the 18th, and from that night forward, my
comedy should never more be seen upon the stage.

Maffei returned, discouraged and annoyed, to inform me that Gratarol
still stood by his "cogent and irrefragable demonstrations." "Count
Gozzi," he had said, "can and ought to meet my wishes,"--the wishes of
his worship. I replied to my friend that I felt sure Gratarol was about
to play some awkward trick. We had both involved ourselves in a nasty
job, I by undertaking to use my influence in the man's behalf, and
Maffei by rendering himself the protector of a maniac whose churlish
character was ill adapted to his candid friendship. "Oh, bad, bad!"
murmured Maffei between his teeth, downcast and mortified to an extent
which moved my sympathy. "Do you perhaps know any person of authority
and good sense," I inquired, "who has influence over this lunatic?" "If
there is any one," he replied, "I think we shall discover this person
in Gratarol's uncle, Signor Francesco Contarini. This gentleman holds
the private affairs of the family, and Gratarol's own disordered
fortunes, in his hands. Gratarol can hardly refuse to pay attention to
what he says." "I wish I had the good fortune to know Signor Contarini,"
said I: "that is not my privilege; but if you will introduce me, we may
persuade him to open his nephew's eyes to the prudence of accepting the
inevitable."

On this suggestion, we repaired at once to Signor Contarini's dwelling
at S. Angelo. He received me with politeness, and asked me to explain my
errand. I laid the whole matter in its many details before him, and
begged him to induce his nephew to accept the only compromise which now
was possible. Maffei supported me, corroborated all that I related, and
added his own convictions and desires to the same effect.

Signor Contarini acknowledged the cogency of our reasoning, and frankly
admitted that I had no power to arrest the performance of my disastrous
play. He very courteously offered to go at once to his nephew, and to
back us up with his authority, although the hour was late, and it was
not his habit to leave the house at night. While preparing himself for
the journey, he turned and spoke as follows: "Gentlemen, I am sorry to
have to add one observation. We are dealing with a giddy-pated and most
obstinate man. I cannot rely on bringing him to reason. My nephew has
undoubted talent; but his head is filled with so many outlandish
notions, at variance with the social atmosphere and civil institutions
of his native country, that he has been forced, as it were, to incur
enmities and to lay himself open to mortifications."

My friend Maffei and I adjourned to a coffee-house in the Calle de'
Fabbri or alley of the smiths, called Berizzi, and awaited the result of
Signor Contarini's embassy.

When he returned, the report was very different from what I had
expected. His manner had changed from affability to an austere and
imperious haughtiness. The ultimatum, dictated or commanded by his
nephew, ran thus: "On the part of my nephew and myself, I have to tell
you that you can and ought to prevent the reappearance of your comedy
upon the stage."

I will spare my readers the reply which I found myself obliged to give.
It consisted of excuses for having exposed him to so much trouble, and
of reiterated assertions that I was powerless to move a finger in the
matter. Contarini left us, hard as marble, scarcely deigning to salute
me with an inclination of the head.

I almost regretted, at the close of this long weary day, that I had
promised to suspend my comedy after its official performance on the
17th. Yet I had Sacchi's word, solemnly passed on oath, to the effect
that he would find some means for putting an end to further annoyances.
How he kept it will be seen in the ensuing chapters.




LX.

_Gratarol's case against me, which had no foundation in fact or
verity.--His chivalrous way of meeting the difficulty, which had arisen
between us through his own bad management._


On the evening of the 17th of January, the _Droghe d'Amore_ was given
again, as strict orders from the Government made necessary. I kept away
from the theatre, and passed my time at S. Gio. Grisostomo, where I
heard, to my vexation, that S. Salvatore was thronged with spectators.
However, I contented myself with thinking that this was the last night
of the notorious comedy.

When my servant came to call me next morning, he volunteered this
information, much to my astonishment: "Your comedy, sir, is going to be
played again to-night at S. Salvatore." "How do you know that?" I asked.
"I read the posters just now set up at the Rialto."

While putting on my clothes in haste to see if this had not been some
blunder of the bill-stickers, I was interrupted by the visit of two
friends, the patrician Paolo Balbi and Signor Raffaelle Todeschini, a
young cittadino of the highest probity. They came to congratulate me on
the repetition of my play, which had been called for last evening by an
overwhelming and irresistible vote of the audience. On hearing this
news, which admitted of no doubt, I felt the blood freeze in my veins.

"You do not know," I said to Signor Balbi, "what sort of fish are
stewing in my kettle. I gave my word yesterday that the play should not
be repeated. How was I to imagine that my blameless reputation would
have to suffer by an actor's breach of faith?" My friends tried to
comfort me and soothe me down, while I, oblivious of all the laws of
politeness, kept fastening my shoe-buckles, washing my hands, and
busying myself about my toilet. I was desperately impatient to get out,
and do the utmost in my power to remedy the mischief.

This was my one thought, as the above-named gentlemen can bear me
witness, when a new turn was given to affairs by a fresh act of Signor
Gratarol's imprudence and vindictive rancour. My servant entered and
announced that a footman was waiting outside with a letter which he had
orders to deliver into my own hands. I left my room, and found the man
there at the top of the staircase. He handed me the letter, and stood
waiting for my answer. I saw at a glance, before I opened it, from whom
it came, broke the seal, and read the following missive:[71]

     "SIR COUNT--Pursuant to the arguments I maintained in your house
     two mornings ago, the playbill published yesterday entitles me to
     say that in the whole course of my life I have never met with
     hypocrisy and imposture equal to yours; and the playbill published
     this morning proclaims you on the face of it to be no gentleman and
     a liar.

     "Go on, I pray. Satiate your vengeance--vengeance begotten by an
     amorous passion, in part concealed from the public gaze, possibly
     not credited by some folk, and which is known to only me in all its
     real extent. Continue, I say, to rear your masked forehead in the
     front rank of all those foes who envy, calumniate, persecute, and
     hate me. To-day it is your turn to laugh. Perhaps this will not
     always be so. Perhaps the vicissitudes of human life will one day
     reverse your unworthy triumph and my unmerited oppression.

          "From my house, the 18th of January 1776/1777,

                     "PIETRO ANTONIO GRATAROL."

Having perused this fine flower of Pietro Antonio Gratarol, nobleman of
Padua, his eloquence, I folded up the paper, and told the footman, with
a smile which concealed my boiling indignation, and saved him from
being kicked down the staircase at the risk of his neck, that he might
go back to his master and say that I fully understood the contents of
his note.

Returning to the room where I had left Balbi and Todeschini, I put
Gratarol's letter into the hands of the former, and said: "Your
Excellency will learn from this to what annoyances I am exposed by the
recall of my comedy." He turned pale, and so did Todeschini, when they
gathered the contents of the cowardly, disgusting document.

Balbi asked me what I meant to do. I replied, putting the last touches
to my toilet, that the right thing for me to do would be to compel
Sacchi at once to play my comedy every night until the end of the
Carnival. "Gratarol's letter has certainly been spread broadcast before
now over Venice. I do not mean to give him an answer. What I propose
would be the best means of punishing Sacchi for his want of faith--since
the theatre will certainly be empty--and Gratarol for his delirious
importunity. But, if your Excellency permits me, I shall walk abroad. I
should like to let a certain lady, who bolstered up my comedy against my
will, and who protected a reckless avaricious comedian--I should like
her to see and read in this letter to what she has condemned my
peaceable nature, incapable of injuring a fly, by her wrong-headed,
whimsical, unbecoming pique against a madman."

While I spoke thus to my friend Balbi, the blood was boiling in my
veins. Concealed from him, I had quite other plans in preparation. They
were not consistent with philosophy; they were not in agreement with the
Gospel. Some time later, but not till many days had passed and these
heats had cooled, I recognised and condemned them as wrong and reckless,
begotten by the blindness of the natural man deprived of reason for the
moment.[72]

Signor Balbi offered to accompany me to the noble lady, Signora Caterina
Dolfin Tron; and I was rejoiced to have so excellent a witness of our
interview. On presenting ourselves, and being received with her
customary gaiety, I contented myself with these few words: "Your
Excellencies have been amusing yourselves with the _Droghe d'Amore_, and
its recall to the stage. The amusements which fall to my poor share are
these." I handed her the letter.

She cast her eyes over the page, and I could read upon her countenance
and by the trembling of her hands, how deeply she was moved. It is right
for me to add that, strongly as I condemned the revengeful caprice
against Signor Gratarol which caused this lady to involve me in a series
of revolting annoyances, I felt a thrill of gratitude for the cordial
emotions expressed at that moment by her every gesture. I saw that she
felt for me. I saw that, although her judgment had been spoiled by a
course of unwholesome reading, and by conversation with the vaunted
_esprits forts_ of our "unprejudiced" age, her heart remained in the
right place and uncontaminated.[73]

When she had finished reading, she only said: "Leave this paper in my
hands." I obeyed, and took my departure.

It is needless to add that innumerable copies of the precious letter
flew about the city. There was not a house, a shop, in which Signor
Gratarol's chivalrous proclamation of his rights and wrongs did not form
the theme of conversation.

Perhaps I ought to have used circumspection while taking my walks alone
about the city, according to my wont. I ought perhaps to have reflected
that my antagonist was a man who showed his prowess mainly in
ambuscades.[74] But it was never in my nature to know what fear is; and
the perils to which I exposed myself while serving in Dalmatia had
inured me to ignore it. Therefore, returning to what I hinted some few
pages back, I confess that my one burning desire, concealed from every
friend, was to find myself face to face with the author of that brutal
cartel.[75] Day and night, alone and unattended, I prowled around his
casino at S. Mose, nursing this condemnable desire within my breast. Of
a truth, I should have been forced to set fire to the house before I
drew him from its shelter. That I shall prove; but I was not an
incendiary.

Doctor Andrea Comparetti, professor of medicine now in the University of
Padua, expressed astonishment when he met me pacing the darkest and the
most perilous alleys on the night of that famous 18th of January. He
lectured me upon my want of prudence, and reminded me of the
circumstances in which I was placed. I laughed the matter off, and he
had to leave me with a smile. Let no one imagine, however, that I am
boasting of the desire which burned my blood, or that I record my
nocturnal wanderings as a sign of heroism. I have never been a
gasconading braggart. From a man who could pen a letter like Gratarol's
I had to expect some stab in the dark. It was only a blind human
weakness which prompted this temerity. I know well enough how to
distinguish recklessness from courage.




LXI.

_The sequel to Gratarol's missive of defiance.--My personal relations
with him cease._


On the morning of the 19th I rose from sleep with a calm mind, and
recovered my natural risibility. My ante-chamber was thronged with
gentlemen, relatives, and friends, who thought it their duty to pay me
respects after the event of yesterday. They were not a little eager to
learn how I had been dragged into a mess so much at variance with the
well-known tenor of my life. While I was gratifying their excusable
curiosity with a candid and humorous account of the whole matter, my
brother Gasparo appeared. He brought with him the Senator Paolo Renier,
afterwards Doge of Venice,[76] whom I had not hitherto the privilege of
knowing.

In compliance with this nobleman's request, I told the whole tale over
again. "So then," he said, "make a plain and brief statement in writing
of the facts you have described to me. Put it in the form of a memorial
to the Supreme Tribunal. Petition to have your honour vindicated.
Enclose Gratarol's defamatory letter. Name your witnesses. Add anything
you think of use, and bring the whole to me."

I obeyed him blindly; and I do not suppose that any one will be so
foolish as to imagine that I departed in one hair's-breadth from the
truth while appealing to those awful Three, before the very name of whom
the whole town trembles.[77]

The difficulty of narrating a long series of closely connected incidents
prevented me from making my memorial as short as I could have wished.
Such as it was, I took it, with its appended documents, to Senator
Renier. When he had read it through, he said: "I must confess that the
tribunal before which this document will appear is not accustomed to
peruse compositions of such length. Yet I can find no superfluities
which could be omitted. So it will serve its purpose."

What happened to my supplication is utterly unknown to me. I can only
say that on the morning of the 23rd of January, while I was still in
bed, the same footman who had brought me the letter of the 18th was
introduced into my chamber. He handed me a sealed missive, saying: "My
master bade me give this note into your own hands." I took it, and read
what follows:--

     "SIR COUNT, my most revered friend,--In complete contradiction of
     the sentiments expressed by me in a letter of some days ago, I beg
     you to understand by these present, which are in no way different
     from the sincere esteem and good-will I have entertained for you
     through many years, that I never meant to offend you; and that,
     forgetting byegones,[78] I shall continue to profess toward you
     the same regard and friendship, in the hope of receiving from you a
     reciprocation of feeling commensurate with the candour of my
     declaration.

     "From my house, the 23rd of January 1776/1777.

         "Your most devoted servant and friend,

                     "PIETRO ANTONIO GRATAROL."

Folding the paper, I bade the servant carry my respects to his master.

Visitors arrived, and Gratarol's letter of retractation circulated
through the city in a score of copies. There was the usual result of
tittle-tattle, especially among the idlest and most numerous members of
the community.

I repaired to the senator who had espoused my cause, in order to express
my thanks and to report what had occurred. On hearing that I had
received the letter, he replied with gravity: "I am well aware of it."
"I was thinking," I continued, "of paying that gentleman a visit. He has
been twice to my house; and as I harbour no ill-will against him, and
can excuse the errors into which his heated temper drove him, I should
like to assure him of my cordiality by a friendly embrace." Signor
Renier dissuaded me from taking this course. "You have ability and
penetration," he observed, "but you do not sufficiently understand the
nature of men puffed up with pride. In case you meet Gratarol, and only
if he should be the first to raise his hat, you may return the salute
with reserved politeness. Do not extend your civility to words or any
inconsiderate demonstrations. A man so perversely proud as he is may
stir up new mischief and involve you in further embarrassments. I take
it that now the actors will continue to perform your comedy." "I do not
know," I answered, "but from what I have heard, the piece has been
withdrawn." "Wrong, very wrong!" he rejoined; "that arrogant fellow will
try to make it be believed that his retractation was given as an
equivalent for the suspension of the performance. They ought at least to
put your comedy once more upon the boards, letting the public know that
people of importance have bespoken it." I could only answer that, so far
as I was concerned, the production, repetition, continued presentations,
and suspension of the play had taken place without my interference.
Comedians, I added, only looked to their own pecuniary interests. The
senator proceeded to deliver an eloquent and singularly penetrative
discourse upon the corruption of the age, and the ill-regulated ways of
thinking which had been introduced and widely diffused amongst us. I
have never heard this matter handled with more acumen, learning,
precision of judgment, logical clearness, breadth of view, and pungent
truth. I am speaking only of an elevated mind and ready tongue. I do not
pretend to see into the inmost hearts of men.[79]

When I took my leave, I resolved to carry out the recommendations of
Signor Renier to the letter. In obedience to this determination, I told
Sacchi what he had said about the repetition of my comedy. He replied
that he should not have withdrawn it except for the behaviour of Signora
Ricci. During the last two evenings she mumbled and gabbled out her part
in a way to provoke the audience. Catcalls from the pit and gallery and
opprobrious epithets from the boxes were showered upon her; all of
which, together with the reproaches of her comrades, she bore with
stolid indifference. "Verily," cried I, "Gratarol owes a great deal to
that poor woman. For his sake she fell down a staircase, and now she
bears the brunt of public outrage! You have done well to stop a comedy
which ought to have been damned beyond redemption on the first night."

To wind up the episode of Signor Gratarol, I may say, in conclusion,
that I often met him both in Venice and at Padua. To his credit let it
be spoken, that he never stooped one inch from the high perch of his
incorrigible haughtiness. His hat stuck to that cage of cockchafers he
called his head, as though it had been nailed there. Mindful of the
advice I had received, and which amounted to a command, I refrained from
bowing. I should have liked to be on good terms with him, and felt
uncomfortable at the rudeness I was bound to display. Had he drawn his
sword upon me, I could have understood that his retractation had been
forced. But there was nothing in his stupid inurbanity to justify this
supposition. Who could have divined that he was planning a flight to
Stockholm, and that he would draw his sword upon me there and stab me
with words, while I remained at Venice?




LXII.

_A tragic accident, with a happy termination._


A few months after these occurrences, my brother Gasparo, who had fallen
ill of too much study and harassing cares, went to Padua to consult the
physicians of that famous university. Though we no longer shared the
same home, and had divided our patrimony, I always regarded him as my
friend and master. The news I received of his sad state of health, which
declined from bad to worse, in spite of the most skilful medical
assistance, caused me the gravest uneasiness.

One morning a gondolier in the service of Mme. Dolfin-Tron brought me a
letter which she had received from Professor Giovanni Marsili at Padua,
together with a note from his mistress. The note urgently begged me to
repair to her at once. The letter contained news of far more serious
import. From it I learned that my poor brother, whether oppressed by
dark and melancholical phantasies, or by the delirium of a burning fever
which attacked him, had thrown himself in a fit of exaltation from a
window into the Brenta. He had fallen with his chest upon a great stone;
and though he had been brought alive out of the river, he was
speechless, spat blood continually, and lay insensible, plunged in
profound lethargy, and consumed with a mortal fever, which left but
little hope of his survival.

In spite of my philosophy, the reading of this letter well-nigh deprived
me of my wits, and I ran in a state of distraction to that noble lady. I
found her stretched upon a sofa, drowned in tears. No sooner did she
cast eyes upon me than she rose, and rushed into my arms upon the point
of fainting. "Dear friend," she sobbed out, as soon as she found power
to speak, "go to Padua at once; save my father for me, save my
father!"[80] Then she fell back upon the sofa and shed a torrent of
tears.

What though I needed comfort myself, I strove to comfort her affliction,
by promising to go upon the spot to Padua, and by reminding her that my
brother's case might not be so desperate as was supposed.

I shall not describe my hurried journey. At Fusina I ran up against
Count Carlo di Coloredo, who asked me with much sweetness of manner
whether there was anything astir in Venice. I believe that I brutally
said "Nothing," as I jumped into a carriage and departed. The gloomy
anticipation of finding my poor brother a corpse grew upon me with
increasing strength as I approached the walls of Padua, shutting out the
sense of water, earth, trees, animals, and men upon that doleful
journey.

When I arrived, I alighted at my friend Innocenzio Massimo's hospitable
dwelling, and was received, as always, with open arms. Sadness was
written on the faces of all his family. I hardly dared to inquire after
my brother; and when I summoned courage to do so, I was told that he was
yet alive, but in a state which left too little hope.

I repaired at once to his lodgings in the Prato della Valle. There I
found Mme. Jeanne Sarah Cenet, a Frenchwoman of some five-and-fifty
years, mere skin and bones, who was attending unremittingly to the
invalid, half-mad herself with grief and tears and watching. She gave me
a detailed account of my brother's condition. He lay there, a scarcely
breathing corpse, afflicted with continuous fever, incapable of speech,
taking no nourishment, and barely swallowing a few drops of water. The
haemoptysis had ceased, and the expectoration was only tinged with blood.

I asked what doctor was attending him. She replied that there were four.
Without questioning their ability, I was terrified at the number of
them. Then she added that a fifth physician, the celebrated Professor
della Bona, had been called into one consultation. He had suggested
certain remedies, which the other four doctors rejected as frivolities,
and none of them had been employed. "Very well!" said I.

At this point they came to tell me that the invalid, on hearing my
voice from his bedroom, had opened his eyes and spoken these words very
faintly: "My brother Charles!" I went to him and tried to rouse him.
Drowned in his lethargy, he made no answer; but I thought I could detect
upon his face some spark of relief.

One of the four doctors boasted of having restored my brother to life
when he was taken from the river, by using the methods prescribed by the
Magistrates of Public Health for the resuscitation of drowned persons. I
went to offer this man an honorarium, and found him surrounded by his
witnesses, engaged in drawing up a memorial to the Magistrates of
Health. It set forth the prodigious energy with which he, the doctor,
had successfully employed their methods on the person of Count Gasparo
Gozzi, and wound up with an energetic petition for the golden medal
awarded in such circumstances to the operator. He was anxious to relate
the whole event, to enlarge upon his merits, and to read aloud his
eloquent memorial. I begged him to spare me what could only torture an
afflicted fancy with fresh images of sorrow. Then I placed some sequins
in his hand, and left him to the elaboration of his petition.
Afterwards, I heard that he had received the medal, and I bore no grudge
against the needy expeditious son of science.

My brother passed some days and nights between life and death, in his
deep lethargy and ardent fever, without taking nourishment. Mme. Cenet
used to force open his jaws and insinuate little balls of butter
between his teeth in a coffee-spoon. This was all the food he had,
licking the spoon and swallowing the butter without consciousness. The
four doctors came to see him twice a day very kindly, for they had all
been urgently besought to do so by Mme. Dolfin Tron. They looked at the
water, examined the expectoration, felt the pulse, affirmed that it was
a mortal fever, shrugged their shoulders, and went away again.

The anxious thoughts which weighed upon my mind, fatiguing cares for the
sick man, errands I had to run, and the great heat of the season,
contributed to tax my strength. But, in addition, I had to carry on a
voluminous correspondence daily with Venice, writing long letters to
Mme. Dolfin Tron, to the secretary of the Riformatori di Padova,[81] and
to other persons. My brother held an office under the Riformatori, which
brought him in seven or eight hundred ducats a year. One day I received
a pressing letter from the noble lady above mentioned, informing me that
many applicants were already intriguing and canvassing for this post, in
the expectation of my brother's death. Her husband, who presided at the
board, and herself were both of opinion that I ought to apply in writing
for the office. She guaranteed my unopposed election if I did so.

Instead of relieving my mind, this letter only added to my sadness. I
answered that I was grateful for the counsels she had given, and for her
generous promises; but she ought to know my temper, and to remember that
I had refused to compete for the far more important and lucrative office
of Master of the Posts to Vienna, which she had recommended, and for
which she had engaged the influence of her powerful consort. I had
undertaken heavy charges for the sake of my family, but I did not care
to burden my shoulders with affairs which involved public
responsibility. I had neither wife nor children, was averse to taking
place among the great, disliked the ceremonies and observances which
office necessitates, did not want to become rich, and was satisfied with
my moderate estate. To see my brother in health again, I would willingly
strip myself to my shirt of all that I possessed: but I civilly declined
the offer which she generously made.

This called forth an answer, in which the lady treated me as a Quixotic
hero of romance. She insisted that I should send in a petition for the
office, and repeated that various applicants were moving heaven and
earth to secure the reversion of it. In conclusion, she told me that I
was in duty bound to accept a post of emolument which would enable me to
assist my brother's family.

Here I detected the real motive which urged her to make me assume the
part of candidate against my inclination. I was embittered when I
remembered how much I had already done for more than thirty years to
protect the interests of my kindred, prosecuting their lawsuits, paying
off their debts, and fighting their battles with a host of litigious
claimants. Now, forsooth, I was to be goaded into dragging the chain of
an onerous and troublesome office, for which I felt myself entirely
unfit.

I replied that no pricks of conscience with regard to my brother's
family impelled me to seek what I neither desired nor deserved. If an
application were made in my name (for I well knew that my sister-in-law
was capable of taking such a step), I should feel myself obliged to
utter a protest. Here I was at Padua, ready to spend my blood for my
brother. If he survived, by the favour of God, I hoped that the
Riformatori would not deprive him of his post. If he died, to my
infinite sorrow, the tribunal would be able to award it to some fitting
person, who deserved it more than I did.

I hoped to be delivered from this well-meant tyranny. But such was not
the case. Doctor Bartolommeo Bevilacqua, rector of the public schools of
Venice, and my good friend, arrived at Padua. He had been sent off
post-haste by the lady to persuade me into taking the step which she
thought it a folly to refuse. I repeated all that I had previously
urged, and declared that my mind was made up to accept no office under
any magistracy. I meant to remain a peace-loving madman to the end.
Perhaps I shall be condemned for the repugnance I have always felt to
becoming the slave of great folk and public interests; but this point in
my character is fixed and ineradicable. I may add that the result of
these negotiations was to free me from the pertinacious patronage
against which I rebelled with my whole nature.

Under these various anxieties and the heat of the season my health gave
away. I was seized with a violent fever, which confined me to bed for
three days. During that time the news which I received about my brother
grew always worse and worse. When I was able to leave my room, I went to
Mme. Cenet. She told me that a priest had been summoned to assist him in
his passage from this world. Two of the doctors, on examining his
expectoration, found that it consisted of pure matter. They concluded
that the lungs, bruised by his fall, had begun to gangrene, and that he
had only a few hours to live. I asked whether Professor della Bona had
repeated his visit. She answered, No. Happening just then to catch sight
of that eminent physician passing along the Prato della Valle, I ran
out, and besought him to come up and give a look at my poor dying
brother. He willingly complied; and on the way I told him what the
doctors had discovered.

At this point I am obliged to exchange the tragic tone for comic humour,
and shall perhaps appear satirical against my will.

The worthy professor listened attentively a long time to my brother's
breathing. Then he said: "The respiration is certainly weak, but
unimpeded. There can be no question of gangrene. Where is that purulent
expectoration?" We brought him the vessel, which he inspected closely,
and laid aside with these words: "There is no pus there; it is only
butter." And so it was. The butter which Mme. Cenet administered had
been spat up from time to time by the patient. "Our invalid," continued
the physician, "is dying of nothing else but an acute fever. Has he
drunk the manna-water I recommended, and have you made the injections of
quinine?" Mme. Cenet answered that these remedies had not been used,
because the other doctors disapproved of them. "Fine!" he replied. "What
was the object then of calling me in? I am not accustomed to play the
part of Truffaldino." Turning to me, he added: "Your brother's life
hangs upon a thread. I cannot answer for it in the state of extreme
weakness to which he is reduced. Yet, though the case looks desperate,
follow my prescriptions, and repeat them frequently."

I begged him not to abandon the sick man, and superintended the
treatment he had ordered. Gradually the fever abated. My brother opened
his eyes, and began to utter a few words. He took small quantities of
stronger food, and swallowed moderate doses of quinine. Then arrived a
terrible crisis. His whole alimentary canal, from the oesophagus to
the rectum, was covered with those ulcers which medical men call
_apthae_. Professor Della Bona regarded this as very serious. But in a
few days my brother regained strength, sat up in bed, and joked with the
doctor. Then, at the end of another period, he left his couch, ate with
appetite, and composed some sonnets. His health, undermined by study,
misfortunes, advanced age, and a mortal illness, was now in as good a
state as could be expected under the circumstances.

Seeing him thus re-established, I was able to leave Padua. But I ought
to add, that when I went to express my heartfelt thanks to Professor
Della Bona, and to press a fee upon him, that generous and benevolent
man refused to accept anything. He was paid enough, he said, by the
recovery of one whom he prized as a friend; not to speak of the
obligations which he owed to the great lady who had recommended my
brother to his care.




LXIII.

_Once more about the "Droghe d'Amore."--I leave my readers to decide
upon the truth of my narration.--Final dissolution of Sacchi's
company.--Sacchi leaves Venice for ever._


In this chapter I shall wind up the history of my comedy _Le Droghe
d'Amore_, and relate the termination of my long connection with Sacchi's
company of actors.

Sacchi, who had proceeded on his summer tour to Milan, thought fit to
exhibit the notorious play in that city. Although it could not win the
_succes de scandale_ which made it so profitable to his pocket at
Venice, the performance gave rise to fresh prepossessions against Signor
Gratarol.

News reached Venice that the actor Giovanni Vitalba, who played the too
famous part of Don Adone, had been assaulted by a ruffian one night,
going to or returning from the theatre. The fellow flung a huge bottle
of ink full in his face, with the object of spoiling his beauty.
Fortunately for Vitalba, the bottle, which was hurled with force enough
to smash his skull, hit him on the thickly-wadded collar of his coat. To
this circumstance he owed his escape from injury or death, designed by
the abominable malice of some unknown ill-wisher.

The peaceable character of this poor comedian, who lived retired and
economically, earning his bread upon the stage, and implicitly obeying
Sacchi's orders, was so well known that no one suspected the hand of a
private enemy. Suspicion fell not unnaturally upon Gratarol. For myself,
I may say with candour that I did not lend my mind to the gossip which
disturbed the town; but it is certain that this act of violence inflamed
Gratarol's political adversaries, and made them remorseless when he
applied for the ratification of his appointment to the embassy at
Naples.[82]

On my brother's return to Venice, I begged him to speak as warmly as he
could in Gratarol's behalf to the Procuratore Tron and his all-powerful
lady. Everybody knew that Gratarol was expecting a decree of the Senate
granting him some thousands of ducats for the expenses of his outfit; it
was also asserted that, having received the usual allowance for an
embassy to Turin, which he had not been able to employ upon that
mission, his enemies intended to make this a reason for cancelling his
appointment to Naples. I thought it therefore worth while to engage
Gasparo's influence with that noble couple for the benefit of my
would-be foe and rival in his present difficulty. What Gratarol may
think about my intervention, it is impossible for me to imagine. Not
improbably he will stigmatise it as an act of officious hypocrisy. Yet I
am certain that it was sincerely and cordially meant to serve him.

My brother punctually discharged his mission, and returned with a verbal
answer from the Procuratessa and her husband, to the effect that
"insuperable obstacles lay in the way of sending the Secretary to the
Court of Naples; Pietro Antonio Gratarol cannot and will not go; the
best course for him to take is to send in his resignation." That was the
ostensible pith of their reply; but the gist, if gist it was, lurked
from sight in a cloud of political and economical considerations,
anecdotes about Gratarol's ways of life and fortune, personalities,
piques, private spites, and evidences of an unbecoming and vulgar will
to trample on him. I do not intend to expose myself to the charge of
evil intentions by setting down Mme. Dolfin Tron's malicious ultimatum
in full here. I wrote it out, however, and have kept the memorandum
among the papers locked up in my desk, whence I hope that no one will
have the wish to drag it forth and read it.

Gratarol, at the close of these transactions, finding himself
disfavoured by the Senate, did not take the prudent course of sending in
his resignation and lying by for a better turn of affairs, such as is
always to be looked for in a government like ours of Venice. On the
contrary, he flung out with all the violence of his headstrong and
indomitable temper. He left the country in a rage, exposing himself and
his relatives to the thunderbolts which were hurled upon him, partly by
the mechanical operation of our laws, but also by the force of a
rapacious and inhuman tyranny.

[Illustration: LEANDRE

_Illustrating the Italian Commedia dell'Arte, or Impromptu Comedy_]

I shall not enlarge upon what followed after Gratarol's flight to
foreign lands. These circumstances, disastrous to himself and
prejudicial to the enemies he left behind him, are only too fresh in the
memory of men. But I may indulge in one philosopher's reflection. The
man was said to be, in spite of his many profligacies and excesses,
gifted with exuberant health and physical vigour. Considering his mental
parts and moral qualities, it is a pity that he did not suffer from a
tertian or a quartan fever, the headache, the colic, or peradventure
piles. Handicapped in this salutary way, he might have continued to be a
prosperous and able servant of the State. So true is it that men often
find the faculty on which they most pride themselves their worst
stumbling-block in life!

After Signer Gratarol's departure to the frozen North, I felt strongly
inclined to have done, at once and for ever, with my lucubrations for
the stage. Friends, however, pointed out that a sudden retirement from
the pastime of many previous years would expose me to malignant
comments. Accordingly, I completed two plays which I had already
planned--_Il Metafisico_ and _Bianca Contessa di Melfi_--giving them to
Sacchi in exchange for the autograph and all the copies of my now too
notorious _Droghe d'Amore_. Those manuscripts I locked up in my
escritoire, vowing that the comedy should never see the footlights of a
theatre again.

It will not be impertinent, as I have touched upon these stage-affairs,
to relate the dissolution of Sacchi's company in detail.

I had patronised my friends with heroico-comical perseverance for a
quarter of a century. The time now came for me to part with them. Sacchi
himself, aged in years, was falling rapidly to pieces. Absurd
octogenarian love-affairs completed the ruin of his dotage. His
daughter, who not unreasonably expected to inherit money, plate, and
jewels of considerable value, never ceased inveighing against her
father's anachronistic fondnesses. These invectives reached his ears,
and exasperated a naturally irritable temper. Meanwhile, his partners in
the company resented the despotism with which he claimed to rule the
roost and use their common purse for benefactions to his mistresses.
Detected in these private foibles, yet far from being taught the error
of his ways, old Sacchi became a kind of demon. He never opened his lips
without insulting his daughter, his partners, and the whole troupe. I do
not expect my reader to imagine that their replies were sweetmeats.
Discord ruled in every hall and chamber of this house of actors. It came
to drawing swords and knives; and bloodshed was only obviated by the
bodily intervention of bystanders.

I felt that the moment had come to take my leave. With this in view, I
packed up a bundle of Spanish books lent to me by Sacchi and returned
them. But things had gone too far to be remedied by hints and
intimations. Petronio Zanerini, the best actor of Italy; Domenico
Barsanti, a very able artist; Luigi Benedetti and his wife, both of them
useful for all ordinary purposes; Agostino Fiorelli, stupendous in the
role of Tartaglia; each and every one of these retired in disgust and
took engagements with rival companies. Sacchi's eccentricities had
reduced his troupe to a mere skeleton. Finally, the patrician who owned
S. Salvatore, scenting disaster in the air, gave the lease of his
theatre to another set of players.

I took certain steps at this juncture to keep what remained of the
company together and to heal its breaches. Through my mediation Atanagio
Zannoni, a splendid actor, an excellent fellow, and Sacchi's
brother-in-law, consented to hold on upon the understanding that Sacchi
should execute a deed according his partners their just share in the
management. The document was drawn up and signed. Sacchi cursed and
swore while signing; and Zannoni told me that it would prove waste
paper, as indeed it did.

Patched up in this way, the company removed to the theatre of S.
Angelo, which had been their old quarters before I succeeded in
transferring them to S. Salvatore. They were scarce of money, scarce of
actors, and the few actors they had were people of no talent. Two pieces
I composed for them, _Cimene Pardo_ and _La Figlia dell'Aria_, could not
be put upon the stage for want of funds and proper players to sustain
the parts. I had eventually to give these dramas to two different
companies. The history of one of them, _Cimene Pardo_, brings my old
friend and gossip, Teodora Ricci, once more upon the scene; but I do not
think that I should interest my readers by relating it.[83]

Suffice it to say, that everything went daily from bad to worse with
Sacchi's troupe. He did not improve in temper. Receipts dwindled. The
paid actors had to recover their salaries by suits at law, and left the
company. Nothing was heard but outcries, lamentations, mutual
reproaches, threats, complaints, demands for money, talks about
executions, writs, and stamped papers from the courts. At last, after
two years of this infernal squabbling, a troupe which had been the
terror of its rivals and the delight of our theatres broke up in
pitiable confusion.

Sacchi, on the point of setting out for Genoa, came to visit me, and
spoke as follows, shedding tears thereby. I remember his precise words:
"You are the only friend on whom I mean to call before I leave Venice
secretly and with sorrow for ever. I shall never forget the benefits you
have heaped upon me. You alone have told me the truth with candour. Do
not deny me the favour of a kiss at parting, the favour of your pardon,
and of your compassion."

I gave him the kiss he asked for. He left me weeping; and I--I am bound
to say it--remained not less affected at the closing of this long and
once so happy chapter in my life.[84]

After that moment I laid my pen down, and never again resumed it for
dramatic composition.




LXIV.

_We cannot always go on laughing.--Deaths of friends.--Dissolution of
the old Republic of S. Mark.--I lay my pen down on the 18th of March
1798._


As years advanced, it came to me, as it comes to all, to be reminded
that we cannot go on always laughing. One Sunday I was hearing mass in
the Church of S. Moise, when a friend came up and asked me in a whisper
whether I had heard of the fatal accident to the patrician Paolo Balbi.
"What accident?" I said with consternation. "Last night he died," was
the reply. "What!" exclaimed I, still more terrified: "why, I was with
him three hours yesterday evening; he was in perfect health and
spirits." "Nevertheless," said my informant, "the poor gentleman is
dead. Excuse me if I have been the bearer of disastrous news." When the
mass, to which I listened without listening, was over, I ran to the
patrician's house. I cherished warm affection for this friend of many
years, and hoped against hope that the news might be false. Alas! the
house resounded with funeral lamentations; the widow and children had
already left it for the palace of their relatives, the Malipieri.

Not many days afterwards I received the sad announcement that my brother
Francesco was seriously ill of a kind of cachexy on his estate in
Friuli. A few days later I learned that he had breathed his last. The
poor fellow left his wife and three sons well provided for; but when the
salutary restraint of his authority was removed by death, they showed
every inclination to dissipate what he had brought together for their
comfort.

One morning my friend Raffaelle Todeschini was announced. His
countenance wore an expression of alarm, while he began: "I come to
bring you painful news. Last evening, in the coffee-house at the Ponte
dell'Angelo, that honourable gentleman, Carlo Maffei, died suddenly."
The blow fell heavy on my heart; for I have enjoyed few friendships
equal to that of this most excellent gentleman. In his will he mentioned
me in terms of the highest and most unmerited praise, bequeathing me his
gold snuff-box by way of remembrance. That was the one and only legacy
which fell to my share in the course of my whole life.

In a short period of time I lost successively several other relatives
and friends. My brother Gasparo expired at Padua, recommending his
second wife, the Mme. Cenet who had nursed him through his long illness,
to my care. A sudden stroke of apoplexy robbed me of the first and
faithfullest friend I ever had, Innocenzio Massimo. My sister Laura, who
was married and lived at Adria, passed away while yet in the prime of
womanhood. I could add other names to this funereal catalogue, if I were
not unwilling to detain my readers longer in the graveyard.

Meanwhile, a terrible attack of fever laid me low in my turn. The
physician, Giorgio Cornaro, a man of the highest probity and candour,
who showed a vigilant affection for his patients, came at once to visit
me. The intense pains I suffered during the following night, and the
excessive fierceness with which the fever renewed its assaults, made me
feel that I was about to follow my relatives and friends to the tomb. I
waited through those sombre hours; but when I heard my servant stirring,
I sent him for a confessor. The man refused at first, and had to be
dispatched upon his errand by a voice more worthy of a cut-throat than a
penitent. While I was confessing, Dr. Cornaro entered. He inquired what
I had been about, and I replied that I did not think it amiss to be
prepared beforehand. "I felt sufficiently ill to fulfil the duties of a
Catholic upon his death-bed, and have saved you the trouble of breaking
the news to me in case of necessity." "Very well," said he, feeling my
pulse and frowning. "We must cut short this fever with quinine, before
it reaches the third assault. It is a violent attack of the sort we call
pernicious." How many pounds of the drug I swallowed is unknown to me. I
only remember that they brought me a large glassful every two hours. The
fever abated; but I had to drag through three months of a slow and
painful convalescence.

But now it is time to close these Memoirs. The publisher, Palese,
informs me that the third volume will be more than large enough. I lay
my pen aside just at the moment when I should have had to describe that
vast undulation called the French Revolution, which swept over Europe,
upsetting kingdoms and drowning the landmarks of immemorial history.
This awful typhoon caught Venice in its gyration, affording a splendidly
hideous field for philosophical reflection. "Splendidly hideous" is a
contradiction in terms; but at the period in which we are living
paradoxes have become classical.

The sweet delusive dream of a democracy, organised and based on
irremovable foundations--the expectation of a moral impossibility--made
men howl and laugh and dance and weep together. The ululations of the
dreamers, yelling out _Liberty_, _Equality_, _Fraternity_, deafened our
ears; and those of us who still remained awake were forced to feign
themselves dreamers, in order to protect their honour, their property,
their lives. People who are not accustomed to trace the inevitable
effects of doctrines propagated through the centuries see only mysteries
and prodigies in convulsions of this kind. The whole tenor of my
writings, on the other hand, and particularly my poem _Marfisa
bizzarra_, which conceals philosophy beneath the mantle of burlesque
humour, prove that I was keenly alive to the disastrous results which
had to be expected from revolutionary science sown broadcast during the
past age. I always dreaded and predicted a cataclysm as the natural
consequence of those pernicious doctrines. Yet my Cassandra warnings
were doomed to remain as useless as these Memoirs will certainly be--as
ineffectual as a doctor's prescriptions for a man whose lungs are
rotten. The sweet delusive dream of our physically impossible democracy
will end in the evolution of....

But Palese calls on me to staunch this flow of ink upon the paper. Let
us leave to serious and candid historians the task of relating what we
are sure, if we live, to see.

To-day is the 18th of March in the year 1798; and here I lay my pen
down, lest I injure my good publisher. Farewell, patient and benign
readers of my useless Memoirs!




LXV.

SEQUEL TO GOZZI'S AUTOBIOGRAPHY.

SUPPLIED BY THE TRANSLATOR.


Gozzi broke off his Memoirs on the 18th of March 1798. He lived another
eight years, and died upon the 4th of April 1806, aged eighty-six. On
reviewing his life, we find four clearly marked periods. The first ends
with the death of his father in 1745, and includes his three years'
service in Dalmatia. The second closes with the year 1756, and is marked
by the break-up of the Gozzi family and his engagement in those
litigations and affairs of business which formed his real occupation for
a long series of years. Short as was this second period, it gave a
decisive tone to his character by confirming the man's natural obstinacy
and litigiousness. Undoubtedly it was not for nothing that he frequented
the Venetian law-courts and studied the arts of chicanery. In all his
polemical writings we detect the habit of forensic warfare, the wariness
of an experienced pleader, and the licensed plausibility of one who is
accustomed to conceal the weak points in his own case while magnifying
the shortcomings of his adversary. His unremitting attention to
practical matters made him an experienced man of business. This was the
true Carlo Gozzi; not that fantastic dreamy plaything of the sprites and
fairies which his romantic French and German critics have discerned in
the author of the _Fiabe_. At the same time, during this second period,
he never neglected literature, but went on writing in the intervals of
serious affairs. Self-taught, well-nigh devoid of systematic culture in
history, philosophy, and language, but gifted with a sincere admiration
for the best Italian authors, with an active fancy and a natural bias
for burlesque humour, he formed that peculiar manner, at once prolix and
forcible, effective and slovenly, which distinguishes his published
works. Unequal in style, incorrect in diction, incapable of giving
perfect form or polish to his compositions, he nevertheless posed as a
purist and threw himself with passion as a conservative into the
literary polemics of his day. The Accademia Granellesca, founded at the
close of this period, recognised in him its stoutest champion and most
quarrelsome fore-fighter. I have mentioned the year 1756 as the date
which opens the third period in Gozzi's life. It marks the publication
of his _Tartana degli Influssi_ and the return of Sacchi's company to
Venice. This period terminates in 1781, and includes all that was most
memorable in his career--the quarrel with Goldoni and Chiari, the
alliance with Sacchi, the composition of the _Fiabe_ and twenty-three
plays on Spanish subjects, the liaison with Teodora Ricci, and the
episode of Gratarol. Gozzi was past sixty when Sacchi's company broke
up, and Gratarol's misfortunes threw a gloomy light upon his past
theatrical career. The fourth period of seventeen years is distinguished
by little literary activity. Yet we owe to it the _Memorie Inutili_,
which were professedly written as an answer to Gratarol's _Narrazione
Apologetica_. Partly composed in 1780, but suppressed by order of the
Government, they did not see the light until the year 1797-98, when
Gozzi completed the work and sent it in a hurry to the press. Meanwhile
the Republic of S. Mark had fallen, never to rise again. In the midst of
this political earthquake, Gozzi retained his old aristocratic
principles intact, though he bowed to custom and used the shibboleths of
the French Revolution, as he confesses, with conscious cynicism.[85] The
period of old age was passed in comparative solitude, cheered, however,
by the friendly relations which he maintained with the surviving
members of his family. The cycle of his dramatic works was closed; and
after 1782 he had the mortification of seeing his _Fiabe_ neglected,
while Goldoni's star reascended the firmament of popularity and fame.
Indeed, the _Fiabe_ had no chance of surviving the improvised style of
comedy, to support which Gozzi composed them, and which he fondly
imagined immortal. Goethe, in 1788, was present at a performance given
by the last debris of Sacchi's company; but when the old _Commedia
dell'Arte_ and the old actors died out, the _Fiabe_ were relegated to
marionettes and puppet-shows. The poet and the man of letters dwindled
in Gozzi, but the man of business survived. His correspondence during
this fourth period shows him engaged in various commercial affairs upon
a small scale, minute in his accounts, involved in litigation, attentive
to the produce of his farms, busied about the interests of friends,
trafficking in lace and stuffs, groceries, wine, fowls, and
carriages.[86] This forms a curious contrast to the romantic portrait of
the old man vamped up for us by Paul de Musset. The ordinary troubles of
advanced age--rheums, aches, and infirmities--fell upon him. In one of
his letters to Innocenzio Massimo he describes their correspondence as
"a hypochondriacal gazette." On the 13th of February 1804 he signed a
holographic will, which shows him still loyal to his conservative creed
in religion, politics, philosophy, and morals. At this time he appears
to have been living in the Campo S. Angelo, one of the broadest,
busiest, and sunniest squares of Venice. Indeed, he had quitted the
ancestral palace of the Gozzi at S. Cassiano many years before, finding
it too distant from the theatres and the piazza. For a long while he
occupied a casino alone in the Calle Lunga S. Moise. The little dwelling
belonged to him; and in a passage of his Memoirs, which did not lend
itself to the scheme of my translation, he relates the circumstances of
his removal to this habitation.[87] I shall insert it here, because it
throws light upon the last stage of Gozzi's journey in this world. "Many
years," he says, "had passed away since my brothers Francesco and Almoro
with their families were established in Friuli, while I remained at
Venice, the sole occupant of our paternal mansion. For me alone, the
vast place was like a wilderness. In the winter I shivered with cold
there. Snow, rain, and the Rialto caused me innumerable annoyances when
I left the theatres at night to gain my distant home. I was growing old,
and this made the journey seem each year more irksome. A casino which I
owned in the quarter of S. Maria Zobenigo, Calle Lunga S. Moise, not far
from S. Marco, had been let for sixty ducats a year to the majordomo of
a Venetian nobleman. This man left Venice with his master on an
embassy, giving me no notice that he had sold his furniture and handed
over my casino to the mistress of some man about the town. By a series
of similar changes, the tenement passed successively through the hands
of several women of the same sort. I always got the rent and asked no
questions. The best of it was that the money was punctually paid me by
priests, who uttered panegyrics on the heroism of my female tenants. The
last of these heroines sent to tell me that my house needed certain
repairs. Accordingly I went there, and was received by a well-restored
relic of womanhood, who pointed out the alterations she judged necessary
in her dwelling-place. Casting my eyes over the lodgings, I thought that
they would serve my purpose admirably, and told the lady so. In a moment
she changed her honeyed tone and language of affected flattery to oaths
and threats and declarations that nothing in the world would make her
turn out. I phlegmatically remarked that she had no lease, that my
lessee had no power to sublet, and that I would grant her sufficient
time to seek another nest. In such matters, as is well known to readers
of these Memoirs, I have always had some trouble. But at last, by taking
over certain pieces of damaged furniture, I came to terms with the Nymph
of Cocytus, and installed myself in my casino. I did it up, and stayed
there fourteen years, letting on lease my former abode at S. Cassiano. I
should have been there still, had not my brother Almoro written to say
that he was tired of Friuli. A widower, with a son and daughter, he
should like to send the former to the university at Padua, and to make a
home with me in Venice. I was always ready to oblige my brother, and
this casino could not hold us all. Accordingly, we took a larger house
at S. Benedetto; and here my brother, much aged in my eyes, as I must
probably have seemed in his, came to live with me. His children, whom I
had only known as little creatures, had grown into giants. Before a year
was over, the daughter made a good match in Friuli, and the son went to
Padua, whence the troubles of the Revolution drove him away before he
had obtained the laurels of a doctor's degree. In that commotion the
laurel, destined for the brows of students, was consecrated to the
kitchen and the garnishing of dishes on the table."[88]

It is possible that the marriage of this niece and the subsequent
marriage of his nephew broke up the joint-household at S. Benedetto, and
that Gozzi then removed to the neighbouring quarter of S. Angelo.[89]
Almoro and his son Gasparo were appointed executors to Carlo Gozzi's
will, which winds up with the following characteristic admonition to the
young man: "Preserve your affection for your well-bred, well-behaved,
and excellent wife. Look to the careful education of your children, and
protect them from the false maxims of that sophistic science which is
the bane of our age, involving all humanity in disastrous mists of error
and confusion, in labyrinths of infelicity and misery." Gozzi died on
the 4th of April 1806, and was buried in the church of S. Cassiano.




PIETRO LONGHI,

THE PAINTER OF VENETIAN SOCIETY DURING THE PERIOD OF GOZZI AND
GOLDONI.[90]


I.

The eighteenth century was marked in Venice by a partial revival of the
art of painting. Four contemporary masters--Tiepolo, Canaletti, Longhi,
and Guardi--have left abundance of meritorious work, which illustrates
the taste and manners of society, shows how men and women dressed and
moved and took their pastime in the City of the Waters, and preserves
for us the external features of Venice during the last hundred years of
the Republic.[91]

As an artist, Tiepolo was undoubtedly the strongest of these four. In
him alone we recognise a genius of the first order, who, had he been
born in the great age of Italian painting, might have disputed the palm
with men like Tintoretto. His frescoes in the Palazzo Labia,
representing the embarkation of Antony and Cleopatra on the Cydnus, and
their famous banquet at Canopus, are worthy to be classed with the
finest decorative work of Paolo Veronese. Indeed, the sense for colour,
the robust breadth of design, and the firm, unerring execution, which
distinguish that great master, seem to have passed into Tiepolo, who
revives the splendours of the sixteenth century in these superbly
painted pageants. It is to be regretted that one so eminently gifted
should have condescended to the barocco taste of the age in those many
allegories and celestial triumphs which he executed upon the ceilings of
palaces and the cupolas of churches. Little, except the frescoes of the
Labia reception-hall, survives to show what Tiepolo might have achieved
had he remained true to his native instinct for heroic subjects and for
masculine sobriety of workmanship.

Of Canaletti it is not necessary to say much. The fame which he
erewhile enjoyed in England has been obscured of late years--to some
extent, perhaps by the fussy eloquence of Mr. Ruskin, but really by the
finer sense for landscape and the truer way of rendering nature which
have sprung up in Europe. Canaletti's pictures of Venetian buildings and
canals strike us as cold, tame, and mechanical, accustomed as we are to
the magic of Turner's palette and the penetrative force of his
imagination.

Guardi, the pupil and in some respects the imitator of Canaletti, has
met with a different fate. Less prized during the heyday of his master's
fame, he has been steadily acquiring reputation on account of certain
qualities peculiar to himself. His draughtsmanship displays an agreeable
sketchiness; his colouring a graceful gemmy brightness and a glow of
sunny gold. But what has mainly served to win for Guardi popularity is
the attention he paid to contemporary costume and manners. Canaletti
filled large canvasses with mathematical perspectives of city and water.
At the same time he omitted life and incident. There is little to remind
us that the Venice he so laboriously depicted was the Venice of perukes
and bag-wigs, of masks and hoops and Carnival disguises. Guardi had an
eye for local colour and for fashionable humours. The result is that
some of his small pictures--one, for instance, which represents a
brilliant reception in the Sala del Collegio of the Ducal Palace--have a
real value for us by recalling the life of a vanished and irrecoverable
past. Thus Guardi illustrates the truth that artists may acquire
posthumous importance by felicitous accident in their choice of subjects
or the bias of their sympathies. We would willingly exchange a dozen
so-called "historical pictures" for one fresh and vivid scene which
brings a bygone phase of civilisation before our eyes.[92]

In this particular respect Longhi surpasses Guardi, and deserves to be
styled the pictorial chronicler of Venetian society in the eighteenth
century. He has even been called the Venetian Hogarth and the Venetian
Boucher. Neither of these titles, however, as I shall attempt to
demonstrate, rightly characterise his specific quality. Could his
numerous works be collected in one place, or be adequately reproduced,
we should possess a complete epitome of Venetian life and manners in the
age which developed Goldoni and Casanova, Carlo Gozzi and Caterina
Dolfin-Tron.


II.

Very little is known of Longhi's career, and that little has no great
importance. He was the son of a goldsmith, born at Venice in 1702, and
brought up to his father's trade. While yet a lad, Pietro showed unusual
powers of invention and elegance of drawing in the designs he made for
ornamental silver-work. This induced his parents to let him study
painting. His early training in the goldsmith's trade, however, seems to
have left an indelible mark on Longhi's genius. A love of delicate line
remained with him, and he displayed an affectionate partiality for the
minutest details of decorative furniture, dress, and articles of luxury.
Some of his drawings of plate--coffee-pots, chocolate-mills, ewers,
salvers, water-vessels--are exquisite for their instinctive sense of
graceful curve and unerring precision of contour. It was a period, as we
know, during which such things acquired an almost flawless purity of
outline; and Longhi felt them with the enthusiasm of a practised
artisan.

He studied painting under Antonio Balestra at Venice, and also under
Giuseppe Maria Crespi at Bologna. The baneful influences of the latter
city may be traced in Longhi's earliest known undertaking. This is an
elaborate work in fresco at the Sagredo Palace on the Grand Canal. The
patrician family of that name inhabited an old Venetian-Gothic house at
San Felice. Early in the last century they rebuilt the hall and
staircase in Palladian style, leaving the front with its beautiful
arcades untouched. The decoration of this addition to their mansion was
intrusted to Pietro Longhi in 1734. The subject, chosen by himself or
indicated by his patron, was the Fall of the Giants--_La Caduta dei
Giganti_. Longhi treated this unmanageable theme as follows. He placed
the deities of Olympus upon the ceiling. Jupiter in the centre advances,
brandishing his arms, and hurling forked lightnings on the Titans, who
are precipitated headlong among solid purple clouds and masses of broken
mountains, covering the three sides of the staircase. The scene is
represented without dignity, dramatic force, or harmony of composition.
The drawing throughout is feeble, the colouring heavy and tame, the
execution unskilful. Longhi had no notion how to work in fresco,
differing herein notably from his illustrious contemporary Tiepolo. A
vulgar Jove, particularly vulgar in the declamatory sweep of his left
hand, a vulgar Juno, with a sneering, tittering leer upon her common
face, reveal the painter's want of feeling for mythological grandeur.
The Titans are a confused heap of brawny, sprawling nudities--studied,
perhaps, from gondoliers or stevedores, but showing a want of even
academical adroitness in their ill-drawn extremities and inadequate
foreshortenings. It was essential in such a subject that movement
should be suggested. Yet Longhi has contrived to make the falling rocks
and lurid clouds look as though they were irremovably wedged into their
places on the walls, while his ruining giants are clearly transcripts
from naked models in repose. Here and there upon the ceiling we catch a
note of graceful fancy, especially in a group of lightly-painted
goddesses,--elegant and natural female figures, draped in pale blues and
greens and pinks, with a silvery illumination from the upper sky. But
the somewhat effeminate sweetness of this episode is ill-combined with
the dull and impotent striving after violent effect in the main subject;
and the whole composition leaves upon our mind the impression of "sound
and fury, signifying nothing."


III.

It is singular that Longhi should have reached the age of thirty-two
without discovering his real vocation. The absence of brain-force in the
conception, of strength in the design, and of any effective adaptation
to architecture, which damns the Sagredo frescoes, is enough to prove
that he was here engaged on work for which he had no faculty and felt no
sympathy.

What revealed to him the true bias of his talent? Did he perchance,
just about this period, come across some prints from Hogarth? That is
very possible. But the records of his life are so hopelessly meagre that
it were useless to indulge in conjecture.

I am not aware whether he had already essayed any of those domestic
pieces and delineative scenes from social life which displayed his
genuine artistic power, and for the sake of which his name will always
be appreciated. He is said to have been of a gay, capricious
temperament, delighting in the superficial aspects of aristocratic
society, savouring the humours of the common folk with no less pleasure,
and enjoying all phases of that easy-going Carnival gaiety in which the
various classes met and mingled at Venice. These inclinations directed
him at last into the right path. For some forty years he continued to
paint a series of easel-pictures, none of them very large, some of them
quite small, in which the Vanity Fair of Venice at his epoch was
represented with fidelity and kindly feeling.

The panels attributed to Pietro Longhi are innumerable. They may be
found scattered through public galleries and private collections,
adorning the walls of patrician palaces, or thrust away in corners of
country-houses. He worked carefully, polished the surface of his
pictures to the finish of a miniature, set them in frames of a fixed
pattern, and covered them with glass. These genre-pictures, while
presenting notes of similarity, differ very considerably in their
technical handling and their scheme of colour. Our first inference,
after inspecting a miscellaneous selection, is that Longhi must have
started a school of imitators. Indeed this is probably the case; and it
is certain that some pieces ascribed to his brush are the production of
his son Alessandro, who was born in 1733. Yet closer study of authentic
paintings by Pietro's hand compels the critic to be cautious before he
rejects, on internal evidence of style, a single piece assigned by good
tradition to this artist. The Museo Civico at Venice, for example,
contains a large number of Longhis, some of which seem to fall below his
usual standard. I have, however, discovered elaborate drawings for these
doubtful pictures in the book of his original sketches, which is also
preserved there. Longhi must therefore have painted the pictures
himself, or must have left the execution of his designs to a pupil.
Again, the style of his two masterpieces (the _Sala del Ridotto_ and the
_Parlatorio d'un Convento_, both in the Museo Civico) differs in
important particulars from that of the elaborately finished little
panels by which he is most widely known. These fine compositions are
marked by a freer breadth of handling, a sketchy boldness, a combined
richness and subtlety of colouring, and an animation of figures in
movement, which are not common in the average of his genre-pieces. When
I come to speak of the family portrait of the Pisani, signed by his
name, I shall have to point out that the style of execution, the scheme
of colour, and the pictorial feeling of this large composition belong to
a manner dissimilar from either of those which I have already indicated
as belonging to authentic Longhis.


IV.

It has been well observed by a Venetian writer, whose meagre panegyric
is nearly all we have in print upon the subject of this painter's
biography, that "there is no scene or point of domestic life which
Longhi has not treated many times and in divers ways. All those episodes
which make up the Day of a Gentleman as sung at a later date by Parini,
had been already set forth by the brush of Longhi."[93]

The duties of the toilette, over which ladies and young men of fashion
dawdled through their mornings; the drinking of chocolate in bed,
attended by a wife or mistress or obsequious man of business; the long
hours spent before the looking-glass, with maids or valets matching
complexions, sorting dresses from the wardrobe, and fixing patches upon
telling points of cheek or forehead; the fashionable hairdresser,
building up a lady's tower with tongs, or tying the knot of a beau's
bag-wig; the children trooping in to kiss their mother's hand at
breakfast-time--stiff little girls in hoops, and tiny _cavalieri_ in
uniform, with sword and shoe-buckles and queue; the vendors of flowered
silks and laces laying out their wares; the pert young laundress
smuggling a _billet-doux_ into a beauty's hand before her unsuspecting
husband's face; the fine gentleman ordering a waistcoat in the shop of a
tailoress, ogling and flirting over the commission, while a running
footman with tall cane in hand comes bustling in to ask if his lord's
suit is ready; the old patrician lolling in his easy-chair and toying
with a fan; the abbe turning over the leaves of some fresh play or
morning paper: scenes like these we may assign to the Venetian forenoon.

Afternoon brings ceremonious visits, when grand ladies, sailing in their
hoops, salute each other, and beaux make legs on entering a
drawing-room, and lacqueys hand round chocolate on silver salvers.
Dancing-lessons may perhaps be assigned to this part of the day; a
spruce French professor teaching his fair pupil how to drop a curtsey,
or to swim with solemn grace through the figures of the minuet. At night
we are introduced to the hall of the Ridotto; patricians in toga and
snow-white periwig hold banks for faro beneath the glittering
chandeliers; men and women, closely masked, jostle each other at the
gambling-tables, where sequins and ducats lie about in heaps. The petty
houses, or _casini_, now engage attention. Here may be seen a pair of
stealthy, muffled libertines hastening to complete an assignation. Then
there are meetings at street-corners or on the landing-places of
_traghetti_--mysterious figures flitting to and fro in wide miraculous
_bautte_ beneath the light of flickering flambeaux. Both men and women
in these nocturnal scenes wear muffs, trimmed with fur, and secured
around their waist by girdles.

Theatres, masked balls, banquets and coffee-houses, music-parties in
villa-gardens, the assemblies of literary coteries, promenades on the
piazza, and Carnival processions, obtain their due share of attention
from this vigilant observer. But, as is the way with Longhi, only
episodes are treated. He does not, like some painters of our own
time--like Mr. Frith, R.A., for instance--attempt to bring the
accumulated details of a complex scene before us. He leaves the context
of his chosen incident to be divined.

The traffic of the open streets--quack-doctors on their platforms with a
crowd of gaping dupes around them, mountebanks performing tricks, the
criers of stewed plums and sausages, fortune-tellers, itinerant
musicians, improvisatory poets bawling out their octave stanzas, cloaked
serenaders twangling mandolines--such motives may be found in fair
abundance among Longhi's genre-pieces. Nor does he altogether neglect
the country. Many of his pictures are devoted to hunting-parties,
riding-lessons, shooting and fishing, all the amusements of the Venetian
_villeggiatura_. Peasants lounging over their wine or pottage at a
rustic table are depicted with no less felicity than the beau and
coquette in their glory. The grimy interior of a village-tavern is
portrayed with the same gusto as a fine lady's gilt saloon.


V.

Longhi used to tell Goldoni that they--the painter and the
playwright--were brethren in Art; and one of the poet's sonnets records
this saying:--

    "Longhi, tu che la mia Musa sorella
    Chiami del tuo pennel che cerca il vero."

It seems that their contemporaries were alive to the similar qualities
and the common aims of the two men; for Gasparo Gozzi drew a parallel
between them in a number of his Venetian Gazzetta. Indeed the
resemblance is more than merely superficial. Longhi surveyed human life
with the same kindly glance and the same absence of gravity or depth of
intuition as Goldoni. They both studied Nature, but Nature only in her
genial moods. They both sincerely aimed at truth, but avoided truths
which were sinister or painful.

This renders the designation of Venetian Hogarth peculiarly
inappropriate to Longhi. There is neither tragedy nor satire, and only a
thin silvery vein of humour, in his work. Indeed it may be questioned
whether he was in any exact sense humorous at all. What looks like
humour in some of his pictures is probably unconscious. In like manner
he lacked pathos, and never strove to moralise the themes he treated.
Where would Hogarth be if we excluded Gargantuan humour, Juvenalian
satire, stern morality, and cruel pathos from his scenes of social life?
Longhi is never gross and never passionate. With a kind of sensitive
French curiosity, he likes to graze the darker and the coarser side of
life, and pass it by. He does not want to probe the cancers of the human
breast, or to lay bare the festering sores of vice. What would become of
Hogarth if he were deprived of his grim surgical anatomy? Neither in the
heights nor in the depths was Longhi at home--neither in the region of
Olympian poetry nor in the purgatory of man's sin and folly. He sailed
delightfully, agreeably, across the middle waters of the world, where
steering is not difficult.

In all this Goldoni resembles him, except only that Goldoni had a rich
vein of cheerful humour. It would be therefore more just to call Longhi
the Goldoni of painting than the Venetian Hogarth.

Longhi's portrait, unlike that of Goldoni, betrays no sensuousness. He
seems to have had a long, refined face, with bright, benignant black
eyes, a pleasantly smiling mouth, thin lips, and a look of gently
subrisive appreciation rather than of irony or sarcasm. The engraving by
which I know his features suggests an intelligent, attenuated
Addison--not a powerful or first-rate man, but a genially observant
superior mediocrity.

Although Longhi, as a personality, is clearly not of the same type as
Hogarth, there are certain points of similarity between the men as
artists. Both were taught the goldsmith's trade, and both learned
painting under Bolognese influences. Both eventually found their sphere
in the delineation of the life around them. There the similarity ceases.
Longhi lacks, as I have said, the humour, the satire, the penetrative
imagination, the broad sympathy with human nature in its coarser
aspects, which make Hogarth unrivalled as a pictorial moralist. At the
same time, it is difficult to imagine that Longhi was not influenced by
Hogarth. In the technique of his art he displays something which appears
to be derived from the elder and stronger master--a choice of points for
observation, an arrangement of figures in groups, a mode of rendering
attitude and suggesting movement; finally, the manner of execution
reminds us of Hogarth. Longhi abandoned his false decorative style, the
style of the Palazzo Sagredo, at some time after 1734. This date
corresponds with Hogarth's triumphant entrance upon his career as a
satirical painter of society. Possibly Longhi may have met with the
engravings of the _Marriage a la Mode_, and may have been stimulated by
them to undertake the work, which he carried on with nothing of
Hogarth's moral force, and with a small portion of his descriptive
faculty, yet still with valuable results for the student of
eighteenth-century manners.


VI.

In 1763 an Academy for the study of the arts of design was opened by
some members of the Pisani family in their palace at S. Stefano. The
chiefs of that patrician house were four sons of the late Doge Alvise
Pisani. According to Lazari, my sole authority for this passage in
Longhi's biography, the founder of the Academy was a Procuratore di S.
Marco, who had a son of remarkable promise. This son he wished to
instruct in the fine arts; and Pietro Longhi was chosen to fill the
chair of painting, which he occupied for two years. At the end of that
time young Pisani died, and the institution was closed--now that the
hopes which led to its foundation were extinguished.[94]

Among the few facts of Longhi's life this connection with the Pisani
Academy has to be recorded. It is also of some importance in helping us
to decide whether a large portrait-picture, representing the chiefs of
the Pisani family, together with the wife and children of one of its
most eminent members (Luigi, a godchild of Louis XIV.), is rightly
ascribed to him. The huge canvas, which is now in the possession of the
Contessa Evelina Almoro Pisani, was found by her rolled up and hidden
away in a cabinet beneath the grand staircase of the Palazzo Pisani at
S. Stefano.[95] It proved to be in excellent preservation; and it is
signed in large clear text letters--_opus Petri Longi_. So far there
would seem to be no doubt that the picture is genuine; and I, for my
part, am prepared to accept it as such, when I consider that Longhi
enjoyed the confidence of the Pisani family and presided over their
Academy about the period when it was executed. Yet the student of his
works cannot fail to be struck by marked differences of style between
this and other authentic pictures from his hand.

The central group consists of the noble Lady Paolina Gambara, wife of
Luigi Pisani, seated with her children round her.[96] Her husband stands
behind, together with his three brothers and an intimate friend of the
house. Allegorical figures representing the arts and sciences complete
the composition. In the distance is seen the princely palace of Stra
upon the Brenta, which was designed in part by one of the Pisani
brothers. The arrangement of these inter-connected groups is excellent;
the characterisation of the several heads, admirable; the drawing, firm
and accurate; and the whole scene is bathed in a glow of roseate colour
which seems actually to radiate light. Longhi, so far as I am aware,
produced nothing in the same style as this complicated masterpiece of
portraiture and allegorical suggestion. In conception, execution, and
scheme of colour, it reminds us of a French painter; and if he had left
a series of such works, he might have deserved what now seems the
inappropriate title of the Venetian Boucher.

I cannot pretend to have seen more than a small portion of Longhi's
pictures. But this portrait of the Pisani family detaches itself as
something in a different key of feeling and of workmanship from any with
which I am acquainted. Admirers of his art should not fail to pay it the
attention it deserves; and if the day comes when a thorough study of
this interesting master shall be made, it is not impossible that genuine
paintings in the same manner may be discovered.


VII.

A series of frescoes attributed to Pietro Longhi should also here be
mentioned. They decorate three sides of the staircase of the Palazzo
Sina (formerly Grassi) on the Grand Canal. The balustrades of an open
loggia or gallery are painted with bold architectural relief. Behind the
pilasters of this balcony a motley company of life-sized figures
promenade or stand about in groups. Some are entering in Carnival
costume, with masks and long mantles. Others wear the gala dress of the
last century. Elderly ladies are draped in the black zendado of Venetian
aristocracy. Grave senators bend their courtly heads beneath the weight
of snowy periwigs. Lacqueys in livery and running footmen in Albanian
costume wait upon the guests, handing chocolate or wines on silver
trays. This scene of fashionable life is depicted with vivacity; the
studies of face and attitude are true to nature; an agreeable air of
good tone and sober animation pervades the whole society. Probably many
of the persons introduced were copied from the life; for it is reported
of Longhi that one of his greatest merits was the dexterity with which
he reproduced the main actors in the _bel monde_ of Venice--so that folk
could recognise their acquaintances upon his canvas merely by the
carriage of their mask and domino.

Owing to restoration, it is difficult to say how far the fresco-painting
was well executed, and to what extent the original tone has been
preserved. At present the colouring is somewhat chalky, dull, and
lifeless; and I suspect Longhi's brush-work suffered considerably when
the palace was internally remodelled some years ago.


VIII.

It only remains to speak of Pietro Longhi's sketch-book. This collection
of original drawings, numbering 140 pieces, and containing a very large
variety of studies (several pages being filled on front and back with
upwards of ten separate figures) was formed by Alessandro Longhi. It
came into the possession of the patrician Teodoro Correr, who bequeathed
it, together with the rest of his immense museum, to the town of Venice.

As a supplement to Longhi's paintings, this sketch-book is invaluable.
It brings us close to the artist's methods, aims, and personal
predilections in the choice of motives. Most of the drawings are done in
hard black pencil or chalk, heightened and corrected with white; a few
in soft red chalk. Unfortunately, they have suffered to a large extent
from rubbing; and this injury is likely to increase with time, owing to
the clumsy binding of the volume which contains them.

Studies from the nude are conspicuous by their extreme rarity and want
of force. Great attention has been paid to the details of costume and
furniture. The _zendado_, the _bautta_, the hoop, the bag-wig, the <DW2>'s
coat and waistcoat, the patrician's civil mantle, the knee-breeches and
stockings of a well-dressed gentleman, are copied and re-copied with
loving care. Painters at the easel, ballet-girls with castanets,
maid-servants holding trays, grooms and lacqueys, men on horseback,
serenaders with lute or mandoline, ballad-singers, music and
dancing-masters, women working at lace-pillows, gentlemen in bed,
sportsmen discharging their fowling-pieces, gondoliers rowing, little
girls in go-carts or fenced chairs, sellers of tarts upon the street,
country boys in taverns, chests of drawers, pots, pans, jugs, gourds,
wine-flasks, parrots in cages, ladies at the clavichord, queues, fans,
books, snuff-boxes, tables, petticoats, desks, the draperies of doors
and windows, wigs, footmen placing chairs for guests, beaux bowing in
the doorway or whispering tender nothings at a beauty's ear, old men
reclining in arm-chairs, embroiderers at work, muffs, copper
water-buckets, nurses with babies in their arms, silver plate of all
descriptions:--such is the farrago of this multiform and graceful, but
limited, series of transcripts from the world of visible objects. It is
clear that Longhi thought "the proper study of mankind is man;" and man
as a clothed, sociable, well-behaved animal.

His sketches are remarkable for their strenuous sincerity--their search
after the right attitude, their serious effort to hit the precise line
wanted, their suggested movement and seizure of life in the superficies.
They have a sustained air of good-breeding, refined intelligence, and
genial sympathy with the prose of human nature. Landscape might never
have existed so far as Longhi was concerned. I do not think that a tree,
a cloud, or even a flower will be found among the miscellaneous objects
he so carefully studied and drew so deftly. The world he moved in was
the world of men and women meeting on the surface-paths of daily
intercourse. Even here, we do not detect the slightest interest in
passionate or painful aspects of experience. All Longhi's people are
well-to-do and placid in their different degrees. The peasants in the
taverns do not brawl, nor the fine gentlemen fight duels, nor the lovers
in the drawing-rooms quarrel. He seems to have overlooked beggary,
disease, and every form of vice or suffering. He does not care for
animals. With the exception of a parrot, a caged canary, and a stiffly
drawn riding-horse, the brute creation is not represented in these
sketches. No sarcasm, no grossness, no violence of any kind, disturbs
the calm artistic seriousness, the sweet painstaking curiosity of his
mental mood. The execution throughout is less robust than sensitively
delicate. We feel a something French, a suggestion of Watteau's elysium
of fashion, in his touch on things. In fine, the sketch-book
corroborates the impression made on us by Longhi's finished pictures.


IX.

With all his limitations of character and artistic scope, Longi remains
a very interesting and highly respectable painter. In an age of social
corruption he remained free from impurity, and depicted only what was
blameless and of good repute. We cannot study his work without surmising
that manners in Italy were more refined than in our own country at that
epoch--a conclusion to which we are also led by Goldoni's, Carlo
Gozzi's, and even Casanova's Memoirs. Morally licentious and politically
decadent the Venetians undoubtedly were; but they were neither brutal,
nor cruel, nor savage, nor sottish. Even the less admirable aspects of
their social life--its wasteful luxury and effeminate indulgence in
pleasure--have been treated with so much reserve by this humane artist,
that youth and innocence can suffer no contamination from the study of
his works. At the same time they are delightful for their gracious
realism, for their naive touch upon the follies of the period. Those who
love to dream themselves back into the days of hoops and perukes--and
there are many such among as now--should not neglect to make themselves
acquainted with Pietro Longhi.





INDEX.


Academy de' Granelleschi, at Venice, i. 89, 99.

Actors, Italian, their character, ii. 137.

Actresses, Italian, their character, ii. 137.

Agazi, Francesco, Censor of Plays, ii. 264, 268.

Albergati, Marchese Francesco, ii. 240;
  notes on his career, ii. 240 _note_ 1.

Altissimo, Cristoforo, poet and _improvisatore_, i. 202.

"Amore delle Tre Melarancie," Gozzi's first _Fiaba_, i. 109; ii. 129, 133.
  translation of, i. 112-146.
  its triumphant success, i. 146, 147; ii. 130.
  his best Fable, artistically, i. 163.

Andreini, Francesco, a celebrated actor, i. 51.

Andrich, Carlo, ii. 76.

Angaran, Zorzi, Avogadore, i. 13.

Angarano, Count Galeaso, i. 341.

Apergi, Lieutenant Giovanni, i. 227; ii. 16.

Aretino, Pietro, i. 29.

Arlecchino, i. 35,
  description of, in the _Commedia dell'Arte_, i. 46.

"Augellino Belverde," one of Gozzi's "Fiabe," analysis of, i. 164-176.

Bada, Gianbattista, i. 100 _note_ 2.

Balbi, Benedetto, Canon of Padua, i. 349-352.

Balbi, Countess Elisabetta Ghellini, _see_ Ghellini Balbi, Countess.

Balbi, Paolo, i. 349-352; ii. 89, 295.
  his sudden death, ii. 326.

Balestra, Antonio, painter, ii. 342.

Baretti, Giuseppe, his opinion of Gozzi, i. 179.

Barsanti, Domenico, actor, ii. 216, 323.

Bartoli, Adolfo, his "Scenari Inediti," i. 57.

Bartoli, Francesco, husband of Teodora Ricci, ii. 195 _note_ 1, 249-252.
  his ill-health and separation from his wife, ii. 199.

Battagia, Maddalena, actress, ii. 174.

Benedetti, Luigi, actor, ii. 209, 269, 288, 323.

Beolco, Angelo, a Paduan writer of simple rustic comedies, i. 33.

Bergalli, Luisa Pisana, wife of Gasparo Gozzi, _see_ Gozzi, Luisa Pisana.

Bettinelli, Abbe Xavier, his attempted revolution in literary taste, ii. 104.
  shown up by the Granelleschi, ii. 105.

Bevilacqua, Doctor Bartolommeo, ii. 314.

Boldu, Jacopo, Provveditore Generale di Dalmazia, i. 276.

Borrommeo, Carlo, his crusade against the Comedians, i. 70.

Bragadino, Cavaliere, the curious occurrence that earned
Gozzi his friendship, ii. 80-84.

Brescia, Bishop of, i. 277.

Brighella, i. 35; description of, in the _Commedia dell'Arte_, i. 47.
  as employed by Gozzi, i. 152.

Burchiello, an obscure Florentine poet, ii. 116.


Calogera, Padre, ii. 117.

Canale, or Canaletti, Antonio, ii. 338.
  his defects, ii. 338.

Canziani, Maria, dancer, ii. 75.

Capitano, the, a character in the _Commedia dell'Arte_, i. 35, 50.

Capocomico, manager of the Comedians, his functions, i. 58-60, 64.

Cappello, Arcadio, physician, i. 368.

Casali, Gaetano, comedian, i. 112 _note_ 1.

Casanova, Ignazio, comedian, i. 112 _note_ 1.

Casanova, Jacques, i. 4, 73, 350 _note_ 1; ii. 99 _note_ 1.

Cavalli, Jacopo, Provveditore Generale di Dalmazia, i. 220.

Cecchi, playwright, i. 33.

Cenet, Madame Jeanne Sarah, ii. 310.

Cerlone, Francesco, poet, i. 35 _note_ 3.
  fixed the type of Pulcinella, i. 49.

Chasles, Philarete, i. 181.

Chaussee, Nivelle de la, his sentimental comedies, i. 87.

Chiari, Abbe Pietro, playwright, i. 2.
  his rivalry with Goldoni, i. 97.
  Gozzi's attacks on, i. 99.
  makes common cause with Goldoni against Gozzi, i. 106, ii. 127.
  various satirical allusions to him in Gozzi's first "Fable," i. 112-146.
  his popularity in Venice, ii. 110.
  Gozzi's opinion of, ii. 113, 114.
  defeated by Gozzi, gives up play-writing, i. 177, ii. 155, 156.

Cicucci, Regina, actress, ii. 170.

Colombani, Paolo, bookseller, his shop the headquarters
of the Granelleschi, ii. 127.

Colombo, Giovanni, i. 229.
  Grand Chancellor of the Venetian Republic, i. 230.

Comedian, qualifications of a good Italian, i. 61.

Comedians, their degraded social position, i. 70.

Comedy, Italian--
  Its origin during the Renaissance, i. 26.
  its dependence on Latin models, i. 26, 28.
  the _Commedia Erudita_, i. 27, 39.
  the first attempts at National Italian comedy, i. 28.
  its stock characters, i. 28.
  _Commedia dell'Arte all'Improviso_, its causes, and its
   distinctive features, i. 30-32.
  its great antiquity, i. 32.
  its relation to the _Commedia Erudita_, i. 32, 55.
  farces in relation to the _Commedia dell'Arte_, i. 33.
  the _Commedia dell'Arte_ trusted to the improvisatory
    talent of the actors, i. 34.
  the actors in it wore masks, i. 34.
  the principal masks--Pantalone, Il Dottore, Arlecchino, Brighella, i. 34.
  description of the masks, i. 43-54.
  the less important masks, i. 52.
  relation of the _Commedia dell'Arte_ to the old Latin comedy
    of mimes and _exodia_, i. 36-40.
  Lombard, Neapolitan, and Florentine ingredients in it, i. 40.
  its culmination and decay, i. 43.
  modifications introduced into the fixed characters of the _Commedia
    dell'Arte_
    by celebrated actors, i. 53.
  the plots and subjects of improvised comedies, i. 54.
  its indecency and buffoonery, i. 56.
  description of the _scenari_ of the comedies, i. 56.
  how they were arranged or rehearsed, i. 58.
  qualifications of the actors, i. 61.
  stock speeches, which were not left to the inspiration of the comedians,
    but were written, i. 62.
  _lazzi_ (sallies of buffoonery), i. 63.
  its tendency to degenerate, i. 64, 69.
  the widespread popularity of the _Commedia dell'Arte_, i. 65.
  its success in Paris, Spain, Portugal, and London, i. 65, 67.
  probably the model on which Tarleton and Wilson formed their Drolls, i. 68.
  Gozzi's praise of it, i. 68.
  its decadence, i. 69, 87.
  the degraded social position of the actors, i. 70.
  Garzoni's description of the strolling comedians, i. 73-80.
  superseded by the _Comedie Larmoyante_, i. 87.
  Gozzi's "Fiabe Teatrali," an attempt to rehabilitate the impromptu
    comedy, i. 109.
  translation of Gozzi's first "Fiaba," i. 112-146.
  character of the actors in Italian Comedy, ii. 137.

_Commedia dell'Arte._ _See_ Comedy, Italian.

Comparetti, Doctor Andrea, ii. 300.

Contarini, Francesco, Gratarol's uncle, ii. 292, 293.

Coralli, actor, ii. 201, 208, 214, 216.

Cornaro, Giorgio, physician, ii. 327.

Cortigiani, the Venetian, or Men of the World, i. 294 _note_ 1.

Coviello, a mask in the _Commedia dell'Arte_, i. 50.

Crespi, Giuseppe Maria, ii. 342.


Dalmatia, the character of the natives of, i. 238.
  the women of, i. 242.
  the nature of the country, i. 243.

Danieli, chief physician to the Provveditore di Dalmazia, i. 222.

Da Ponte, Lorenzo, i. 4.

Darbes, Cesare, comedian, i. 95, 112 _note_ 1; ii. 131, 169.

Della Bona, Professor, ii. 310.
  his skilful treatment of Gasparo Gozzi's illness, ii. 316.

Desperiers, Bonaventura, ii. 7 _note_ 1.

Dialects, different, spoken in the _Commedia dell'Arte_, i. 35.

Dolfin-Tron, Caterina, i. 11; ii. 264, 287, 312, 319.
  her character and influence, i. 9.
  her enmity towards Gratarol, i. 9.
  ruins Gratarol, i. 12, 13.
  Gratarol's "Narrazione" bitterly attacks her, i. 13.
  Gozzi's relations with, ii. 266 _note_ 1.
  Gozzi intercedes with her to have "Le Droghe d'Amore" stopped, ii. 288.
  her refusal, ii. 290.
  Gozzi shows her how he has been insulted by Gratarol, ii. 208.
  her interest in Gasparo Gozzi, ii. 308.

_Doti_--stock passages in the _Commedia dell'Arte_ which were not left to
    improvisation, i. 62; ii. 144.

Dottore, the, a character in the _Commedia dell'Arte_, i. 34.
  description of, i. 45.

"Droghe d'Amore, Le," Gozzi's comedy which caused the quarrel between
    Gratarol and Gozzi, i. 10; ii. 225, 252, 258.
  licensed for the stage, ii. 259.
  the cast changed by the actors in order to attack Gratarol, ii. 260, 269.
  read to the actors, ii. 260.
  Gratarol's foolish conduct forces the piece on the stage, and
    makes all Venice talk of it, ii. 263.
  its production, ii. 270.
  the excitement it causes, ii. 274.
  Gratarol's distress at its success, ii. 277.
  Gozzi's efforts to have it stopped, ii. 286-294.

Drousiano, an Italian comedian in London in 1577-8, i. 67.


"Esop in the Town," a play in which Gozzi and the Countess
    Balbi were attacked, i. 356.

Farces, popular during the Renaissance, i. 33.

Farsetti, Daniele, Gozzi dedicates his "Tartana degl'influssi" to, ii. 116.

Farsetti, Giuseppe, ii. 124.

"Fiabe Teatrali," Gozzi's celebrated plays, i. 107; ii. 129-137.
  an endeavour to rehabilitate the _Commedia dell'Arte_, i. 109.
  success of his first Fable, i. 146, 147.
  list of the remaining nine Fables, i. 148.
  critical account of, i. 148-176.
  the sources of, i. 162.
  their success but ephemeral, i. 178.

Fiorelli, Agostino, comedian, i. 112 _note_ 1; ii. 131, 169, 323.

Fiorelli, Tiberio of Naples, the famous Scaramouch, i. 51, 53.
  his wonderful acting described, i. 66.

Florentine burlesque poets, Gozzi's true ancestors in art, i. 110.

Florentine ingredients in the _Commedia dell'Arte_, i. 40.

Foscarini, Marco, Doge of Venice, i. 337.


Galante, avvocato fiscale dell'Avogaderia, i. 13.

Garzoni, his description of the strolling comedians,
    in his "Piazza Universale," i. 73-80.

_Generici_--or common-places--in the _Commedia dell'Arte_, i. 62.

Ghellini Balbi, Countess Elisabetta, i. 324, 338, 342, 355, 365.
  her interest in the Gozzi family, i. 324.
  Gozzi calls upon her, i. 325.
  Gozzi reported to be married to her, i. 339, 349.
  her anxieties about her son, i. 349-352.
  attacked in a play called "Esop in the Town," i. 356.

Gherardi, his "Theatre Italien," i. 61, 66.

Goethe, his estimate of Goldoni and Gozzi, i. 178.

Goldoni, Carlo, dramatist, i. 2, 4, 87.
  his severe condemnation of the Italian Comedy, i. 72.
  his undoubted genius, i. 89.
  his excellent character, i. 89.
  his qualities and defects, i. 89-91.
  sketch of his career, i. 92.
  his desire to reform Italian Comedy, i. 93.
  the steps which he took in that direction, i. 93-95.
  joins the company of Medebac, i. 95.
  his first comedy of character, as opposed to impromptu comedy, i. 95.
  the fortunes of his crusade against the _Commedia
    dell'Arte_, i. 95; ii. 128.
  his contest with Chiari, i. 97.
  Gozzi's hatred for him as a corrupter of the language, i. 99.
  Gozzi's first attack on him, i. 99; ii. 116.
  his reply to Gozzi, i. 101; ii. 117.
  the long-continued warfare between him and Gozzi, i. 102; ii. 119-128
  Chiari makes common cause with him against Gozzi, i. 106; ii. 127.
  various satirical allusions to him in Gozzi's first "Fable," i. 112-146.
  defeated by Gozzi, goes to Paris, i. 177; ii. 155, 156.
  his ultimate success and fame, i. 178.
  his popularity in Venice, ii. 110.
  Gozzi's opinion of him, ii. 111-113.
  his superiority over Chiari, ii. 114.
  the various publications in which Gozzi attacked him, ii. 119-128.
  himself writes a "Fable," ii. 150.
  his similarity in art with Longhi the painter, ii. 350.

Gozzi family, i. 185;
  _Cittadini Originari_ of Venice, i. 186.

Gozzi, Almoro, younger brother of Carlo, i. 290, 320, 329, 330,
    331, 354; ii. 79, 162, 336.

Gozzi, Angela Tiepolo, mother of Carlo, i. 189, 285, 304.
  her maladministration of the family affairs, i. 297.
  her quarrels with Carlo Gozzi, i. 304.
  her dislike for Carlo, i. 348.

Gozzi, Carlo--
  his autobiography, entitled "Memorie inutili della vita di
    Carlo Gozzi." i. 1.
  design of his autobiography, i. 3, 19;
    its value historically, i. 4.
  his "Droghe d'Amore" supposed to contain a caricature of Gratarol. i. 10.
  attacked by Gratarol in his "Narrazione Apologetica, i. 14.
  writes a reply--"Epistola Confutatoria," i. 14;
    but is not allowed to publish it, i. 15.
  publishes his memoir and, under provocation, the "Epistola Confutatoria,"
    after the fall of the Venetian republic, i. 16-19.
  his autobiography, its form, its merits and defects, and its
    reliability, i. 19-24.
  his personal characteristics, i. 22.
  his "Fiabe," i. 43.
  his eulogy of the _Commedia dell'Arte_, i. 68.
  his description of the contest between Goldoni and Chiari, i. 98.
  translation of his first Fable, i. 112-146.
  its triumphant success, i. 146, 147.
  his other "Fiabe," i. 148.
  critical account of his "Fiabe Teatrali, i. 148-176.
  his use of the Masks, i. 149-154.
  his mixture of the comic element with the fairy-tale, i. 154.
  not a great imaginative poet, i. 156.
  his merits as a playwright, i. 157-160.
  his conservative philosophy of life, i. 160.
  the sources of his "Fiabe," i. 162.
  analysis of "L'Augellino Belverde," i. 164-176.
  his victory over Goldoni and Chiari, i. 176.
  his fame ephemeral, i. 178.
  German translation of his plays, i. 180.
  his pedigree, i. 2, 185-190.
  his birth, i. 190 _note_ 1.
  the exact trustworthiness of his Memoirs, i. 190 _note_ 1.[I?]
  his brothers and sisters, i. 191.
  his education, i. 192.
  injures his health by study, i. 196.
  his endeavours after a good literary style, i. 197.
  his moral and physical training, i. 200, 205.
  his acting as a child, i. 201.
  shows skill as an _improvisatore_, i. 202.
  his first poetical productions, i. 205-207.
  his early productions, i. 208.
  the family difficulties, i. 209.
  the discomforts of his home, i. 212.
  he leaves home and becomes a soldier, i. 213.
  his first experiences as a soldier, i. 214-221.
  has a dangerous illness, i. 221.
  studies Fortification, i. 225.
  his love of poetry, i. 229.
  his sonnet in praise of Provveditore Quirini, i. 233.
  an exciting adventure with a horse, i. 234.
  he is enrolled as a _Cadet noble_ of cavalry, i. 246.
  what his military services amounted to, i. 247.
  his success as a _soubrette_ in the military theatricals at Zara,
    i. 249-251.
  some of his escapades as a youth, i. 252-273.
  the adventures in connection with the courtesan Tonina, i. 262-272.
  his finances at the close of his military service, i. 273.
  returns to Venice, i. 278.
  the state of his family and home, when he returns, i. 279.
  his first meeting with his family, i. 284.
  his difficulty in interfering in the management of the family
    affairs, i. 290.
  his negotiations with Francesco Zini, i. 300.
  becomes the object of hatred to all his family, i. 307, 318.
  in continual quarrels with his family, i. 322.
  his interview with the Countess Ghellini Balbi, i. 325.
  his family set the law in motion against him, i. 328.
  he leaves home, i. 330.
  lies spread about him, i. 331.
  the family property divided, i. 332.
  is dragged into tedious lawsuits, i. 334-342.
  his friendship with the Countess Ghellini Balbi, i. 339, 349.
  his sister-in-law's vexatious lawsuit against him, i. 360-364.
  has violent haemorrhage from the lungs, i. 364, 368.
  his illnesses and occupations, i. 370.
  his account of his own physical and mental qualities, ii. 1-9.
  accepted no payment for any of his works, ii. 3.
  his love-tales--
    his first love, ii. 11-27;
    his second love, ii. 28-33;
    his third love, ii. 33-69.
  his reflections on his love affairs, ii. 69.
  his object in relating them, ii. 72 _note_ 1.
  the absurdities and contrarieties to which his star made him
    subject, ii. 73-89.
  his unfortunate experience as a landlord, ii. 85-89.
  the origin and progress of his literary quarrels, i. 2; ii. 90.
  his views upon Italian literature, ii. 91.
  his dissertation on Prejudice, ii. 99.
  his humorous attack on Bettinelli, ii. 106.
  the motives of his attacks upon Chiari and Goldoni, ii. 115.
  his first attack on Goldoni and Chiari in his "Tartana degli Influssi,"
    i. 100, 109; ii. 116.
  Goldoni's reply, i. 101, 109; ii. 117.
  his Aristophanic satire upon Goldoni, entitled "Il Teatro Comico,"
    i. 104, 109; ii. 120.
  he withdraws this satire at Goldoni's request, i. 106; ii. 124.
  the origin of his celebrated "Fiabe Teatrali," i. 107; ii. 128.
  his first Fable, "The Love of the Three Oranges (L'Amore delle Tre
    Melarancie)," i. 109; ii. 129.
  the various publications in which he carried on the war against Goldoni
    and Chiari, ii. 119-128.
  his relations with Sacchi's company of comedians, ii. 137-155.
  his tuition of the actresses, ii. 145.
  his lawsuit against the Marchese Terzi, ii. 160.
  its successful issue, ii. 164.
  he withdraws his aid temporarily from Sacchi's company, ii. 166.
  comes to their assistance again, ii. 168.
  undertakes to tutor Teodora Ricci, ii. 177.
  the successful result of his tuition, ii. 185.
  his defence of his character and conduct in connection with Teodora Ricci,
    and the actresses of Sacchi's company, ii. 187, 192 _note_ 1.
  becomes Cicisbeo to Ricci, i. 9; ii. 193.
  is godfather to her child, ii. 198.
  his troublous relations with the Ricci, ii. 200.
  his excuse for submitting to the worries caused by the Ricci, ii. 218.
  his adaptations of Spanish plays, ii. 225.
  his "Droghe d'Amore," i. 10; ii. 225.
  his and Gratarol's versions of the quarrel between them, ii. 229 _note_ 1.
  Gratarol's first visit to him, ii. 238.
  his final rupture with Ricci, ii. 246.
  annoyed by her, ii. 249, 255.
  annoyed by her husband, ii. 250.
  completes his comedy "Le Droghe d'Amore," ii. 252.
  is pestered into giving it to Sacchi, ii. 258.
  his innocence of an intention to caricature Gratarol in "Le Droghe d'Amor,"
    ii. 258.
  reads the piece to the actors, ii. 260.
  tries to have it withdrawn, ii. 263.
  his friendship with Madame Dolfin Tron, ii. 266 _note_ 1.
  forbidden by the Censor to withdraw his play, ii. 268.
  his distress at the play's vogue, ii. 274.
  waited on by Carlo Maffei on behalf of Gratarol, ii. 277.
  interview between him and Gratarol, ii. 279-285.
  his futile efforts to have the play stopped, ii. 286-294.
  his further squabbles with Gratarol, ii. 294.
  his cause espoused by the Supreme Tribunal, which forces Gratarol to
    apologise to him, ii. 303.
  Gratarol's conduct to him subsequently, ii. 307.
  goes to Padua, where his brother Gasparo lies dangerously ill, ii. 309.
  uses his influence in Gratarol's behalf, ii. 319.
  his reflection on Gratarol's flight, ii. 321.
  his last interview with Sacchi, ii. 324.
  his sorrow at the death of his friends, ii. 325.
  has a bad attack of fever, ii. 327.
  lays down his pen, ii. 330.
  a review of his life and an estimate of his character, ii. 330.
  his old age, ii. 332.
  his will, ii. 333.
  his death, ii. 337.

Gozzi, Chiara, sister of Carlo, i. 354.
  becomes a nun, i. 365.

Gozzi, Francesco, brother of Carlo, i. 319, 320, 329, 354; ii. 79, 162.
  becomes a soldier, i. 212.
  his bad character, i. 321.
  his death, ii. 326.

Gozzi, Gasparo, grandfather of Carlo, i. 189.

Gozzi, Gasparo, brother of Carlo, i. 282, 286, 288, 293, 312, 320, 329;
    ii. 301, 319, 350.
  his personal leaning towards Goldoni, i. 106.
  undertakes to superintend a new edition of Goldoni's plays, i. 177.
  his passion for study, i. 194.
  his marriage, i. 209.
  becomes lessee of the theatre of S. Angelo at Venice, i. 332.
  his helpless position in his own house, i. 340.
  his theatrical speculation is unsuccessful, i. 353, 360.
  Carlo Gozzi and the Countess Balbi attacked on his stage, i. 357.
  obtains a post at the University of Padua, i. 367.
  his "Defence of Dante" against the Abbe Bettinelli, ii. 106.
  his lack of spirit, ii. 162.
  his friendship with Madame Dolfin Tron, ii. 267.
  his serious illness, ii. 308.
  in his delirium throws himself from a window, ii. 308.
  his recovery, ii. 317.
  his death, ii. 327.

Gozzi, Girolama, i. 288.

Gozzi, Giulia, i. 282.

Gozzi, Jacopo Antonio, father of Carlo, i. 188.
  has a stroke of apoplexy, i. 211.
  his feeble state of health, i. 284.
  the unhappiness of his position amid the family quarrels, i. 309.
  his death, i. 310.

Gozzi, Luisa Pisani Bergalli, wife of Gasparo, i. 210.
  the ruler of the Gozzi family affairs, i. 287.
  her mismanagement, i. 299, 317.
  her dishonourable conduct, i. 319, 328.
  tries to manage her husband's theatre, i. 332.
  brings a lawsuit against Carlo, i. 360-364.

Gozzi, Marina, sister of Carlo, i. 201, 282.

Gradenigo, Cavaliere Andrea, ii. 76.

Grampo, Contessa Emilia, i. 189.

Granelleschi, Academy of the, i. 89, 99, 102.
  its warfare with Goldoni and Chiara, i. 102.
  the founding of the Academy, ii. 93.
  its burlesque Prince, ii. 93.
  its more serious objects, ii. 97, 108.
  its attack on the Abbe Bettinelli, ii. 105.
  its headquarters in the shop of the bookseller, Paolo Colombani, ii. 127.

Gratarol, Pier Antonio, i. 359 _note_ 1; ii. 10, 72 _note_ 1, 79, 227, 263.
  his quarrel with Gozzi, i. 2, 6.
  account of his life, i. 7-16.
  nominated as Venetian Resident at Naples, i. 8.
  his quarrel with Caterina Dolfin Tron, i. 9.
  becomes lover to Teodora Ricci, i. 10; ii. 229.
  his version of his quarrel with Gozzi compared with Gozzi's statement,
    ii. 229 _note_ 1.
  his presence behind the scenes of Sacchi's theatre, ii. 230, 233.
  his entertainment to the actors and actresses, ii. 237.
  his first visit to Gozzi, ii. 238.
  Ricci compromised by him, ii. 242.
  caricatured in "Le Droghe d'Amore," but not by Gozzi's wish,
    i. 10; ii. 258, 259.
  his foolish conduct forces the piece on the stage, ii. 263.
  is present on its production and sees himself caricatured, ii. 272.
  his distress, ii. 275 _note_ 1, 277.
  his intrigues against Gozzi, ii. 278.
  his interview with Gozzi, ii. 279-285.
  Gozzi's efforts to have the play stopped, ii. 286-294.
  the further squabbles between him and Gozzi, ii. 294-300.
  forced by the Supreme Authority to apologise to Gozzi, ii. 303.
  his own account of the letter which he was forced to write,
    ii. 303 _note_ 1.
  his conduct to Gozzi subsequently, ii. 307.
  suspected of having the actor Vitalba assaulted, ii. 319.
  his appointment to Naples cancelled, ii. 319, 320.
  his withdrawal from Venice and consequent outlawry, i. 12; ii. 321.
  his "Narrazione Apologetica" published at Stockholm, i. 13.
  published at Venice after the fall of the Republic, i. 16.
  his death, i. 16.
  book entitled "Last Notices regarding Pietro Antonio Gratarol," i. 17.
  Gozzi's reflections on his character, ii. 321.

Grazzini, Anton-Francesco, his Carnival song of the Zanni and
    Magnifichi, i. 41.

Gritti, Francesco, ii. 76.
  his play of _Gustavus Vasa_, ii. 184.

Guardi, Francesco, ii. 338.
  the interest of his paintings historically, ii. 340.

Guseo, Giovannantonio, a notary, i. 347, 362.


Hoffmann, E. T. W., his enthusiasm for Gozzi, i. 181.

Hogarth, William, contrasted with Pietro Longhi, ii. 350.


Illyria, the nature of the country, i. 244.

Improvisation, Gozzi's views on, i. 202.

I Rozzi, a company at Siena, who performed farces, i. 33.

Italian Comedy. _See_ Comedy, Italian.

Italian Literature, ii. 91.


Lami, Signor, ii. 117.

Laveleye, Emil de, ii. 99 _note_ 1.

Lazari, V., ii. 347 _note_ 1, 353 _note_ 1.

_Lazzi_--or humorous sallies--in the _Commedia dell'Arte_, i. 63.

Lee, Vernon, i. 23, 182.

Lombard ingredients in the _Commedia dell'Arte_, i. 40.

Longhi, Alessandro, son of Pietro, ii. 346, 357.

Longhi, Pietro, ii. 338-361.
  the interest of his works, ii. 338 _note_ 1, 341, 347.
  his parentage, ii. 342.
  his early training, ii. 342.
  his _Fall of the Giants_, ii. 343.
  finds his true vocation as a painter in studies of contemporary
    Venetian life, ii. 344.
  the difference in his handiwork, ii. 346.
  his similarity in art with Goldoni the dramatist, ii. 350.
  the strong contrast between him and Hogarth, ii. 350.
  his portrait, ii. 351.
  filled the Chair of Painting in the Pisani Academy, ii. 353.
  a picture representing the Pisani family attributed to him, ii. 354.
  frescoes in the Palazzo Sina attributed to him, ii. 356.
  his sketch-book, a collection of 140 drawings, ii. 357.
  its great value, ii. 357.
  description of its contents, ii. 358.
  its merits and its limitations, ii. 358, 359.
  summary of his work, ii. 360.

Loredano, Cavaliere Antonio, i. 212.


Machiavelli, Niccolo, i. 29.

Maffei, Carlo--
  account of his character, ii. 276.
  his intervention on Gratarol's behalf in the dispute regarding
    the "Droghe d'Amore," ii. 277-285.
  his sudden death, ii. 326, 327.

Manzoni, Caterina, actress, ii. 170.
  her excellent qualities, ii. 192.

Marchiori, Cavaliere, Lieutenant-Colonel of Engineers, i. 225.
  Gozzi studies Fortification under, i. 225.
  his death, i. 228.

Marsili, Professor Giovanni, ii. 308.

Martelli, Pier Jacopo, i. 97 _note_ 1.

Martellian verses, i. 97 _note_ 1.

Masi, Ernesto, i. 99 _note_ 1.

Masks, the, as employed by Gozzi, i. 149.

Massimo, Innocenzio, i. 226, 227, 278, 326; ii. 28, 162, 310.
  his friendship with Gozzi, i. 223, 283.
  his character, i. 224.
  a foolish adventure, i. 254-260.
  his generous kindness to Gozzi, i. 312.
  his sudden death, ii. 327.

Medebac (master of a company of comedians), engages Goldoni to
    write for his company, i. 95.

Messer Grande, the Chief Constable of Venice, ii. 89 _note_ 1.

Micheli, Maggiore della Provincia, i. 218.

Montenegrins, the women of the, i. 241.

Morlacchi, a tribe of Dalmatians, i. 237 _note_ 1.
  their barbarism, i. 237, 239.

Musset, Paul de, his travesty of Gozzi's real character, i. 23,
    24 _note_ 1, 181, ii. 89 _note_ 2.


Neapolitan ingredients in the _Commedia dell'Arte_, i. 40.


Pallone, the game of, i. 251 _note_ 1.

Pantalone, i. 34; description of, in the _Commedia dell'Arte_, i. 43.
  as employed by Gozzi, i. 152.

Paruta, the Patrician, Gozzi mistaken for, ii. 74.

Perrucci, Andrea, his description of the rehearsal of an
    impromptu comedy, i. 58.

Pisani family, their Academy for the Study of the Art of Design, ii. 353.

Pozzobon, Giovanni, i. 100 _note_ 2.

Prata, Count Michele di, i. 282.

Prejudice, Gozzi's dissertation on, ii. 99.

Provveditore Generale di Dalmazia, the office of, i. 212 _note_ 1.

Provveditore Generale di Mare, the head of the Venetian
    forces in the Levant, i. 212 _note_ 1.

Pulcinella, i. 35;
  description of, i. 49.

Punch (Pulcinella), i. 50.


Quirini, Girolamo, Provveditore di Dalmazia, i. 213, 216, 247, 277, 278.
  the town of Zara gives a grand public display in his honour, i. 230.
  Gozzi presents a volume of his poems to him, i. 276.


Regina, the actress engaged by Sacchi to fill Ricci's place, ii. 254.

Renier, Paolo, ii. 301, 305.
  his brilliant abilities, and his career, ii. 301 _note_ 1, 306 _note_ 1.

Reniero, Senator Daniele, i. 341.

Ricci, Marianna, sister of Teodora, ii. 242.

Ricci, Teodora, ii. 174, 324.
  engaged as leading actress by Sacchi, ii. 174.
  her personal appearance, ii. 175.
  her connection with Gozzi, i. 9.
  her connection with Gratarol, i. 10.
  Gozzi's tuition of, ii. 177
  the opposition to her, ii. 179.
  her _debut_ at Venice not very successful, ii. 182.
  her success in "Gustavus Vasa," ii. 184.
  her triumph in Gozzi's "Principessa Filosofa," ii. 185.
  her gratitude to Gozzi, ii. 186.
  her merits and defects, ii. 188-192.
  Gozzi becomes her Cicisbeo, ii. 193.
  Gozzi is godfather to her child, ii. 198.
  her separation from her husband, ii. 199.
  her _liaison_ with Sacchi, ii. 202-210.
  her foolish conduct, ii. 216.
  her rapacity, ii. 221.
  her agreement for five years with Sacchi, ii. 221.
  her friendship with P. A. Gratarol, ii. 227, 241, 245.
  its consequences, ii. 242.
  Gozzi's final rupture with her, ii. 246.
  her annoyance of him, ii. 249, 255.
  she leaves Sacchi's company and goes to Paris, ii. 254.
  her strange manners when she returns, ii. 256.
  her failure as an actress when she began to ape the French, ii. 257.
  her conduct at the reading of "Le Droghe d'Amore," ii. 260.
  her foolish conduct in connection with the play, ii. 269, 275.
  pretends illness in order to stop the play, ii. 275.
  is ordered to play by the authorities, ii. 276.
  her tactics which led to the withdrawal of "Le Droghe d'Amore," ii. 306.
  her death in a madhouse, ii. 195 _note_ 1.

Riccoboni, Luigi, i. 63.

"Riflessioni d'un Imparziale," a pamphlet in answer to Gratarol's
    "Narrazione," i. 13 _note_ 2, 15 _note_ 1.

Rossi, Pietro, actor, ii. 189.

Royer, Paul, i. 182.

Ruskin, John, ii. 340.


Sacchi, Antonia, actress, i. 112 _note_ 1.

Sacchi, Antonio, i. 53, 100, 101, 112 _note_ 1, 150; ii. 201,
    262, 272, 282 _note_ 1, 286, 297, 306, 318.
  list of his company, i. 112 _note_ 1.
  allusion to his company in Gozzi's first "Fable," i. 127.
  the inventor of Truffaldino as a form of Arlecchino, ii. 131 _note_ 1.
  his famous company, ii. 142.
  ruined by the opposition of Chiari and Goldoni, ii. 132.
  their visit to Lisbon, ii. 132.
  their return to Venice, ii. 132.
  their success with Gozzi's pieces, i. 176; ii. 132.
  their gratitude to Gozzi, ii. 137.
  Gozzi temporarily withdraws his aid from his company, ii. 166.
  obtains a lease of the theatre S. Salvadore, ii. 167, 168.
  his passion for the Ricci, ii. 202, 214.
  his ill-treatment of her, ii. 207.
  its result, ii. 208-210.
  his theatre pronounced unsafe, ii. 219.
  his five years' agreement with Ricci, ii. 221.
  his difficulties with Gratarol, ii. 233.
  Ricci leaves his company and he engages Regina in her place, ii. 254.
  consents to withdraw the "Droghe d'Amore," ii. 263.
  produces it, ii. 271.
  the dissolution of his company, ii. 322.
  his excesses and tempers, ii. 322.
  his last interview with Gozzi, ii. 324.
  his death, ii. 325 _note_ 1.

Sacchi-Zannoni, Adriana, actress, i. 112 _note_ 1; ii. 131.

Sacchi's company--
  its respectability, ii. 143.
  Gozzi's relations with the actors and actresses, ii. 137-155.
  dissensions in, ii. 164.
  the details of its dissolution, ii. 322-325.

Santorini, Count Francesco, i. 324, 327, 329.

Schlegel, A. W., his praise of Gozzi's "Fiabe," i. 180.

Sciugliaga, Stefano, Secretary of the University of Milan, ii. 198.

Sechellari, Giuseppe, Prince of the Accademia Granellesca, ii. 93.
  the tricks played on him, ii. 95.

Seghezzi, Antonio Federigo, i. 199.

Servetta, the, a character in the _Commedia dell'Arte_, i. 48, 154.

Sibiliato, Giovanni, a wonderful _improvisatore_ and a true poet, i. 204.

Smeraldina (Servetta), as employed by Gozzi, i. 154.

Somascan Order of Monks, i. 350 _note_ 1.

Stampa, Gaspara, poetess, i. 206.

Stock speeches in the _Commedia dell'Arte_, i. 62.


Tartaglia, a mask in the _Commedia dell'Arte_, i. 35, 50.
  as employed by Gozzi, i. 152.

Terzi, Marchese, of Bergamo, i. 368, 369, 370.
  Gozzi's lawsuit against, ii. 160.
  its successful issue, ii. 164.

Testa, Antonio, a famous lawyer, i. 335; ii. 163.
  his kindness to Gozzi, i. 336.

Theatres, private, in the houses of the Venetian nobility, i. 201 _note_ 1.

Tiepolo family, i. 189 _note_ 1.

Tiepolo, Almoro Cesare, i. 213, 291, 342.
  his just and excellent character, i. 344-347.

Tiepolo, G. B., painter, ii. 338.
  a genius of the first order, ii. 339.

Tiepolo, Nicolo Maria, his condemnation of comedians, i. 71.

Tiepolo Gozzi, Angela, mother of Carlo Gozzi--_See_ Gozzi, Angela Tiepolo.

Toaldo, Professor, ii. 75.

Todeschini, Raffaelle, ii. 295, 326.

Tommassei, his contempt for Gozzi, i. 179.

Tonina, a courtesan of Zara, i. 262.
  Gozzi's impromptu attack on, in the theatre, i. 269.

Tron, Andrea, Procuratore di San Marco, i. 9, 14; ii. 264 _note_ 1.

Tron, Caterina Dolfin, see Dolfin-Tron, Caterina.

Truffaldino, the mask, a modification of Arlecchino, i.
    46, 150; ii. 131 _note_ 1.
  as used by Gozzi, i. 153.


Vendramini, Antonio, proprietor of the theatre of S. Salvadore,
    ii. 167, 173, 276, 286.

Venice--
  its decadence, i. 7 _note_ 1.
  its political and social state about the middle of the 18th century, i. 82.
  conflict of liberalism and conservatism in literature and
    the theatre, i. 86.
  success of the _Comedie Larmoyante_, i. 87.
  foundation of the Academy de' Granelleschi, i. 89.
  the granting of citizenship in, i. 186 _note_ 1.
  the position of the _Cittadini Originari_, i. 186 _note_ 1.
  posts open to the _Cittadini_, i. 187 _note_ 3.
  Gozzi's remarks on the degeneration of the Venetian youth, i. 194.
  robes of the Dignitaries, i. 217 _note_ 1.
  the office of Grand Chancellor, i. 230 _note_ 1.
  the values of the sequin and lira, i. 274 _note_ 1.
  _Decime_ (taxes), i. 280 _note_ 1.
  its theatres, i. 332 _note_ 1; ii. 167.
  its law of entail, i. 336 _note_ 1.
  the _Avogadori del Comun_, i. 341 _note_ 1.
  decay of literary taste in, ii. 108-110.
  the length of the theatrical year, ii. 146 _note_ 1.
  its decrepitude, as shown in State interference in Gratarol's
    quarrel with Gozzi, ii. 303 _note_ 1.
  the influence of the French Revolution on, ii. 328.
  partial revival of art in, in the 18th century, ii. 338.
  Longhi's paintings of contemporary life in, ii. 338 _note_ 1;
    ii. 341, 347, 358.

Verdani, Abbe Giovan Antonio, i. 196.

Vilio, Count, of Desenzano, ii. 24.

Vinacesi, Elisabetta, actress, ii. 213.

Vincentini, Tommaso, his excellence as Harlequin, i. 67.

Vitalba, Giovanni, actor, ii. 269.
  the actor who caricatured Gratarol in the "Droghe d'Amore," ii. 272.
  assaulted by a ruffian in Milan, ii. 318.


Wagner, Richard, his "Fairies," a setting of Gozzi's "Donna Serpente,"
    i. 160 _note_ 1, 181.

Werthes, Franz A. C., translator of Gozzi's "Fiabe" into German, i. 180.

Widiman, Count Ludovico, a patron of Goldoni, ii. 124.


Zanche, Daniele, advocate, ii. 161.

Zanerini, Petronio, the best actor of Italy, ii. 323.

Zanoni, Atanagio, comedian, i. 112 _note_ 1; ii. 131, 323.

Zannuzzi, Francesco, of the Comedie Italienne at Paris, ii. 211, 212
   _note_ 1.

Zeno, Apostolo, encourages Gozzi in his poetical attempts, i. 207.
  his influence in the drama, i. 207 _note_ 1.

Zini, Francesco, a cloth merchant, wishes to buy the Gozzis' house, i. 299.
  Carlo Gozzi tries to prevent the purchase, i. 300.

Zon, Signer, Secretary to the Inquisitors of State, ii. 303 _note_ 1.

Zucchi, Padre, an _improvisatore_, i. 203.


PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO.
EDINBURGH AND LONDON.


FOOTNOTES:

[1] Desperiers lived in France between 1480 and 1544. He was servant to
Marguerite de Navarre, and a writer of Rabelaisian humour. His two
principal works are called _Cymbalum Mundi_ and _Nouvelles, Recreations
et Joyeux Devis_.

[2] The Orco was a huge sea-monster, shaped like a gigantic crab. It
first appeared in Boiardo's _Orlando Innamorato_ (Bk. iii. Cant. 3), and
was afterwards developed by Ariosto, _Orl. Fur._ (Cant. 17).

[3] This was one of Gozzi's own comedies.

[4] These words have so much local colouring that they must be left in
the text and explained in a note. A _sotto portico_ at Venice is formed
by the projection of houses over the narrow path which skirts a small
canal or _rio_; the first floor of the houses rests on pillars at the
water-side. A _ponte storto_ is a bridge built askew across a _rio_, not
at right angles to the water, but slanting. A _riva_ is the quay of
stone which runs along the canals of Venice, here and there broken by
steps descending into the water and serving as landing-places.

[5] See above, vol. i. p. 299.

[6] The narrow foot-paths between lines of houses at Venice are so
called. They frequently have scarcely space enough for two men to walk
abreast.

[7] One of Pietro Longhi's pictures in the Museo Civico at Venice
represents exactly such a scene as this in the workroom of a tailoress.
The beau is there, and the woman prepared for flirtation.

[8] Gozzi had a distinct object in writing these chapters on his
love-affairs. Gratarol's accusation of his having been a hypocrite and
covert libertine lay before him. He wished to make a clean breast of his
frailties. To suppress this portion of his _apologia pro vita sua_ would
have been to do him grave injustice. The Memorie must always be read as
an answer to Gratarol's _Narrazione_. See Introduction, Part i.

[9] There is a good deal said about this man in Casanova's Memoirs.

[10] The translator of this narrative has taken the trouble to make this
tedious detour on foot. The quarter in which Gozzi lived, remains
exactly in the same condition as when he described it. His old palace
has not altered; and the whole of the above scene can be vividly
presented to the fancy by an inspection of the localities.

[11] The following paragraphs, to the end of the chapter, are extracted
and condensed from vol. iii. chap. v. of the _Memorie_.

[12] A magistracy composed of four patricians, who controlled the
manners of the town in matters of lawless and indecent living.

[13] Messer Grande corresponded to the Bargello at Rome, and was the
chief of catchpoles and constables.

[14] This chapter on Gozzi's contrarieties, which I have supplemented
with a few passages from the incoherent notes at the end of the
_Memorie_, has received undue attention from Paul de Musset and critics
who adopt his untrustworthy version of Gozzi's autobiography. De Musset
strove to base upon it a theory that Gozzi was the victim of his own
fabulous sprites. See Introduction, vol. i. p. 23.

[15] Gozzi alludes to the _Ragionamento Ingenuo_ prefixed to the first
volume of Colombani's edition of his works.

[16] That is, the authors of the seventeenth century, during which an
extravagant and affected style prevailed in Italy.

[17] These names require explanation. _Granelli_, _coglioni_, and
_testicoli_ are words for the same things, and have the secondary
meaning of _simpleton_. Thus _Arcigranellone_ is the Arch-big-simpleton.
The crest of the Academy carries an allusion to the same things. Apropos
of this not very edifying topic, it is worth mentioning that the canting
arms of the noble Bergamasque family of Coglioni consisted of three
_granelli_ counterchanged upon a field party per fesse gules and argent.
I cannot recall a parallel instance in heraldry.

[18] Calandrino was a famous fool and butt in the _Decameron_ of
Boccaccio.

[19] What follows in the text above might be largely illustrated. It is
curious to find Casanova, for example, agreeing with Gozzi on a point of
morality: "Une mechante philosophie," he says, "diminue trop le nombre
de ce qu'on appelle prejuges" (vol. i. p. 97). Compare the ludicrous
account of the rogue Squaldo-Nobili, who shared Casanova's prison in S.
Mark, and who had purged himself of prejudice by reading _La Sagesse de
Charon_ (vol. iii. p. 70). While I am writing, an article by M. Emile de
Laveleye on "How bad books may destroy States" (_Pall Mall Gazette_,
June 9, 1888) falls into my hands with a pertinent passage, which I
shall here extract:--

"The following are the terms in which, in an eighteenth century romance,
Count Clitandre explains to the Marquise Cidalise all the services that
philosophy has rendered to refined and elegant society. 'Thanks to
philosophy,' he says, 'we have the happiness to have found the truth,
and what does not this entail for us? Women have never been less prudish
under pretext of duty, and there has never been so little affectation of
virtue. A man and a woman please each other and a _liaison_ is formed;
they tire of it, and separate with as little ceremony as they commenced
it; if they come again to regret the separation, their former relations
may recommence, and with the same enthusiasm as the first time. These
again cease; and all this takes place without any quarrellings or
disputes! It is true that there has been no question whatever of _love_;
but after all, what is _love_ save a mere desire that people chose to
exaggerate, a physical sentiment of which men, in their vanity, chose to
make a virtue? Nowadays the desire alone exists, and if people, in their
mutual relations, speak of love, it is not because they really believe
in it, but because it is a politer way of obtaining what they
reciprocally wish for. As there has been no question of love at the
onset, there is no hatred at parting, and from the slight liking
mutually inspired rests a mutual desire and readiness to oblige each
other. I think, all things considered, that it is wise to sacrifice to
so much pleasure a few old-fashioned prejudices which bring but little
esteem and an infinite amount of worry to those who still make them
their rule of conduct.'"

[20] This paragraph reads amusingly like a satire upon English
"aesthetes."

[21] See above, vol i. p. 367.

[22] See above, chap. xxxi.

[23] The first or Paris edition bears, however, the date 1756.

[24] I have to say that what follows in this chapter has been very
considerably abridged from Gozzi's text. Apology is owed to him by the
translator for condensing his narrative and confining it to points of
permanent interest, if indeed there is any interest at all in bygone
literary squabbles, while retaining the first person.

[25] This poem is printed in vol. viii. of Colombani's edition of Carlo
Gozzi's Works.

[26] I may remind my readers that Truffaldino was the specific form
invented for the mask of Arlecchino by Sacchi. See above, vol. i. p. 53.
Truffaldino was originally a character in Boiardo's _Orlando
Innamorato_, where he played the part of a consummate rogue, traitor,
and coward, and was killed by the paladin Rinaldo (Bk. i. Cant. 26).

[27] This passage indicates Gozzi's justice, his habit of conceding the
_suum cuique_, however grudgingly. Goldoni, as we learn from his
Memoirs, piqued himself upon the study he made of actors like Darbes,
Golinetti, and Collalto.

[28] A singular piece of self-criticism. Gozzi appeals to posterity on
points which seem to us the least noteworthy in his work. Nothing is
needed beyond the above sentences to dispel the illusion of his having
been a free romantic genius.

[29] Gozzi uses the word _squarci_ for these stock passages. The
expression is partly explained by what follows in the paragraph, and has
been further illustrated by me above: vol. i. p. 62. See Bartoli's
_Scenari_, pp. lxxv. _et seq._

[30] After the Carnival, until the following October. The theatrical
year in Venice began on the first Sunday in October, and ended with the
next Ash-Wednesday. It corresponded to the months in which masks were
allowed.

[31] Translated in chaps. xxxii., xxxiii., xxxiv.

[32] There is some inaccuracy here. See vol. i. p. 148, for the dates of
Gozzi's _Fiabe_.

[33] Page 33 in vol. ii. of Gozzi is a good specimen of an interminable
sentence broken up by me. It has thirty-nine lines of about eight words
apiece, or 312 words, without a full stop. It begins with _Un' ammasso_,
and ends on p. 34 with _commiserazione_.

[34] See above, cap. xxx.

[35] This theatre was also called S. Luca.

[36] This looks as though Gozzi had reason to believe that Mme. Manzoni
would write her autobiography. Whether she did so or not, I am unable to
say. But the remark shows how popular and common self-indited Memoirs
had become.

[37] That is, the Venetian noble Antonio Vendramini.

[38] Printed in vol. ix. of the _Opere_, ed. cit.

[39] It cannot be denied that Gozzi has spun out the history of his
liaison with Teodora Ricci to a tedious length, giving the episode of
Pier Antonio Gratarol an importance which it is far from deserving. I
intend therefore to abridge the chapters which he invites his readers to
skip. But, with the view of preserving unity of style, I shall not drop
the first person singular, and shall select, so far as this is possible,
nothing but phrases of Gozzi to translate.

[40] By the playwright Arneau.

[41] Printed in vol. v. of the _Opere_, ed. cit.

[42] Francesco Gritti, of the ancient patrician family, was born in 1740
and died in 1811. His translations of French plays appeared in two vols.
at Venice in 1788. Some of his poems in Venetian dialect were published
in 1815. Venezia, Alvisopoli.

[43] Gozzi is here answering Gratarol, who had called him a hypocrite in
his _Narrazione_.

[44] This and the ensuing chapters throw light upon Gozzi's intention
when he wrote chaps. xl. xli. above. The generalities of the earlier
chapters square point by point with the particularities of the later. It
looks as if he wished to prepare his readers for a special
self-apologetical statement of his case against Mme. Ricci. We need not
impute to him insincerity or false suggestion. When he wrote these
Memoirs, the manners and customs of comedians were patent to the world,
and he probably uttered no more than the truth about them. Yet the
forensic cleverness of a pleader may be detected in the account he gives
of his relations with this woman. Considering their intimacy, he does
not act quite chivalrously in the exposure of its dissolution. At this
distance of time we cannot ascertain the facts. Gozzi was perhaps
consistent and veracious in his disclaimer of more than a liaison of
friendship. The reader of the following chapters must decide for himself
whether the writer of them was carefully manipulating and colouring
circumstances he wished to attenuate.

[45] Gozzi means that he had assumed the role of Cicisbeo to Mme. Ricci.

[46] This man was called Francesco Bartoli. We owe to his pen a valuable
collection of biographical notes on Italian actors and actresses:
_Notizie Istoriche dei Comici Italiani che fiorirono intorno al MDL fino
ai giorni presenti_ (Padova, Conzatti, 1781). This work contains a life
of Teodora Ricci and the author's own autobiography. After the events of
1777 he separated from his wife, and only acknowledged the first of her
three children. Critics may pause to wonder, at this point, whether
Gozzi's relations to Mme. Ricci were as Platonic as he painted them. In
1782 Bartoli retired from the stage and lived at Rovigo. On Teodora's
leaving the profession in 1793, he took her back, and endured her
hysterical tempers until the date of his own death in 1806. She died mad
about the year 1824 in the asylum of S. Servilio at Venice.

[47] Zannuzzi was _premier amoureux_ at the Comedie Italienne in Paris.
It was he who invited Goldoni to visit that city, and offered him an
engagement for two years from the Court. See Goldoni's _Memoirs_, part
ii. chap. xliii.

[48] The Greek rogue in Pulci's _Morgante Maggiore_.

[49] Gozzi here refers directly to the Gratarol episode.

[50] Printed in vol. ix. of the _Opere_, ed. cit.

[51] _Il Salvatico_, one of the very oldest hostelries of Venice, dating
from the Middle Ages.

[52] Printed at the end of the third volume of the unique edition of the
_Memorie Inutili di Carlo Gozzi_, 1797.

[53] These will be found in Gozzi's _Opere_, ed. cit. The prefaces are
printed before the plays.

[54] From this point forward Gozzi relates the series of events which
Gratarol had already described in his _Narrazione Apologetica_. The two
accounts agree in essentials, the fundamental difference between them
being Gratarol's firm belief that Gozzi meant to satirise him in the
_Droghe d'Amore_, which Gozzi vehemently denies. It must be remembered
that Gozzi had the _Narrazione_ before him while writing these Memoirs.

[55] _Diavoloni_ is the Italian word. We hear of these comfits also from
Gratarol. They are big sugar-plums containing liqueur.

[56] That is, Council of Ten with the Inquisitori di Stato at its head.

[57] Albergati was born at Bologna in 1728. The circumstances of his
private life were curious. In 1748 he married a wife from whom he was
divorced in 1751. In 1769 he married a second wife at Venice, who
committed suicide. In 1789 he married a third wife. He lived principally
at Venice and at his country seat at Zola, where he had a famous private
theatre. He composed and translated a great many plays. His works were
collected and published in an edition of several volumes at Bologna in
1827.

[58] The relation of gossip or _Compare di San Giovanni_ is reckoned
sacred at Venice.

[59] See above, p. 227.

[60] This lady was the celebrated Caterina Dolfin Tron, wife of the
Procuratore Andrea Tron. Her husband exercised such influence in the
State that he was called _Il Padrone_. A terrible portrait is drawn of
her by Gratarol in his _Narrazione_, vol. i. pp. 23 and 44. To him she
certainly behaved with cruel tyranny. But she was a woman of brilliant
talents and fascinating person, who gave tone to literary and political
society in Venice.

[61] Gozzi has not perhaps quite told the whole truth about his
relations to Mme. Tron. They were certainly more intimate at one period
than he here admits. He formed a member of the society whom she received
on Monday evenings at the Casino di San Giuliano, and dedicated his
_Marfisa Bizzarra_ to her in terms of high compliment (V.E. non e
nimica, non e ignorante, non e dispettosa, non e sospettosa, e sa essere
benefattrice volontaria anche di coloro che non le chiedono favori). At
the same time he disagreed with Mme. Tron's liberal opinions, and
disapproved of her philosophising turn of mind. It is quite possible
that before the date 1776 their former intimacy may have cooled.
Gratarol himself observes that Gozzi had not frequented her society
during the seven years prior to these events.

[62] This magistracy exercised control over the morals of Venice.

[63] Gratarol gives a vivid picture of this throng. "Many hundreds of
persons were sent away from the doors, since the vast area of the
theatre was crammed full. Boxes, which on ordinary nights were paid two
pauls, this evening brought a couple of sequins, and not a single one
was empty."--_Narrazione_, vol. i. p. 68.

[64] Gratarol asserts plainly (_Narr. Apol._, vol. i. pp. 63, 65, 66)
that Mme. Tron induced Sacchi to change the roles and to dress up
Vitalba in clothes resembling his own. Gozzi tacitly admits the truth of
this.

[65] Gratarol describes the public excitement of Venice. "In the houses,
the shops, the open squares, all sorts and conditions of folk were
chattering about the play. When I entered the Piazza di S. Marco, the
idle people who crowd the coffee-houses under the Procuratie Vecchie,
lacqueys, barbers, players, spies, pimps, and baser beings, if such
there be, came swarming out by tens and twenties to stare at me, walked
in front, lagged behind, dogged my steps, jostled me, compared notes
with each other as to my resemblance to the vile actor travestied to
mimic me."--_Narrazione_, vol. i. p. 73.

[66] Gratarol has printed his petition to the Inquisitors (_Narr.
Apol._, i. 81). It is not very injurious to Gozzi, if the document is
really what he sent. The reference to Gozzi runs thus: "Umana debolezza
scossa da circonstanze troppo puerili e indegne di riferirsi alla maesta
di questo Supremo Tribunale indusse il Sig. Co. Carlo Gozzi a sparger di
satira una sua commedia tolta dallo Spagnuolo ed intitolata Le Droghe
d'Amore, e ad innestarvi un carattere apposito unicamente per fare
scherno e ridicolo dileggio dell'umilissima persona di me," &c.

[67] This interview is related at length by Gratarol (_Narr. Apol._,
vol. i. pp. 97-110). His account differs in several minor particulars
from Gozzi's. But one can see that Gozzi had it before him while writing
what follows above.

[68] Light is thrown on this paragraph by a passage in Gratarol's _Narr.
Apol._, i. 99. He there says that Signor Maffei had reported Gozzi's
great distress at the unexpected effect of his comedy, adding that
Sacchi professed his willingness to abandon the play if Gozzi wished it
and was able to arrange matters.

[69] In the _Narr. Apol._ Gratarol gives a different turn to this
incident. He does not represent himself as refusing the prologue; and
indeed he asserts that on the night of the 17th he was extremely
disgusted at not hearing it. See vol. i. p. 114.

[70] Gratarol intimates that Gozzi acted with bad faith in this
negotiation, "operando in modo che altri consigliassero a resistere." He
calls the meeting at Mme. Tron's "l'infernal conciliabolo [che] si tenne
in ora piu tarda nelle soglie della regnante Matrona." _Loc. cit._, p.
114.

[71] This letter is reported in the _Narr. Apol._, vol. i. p. 123.

[72] It is amusing to read Gozzi's _Memorie_ and Gratarol's _Narrazione_
side by side. Gratarol exclaims: "Conte, voi dovete la vita ad un
qualche angelo tutelare che benedimmi accio potessi frenare il cieco
impeto," &c. He meditates an _aperta vendetta_, and so forth. _Op.
cit._, pp. 115-117. And yet these two swelling turkey-cocks did not
think of fighting a duel.

[73] Though this is told to his own advantage, Gozzi must have known
that he was placing a new weapon in the hands of Gratarol's worst enemy
when he consigned to Mme. Tron the letter of defiance.

[74] Gozzi here alludes, I think, to the attack on the actor Vitalba at
Milan, which will be related farther on.

[75] Why did he not call Gratarol out? This is very comedian-like.

[76] Paolo Renier was one of the most striking figures in the last years
of the Republic. A man of brilliant and versatile abilities, widely read
and profoundly instructed by experience of the world, he possessed
eloquence so weighty and persuasive that one speech from his lips had
power to sway conflicting parties in the State and bring their heated
leaders to his lure. (See Romanin, vol. viii. chap. vii., for an
extraordinary instance of his oratory.) Yet Renier's character does not
inspire respect. Before he became Doge, he had pursued a tortuous course
in politics, and had only escaped serious entanglements by his
extraordinary intellectual finesse. He married a woman off the stage,
who impaired his social credit; and when he appeared as candidate for
the ducal cap, he lavished bribes with cynical shamelessness. Gratarol
has penned two pungent pages upon Renier's character, which are worth
attention. "Talent and art," he says, "both fail me in describing this
man of hundred colours. An intellect of the highest, a heart of the
proudest, a face of the most deceptive; such are his component parts. A
more fraudulently plausible orator, a more turbulent politician, I have
never known. Whether fortune or some charm defends him, he always
escapes unhurt from the mortal perils into which he wilfully
plunges."--_Op. cit._, p. 77.

[77] Gozzi publishes a copy of his memorial to the Inquisitors of State.
Since the document is long, and repeats what is already known to the
readers of his Memoirs, I have not judged it necessary to translate it.
The text will be found on pp. 395-399 of the second volume of the
_Memorie Inutili_.

[78] Gratarol reports this letter, but expressly states that he was
obliged by Signor Zon, secretary to the Inquisitors of State, to omit
the words _dimenticando il passato_. His account of how he was compelled
to sit down and scribble off the apology, while Zon stood over him, is
very amusing. He taught his servant, on delivering the letter into
Gozzi's hands, to repeat these words: "el mio paron xe sta comanda de
scriverghe sto viglietto." In fact, Gratarol was forced by the supreme
authority in Venice to send this apology, and refusal to do so would
have involved his immediate imprisonment. According to his own
confession, Gratarol, after hearing the ultimatum of the Supreme
Tribunal, went to his writing-table and penned the above letter,
expressing at the same time his readiness to kiss Count Gozzi's ... on
the piazza, or to do anything else ridiculous which the Inquisitors
might impose upon him. The Republic of S. Mark had reached the last
stage of decrepitude, and well deserved to be swept into the lumber-room
of bygone greatnesses, when Gratarol's and Gozzi's squabble about a
woman and a play brought the machinery of state thus into action.
Venice, always an artificial power (in the same sense as the Greek
cities of antiquity were artificial), subsisting mainly upon commerce
and on the tribute levied from dependencies, had in the eighteenth
century dwindled into dotage, through lack of natural resources and
revolutions in the world-trade. The rulers of Venice, reduced to
insignificance among the powers of Europe, occupied their brains with
parochial affairs and the contests of comedians. _Op. cit._, pp.
130-134.

[79] This reads like a satire upon Renier, whose elevation to the
Dogeship was attended with a pomp and profligate expenditure, not to
mention a lavish use of bribes, pernicious to all public and private
morals. Compare Gratarol's account of an interview he had with Renier
(_op. cit._, p. 79). The man made on Gratarol exactly the same sort of
impression by his eloquence, philosophy, urbanity, and learning, mixed
with a sense of untrustworthiness, that he did on Gozzi.

[80] See above, p. 267. Mme. Tron called Gasparo _Father_ and Carlo
_Bear_.

[81] The Riformatori dello Studio di Padova were three noblemen of
Venice, who controlled the university in that city and other educational
establishments belonging to the State.

[82] Gratarol indignantly denies that he had anything to do with this
attack upon Vitalba, and says he was at Vienna when it happened. _Op.
cit._, p. 178.

[83] Gozzi has, in fact, told the story of Mme. Ricci's return to
Venice, but it is without importance.

[84] Sacchi, the last great representative of the _Commedia dell'Arte_,
was a Ferrarese, born at Vienna in 1708. After leaving Venice he sank
into poverty, and died at sea in 1788 between Genoa and Marseilles. His
body was committed to the waters.

[85] Compare the pregnant phrase at the close of the _Memorie_ (vol.
iii. p. 290; translation, above, p. 329) with the tone of the
_Manifesto_ and the address _A' suoi amati concittadini_ (vol. i. pp.
3-15 and iii.-xv.), and the close of the _Ragionamento del cittadino
Carlo Gozzi_, vol. ii. p. xvii.

[86] See Masi's Essay, _Fiabe_, vol. i. p. clxxxix.; Malamanni, _Nuova
Rivista di Torino_, Nos. lviii.-x.

[87] _Memorie_, vol. iii. ch. vii.

[88] If I wished to comment on Gozzi's humour--subrisive, slightly
bitter, acid and yet genial, preserving the main points of humane
feeling intact, scoffing at revolutions in politics and fashion--I
should select the above-translated passage as combining its essential
qualities, together with something of the man's graphic power of
description.

[89] The matter is not of importance. But when Gozzi speaks of a house
at S. Benedetto, he probably means the Campo di S. Angelo. Part at least
of that Campo is in the parish of S. Benedetto.

[90] I wrote this essay on Longhi at a time when I hoped to be able to
illustrate my work on Gozzi profusely from the painter's sketch-book.
This scheme had to be abandoned owing to difficulties connected with the
proper reproduction of Longhi's drawings by photography. But should any
of my readers be interested in the details of Gozzi's life, I counsel
them to make a careful study of Longhi's works at Venice, and more
especially of the deeply-interesting sketch-book at the Museo Civico.
Those who can read between the lines of original drawings will find this
book a real assistance toward the understanding of Venetian society in
the last century. The moral purity and the moderation of the artist give
value to his transcripts from the life he saw around him.

[91] G. B. Tiepolo; b. 1692, d. 1769. Antonio Canale, or Canaletti; b.
1697, d. 1768. Pietro Longhi; b. 1702, d. about 1780. Francesco Guardi;
b. 1713, d. 1793.

[92] This is the bias of our scientific age. We do not want idealism,
however meritorious--the idealism, for example, of the Caracci--the
idealism which is supplied in academies. What we demand is a transcript
from life or a piercing arrow from the genius of an epoch. We are keen,
and rightly keen for documents of art, which hold up mirrors of an age
in its external presentment, or betray the secret of its spiritual
qualities.

[93] See V. Lazari, _Elogio di Pietro Longhi_. Venezia, 1862.

[94] I have followed Lazari above. But examination of the Pisani
pedigree (published for the _Nozze Giusti-Giustiniani_, Rovigo, Tip.
Minelliana, 1887) shows that none of the Doge's sons was Procuratore di
S. Marco, and that none of them had a son who died before marriage. The
only Procuratore Pisani of this period was Giorgio Pisani (1739-1811),
of the branch surnamed _In Procuratia_. He played a prominent part in
the political history of the last days of the Venetian Republic. But he
also had no son who can be connected with Lazari's story regarding the
foundation of the Academy. I am obliged, therefore, to suppose that
Lazari's account, though substantially correct as to the existence of
the Academy in question, was based on a confused tradition regarding
members of the Pisani family.

[95] The picture now hangs on the wall of Mme. Pisani's drawing-room in
the Palazzo Barbaro on the Grand Canal of Venice. I may add, with regard
to the signature, that the uncontested frescoes at the Sagredo Palace
are signed _Pietro Longo_, and not _Longhi_.

[96] The eldest of these children was born in 1753, and may have been
about seven when the picture was painted.

Typographical errors corrected by the ebook transcriber:

Agostino Fiorilli => Agostino Fiorelli

Truffaldini => Truffaldino

Mariana => Marianna

Stra => Stra





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Memoirs of Count Carlo Gozzi, by
Count Carlo Gozzi

*** 