_Annoyances to which I was exposed by the Ricci after this act of
rupture.--Some little matters concerning Sacchi's company and my
protection of them.--A long and tedious illness.--The "Droghe d'Amore"
resumed._
I was not destined to escape without further annoyances. A woman wounded
in her _amour propre_ becomes the worst of wild beasts. This I soon
discovered; for Mme. Ricci, when she saw I was in earnest, made a point
of vexing me, as though, forsooth, she could worry me back into
good-will!
That Lent the actors stayed at Venice; and we used to meet at Sacchi's
house during the evenings. A game of cards, a plate of fritters, a
bottle of wine, and a lavish expenditure of wit and merriment, formed
the staple of our recreation. The Ricci had never been in the habit of
joining these parties. She did so now in order to launch sarcasms at me.
Her rudeness became so intolerable, that, after bearing it in silence
for three evenings, I stayed at home. This alarmed the actors, by whom I
was regarded as their tutelary genius. They came to me and told me that
she had been peremptorily forbidden to show her face again at their
reunions.
This did not improve her temper; and her next move was an attempt to
draw me into correspondence. First came a letter complaining that my
man-servant had spoken insultingly about her to her maid. Of course I
paid no attention to such nonsense. Then, about the middle of Lent,
arrived a huge epistle in a handwriting I did not recognise. It turned
out to be from her husband, who rated me soundly for having outraged his
wife by withdrawing my protection. He had the impudence to say that my
behaviour was unworthy of a gentleman. The remainder of this voluminous
rigmarole consisted of arguments to prove the following thesis:--If a
husband approves of the male friends his wife receives, her other male
friends have no right to inquire into their character. "Farewell,
compliant husband!" cried I, folding up the letter, and laying it aside
unanswered.
One morning during Holy Week my servant announced Mme. Ricci's husband.
I allowed him to enter, asked him to sit beside me on the sofa, and told
my man to bring him chocolate. Looking into the poor fellow's eyes, I
could see that he had been forced to pay this visit, and that he was
doing his very best to pluck up courage. "We are on the point of leaving
for Mantua," he began, "and I am come to pay you my respects, to offer
you my wife's regards, and to wish you good health." "You have given
yourself unnecessary trouble," I replied; "nevertheless, I am obliged,
and I wish you a good journey and a prosperous tour." He kept silence
for a minute or so. Then he pulled himself together and began again: "By
the way, I wrote you a letter some time since, which has not yet been
answered." "You did wrong to write that letter," I rejoined, "and I did
well to take no notice of it." Thinking that my indifference was a sign
of meekness, he presumed so far as to reply with arrogance: "On the
contrary, I did well to write it." I judged it best to change my tone
and put the fellow down. So, knitting my brows and looking him hard in
the face, I spoke as follows: "You did extremely wrong. Remember that
you are in my house. Do not presume upon my civility and forbearance. I
am astounded that you have the boldness to pursue me into my own
sitting-room, and to bolster up the dirty arguments of your epistle."
The wretch turned pale and sat like a statue. Just at this unlucky
minute my servant came in and offered him a cup of chocolate. With
trembling hand he took the cup and drank a single mouthful, then put it
down upon the salver, saying he did not feel well enough to finish it.
When the servant left the room he flung himself upon his knees and
begged me to pardon him. "Get up," I said. "I am perfectly aware that
you had nothing to do either with that letter or this visit. You are
only an emissary, who does not count." Thus encouraged, he entered into
a long recital, to which I listened because it gave me some amusement.
"I shall tell you the whole truth," he said, "just as if I were kneeling
before an altar. Signor Gratarol began to turn my wife's head with his
candied orange-peel and Neapolitan bonbons. A box of the latter arrived
one day at our house, together with a very flattering billet, expressing
the donor's strong desire to be allowed to pay his respects to her. My
wife was for sending an answer back by the servant, thanking him for the
bonbons, and saying that his visits would be most acceptable. I bade her
reflect that this might expose her to slander, and be disagreeable to
yourself--the good Count Gozzi, the godfather of our child, our
protector and adviser and benefactor for so many years. She called me a
fool, and sent the note against my will. You know, Sir Count, that with
my wife it is all the same whether I speak or hold my tongue. By all
that is sacred, I swear that I have told you the whole truth. Signor
Gratarol began and continued his visits both by day and night, without
any fault of mine, and without my consent." The opening of this
flirtation by the gift of bonbons diverted me; and I sent Ricci's
unfortunate husband away with the assurance that I was not angry with
him, that Signor Gratarol's visits were of no consequence to me, and
that I was firmly resolved not to renew an intimacy with his wife which
she had forfeited by her folly.
Two days before Sacchi set out for Mantua, he came to me, and very
civilly expressed his disappointment at my having done so little for the
troupe with my pen during the past year. I told him that bad health and
pressure of business had prevented me from attending to dramatic
composition. Then he inquired whether I had not adapted Tirso da
Molina's comedy for the Italian theatre. He had heard my _Droghe
d'Amore_ highly praised, especially by Mme. Ricci. I replied that it was
true; I had nearly finished the piece, but finding it dull and prolix, I
had laid it aside among my waste papers. On his insisting, and saying he
should like to hear my play, I consented to read it aloud, and promised
to see whether I could not bring myself to complete the last act in the
course of the summer.
My health remaining weak, I passed the greater part of this summer at a
little country-house I had near Stra upon the Brenta. Here I rapidly
recovered strength, more by open-air exercise and rational diet than by
drinking the Cila waters recommended by my doctor. In the long idle days
of this _villeggiatura_, I set hand once more to the _Droghe d'Amore_,
and finished it with indescribable aversion. Leaving Stra for Padua, I
took the play with me, and read it aloud to my friend Massimo, under
whose roof I was staying. He listened patiently all through the tedious
declamation, praised certain passages of the comedy, and said he thought
the chief objection to it was its prodigious length. When I returned to
Venice, I made up my mind to put this abortion of my talent on the
shelf; but Sacchi would not let it rest. He wrote so urgently upon the
subject, that I begged my brother Gasparo to undergo the mortal tedium
of hearing and pronouncing judgment on the play. His opinion was that,
though it contained some excellent scenes, it too closely resembled my
_Principessa Filosofa_ in parts, and that its length would render it
ineffective. The comedy was one of character and sentiments, and had no
spectacular novelties to enliven it. However, he promised to read it
through, and see whether judicious retrenchments could be made. After
ten days or so, I received the manuscript again, with my brother's
verdict that nothing could be omitted without breaking the warp on
which the plot was woven. Accordingly, I wrote to Sacchi, saying that
the _Droghe d'Amore_ would really not do, and promising some other piece
instead. I had, indeed, already planned my _Metafisico_ and _Bianca
Contessa di Melfi_, but had not had the time to dramatise them.
Meanwhile Sacchi came to Venice in a prodigious bustle. Meeting me upon
the piazza, he said that Mme. Ricci was about to break her engagement
and to go to Paris. I persuaded him to remit the fine of 500 ducats,
provided she continued to serve the company until the end of the next
Carnival. This arrangement was finally concluded by the intervention of
a Venetian gentlewoman of the Valmarana family. So Sacchi had to look
out for another _prima donna_. His choice had already fallen on a
certain Regina, the daughter of an actor, whom he begged me to go and
see. I found the girl decidedly ill-favoured. Still I begged her to
recite a piece from my _Principessa Filosofa_. She spoke with an
asthmatic voice and the lowest of plebeian accents, made frequent
mistakes which spoiled the sense, and was insufferably monotonous in her
delivery. I told Sacchi that this young woman would not do for him. But
alas! Cupid had played one of his pranks with the octogenarian Don Juan,
and Regina was engaged at a salary of 400 ducats, beside special
allowances for her outfit. The effects of this girl's introduction into
the troupe were disastrous. She proved its evil genius by her bad
character and by her ascendancy over the _capocomico_, playing no small
part in that final dissolution of the company which I shall have to
relate.