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.