_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.