Venice.
Having travelled with you through the splendid æras of the Venetian
story, and presented their statesmen and heroes to your view, let us now
return to the present race, in whose life and conversation, I forewarn
you, there is nothing heroic. The truth is, that in every country,
as well as Venice, we can only _read_ of heroes; they are seldom to
be _seen_: for this plain reason, that while they are to be seen we
do not think them heroes. The historian dwells upon what is vast and
extraordinary; what is common and trivial finds no place in his records.
When we hear the names of Epaminondas, Themistocles, Camillus, Scipio,
and other great men of Greece and Rome, we think of their great actions,
we know nothing else about them;—but when we see the worthies of our
own times, we unfortunately recollect their whole history. The citizens
of Athens and Rome, who lived in the days of the heroes above mentioned,
very probably had not the same admiration of them that we have; and our
posterity, some eight or ten centuries hence, will, it is to be hoped,
have a higher veneration for the great men of the present age, than their
intimate acquaintance are known to have, or than those can be supposed
to form, who daily behold them lounging in gaming-houses. All this, you
perceive, is little more than a commentary on the old observation, That
no man is a hero to his Valet de Chambre. The number of playhouses in
Venice is very extraordinary, considering the size of the town, which is
not thought to contain above one hundred and fifty thousand inhabitants,
yet there are eight or nine theatres here, including the opera-houses.
You pay a trifle at the door for admittance; this entitles you to go into
the pit, where you may look about, and determine what part of the house
you will sit in. There are rows of chairs placed in the front of the pit,
next the orchestra; the seats of these chairs are folded to their backs,
and fastened by a lock. Those who choose to take them, pay a little
more money to the door-keeper, who immediately unlocks the seat. Very
decent-looking people occupy these chairs; but the back part of the pit
is filled with footmen and gondoleers, in their common working clothes.
The nobility, and better sort of citizens, have boxes retained for the
year; but there are always a sufficient number to be let to strangers:
the price of those varies every night, according to the season of the
year, and the piece acted.
A Venetian playhouse has a dismal appearance in the eyes of people
accustomed to the brilliancy of those of London. Many of the boxes are so
dark, that the faces of the company in them can hardly be distinguished
at a little distance, even when they do not wear masks. The stage,
however, is well illuminated, so that the people in the boxes can see,
perfectly well, every thing that is transacted there; and when they
choose to be seen themselves, they order lights into their boxes. Between
the acts you sometimes see ladies walking about, with their Cavalieri
Serventés, in the back part of the pit, when it is not crowded. As they
are masked, they do not scruple to reconnoitre the company, with their
spying-glasses, from this place: when the play begins, they return to
their boxes. This continual moving about from box to box, and between
the boxes and the pit, must create some confusion, and, no doubt, is
disagreeable to those who attend merely on account of the piece. There
must, however, be found some _douceur_ in the midst of all this obscurity
and confusion, which, in the opinion of the majority of the audience,
overbalances these obvious inconveniences.
The music of the opera here is reckoned as fine as in any town in Italy;
and, at any rate, is far superior to the praise of so very poor a judge
as I am. The dramatic and poetical parts of those pieces are little
regarded: the poet is allowed to indulge himself in as many anachronisms,
and other inconsistencies, as he pleases. Provided the music receives
the approbation of the critic’s ear, his judgment is not offended with
any absurdities in the other parts of the composition. The celebrated
Metastasio has disdained to avail himself of this indulgence in his
operas, which are fine dramatic compositions. He has preserved the
alliance which ought always to subsist between sense and music.
But as for the music of the serious operas, it is, in general, infinitely
too fine for my ear; to my shame I must confess, that it requires a
considerable effort for me to sit till the end.
It is surely happy for a man to have a real sensibility for fine music;
because he has, by that means, one source of enjoyment more, than those
whose auditory nerves are less delicately strung. It is, however, equally
absurd and silly to affect an excessive delight in things which nature
has not framed us to enjoy; yet how many of our acquaintance, accused of
this folly, have we seen doing painful penance at the Hay-market; and, in
the midst of unsuppressable yawnings, calling out, Charming! exquisite!
bravissimo, &c.
It is amazing what pains some people take to render themselves
ridiculous; and it is a matter of real curiosity to observe, in what
various shapes the little despicable spirit of affectation shews itself
among mankind.
I remember a very honest gentleman, who understood little or nothing of
French; but having picked up a few phrases, he brought them forward
on every occasion, and affected, among his neighbours in the country,
the most perfect knowledge, and highest admiration, of that language.
When any body, in compliance with his taste, uttered a sentence in
that tongue, though my good friend did not understand a syllable of
it, yet he never failed to nod and smile to the speaker with the most
knowing air imaginable. The parson of the parish, at a country dinner,
once addressed him in these emphatic words: _Monsieur, je trouve ce
plum-pudding extrémement bon!_ which happening not to be in my friend’s
collection of phrases, he did not comprehend. He nodded and smiled to the
clergyman, however, in his usual intelligent manner; but a person who sat
near him, being struck with the sagacious and important tone in which
the observation had been delivered, begged of my friend to explain it in
English:—on which, after some hesitation, he declared, that the turn of
the expression was so genteel, and so exquisitely adapted to the French
idiom, that it could not be rendered into English, without losing a great
deal of the original beauty of the sentiment.
At the comic opera I have sometimes seen action alone excite the highest
applause, independent of either the poetry or the music. I saw a Duo
performed by an old man and a young woman, supposed to be his daughter,
in such an humorous manner, as drew an universal _encora_ from the
spectators. The merit of the musical part of the composition, I was told,
was but very moderate, and as for the sentiment you shall judge.
The father informs his daughter, in a song, that he has found an
excellent match for her; who, besides being rich, and very prudent, and
not too young, was over and above a particular friend of his own, and
in person and disposition, much such a man as himself; he concludes, by
telling her, that the ceremony will be performed next day. She thanks
him, in the gayest air possible, for his obliging intentions, adding,
that she should have been glad to have shewn her implicit obedience to
his commands, provided there had been any chance of the man’s being
to her taste; but as, from the account he had given, there could be
none, she declares she will not marry him next day, and adds, with a
_very long_ quaver, that if she were to live to _eternity_ she should
continue of the same opinion. The father, in a violent rage, tells her,
that instead of to-morrow, the marriage should take place that very
day; to which she replies, Non: he rejoins Si; she, Non, non; he, Si,
si; the daughter, Non, non, non; the Father, Si, si, si; and so the
singing continues for five or six minutes. You perceive there is nothing
marvellously witty in this; and for a daughter to be of a different
opinion from her father, in the choice of a husband, is not a very new
dramatic incident. Well, I told you the Duo was encored—they immediately
performed it a second time, and with more humour than the first. The
whole house vociferated for it again; and it was sung a third time in
a manner equally pleasant, and yet perfectly different from any of the
former two.
I thought the house would have been brought down about our ears, so
extravagant were the testimonies of approbation.
The two actors were obliged to appear again, and sing this Duo a
fourth time; which they executed in a style so new, so natural, and so
exquisitely droll, that the audience now thought there had been something
deficient in all their former performances, and that they had hit on the
true comic only this last time.
Some people began to call for it again; but the old man, now quite
exhausted, begged for mercy; on which the point was given up. I never
before had any idea that such strong comic powers could have been
displayed in the singing of a song.
The dancing is an essential part of the entertainment at the opera here,
as well as at London. There is certainly a much greater proportion of
mankind deaf to the delights of music, than blind to the beauties of fine
dancing. During the singing, and recitativo part of the performance, the
singers are often allowed to warble for a considerable time, without
any body’s minding them; but the moment the ballet begins, private
conversation, though pretty universal before, is immediately at an end,
and the eyes of all the spectators are fixed on the stage. This, to be
sure, has been always the case in London, and, in spite of the pains some
people take to conceal it, we all know the reason; but I own I did not
expert to find the same preference of dancing to music in Italy.
After seeing the dancing at the French opera, and coming so lately from
Vienna, where we had seen some of Novere’s charming ballets very well
executed, we could have no high admiration of those performed here,
though there are at present some dancers highly esteemed, who perform
every night.
The Italians, I am informed, have a greater relish for agility and high
jumping in their dancers, than for graceful movements.
It is extraordinary that they do not vary the ballets oftener. They give
the same every night during the run of the opera. There is a propriety
in continuing the same opera for a considerable time; because music is
often better relished after it becomes a little familiar to the ear, than
at first; but a ballet might be changed, without much difficulty, every
night.