_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]