_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]